Jackie's Story (Temp. Title)

1.

The interview.

“Jesus Christ, it’s early,” I think bitterly as my perfect dream world is shattered by the radio edited version of “My Humps”. The thought, saturated in sarcasm “What a great day starter,” follows quickly. Why can’t the dream me be the real me? I ponder the possibility, and then dismiss it. If she was the real me, I would be of statuesque height, with curves in all the right places, and with a lover who was not only exciting and daring, but handsome. Instead, I am a 5’2” hobbit with no curves to speak of, who looks three years younger than my actual age, and who has love life as nonexistent as my sex appeal. I mean, according to me. There were a couple acne ridden and hormonal “kings of geekdom” who would argue my sex appeal quotient in high school. But I'm sure that is because theirs paled in comparison. I push through the barrier of heavy covers and school books that is my bed. I walk to the bathroom, start a scalding shower, and stare into the green eyes looking back at me in the quickly fogging mirror. I try to decipher the person facing me, but she disappears too quickly in a blanket of mist. Starting the day is always the hardest part of it. I dress quickly in my “business” clothes (the only I own) which consist of a blazer and pencil skirt, both in slate gray. I curl my long, brunette hair, A.K.A., my only redeeming physical characteristic, and head out the door, balancing my car keys, a mirror, and a tube of mascara on my resume as I try to line my eyes with eyeliner. I’m late. As always. I hope the doctor is dealing with an uncooperative patient or something of the like. Even though “Happy Hearts Assisted Living” is not my first job choice, I still need one. “Well,” I muse, “It really can’t get better than ancient people and misplaced piss.”

After finding the nondescript door that reads Dr. Palestine, I sit in a lumpy, irregular armchair that is upholstered in a fraying merlot fabric. I lift my eyes to meet the unwavering glare of the man of the hour, the doctor who runs this decaying home. I expect to see an old, portly man, maybe with a mustache or some leftover lettuce stuck in his bicuspids, but I am proven a fool, because he is beautiful. Easily the most striking person, male or female, I have ever seen. His black, coal hair sweeps along his brow, and the dimples that appear as he smiles warmly at the small, young woman before him, are to say the least, intoxicating. The strange nose, perhaps broken before, is slightly too big for his face. I find it positively endearing. His hands are strong, rough and callused from hard labor. The labor that he endured is an unanswered question in my mind, and I am craving the answer. But, in the midst of his perfection, there is one unsettling, but yet stunning trait that sends shivers along my spine. It is his eyes. They are a hazel in color, but that isn’t the thing that sends my soul into a frenzy. He turns in his chair, to face his diploma, framed on the crumbling wall. I look into his eyes as a film slides to reveal a bone chilling black, far from the previous demure hazel. A midnight black. His pupils melt into the iris as if they are one in the same. Oh my god, No! I forgot to answer his last question.

“Oh..I…um. What?” I ask, oh so eloquently.

He smiles, but the smile has an edge, as if he noticed my gawking. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course he noticed my gawking. His expression turns dark, and he looks at me, puzzled. Did he forget to answer me?

He clears his throat, obviously unsettled. “Yes, uh, I asked you about your recommendations? Are they credible?”

I answer, quite robotically, because my mind is busy trying to decode the now formal and businesslike manner in which he is speaking. What is his problem? I was just admiring…watching. Doesn’t he get that quite often? This man is a mystery.

The interview ends and I bid my farewell, promising myself that I will be back. He dismisses me coldly, verbally, and then moves closer to shake my hand. He holds onto my hand far too long as we clasp them together, shaking them, which, of course, is customary for an interview. The hold he has on me, however, is not very routine.

As I step out of the neglected and cluttered office of the best looking man I have ever seen, I realize I need this job. Not just for him (which would be a plus, no doubt) but for me. I can’t go on as Jackie Martin, the deer in the headlights freshman in college, with no direction and no plan. And I cannot, under any circumstances, go back home, to my mother, Hannah Martin. There is no way I am sharing a home with her lecherous new third husband. When I was living there, after she got engaged to him in the fall of my senior year, I got up in the morning and went into the kitchen to go make breakfast. I was wearing a large shirt that I had slept in, and when I reached on top of the refrigerator to get the cereal, the man whistled. Like, a serious wolf whistle. I got breakfast at the gas station behind my school for the rest of the year. My father is long gone, with a new life somewhere in Michigan, and I am proud of him for leaving my cougar of a mother. No. There is no way that I can return to her and Al. The sheer thought makes me throw up in the back of my mouth. I know that being a secretary at a nursing home isn’t the empowering, powerful job I want, but it’s a start. It’s the only job I have a chance at getting anyway. And it’ll keep me out of my mother’s house. I want this job. I get into the complete shit pile of a vehicle I own, and splutter out of the parking lot.