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Chapter Three
“Who’s a good boy?”
Mischief runs over to me and jumps on my lap, snatching up the crust from my bread, his little stump wagging behind him happily. Laughing, I scratch behind his mauled ear and his mismatched eyes roll into the back of his head in ecstasy.
We’ve been together for a week now, and although neither of us are fully satisfied, our bellies often grumbling together, at least we are dry and safe. The power still hasn’t turned back on, and even though the trailer is chilly, Mischief and I cuddle up under blankets and keep each other warm.
Two days ago, I visited the local library to use their computer since I don’t have one of my own. I scrolled through the want ads in the newspaper and applied to at least a dozen jobs. I sent in an application for everything from a server to a maid to a garbage collector. Right now, I’d take any one of them, maybe even two if the hours didn’t overlap.
Pulling out the pencil from behind my ear, I mark down a few numbers in my sudoku puzzle and chew on my lip, trying to decipher the next square. I love these fucking things. On the side table next to my couch is a pile of puzzle books. Sudoku, crosswords, word searches… It’s how I pass my time.
When I visit the convenience store closest to my house to buy a loaf of bread, I snatch one off the counter each time. They only cost a dollar or two, so I don’t feel bad stealing them.
I like that they keep my mind sharp and give me something to focus on other than my hunger, unpaid bills, or how miserable my life really is. Plus, it makes me feel smart. When you’re told all your life that you’re nothing but a pretty face, you want to disprove that. I’m not defined by my looks, I’m so much more than that.
I can plot and scheme. I can think for myself and make informed decisions. The only reason I live like I do is because my heart isn’t as black as the oppressive world around me. Mitch-bitch comes first. His medical bills come first. I refuse to let him die, to be the reason he’s forced into a state-run facility.
If that means I go hungry and cold, then so be it.
The doctors are surprised he’s lasted this long, but Mitch keeps clinging onto life like a fungus that won’t go away. I know he’s still in contact with Donny, still purchasing drugs and having them snuck into his room.
How do I know this?
Because the sick fuck comes knocking on my door for payment. Mitch has no fucking money, and his selfishness leaves him high and me starving. I try not to let the anger and hurt at what he’s done consume me, but at times, it’s really fucking hard.
Mischief crawls up my body, his wet nose nuzzling my face as he licks my cheek. “Come here you.” I pull the big pup into my lap and curl my body around him, relaxing into the one being on this Earth that loves me for who I am, not what I am. Mischief’s love is not conditional. Even when we starve together, he doesn’t hold it against me.
We lie around for a while, just soaking in each other’s presence, two beings discarded like trash finding comfort and love in the other. Glancing at the old battery clock hanging on the wall, I see it’s almost noon. Time to get my ass up. These applications won’t respond to themselves. I pull on my favorite pair of black leggings and a tattered hoodie, then slip out of the door, patting Mischief on the head before I go.
I usually prefer to take him with me, but I can’t leave him tied up outside the library barking at all the old ladies just wanting to pick up their books for the week. Walking anywhere alone isn’t the same since my rambunctious terrier came into my life. Before him, I could feel eyes on me as I walked, anxiety surging at the thought of someone following me.
Could it be Donny?
A fence coming to find me for a job?
Someone worse?
But when Mischief is with me, everyone gives me a wide berth. It’s funny how quickly I’ve come to rely on his presence.
Luckily for me, the walk to the library is uneventful, as most things are in the middle of the day on Thursdays. I avoid eye contact with the librarian at the front desk, not wanting to see the pity in her eyes, and head to the back where the computers are. Finding an unoccupied one, I plop down on the chair and bring up my email account. There’s an advertisement from the local community college asking if I want to sign up for the upcoming semester, and several rejection letters from my recent applications citing my inexperience, lack of skills, and no transportation as the main reasons I don’t get the job.
How can a garbageman even get experience?
Grumbling, I’m ready to shut the fucking thing off when a new email plops up from Motel World, a place I’d applied to for a maid position. Heart racing, I open it and read, celebrating inside that someone will finally give me an interview. A man named Cory Buckels, with the title of manager, is asking me to meet him at the motel in question tonight at nine. Though the time is rather strange for an interview, I quickly respond, letting them know I will be there, and then I rush home.
“Guess what?” I say to Mischief after locking the door behind me. “Mommy has a job interview! Yes she does!” My dog’s entire body is wiggling because he’s so excited to see me, and my heart warms at the sight. I know I might have rescued Mischief, but really, he’s rescued me.
But how do I get ready with no hot water? I lift my arm and sniff my pit, gagging at my own smell.
Fuck.
Cold shower it is.
Stripping off my clothes, I step under the rusted showerhead and turn it on, thankful that even with no electricity, my water still works. Goosebumps erupt on my skin as I quickly scrub my curls and the rest of my body. I rinse as fast as possible, my fingers almost numb from the cold.
When I was little, I remember how my mom would put a towel in the dryer for a few minutes before she took me out of the tub, and when I got out, she’d wrap me up in a cozy, warm embrace. I’d give anything to relive that moment right now as I wind my hair up in one ratty towel and huddle my body below another. I sit there shaking for a few minutes before my body settles enough for me to move and get ready. My fingers are still cold but not as numb.
Curly hair can be a bitch to style, so once my body is completely dry, I slip on a tank top and a pair of pajama pants, then get to scrunching. Mousse is a necessity to tame this mane of mine, but I can barely afford soap these days. The task is daunting with no product and no hair dryer, but I do the best I can and hope air drying will work in my favor today.
