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“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I scream, holding up the red paper.
The little shithead superintendent is seated at his desk, not surprised by my reaction, judging by the smug look on his face. He leans back in his chair. “I think the notice is pretty self-explanatory.”
“This is bullshit, Chris.”
“Actually, it’s not. You’re three months behind on your rent.”
“Says who?” I step forward, my bag dropping to the floor beside me.
“Says me and my accounting software. I’ve left you voice messages, slipped notices under your door, reminded you when I see you coming in.” He crosses his pudgy little arms above his strained stomach.
He’s wrong. He told me once and I paid him.
Didn’t I?
“Whatever. I’m not some loser who can’t pay her rent.”
“Whether you have the money or not doesn’t matter. You’re behind on your rent and I’m within my rights to send you packing.” He uncrosses his arms, tilting the chair back down onto all fours. “The fact is, I’m tired of your shit. I have to chase you for your rent, deal with your neighbors complaining about your all-night parties… I know what goes on in your place. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“Whatever you’re thinking, that’s not the case.”
“I beg to differ.” His eyes focus on a piece of paper on his desk, dismissing me.
“So that’s it then? I’m just out on the street?”
“I’m sure you have friends to help you out,” he mumbles and scribbles something on the piece of paper he finds so important.
“What about all my stuff?” I ask.
“I’m not a complete asshole. I’ll give you a week to make arrangements. Hire movers, con your friends into helping you. I don’t give a shit. But if it’s still there this time next week, it’s in the trash.”
I stand in front of his desk, with his half-eaten cheeseburger next to him, stunned for a moment. I can’t believe he’s kicking me out. I can’t believe I’m three months behind on my rent.
What can I do? What can I do?
Changing my expression to a sultry smile, I slowly sway my hips as I round the side of his desk and touch his collar. “There must be some kind of compromise. Something I can do for you to give me another chance.”
His eyes widen and dip to my breasts for a second. He slides out his desk chair and I eye his open legs, looking for a spot to kneel in front of him.
“You need to leave.” He points at the door.
“Come on, Chris.” I place my hand on his knee and lower my body. “Please. I’ll do anything.”
He stares me in the eyes, his hand wrapped around my upper arm, stopping me. “Go.”
I stand. “Fine. But you and I both know that you’ll never get a better offer than this.” I slide my hands down my body, straightening my dress.
I whisk my purse up off the floor and stomp out of his office, then I push open the heavy glass doors of the lobby with rage. I’m not in dire straits. I have some money in the bank, but not enough for first and last month plus the security deposit for a new place.
Stepping over cigarette butts, I sit on the concrete wall of the small garden in front of the building and open my purse to grab my phone. The small baggie of oxy pills I scored last night lies next to it. I glance around to be sure I’m alone and slide out a pill. Clasping it in my palm, I search the area once more before I toss the pill to the back of my throat and swallow.
I grab my phone. In about twenty minutes, all the hurting, jagged edges of my current predicament will blur, becoming less potent and less real.
After calling a couple of my model friends, none of whom pick up, I relent and call Jimmy. The fact that he’s the last person I call when he’d be the first person to help says a lot about what I want, not what I need.
It’s been a few days since I raced out of his house after he put pressure on me to open up about why I won’t be with him in any real way.
He picks up on the second ring. “Hey.”
