Part Two

I watched Johnny for a good minute, trying to compute what was happening on my kitchen floor. Images and thoughts were running through my head at light speed. There was me, paying for his court fees, me, moving in with him from Nebraska, me, supporting him when he lost his job, me naked in bed after sex, me at the coffee shop at eight at night, me, walking in on him shooting up,  me, watching him jiggle Barbie on the floor.

It was all happening in real-time, but it felt like slow motion. I slammed the door, which made Johnny fall over and Barbie girl shout, then I walked back to the bedroom and calmly started packing my stuff up.

My mind registered Johnny screaming at me and trying to stop me from packing, but I felt like I was floating.

This was it. I was going to be on my own. Oh, good God, I was going to be alone. I threw my photos into the suitcase and laughed.

Barbie was screaming at me now, too. She was hysterical and asking Johnny who I was. Obviously, he hadn't told her he was taken. He really hadn't done anything for me recently, either. Johnny tried to grab me, but I just kept on walking.

Dream-me levitated to the front door, threw my key behind my back, and kept on going. In fact, I kept on going all through Boston. I had my entire life on my back, but barely felt it. My feet weren't stopping until I got to wherever I was going. And after almost falling a couple times, I realized I had nowhere to go.

Intuition and muscle memory had brought me to Joe's coffee shop, but it had been closed for an hour or so. Joe was long gone, and the night was starting to set in. It was going to be long and cold if I wasn't careful, more than likely I would freeze.

That must have started it. The reality of what all had happened came crashing down on my head and burned little holes in my brain. Johnny was gone, I was cold, and I had nowhere to go. I sniffled and rolled myself into a tight ball, then started sobbing. Tears soaked the knees of my jeans and snot bubbled at my nose, but I didn't have the energy to wipe it away.

The sobbing just kept coming, I couldn't control it. Everything was coming out as I cried, my frustration, anger, hurt, fear. The move to Boston a couple years ago had cost me everything, my savings, my college education, my future. Now look at me, on the cold ground while my life was crumbling before my eyes.

"Hattie?" my name sounded distant, foreign. It shocked me into silence. My eyes were still swimming, but I looked up at the source. It was Joe.

"Hey, Hattie, what's going on? You look..." he paused, shrugging, "... more than a little lost."

I wiped my face off. "More than a little." parroted words didn't really convey my feelings.

"Come on, my apartment's right above the shop. Let's go talk this out." Joe held out his arm, and I gratefully took it. My bags went over his shoulders and he grabbed his key out of his pocket. Our footsteps rang up the metal stairs on the side of Joe's, like a tone-deaf bell.

When Joe opened the door to his apartment, a blast of warm air greeted us. A violent shiver ran down my spine, and Joe pushed me in. He took his shoes off at the door, and motioned for me to stay at the entrance. Joe took my bags and walked into a back room. My eyes were still watering, so I pulled the sleeves on my sweater down and brushed them away. Joe had taken in a sad, scared little girl, not the smart, sassy woman who worked for him.

"Hattie, let me get you some Irish coffee," Joe said, striding into the kitchen and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. "You look like you could use a drink. A stiff drink."

My eyes stayed glued to the floor, but I nodded and scooted over to the counter. The brewer spluttered and then began to drip, and I could sense Joe looking at me.

"So what happened?" It wasn't a question, it was more of a demand. Joe was staring at me intently, waiting for the story to come out.

I dropped my head. "I don't want to talk about it, Joe." But I really did, I wanted to talk. But Joe was my boss, and this was already inappropriate enough.

"In that case, Miss Hattie, I believe that a bit of a movie in in order. Any requests? I've got Die Hard, the Grudge, Boondock Saints..."

He continued on for a good minute, just listing off names of classic movies. Drawers and cabinets were opening and closing, movies were being pulled out of the couch and recliner and what have you, but there was nothing for me. He was white noise, and I wasn't listening.

"... and Third Star." Apparently the movie list had run out. The coffee was done, Joe was looking up at me for approval, Johnny had cheated, and I was homeless.

Wave two of crying broke out like a wave against the white cliffs of Dover. It was piteous, to be honest. Growing up, my family was a lot of people who preferred to act like statues. There was no emotion, no sad, no happy, no angry. Existence was just a blank stare and some spoken words.

Johnny had changed all that. He was like a lightbulb in a thick fog. He had laughed and cried and sang, and taught me to do the same. So when he told me that he was leaving for Boston, I had to follow. He was my light. And now he was Barbie girl's.

Joe stood awkwardly behind the counter looking at me. He probably had never dealt with anything like this in his life. His relationships had all probably been lovely and ended amicably, with noone cheating and noone losing. My luck was not so good.

My sobbing subsided on it's own after a couple minutes. I wasn't used to expressing so much in such a small amount of time. As I was calming down, Joe seemed to relax. He mixed our coffees with a bit of whiskey, very heavyhandedly, I might add. He decided on a movie I had never heard of and plopped down on the couch, throwing his arm over the back.

I took the coffee and sat on the other side of the couch. The movie was rolling and Joe was talking and I was sipping and for the first time in a long time I felt  okay.

Joe and I stayed up way past bedtime, eventually just taking pulls on the bottle of whiskey and watching the movies in quick succession. We wound up playing the finger game and falling asleep on whatever surface we could.

I didn't think about Johnny and Barbie for the rest of the night.

The Beginning

Here goes, I've decided to write again. Bear with me :/

The alarm went off at 6:30 every morning. To my sleepy ears it seemed like it rang around my tiny apartment until it was shut off. This particular morning, amid the half-pieced together parts of my dream, the alarm sounded more desperate that usual.

As if a train whistle could sound desperate.

Johnny stirred next to me and reached over to touch my back, but I was already up and moving. I pulled my robe on and promptly went to relieve myself. I heard Johnny sit up in bed and then move into the kitchen. His feet slapped against the floor, growing more and more distant.

He should start paying rent if he was gonna keep sleeping over. But being the good girlfriend that I was, I didn't have the heart to kick him out. Besides, he was kinda cute when he was half asleep.

I quickly washed and prepared for the day, making sure to not look like I was completely broke and had lived off of ramen noodles for a week. Today was payday, though, and I had to look extra good. Don't baristas always look good? I laughed to myself and put some clothes on.

"Mornin'" Johnny cooed as I emerged from the bathroom. He had made me a bowl of ramen for breakfast, handing it over with a guilty look on his face. It was his fault that I was out of money, he was the one who had blown it all on a pyramid scheme. Freaking Johnny. He was just too cute.

"Morning, boo." I said, plopping down on a kitchen chair and sipping on my ramen soup.

"How late are you going to be at Joe's tonight?" he asked, poking at his own bowl with a frown on his face.

"Eight or eight thirty," I took another sip, "I've got to get some dough so I can afford your lazy ass." Johnny put his bowl of soup down.

"I'm gonna make something on this, Sugar, I can feel it." he mumbled, an excuse I had heard for two years.

"I'm sure. Get a job."

"You know I'd die in the American workforce, Honey. I wouldn't make it a day." He batted his lashes at me and took another sip.

"Well, it's wither they kill you or I do at this point. Love you!" I waltzed out the door.

My commute to work was about twenty minutes, but tourist season was beginning to set into Boston, and they really weren't accustomed to how traffic flowed. I clutched my thin, threadbare scarf around myself a little tighter and walked a little faster. It was already 6:40, Joe's was opening at seven and I was twenty minutes away.

Luckily, Joe wasn't going to fire me. I had been working there for about three years, and I was the best barista there, so he really couldn't afford to let me go. I still ran the last couple blocks.

I threw open the door and a line of seven people all started to cheer. These were my regulars. There was Ben, the Vietnam veteran, Mrs. O'Toole, the retired nurse, Norma and Harry, the young lovers, Sarah the social worker, Douglas, who always wore a suit and had $100 haircuts, and Charlie, the Lenape indian. We were a right crew, we were.

I knew exactly what they were all going to order, so I just threw on my apron and got to work.

Douglas was first today, and anxious about a big meeting. Apparently there was going to be a merger with another company and he had to do all the work. I gave him an extra espresso shot on the house.

Norma and Harry got their mochas and went on their way, holding each others hands.

Mrs. O'Toole asked me if I was single yet and if I'd like to meet her grandson. This was the fifth time this week she had offered him up to me. I handed her her tea and politely refused.

Sarah was on the phone, but took her vanilla latte and smiled at me.

Charlie and Ben were discussing politics at the end of the line, and didn't even notice I was ready for them.

I just put their coffees on the counter and went about my work. I had to sweep and clean and assist the steady stream of customers coming in.

Joe's was actually a very nice coffee shop. It was clean, crisp, modern. It had booths and tables and a small counter-bar. People would start to file in at about 7:30, again at 11:30, then again at about 5.

Ben would be here all day, he was unemployed and possibly homeless. He had told me a couple times that he had bounced around Boston for a while and finally decided that Joe's had not only the best joe, but the best people. No one else would be here as long as Ben would, but that was fine. Too many people is too many people.

 I passed the day sweeping, making coffee, talking to people, and cleaning the shop. At noon Joe sent me out for lunch, I came back with sandwiches and drinks. We sat under the counter and took our sweet time.

Joe's full name was Joseph Christopher Daniels III. He inherited the coffee shop from his father, who got it from his father. The shop was founded in the late 1930's, right before World War Two started. Joe's grandpa had been drafted into the armed forces and left his wife in charge. Grandma Daniels kept the shop running, but just barely. Joe says she gave too much free coffee out to factory workers and soldiers.

He was just so proud of his family. It was kind of cute, but after the fifth time he told me about Grandma Daniels, I was kinda tired of his story.

"I hope I'm running the shop well," he said, munching on his roast beef sandwich, "I'm doing pretty well for my age. And I've got the best barista in Boston here with me."

"Yeah, Joe, you're living the life." I chuckled, tossing my papers at the trash bin. He helped me up and then brushed the crumbs off his too-tight skinny jeans.

"Sure am." He had a nice smile.

The day was way too long. I was exhausted at 6 pm, but still had two hours to go. I was wiping the counter for the ten-thousandth time that day when a customer came running in.

He was a short little man, balding, but with bushy facial hair. The man had on a nice, tailored suit with big stripes. Stumbling and heaving, he ran up to the counter.

"Look, sugar, I need ten cups, all black, sugars and cream on the side, and I need it yesterday. Get movin'!" He tapped his fingers on the counter while I measured the coffee out.

"You aren't going to drink all of this, are you, sir?" I asked, peeking out from around a brewer.

"Hey no questions, keep it moving." The little man was prickly.

"Sir?" I had finished the order, "Sir? Your total is $31.06. Cash or credit?" He shoved a fifty at me, took the coffee, and ran out the door.

That was weird.

At eight I clocked out and shuffled on home. The temperature had dropped, I could see my breath. It took me fourty-five minutes to get home. Yeah, traffic was that bad. At eight. At night.

I walked into my apartment complex and checked my mail. There were four bills and an advertisement waiting for me. I chucked the advertisement, and began to open the bills as I climbed the stairs. I rounded the third floor staircase and almost fell over.

A stout old chinese woman was blocking my way. She looked straight at me, unblinking. I said hello and tried to step around her, but she just kept staring. It was unnerving.

"Well, it's been nice seeing you and all but-"

"No." she snapped, snapping her fingers. "You won't go upstairs."

My eyes bulged open and I said goodbye. I ran up the stairs to get away from her, throwing myself at my door. My pocket forfeited my key after a moment, and as I pushed it into the lock, the door creaked open.

The old woman had spooked me good, my heart was thumping. I pushed the door open even more, expecting to find my apartment in disarray.

Oh, but how I wish I had.

Instead of a robbery, I found Johnny plowing some blonde girl on the floor.

Long Night

Forgive me Lord, for I know not what I do in Management.

Today

This day has been small frustration after small frustration. It began with being freezing cold and having my toothpaste smear all around, and has just escalated to my lazy, self-centered, stupid, sycophant roommate locking me out of my room.

Really, why did you have to do that? Have I pissed you off mightily recently? No? Then don't lock me out, woman. Also, it's a bad idea to buy pizza and not let your roommate have a slice. It's not like I've treated you to pizza, pasta, you name it. And yes, we treat each other enough, but next time, it's a good idea to let the girl that doesn't even live with you eat for free and not your roommate.

I will make your life hell. You will not like it.

Keep your legs closed, you skank.

My phone, a constant source of frustration, agony, and pain, is officially on it's last leg. I don't know how or when I'm going to get another one, since Sprint no longer produces the Replenish (phone I have). This is frustrating.

I don't know who to reach out to, I don't know who I can talk to, and I really just want some chocolate.

Someone help me please, I'm about to throw myself into some traffic.

Waycross

Recently, I was asked what Waycross means to me. I'm not the soul-baring type, and I'm not the uber sympathetic type.

Waycross means the world to me. Yes, there is Waycross magic, yes, it was the first place I could be myself (whether that person was a shy, awkward nine-year-old or a thirteen-year-old punk), yes, it's one of three places I feel at home.

But there's more than that.

I don't want to go into details, but I am a very sad person. I've struggled with depression and anger towards myself. I'm self-depreciating and frustrated. This goes back to Waycross in that I am truly happy and at peace with myself there. I've never felt fat, never wanted to shave my head, never wanted to do myself harm while I'm at Waycross. It's because of the community there, a community where adults go by their first names, kid's lives are changed, and noone is alone. I've been on the outside. Waycross doesn't have an outside. That's just scratching the surface.

Waycross is the place I can go and be forgiven. I've made some big mistakes in my life, and haven't always been forgiven. Up until I go to Waycross, I'm the girl who can't do anything right. Sometimes, I'm surprised that I can get up and out of my crummy bed in the morning. But at Waycross, it's different. You can make mistakes, you can be forgiven. I've never been completely forgiven for anything in my life, everything I do comes back to haunt me. Waycross was the first place where people don't care as long as you apologize. It's the first place I learned to forgive myself for the harm I've done. I can forgive myself. I can. And it's because of Waycross.

I got hurt very badly when I was fifteen. It caused me to gain weight, lose interest in much of what I used to love, and depressed me. I don't go a day when I don't think about it, especially when I'm here at school and at home. At Waycross, though, I can see the person who hurt me in a different light. While I'm anywhere else, I wouldn't hesitate to hurt him back. But at Waycross, when I think of what he did, I don't think of it in anger. I don't want to hurt him like he hurt me. At Waycross, it was a mistake. It was a horrible thing to do, and something I would never, ever wish upon anyone else, but it was a mistake for him. I can't think that way when I'm not at Waycross.

Again, this is really only scratching the surface, but it's just a taste of how I feel about Waycross. It's everything to me. Waycross makes me take a step back and realize how blessed I am. It makes me think and act in a new way.

Benedict Cumberbatch... Ooh la la.

It's official, I have a crush. It's not on anyone in particular, just Benedict Cumberbatch.

As some people know, I tend to get crushes on people that are like, 15 years older than me and British.

The British part isn't a problem. It's the age gap. I've had issues with age gaps since I could develop crushes. Men my age don't thrill me. Possibly because they're still boys, not men.

Unf. He's just too good looking.

And he's single. This is of course an upgrade from other actors that are happily married and have like, five or six or eight children.





That's him. Me-OW.

I don't know what to do with myself. I'm not feeling well today, therefore sitting on my butt and watching The Little Mosque on Hulu. Eventually I will change to something on DVD like the River or download Third Star.

Third Star is a Benedict Cumberbatch movie, it's one of the saddest things I've ever seen. It starts out sad and doesn't get any better.

Dammit, Mr. Cumberbatch, don't distract me. Freaking move-y picture.

 My life is wasted in front of my computer screen. Look at all those faces, awwwwww.

I'm not a freaking fangirl, I promise.

Someone get me a bagel.

It's Five O'Clock Somewhere

I love the Little Mosque. It's such a cute show!

I hate management homework. I'm not putting four hours of work into five questions, that's really silly. Boom, hate it, done.

Anyhow, my story is kind of fleshing out. It's all in my head, but still. Someday it will get on paper.

But not tonight, I have another two hours of homework ahead of me.