Kamikosan
12-11-2003, 02:23 PM
With my favorite gourmet drink from the cafe in hand, I wander up and down the aisles of the bookstore. Usually it's a nice way to lose myself, but now I have to restrain myself cos when it comes right down to it, I have four dollars to last me until pay day (which is four days away), less than a quarter of a tank in my 2000 Honda Civic (and I am ten miles from home), and a book in my hand by Jack Kerouac that's begging me to take it home and discover the riches within its pages.
I take a sip of chai...the hot liquid warming me from the core. So I'm broke, oh well. It's not like this is a new situation for me, but I have to admit it's hard to enjoy life with it hanging over your head. I've never been very responsible with money...I think it has something to do with the fact I never write anything down. You go to movies, out to eat, and forget that the little magic card you like to use so much actually has a limit and when you sit down at the computer to see how things are going in the account, you suddenly have two overdraft fees for a two and five dollar overdraft and you're trying to figure out how the hell that all happened and how the hell you're going to fix it. Lucky for me Mom bails me out sometimes, but I can't depend on that forever. Someday I'll have to tell myself that I don't need to eat at fancy restaraunts to make myself feel better and that I don't REALLY need to go out and see movies all the time and that I don't actually need that shirt that looked cute in the store but now isn't what I really wanted and that I don't need yet another tattoo on my already thrice painted body. Still, it doesn't hurt to spoil yourself every now and then, right?
I guess now and then is a little too often for some people.
Sitting in a big cushy chair, I swing my legs candidly over its arm as I have done so many times before, and pretend to be deeply interested in Tammy Bruce's latest political book. Really I am watching the people in the store out of the corner of my eye, and I wonder if any of them are like me, broke, but here to try to enjoy life anyway or pretending that they have money to spend, but just aren't all that interested in what the store has to offer. I wonder if they notice me sitting here pretending to read my book and if they wonder the same things about me as I do about them. The holiday version of what I affectionately refer to as the "Snoopy Song" played overheard, bringing back memories of my working days in this same bookstore. Ah, the good old days. I finger the pack of Marlboros in my pocket. I need a smoke.
Outside in the cold, I clutch my steaming drink as I fill my mouth with nicotine. I've never inhaled cigarettes, and people laugh at me because of it. I just do it because it is something to do that will kill about four or five minutes of time. It's surprising how useful smoking actually is. If you don't smoke, you don't have the advantage of escaping work for a fifteen minute smoke break nor do you have the opportunity to interact with as many people. Supposedly you can run better if you smoke--I was told that because your lungs are used to breathing polluted air, smoking shouldn't affect them. If that makes any sense. My eyes are stinging. Time to go home.
As I drive my car home, I sing to Alanis Morrisette's "You Oughta Know" at the top of my lungs. I imagine that I am at a concert, on the stage, belting out this angry tune with all the passion in me and the crowd is going wild. I can even imagine what I am wearing...all black, red lipstick, radiating mad sex appeal...(yeah! only in my wildest dreams!). Maybe HE is there, with his backwards hat that I found so sexy, his Black and Mild in his hand, and his beautiful blue green eyes riveted to me on the stage, and maybe HE regrets that he treated me the way he did and wishes he could get me back. But I am totally lost in the music...singing until I nearly cry with my own emotion (or is it regret over HIM??), and then the song is over and so is my five minute fantasy.
I stop by the mailroom at the hospital. Andy, the cheerful old black man who works there, is glad to see me. "Hey, darlin'," he says, hopping up and heading over to wear my mail is usually lying in a pile with all the other "L"s. "How are you doin' today?" I smile and say in my best flirty voice that I reserve just for him, "Fine, and how are you?" "Oh, just fine, just fine," he puts the pile of mail back. "Looks like nobody loves you today but me, sweetheart," he pulls up his jar of candy and sets it on the counter. "Take something home anyway." I take what I always take, a tootsie roll, and smile at him. "You know how to keep me coming back," I smile, give him a hug, and turn to leave. "All right then darling," he says. "Be good." "You, too." I say as I head out the door. No mail. Well, at least that means no bills.
I manage to scrape together a dollar and half from loose change in my car. I wander into the gas station and stand before the freezer where the budget microwave meals are. So many choices of Chinese, Mexican, and other ethnic foods, and I settle on the good old fashioned macaroni and cheese. It could be worse. My stomach growls. I haven't eaten since breakfast...having not been able to afford lunch. And who wants to eat microwaveable oatmeal three times a day? You're out of your mind....I pay the lady up at the register, who looks at my meal and smiles. "That's the good stuff right there." Funny how despite all the fancy foods that are put out, it all comes down to mac and cheese. It's the classics everybody wants.
In my room, after a leisurely meal, I prepare to undergo my evening ritual. Candles are lit, Miles Davis' "Kind of Blue" is playing in the background, and I lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. But instead tonight, I reach for my purple three ring note binder, the one with a picture of a lone ballerina on the cover. This folder contains the gateway to my dreams--the catalog to the school in Santa Fe, New Mexico that I have long been hoping to go to. The environment as well as the creative writing program calls to me...I wonder if I will be able to manage to pay for it. I wonder if I will still want to go there in two years when I get out. Who knows....
The jazz music and the candlelight are starting to calm me down and my pen is running out of ink. I look over the pages that describes what had seemed to be my mundane little life, and I realize that perhaps its not so boring after all....
I take a sip of chai...the hot liquid warming me from the core. So I'm broke, oh well. It's not like this is a new situation for me, but I have to admit it's hard to enjoy life with it hanging over your head. I've never been very responsible with money...I think it has something to do with the fact I never write anything down. You go to movies, out to eat, and forget that the little magic card you like to use so much actually has a limit and when you sit down at the computer to see how things are going in the account, you suddenly have two overdraft fees for a two and five dollar overdraft and you're trying to figure out how the hell that all happened and how the hell you're going to fix it. Lucky for me Mom bails me out sometimes, but I can't depend on that forever. Someday I'll have to tell myself that I don't need to eat at fancy restaraunts to make myself feel better and that I don't REALLY need to go out and see movies all the time and that I don't actually need that shirt that looked cute in the store but now isn't what I really wanted and that I don't need yet another tattoo on my already thrice painted body. Still, it doesn't hurt to spoil yourself every now and then, right?
I guess now and then is a little too often for some people.
Sitting in a big cushy chair, I swing my legs candidly over its arm as I have done so many times before, and pretend to be deeply interested in Tammy Bruce's latest political book. Really I am watching the people in the store out of the corner of my eye, and I wonder if any of them are like me, broke, but here to try to enjoy life anyway or pretending that they have money to spend, but just aren't all that interested in what the store has to offer. I wonder if they notice me sitting here pretending to read my book and if they wonder the same things about me as I do about them. The holiday version of what I affectionately refer to as the "Snoopy Song" played overheard, bringing back memories of my working days in this same bookstore. Ah, the good old days. I finger the pack of Marlboros in my pocket. I need a smoke.
Outside in the cold, I clutch my steaming drink as I fill my mouth with nicotine. I've never inhaled cigarettes, and people laugh at me because of it. I just do it because it is something to do that will kill about four or five minutes of time. It's surprising how useful smoking actually is. If you don't smoke, you don't have the advantage of escaping work for a fifteen minute smoke break nor do you have the opportunity to interact with as many people. Supposedly you can run better if you smoke--I was told that because your lungs are used to breathing polluted air, smoking shouldn't affect them. If that makes any sense. My eyes are stinging. Time to go home.
As I drive my car home, I sing to Alanis Morrisette's "You Oughta Know" at the top of my lungs. I imagine that I am at a concert, on the stage, belting out this angry tune with all the passion in me and the crowd is going wild. I can even imagine what I am wearing...all black, red lipstick, radiating mad sex appeal...(yeah! only in my wildest dreams!). Maybe HE is there, with his backwards hat that I found so sexy, his Black and Mild in his hand, and his beautiful blue green eyes riveted to me on the stage, and maybe HE regrets that he treated me the way he did and wishes he could get me back. But I am totally lost in the music...singing until I nearly cry with my own emotion (or is it regret over HIM??), and then the song is over and so is my five minute fantasy.
I stop by the mailroom at the hospital. Andy, the cheerful old black man who works there, is glad to see me. "Hey, darlin'," he says, hopping up and heading over to wear my mail is usually lying in a pile with all the other "L"s. "How are you doin' today?" I smile and say in my best flirty voice that I reserve just for him, "Fine, and how are you?" "Oh, just fine, just fine," he puts the pile of mail back. "Looks like nobody loves you today but me, sweetheart," he pulls up his jar of candy and sets it on the counter. "Take something home anyway." I take what I always take, a tootsie roll, and smile at him. "You know how to keep me coming back," I smile, give him a hug, and turn to leave. "All right then darling," he says. "Be good." "You, too." I say as I head out the door. No mail. Well, at least that means no bills.
I manage to scrape together a dollar and half from loose change in my car. I wander into the gas station and stand before the freezer where the budget microwave meals are. So many choices of Chinese, Mexican, and other ethnic foods, and I settle on the good old fashioned macaroni and cheese. It could be worse. My stomach growls. I haven't eaten since breakfast...having not been able to afford lunch. And who wants to eat microwaveable oatmeal three times a day? You're out of your mind....I pay the lady up at the register, who looks at my meal and smiles. "That's the good stuff right there." Funny how despite all the fancy foods that are put out, it all comes down to mac and cheese. It's the classics everybody wants.
In my room, after a leisurely meal, I prepare to undergo my evening ritual. Candles are lit, Miles Davis' "Kind of Blue" is playing in the background, and I lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. But instead tonight, I reach for my purple three ring note binder, the one with a picture of a lone ballerina on the cover. This folder contains the gateway to my dreams--the catalog to the school in Santa Fe, New Mexico that I have long been hoping to go to. The environment as well as the creative writing program calls to me...I wonder if I will be able to manage to pay for it. I wonder if I will still want to go there in two years when I get out. Who knows....
The jazz music and the candlelight are starting to calm me down and my pen is running out of ink. I look over the pages that describes what had seemed to be my mundane little life, and I realize that perhaps its not so boring after all....