Catching a Fallen Starr Page 2

  “I’m off the clock,” I point out.

  “This won’t take but a second,” he says, wiping his hands on a towel. He drapes the towel over a shoulder keeping his eyes trained on where I’m sitting the entire time. “Say goodbye to your friend.”

  “Don’t be rude, Mikey.”

  “I’m not playing. You’ve got five minutes to meet me in the back.” And then as quickly as he appeared, he is gone.

  Mikey is a no-nonsense kind of guy. He’s a great boss unless you get on his bad side.

  “What was that about,” Sterling asks.

  I slide out of the booth. “I don’t know. He probably needs help with the schedule. He can be a drama king, ignore him. That’s what I usually do. How long you in town for?”

  “A couple of days. We’ll be back at the end of the month though. An art gallery purchased some of Phoenix’s carvings. We’ll be bringing them up on the twenty-first.”

  “I bet she’s stoked. Tell her I said congrats.”

  “Tell her yourself. She’s been calling you to meet up and go shopping or something, but you won’t ever pick up. Just so that you know, she’s starting to take it personal.”

  “Well tell her not to. I’ve been busy.”

  “Too busy for friends?” His blue eyes narrow. “Is everything okay, Starr?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be? Don’t you know it…?” I flashed him a smile, “…life is grand.”

  Mikey yells from the swinging door leading to the kitchen. He taps him watch. “Time's up.” He then waves, “Bye bye, friend.”

  “I’m coming! Don’t act a fool!” I shout. “Gah, that man gets on my nerves.” My attention returns to Sterling. “I gotta go before the bulging vein on his forehead explodes.” I go to leave but then pause. “Let me know how the marriage proposal goes.”

  Sterling chuckles. “Okay. I will.”

  ***

  “What’s the problem?” I ask Mikey. “You embarrassed the hell out of me in front of my friend. You better have a good reason. Like the kitchen is on fire. Otherwise…I might just quit and let you serve your own damn pizza.”

  The boss crosses his arms over his broad chest; the cords of muscles in his arms defined.

  “The cash register is coming up short,” he says.

  “Oh? By how much?”

  “Forty dollars short.”

  “You sure Scarlett counted it right? I swear, Mikey, the girl has shit for brains, where the hell did you find her—let me go count it.” I aim a finger over my shoulder. “Do you? Want me to go count it? Because I will even though you were rude into front of my friend. I will do that for you, because you’re my favorite boss.”

  “We’ve come up short a couple of nights this week.” He gives me a condemning look. “The nights you worked, Starr.”

  “Are you blaming me for stealing?” I huff. The nerve. Who the hell does he think he is?!

  “You come in late,” Mikey continues, “when you bother showing up at all, and now someone is skimming. What do you expect me to think?”

  I wheel around and slam a palm into the swinging door to the kitchen, stalking toward the table I was sitting at with Sterling. Thank God he’s gone. My body vibrates I’m so pissed. “Mother Fucker wants to accuse me…” I grumble under my breath, scooping up my purse and jacket from the table. The rubber soles of my shoes squeak over the oily vinyl flooring as I head straight for the front door.

  “Wait!” Mikey calls.

  Scarlett sprays the glass door leading into the restaurant with Windex.

  “Move,” I growl at her.

  Paper towel in hand Scarlett quickly steps out of the way, her eyes huge as if she thinks I’m going to lose it and hit someone. I just might.

  Mikey shouts in Italian. I don’t understand a word he says, but I get the gist. There is an apologetic quality to it even though it’s shouting.

  “Hell No!” I spin around to face him. “Scarlett’s been here, what, two fucking months? I’ve been here three years, and you’re going to blame me instead of her?”

  “I’m sorry,” he has the nerve to say in English. “Let’s sit down and—”

  “Talk about it? THERE IS NOTHING to talk about Mikey.” Throwing my hands in the air I announce, “I quit. I quit this horrible dead-end, life-sucking job. I fucking hate smelling like pizza all the time anyways. I’m not going to work for some dickhead who doesn’t trust me. I can do better.”

  Coat and purse in hand I pretend to lunge at Scarlett—who is staring at what is NONE of her business. She flinches and takes a couple of steps back, hugging the Windex bottle. “What are you looking at?” I ask. I pause all smartass-y and very deliberately run a fingertip down her sparkly glass. “You missed a spot.” I point right at the smudge. “Make sure you take care of that before you get blamed for people hating on Mikey’s Pizza. “

  “Um, ok,” is all she says.

  I don’t feel bad. I never liked Scarlett anyways; she whines too damn much. She wears her T-shirts extra tight to draw attention to her huge boobs believing they will increase her tips, and they do. She calls in sick every time she wants to hang out with her boyfriend instead of slinging slices of pizza, but then she hits on every guy that walks through the door. Scarlett takes advantage of the fact that she has a good guy. She is blind to how few good guys there are. It gets on my nerves. She gets on my nerves!

  Pushing against the handle of the door, I storm out.

  Jobless.

  I know what you’re thinking?

  Only someone guilty would overreact the way I just did.

  You are right.

  ***

  I moved out of the city because the rent was cheaper. Now, without money for cab fare, I realize it may not have been the smartest decision. It’s common to be approached on the way inside my building by someone asking for a couple of bucks. “Sorry,” I tell the man. “I don’t have any cash on me.”

  Two flights up and I’m on my floor. The lighting in the hallway sucks. One single bulb that throws off a fake orange glow. The walls and molding are painted the darkest shade of forest green that doesn’t help. It’s not until I’m jamming the keys in the lock that I notice the white piece of paper scotch-taped to my apartment door.

  “Of course,” I mumble under my breath, “why not, today’s been so wonderful so far.”

  I jerk the paper down and frown at the eviction notice:

  You have twenty-four hours to come up with the rent you owe me!!!

  Crushing the paper in a tight ball I sling it at my landlord’s door across the hallway wishing it were a brick instead. “Dickwad!” I yell.

  I know he’s in there; gloating, smirking, his hairy feet up in that ugly worn-out recliner as he chugs Budweiser while watching old episodes of Baywatch. Sad thing is, his recliner looks better than most of the shit in my apartment. The door sticks. I kick the bottom with my foot until it opens. Once inside, I slam the door and fall against it. Immediately I notice my skin feels clammy and sticky. Guess the air conditioning is still broke. Son-of-a-bitch! He has to be the worst landlord in all of L.A.

  Pushing off from the door I slip out my shoes and walk across to the dresser, trading my jean shorts and tank that smell like pizza for a gray t-shirt and clean underwear.

  I go over and pry open a window to let in the sounds of L.A’s busy streets. Horns honk. Gas fumes rise finding their way into my apartment. All the exhaust emissions are still better than suffocating inside this stuffy apartment.

  Forcing the window up as far as it will go I grab my cell and sit on the ledge with my back to the casing of the window. I like it up here, high above the city. I sit here when I need to think. Bending a knee I rest one foot on the windowsill.

  A whistle comes from down on the street.

  You would think the way those two guys stop and stare that they’ve never seen a girl in a t-shirt and underwear before. They act like this is an uncommon occurrence—girl sitting in her window minding her own business. I direct their gaze t
o the flashing billboard up the street of a Victoria Secrets model in less than what I’m wearing.

  One of the guys grabs his dick and yells something back.

  “Can’t hear you,” I shout, cupping an ear. I flip him the bird before completely ignoring him. What some no-name thinks is the least of my concerns. My gaze slides to the tin on the refrigerator. The tin is where I keep my money. It’s empty. Took the last of it this morning.

  I inhale the sweltering city air, letting it fill my dry, scratchy lungs. Not exactly cleansing but its home and familiar. Wrapping a hand around the amber stone lying against my chest I watch the tangerine sun vanish behind the skyscrapers. I’m not sure how long I sit there. A half hour, maybe longer.

  My head falls back against the window frame. I squeeze my eyes shut and let the sounds of the city below wash over me and for a second, I don’t feel so alone. There're others out there, struggling and fighting to survive. I know that sounds insane but hearing the hustle and bustle of activity is comforting to me. The noisier, the better. The noise drowns out the shit inside my head.

  I already crave my last pill. I think about it constantly. Using. It’s all I think about. A breeze blows my hair, and I shiver, suddenly cold. Once I take the pill, that’s it. My next thought will be how can I get more dope?

  I uncurl the fingers of my right hand and stare at the cell phone lying in my palm. Who can I call? Who can I beg? Who’s crazy enough to pick up and listen to my lies? I punch in numbers then hug my knee to my chest stretching my t-shirt down over it. When she answers I swallow hard, forcing out a strangled, “hey. Whatchadoin?”

  Silence.

  “Mom, you there?” I ask.

  “What do you need?”

  My mother has a way of making me feel like absolute shit. “Never mind.” I go to hang up. I don’t need anything she has to offer, but then I remember why I called her. I need money and to get it, I’m going to have to swallow a significant amount of my pride. “I’m sorry,” I tell her in a small voice.

  “Sorry for what?”

  Tears make their way down over my cheeks. Dammit! I hate crying, especially to her. I hate groveling, expecting something from my mother that she is incapable of giving. “I’m waiting?” she says. I imagine her tapping her foot with her hand concreted to her hip.

  Staring down at the cars jammed up on the street I tell her, “I’m sorry for…not being a very good daughter.”

  “What else?”

  “What else is there?”

  “If you think that makes up for—”

  I interrupt. “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you. I want to do better.” My voice breaks. “I want us to be better.”

  Please say I want that too, sweetheart.

  Admit that I’m not the only one screwed up here.

  That we both have things we need to work on…!

  I can hear her breathing, but she doesn’t say anything for the longest time, and then she destroys any hope I have of anything ever being different. “Do you mean it?” she says in an uppity-tone. “Do you truly get how bad you’ve fucked up here, because I’m not sure I can ever believe a thing that comes out of your mouth? I’m not sure I can ever trust you. It’s bad when you can’t trust your daughter. You say you’re better, but you’ve lied and manipulated me so many times.”

  I crumble, sobbing. “I love you, mom.” I need you. Now more than ever. Shaking I light a cigarette and breathe out a cloud of smoke, waiting for her reply.

  “Yeah, well, you have a lot of repairing to do. It’s going to take time.”

  “I’ve met someone,” I blurt out, starving for her approval. I know how much she wants me married and having babies—grandbabies, that’s what she wants. Not sure why. We would only fuck them up too. Eventually.

  Her tone is sharp, “Please tell me it’s not another loser. You have the worse taste in men.”

  Gee, really? I wonder where I get my taste from.

  You’re not trash until someone throws you away.

  “No,” I reassure her. “This is a good guy, mom.” Lies. Lies. Lies! All lie!

  “Really? A good guy,” she makes a disbelieving sound, “and where did you find this good guy?”

  I pause, massaging the place between my brows. “Um…at Church.” She laughs, hard. I stammer on. Happy. Upbeat. Pretending. “Anyways, I know you don’t believe me, but that’s okay. I was thinking about cooking one night…have you over to meet him?” By the way, can I have forty dollars?

  “Has your father met this guy?”

  Here it comes. “No.”

  “Oh,” she draws out. “That’s right; your father is too wrapped up in his second daughter. Your father has no idea how ridiculous he looks…a kid at his age. Does he not have enough common sense to realize his new wife is not much older than his first daughter?”

  “Please, Mom, don’t start.”

  “Start what? Start in on how this is all your father's fault? He walked out on us, have you forgotten?”

  No. I haven’t forgotten. Her critical words keep coming, “He abandoned his daughter at twelve, a time when she needed him most. And now he’s playing makeup with this new wife. He’s going to bail on her too, you know it, wait and see. That woman does even know what kind of man she has. How she could even ask that man to meet someone important in her life—”

  “She? Who are you talking to? Are you drunk? It’s fucking ME mom, not SHE, ME! I’m the one dealing with this shit! YOUR shit! Don’t act as if you haven’t played a major part. I don’t blame my father for leaving. I’m shocked he stuck around as long as he did.”

  She makes another sound of disapproval. “You’re standing up for the man who said you’re worthless?”

  “He didn’t say I’m worthless.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought it was implied. Well, I guess it’s only natural…abused dogs beg for their owner’s approval no matter how they mistreat them.”

  Sometimes I wish I could slap my mother, slap her right across her artificially tanned face. Smack! There goes one cheek, now the other. Smack! Oh, it would feel so good and therapeutic. Isn’t that the word she loves to throw around in that snobbish condescending tone of hers: therapeutic, therapeutic, THERAPEUTIC!

  “Why are you laughing,” she asks. “That you find any of this funny, well that just shows how far you’ve fallen.”

  “That’s why I’m going to church,” I say. I have to cover my mouth to mute my hysteria. I can’t help it. Sometimes it’s hard to contain. I hate her so fucking much. No. I don’t hate her. I hate the way she makes me feel.

  “I bet you never call your father for money,” she says, “No. You don’t do you? You know it’s no use because he never—”

  I interrupt, “gotta go, somebody’s at the door.” I rap on one of the panes of glass above my head. If I’m lucky, the glass will break and one of the sharp shards will puncture my heart.

  My mother doesn’t hear a word I’m saying, she just keeps talking. “He’s a cold-hearted, arrogant son-of-a-bitch. No wonder you turned out so—”

  “Knocking, mom, I have to hang-up now…”

  “If this guy you’re seeing is anything like your father… first sign of real trouble and he’ll be gone. Trust me, you can never count on a man to be there!”

  I jab the end-call button.

  Immediately I punch in my father’s number. It goes straight to his voice mail. Tearing my hand through my hair I scream at the top of my lungs. I clench my hands into fist and scream again. Louder this time hoping the damn entire world hears all the pain buried deep inside. I have to get it out. It’s toxic. Eating me alive from the inside out. I scream until my throat is raw, and people holler “shut up” from the street below.

  Doesn’t anyone care or notice that I’m dying?

  “No, dickwad,” I shout, “You shut your mouth.” I stand and slam the window shut.

  God, why do I let my mother get to me? Why do I let her inside my head? She’s bitter and unhappy and expects the same
out of me. I can’t help my parents never got along. Is it my fault they constantly fought? It’s not my fault he left us. Should I be punished for their mistakes?

  I kick over the kitchen chair. I want to scream. Suck it up, Starr. You’re out of that shit now. You’re free. You’re independent. An adult.

  Then why the hell do I feel like such a vulnerable child?

  Shut it down. Shut it all down. I can’t let these feelings of inadequacy get under my skin, but how can I not? I have no money. No job. And soon I’m going to be homeless. Those are things you can’t ignore.

  Sitting the kitchen chair upright I collapse into it burying my face in my hands. What am I going to do? I can’t keep going on like this. I’m in one hell of a loop. I need to get my shit together, stop the pills and focus on straightening out my finances. But the stress of it all overwhelms and makes me crave an escape. I reach for one of the envelopes thrown in the center of the table and turn it over, making a list of every bill I’m behind on. The list runs from the bottom of the paper. It’s impossible. Hopeless. I’ve dug a ditch that is going to be my grave. I have bread and a jar of peanut butter, a creepy landlord, and the powers about to be cut off. My cell phone will be next, and then I won’t even be able to offer a means of contact with an application for a new job. Laying my head on the tabletop I break down and cry. I am so screwed. There has to be something in this apartment that I can pawn or sell? My gaze lands on a bag by the dresser. Money! I can return the boots my mother bought for me last Christmas.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Fake Jewels

  “I want to be a princess when I grow up,” the little girl says to me. A crown with fake jewels is clipped to her curly hair. There’s a sparkly wand in her hand. Her feet dangle from the seat of her chair, her feet nowhere near touching the floor yet.

  “That’s nice.” I give her a sideways glance. Shoppers move about Glendale Galleria, oblivious as if a girl this young sitting by herself is not peculiar. I set my bag down and give the little girl my full attention, assuming she is lost. “Hey, where’s your parents?”

  “Buying daddy a rubber penis.”