Notes: Okay, I've been gone for a while, and this is what I have been working on. It's a multi-chapter, I promise. And I really hope you like it.
Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore girls or any of the characters, obviously. Although I wish I owned Milo Ventimiglia. Sadly, my fairy godmother has come up empty on this one.
----
Los Angeles. It is a city of people and lives pushed so close together but refusing to blend; it is a phenomenon. The city is large but compact, and Rory feels invisible as she walks down the streets. Her brain feels like mush, her mind buzzes endlessly. Her entire body feels numb, and it is not an alien feeling. She cannot help but feel utterly useless. She sees a flash of a gun handle in a man's holster as he whisks past her. She realizes in a horrifying thought that she would not mind if he shot a bullet through her heart, as long as it killed her. She would not want it to merely injure her, for then she would be late for her dinner appointment, and that was inconceivable. The only song rolling through her head is the sad-sounding chords from Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here. No lyrics, no character-just chords. Is she even a face? Her eyes glance quickly at the passing bodies. People do not look at her. She strains to look at every face, praying and hoping that they will look at her, see her, recognize her as a person. None of them do. If they glance at her, it is just for a second, just a survey of her pale skin. And then she reaches a homeless man. He looks at her, suddenly, unabashedly. It catches her off guard and she almost trips on her own feet. His eyes are wise, rather than carrying the sad or drunk hazy look Rory is used to seeing. She finds herself unable to look away, and soon she stops in her place, looking into these dirty eyes of wisdom. She immediately wonders what they hold. She wonders how a man wearing an old, vomit caked jacket could sit on a bird shit covered bench and smile at her, how his eyes could glisten so knowingly. A body pushes forcibly into her from behind.
"Sidewalks are for pedestrians. Pedestrians walk. So be a good noun, and WALK," a gruff voice says harshly behind her, and her cheeks flush in embarrassment. She moves on quickly, the homeless man soon fading behind her, but his eyes stayed in her mind, a symbol for hope.
Los Angeles. It is a city of idiots and superficial airheads. Jess feels as if he is the only one with a brain, the only one who once had ambition and life. He feels as if he is in a glass cage on a conveyer belt to hell, and no matter how many times he crashes his bruised body against the glass he is incapable to escape. So now he moves along, working at his crap job, editing books about sex, murder and desire. As he does his work he almost wants to cross out every line and every paragraph, and write "Doesn't life mean anything to you?" but he knows the glass will not break. He is stuck inside his box. Some old Pink Floyd song with a name he cannot remember is stuck in his head, echoing relentlessly in his mind emphasizing the repetitive, unfulfilling life he leads. He wants to scream as he watches all these people drone on like lifeless machines, but it as if the city smog has deteriorated his vocal chords. Then the assembly line falters. A woman in front of him stops moving, her face is turned to stare at a dirty, pathetic homeless man. Jess stands behind this factory-made idiot impatiently, staring at the back of her head, almost marching in place out of habit. He stares at her brown hair, and something about the way it shines painfully reminds him of his past: the past that led him to this shit life. Now he is angry.
"Sidewalks are for pedestrians. Pedestrians walk. So be a good noun, and WALK," he yells at her, expecting a crude retort. Instead, she moves on quickly, glancing at him only momentarily. He does not see her face long enough to recognize the woman, but when she had looked back at him a wind blew that dangerously rocked his glass cage.
Rory rushes into the expensive restaurant, the sudden warmth startling as the door swings shut behind her. The hostess looks up as the bell rings, and plasters a smile on her face. Rory cringes. This girl in front of her is beautiful, her hair soft and long, her eyes are an intelligent brown, her face glowing with life and heart. Why is a girl like this working at a restaurant in downtown Los Angeles? Why is she not writing or researching, why is she placing herself somewhere so ordinary?
"Hello, how are you today?" the out-of-place girl asks cheerily.
"I am-" Rory stops before the word 'fine' falls out of her mouth. "I am tired." She finishes accurately, she does not feel like lying today. In fact, she is quite sick of lying.
The hostess is taken aback by Rory's unconventional answer. She smiles awkwardly, searching for a factory response that her superiors would approve of. "Well-er-that's too bad. I hope you get a good sleep tonight."
Rory ignores her bland comment. "Why are you here?" She asks out of genuine curiosity.
"Well, I work here." The hostess responds politely, the idea that Rory is an escapee from a mental institution now forming in her head.
"I know that. I am here for my work too. I work for a magazine. A teen magazine. Yeah, that's right-my whole life I dreamed of The New York Times, The New Yorker, novels, essays, maybe even LA Times. But, no. I'm working at a crappy magazine aimed for teen-age girls. I am here because I gave up. Something made me decide that my dream was not worth it anymore. So now I'm stuck in this life. This life I hate. I am tired of it, but I feel pretty stuck. And I look at you, and I think you are pretty smart. Am I wrong? So why are you acting as a hostess at a restaurant?"
The hostess seems to choke on her tongue, looking as if Rory had just told her the world was about to explode because Elvis had a laser on the moon pointed at the earth.
"I, well, I, um, I go to UCLA and this is just a job so I can eat and stuff," She answers awkwardly.
"What are you majoring in?"
"Film studies. I was a History major for my dad but I changed because-"
"Because that is what you want, isn't it?"
The girl nods, still in a state of shock.
"Is this kind of job what you want?"
She shakes her head.
"What is your name?"
"Annette . . ."
"Annette, you think this is just temporary. Just waiting until you magically get that offer from Universal Pictures. Its not going to happen, let me tell you. You will end up being offered a better position than hostess, and then you will be too afraid to quit for anything less than perfect, and pretty soon you will be stuck here, like I'm stuck. And you know what? You will be very unhappy. So you know what? I think you should quit your job and go find an internship. Don't take no for an answer. Work your way up. Annette, I want to see your name on the credit screen before ten years is over!" Rory finishes enthusiastically, breathing hard.
Annette stares at her, wide-eyed and frightened.
"I, alright. Okay."
"Okay? Okay is not going to get you a better job, Annette! Do you want a better job?"
"Yes. Yes, I.. I want a better job!"
"Good! Now, there is a man waiting for me to talk about my next article right over there. Go over to him; tell him that Rory Gilmore is not a writer for a teen magazine. Then go to your manager, and tell him you are not a waitress."
"I will!" Annette suddenly soaks up a drop of Rory's gratuitous enthusiasm, and a smile is on her face.
"Goodbye! And… Good luck!"
Rory turns around and marches out of the door, pulling out her cell phone and dialing the number of her boss, Michelle.
"Michelle Devons. Talk."
"Michelle, its Rory. I quit."
"What? Rory Gilmore?"
"Yes! Rory Gilmore is quitting her job!"
"Why? Joseph from photography didn't come onto you, did he?"
"What? No! I am not a magazine writer, Michelle. I am a-a-journalist! A gritty, grungy, reports the news and doesn't care about what authorities thinks journalist!"
"We can do grunge! Gilmore, how about you do a piece about grunge coming back into style, or staying in style. Whatever. It's grunge!"
"No. I quit, Michelle. Good BYE!"
Rory hangs up the phone and breathes out, seemingly satisfied as she walks through the cold crowd. She spots a coffee shop and enters it. As the warmth hits her again, realization of her recent actions wash over her and suddenly her face is not so satisfied.
"Oh shit."
Jess enters his less than elegant apartment he shares with Amber. It was less than a hole in the wall; it was more like a slightly deep crack in the wall. He had heard the noises of Amber cheating on him from the hallway. He is not shocked or surprised, this is one of the many times he had come home early from work to hear his girlfriends unfaithfulness. Each time she finished up, then came out to apologize without emotion, telling him that if she did not really love him she would have left him ages ago. It was a disgusting relationship, really. But according to everyone Jess had ever known, it was what he deserved. This was the best he would get. He drops his keys on the counter. Not everyone, a voice says suddenly in his head. It is right. There is Her, or was her. The only person he had ever really cared about. She had loved him. She thought he was meant for better things. If she knew he was with Amber, she would be shocked and disgusted. Because Amber did not deserve him, she would say. You are too smart for this, Jess; you could really be something, she would say as she would plead with him to break it off. He stood for a minute, thinking of this, considering this. When he had been with her, he had been happy. When he had been listening to her, doing what she said, loving her, he had been happy. There was no box, no glass cage. So maybe she is right.
He walks swiftly to the bedroom door, which was not very far. He opens the door swiftly and Amber sucks in a breath of shock. Amber's latest victim falls off the bed in fear of Jess's fists.
"Oh shit, shit! You said he was not going to be home!" he yells as he crawls pathetically towards his clothes.
"Relax, Mr. Smooth. I don't care about you."
"I'm sorry Jess, baby, this is the last time I promise." Amber smiles sweetly. The sight makes Jess feel as if he is about to throw up.
"Yeah. Get out of my apartment, Amber. I don't want you around anymore."
"I promise! Jess! Sweetie!"
"Amber, I don't give a damn. I just want you out of here. Go to his trashcan, go to the homeless shelter, go to the pope's house. I don't care. Just get out."
"Wait a minute," Amber's voice becomes angry, "this is my apartment too!"
"Which you pay for with what job? This is my apartment, and I want you out or I'll call the cops."
"Call the cops on what? This isn't illegal! Wanting someone good once in a while isn't a crime, Jess," Amber sneers, trying to be insulting.
Jess puts on a fake scared voice. "Officer, its my girlfriend! I just let her move in and my cat accidentally knocked over her purse and-and I think I found cocaine! My friend told me she was a dealer but I just couldn't believe it!"
"You wouldn't."
"I would. Now get the hell out of my apartment."
As Amber and her man exit the apartment, Jess smiles, something the world had not seen in a long time. He walks around the apartment, surveying his now solely owned home. He reaches the cupboard and searches for coffee. The canister is empty.
"Damn."
He looks at his watch. It was too early for any coffee shop to be closed. He grabs his wallet and his keys, and leaves the apartment again. He takes a bus to his favorite spot, a few buildings down from the restaurant Amber always used to try and get him to take her to.
Rory sits in table facing away from the door, pressing her hands tightly to the warm mug. Her nerves were still tingling from her sudden decision to change her entire life. Sure, her job had not been the kind she had always dreamed of or was proud of, but it had been paying the bills. Now she had no job.
"Oh my God. I don't have a job."
She says it out loud, making her body and mind understand what was really going on. Rory Gilmore had no job. Soon, maybe, she would not have an apartment. She would be homeless, jobless Rory Gilmore. There is always Lorelai, a voice reasons in her head. Rory's heart clenches and stomach tightens. Her mother, how long had it been since she had seen her mother? They had been best friends, once upon a time. When she was going to go to Harvard. When she was going to be successful, brilliant, and proud. But she could not call her mother now. What would she look like, a failure calling her mother as a back up? It should not be like that. They should be friends, not talking about a twenty-something year old moving back in with her mother. Who else was there?
Jess enters the coffee shop in a rush to get out of the cold, the door swinging shut quickly behind him. He takes off his gloves and rubs his rough hands together, blowing air on them in an attempt to stop them from freezing and falling off. The shop is surprisingly crowded for the time of night it is. He looks over the customers, most hunched over binders and laptops. Of course, he thinks, college students have finals. He looks at their faces, most furrowed in concentration and stress. He would give anything to be one of them, worried about a test, studying and drinking coffee until he passes out. Anything, he'd give anything to have a second chance. He orders his coffee quickly, just a coffee. When the overly friendly girl at the counter asks him if he wants it for here, he looks out the window with the people walking swiftly past, clutching against their own bodies for warmth.
"Here," he says gruffly. She smiles flirtatiously, and he only stares. In a moment, she places the hot mug in his hand, and he turns around to find an open table. Most of them were filled with study groups or covered with textbooks and notebooks. Only two had a relatively good amount of space, a man reading a Harry Potter book occupied one, a woman took the other. She had that brown hair. Why was that everywhere today? Angrily regretting his decision to stay in the shop, he moves toward the man. As he does, the woman turns her face slightly. Jess almost spills the hot coffee all over his hands. For the first second he is sure he is imagining it, but her face is unforgettable. Not just her bright, eager eyes, but also the shape of her face, her cheekbones, and her chin. He cannot forget the face that visits him, unwelcome, in his dreams. He had imagined this moment for a long time, seeing her again after so many years. It is usually in a bookstore or on a park bench, he approaches her unabashedly, she smiles at his presence rather than running away. He apologizes for everything that happened, and she forgives him. Casually, he offers to take her out to dinner, as friends, she agrees. And then he takes her home. But now a scary thought enters his head: what if she doesn't recognize him? What if she has forgotten? His heart clenches painfully at the mere thought. He would not be able to take it.
In an attempt to move away from her, from his past and from his mistakes, he knocks over a little display rack holding a bag or two of coffee beans. Oh shit, he thinks, don't let her look.
Rory feels a strange pricking on her neck. She is not sure if someone is watching her or a cold wind blew across her back. She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. A thud sounds behind her, and she swings a round, half expecting a stalker in a Freddy Krueger costume to be lurking eerily behind her. Instead, she sees something more frightening. She stares wide-eyed.
"Jess?"
"Hi Rory," Jess tries to say casually as he quickly picks up the fallen bags, trying to fix his mistake. The once eager employee now glares at him, walking up and taking the bags from him.
"Excuse me, sir, but I will clean this up," she says, a smile plastered on her face but her eyes looked daggers.
"Sorry," he says, embarrassed. Rory tries to stifle a giggle. He stands awkwardly for a moment, watching the girl stack the bags in a pyramid formation, and then looking at Rory, unsure of what to do next. Should he leave? Should he just sit somewhere else?
"Sit down," Rory invites, pushing out the other chair with her foot. The invitation surprises her as much as it does Jess, whose eyes widen before he accepts. Why did she do that? She looks down at the table. It seemed to have just popped out of her mouth. Jess sits down and looks up at her, trying to hide a smile on his face. She smiles openly, as she always does, but it means nothing. She could smile at a man with a gun pointed at a baby's head. They sit like that, unsure, for several moments.
"So how are you?" Jess spits out finally.
"I'm good, I work at a magazine," Rory lies without thinking.
"Really! That's great," Jess is not surprised. Of course she is successful. She's Rory Gilmore. Rory nods for a moment before changing her mind.
"Actually, not really. I quit. Today. I guess I'm still sort of surprised," she admits, looking down at her coffee so she would not have to see his face. It is strange that she is afraid of disappointment from someone who let her down so many times.
"You quit?" Jess's intelligent eyes fill with concern, a look saved solely for Rory, "why?"
Rory shrugs. She had not yet thought of what to tell people about her jobless existence. What could she say?
"It was a teen magazine," she picks the truth. Silence comes from Jess's side of the table, and Rory's heart aches. She knows the air is filled with disappointment. She sneaks a look at him, and guilt fills her body at his sad eyes.
"Why, Ror?" Jess lets the sweet name slip out of his lips out of an old habit he thought he had shaken. He figures it is out of shock, disappointment. At the shortened name, tears fill Rory's eyes.
"I don't know. Everything just kind of fell apart," she tries to choke back any sobs; she hates crying in public places. Jess says nothing more, just nods. Warmth flows into Rory's body. She had forgotten how much she missed Jess, his knowing silence, how well he knows her, how much he cares. "Kind of pathetic, right?"
"You should see my apartment."
Rory smiles at this deflection, a small laugh escapes her lips. It had always been him who could make her feel better; she cannot believe she had forgotten that.
"Do you work?" Rory asks to encourage the switch of topic, wiping a tear from her eye before it slides down her cheek.
"Yeah. Bookstore," he says casually. Rory's eyebrows shoot up and her eyes light on fire.
"Really? Jess, that's so cool! Is it fun? Oh I bet it is so much fun!" she says enthusiastically. Jess tries not to smile so hard that his face breaks, and suppresses it to small, but true, grin. He shrugs.
"Its alright."
"Are you writing?" she asks expectantly.
"Some," Jess says, happy he can please her.
"Can I read some of it?"
"Its not very good."
"No way! Jess, you are brilliant! I can't even imagine what kind of things your fat brain can create! You have to let me read it!" her smile is so bright it could light up all of California. All thoughts of her failures slip out of her mind. Jess tries not to beam, and shrugs for the umpteenth time.
"Sure, if you want. But don't get too psyched."
Rory picks up her purse, leaving her half-drunk coffee cup on the table.
"Don't you want to finish that?" Jess asks the caffine-aholic.
"You have coffee at your apartment, right?" Rory asks, her eyes big. Jess gets up and walks to the newly restored stack of coffee beans, and picks one up, walking towards the counter. The disgruntled employee looks relieved that she is at least getting a profit out of his fumbles. As he gives her the money, he glances over at Rory, standing excitedly by the door, grinning from ear to ear. A harsh sound rocks his body. The glass has shattered.
As Jess walks towards the door, an arm lightly touching her back as they walk out, Rory feels warmer than she has in a long time. The streets do not look dirty any more. The lights of the buildings are beautiful. Maybe she is not so invisible after all. A man looks at her briefly as he passes and she smiles.