All complainants please take a number and step to the rear of the line, fill out form 27FU in triplicate and wait for an eternity because Savannah is not listening.
I rolled onto my side and pushed up to my feet, all the while Don was still staring. Waving didn’t have the effect I was hoping for—the man was completely on edge. I crossed over to the now infamous dresser and pulled out a t-shirt. I didn’t have any PJ’s because normally, I slept naked.
At the edge of the bed I finally spoke.
“Shove over.”
He didn’t move.
“Mooove over.” I enunciated, making a rolling motion with my hand.
He finally scooted over and I climbed into bed, I reached up and turned off the light.
“Goodnight.”
I think I passed out before he ever laid back down.
Morning…
Don was gone when I woke up. I sat up looking for signs of his departure. A note? A red rose? A paper airplane like Tom Cruise left Kelly McGillis in Top Gun? Nothing.
I shrugged to myself and put my feet on the floor. I stretched; reaching for the ceiling then bent over and heard my back crack like a seventy-year-olds. I bent my knees—they protested.
I had once tried to be a yoga instructor in Tulsa. The director of the center fired me when she realized I didn’t know a downward facing dog from an elephant’s asshole. The memory made me smile.
Rolling back up I arched my back, thrusting my breasts forward just as the door opened.
Doesn’t anyone know how to knock?
It was Priscilla, something that surprised more than if it had been Don. She very rarely spoke to me and other than a few furtive glances she kept her distance. While Jane played the role of loving mother, Pricilla was the wary pit bull at her side.
“Yes”
I said it pleasantly as I rolled my shoulders back.
“Don wanted me to let you know that he would see you at work.”
“Thanks. Where’s Jane?”
“Don took her to work.” With that she frowned and shut the door.
Someone wasn’t happy. Maybe sweet sweet Jane was batting for both sides?
Oh well.
Sometimes I wished I could sit still, and read or watch TV or think heavy thoughts in some tacky journal covered in Zen phrases and Betty Boop stickers but that wasn’t me. If I wasn’t asleep, high or injured—I had to be moving.
By early afternoon I found myself in North Beach drinking in the rich world with my eyes. My brain couldn’t process it though, the mansions the cars and the nannies. It didn’t fucking compute.
So it really didn’t compute when I spied my employer walking into a three-story house with a bag of groceries. Not to mention the fucking Jag in the driveway. I looked at the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge, the people flying kites on the small beltway between the water and the street. I looked back at the house.
There was no way in hell he made that much money with that piss ass bar—and I knew the business. There was also no way in hell some guy getting beat downs by Daddy is going to be left a butt load of cash.
Time to go.
Angry for no reason, I slammed my hands into my pocket with my shoulders damn near reaching my ears and started to walk back to the bus—forgetting my destination the Palace of Fine Arts.
Fuck. I felt myself getting sick again but didn’t bother searching for an explanation.
I went home and took two of Jane’s Xanax and the rest of the beer in the fridge—one short of six pack and prayed that I would miss my shift.
I was such a fool.
