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Anarchy in the Province of Love, Conclusion (mature content)Aug 30 '04 Write an essay on this topic.The Bottom Line Copyright 2004 David MacDonald Part One: http://www.epinions.com/content_4073889924 Part Two: http://www.epinions.com/content_4073955460 Part Three: http://www.epinions.com/content_4074020996 Part Four: http://www.epinions.com/content_4074086532 Part Five: http://www.epinions.com/content_4074414212 Part Six: http://www.epinions.com/content_4074479748 Part Seven, Conclusion: http://www.epinions.com/content_4074545284 * ~Friday Morning~ Pamela had tried to sleep away as much of the effects of four bottles of beer as she could between 1:30 in the morning, and eight AM, when she was required to open her eyes again and prepare herself for the morning shift at the video store. But it wasn’t enough to erase both the natural tiredness after a late-night gathering, and the added discomfort of alcohol. Why couldn’t she rest after a nice night out? She should just be allowed to ease herself back into employment instead of being torn from the roots of her frivolous state of being. Her weighing eyelids guided her minimally as she walked inside the video store -- as she pushed open the glass doors for what she wished would be the final time. But poverty was not in the cards, and neither was the prospect of a different job. Every card in her deck was the same. “Hello, Daniel. How’s that foot of yours?”, she asked her boss. “Oh, it’s a little sore but don’t worry about it, thank you.”, he dismissed with a wave of his hand. “I’ll just remember never to go to Myron’s for anything again. I tripped over a bump in the carpet, and twisted my ankle before landing on the ground. And the stupid table got knocked over and landed on my foot…so you’ll never see me there again.” “They put in new carpet now, did ya know?”, Pamela smiled. “Really? Well, that won’t change anything. The only reason I went to that place was to talk to him about a promotion I was thinking of doing.”, he grumbled. “But… that place is only trouble. A lot of fights break out there. I don’t want to be associated with that…..” He lowered his head, and shyly walked away from any more conversation, as he hobbled over to his office, where he could think the dark and complicated thoughts of businessmen in semi-privacy. Pamela shook her head and grinned to herself. Daniel was such an old curmudgeon, no matter how he tried to come across. His voice was a grumble, even when he was trying to be friendly. It was difficult for him to actually sound friendly, however -- his reputation was that of a very gruff employer, and individual. And his attitude could turn on a dime -- or at least shade it in such a way that there was often some substance to that gruff voice. You had to be careful around him, and even if you were careful, you may find yourself at the receiving end of his outbursts. It was funny in retrospect -- but how long would she have to put up with such a personality....... Slowly, quietly, she would scan the returned videos and DVD’s. Her ears caught the rumble of the Pepsi Bottling truck as it pulled up to the front window. The truck made its weekly visit to restock the depleting reserves of all those cool and fabulous caffeinated drinks. From the corner of her eye, Pamela noticed the stockboy getting out of his truck to step around to the back. From the back of the truck, he carelessly yanked out the metal cart, its tires bouncing morosely upon the pavement. Quickly, he stacked five cases of bottles on the cart. He than proceeded to do what he no doubt has done many a time in one day, as he prepared to wheel the cart up the concrete path towards the front door. But something went wrong. He misjudged the slant of the pavement. Or he was simply careless about what he was doing, having performed this task by rote. The cases fell like a building tumbling down following the backslap of a wrecking ball. And once the glass met the rubble, carbonated suds waved like the crashing of the edge of the ocean against the sand. Pamela heard the man, his voice muffled by the glass. “Awwww!!”, came a gravely rumble. Daniel, too, was equally, mutually upset, as he quickly, even with the sprained foot, exited his office to witness the aftermath. “For fuck’s sake.”, he spat, his voice as rough as the broken pavement of the parking lot. “I’ve been waiting two days for that order -- and then he goes and fucks it up like that.” He hobbles on his bad foot over to the glass door, his face straining from the pain of what he felt and saw. Pamela dared not say a word. When Daniel was in one of these sour moods, it was dangerous to get a word in edgewise. He’d be liable to tell you to get the fuck out of his sight. He could even spontaneously fire you on the spot -- or at least this was what spun in the rumor mill. She observed Daniel waving his hands and grumbling at the hapless stockboy. She could not make out his words, but they couldn’t have been anything more vital than the usual punctuation's that he uttered any time something angered him. She leaned against the wooden counter, pondering whether or not all of the cards in her deck where indeed the same. Maybe she just didn’t want to risk playing a different hand....... * The other two girls weren’t here yet. And here she was worrying that she may have slept in too late. She had woken up at 11 AM, quickly dressing and scrubbing her face of the sleep and melancholy that settled upon her since the end of her party, before facing the day with her mask of detachment. And now she found herself loitering near the counter inside the cafe, with Laura’s forgotten sweater wrapped around her forearm. She leaned against the glass cage which trapped the desserts -- the cookies, the pies, the cakes -- until a generous soul thought warmly enough of one of them to put it out of its misery. Bronwyn observed the puzzle pieces that formed to make a conglomerate of the kinds of people that passed through this temporary lingering place. Many of the tables were surrounded by groups of two, three, four, or more. But sprinkled across both the inside and outside tables on the sidewalk were tables and chairs occupied by one person. Only one person. How discouraging. That was why she didn’t want to sit down. She did not want to become one of this particular group. She did not want to be like those loners who couldn’t find someone just to share a lukewarm cup of coffee with. She marveled at how any of these people, silently drinking their coffee, and rattling through the pages of today’s typically depressing and useless newspaper, could be happy with themselves. They seemed so deliberately, defiantly out of scope with the lively entertainment that happened every hour of every day within their reach. How could they not be worried about not being a part of it? She used to be like them. But no longer. She knew better than to waste her time away from the limelight. And she wasn’t going to show off any sign of weakness, of wanting to slip back into a less chaotic lifestyle. So she was going to remain on her feet, holding her stance next to the dessert tray...... Desserts. Hmm, another lovely distraction....... “Hey.”, she turned to the girl at the counter. “How are you doing, Nessie?”, as she would call Vanessa, the girl who often worked here whenever Bronwyn and the others had their weekly get-together. “Pretty good.”, she replied. “Can’t wait until tonight!” “Me neither. Although I shouldn’t worry. I already had a fun night last night. Today’s my birthday, ya know?” “Well, Happy Birthday!” “Thanks......” “You must have had an early birthday party, then?” “Yea... maybe it will continue tonight.”, Bronwyn hoped. “But I’m pretty tired today. I suppose I should have a nap before it gets dark.” “Sounds like a good idea......” “Hey.... how about I have one of your oatmeal cookies. I haven’t eaten at all today!” “Sure..... thirty-five cents......” Bronwyn’s stomach quaked from its barrenness, as she eagerly took the first bite from the cookie. She felt the awful implosion of dryness and dust as her teeth gnashed the surface. Crumbs fell on her chin, and tiny bits sprinkled on her shirt. “shit!”, she whispered. She turned to Vanessa to give her a critique. “Isn’t there a cookie in the world that actually stays together when you bite into it? Every one I eat is so friggin’ dry!” Vanessa shrugs her shoulders, as she observes a sarcastic-looking Bronwyn wipe her face off with a napkin, and brush the crumbs off her shirt and onto the floor, leaving it all for Vanessa to sweep up later in the morning. * Her eyes were like pools of sickening, blackened water. Her movements were that of a zombie, as she walked down Queen Street. Her sadness was only thickened by the rattle of the big band music that flowed out of the plaza speakers -- the songs were so propagandistic in their happiness that it was like a kick to the face. Bruce never called, or returned home. Two hours had passed without any word from him. She tried to rationalize the situation -- how far would have have gotten? How much trouble would he have gotten into? Surely, he wouldn’t have done something as stupid as he did the last time, in such a short time frame. Last time, it took him almost twenty-four hours before he ended up in front of the Irving. She nearly tripped over her own heels as she tried to stop at the street corner to wait for the streetlight to turn from red to green. Her general demeanor was about as anguished as she was sure Bruce’s was at this time. She had been with him for so long that she was suffering from all the same symptoms. Sympathy madness, perhaps. She feared for what would happen, once she joined with Pamela and Bronwyn. Would she be able to keep a straight face? Or would it be closer to a violent swing between laughing and crying? * “Hey, guys!”, smiled Bronwyn. “I was wondering what happened to you guys.....” “It’s still only one pm.”, Pamela smirked. “Oh, you forgot your sweater last night!”, Bronwyn reminded Laura, although Laura did not need to be reminded of something she felt too squeamish to touch. “....oh.”, Laura mumbled. “Why... thank you.......” She removed the sweater from Bronwyn’s arms, with a movement of apprehension. “You look a little tired, girl.”, Pamela said. “Yea... a little bit. I got up at six-thirty this morning..... and I didn’t get back to sleep.”, Laura said mournfully. The three women received their coffees, and carried them outside on the sidewalk, before sitting at one of the green plastic tables, underneath the scalding umbrella of sunlight. For a few flashing moments, the three women silently regarded their hot drinks with their mouths, drinking them in the spirit of each woman’s individual rhythms. But Bronwyn wasn’t one to linger on one individual mouthful, especially as she became aware of another one of those conspicuous loners sitting a couple of tables down from her. “You see that girl over there?”, Bronwyn whispered, hoping her tone was too feeble to register with the unnamed victim’s ears. “Her face looks so ... blank... with her sunglasses on.” “I... suppose so....”, Laura sighing a hopeless attempt at a snicker. The only sensation she felt was her lip burning from the rim of the coffee cup. She wanted that sensation to spread to the rest of her body. “I think that this woman has been shot!”, Bronwyn jibed. “Or poisoned. The killer made a feeble attempt to cover up his crime, by putting the shades back on her nose!” “Now, I’m sure that she’s just lost in thought.”, Pamela spoke mirthfully. “That’s always the problem when you're alone in a public place. Your private, solitary expression is another’s public source of humor.” Bronwyn and Pamela seemed relaxed and comfortable with their absurd joking. Laura could not catch up, and that knowledge slowly got the best of her: “fuck!” She spit it out as if one of the other women had accidentally kicked her on the shins. Then she suddenly felt her eyes water. She tried to keep the liquid inside, but it leaked across the shadows of her eyes. “Wh... what’s wrong?”, Bronwyn asked, reaching out her hand to her friend. “Nothing.....!”, she hissed, mindlessly wiping her face. “Drank too much, didn’t ya?”, Bronwyn asked, her voice of concern gashed with an edge of contemptuous humor against someone whom she believed couldn’t withstand her liquor. “No.... no, I didn’t.”, as Laura closes her eyes wearily. “Well, then what’s the matter?”, Bronwyn continued. “For Christ’s sakes!”, Laura spat out. “Why are you so worried about me? Why are you so concerned about what is wrong with me?” Laura whispered harshly to these shocked women. They were two women now, not friends, not confidants from work. She lost her restraint that would have forbidden her from shaping her words like spikes for piercing the skin, over and over again. “Why are you so concerned about me, Bronwyn?”, Laura wondered aloud. “You don’t care about the sorts of problems I may have -- you could never have the kind of problems I have! All you do is fuck anything that moves. So how could you appreciate the ups and downs of a real relationship???” Bronwyn’s expression was stricken into a fearsome silence. “shit.....”, Pamela mumbled, amazed, rather than angered, at Laura’s torrent of bitterness. Bronwyn attempted to form a sentence, but her throat was too hoarse to create the words. “You know,” Laura continued in a sobbing whisper, “I heard you last night with Matthew. At your own fucking birthday party! With actual guests in the next room! Do you just want to prove how much of a slut you are?” Bronwyn could not understand the anger that created these meaningless words. She could not see what lurked beneath the fierce pupils of her friend. “Laura, how -- how dare you call me.......” Her voice shook, as her body concentrated upon the bitter acid that Laura’s hissing spewed all over her. “Somebody’s gotta tell ya! You don’t even make an attempt at a real relationship -- you just want slabs of flesh to screw. You don’t give a damn about what the rest of us go through.....” “You.... you have no idea how I feel.....”, Bronwyn moaned. Pamela raised her hands to block the thunder of words that clashed over the table. “Stop it, guys. Any louder and we’re going to have to find a new place to hang out.......” Laura roughly scraped the water from her cheeks. “You’re no different, Pam!”, Laura shook her head. “You drop some nice guy because .... he didn’t like the sort of movies you liked!? What’s up with that crap!? You guys are going to be sad, sad, women! You’re going to grow old and lonely -- while wishing you’ve done things differently in your youth!” Bronwyn and Pamela became embarrassed at Laura’s moral validation, not understanding that it was masking pure desperation. “I mean...”, Laura whispered, her voice hoping against hope. “Isn’t it better to at least stick with something.... that you so much want to work out for the best?” Laura’s purse shuddered, as her cell phone rang. She nervously removed the phone from her purse, to see her own home number flashing on the call display. “H... hello?”, she stuttered, weeping still glossing over her voice. But the only response was a click. She knew who phoned. Obviously, Bruce had a change of heart, and returned home. But he still wasn’t willing to talk about what happened. And neither was Laura: “Strange.... they... they hung up. I guess... it was just a wrong number.....” Laura rapidly drank up the rest of her coffee, while the other two women, sullen and confused, watched this peculiar display. Laura felt the scalding fire upon her tongue. But it did not hurt her. The pain she already experienced was much stronger than anything that hot coffee would bring. “Anyway.... thanks for bringing me back the sweater.”, she warbled, her eyes unable to look Bronwyn in the eye. “..... I’m sorry for my little outburst; I guess we’ve kind of ruffled each other’s feathers a little bit here.... so maybe I ought to leave.” “Maybe.....”, Bronwyn moaned. She wanted to take her own hot coffee and throw it at that fucked-up moralist. “Maybe.... next week, we’ll get back to normal......?”, Laura hoped. Pamela shook her head, as she found herself helplessly about to prolong the discomfort. But it wasn’t as if she felt pity for Laura right now. So just let her cry. “Uh... this may be a little difficult.” Bronwyn frowned. “Why?” “Well.....” She raised her head, to frankly stare at her two friends. “I quit this morning.” “Wha.....!”, Bronwyn yawned. “I.... don’t get ya.” Nobody got Pamela. But it didn’t matter anymore. “I quit! I quit Video Choice this morning. I told Daniel before I left that I simply did not have the..... energy.... to do this job. I need something better......” Laura was still feeling the tears drip over her eyelashes. “Wh- where are you going to?” “Damned if I know!”, Pamela admitted. “I just know that it won’t be at Video Choice.” “Hmmm...... well..... next week, I’ll buy you coffee, how’s that?” But Bronwyn wasn’t looking forward to another meeting of this trio next Friday. She didn’t know how long she’d feel this way. “Hey, there’s all sorts of crappy jobs out there!”, Pamela enforced. “I don’t think you’ll have to buy anything for me just yet.” “How hopeful you are, girl!”, Bronwyn jibed. Her hand shook as it rummaged inside her purse, looking for a suitable tip. Laura found herself sobbing, silently. She bowed her head, thinking about how she was going to get through the next few days. “Laura..... are you going to be okay?”, Pamela asked. Damn, why did she ask? She was so used to guilting herself into a heartless monster when she did something that didn’t satisfy the affected party. Her boyfriend. Her boss. Her friends. But Pamela had to repress this worry. She had to get away from what was wearing her down. Her life was more important than making everyone else happy. “Oh, shit, Pamela... “, whined Laura. “....it will be okay.” “Okay.......” The silences between words grew longer, as each one plotted their escape plan. “So......”, Bronwyn asked, “..... what kind of jobs are you looking for?” “Not sure...... “ “Ah... so you wouldn’t know... what sort of schedule you’d have.” “Nope.”, Pamela said abruptly. Bronwyn dropped the two-dollar coin on the table, as she stretched her anticipating legs into a standing position. “Well... I’m sure I’ll see you around, Pamela. But right now, I think I need a nap..... I didn’t get to sleep until late and I’m still feeling tired.” “I think all of us had a rough sleep.”, Pamela acknowledged, granting a look at both the sullen Bronwyn and the sobbing Laura. “Yea.....” Bronwyn looked upon Laura, and felt a mixture of anger and curiosity. “... well, see you guys around.” Her face became haunted, but quickly removed it from view as she determinedly paced onto the sidewalk. Pamela returned her stare toward Laura. “Umm.... maybe I better leave you alone for a while.” “Hmmm? Oh, don’t worry. I better get home anyway.... see if Bruce is okay.” The tears were gone, but the cheeks were still crimson. “What’s wrong. Is he sick?” “No!”, she declared abruptly. “..... uh, no..... he’s not sick. But I think I might be coming down with something.”, she sighed. “Oh!”, Pamela murmured. She needed to smother the pain: “Oh, that’s just the hangover talking.”, she ended up saying, smiling in confidence. “... hmm, perhaps....”, as her broken spirit crawled upwards from the chair. The conversation consisted of missing pieces; secrets that each woman carried; secrets that they were too afraid to share with the other. “... that’s why I don’t drink a whole lot, ya know.”, Pamela surmised. “God knows what I’d be like afterwards after a binge. Not saying you do that, of course!” She didn’t, that was true, reasoned Pamela. But the truth was something Pamela was too awkward to try to pry out. “Thanks....”, Laura responded distractingly. “I’ll remember that.” Laura walked arthritically as she walked further from her chair. Her sorrow was so much that it ached at her very bones. “Anyway....”, Pamela said, trying to numb herself from this scenario, “I’ll.... I’ll see you sometime.” “Sure, you will.”, she replied. Her pace grew slightly faster as her skin met the cool afternoon air once again. Pamela remained seated with the remainder of her hot chocolate, hoping to see something symbolic in Laura’s odd behavior. What she saw in Laura’s pained movements was the emblem of what her own inner pain looked like -- the pain of holding on to what was eating you up inside. Pamela knew all about that. She lived this way for so long that she was no longer comfortable in her own skin. Her own movements were that of someone whose joints were poisoned from the life she did not want for herself. She had to scrape that poison off now, even if it hurt. And then an image flickered behind her eyes. An image of her, Pamela, getting up from the chair and running to Laura. Her heart ached for her to run up behind her, touch her shoulder, and say that.... but, what would she say? She didn’t know what to say. Or if they indeed would have been the right things to say....... END  |
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