Before that I’m not real clear on what she did, in the years when I was really little. Service, I imagine.
She would have gone to college, like her sister did, if she hadn’t gotten pregnant with me, or maybe she just would have gotten further along with modeling. Hell, we live close to Hollywood; maybe she would have been discovered.
She’s taking classes now, of course, working on her nursing career. All of my life, I guess, she’s been in the service industry in one way or another—cleaning people’s teeth or picking up their dry cleaning.
I wander up and down the boardwalk, asking for applications wherever the uniforms don’t look too degrading—a coffee shop, a souvenir store, a couple of pizza places. But I know even as I collect them that I won’t be filling them out, and I wonder how my life could be different, what other set of applications I might be able to gather if I had a different life, if I lived somewhere else, if I were someone else’s daughter.
Last summer, when my mom first started pressuring me about getting a job, I ran into Eugene at the skate park. I was just getting there, and he was crowding into someone’s minivan, heading home.
I don’t know why, but my hand shot up in a wave and I called out, “See you next time.”
He seemed surprised that I was talking to him. I mean, we’d seen each other a few times after that first time, but I hadn’t been very encouraging.
“Probably not,” he said. “My dad’s making me do this shitty internship for the rest of the summer. Fucking law office bullshit.”
He looked genuinely crushed. Me, I couldn’t get past the word internship .
I’m not far from home, turned away from the beach and the tourists and the crowd, when I slide to sitting. I lean up against a lamppost and try my best to take a few deep breaths. It’s close to five o’clock, and the heat is crushing along with everything else. I pull the band from my hair and let my curls flop over into my eyes, offering me some relief from the sun.
I wonder where my mother is.
Have you ever had the feeling that you aren’t the main character in the story of your life? That you fill a more minor role—supporting cast, maybe, comic relief, or even antagonist? If that is true—if you aren’t the big deal in the story of your life, if your whole purpose is to act as a foil or a catalyst for someone else—then maybe it doesn’t matter what you do. Or what you don’t do.
Maybe all that matters is what others do to you.
Feet stop in front of me. They are a man’s. Worn-out Toms. Tanned, golden-hued calves. Gray board shorts. I look up. “Hey, Jordan.”
“Seph, what are you doing?”
“Taking a break.”
“From walking?”
“From life.”
There’s a loose spring on the sidewalk next to my foot. A little one, from a pen. I palm it.
Jordan doesn’t know what to say, I guess, because he doesn’t say anything, just stretches his hand down to me. I look at it for a minute before taking it. He pulls me to my feet.
“Girl,” he says, “you look like fried shit.”
He invites me into his apartment to cool down. The shades are drawn, and it’s dark. It’s kind of loud in there, full of this buzzing humming sound. His place is typical Venice Beach. Shittier than ours, with the window blinds that come standard. Mom is right … they are ugly. His place is a studio, and the futon he sleeps on is in the middle of the room, still in full bed mode. I wonder if he ever sits it up. The blanket’s wadded down toward the bottom, and there are no sheets. One ugly table lamp and an empty pizza box on the floor. But the air in here is way better than outside, and I sigh with relief.
“Swamp cooler,” he says, indicating an ugly metal box squatting in his window. “My folks picked it up for me at a yard sale. It only works sometimes, though. On dry days. If there’s too much moisture in the air, it can’t cool things down as well.”
His apartment reminds me of a
She would have gone to college, like her sister did, if she hadn’t gotten pregnant with me, or maybe she just would have gotten further along with modeling. Hell, we live close to Hollywood; maybe she would have been discovered.
She’s taking classes now, of course, working on her nursing career. All of my life, I guess, she’s been in the service industry in one way or another—cleaning people’s teeth or picking up their dry cleaning.
I wander up and down the boardwalk, asking for applications wherever the uniforms don’t look too degrading—a coffee shop, a souvenir store, a couple of pizza places. But I know even as I collect them that I won’t be filling them out, and I wonder how my life could be different, what other set of applications I might be able to gather if I had a different life, if I lived somewhere else, if I were someone else’s daughter.
Last summer, when my mom first started pressuring me about getting a job, I ran into Eugene at the skate park. I was just getting there, and he was crowding into someone’s minivan, heading home.
I don’t know why, but my hand shot up in a wave and I called out, “See you next time.”
He seemed surprised that I was talking to him. I mean, we’d seen each other a few times after that first time, but I hadn’t been very encouraging.
“Probably not,” he said. “My dad’s making me do this shitty internship for the rest of the summer. Fucking law office bullshit.”
He looked genuinely crushed. Me, I couldn’t get past the word internship .
I’m not far from home, turned away from the beach and the tourists and the crowd, when I slide to sitting. I lean up against a lamppost and try my best to take a few deep breaths. It’s close to five o’clock, and the heat is crushing along with everything else. I pull the band from my hair and let my curls flop over into my eyes, offering me some relief from the sun.
I wonder where my mother is.
Have you ever had the feeling that you aren’t the main character in the story of your life? That you fill a more minor role—supporting cast, maybe, comic relief, or even antagonist? If that is true—if you aren’t the big deal in the story of your life, if your whole purpose is to act as a foil or a catalyst for someone else—then maybe it doesn’t matter what you do. Or what you don’t do.
Maybe all that matters is what others do to you.
Feet stop in front of me. They are a man’s. Worn-out Toms. Tanned, golden-hued calves. Gray board shorts. I look up. “Hey, Jordan.”
“Seph, what are you doing?”
“Taking a break.”
“From walking?”
“From life.”
There’s a loose spring on the sidewalk next to my foot. A little one, from a pen. I palm it.
Jordan doesn’t know what to say, I guess, because he doesn’t say anything, just stretches his hand down to me. I look at it for a minute before taking it. He pulls me to my feet.
“Girl,” he says, “you look like fried shit.”
He invites me into his apartment to cool down. The shades are drawn, and it’s dark. It’s kind of loud in there, full of this buzzing humming sound. His place is typical Venice Beach. Shittier than ours, with the window blinds that come standard. Mom is right … they are ugly. His place is a studio, and the futon he sleeps on is in the middle of the room, still in full bed mode. I wonder if he ever sits it up. The blanket’s wadded down toward the bottom, and there are no sheets. One ugly table lamp and an empty pizza box on the floor. But the air in here is way better than outside, and I sigh with relief.
“Swamp cooler,” he says, indicating an ugly metal box squatting in his window. “My folks picked it up for me at a yard sale. It only works sometimes, though. On dry days. If there’s too much moisture in the air, it can’t cool things down as well.”
His apartment reminds me of a
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