Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,5
to be the star quarterback? To be doing something good? Does not compute. Does not compute. Does not compute.
The train bumps and throws me off balance. I clutch at the back of one of the seats and am met with an annoyed gaze. Unrepentant, I lean once more against the back of the car.
I get off at my stop and ramble through Rockefeller Center’s subway station, letting the sights and sounds wash over me. I stop at the Dunkin’ Donuts, buy a bottle of water, ask if they’re hiring, am rejected again, and then order an old-fashioned doughnut that I eat far too quickly. I climb the stairs as the old-fashioned doughnut only heightens my nausea and am thankful to finally be in the fresh air. I walk toward the hotel in a haze, trying to settle my stomach, the glaze from the doughnut still flaked to my cheek.
I stop in front of a department store display window. The scene is one of home and family. Faceless mannequins mix and mingle in an elegantly decorated room. Umbrella-festooned cocktails, tank tops, and summertime fun are on display for those willing to think they can buy it. Emblazoned in the window in big gold type it says, THIS IS YOU. THIS IS NOW. I read the words, my eyes losing focus. Then I see my own reflection in the window. My hollow blue-eyed stare is set off by my blotchy red-faced complexion. I look exhausted. My fine brown hair is matted to my neck and forehead. A lone bobby pin clings to eight hairs as the bangs I’ve been trying to grow out fly every which way. I clutch a bottle of water in one hand and a greasy doughnut wrapper in the other.
I am officially the Anti–Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
I snap out of my haunted reverie and shuffle back to the hotel. I toss my now empty bottle of water and the doughnut wrapper into a trash can and begin the spiraling about money and jobs and shelter and and and. Lofty, philosophical reasons aside, the stark reality is that without this job and the hotel room that came with it, I simply can’t afford to stay in New York. Sure, I can find another room for rent, with its communal, filthy bathroom at the end of a long, unlit hallway. I can put up another ad for roommates only to find myself spending less and less time at home and then watch as I devolve into only talking about “my annoying roommates” to anyone who will listen. I can crash in hotel lobbies for a while just like I did when I first got to New York. The bigger the hotel, the more nooks and crannies. And if someone found me, a simple lie about being locked out or getting in a fight with my boyfriend made everything better. But to what end? I’ve been on the run for going on ten years. I’m tired.
I push through the revolving door and into the hotel.
“Queenie?” A voice. I look up. It’s Sassy Keryn. Great, now she knows my name.
“Yeah?” I ask, slowing my pace.
“Brad told me to give this to you?” She ends the sentence as if it were a question.
I walk over to the concierge desk and take the envelope in Keryn’s hand.
“It’s your last paycheck,” Keryn says.
“Yep. Thanks,” I say, turning my back on her.
“So . . . ,” Keryn leads. I turn back around. She continues, “Brad also wanted me to let you know that your key card will be deactivated in three days.”
Several thoughts crowd my brain as I stand in front of Sassy Keryn. First and foremost: I hate Keryn with a fiery passion. I have to focus the energy of the Big Bang not to haul off and punch her square in the face. I hate Keryn’s faux-apologetic tone, letting the poor hick off easy after she got canned. She’s a saint!
I can’t believe Brad has given me only three days. Three days to find a new job and a new place to live in New York City in the middle of a recession. But most of all I hate that there was a tiny, fleeting moment where I let Keryn see those other emotions wash over me. I collect myself.
“Hey, thanks . . . I’m sorry, what was your name again?” I ask, folding my paycheck and putting it into the back pocket of my chef’s pants.