Champagne Life (11 page)

He shook his head. “Contrary to popular belief, I do not get into my aunt's affairs. I have to tell you, though, be prepared. Maybe dude with the big ears complained. Don't worry, I got your back on this one. Dude was straight ignorant.”

I stood up and stepped into my shoes. “Might as well get this over with.” I headed down the hall, toward the manager's office. I wasn't looking forward to this conversation, especially after being late a few times and my nasty attitude write-up, but hey, you never knew, miracles did happen. It might actually be some good news for a change.

As I walked down the corridor, I had a tough time believing that.

And I was right.

S
omething had to give. He had been to four restaurants today and nothing. One wasn't hiring, the others took his application and told him they would call if something came up that fit his requirements. In restaurant speak that meant his application was going into the trash bin. He was a server applying to restaurants, not as the CEO to Fortune 500 companies—of course these spots had something that fit his requirements.

He had called a fifth and final time about that catering gig M.J. had mentioned, but they haven't gotten back to him. He wished people would stop being such assholes so he wouldn't waste his time.

He hadn't told Naomi yet, but the car people called and threatened repossession by the end of the week. He almost wanted them to take the damn car. It wasn't like they could afford gas prices anyway. Even if he found a job today, it would take at least two weeks before he got a paycheck. They would still have to play catch-up. A month ago, Naomi had started categorizing the bills; the
behind
stack and the
way behind
stack. Eventually, they all fell into one pile; the probably-never-getting-paid-and-getting-stuck-on-your-credit-report stack.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone and dialed. It was cut off. “Dammit!” He had used his cell as the contact number for the job applications. He had also used the number as the contact
for the catering gig.
Maybe they called.
He had to go under the assumption that they called so he made a quick decision to contact them one last time. If he didn't, he'd be thinking about this for the rest of his life.

When he got home, he burst through the door. Good, he beat Naomi home. He headed straight for the phone. No messages. He picked it up to dial. There was no dial tone.

Crap!

He had also left his e-mail address on the applications. Maybe when they realized they couldn't call to offer the job, they would send an e-mail. He ran to the computer but then remembered they stopped paying the Internet bill last month in order to make a partial car payment. He turned on the computer anyway. He had to try.

As predicted, the Internet was down.

He headed straight for the kitchen and opened the fridge. He pulled out a cold beer and demolished it in ten seconds flat. He grabbed another one as he tossed the empty can from the first one into the trash.
Now what?

He took another swig. He thought about his father and what prompted him to get out of dodge, leaving him and his mother home alone to do the best they could. Did his father feel like DeShaun did at this very moment? He would never leave Mimi, but maybe his father felt overwhelmed. Regardless of the reasons, no way was DeShaun ever going to be that weak. He'd figure something out. What that something was, he had no idea.

Normally, he would have a delicious dinner waiting for Mimi when she came home, but not today. The only meat in the fridge was a frozen chicken and he wasn't in the mood to thaw out and fry chicken.

He took another gulp as he listened to the soles of his wife's heels
click against the hardwood floor. He listened as she kicked off her shoes, her heels making a sharp clack as they landed against the floor. He polished off his second beer, listening to something sounding like a stack of magazines dropping to the floor. He heard her curse under her breath and then slap her keys down onto the foyer table. Apparently, she wasn't in a good mood either.

Eventually, the muted footsteps headed toward him. When she came into the kitchen, he glanced down at the stack of brand new bills in her hand. When she saw him, she greeted him with a tired “Hey.”

“How was work today?” DeShaun opened up the refrigerator and grabbed the last beer. “Want it?'

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

“At this point, I'd believe anything.”

“Not this.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, here it goes. Today I was fired from my crappy job at the bank. And do you want to know why?”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack. Apparently, that guy, Jeremy, I thought was so cool, turned out to be an asshole. Surprise on me.”

“What happened?”

“First, I was told I was being fired because I left work early to go on that interview I told you about.”

“How did they find out about that?”

“Who knows? I'm guessing Jeremy. But that's not the best part. When I denied it, the manager came at me with another excuse—drinking at lunch.”

“What? You were drinking at lunch? When?”

“That day I told you Jeremy and I went out to lunch. He bought us two—count 'em—two light beers. He had one, too.”

“Really, Mimi? Drinking on the job?”

“I know you are not judging me. You were fired too, remember?”

“Not for drinking.”

“Oh, no, just for stealing.”

“For the last time, I wasn't stealing,” DeShaun said, angrily.

“Then how did you get fired for stealing if you weren't stealing?”

“It was those bottles of wine I used to bring home for you.”

“You were stealing those? I thought your boss gave them to you.”

He shook his head. “Like you really thought Stiles would give anyone anything. I was bringing home the bottles but paying for them later. They were getting the money and then some. I wasn't even taking the discount when I paid for them.”

“You got fired for that?”

“That old dude had it in for me a long time before that.”

“So lemme get this straight; you're saying you paid them for the bottles of wine after the fact?”

“It was always the very next week.”

“Why didn't you tell me that? More importantly, why didn't you tell
them
that?”

“I didn't think I had to tell you that.” He pulled the tab on the last can of beer. It made a hissing sound. “And second.” He took a long, drawn-out swig. “They don't care.”

“I didn't ask you if they cared, I asked you if you told them that.”

“What for? I hated that place. Besides, you hated me working there.”

“It was a job, DeShaun. And even though I hated that job, you at least had a job. I wanted you to have a better position, not NO position.”

“Look,” DeShaun said, taking another sip. “What's done is done. I've been thinking. Maybe we need to hit up your parents again.”

“There's no way that's gonna happen.”

“We're desperate, Naomi. We've got to do something. You're standing there now with a shit load of bills in your hand.”

“Why don't we hit up
your
parents for the money?”

“That's not funny, Naomi.”

That was ignorant, I knew it. DeShaun's parents had divorced when he was six years old and he had only seen his father twice in his life, but I was only trying to make a point.

“Please don't remind me how your parents paid for our wedding, Naomi. And please don't give me the speech about how they put the down payment on the house and even loaned us money to purchase a car. Seriously, I can't hear that mess again.”

“It's true. I'm simply saying my parents are not an option this time. We need to consider something else.”

“Like what? We ran out of options when the power company threatened to turn off our electricity. Options sailed down the river when we received the car repossession letter in the mail yesterday.”

“We got a letter yesterday?”

“Yeah. That, and a late notice from the credit card people, telling us that we are two months past due and that we are being charged fifty dollars a month in late fees.”

“Oh, crap! I forgot about that.”

“Ask your parents for a loan,” he said. “We have to do something and quick.”

“What I don't understand is why are my people always considered
your
go-to option first? Shouldn't that be my call? They're
my
family, not yours. Shouldn't I be the one to lean on them?”

“I have to be the first to suggest it because you won't.”

“DeShaun, you know how my mother can be, especially about money.”

“Exactly,” he said, nodding. “Now imagine having to live with that when we can't make our mortgage payment.”

“Stop running to my parents every time we get caught out there. Why don't you hurry up and get a job?”

He matched my gaze. “Why don't you?”

Our eyes locked. At first, we were dead serious, but then for some unknown reason, we burst out laughing at the exact same time. We must've been thinking the same thing.

“Can you imagine living with my mother and making out in her basement like teenagers?”

“You think that's funny,” DeShaun said, “think about that ratty old bathrobe your pops wears. The one with the hole right in the crotch that he refuses to throw out. The man is a surgeon; he can afford a new robe.”

“And what about that ugly brown scarf Mom ties on her head every night?”

“So that's where you get it from?”

“When she called me the other day, we only talked for a few minutes. She said she had to wrap her hair before bed and all I could picture was that ugly, holey scarf.”

“So you want to go back to that, huh?”

“No.”

“Will you ask for a loan then? We'll pay them back like we always do.”

“I'll think about it.”

“I'll tell you what,” DeShaun said, scratching his chin. “Sleep on the idea.”

“I will.”

DeShaun thought a second. “Even after all this, there is a bright side.”

“Really? And what in the world would that be?”

“We can both sleep in tomorrow.”

“And how is that different for you? Even when you worked at the restaurant, you didn't go in until six in the evening.”

“Yeah, but now you'll be with me.” He placed a small peck on my cheek. “I love you, Mimi.”

“I love you too.”

That night, we made love. It was nice, but I wasn't into it as much as I had hoped. While he was inside of me, all I could think about was how in the hell were we going to ask to borrow money…again?

T
he next morning, we didn't sleep in. DeShaun decided to get an early start and head downtown to see if any of those jobs had called. We had no way of knowing since our Internet and phone connections were cut off. It was a long shot, but what else could we do? I spent the morning in the kitchen, baking batches of cream cheese brownies while trying to get up enough courage to call my parents and ask for money. First, I needed to make a payment to have the phone turned back on. Otherwise, I'd have to beg in person. That was the last thing I needed.

I grabbed four blocks of unsweetened chocolate, placed them in a bowl and stuck the bowl inside the microwave. I set the timer for two minutes and watched until the chocolate melted into a heap of brown, sticky goo. When the microwave beeped, I opened it up and mixed in one cup of sugar along with one cup of flour and a stick of butter. I cracked two large eggs on the side of the mixing bowl, grabbed a spoon and started furiously mixing. I poured in a teaspoon of real vanilla and stirred. I stuck my pinky finger into the bowl for a taste. It needed more sugar.

We had decided to have DeShaun's phone turned on first. Restaurants he applied to may have been trying to contact him about a job. Since I hadn't started the job search yet, I didn't need my phone right away.

I poured the batter into a pan and then slathered on a layer of
the cream cheese and sugar mixture I had prepared earlier. I reached into the kitchen drawer, pulled out a butter knife and marbled the cream cheese throughout. As soon as I stuck the glass pan into the pre-warmed oven, I grabbed my house keys from the coffee table and rushed out the door, locking the door behind me.

The sun's hot rays beat down onto my shoulders as I walked down the block to use the pay phone. I needed to call the cell company and make a payment with the credit card.

It was going to be another scorching summer day. It wasn't even noon yet, and I could already smell the heat bearing down on the cement sidewalk. As I continued down the road, the sun disappeared behind a swollen cloud, making the skies gray. Droplets of rain fell and bounced off my arms.

I was risking a big fat decline using the credit card for a cell phone payment. We hadn't even bothered to make a payment on any of the cards in months, even before we lost our jobs. Credit cards were one of those bills that fell in line after buying shoes and taking mini-vacations to Atlantic City. We were dangerously nearing a completely dried-up cash flow situation.

I hadn't been inside a pay phone since forever. The first one I stepped into didn't have a door for privacy, plus, it didn't work. Neither did the second or third. I had to walk another two blocks before finding one that actually took the coins jammed inside my pocket, in case they didn't accept toll-free charges.

I picked up the phone, carefully inspected it and then smashed and rubbed the receiver into the leg of my jeans, hoping to kill any surviving germs and bacteria. In my head, all I could hear was Chris Hansen from
Dateline
giving the results to germ tests on public property.