Just North of Whoville by Turiskylie, Joyce (free children's ebooks pdf .TXT) 📗

you have to get permission from the building to install them. So much red tape,” she smiled.

I took a big sip of my vodka. I suddenly realized that I was possibly face-to-face with the building spy.

“It’s funny because Alex and I were talking marriage. Then suddenly he needed a break. You can understand how upset I was.”

“Oh sure.”

“I broke up with him, yes. But sometimes you have to let the man know who is in charge. You have to lead them like little dogs,” she said with a laugh. “Women are more sensible. Like your friend. I’m sure she’s a very rational woman.”

“I guess so.”

“I think it’s best you advise her not to see him anymore.”

“Well, they broke up…”

“Yes. But sometimes these things change. I would hate to see things change. But, if they did…” she thought to herself, “I’ve always wanted a rooftop garden. Now that they’re fixing the roof, if I were alone again, it would be such a comfort to me in my pain,” she said as she reclined back on her washer-dryer combo. “I understand you’ve become friendly with our Nate. Such a sweet boy. I’d hate to see him lose his job. Wouldn’t you?”

A few minutes later, I was back home trying to make sense of what I’d just been told. Keep Alex away from Celia, or she would rat me out to the management. I’d lose my apartment and Nate would lose his job. However, the good news was that Celia had already broken things off. And I certainly was in no hurry to get them back together. Especially now that he was out of my apartment. Frankly, I was more worried about getting caught just being in the apartment.

That weekend, I crept in and out of the building to do my errands. Although I quickly learned that creeping out of the building unseen with two loads of laundry in your arms was pretty much impossible. I was constantly on the lookout for Nate, and always tried to have a story prepared, just in case I ran into him. I felt like a prisoner in my own home. And then my mother called.

“Hi sweetie. I haven’t heard from you so I figured you didn’t get your ticket to come home.”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, it’s so close now and we’re trying to make our holiday plans. We sort of figured you weren’t going to make it this year.”

My poor family. Every Christmas I put them thru the same thing. Will she or won’t she? I quickly went online to check on ticket availability and prices. Wow. The price had tripled since I last checked. The cost of the ticket and a few cheap, token gifts would completely clean out the little bit of money I had in the bank. Let alone cover next month’s rent. If I still had an apartment. Going home didn’t seem like the most fiscally responsible thing to do. I was officially a fuck-up.

Merry Christmas. I’m not coming home.

14

“Everything okay?” Sunshine said as she handed me the Christmas Blend.

“Great. Really great,” I said half-heartedly.

“Really?” she seemed genuinely concerned.

“No. Not really.”

“Awww… Wanna talk about it? After all, I am a barista,” she tried to tempt me.

“I thought that was just bartenders.”

“You’d be surprised the stories I hear back here.”

“Well, yesterday my boss said that she wants to talk to me today.”

“Oh no! You think you’re going to get fired?”

“Worse. A promotion.”

“But that’s good!”

“Not really. I don’t want to take it.”

She leaned in and whispered,” I was offered a promotion, too. I don’t know if I’m going to take it, either. We’re just like twins!”

While I doubted that we were separated at birth, I was surprised that Sunshiney Day and I were on the same life track.

“Well, it’s just….” I tried to explain. “It’s not even a respectable job. I mean, it’s not porn or anything. But it’s pretty close. It’s sales.”

“Ewww….” she scrunched up her face.

“Exactly. It’s not really me. Not what I want to do with my life.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve been asking myself, do I really want to become an assistant manager and be doing that till I’m like old and twenty-five?”

Frankly, Sunshine’s impending old age at twenty-five was the least of my worries that morning. At work, my immediate concern was a little boy named Irving who was all dolled-up for his Christmas shoot for ABC Their Eyes All Aglow. But I don’t care how adorable he looked in his snowman sweater, no kid is cute when he’s hitting you in the head with a balloon. Apparently, he thought this was funny. His mother, sitting right next to him, saw everything, but the conversation on her cell phone was apparently more important than telling her child not to hit the nice lady. I took my mental revenge. Imagining this young boy ten years later, stealing money out of her pocketbook, taking the keys to her car, having unprotected sex with fourteen year-old girls, smoking pot on her sofa and mouthing back to her, “You can’t tell me what to do!” Because the bitch never did. Should’ve started with the balloon incident, lady. Eventually, I could only hope, she would pay the price.

Finally, through some miracle of parenting, the mother paused her phone conversation and leaned over to speak. It was about time that kid got a what for.

“Excuse me,” she said, “aren’t you the woman who jumped into the Thanksgiving Day Parade?”

“Um…yeah. But…”

“What kind of example is that for the children?” she said and went right back to her call as her son continued to pummel me. A few seconds later, I pulled a safety pin out of the ripped hem of my skirt and popped his