#i want to tell my supervisor. i’m sorry i’m not american enough to say no. when my mom needs help wiping the floor by hand ill do it. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

colsonlin · 2 years ago

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“Cape Cod”: a good old-fashioned short story (a 45-minute read)

“Cape Cod” is an analysis of our society’s tendency to produce narcissism, sociopathy, and casual dehumanization. It felt so good to get all of this off my chest! —Nina

A lot of how we talk about middle school in America is something I take issue with—like, for instance, that it’s somehow not the most formative experience of our lives. (It is.) A lot of people say “college,” but I had already cycled into an idea of who I was going to be as an adult by then—an A student, a talker, a birdwatcher, a take-no-prisoners observer of human social life. I studied sociology at the University of Maryland. At my retail job now—I work at a Nordstrom in Connecticut—I interact with a dying breed: old rich white women who still buy their cashmeres at the mall. At my old retail job in Farmington I was a cashier. At Nordstrom I’m more of a saleswoman—I don’t hand my customers their purchases after I’m done folding their clothes into the bag, I walk around the counter to deliver their parcels to them personally. I work six nights a week until the mall closes at 11 and on Sundays, Mondays, and Thursdays I drive to my second job at a call center in Southington. I earn enough money to pay for my Hyundai and an apartment above the laundromat, have coffee on the weekends, keep up with my student loans, and map out what the next step will be.

College feels like a million years ago.

Middle school still feels like yesterday.

“Brenda” (not her real name), my supervisor at my old department store in Farmington, was the portrait of managerial incompetence. She was fat and unmarried and all of the associates who weren’t actively helping a customer used to crowd into the stock room whenever she came out of her office, usually to berate one of us for misplacing a store key. We all know a Brenda from middle school. Everything you say is wrong, and everything she says can’t be improved upon. Three of us quit within the first ten months of Brenda’s arrival, and at least one of us later wrote an anonymous email to the district manager about her obvious drinking problem.

My old department store—I don’t want to get into any trouble here so let’s just call them “Not-Quite Sephora”—was in a strip mall. I never knew who to feel more sorry for during the day, myself or the customers who came in. I once explained to my boyfriend that we were kind of like Wal-Mart’s “more youthful older sister”—a high school varsity cheerleader perhaps, but still stuck in the past all the same.

There were ten of us on the first floor—the second floor, “Men’s,” might as well have been a different planet entirely. Brenda acted like she was better than all of us, because she has a master’s degree in “Global Business Administration,” whatever the fuck that was. Brenda didn’t seem to understand that all her master’s degree did was make her look both underqualified and overqualified for her job at the same time. (Her main role, from what I could tell, was assigning holiday bonuses and amplifying customer complaints.)

Not-Quite Sephora has a dying business model, but we were kept artificially alive by a steady stream of suburban glum as the principal anchor of a once-iconic strip mall. The first floor was perpetually understaffed—our Google reviews under Brenda’s mismanagement decayed from 4.2 to 2.8 stars (and this coming from a woman who tends to take “American public opinion” with a grain of salt). The turnover rate among everyone except me, Ashley, and Gabby seemed to be such that a new Chris, Brian, or Andy was being fired every three months. Good riddance, I always thought.

Men don’t understand how to take orders from a woman, and the ones who say they do are liars from the black lagoon.

I understand Brenda.

I really do.

Brenda’s most direct feature was that you couldn’t get a direct answer out of her, ever—it was either caustic sarcasm or happy-peppy self-deprecation. Everything she said was either designed to suppress or to charm. She was intelligent, which was the problem—quick-witted even—she prized competence, prided herself on being everything everywhere all at once (with self-pity), once complained to me in the break room that she was an ex-spelling-bee champion. Appearance-wise, what once made me jolt awake at night was that she tries, she actually tries. Not doing anything to set Brenda off had become something of an obsession of mine by her third month there. I applied to other jobs, but only in non-retail.

Trying to go non-retail—my life in a nutshell.

Brenda took over at a precarious time. Inflation was rising. Covid was either over or about to be over, but either way, brick-and-mortar seemed to be one of its death tolls. Brenda had mousy blond hair, wore black trousers to work, and used to tramp around the store carrying an inventory clipboard whenever she was upset about something. I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to take fashion-merchandising so seriously. Her first day at Not-Quite Sephora, Brenda compared our fitting rooms favorably to the fitting rooms at her old Kohl’s in Florida, now shuttered (“So coming back up here was kind of like coming home for me, y’know?”). Brenda grew up in a trailer park in New Jersey and you can tell.

You can guess what her politics are.

I think what appealed to me most about the Cape Cod trip, if I were to be honest, was the right to tell Brenda that I’d have to take a few days off in mid-September because my boyfriend had invited me on a trip to “the Cape.”

Here was a woman in her late forties or early fifties who had located the profundity of her self-esteem in “competence”—and yet it never finally occurred to her that the only way to be “competent” in your everyday life is to command the trust of those around you. Trust is earned, Brenda, and it’s lost with unreliability. I could never really trust that woman not to not trap me inside a rule without being able to explain to me the reasons—not to not be imperious and self-certain and in self-protection mode at all times—and not to not explode all of her emotional wreckage on me, drenching me in the black mist of her self-absorption. Brenda was always right. Brenda is never to be questioned. (Brenda’s real name is “Karen,” which is why I didn’t want to say it at the time.)

It felt so good to able to tell Brenda that—all of her anxieties about the back-to-school rush aside—I’m going to have to take three days off in mid-September because my boyfriend has invited me on a trip with his three friends to the Cape. (I met my boyfriend a year ago on Opal.) It pained me to be so petty—no, not the reference to Cape Cod, which was just a kiss on the lips, but the reference to having a boyfriend, which was my primary poison. I wore more eyeliner to work, not less, the longer the weeks went by trying to circumnavigate Brenda’s imperialism. I enjoyed looking like a magazine cover while supplicating to her at the makeup counter.

We worked at a department store.

(“—so that’s my life, okay?”)

I could see it already. I love how Brenda, with her master’s degree in Global Business Studies or whatever the fuck she majored in, has to flinch every time who I really was blinked in front of her. I bet you flinched every time you saw me shrug into your office, Brenda, no matter what you called me into your office for, because I know about the Us Weeklies you stole from the front stands—I told Accounting about them!—I know how responsive you are to young women with movie-star looks who had won the genetic lottery. I smile at you, Brenda, precisely because I know how my angelic dimples make you feel. It makes you feel like you want to protect me.

It makes you feel you need to defend your true queen.

Beauty was my one and only power over Brenda, but I can assure you I only used it sparingly (all it took was sparingly with a woman so obsessed with appearances). We don’t talk about being pretty enough, which is another way of saying we don’t talk about seeing only the appearances enough. Seeing only the appearances was how I, prior to this weekend, once saw Cape Cod. What do you know about Cape Cod anyway? What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you mentally google it? I want to leave you now with an image of seagulls.

I matched with my boyfriend last September on Opal.

Now I know what you might be thinking—this whole story basically amounts to one long humblebrag about how I have an account on Opal, lol. No. First of all, I deleted that account six months ago. My boyfriend and I both did, on the same day—that was how we agreed to be serious.

Opal’s cornered the market on young attractive people who like to paraglide to remote destinations—the one and only trick it has up its sleeves is “exclusivity,” which in America is a royal flush. I’ll tell you real quick how I landed an account on Opal. A hedge-fund apparatchik I had gone on two dates with wrote me a recommendation letter after I told him I didn’t think it was going to work out between us, but did he still want to be friends? (And what do friends do?) It was his fault. He was the one who’d bragged to me about having an account on Opal in the first place. He even helped me pick out my profile pictures.

I left the Alma Mater field blank.

Opal’s about what you’d expect—videos of narcissist after narcissist who summer in Thailand. I swiped past all of the alpha males, which took days. Men who were earnest or men who were silly were the only men I could take seriously.

My boyfriend’s in that five percent of men just below the top ten percent that most women don’t know to circle the ocean for. You know the type. He’d be unstoppable if just one or two more things had gone right for him, but as it were, the wrong job, the wrong company, the wrong alma mater, had kept a handsome face trapped beneath a monthly gym membership. You’ll recognize these five-percenters from their personality—pure souls who’d lucked out facially, two sevens on the slot machine, but whose unambiguous victory had been stunted by some existential lemon. Some of them have eating disorders. Some google “male plastic surgery” in the dead of night. In my boyfriend’s case, he’s pansexual. Open-minded women have rejected him, which gives him a chip on his shoulder, and now he thinks he understands what it’s like being a minority. My boyfriend’s the type to care a lot about social issues. I’m not sure he even knows we’re interracial.

His parents have a house in Cape Cod.

His dad’s a federal judge and his mom’s an immigration attorney. Until we met and he started showing me pictures on his phone of his childhood vacation home, I had never really thought a lot about Cape Cod. I only knew it as the brand of a potato chip one step up the class ladder from Lay’s, and as a cultural metonym for white-sand beaches, old stone lighthouses, and the Kennedys. Brenda grew up in a trailer park in New Jersey, but I’m sure she must have learned at her master’s program what Cape Cod was.

Cape Cod was where she wanted to be.

And as it so happens, Brenda?

Cape Cod is me.

I wanted so desperately to tell her but I couldn’t.

I wanted so badly to inform Brenda that I had more important things to worry about than making sure the lipsticks were alphabetized, or that the powders were arranged in alternating shades of rouge and beige: namely, that a splitting image of one of the stars you read about in Us Weekly had a life to live, and she was going to enjoy the fruits of her beauty—fruits that Brenda could only live vicariously through (I tallied six missing issues of Us Weekly over the course of a year; no other magazine had gone unaccounted for during the same period except for a single issue of Better Homes & Gardens, which I found one night crumpled on top of Brenda’s desk).

The way Brenda’s eyes lit up whenever she talked about Mackenzie Davis—I just needed Brenda to recognize my own beauty in the same way! It flipped around, you see, like a head trip—sometimes Brenda bowed to her true queen, and sometimes she said mean things to me. I wasn’t thought of as “intelligent” by Brenda, and I could never tell if it was because of my race or my beauty—the two possibilities flickered around in my head like a dueling candlelight until one night I decided, “It’s both,” and just let it die.

Resentment was brewing between me and Brenda.

Ever since I realized I would have to lie to her about my Cape Cod trip, because September would be the back-to-school rush, and there was no way Brenda was okaying me those vacation days. At Not-Quite Sephora, Brenda’s first rule was: “Just be honest. I want to know everything.”

But do you, Brenda?

Do you want to know how I plan to get out of work during the back-to-school rush, because I’ll be with my boyfriend and his three Yale Law classmates traipsing across Cape Cod? Do you really want to read about a beautiful woman’s life in Us Weekly? (Just steal my diary.) I’ll call in sick. I’ll lie and cough right to your face over the phone, Brenda, and I’m telling you it’s corona. I don’t have to be honest with you about anything because you rule by fear, not trust, and in a world of fear without trust anything goes.

Fear without trust is the animal kingdom.

And Not-Quite Sephora is the animal world.

The night before my last day at Not-Quite Sephora, Brenda humiliated Ashley in the stock room. (Ashley had made the mistake of asking her for paid time off for a wedding in December.) I didn’t overhear it, but I heard about it, which was enough. I have always had a way with words, and I gave Brenda some direct evidence of it by way of a resignation letter I wrote to the district manager—only it wasn’t really a resignation letter, it was more like a record of how Karen McHiggins was a terrible supervisor, sent to Corporate and cc-ed to the entire floor. (What mattered wasn’t that I had cc-ed the entire floor, but that the next morning, every single person on the floor congratulated me.) The group chat I’m in with Ashley and Gabby pops off more than ever now ever since I quit, only I didn’t mean to quit.

I only wanted to take a truthful temperature.

Brenda showed all of her cards when I showed up to my shift the next day. “Nina? My office. Now.”

I made eye contact with Ashley, who was already in her uniform, and we both smiled.

She kind of gave me an eye hug.

I wore nude lipstick that day.

The email I had sent Corporate was subject-lined “Management’s Mismanagement,” and it listed six bullet points about Brenda’s bad behavior (one involved throwing a purse at a mannequin; the last five were instances of emotional abuse). It ended with a paragraph about Brenda’s encounter with Ashley in the stock room (Brenda had called Ashley “unlikable,” “self-absorbed,” “a fucking dipshit”).

I laid out the case like the lawyer I couldn’t afford to be (I had other interests, hobbies, and pursuits in middle school, like not killing myself). Brenda was probably shocked I could write. She was probably shocked I could read, but I wield words as weapons—that’s the only thing you ever have to know about me. (In third grade, I won the spelling bee too.)

How did I dress for work the day after I wrote “Management’s Mismanagement” (and really I should say the morning after, because I sent the email at 4 a.m. and had to wake up three hours to let an exterminator in)?

I looked like a star.

I had even spent the last six months of my life casually coaxing Brenda toward the mixed-race celebrities I wanted her to subliminally see me as. Cape Cod would smile. I’d fit in well there, because in my late forties or early fifties I’d have the sort of personality that everybody at Beach Road would know to be impressed by—I could lift my life up to heights that the bourgeois rabble couldn’t even see. Not a single one of my applications to a white-collar job had ended in a palatable offer. Not-Quite Sephora, founded in Vermont, has a labor-friendly CEO. My benefits were good—I even had vision and dental. “One way or another, I’m bringing up my Cape Cod trip,” was the last clear thought I had before knocking on Brenda’s door.

“Come in,” a harsh voice gruffed.

I opened the door.

“Close that please,” was the first thing I heard Brenda say before she and I even made eye contact.

I closed the door dutifully.

Karen McHiggins was standing next to her desk in red pants and a black blazer. She had tied her hair into pigtails that day for some reason, although her hair was so short that they ended up looking more like ringlets, and her eyes behind her glasses were blue and pixel-like. Brenda made a quick gesture at the floor with her hands, almost like she was trying to say “Enough!”, and then said: “What is going on, Nina—what is going on, because I do not understand you.”

Her voice was hoarse.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her red pants—but your blazer is black?—so I just said, “I—” while panning my gaze to her desk, waiting for her to continue.

Brenda’s desk was a mess.

Just like her thought processes.

“If you have ever had a problem with me, you could have come to me directly. What have I always told you, Nina—” Brenda was now screaming.

Brenda thinks screaming has an effect on me.

She’s right—loud noises do have an effect on me. Elevated decibels have an effect on every animal that evolves through nature. How much do I hate Brenda right now? My eyes are staring into hers—but I don’t see a human.

I see an animal.

The power of volume is that it throbs the ear—and ears desire music. Ears desire harmony. Wild animals make me forget poetry as I bolt into the jungle—how much do I hate the woman screaming into my ears right now? Well, there’s a simple formula for that, and all of us are making it, even if we don’t know that we’re making it. We take how much anxiety we experience from being around a person, and then we multiply it by a factor.

My factor is 1 when that person is equal to me.

My factor is a fraction of 1 when that person is homeless.

My factor is greater than 1 when that person is greater than me.

And for Brenda my factor was 42,137—that’s 1 for every dollar that the winds of Brenda’s turbulence lorded over me, granting me vision and dental.

The ensuing number is a hatred.

How much anxiety was Brenda creating in me? Well, for starters—how much did I distrust Brenda? (And how much did I secretly want Brenda to like me?) All the eyeliner I wore to work every day—it wasn’t for mall patrol, it wasn’t for Ashley, and Lord knows it wasn’t for Gabby.

It was for me.

But maybe a little bit of it was for Brenda.

And how much taller does Brenda tower over me right now?

And how much taller does Brenda tower over me right now? Well, let’s see—I submitted 42 job applications, all non-retail. Interviewed at 11. Final-rounded at 7. Received an offer at two—both in New York, which I couldn’t afford. A young white boy at a social media marketing firm told me during the interview that I was “obviously brilliant” before offering me an internship. By July, Brenda towered over me like a god. I fell asleep at night fantasizing about her supervillain origin story. Brenda complained so much about Americans who weren’t vaccinated that I once asked her if she was a childhood polio survivor. “Where in the world did you get that idea?” Brenda laughed, and I laughed too. “Oh, I was just curious.”“How many times have I told you, Nina…”

My expenses have been going up, thanks to my new boyfriend. (As a matter of fact, I am the type of girl to go Dutch!) Taking over Brenda’s position would mean a four-percent raise. To my surprise, Brenda took off her glasses, put them on top of a crinkled magazine on her desk, and started crying. Like, actually crying.

Two actual teardrops leaked out of her eyes.

Self-pity makes me uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable when the powerless do it, because now I have to do something, and it makes me uncomfortable when the powerful do it, because now I have to eat them. When somebody more powerful than me expresses self-pity, I can’t help it: I want to guillotine them. I want to take away their right to exist, but I want to watch them suffer first. If I were God, I’d invent Hell just for Brenda. It satisfied me that Brenda would most likely die without children or a partner. I want all capitalists in the First World to die without children or a partner, but to have afterlives that go on forever.

It still doesn’t seem enough though.

Brenda’s office has a desk, no windows, and a door that leads to the loading dock. A poster on the wall behind her desk, and I was just noticing this about her office now for the first time, was of a lighthouse in Cape Cod. “—the back-to-school rush—” Brenda was saying, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

The ceiling light was fluorescent, and the walls were built of the same beige bricks that made up my elementary school. I once applied to a master’s program in sociology at Johns Hopkins University.

I got in, too.

I hate it here in America—doesn’t anybody else? Is this really that much better than the Soviet Union?

Sympathy for Brenda?

Brenda who lorded over my vision and dental like a bureaucratic algorithm—my boss Brenda?

I did good work.

I was Brenda’s star employee! (I left that part out because I’m not the bragging type.) The only work I couldn’t charge for was the work I didn’t want to do—navigating around the runes and mysteries of Brenda’s uncharted sensitivities like Leif Erikson. The truth was, I hated Brenda for not being able to see me as a beautiful woman just because I wasn’t a beautiful white woman like the pin-up girls she’d gone to school with in New Jersey. Brenda bleeds white guilt, but she rarely ever let me massage any of it toward my favor, except superficially (and you can guess by now how I feel about superficiality). Brenda’s insincerity dehumanized her to me. We humanize each other first as leaps of faith, and then through trust—and nothing about Brenda’s way of existing suggested she could be trusted by me. Not her white guilt. Not her New Jersey liberalism.

Not even her tears.

In fact the longer Brenda cried, the more intensely I wanted to punish her—the phrase “white bitch tears” comes to mind. I wondered if Brenda sincerely didn’t understand that if I could push a button to keep her trapped inside a hole for the rest of her life, I would, and her tears only made me want to push harder. Still, it gave me a start to see—this woman who could take away my ability to not go into debt like checking “Buy Now” on Amazon—reduced before me into a person now trying to trick me into believing she has a soul.

Don’t the workers of the world understand?

Powerful people don’t have souls.

Brenda having a soul would have meant taking my ideas about the BOPUS orders seriously, and not dismissing them out of hand because how could any good ideas come from Nina, the pretty one, if Brenda’s even not-racist enough to see me as pretty (BOPUS is industry slang for “buy online, pick up in store,” and it’s basically brought Not-Quite Sephora to its knees—that and Brenda’s mismanagement). I could divide my hatred of Brenda by a factor to account for the fact that she was fat and unmarried—but whose fault was that, Krispy Kreme? Do you think I actually like exercising?

Are you ready for some real talk now?

I can tell you about the runner’s high until I’m blue in the face, but I’m not built inside like a runner—I’m built inside like a girl who understands that nothing tastes as good as being pretty feels. I don’t know how American society decayed to this point—my Ph.D. dissertation in sociology at Johns Hopkins would have been about the link between an artificial society and the importance placed on appearances, but I couldn’t afford to go, I had actual work to do in middle school (like not killing myself) so I never bothered thinking very long and hard about anything. “Quitting would mean losing my gym membership,” I suddenly remembered.

A new recognition suddenly dawned over me—no gym membership would mean no Cape Cod. It takes a couple hundred months and a couple thousands steps to get there, but trust me, I’ve worked out the odds.

(I make my brain work for me.)

I looked at the lighthouse poster behind Brenda’s desk and said: “Brenda, it’s just—how you treated Ashley last night in the stock room…”

“You weren’t even there!” was what a clear-headed Brenda would’ve said, but Brenda the Tender said nothing.

“I heard about it from Gabby,” I continued. “You know, we’ve talked about this so many times.”

“I know, I know,” Brenda whispered.

“You don’t know how to create a functional work environment sometimes. Groups are held together by trust, not fear.”

I wasn’t quitting.

I was saving everyone at Not-Quite Sephora from Brenda’s bad temper. Brenda’s boss Charles would understand—he’d say, Nina made some good points in this email, but it sounds like you guys have everything worked out, so get back to work—and everyone would move on.

Only Brenda would now be moving into the light.

She would see how her anxieties about Not-Quite Sephora’s declining sales figures were spilling into her paranoias about job security (“And what will I do with all of my competence now that I can’t find a job because I’m old, fat, and ugly?”) and have been spilling into us as sarcasm and curt dismissals ever since her second day on the job. (Her first day was lovely—I was obsessed with Brenda! I even nicknamed her “cool Mom” to Gabby and Ashley.)

How Brenda appeared to me that first day was how Cape Cod once appeared to me too, before this weekend—white-sand beaches, old stone lighthouses, the Kennedys.

Cape Cod had told me a story—and so had Brenda when she first took over Kristi’s post at Not-Quite Sephora (Kristi got pregnant and never came back). Cape Cod’s story was Yale Law, benevolence, intellectualism. Brenda’s story was that she was loud and earthy and understood how to make an entrance—if she’d been honest, she would’ve just said: “I can use my power to make you feel however I want you to feel about yourself. I’m an emotional abuser.”

But the story I heard, because I’m a gullible sweetheart, was “Fun Mom.”

I laughed along amiably to “stressed-out Mom,” bopped along bewilderedly to “not everything is functional upstairs Mom,” and—how do I put this?

I didn’t like the mother who had a master’s degree.

Self-protection was Brenda’s middle name, and nothing I said using the tools of reason or logic could penetrate the fortress of Brenda’s first impressions—that’s the definition of “closed-minded,” by the way (Brenda has a lot to say about closed-minded people—that’s the crazy part).

How we look is the first story we tell each other about who we are. It’s our audiovisual accompaniment to the words that make up the second half of our story—the “spoken half”—and everyone understands that this isn’t fair, everyone understands and then does nothing. Brenda isn’t the only person who learned how to survive in America by going to an American middle school. She’s only lost her temper at me a couple of times, but I’ve been tracking all of them.

I’ve been watching you like a falcon, Brenda.

I’ve been watching you like a true A student.

True A students are out of favor in America for a reason. We’re only mortal, but we’re a little bit supermortal too. Because what I really didn’t like about Brenda was her insincerity—“When have I ever said no to you, Nina?” Brenda was now drying her eyes with a tissue and screaming.

It was a change in the air—a subtle bit of misdirection that she probably thought I was too stupid to catch (I’m not).

I was the powerful one now.

And Brenda McHiggins was now “the victim.”

“You threatened to fire me right after Easter for being late on a BOPUS order,” I treaded carefully.

“Nina, ninety-nine percent of our Google ratings come down to the BOPUS orders—”

“Which is why I said you needed a better system for assigning roles for when people aren’t .”

“Which is why I said you needed a better system for assigning roles for when people aren’t here.”

“But I never threatened to fire you.”

“You told me you’d have my name forwarded to Charles!"

“Exactly!”

“Which is the same as getting fired!”

“That isn’t true, Nina—I would have protected you.”

This statement was so stupid that it almost broke my brain. “Wha—protected me: do you not understand how Charles operates?” Brenda turned her back to me, waved her hand in the air, and said: “I’m not going to go into this with you again” as she looked for her glasses.

“It’s right there,” I said. “On top of Better Homes & Gardens.”

“Oh,” Brenda said without acknowledging me.

Brenda put on her glasses and then sat down into the chair, which made a sound like it was about to snap in half.

This was how she always liked to berate us—from her chair. I had seen that painting of the lighthouse behind Brenda’s desk so many times—it just never occurred to me that it was Cape Cod. Sometimes, I’d overhear Brenda berating Gabby on my way to the restroom and I’d think, “Well, she isn’t wrong—Gabby is kind of stupid—but that’s still not the way you talk to her. You have to incentivize her to trust you first.” (Gabby was the one who first changed Brenda’s nickname from “Fun Mom” to that cunt with a stick up her ass.) Ashley and I burst out laughing. (What else is there to do inside a dying country?)

“Everyone here is so short-tempered with each other because you set the tone. I’ve been too afraid to ask you for three days off in September to go on a trip with my boyfriend for our one-year anniversary because I knew you weren’t going to say yes, so I was just going to take them off as sick days—and that’s not a functional work environment if people are constantly doing things like that all the time, because what you really need to do is go to Charles and ask for more staff.”

“This September—oh, Nina, you got to be kidding me!”

It was the first honest thing I ever heard Brenda say.

I thought about my naïve dream from earlier—how I thought I was going to turn Brenda around.

How I thought I was going to save the store. “The problem is we’re under_staffed_” was what I should’ve said—I get that now, I do, and I don’t know why I couldn’t wear it in my mouth even as it was trying to form in my subconscious. Because other forms were rising in me now too, forms like: “Brenda is a world-class manipulator. She butters you up just to brine you.” (I couldn’t even trust her tears, and if you can’t trust someone’s tears, you can’t trust them to ever find help.) I don’t know how I’d fare if it were just me and Brenda on a deserted island—I could see her killing a cougar for us with her own bare hands, but I could also see her killing me. “I never said that, I just told you I’d have to forward your name to Charles”—Brenda the liar. Brenda who could probably play dead about as well as she could play stupid—any falcon worth its weight in bird could see through it.

“I’ve been having issues with my boyfriend,” I suddenly blurted out.

Where had I learned this from?

Middle school.

“The anniversary trip means a lot to him, and I can’t even say yes or say no—it just hangs there over us, because he knows about the back-to-school rush. And he’s not even someone I—even feel fully comfortable with in some ways. But I’m also scared to lose him, I’m scared every time I come into work on Tuesday because I don’t know how you’re going to change my hours. Everything we do revolves around my not having enough time—I’d have issues building a perfect relationship with him if we had the rest of our lives to ourselves on a deserted island, but every weekend until closing? He works a normal job! He’s tired all the time too, but he makes time to see me and I can’t—I can’t come to you about anything.”

I didn’t cry.

But I did smile in my head:

“Wanna play victim, bitch?”

I could see Cape Cod now—I could see its lighthouse drawing my boyfriend and I closer and closer, I could see us dancing now to The Strokes at midnight like we were back in middle school because I didn’t want this to be the rest of my life, I don’t want retail, I don’t want resumes and cover letters and I don’t want to meet any more Brendas—what I want is for the Brendas of the world to collapse at my feet, but all I can see are the Brendas of the world closing in on me until death and so I need a release, I need to go back to middle school (I was popular in middle school, I can admit that now, I had bee-stung lips, and a bee-stinger too)—I need The Strokes (haven’t you ever made out with a boy in a hot tub while stroking your nails across his abs, parting the hair where his lower back begins?)—“Is this it? … Is this it?”—(my boyfriend and I swimming in the stars of our liberation, and I’ll give him all the vision and dental that he likes)—prey: always just a one-click order away (and we’ll eat lobster, because lobsters hold harms forever)—I the warm body and he the warm arms, holding me in his lanky-panky forever (and if Connor ever got a gym membership I would die—I don’t need a perfect 10, I can settle for an 8.9)—my captors: do they know? Do they understanding I’m not living my one true life? Wearing Ray-Bans while gazing out at the Atlantic from a yacht, because Comfort is my one true God—I’m ready, Mr. DeMille, for my one true closeup to begin. How am I still in Brenda’s office? I’m twenty-seven years old—how am I twenty-seven years old and still smoldering in Brenda’s office? In middle school I listened to The Strokes while everyone else listened to pop hip-hop—another Universe has been calling to me all my life. And all it would take was just a few more thousand steps to get there.

I’ve been running every day since I was thirteen. I don’t even eat my desserts correctly—I just spit and chew.

Ashley and Gabby remind me of who I was back in middle school. I had power over everyone back then except Abercrombie Couture (not her real name). Abercrombie was the class favorite—it’s hard to explain, but among the very-outgoing girls, Abercrombie was Frivolity Personified. And when only the people who needed to see it could see it, Abercrombie was the cruelest human you’ve ever met—she’d ignore you so subtly you’d drive yourself crazy for days asking the other girls if she was mad at you. Back then I had already begun telling myself I was too cool to care—but I still have nightmares about Abercrombie sometimes, about the way she’d say hi to everybody else at the party except me. “I just can’t deal with your emotional up and downs anymore, Brenda! Like I’m sorry—I’ve defended you to Ashley and Gabby so many times! I’m sick of having these conversations with them.”

Abercrombie, I later realized during college, must have been unsettled by how candidly I could talk about her behind her back. That was my little power over her, and I’d like to think I wielded it gracefully. (Abercrombie was dethroned by a lurid sex scandal involving a used condom in eighth grade, and I’d like to believe I led our class to a more open and inclusive place after her dismissal.)

“Three days—where you trying to go, Wuhan?”

“No. The Cod.”

“The what?”

“The Cod.”

“Where’s that?”

“In Massachusetts.”

“You mean Cape Cod?”

That was how quickly I realized I had fumbled the ball—that was the speed at which I realized I had fumbled the fuck-you—the one thing I needed to do correctly and I had fumbled the ball trying to cross the finish line. “It’s the Cape, not the Cod sweetie,” Brenda was already huffing to me by the time I realized my mistake, with a smile on her face. She’ll deny it to this day, and in absolute candor I can’t really say it was a “physical” smile—I don’t remember what it looked like, I don’t remember if Brenda actually huffed or if she even moved her mouth all that much at all, it was more in the eyes, but that bitch smiled.

I grew up in Nevada.

My boyfriend graduated from Yale Law and with him I can see a way out of my life—and I really don’t understand why that’s such a terrible thing to say. And I’m about to lose him—it’s in between the lines, but I can just feel it, I have him wrapped around my little finger because that’s the only way I’d ever have any man who loomed so tall over me, with him it’d be Cape Cod until the end of my days and nobody would ever laugh at me for calling it the Cod again—I’ll just rename it.

My hatred of Brenda in that moment was rivaled only by my childhood hatred of Abercrombie Couture.

But I knew I had to proceed gingerly.

I began to feel like Leif Erikson again—what other uncharted sensitivities do you have, Brenda?

Do white people really have white guilt?

Verbalizing the subconscious is like navigating by stars—Pequod knows where it’s trying to go, it just needs the conscious mind to plot out the steps to get there first—only I couldn’t verbalize any of this, all I could do was feel the mind for throbs like the twitches of a rat’s tail inside the forest below—and I was throbbing for a release, I was throbbing all my middle-school embarrassments, I was throbbing Cape Cod. A woman who understood nothing but appearances stood in front of me, utterly preoccupied with her own self-preservation—neither wise, open-minded, nor beautiful—but who could mean the difference between me and my income, between me and my livelihood, between me and my boyfriend breaking up (which would mean the difference between me and Cape Cod)—and I couldn’t even get anyone on the second floor to take her magazine theft seriously. How do I even begin to tabulate all her subtle knife-wounds to the psyche?

My favorite song by The Strokes?

“Hard to Explain.”

“You can correct the way I say things all you’d like, but it doesn’t change the fact that I live in fear of you—okay? I go home every night and cry. You bully Ashley and Gabby every day but I’m not Ashley or Gabby—okay? You have not created an emotionally safe environment in the workplace and it’s affecting my life—okay? I’m sorry you take yourself so seriously, and I’m sure it has nothing to do with your fear that all the girls who thought you’d never amount to anything in middle school might be right, but if you have to terrorize other people just to feel better about yourself, that’s not how I roll—okay? That’s not me. The way you talk to Ashley, Gabby, Mike, Chris—it’s un-ac-cep-ta-ble, Brenda.”

And this is where my ship was trying to go:

“I don’t think you belong in your position. So that’s what I told Charles.”

I’d set fire to Cape Cod if I could.

I’d set fire to my boyfriend’s lake house, I’d set fire to Brenda’s Us Weeklies, and I’d certainly set fire to the poster of the lighthouse with seagulls behind Brenda’s desk.

“I don’t work here anymore. Not until you apologize to Ashley,” I added quickly.

My speech was now outpacing my life decisions.

“And I’m not going to be manipulated by you anymore, okay? Because you know how hard I work, you know how much I give to this store every day but Wannabe-Nordstrom isn’t my life, okay? I am not living the life I want to live every single day—so that’s my life, okay?”

Were ordinary people in the Soviet Union this unhappy? Has anyone ever bothered to ask them?

The only thing I ever knew how to do around Brenda was say whatever I needed to say to make her feel comfortable.

Like seagulls exploding out of a cove, that was the only thing Brenda ever seemed to value: her personal comfort. I don’t remember how Brenda looked in that moment. She kept darting her eyes between Better Homes & Gardens and the floor, and her glasses were foggy. I gazed at Brenda with a falcon’s stare and said:

“Think of last night as my last straw.”

It’d be worth it, you know.

It’d be worth it to suspend my gym membership for a few months to see Brenda have to swallow the fruits of her own disorder. I hadn’t coaxed Brenda into reacting the way she did to Ashley’s request—I had only coaxed Ashley into talking to her, and that was a sincere act of friendship: “You have to stand up for yourself with people like that, Ashley.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Brenda and you are like best friends.”

“We are not.”

“You have her wrapped around your little finger, Nina.”

“No I don’t,” I said, and then I hit Ashley’s face with a big fat pillow until feathers fell out, which of course never happened because Ashley and I don’t have open and honest conversations about anything. All Ashley said was “You’re probably right,” and I could sense in Ashley’s eyes that she was perceptive enough to understand I was probably wrong—but even I couldn’t pick that up, at least not consciously, so in a way, Ashley doomed herself by failing to correct me.

I was Brenda’s star employee and everybody knew it.

I’ve been an A student all my life.

I’m the picture of good anger management.

Management hates it when you quit. That’s the one thing you can still lord over them, even during a recession (and July 2022 in America was anything but)—replacing an employee costs time, and time is money. Every store manager knows that—even Brenda (her management woes don’t source back to her inability to optimize).

And then Brenda said something so stupid that for a second I almost thought she was parodying Gabby.

“I thought you and I could speak openly to each other.”

Brenda.

Girl.

Just because you tell me about the medications you take for your back problems doesn’t mean we’re friends.

Was this really happening right now?

“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” I told Brenda. “I did speak openly in the email.”

Was Brenda really buying into Ashley’s delusion that management and workers can be just friends?

Or was she just calculating that I—because I’m pretty—was stupid enough to buy into it too?

“Actually, no—the way you engage with others doesn’t seem intended to provide a pathway for sincere and open conversations. You have a ‘No Assholes’ policy that seems intended to make other people suppress their true feelings around you at all times, because anybody who contradicts you is automatically an asshole.”

I didn’t say that.

I just said: “It can be intimidating to speak to you sometimes.”

Even when you try to laugh with me about your muscle relaxants, I laugh back, but what I really want to say is “Brenda, a certain percentage of the population is going to have back problems, and you have given me no particular reason to care about yours.” I think again now about if Brenda and I were stuck on a deserted island. I’d probably have to save her life from the elements from time to time, and that’d build trust between us. “What we’d need to do is charter a plane somewhere, and have the plane crash. That’s the only way to resuscitate this relationship.”

“How many times have I told you, Nina, you can come to me about anything…” and before I could even respond, Brenda began comparing our dynamics to a mother-daughter relationship and I was one second away from saying, “Bitch, that’s your problem,” but I caught myself and said calmly:

“Brenda, that’s the problem.”

Brenda looked at me earnestly.

“Just, that right there—the word you used. I don’t think you really understand other people’s boundaries? I tell you obligatory anecdotes from my personal life because you specifically ask to hear them, not because I want to volunteer them—again, that’s how afraid I am of you, Brenda, because I don’t even feel like I have the right to tell you that my dating history is, actually, now that I think about it, none of your business. And then you lecture me about how I talk to my boyfriend? Again, because you asked to hear the details, and you actually make it so that now I’m thinking about my boyfriend at work instead of focusing on my job, which you then get mad at me for? I don’t think you really understand, Brenda, how your friendliness comes off when it’s mixed with so much—neediness, I don’t know, this need to control everything all the time—to make everything perfect.”

The first time I ever met Brenda, we got along so well that after our shift we went to a Red Lobster on the other side of the strip mall, where she bought me three milkshakes. I told her about growing up with my mom in a trailer park in Nevada and she told me about growing up with her mom in a trailer park in New Jersey—we laughed a lot that night. I don’t even remember what we laughed about, but we were both talkers, Brenda and I, we were both tellers, and we were both showers. I could tell after my first milkshake that Brenda must have floated in the margins of the sub-popular crowd in middle school, and she all but confirmed it on the second (she just had one of those I’ve seen it all energies).

“So how does it feel being back in the Northeast?”

“Honestly?” Brenda said, grabbing a French fry. “I’m ready.”

You couldn’t hear the ocean from where we were sitting, but you could hear a highway.

I understand Brenda.

I really do.

Sometimes at night, while I fantasized about quitting a company whose Corporate was famous for giving their employees vision and dental (and anyway, what else would I do besides marketing or retail? In what other way might I be called upon to serve the good people of America?), I’d climax with an image of Brenda sitting alone at home on a Thursday night (that was Brenda’s day off), crocheting to Fleetwood Mac, with a cat rubbing up against her ankle. The only mystery was how many paintings of beaches dotted her apartment.

I know Brenda doesn’t talk to her mother anymore (“Neither do I!” was probably one of our first laughs), and I’d fantasize about how much she probably secretly admired me—because I was pretty—because I could always talk my way into classes and parties she could only stare through the curtains of (I once helped Brenda create an account on Plenty of Fish), and now it was too late for her because she was already in her late forties or early fifties—and I?

I was bound for Cape Cod.

“What are the locals there like,” all summer long I used to wonder. I work at a Nordstrom now.

And I no longer wonder.

“Oh, sweetie—it’s called the Cape, not the Cod.”

Wasn’t that how she had said it?

Even in her most helpless moment, she was still so condescending—she was still just so frivolously condescending—I mean think about the stakes here, girl, you’re about to lose your star employee right before the back-to-school rush—was the poison dart worth it?

Was the poison tip worth it, Brenda?

“I don’t think it’s healthy for me to work here anymore,” I suddenly blurted out. “You’re not a good influence on me.”

“What can I say to make you stay just through September?”

It was so quick and direct that it snapped me instantly out of my sympathy spell.

Brenda.

There’s the Brenda I knew—Brenda, you’re back!

And you’re still holding onto threads in the air.

This store will dissipate, Brenda. Your job will dissipate, and then you’ll have to go right back out there again and sell your competence at another round on the roulette wheel. (Just don’t end up at another store that sells beauty supplies, Brenda—I don’t think you quite understand what they’re really telling the world.) “I don’t think there’s anything you can say, Brenda. I know how hard the last few months have been for you, and I thought very long and hard about doing this to you. But I have to prioritize my own mental health.”

“You know Charles is only giving me a year.”

Brenda said this with a vulnerability I had never heard from her before.

Her voice was like a child’s.

Guilt—it’s impossible to summon it for a person you’ve already dehumanized. Cockroaches die every day.

My subconscious was churning again—I would have a child with my boyfriend someday, and I would protect her from people like you, Karen McHiggins. “Brenda, you have the mental age of a child,” was what I really wanted to say to her. “When I fuck up at work, who do you think I go to? Nobody—do you understand that, Brenda, because adults take responsibility for their shit.”

But I would have to sugarcoat it, because someone with the mental age of an Abercrombie would be unable to understand that the powerful can’t be friends with the powerless, no matter how hard they tried—and someone with the mental age of an Abercrombie would also need everything sugarcoated for them.

“Brenda, I don’t know how to break this to you but there isn’t going to be any back-to-school rush! It’s not 2019 anymore—Covid killed retail. We don’t know whether we want to be bargain basement or high-end and the middle class is dead, everyone wants either a bargain or an experience! What did they teach you in that master’s program?”

Only I couldn’t say that either, because Brenda would somehow spin it into me losing my cool, which is the one thing I never do—I’ve been one thing and one thing only all my life, and that’s an A student.

“You’ve given your life to a dinosaur, Brenda—move on. Department stores are dead—this isn’t the ’80s anymore. Your image of America—it’s a façade, and I can prove it. It’s that picture of the lighthouse you keep behind your desk that you pilfered from returned merchandise, and I can prove that too. We’re like explorers in an uncharted land. Things are going to fall apart for us in ways we have no templates for, just like they did for all of the generations before us—only they weren’t as trapped inside the façade of returned merchandise as we are! Settled mores are changing. This century could still look like anything—it’s all up for grabs, and more and more people are just beginning to wake up to this new dawn. Maybe what you really need to do is start a YouTube channel. You have the voice for it, you have the charisma, and you have the storytelling abilities—we could all profit from hearing from your perspective, only nobody will because you’re not young, thin, or beautiful, but hey—it’s worth a shot! You’ll have a better chance there at the lighthouse than you do in retail.”

Only I didn’t say any of this either, because I knew Brenda couldn’t hear a word I was saying. Brenda was dead between the eyes—her soul died in middle school, and she’s been dragging the corpses of would-be lives ever since.

“You’re not a particularly smart or competent person, Brenda, and what’s happening right now speaks for itself. You didn’t just get unlucky, Brenda.”

Brenda once whistled to me when she saw me change into a sundress as I was leaving my afternoon shift—“Whose heart are you breaking tonight, Nina?”

“None of your business!” was what I wanted to tell her, but I wanted to let Brenda live vicariously through me—it was the only gentleness I could ever offer her.

“You know Charles is only giving me the year,” Brenda had said, and she was staring into the void now. I could feel her back pain. She had given her whole entire life to Not-Quite-Sephora, six days a week, and on most nights on my way to the restroom I could hear “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac playing from a small Bluetooth speaker. I looked at Brenda and said: “I have no idea what you want from me. It’s not my job to make you look any better than you are at your job. And I don’t know what your agreement with Charlie has to do with anything—in fact, I had lunch with him the other day.”

Brenda lifted her eyes.

“What?” she said stupidly.

“Oh, I’m sorry—I was trying to get a vacation approved. No, Brenda. I needed to talk to him about a few things.”

“What things?”

And then, before I could offer an answer, “What are you trying to say, Nina? Just spit it out!”

“You have a problem, okay? I’ve seen the way you’ve unraveled in the last few months—Gabby and Ashley are afraid of you, Chris is about to quit, literally nobody can handle your emotional volatility anymore. Everybody’s so short-tempered with each other all the time and coming to me for help, and it’s not my job to help them—that’s your job! You’ve created a situation where nobody can even talk to you. We just smile at you out of fear. You don’t command anybody’s respect—you know that, right? So we basically have to operate without a supervisor—you understand that, don’t you?”

It feels good to eat.

I no longer have a gym membership anymore. Instead, I jog every Tuesday and Friday at the public park.

“So yeah—so I guess I just thought it was about time Charlie heard all of this. He’s actually very reasonable if you talk to him in a reasonable way. He said he’d look into opening one or two more positions for us to cover the weekends. But you probably won’t be there to oversee it.”

Not-Quite Sephora was founded as a regional competitor to J.C. Penney in 1991. It never expanded beyond the Northeast, Minnesota, and California, and it’s about to die—it’s only a matter of time. Unless if maybe Corporate in Burlington saw the light and hired someone like me and actually listened to her ideas for turning all of their stores into “experiences,” which is what I’ve been trying to tell Brenda every time she questioned one of my lipstick arrangements. A lot of what I miss about middle school is the taste-test of freedoms I enjoy every day now as an adult: you build a friendship with the highest person who’ll take you in.

That’s how you climb a hierarchy.

Brenda looked at me like a wounded animal.

There really isn’t ambiguity, is there, about which one of us would survive if it were just you and me on a deserted island. A new recognition was forming inside of Brenda, and I didn’t want to be there to watch it settle in—you can’t treat people like you treated Ashley the other night in the stock room, this isn’t the ’80s anymore. Of course, Brenda was too obtuse to work out that I was only bluffing. The truth was, I had talked to Charlie briefly on the second floor, but he just told me to “put it all in an email,” and I knew he was never going to speak to Brenda long enough to ever contradict anything I had just said—Charlie’s not exactly the open type. Besides, Charlie did agree to look into hiring more part-timers, the way Charlie ever agrees to anything—by pretending it was his idea all along. “It’s the unreliability of when customers come in, that’s the problem,” Charlie had explained to me. (“Yes, that’s true. Unreliability is always the problem,” I told Charlie.)

You can’t rely on other people’s testimony when you ask them about Abercrombie Couture.

You have to come to me.

I’ve seen sides of Abercrombie that nobody else has.

“So what’s the dating scene like out here?” Brenda had asked me that first night at Red Lobster, while popping a French fry. I remember trying not to look at Brenda like she was serious. “It’s just men!” I remember laughing to Brenda in front of two tall glasses of milkshake. “It’s just a bunch of men—that’s the only way I know how to put it!”

And then Brenda in her black blazer and black pants laughed too.

Like we were girlfriends.

“I would’ve given you those vacation days, Nina,” Brenda finally said in a whisper. “If I had just understood that you knew what you were doing when you took them—what you were doing to the store—I would’ve given them to you.”

A new sincerity is trying to grow in the air all around us—I can hear its infant-screams, can’t you? (Couldn’t Brenda?) “Oh my God, Brenda. This is about so much more than whether or not I can go on one trip to Cape Cod.”

“That is all this is about to you, Nina, and don’t you pretend otherwise—”

“No, it isn’t.”

“—because you have a fancy boyfriend now.”

“Leave Connor out of this.”

I don’t really know where my life’s going to go after Cape Cod. Colson’s mental health—it causes collateral damage to people (Colson was one of Connor’s three friends that had stayed with us at the lake house). I don’t really think he understands that his actions have consequences on other people. He thinks I’m one of the popular kids who terrorized him in middle school, but the truth is—I’m just a little bit higher or lower on the pecking order than he is. All of us are—all of us down here. I can’t really bring myself to fully hate him for what he did, but then I remember what his life is and I do—I hate him by several orders of magnitude more than I ever hated Brenda. And what Colson and Brenda both have in common, of course, is their dripping self-pity: they’re both absolutely lacquered in it (what is it about competitive social environments that produces so much self-pity anyway, dripping like honey?). I didn’t have too much compassion for Colson when he asked me to feed some of his honey back to him with my fingers. “Money,” I wanted to tell him.

“How much money you have is an easy way to tabulate what your self-pity is worth to me.”

But to be honest, I couldn’t even lift a finger to care.

Cape Cod was only four days ago, but it’s already just another memory now—that’s how all of our weekends are bound to end. Several hundred more of these and then it’s lights out. Connor and I listened to the first season of Serial on the way up, and as we walked through Martha’s Vineyard later that afternoon, we saw fifty migrants from South America file onto a bus bound for a military installation.

There were cameras and cake everywhere.

We’re all participants in this gladiatorial contest to see who ends up in Cape Cod as the sun sets over our lives.

Colson recently wrote a book called A Stick of Dynamite in the American Elite.

I wish him luck.

I have plans for him, you know.

No matter what his next chess move is—I have a plan to stop him. I left Brenda alone in her office that day. I never learned where she went after she was dismissed from Not-Quite Sephora, all I remember is Ashley and Gabby coming over to hug me as I grabbed my purse from the break room, and they both quit two days later. It was because there’s something in my soul that doesn’t like to see other people are in pain—even people without souls like Brenda (Colson doesn’t count because he’s not really a human in my eyes, he’s more like a bad anecdote you shake off)—that I found myself hugging Brenda right before I said goodbye, holding her as she kept saying to me that I’d been like a daughter to her: “Brenda—Brenda, listen to me. My boyfriend has an ex-boyfriend whose stepmom also has a drinking problem, okay? Brenda—are you listening to me? They live in Westport…”

Cape Cod will die.

It’s only a matter of time before it collapses under the weight of its own contradictions. I sail America’s values like Leif Erikson now—other people have built their homes and comforts here, but I don’t mind. I wonder sometimes what Abercrombie Couture anesthetizes her listlessness to these days—HBO? Unsubtle affairs with younger men? “How long before mundane dehumanization bears fruit?” I smile to myself every day at Nordstrom, as I walk around the counter to deliver my customer’s parcels to them personally.

I see Abercrombie sometimes in the eyes of the women I help at Nordstrom. They’re all moms, and if that’s the final meaning of our lives—then yes, I agree.

Let’s all be moms.

You don’t know the Hell I’ll reign over America’s guilty class in the twenty-first century, but you will soon: I will mother the destruction of America’s guilded gilts into existence. I broke up with Connor this morning. Something about his reaction to Colson’s breakdown in Cape Cod just didn’t sit well with me—he couldn’t see through Colson’s insincerity, and that makes me think he might not have what it takes in this life to go where I’m trying to go. At my new job at the mall, I nibble on old memories like a woman who hasn’t eaten now in years. The last person I ate was my narcissistic mother in Nevada—she ruined my childhood—she was the Leif Erikson of my formative years—but then again?

So was my middle school.

College feels like a million years ago. My sorority sisters are all married with kids now. Mothers will do anything to protect their young.

#MeToo.

2022

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theonlygamergost · 4 years ago

Text

Concept idea, Dsmp!Seaside au

It's pretty much an au about the Dream smp peeps working at a very very fancy seaside bathhouse, just to be clear, I'm talking about a bar with umbrella and deck chairs, with animation (entertainment) and instructors of different sports, kinda like a village but without the possibility of sleeping there. I hope I made it clear, sorry my English is very rusty.

Also not all Dream smp members are in this list because God there are so many and I can't find enough stuff for all of them to do, plus, I don't follow every single member so I don't want to assume their personality and things they like since I base most thing they do on the content creator.

I'll be mentioning multiple sea sports, if you don't know what they are, I recommend looking it up, just to understand better.

One last little thing, when I say “Bar” I don't mean an American bar, I mean an Italian bar, so in this case, it's a place where they serve toasts, salads, coffee, ice cream, various beverages (both alcoholic and sodas) and usually serve appetizers, so that's why (minor spoiler) Ranboo and Tommy, that are technically minors can work in it, if you have any more questions I'll be happy to answer them!

-Dream: Instructor of every sea and beach sport: Sky surfing, wind-surfing, surf, Scooba diving, beach volley, has competed and won at least one competition for every sport, mainly competitive fast swimmer, is the leader of the “made up” “Dream team”, constant friendly competition between them, main rivalry with Technoblade, kind and dedicated instructor, remembers all the names of every regular student and kinda coaches them, he wants to show and share the passion he has for the sports to kids and adults alike.

-Sapnap: Sky surf, wind-surf and surf instructor, knows how to do every sport Dream does but prefers all the types of surfing, loves beach ball to bits and is very good at it too, second member of the “Dream team”, strict but kind instructor, doesn't wanna do lessons out of laziness but enjoys them in the end, competitive on all the surf sports, they are his main thing. Prefer teaching to adults than to kids.

-George: Teaches lighter sports like sup and canoe, can teach surf but only for kids, knows how to sky surf, windsurf and surf but only does it with the team and on his own, third member of the “Dream team”, mainly teaches to kids since he is nice and funny, the kids really love him, he will join the rest of the “Dream team” on whatever they are doing, he doesn't mind what it is, also a competitive swimmer.

-Technoblade: Lifeguard, sits all day on the tall chair, never under the sun, always wears a t-shirt, usually reads, very fast swimmer, good at every sport, competes with Dream and his team, sometimes against Tommy too, hates staying around children so he asked for two lifeguards that can deal with kids, doesn't talk to anyone apart from other staff, he’ll never admit it but loves when any friend will come by and chat with him, it can get boring to sit on the chair all day.

-Nihachu: Help lifeguard and kids entertainer, makes duo with Jack Manifold, very able swimmer and surfer, likes to take lessons of sky surfing from Techno and George, loves playing and entertaining kids, very kind to everyone and pretty protective of the kids, doesn't like to make them play under the sun in the afternoon, no catching crabs if you don't have the plastic shoes!

-Jack Manifold: Second help lifeguard and kids entertainer, talks to Techno less, kinda fears him tbh, can kinda windsurf and likes surfing, man’s very aggressive when playing beach volley, makes up fun games for the kids and distributes candy behind Niki’s back, also buys ice cream for them often, organizes pranks on the parents with their kids, friendly competitions with everyone that asks in any sport.

-Philza: Manager of the structure, passes his time in the office, when he's bored he plays Minecraft, organizes events, courses, shows... He organizes everything and he's damn good at it, always has ideas on what to change, add or remove to the structure, doesn't take any sport competitively but likes playing rackets, if it's a dead day in the office, he either helps at the bar or sits next to Techno and chats, doesn't get in the water on his own, well he doesn't go in the water often, but when he does he makes sure no one splashes each other.

-Foolish: First office worker, takes care of the stock of the bar, to explain better, he orders everything that is missing or is running low, so food, water and beverages, ice cream, also takes care of broken chairs and tables, or in case any machine breaks, also likes beach ball and Scooba diving, you could see him windsurfing if he has the time.

-Punz and Purpled: Second and third office worker, I'm putting them together because they both worry about tech stuff, so they work on the site of the establishment, they make advertisement and take reservations for the umbrellas, Punz likes windsurf meanwhile Purpled prefers sky surfing, both enjoy normal surf and volleyball, they don't have too much work so you can find them chilling at the beach.

-Eret: Dog caretaker, bartender and kids entertainer, the structure has a small area to leave dogs in if people want, Eret takes care of them, feeds them, makes them play and generally watches over them, but because not everyone wants to leave the dogs there (mostly because the service isn't free) he also helps Niki and Jack with the kids, he likes face panting them and giving small washable tattoos, also very kind the kids, Eret also helps at the bar since he is polite.

-Wilbur Soot: Bar supervisor, he likes bringing stuff to tables though, mostly bright and nice, but will get pissed of at sassy or rude customers, jokes with everyone all the time, likes to entertain customers that remain later in the day with small live performances, will bring Techno snacks throughout the day, loves friendly beach ball competitions, likes scuba diving but has barely any time for it, will surf but doesn't likes it a lot lot.

-Ranboo: Bartender, pretty shy but knows how to do his job, can carry five plates without a tray and without dropping a single one, loves giving water and food to dogs (he also likes to help Eret at the dog playground if he has free time), has a bit of difficulty to talk back to costumers but Will (or Eret if he’s around) usually comes help him with those, doesn't like any water sports and is too lazy to play beach volley, doesn't like to stay around kids either, low key scared of the water, only has told Tubbo and then Tommy that he is actually terrified of deep and blue water, knows how to barely swim, likes chilling in duck or unicorn floaties if in water, doesn't like staying under the sun.

-Fundy: Bartender and cook, well he is not an actual cook, it's a small kiosk that serves toasts and salads, he has very little to do, but someone has to do them so... Mostly relegated to the kitchen so he isn't bothered by people, helps outside if it isn't lunchtime, he prefers Scooba diving over surfing sports, likes chill stuff like sup and canoe, will also go with Puffy in small beaches by boat.

-Tubbo: Scooba diver instructor, the little man looks funny with the oxygen tanks on his back, but watching fishes and corals are his favourite thing, holds excursions both near the coast ( with mask and snorkel ) and in the deeper sea (with oxygen tanks), he relies on Puffy’s boat to bring them out to sea, doesn't like beach ball that much, but likes sup and canoe.

-Captain Puffy: Boat driver and guide of sea excursions, kind, likes having kids on board and allows them to touch the steering wheel when the boat is off, wears a pirate hat, also plays pirate with all the kids, also also tells pirate stories and myths constantly, likes to bring the “Dream team” in more windy places for them to train, looks over them while reading in the sun, also brings Tubbo out in the deeper sea for his Scooba lessons and for private excursions, Ranboo will usually go with Tubbo but stays with Puffy on the boat.

-Tommy: Help instructor (and help lifeguard), he ended up being a helper because he tried being an instructor, but he doesn't deal with people well, so actual instructors (like Tubbo, George or Dream) ask him to demonstrate exercises and helps them by carrying equipment, he‘s pretty good at anything, so anyone can ask him to help for every sport, very competitive for fast swimming and beach ball, he absolutely hates helping at the bar so Wilbur usually puts him behind the counter and leaves him there so people won't talk to him, normally finds Scooba diving pretty boring, but had fun if it's with Tubbo.

-Quackity: Events and games organizer, he likes organizing games to do at the beach and in the bar, for example, card games, beach volley, rackets, darts etc... Of course, all of them have a prize to win, due to strict rules made by Phil, no one can't bet money, doesn't really like water sports so he simply stays on land.

-Slimecicle: Kids and adult entertainer, he is just a funny man that likes making jokes, he is very good at entertaining people of all age, of course, adults are his speciality due to more mature jokes, but can still work with kids, helps Quakity host games, and like Quakity he doesn't love water sports, will go for swims frequently, it helps him relax and de-stress.

-Awesamdude: Entertainer supervisor, he doesn't really entertain people actively, he just kinda looks from a distance and helps if props are missing, is very strict but in a kind way, haven't slept enough? Go nap under an umbrella, not feeling well? Can he bring you anything? Or straight-up go home if you don't feel like it, he does it for both the health of the people and the quality of the entertaining, but he is very nice, will play beach ball but only if asked to, likes to take a mask and a snorkel and stay near the coast, swims to get refreshed by the summer heat.

-Karl: Wild card, the man doesn't have a main thing, he just helps where help is needed, entertaining for kids? Bartender? Help instructor? Captain Puffy helper on excursions? Quakity need a hand with the games? Name it and the man has done it, it's also nice because he sees everyone pretty often, likes lighter sports like sup and canoe but will surf I guess? Just don't make him sky or windsurf, it requires some sort of muscles in the arms and my man doesn't have those, but hey, he will look at friendly competitions and cheer on everyone!

-Hannah: Beach supervisor, due to her immense kindness, she welcomes people, helps find them their spot and checks up on everything, also kinda supervises the instructors because if anyone needs help or has broken equipment (and Karl isn't around) she can help with those, will occasionally surf, also uses the sea to cool off from the heat, she will join a beach ball match if she’s free!

-Badboyhalo and Skeppy: Comedic duo, there is a small stage in the bar and the two put up little comedy skits at lunch, in the afternoon and in the evening before the bar closes, Bad likes to plan skits in advance meanwhile Skeppy prefer improvising, so Bad writes scripts and memorises them, Skeppy doesn't even look at them so what end up happening on stage is that Bad says thought thru lines meanwhile Skeppy just says the first thing that comes to his mind, resulting in Bad yelling “Skeppy!!!” all the times and he just shrugging it off, if you know undertale, they give off Papyrus and Sans vibes, Bad will also yell “Language!” at the other man if kids are present, gets flustered or uncomfortable at Skeppy’s dirty jokes, Bad likes scooba diving and wind surfing, Skeppy instead likes swimming, sky surfing and plain surfing, will compete with Techno and lose all the times, talking about Techno, Skeppy will go to him throughout the day to test his jokes, the pink haired man also helps create some of them, oh and if one makes him laugh, it means its hilarious.

-DreamXD: Owner of the structure, that's it, I guess he is godly at everything he does, but has never shown his face in his own property, only Phil that is the manager has seen him face to face, all the others think that he is just a legend, but Phil smiles every time someone says that because he is actually a god and he does really exists.

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passivenovember · 4 years ago

Text

Enclosures.

Harringrove April, Day Ten : Peaches.

Steve's gig at White River State Park is, more a less, glorified babysitting.

The hiring manager insisted that the Indianapolis Zoo was in the game of education first, and even though Steve would be working with kids between the ages of four and eleven, escorting them around the park and providing answers to stupid questions and Band-Aids for skinned knees, it wouldn't be juice keggers with kids all year.

Because during the off months, when the city scape was covered in layers of snow, Steve would get to wander the grounds with his favorite activity bag, post up under a shady awning in the jungle, and feed the fruit bats.

So that's why he took the job.

Zoo Academy Monday through Wednesday and vibes on December weekends. Moments of solitude doing the job every keeper wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole.

That was the deal.

Written in stone, as far as Steve is concerned. This is what he was put on this Earth--

“You’re doing it wrong.”

Steve nearly drops the slice of mango in his hand, starling when that deep, husky voice cuts through the air like a machete in the jungle.

“Fuck.” Steve wipes his hands on his pants, turning to face.

A new keeper.

Dressed in standard fatigues. Tan overalls and goulashes, ham radio crackling like desert heat against his waist.

New Keeper points to the ring of wire in Steve’s hand, mimicking the way he’s been feeding slices of fruit over thick, unruly steel. “Takes too long if you do it that way,” He says.

But, listen. “I’ve always done it this way.”

“So?”

“I was taught to do it this way.”

New Keeper shuffles up to the cave entrance, leaning his forearms on the steel barrier that keeps Steve’s bats from dive-bombing kids and grandmas.

He’s wearing aviators, so Steve can’t see his eyes, but. New Keeper gives him the once over--

Steve is 85% sure--

Before spitting a wad of saliva on the ground next to Steve’s boot. “Who taught ya to string the fruit like that, pretty boy?”

“I’m not.” Steve shouldn’t be flushing deep red. He shouldn’t be salivating. “I’m not--”

“Was it Rachel?” And New Keeper says it with so much malice. Like, “None of these keepers are worth the paper their degree is printed on, I swear--”

“It wasn’t--”

“Y’know I caught Travis in Rhino Valley trying to give food as positive reinforcement?” New Keeper shakes his head, neck muscles chording dramatically. “Everyone knows they take better to physical affection as a reward, alright?”

“Yeah, I mean--”

“Everyone knows that.” New Keeper concludes, watching as Steve’s head bounces around frantically.

“Everyone knows that.” Steve agrees.

Fucking idiots.

New Keeper’s mouth ticks up at one corner, almost like he could laugh if he wasn’t busy dealing with his own body. Ripping biceps and pectorals that should pop the seams on his overalls when New Keeper rolls his spine.

“They told me you’re in charge of the bats.” Steve feels those eyes on him again, head to toe and back up again. “That true?”

Steve shrugs, fiddling with his name badge. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Don’t sound so sure.”

“Yeah, well, I mean.” He gestures to the line of steel rings that have been there, permanently, for as long as anyone can remember. “If I’ve been doing it wrong the whole time I don’t wanna claim ownership.”

New Keeper grunts, like.

The salt of the earth, red blooded American asshole he is. He tips the aviators, letting them slide down his nose until blue eyes. The bluest Steve has ever fucking seen, pin him in place.

“You’re not a keeper, are ya?”

Steve tries not to get lost. “Well. No, I’m--”

New Keeper turns to face him, clasping his wrists together and allowing his chest to. Puff. Distract, holy shit, when his biceps follow suit.

Steve tries to tear his eyes away.

Fails.

“What do you do then?”

Steve watches a bead of sweat trail from jawline to collarbone, just. Ruining his life. He blinks owlishly. “Sorry, what?”

New Keeper is almost smiling. “Your job. What kinda.” His tongue flicks out to wet. Pretty, red lips. “Services. Do you provide.”

Steve realizes, distantly, that they’re flirting.

And.

He’s familiar with the concept, alright, but. Steve’s never flirted while wearing hiking boots covered in goat shit, so.

He gestures to his name tag.

The goofy, pixilated staff picture of him and a title beneath that reads; Zoo Academy : Supervisor. Steve wonders if it’s obvious that he works with kids, given the plethora of googly-eyed animal stickers covering the majority of his name tag’s plastic casing.

New Keeper whistles low, removing his aviators entirely, and.

Tugging.

Steve forward by his title. Eyes glowing bright.

“Kinda training you get over in the Education Department teach you anything about fruit bats, princess?”

Steve sorts through the absolute trough alphabet soup flooding his brain. Opens his mouth and closes it again, when. New Keeper rubs the pad of his thumb along the largest, most gaudy of the animal stickers.

New Keeper raises his eyebrow and Steve.

Jolts into motion. “No. Um. I have CPR training, and. First aid training.” Steve lets himself be tugged forward again. Just close enough to smell the mix of Earth and Hay that all the keepers have clinging into their skin, and.

Cologne.

Heady and sweet, underneath all that. He blinks again, trying to clear his head as New Keeper smiles at him.

Really smiles.

For the first time.

Steve nods. “I work with shitheads.”

He isn’t expecting it, when. New Keeper laughs. Loud and sudden, and. So warm. Startling the fleet of bats that have come by looking for their afternoon peaches.

“Tell me about it. They stick you on Bat Duty without any training?” New Keeper nods, finally, finally, releasing Steve from the weird spell he’s put him under. He turns, gesturing to box of fruit at their feet. “I’m gonna have to remedy that, pretty boy.”

Steve nods, like. “Steve.” Before sticking his hand out.

New Keeper nods it away. “Billy. Your training starts on Friday.”

Billy puts his aviators on and.

Starts to walk away.

Kicking up a cloud of that woodsy, delicious scent. Steve scrambles after him. “Okay, training. Friday.”

They round the corner into the section of the jungle that houses a waterfall. The biggest, most breathtaking in the Midwest.

New Keeper keeps on walking. “Yup, see you then.”

“Yeah, listen Keeper Man--”

“Billy.”

Steve runs into a wall of muscle, shying away from the pair of hands that steady him.

He nods. “Billy.” Cheeks flaming bright red as New Keeper smiles, soft and sweet. Steve runs a hand through his hair. “Don’t take this the wrong way, and like. I totally want to do what’s best for the animals, especially the fruit bats, but. I don’t think I need any training.”

Billy looks him over again. Up and down. “I beg to differ, Bambi.”

“Yeah, I--”

“Won’t have any untrained preschool teacher working with my animals.” Billy says. Matter-of-fact, like, “No matter how annoyingly cute they are.”

Cute.

It hits Steve like an under-ripe peach to the back of the head. He shuffles, nervously, before puffing out his chest, and. Deflating again, when Billy raises his eyebrows.

“Just what am I doing wrong, exactly?”

Billy removes his sunglasses, rolling his neck. “You got an hour?”

Steve smiles sharply. “Gimme the basics.”

“Alright, pretty boy.” Billy stars listing things on his fingers. “Well, first off? You don’t need to peel the fruit. Bats get a lot of their nutrients from the rinds that come on the fruits themselves. If we deplete those nutrients they gotta be replaced another way and I don’t exactly have the time to administer vitamins to four hundred fruit bats, two hundred flying foxes and a handful of pissy vampire--”

“Alright, got it.” Steve sucks his teeth, because. The fruit comes like that. Ends up in the box, along with the steel wire and the gloves he’s supposed to wear but never does, just like that. Sans peel.

Billy grins at him--

Looks him up and down. Steve wishes he’d stop doing that--

Before pointing at his feet. “Doc Martens are not work boots.”

Steve looks down. Around. “What’s wrong with my docs?”

“Nothing,” Billy shrugs, like, “They’re fine if you spend all day dragging screaming brats around the zoo. Answering questions and painting booger-stained cheeks, but. They aren’t work boots. Aren’t keeper boots.”

Steve doesn’t understand. “I’m not a keeper,” He says, because. As much time as he’s spent in the jungle. Learning about the animals and feeing his bats, Steve.

Isn’t.

He wishes he could be, but.

Billy shrugs again, massive shoulders drawing Steve’s attention. “No, you aren’t a keeper. Not yet, anyway.”

Steve turns the words over in his mind, trying to discover the meaning.

Billy tugs on Steve’s nametag again. “See you Friday, pretty boy.” He drawls, and then.

He’s gone.

Steve makes a note to stop at Cabella’s on his way home.

#harringrove #harringrove april #day ten #peaches #LISTEN #i worked at a zoo for two years #I was in charge of zoo academy #and i miss it so much #miss my lil fruit bats #aah #billy wasnt there to flirt with me though which #fucking sucks

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seelaa26 · 5 years ago

Text

1. Next Stop, Vegas Please

“Gonna sell my car and go to Vegas, ‘cause somebody told me that’s where dreams would be”

My eyes were confused when I opened them due to the sun setting on my window plane. I lost track of time after so many hours flying but I knew we were arriving to Vegas. From the air, the city was unmistakable; you could distinguish The Strip, it’s almost a 7 km stretch, known by its concentration of resort hotels and casinos. Honestly, that was the reason why I chose this city to do my internship, besides the fact that the Crime Lab was the best forensic scientific laboratory in the whole country, Sin City had everything; everything and anything you want to do, you can do in Las Vegas.

The airplane landed a while after and when I set foot on the ground, I couldn’t help but smile even though I was terrified. Leaving my country to go to live to another one all by myself. ¿Was it one hell of a step? Yes, but a necessary one. I wanted to push myself because I needed proof of my inner power; if I could do this, there was nothing I couldn’t do. I worked and studied hard for four years, graduated with honors and got the scholarship. The scholarship covers part of my staying in the city during the nine months; pays half my rent and the car rental. The rest of my payroll was for me. Obviously, I wasn’t going to earn the same money as my coworkers, I had a scholarship contract but it was enough to live comfortably.

My college made the car rental for me, a red Opel Astra with manual transmission and Diesel fuel. I only knew how to drive with manual transmission, so I figured that’s why they rented that car. I adjusted the seating position, started the car and typed the address of the apartment. Dream Apartments was a complex with a clubhouse and a gym, besides the apartment of course. It took me 20 minutes but I got there with success. I parked the car in front of the complex, went to reception and after the registration, they gave me the key to my new home. I followed a tile path and saw a wooden door with a door sign; 898 SF, my apartment. I opened the door, climbed the stairs carrying my suitcase and as soon as I was upstairs, I was impressed by the elegance. The apartment walls were white, wooden floor and everything else was black; doors, frames, curtains, paintings.. I loved it. After the excitement, I realized that I didn’t sleep in the plane but I needed to start getting used to the night shift so I had to stay awake at least until 8 am, since the shift was from 11 pm to 7 am. So, ¿where shall I start? Let’s walk around the neighborhood.

***

When I asked at reception where Gil Grissom’s office was I couldn’t believe it. I did not know what I expected, but his office wasn’t it. There was a metal desk in the middle of the room, which was normal but the rest of the office was full of shelves with glass jars that contained all kind of things you can imagine; a small pig fetus, spiders, frogs, snakes.. all of them dead, obviously but still, creepy.

If that wasn’t enough, he also had specimens of butterflies and bugs framed on the wall. When I was a child, I had a collection with various specimens of scorpions, spiders and beetles conserved in glass, but that was just for fun.

-¡Hi! –a voice spoke behind me, which made me jump from the scare, but he smiled afterwards- Sorry. Welcome to Forensics. Gil Grissom, I’m your supervisor on “Graveyard”.

-Laura Serrano –I introduced myself while shaking hands- ¿”Graveyard”?

-That’s how we call the night shift.

-¿Why? –I asked curiously.

-Because of the same reason you chose this shift –I wondered how did he know that, but he answered before I could even ask- ¿Do you remember what you wrote on the application?

-Actually, I do –I nodded- I wrote that I wanted to work the night shift because of the number of crimes that occur at this time. People are drawn by the allure of the darkness, and so am I.

-That quote is the reason why I accepted your internship –he confessed- You know Laura, this job requires someone who is not afraid to explore the darkest corners. CSI’s see everything and deal with the most twisted things you can imagine. It takes a strong mind to handle it, and I believe you have one.

-I agree and that’s why I can’t wait to be on the field.

-We’ll begin our shift when the team arrives, so while we are waiting.. ¿would you mind taking off your jacket and rolling up your sleeve? I need a pint of your blood. It’s mandatory for all new hires.

A few minutes later, we left the office and headed to the locker room, where the CSI’s store their personal belongings, so I could leave my bag. As we were approaching, two male voices could be heard louder. From the way Grissom smiled, he recognized them. Two good looking guys were talking while putting on their shoes leaning on the bench. One of them was an African American with brown hair and green eyes and quite tall. The other was American with dark hair and brown eyes and a little bit shorter, although I have to admit that I fell for his smile. When he smiled, laugh lines appeared around his cheeks and eyes making him look cuter.

-C’mon, give me a winner for tomorrow.

-Green Bay, minus seven and a half over Niners –answered the African American- Always go with the better quarterback.

-Warrick, Nick –Grissom called, making them look at him and me- I want to introduce you to Laura, she’s the girl who comes to do the internship.

-Nick Stokes –the cute one introduced himself.

-Warrick Brown –he shook my hand after Nick did- You’re from Spain, right?

-Yes, Barcelona –I nodded.

-Man, how I wish to be there.. –Nick mumbled- Great gastronomy, cool weather and views to the Mediterranean.

-¿You’ve been there? –I asked.

-Not yet, but I’m looking for a place for my next vacation –he answered- Now that I’m CSI Level 3 I can afford to travel further than Texas.

A brunette woman entered the locker room in a hurry and greeted everyone without noticing me. I guessed she was another member of the night shift. She was tall and skinny.

-Hey Sara, do you remember that the new girl started working today? –Grissom asked, but she didn’t even look.

-Yeah, ¿why? –she answered and looked for a moment, then she realized- Oh sorry, I’m Sara Sidle, nice to meet you.

-Don’t worry –I smiled- Nice to meet everyone.

-Not everyone.. –Grissom looked around- ¿Does anyone know where’s Catherine?

-She had to pick Lindsey up from her ex’s house, but she’s on her way –Warrick answered- It’s Lindsey’s birthday today.

-Wait for her outside, you’re working together and take Laura with you. 401A at Fremont Street –Grissom commanded as he gave me my CSI credential- Nick, Sara, you’re with me.

-¿What’s a 401A? –I asked Warrick while we were leaving the locker room.

-Hit and run.

I put the credential around my neck and followed him to the exit of the building. When we arrived outside, I saw a skinny, blonde woman approaching us with a weary look on his face.

-Hey guys.. –she said- You must be Laura, the new girl.

-That’s right –I smiled to make her feel comfortable- You must be Catherine.

-Nice to meet you, Laura. Sorry for being late –she looked at Warrick- ¿Are we working together?

-Yeah, hit and run on Fremont –he showed the keys that belonged to one of the cars the CSI’s use to do their job- I’m driving.

***

When we arrived at the crime scene it was already cordoned off. Warrick parked a couple of meters away from the police tape and then we got out of the car. The first thing I saw was the victim; a little girl. I didn’t expect that since it was night and kids don’t go alone on the street. Besides, it was a little girl. ¿Who is capable of leaving her there without calling the police? Cowards.

-¿You okay? –I heard a male voice asking that, and then I realized I stopped walking the moment I saw the girl.

-Yeah, yeah.. It’s just that.. –I tried to find the words to say ignoring that they were both looking at me.

-It’s hard –Catherine finished- I wish I could say it gets easier, but I’m not a liar. The only thing you can do is find whoever did this and get justice.

-Then I’m lucky.. Because that’s exactly our job -I looked at them and sighed- ¿Hoy many hit and runs have you had this year?

-Too many –Warrick replied as he bent down to look at the ground- One thing I can’t stand is a punk coward.

-My daughter wants one of these scooters –Catherine indicated with the flashlight- She says that she’s the only kid in the world who doesn’t have one.

My gaze went back to the little girl’s body but it was something I couldn’t control. I couldn’t concentrate on anything else but her. She had a scared look on her face. My heart shrunk from the sadness of her accident. She was so young and full of life and it only took a couple of seconds to take that away.

-¿Do you want me to tell Grissom to put you in another case? -No –I answered- ¿Why?

-¿You feeling alright Warrick? –Catherine asked in a worried tone- ��It’s that thing with Holly Gribbs, isn’t it?

-I’m just looking out for my partners, you know.. –Warrick replied with a frown- It made me think who I am to you.

-Hey relax –she smiled at him and then looked at me- I’m sure Laura can handle this one.

-I can –I nodded- I’m okay, but thank you for the offer.

-So, Laura the first thing we do is take a close look at the crime scene and then we take pictures of everything that could be evidence–Catherine explained- In this case, for example, the scooter, the victim’s shoe, the tire marks.. Then we try to recreate what happened with the evidence we’ve got so far. Warrick, ¿you wanna call it?

-Vehicle’s coming down from Rochester, victim was on her scooter heading east, car breaks here, impact here and the vic was thrown.. ¿What? ¿20 meters? –he explained while indicating everything with his fingers.

-And all we’ve got is some paint that’s going to match up to about 20 million other vehicles.. –Catherine sighed- Bastard.

***

I saw them collect the evidence from the crime scene and the next step was get it back to the lab while the coroner performed the victim’s autopsy. Luckily, she was the only dead body that night so it wouldn’t take long. Warrick took the evidence to the rightful departments.

-¿Have you had the chance to walk around the Lab?

-Actually, no.

-I’ll show you around while we wait for the autopsy then –Catherine said and started walking- First we have the DNA Lab, territory owned by Greg Sanders, lab tech specialized in DNA and also in listening commonly rock artists while running lab machines. You’ll meet him, you’ll like him.

-Rock is my favorite genre so I already like him.

-Next to DNA we have Ballistics and in front Audio/Video –we continued walking- We have Trace and Fingerprints over here and down the hall to the right we have the Evidence Garage next to the Evidence Vault and to the left the Locker room, Grissom’s office, the Break Room and the Layout Room.

-¿Layout Room?

-We use that room to review evidence and look for new evidence, compare notes, display the photos from the current case and use the table to draw out rough sketches on maps –she answered with a good explanation- ¿Any more questions? -I have one but it’s not about the Lab.. –she looked at me waiting for me to ask- ¿Who’s Holly Gribbs?

-She was a rookie who started working with us two weeks ago. Holly and Warrick were working together on a case but he left and when Holly was alone collecting evidence from the crime scene, the suspect came back and shot her –Catherine explained it regretfully- She died on the operating table.

-Warrick feels guilty., -I concluded- That’s why he asked me if I wanted to work another case, to make sure I’m okay.

After I finished my sentence, Catherine’s phone rang. It was time for us to head to the morgue, which was downstairs. Before entering the morgue itself, we stopped on the hall to put on the sterile lab coat.

-¿Have you ever seen a dead body?

-Yeah, I took human anatomy classes –I nodded- I wanted to be ready.

-Good –she smiled proudly- Usually, the night shift coroner is Dr. Albert Robbins, but today is his day off so you are going to meet Dr. Jenna Williams.

We entered the morgue and approached the central table while making introductions.

-This is your hit and run victim –the coroner uncovered the girl and looked at me- Bad thing about this job is you stop asking yourself why. The cause of death was the hit by the car, but I’ve found a bruise on her leg.

-Oh my god.. plate numbers, from the license plate when impacted her skin.

-Looks like a 4.. –I looked at the bruise trying to decipher the license plate- ¿And a J?

-Yeah –Catherine agreed- We have to call DMV.

-¿DMV? –I asked.

-Department of Motor Vehicles, we’ll get them to cross check this partial plate in a 5 mile radius.

***

Actually, waiting for an answer from DMV didn’t take as long as I expected. Within the hour we already appeared at the door of the car owner’s house. This was my first time face to face with a suspect and as my first night was full of unexpected things, an older man opened the door.

-¿Hello? –Catherine said with a smile- ¿Mr. Charles Moore? We are with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. We’d like to talk to you about your car.

-We believe it may have been involved in a traffic collision earlier this evening.

-I told the police when they called me.. my car was stolen.

-That’s why we have a search warrant, sir –Catherine gave him the paper- So that we can look in your garage.

When he opened the garage door with that face I already knew we were going to find his car in there and in what condition. From the sad attitude he had, he knew what happened. The front of the car was busted and the license plate hung from its place. We looked at each other, and then we looked at him. We were waiting for an explanation.

-It.. it was an accident.. I saw the girl and I tried to break but I accelerated by mistake. I got confused.. I shouldn’t have left. I was wrong. ¿Is she okay?

-She died at the scene –Catherine said without being affected by the man’s repentance.

-You are going to be charged with manslaughter, Mr. Moore –Warrick added- Felony and run. You have a lawyer?

He didn’t answer, but he looked like he was sad and sorry to hear what happened. Obviously, killing the girl wasn’t his intention, but he had to face it. After finding the car, we had to make sure it was the correct car and we needed evidence so we called Traffic to have the car confiscated and brought in. While we waited, we went to the break room to eat and drink something.

-¿Is it me or did he give it up so easy? –Catherine asked us as she was taking out a cake from the fridge.

-Old guy was scared –Warrick answered with a soda on his hand- ¿What do you think, Laura?

-I also think that he was scared, I mean he almost cried when he heard the girl died but I feel like there’s something more.

-¡You have to see the birthday present I got for your daughter! –Grissom entered the break room while carrying a bag- I had one of this Chem Labs when I was six, I almost blew up the whole house.

-¿What’s the rule.. how long do I have to be here before kicking in for gifts? –I asked with confidence.

-When your spirit moves you –Catherine answered with a smile- But don’t worry because Lindsey doesn’t want a party.

-¿What kind of kid doesn’t want a party? –Sara asked.

-My kid.

-Hey Catherine.. ¿at what time is your little girl coming by? –Nick entered the room with a gift- I got her a Chemset.

Grissom and Nick exchanged surprised looks. They had bought the same gift.

-Keep it –Sara intervened- You might learn something.

-Stop flirting with me –Nick ignored her- Cath, really, ¿when’s the party?

-¿What do I have to do? –Catherine got up from the chair a little bit upset- ¡There is no party! ¡My daughter doesn’t want a party! ¿Is everybody clear on that?

No one was going to answer after that. Crystal clear.

***

-¿How tall do you think Mr. Moore is? –Warrick asked us leaning on the car.

-Six feet, I’d say –Catherine answered after we exchanged a look.

-Old people must love hugging the steering wheel ‘cause this sit is pushed all the way forward –Warrick opened the door and got into the car. He didn’t quite fit- I’m six feet and this mirror isn’t helping me at all.

-¿Can you start the car? –I asked.

-¿Why?

-If you haven’t noticed I’m 5 feet and when I drive I have to push the sit all the way forward.

-You think that it wasn’t Mr. Moore who was driving but someone shorter.

As soon as he started the car, the radio turned on and a rap song started playing. Warrick whistled impressed by the song and started moving his head to the beat of the song. In my case, I knew the song and started rapping it.

-So they can hear everything that you say when you ain’t home. I guess Michael Jackson was right, “You are not alone”. Rock your hardhat black..

-¿You listen to Mos Def? -Warrick asked impressed.

-I thought you said Rock is your favorite genre –Catherine intervened.

-¡And it is! But I listen to everything and when it comes to rap Mos Def, 2Pac, Nas, The Notorious B.I.G, Eminem, Blackstreet.. are some of my favorites.

-¡I like your style! –Warrick smiled at me.

-Mr. Moore was not the last person to drive this car –Catherine was the only one who wasn’t absorbed by the song- ¿Turn the music off?

Now it was time to find the evidence that would sustain our theory. Since it was my first day, I limited myself to observe how they did the search and collection of evidence. The steering wheel cover was leather but it had small breathable circles and there was something stuck in one of them. Catherine took it with the tweezers and showed it to us.

-¿Can you tell what that is?

-¿Is it me or that is a piece of tooth? –I questioned.

***

After collecting the evidence and come to a conclusion, came the part of the confrontation with the suspect. I wanted to see how my colleagues faced the situation in the interrogation room. I had no experience, so I couldn’t enter just like that. Instead, I watched it all from the observation mirror.

-¿Does anybody else drive your car, Mr. Moore? –Warrick started.

-I was driving yesterday.

-Sir, that doesn’t answer our question.

Suddenly, the door opened and a boy about 19 years old entered the room. It was the suspect’s grandson. The boy seemed lost, but the grandfather more.

-¿What is he doing here? –Mr. Moore asked.

-Your grandson is an approved driver on your insurance –Catherine explained- He had him pulled out of school

-So James, ¿you like Mos Def?

He sat down without saying a word.

-¿Did you hit that girl with your grandfather’s car?

-Pops, let me explain to them –the boy said addressing his grandfather- They should hear what happened.

-No, they are going to from me –he nervously clasped his hands together and began to explain- When I hit that girl, James switched seats and took over the wheel, drive me home. He was worried about me, not the girl. I’m not saying good judgment was used, but that’s what happened.

-James, ¿do you want to add anything to that? –Warrick asked, but since the boy didn’t say anything, he continued- Sir, ¿can we look at your teeth?

Mr. Moore took out his dentures and put them on the table.

-James, we found a tooth chip embedded in the steering wheel of your grandfather’s car –Catherine explained again- It doesn’t appear to be of your grandfather’s teeth. ¿Do you have a chipped tooth?

-Pops, I’m sorry but I got to –he was going to tell the truth.

-He is a good boy.. it was an accident. I make him call, let me know where he is. He drove straight home and wanted me to go to the police station with him.

-I didn’t know that little girl was dead. I swear.

-I wouldn’t let him turn himself in, that was my decision –he appealed to our emotions for his grandson- Boy’s going places, college.. he’s got a real future.

-I’m very sorry, Mr. Moore –Catherine mumbled with a sad tone- James, I’m afraid you are gonna have to be taken into custody.

-Miss, please.. –he begged- I’m willing to serve his time.

-I know you are Mr. Moore but we can’t let you do that.

Two police officers entered the room and handcuffed the boy. Taking him by the arms, they left the room and went to reception, where he was going to say goodbye to his grandfather. When Warrick and Catherine left the interrogation room, I joined them. There was a feeling of sadness between us.

-Hey, ¿why don’t you go home? We can handle this –Warrick said to Catherine- Your daughter gets out of school in a half hour on her birthday.

-I owe you –she smiled at him, and then look at me- See you tonight, guys.

Warrick and I exchanged glances and approached them.

-Don’t worry pops, I’ll be okay.

-My grandson going to jail is never okay. You survive in there, ¿you hear me?

-You too –James nodded- Don’t be going downhill.

They hugged each other for the last time with tears in their eyes and honestly, they were not the only ones who had them.

-James, the first days are going to be the toughest –Warrick took his hand and wrote something on it- Here’s my cell number. If you are in any problems, call me. I’ll be right there. Keep your head up.

James was taken away and his grandfather left too. We both stood there, watching them go. Watching how they were forced to separate.

-That has been very good of you –I said touched by his act of kindness.

-They remind me of me and my grandmother –Warrick confessed- ¿How do you feel after the first case? This has been a pretty tough emotional one. You have seen two very hard emotions; tragedy and sacrifice.

-Thanks to them I have realized something –I nodded- You’ve got so much power in this job, which you use to get the bad guys but once in a while, I’d like to use it to help the good guys.

-¿And what.. forget about little Renda Harris?

-No.. –I looked at him- What I’m saying is that putting James away isn’t gonna bring her back and Mr. Moore was willing to do the time. I mean, the victim’s family gets closure..

-I know.. but we got to follow the evidence, even if we don’t like where it takes us –Warrick turned to face me- Laura, it’s the job. If you start making deals with the devil, you don’t get to walk away. ¿You understand what I’m saying?

-Yeah..

-Now it’s time to go home –he said watching reception’s clock- You did very well on your first day. Get some rest, ¿okay?

I went back to the locker room to collect my things and when I left the building, I got in the car and just sat there. I had waited so long for my first case and to feel that high when I’d solve it, but I didn’t feel that way. Not at all. Instead, I felt guilty and this had only just begun.

#csi #csilasvegas #csi las vegas #gil grissom #sara sidle #catherine willows #warrick brown #nick stokes #jim brass #fanfic #criminalistic

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homesoutofhuman · 6 years ago

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Donuts for breakfast- Johnny Utah (Point Break) x Reader

I couldn’t resist posting what I’ve written so far. As usual I got carried away, so this will be more than one part.

Warnings: Smut, guns, cops, Johnny being a bit of a dom (sorry not sorry), more uses of the f word than you’ve even heard Keanu say.

Part one- You never get a second chance to make a first impression

You’ve been at the LA FBI office for a couple of months, but are still the newest recruit, so everyone gives you shit, as is tradition. You know it’s only to toughen you up, a kind of hazing ritual everyone has to go through, but still, it’s getting to you, the constant teasing and aggression is wearing you down. You sense that it’s made worse because you transferred from outside of the US, these cops really don’t like outsiders.

“Hey Rookie…” Special Agent Utah shoots you a glance as you move into the break room. When you originally met him on your first day at work, you saw he was the most attractive man you’d ever encountered in your life and decided you could hardly look at him, never mind speak to him.

You duck your head, shooting him a quick smile but heading straight to retrieve your salad. Another cop, Agent Fields, kicks the door of the fridge closed so it shuts in your face. You blink at him in shock, feeling tears smarting in your eyes at the unnecessary cruelty. Turning, you get the hell out of there before anyone sees you cry.

Sitting at your desk, trying to ignore the rumble of hunger in your stomach, your thoughts are disturbed by Special Agent Utah clearing his throat and placing a red and white can in front of you.

“I brought you a Coke.” He deposits the drink on your desk and you stare up at him. He shrugs in response. “You can’t be a real American if you don’t drink coke.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be a real American.” you shoot back, poking the can suspiciously as if it were a trap.

“Well you’ve got a really fucking miserable vibe going on and I can’t have it affecting my surfer zen”

Despite yourself you feel a smile tugging at your mouth “What the fuck is surfer zen?”

“You know...shell necklaces, bare feet, being at one with the water, all that…” he gestures as if you have a clue what he’s talking about, then you remember that he’s on some high profile robbery case where the suspects are surfers, and his casual dress makes more sense. You did wonder how the hell he got away with wearing jeans and tank-tops to the office.

“I’ll talk to them…” he says, in a more gentle voice, but when you look up he’s already walking away, smirking back at you over his shoulder. You crack open the can, the sound satisfying to your ears even as you wince at the ingredients, the drink perks you up, gives you energy and helps you get through the day. You tell yourself sternly it’s the sugar and caffeine and not the man who gave it to you.

---------------------------

He’s so fucking loud. You think with frustration. Your plan to avoid Johnny Utah is not as well as you hoped, seeing as he likes to make his presence felt wherever he goes, and for some reason, he’s always wherever you are. He’s caught on to tormenting you, and now, with a very few agents left in the office, when you should be able to have some quiet time to finally catch up on your paper work, he is choosing to have a party with his partner, jumping up on the desks to simulate surfing.

Powered by rage you move to the door of their office and shake you head when you see them drinking beer, surrounded by a mess of files.

“Is there any chance you guys can take this to the pub? I have work to do.” You try to ask nicely, but you see the flash in Johnny’s eyes when someone tries to tell him what to do, and you know he won’t have it.

“The pub?” he scoffs “What the hell are you talking about Rookie this is LA.” He stands up and makes his way over to you, knowing his height will make you feel intimidated. “And besides, this is our fucking office, and we’ll do whatever the fuck we want in here. Want a sip?”

He offers you his nearly full bottle and you shake your head.

“Shame. It could help with the discomfort you must be in from walking around with that stick up your ass.”

Feeling anger overtake your shyness you grab the bottle from him, triumphing briefly at his look of surprise. Then you hoist yourself up on to his desk so you can finally look down on him. “Cheers.” you say, raising the bottle in his direction before downing the entire thing in three chugs.

The look on his face is one you will savour forever. Pure utter shock replaced by awe, then a kind of pride. He slow claps you as you awkwardly jump down from the table. “That was fucking epic Rookie. Come on Pappas, we’ll finish this up another time.”

You watch them go before what you’ve done sinks in and you suddenly panic you’ll be fired, but the only consequence of your daring outburst is that a bond forms between you and Special Agent Utah, and you become something like friends.

----------------------

The day you’ve been dreading arrives. Everyone is getting fitted with their guns, but the supervisor skips over you, tells you to stay behind after, reminds you that you need to be signed off by a superior officer before you can be cleared to carry, and if you can’t carry, you can’t be in the field.

Gossip spreads like wildfire and you’re the joke of the office. You try to explain that your old force didn’t wear guns so you just didn’t get accredited, but no one wants to hear it. They are happy that the heat’s off them and on you, telling you to sit tight at home and make the tea while they do a man’s job.

Johnny comes in, looking like a prince as usual and they all quickly fall about to tell him, despite knowing you are a favourite of his, they can’t help themselves. Johnny chuckles at the news but shakes his head, as if to show they are fussing over nothing, and finds you later, sitting on the cold steps behind the FBI building.

“I can teach you to shoot you know.” he says, sitting beside you. Suddenly you’re overwhelmed, sick of it all, and the last thing you want is pity.

“I don’t need your help Johnny.” you growl spitefully.

Johnny holds up his hand in surrender “Hey, I’m just saying…”

“....I. Don’t. Need. Your. Help.” you repeat, cutting him off. You cannot bear the thought of being his charity case.

“Not helping just...shooting next to you. I really like shooting stuff.”

You laugh despite your terrible gloomy mood. “I’m sorry, thank you, I could really use someone to come with me but I just don’t want our…friendship...to be like that…” you finish, lamely.

“Listen Rookie, I’d be going anyway. My world does not revolve around you.” he reassures you.

And don’t I know it, you think sadly

------------------

As you enter the shooting range the noises, the smell, makes you nervous. Johnny is striding confidently beside you, and you both find a booth to get set up. You still feel humiliated, but you need to get this done. Johnny fires off a few rounds beside you and you adjust your stance a little to mirror his, shuffling your legs out wider than you feel they should go, and let your eyes run over his body, his broad shoulders and shapely muscles arms, snapping back to his eyes when he turns to meet your gaze.

“You know Utah, a person could say, you’re so obsessed with guns because you have a small penis.”

“A person could say that. They’d be wrong, but they could say it.”

Your eyes drift to his 501s and when you glance back up he’s smirking at you

“If you need confirmation of my dick size, all you need to do is ask baby.”

Cheeks burning, you look away, aiming your gun back at the target. “I’ve got a feeling that would leave a bad taste in my mouth.”

Johhny gives a choked laugh in response and you smile quietly in triumph, pull the trigger of your gun and miss by miles.

He’s by your side before you can even raise your shoulder, one hand on your lower back, the other on your arm, pushing it down a little roughly. His breath ghosts the shell of your ear and if you weren’t holding a firearm you’d close your eyes and shiver. Instead you bite your lip hard enough to pierce the skin, wincing at the blood on your tongue.

“Centre your fucking hips, you really are so unaware of your body.” Johnny murmurs, sounding annoyed at you, unfairly you think, for something you cannot control.

Attempting to stretch out the tension in your neck you turn yourself as he instructs, feel his hand nudging at your hip bone, before splaying low on your thighs. His touch seems to be everywhere, all over your body, all at once, and even the lightest trace of his fingers against your skin sets it burning.

“Sexual harassment is a serious thing Johnny.” you growl as you feel his belt digging into your back.

“I agree, but I’m just helping you with your shooting. Hold your arms strong. Are you planning to file a report about me?”

“No.” you answer in a small voice, feeling defeated. “Maybe.”

“You’re funny. I like that.” Standing behind you, Johnny tucks you hair behind your ear, his finger caressing down the side of your neck.

“You know there’s something very sexy about you holding a gun Rookie. Something even sexier about the way you follow my orders.”

Groaning, you attempt to move away from him slightly, feeling your cheeks burning. “You’re perverted, Utah.”

“Something tells me you are too. Shoot.”

You squeeze the trigger without thinking, hit the target right in the head.

“You’re a killer Rookie. Who knew?”

You tell yourself that not murdering him is enough thanks for his help. When you return to the office the others demand to see your certificate and crowd around you, patting you on the back. Your eyes search for Johnny in the crowd, but he is leaving with his surfboard and he simply gives you a silent nod goodbye.

-------------------------------

It’s early morning when you next see Johnny. You’ve come in to do some overtime to help with your bills, and you see him, sitting at the break table, long legs up on another chair, disregarding anyone else who might want to sit there. You go over to him, still a little shy at first. His lankly limbs and their lazy elegance are not helping the situation.

“Donuts for breakfast Utah? That’s disgusting.”

He gives a delighted whoop of joy at your statement. “You are kidding. This is a classic American breakfast. Coffee and donuts, try it.”

“No thanks I’ll pass.”

He sits up suddenly in the chair, and you can see his eyes darken and gleam with mischief. “You have to eat one. You owe me.”

“For fucks sake Johnny…” you start but he holds up a hand. “Uh uh uh...fairs fair Rookie. You’re a bad girl and you never said thank you Officer Utah for teaching me to shoot, for touching me so gently, for not taking advantage like I…”

“JOHNNY!” you interrupt, shocked, and he peals off, sniggering, before getting that determined look on his face again.

“No point in shouting, we’re the only two here. Open your fucking mouth Rookie.”

The way he says it, the command, soft as velvet but firm, makes you shiver down to your bones. You don’t know why your body responds to him like it does, but you are sick of the agony. Giving him a defiant look you open your mouth, flattening your tongue and sticking it out towards him, tipping your head back slightly as if begging for it. Johnny’s cheeks go pink and he leans over you, dark eyes flicking over your face as if memorising the image. “Good girl…”

He picks up a long cruller and you almost laugh at the symbolism as he brings it to your lips. “Don’t bite yet, let the sugar dissolve on your tongue.”

Rolling your eyes you hold his gaze, waiting for permission. There is a beat too long that stretches the joke into something else, and you move to pull away. He immediately grabs your arm, looking desperate and hungry. “Wait, I want you to try it…please” his voice is soft despite his strong grip and without knowing why you obey, letting him feed you, holding the mouthful on your tongue until he nods and you swallow.

Johnny sucks his thumb and wipes sugar off the corner of your mouth. You can feel the heat from his skin warming you even more and you wonder if he’s getting sick. “Well?”

Chewing, you regard him as impassively you can, swallowing and tilting your head, weighing up your decision. “Okay, you got me, it’s fucking tasty, but still vilely fattening.”

“Like we give a fuck Rookie we’re young wild and free!” He lifts his shift to show you a very flat stomach and your eyes focus on a scar that runs over his bellybutton, a trail of dark hair leading down inside his jeans.

“You’re a caveman.” you tell him.

“You love it.” he crows, and you don’t disagree.

TBC- we got angst coming- please tell me what you think!

#i cringe at the donut sex i'm sorrryyyy haha #johnny utah imagine #johnny utah x you #johnny utah x reader #point break imagine #i don't know what the fuck to tag this mate

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megbox · 5 years ago

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2019 Year in Review

Previous Posts: (2018) (2017) (2016) (2015) (2014) (2013) (2012) (2011)

It’s actually kind of interesting how... less interesting these year-in-reviews get as I get older. Depending on how you look at it, 2019 was somewhat of an unremarkable year. I spent much of it tragically broke, I didn’t get the opportunity to do much traveling. But at the same time, not having these flashy, colourful experiences to write about all the time makes me value the easy, simple things more. It forces me to be a bit more reflective about how the day-to-day life I am carving out for myself teaches me things and about the person I am becoming.

Far and away, the most positive thing to come out of 2019 has been that I am real deals social worker now. I have the best job in the entire world. I have “RSW” in my email signature and on my business cards. I do work that is meaningful to me every single day. There is so much to learn but I’m in the right place to be learning it. And I am really proud of myself for getting here ❤️

January

Unlike the last few years, 2019 began on a high note. The millisecond that student loan hit my direct deposit, I took a little trip to Jasper to visit my friend Oliver who was teaching snowboarding at Marmot Basin for the season. I braved some very treacherous roads to make it to Jasper. It took me nearly eight hours. Highway 93 was closed so I had to take the long route and basically white-knuckled it the whole way. But it was so worth it. I found myself later that evening in a dorm room full of young Scandinavian people, downing American Vintage iced teas and feeling like I was at a frat party. We went to this club called Four Peaks and they played Rasputin by Boney M and everyone went crazy. I hooked up with this gorgeous Danish ski instructor named Rasmus. He was so beautiful. I am proud of that one, honestly. Oliver and I went skiing and hiking and we went to Earl’s and he tried a Caeser. By the end of the weekend, I think we maybe ran out of things to talk about. But it was really cool to see him and to hear about the last few years of his life and how excited he was to move to New Zealand to be with his girlfriend (whom he met on the same trip where he and I met, in Hawaii!)

On January 14, I started my second practicum. It was a sad transition. My time at CommunityWise had been so great that anything new was going to pale in comparison but my new placement was especially bad. It was so slow there. My computer hadn’t been updated in years and I didn’t have access to anything for weeks. My supervisor was barely around (not her fault, though. She was finishing her MSW, had two young children, was the team lead for both family centres in the city and had two practicum students to supervise. Girl was busy). I remember one morning while I was helping one of the caseworkers with some menial task like organizing the food pantry, and I was just so frustrated, I kind of asked her point-blank, “Is this practicum meant to be more self-directed?” and I just started crying as I asked it. I kind of… whimpered it. It was awkward but from that point on, they made way more of an effort to give me tasks and engage me in the work that was being done there. Lesson learned: you get what you ask for.

February The first weekend of February is what we would call a “power weekend.” Looking back on these actions now, I cringe. However, at the time, I was pretty stoked. I slept with a friend from podcast club after a house party. For ease, I will refer to him as W. W had asked me out twice prior to this happening. I actually said yes, and we had plans to get drinks, but his best friend ended up going through a breakup the night before and he cancelled last minute. So then we slept together. Drunkenly. And it wasn’t… good. I chalked it up to the drunkenness. We went out on a real date, I made sure to have like one glass of wine maximum. He was lovely and great company and he taught me how to play crib but… you know that feeling when you’re like god, I wish I was enjoying this but I am just not enjoying this. It was like that all night. And it felt heavy. If I am being completely honest, there was also this strange moment that night where I had the thought, “he kind of looks like my grandfather if he were younger” and there is truly no recovering from that kind of realization.

February was also a terrible month because I had no days off. I will go to my grave angry about being required to work for free in my practicums. I was doing 32+ unpaid hours at this boring practicum and then working evenings and weekends at Famoso whenever I could. And Famoso was dead, so I wasn’t even making good money. This was also where I began to start witnessing things in my practicum that started to fuck with me. At first, I thought I was just having trouble sleeping. But over time in seminar and debriefs with my social work friends who were going through the same thing I realized that it was the oh-so-pleasant combination of vicarious trauma and compassion fatigue.

Over the reading week, I went to Fernie with Maddy and her friends for a ski/party weekend and that was truly awesome. One of those weekends where your ribs ache for days once you’re back because you laughed so hard. Some highlights:

It snowed 60cm the night before we skied. It was powder up to your waist.

• Maddy’s friend Melissa liked our bartender at the hostel. She took his phone and texted herself from it so he would have her number and vice versa. Then she got so drunk that later the same evening, she was looking at the text and forgot that she had sent it to herself so she texted back, “Who is this?” Also LOL #Bryna.

• I took nudes of Maddy in the hostel shower to send to the guy she was seeing at the time. LOL. What are friends for?

• Maddy and I met this set of twins who are the definition of gym bros. Identical twins. We ended up hooking up with them. At the same time. In our bunk bed at the hostel. We high fived. I later fell off the top bunk. We gave them a beer for the road when they left. All year long, we send one another their Instagram posts and stories whenever it’s them flexing in the gym mirror and just laugh about, “we really slept with those guys.”

March

In March, I got the flu. It was very annoying. I had to miss practicum (meaning I’d have to make up the hours somehow later). I stated binge watching Grey’s Anatomy.

I ended things with W. It was kind of harsh but it needed to be done. I need to stop breaking up with people in the weeks prior to my birthday because we had a total Dave-Simard-2.0 situation where W told me he had purchased a birthday present for me and he still wanted to give it to me.

I also ran the St. Patrick’s Day Road Race again!!! Good times as always.

Practicum got much better in March. I had many things to do. I got to design the curriculum for and facilitate a six-week girl’s group. I assisted with the planning and running of a series of community tax clinics which was cool. Except the guy from the agency whose project it was is a creep. He kept telling me all of these stories that were incredibly inappropriate given the fact that we knew each other only in a professional sense. He made many comments about women’s bodies and appearances that were gross. And I got left in some pretty unsafe situations all by myself. AND he made me pay out of pocket for snacks for one of the tax clinics and never reimbursed me for that. I kind of forgot about that until just now. Wow.

April

April was a big month!

I went to Portland for my birthday weekend with Matt and Connor. When I think back to this trip, it was lovely, but mostly what I remember is a lot of beer, a lot of rain, and being hungover. Portland is a really cool city. I wasn’t totally expecting to be confronted with as much homelessness and substance use as I was but, that’s my privilege talking. Some highlights from the trip include:

• The “Flower in the Kettle” IPA I had.

• The mascarpone, corn and lobster agnolotti I had for my birthday dinner at A Cena. Recommended to me by a trusted friend I worked with at Famoso. So rich. SO FUCKING GOOD.

• Meeting this really drunk real estate agent at a dive bar and convincing her that Matt and Connor were both my boyfriends. I still have her business card in my wallet. I am unsure why.

• The Weezer concert was honestly awesome.

• Matt actually trying out the guyliner.

• Meeting some random guy when I went to get gum at a corner store. His name was Dan. He was old. His girlfriend had kicked him out and he was just walking around. He’d been in prison for a lot of his life. We had a good chat. I got his phone number and now we have each other on Facebook.

• In the airport on the way home, Matt and I were so overtired that absolutely everything was hilarious. The gif game (the gif of Kevin from The Office dropping the bucket of chili. “Me in Thailand”), and the beginning of when I got let in to the “KEVIN!!!!” joke. I had tears in my eyes.

• Connor yelled at me in a pizza restauraunt LOL (sorry Connor. I know you Ctrl+F your name. But this was memorable to me.)

In the middle of April, I FINISHED MY PRACTICUM HOURS AND EFFECTIVELY GOT MY DEGREE. I cannot describe to you how good it felt to be driving home from one of those tax clinics after my third twelve-hour day (making up practicum hours is fun) knowing I never had to go back. Knowing that soon enough, I’d get to work on all the same cool projects but actually get paid for my time.

We visited Saskatoon for Easter, which would turn out to be the last time I got to see my Baba. She was very ill, and both of us knew that it would likely be the last time, so I did get to say my goodbyes. It was very difficult and I sobbed for a lot of the ride home. It’s a weird feeling, when someone you love has been so ill for so long, and you begin to see their condition really deteriorate. When the idea of life without that person starts to become a reality. There was almost an… acceptance? It sounds so callous to say and it’s way more complex than this but also somewhat of a relief in the finality of it. I don’t know. It was a lot.

April was also when I started interviewing for social work jobs. I had two interviews. The first one was at CCASA, essentially for what I thought was my dream job. I have never psyched myself out so hard for anything in my life. I thought about that interview and that interview alone for weeks. I studied harder than I have for any test ever. When the time came for the interview, I was so nervous. I became this meek and mild version of myself. It was honestly devastating. But of course, had I gotten that job, I would never have interviewed at the University of Calgary. My boss-to-be called me for a pre-interview while I was on shift at Famoso. It was busy, too. But I just said fuck it and ducked into the back and talked to her on the phone for twenty minutes. She invited me for an interview a week later where I had to give a five-minute presentation on managing stress as a student. Rock on.

May

On May 1, I got offered THE JOB AT THE UNIVERSITY OF CALGARY! It was truly one of the happiest moments of my life. There is nothing more satisfying and exciting than actually attaining something you’ve been dreaming of for so long. It was for a one year contract on a maternity leave coverage, facilitating community trainings around suicide prevention, helping skills, all that good stuff. I was going to be on salary. I was going to have benefits. I WAS GOING TO BE ABLE TO WALK TO WORK AND HAVE A REAL CAREER THAT I WOULD BE PROUD OF AND EXCITED ABOUT.

I hung up the phone after accepting the job, texted all the requisite people about the good news, and then immediately drove to Famoso to quit. My boss at Famoso was angry with me because I did not give two weeks notice. I said I would work out the rest of my scheduled shifts. He was a jerk, he yelled at me in frustration saying, “You work here for five fucking years, we accommodate every trip, every vacation, every practicum and you don’t even have the courtesy to give me two weeks notice?!” It wasn’t a big deal though. He was just being an asshole. And hey, Steve, you’re still an asshole!

So my last day serving tables at Famoso Westhills was May 3, 2019. I’m usually not good with goodbyes but it was the easiest thing in the world to just walk out of there at the end of the night knowing I would never be back. I had ten days until I started my actual job at the University (a bit of an oversight on my part because I had ~no money~ so what the fuck was I going to do with ten days).

My grandmother passed away on May 19, 2019. Back to Saskatoon on May 28 for the funeral. It was really fucking sad and really fucking weird to see all of my cousins crying. My grandma also had a big Catholic funeral and none of us are particularly religious and as the direct relatives of the deceased we were at the front of the church and it was really obvious none of us had any idea when to kneel vs. stand and didn’t know any of the words or tunes to the songs.

On a happier note, my brother was accepted into medical school in May. Not that I ever doubted my brother would be a successful person, but this just really solidified it. Dr. MacKay.

June

June was rather uneventful. I was honestly so cripplingly broke at this point, and it was so long before I actually saw a full salaried paycheck. I had to borrow money from my parents just to like, function. And pay my bills. It was embarrassing. But I was working full time and learning so many cool things about the job that it made it alright.

I walked the stage on the first week of June and accepted my BSW degree. I didn’t want to go but it was actually a pretty awesome and happy occasion.

The other big thing that happened in June is that Maddy moved to Australia. It sucks that I only met Maddy in the summer of 2018. She is so awesome and we became so close so quickly. I genuinely love her so much and spending time with her is so easy and fun, it was really sad when she left knowing that it was highly possible she may never return or at least not for several YEARS.

July

By July, my new job was in full swing. I was facilitating trainings every other day (so much public speaking experience!), I was sitting on a committee, every day was new and challenging and exciting.

My dad had a giant party for his 60th birthday, with some friends even coming from Saskatoon. They rented a limousine that took us to the Black Diamond hotel because apparently my parents have some kind of significance there. I did a shot with my grandfather? We played pool and Big Buck hunter? None of my friends came but all of my brother’s friends came and I honestly think that it turned the tables in terms of who my parents’ favourites are in terms of friends.

I also had an awesome weekend at Folk Festival mostly with Kendal and Lachlan but also featuring guest appearances from Chad and Gillian. Podcast club pals. There is just nothing better than folk festival, honestly. Food trucks and music in the sun and drinking sangria from a flask and admiring everyone’s cool outfits and getting a tan and listening to concerts all day. I had a nap in the middle of the afternoon on Sunday and it was like the most glorious 45 minutes of my entire year.

August

Oh, no. August. I was still cripplingly broke (it takes a long time to catch up to a point where your entire paycheck is not just going to paying back things you’ve borrowed) and I made the utterly stupid decision to go to a music festival.

Big Valley Jamboree, baby. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the best weekend that I am never ever doing again. Some highlights:

• Mere minutes after arriving, I watched a man vomit.

• The “Tony Keith” joke really took off. Lucas and I were so #inone on the Friday night we kept yelling and trying to start chants (“old man graphics!” is my personal favourite in response to Toby Keith’s random, pro-military Americana concert graphics).

• I gave my phone to somebody and then wandered off in search of this stupid boy’s campsite. I got very, very lost. The BVJ campground is a large place. I had no idea where I was going and was literally just stumbling through the dark and the mud. I ended up in the middle of some middle-aged Newfoundlanders’ campsite. They welcomed me. They offered me and sandwich and several beers. We chatted for like an hour. It was the best. I walked for SO LONG and finally found my own campsite. But we’re talking literally hours of walking around blind and disoriented. There were a few moments when I genuinely thought I was going to have to wait until the sun came up.

• A few less-than-classy moments in porta potties.

• The HANGOVERS. Jesus lord. I couldn’t survive.

• Airwaves guy was great and I also had a really good buffalo chicken poutine thing that I remember fondly.

In happier and much more professional news, I facilitated my first Community Helpers training in August. I was very nervous. Like, stay up all night the night before nervous. And we had some technical difficulties with setting up. But my coworker / work BFF Jeannie was there and she was a great support to me. She ran and got me a coffee and a banana bread because I hadn’t eaten and was so so stressed. And she encouraged me through the whole thing. It went really really well. I almost choked up at the end while thanking the participants for coming and explaining how it was my first training and they were such a great group to do it with.

The squad was all super broke so we turned to free activities. It was very wholesome. We spent many afternoons and evenings reading in Prince’s Island Park with snacks. We went to Shakespeare in the park. We went hiking.

A lot of my friends moved away in August. Such is life when your friends are all academics or have bright futures that are not confined to the Calgary city limits. Sydney moved to Victoria to start her PhD and we had a nice day at Elbow Falls eating berries and then having dinner with my family. Adam and Kendal both moved to Ottawa to start a fancy new government job and an MSW degree, respectively. I am really really proud of all of my friends but I miss them, too. Calgary is not the same without these people.

On the flip side – a new roommate moved in! Maddie left to move to Red Deer to be with Joel and so our new roommate was a French exchange student named Aurore. She arrived and was shocked to see that none of the advertised furniture was in her room except for one limp mattress. Karla and I hadn’t even known she was coming because my landlord sucks, but we helped her get her things together and then ordered her some Skip the Dishes. She was exhausted. And sweet. And was starting a block week MBA class the next day in her second language. I felt for her.

September

In September, the inklings of me moving into a different role at the university were planted. My boss called me in to her office one afternoon and shut the door. I was terrified but she said to me, “you’re not in trouble. Actually, just the opposite.” She brought up the recent vacancies in the job I now hold (lol: spoilers) and said, “Just think about it. I just want you to know that there would be no hard feelings if you chose to apply for the role.” I was flattered but also caught off guard. I did not think I was qualified for the job. I had virtually no client experience in either of my practicums. I wasn’t even registered with the ACSW at this point. And I loved my old job and my health promotion coworkers so so much. But also… I was on a twelve month contract. And the person away on leave was definitely coming back. I was “strongly encouraged” to get registered with the college.

It was honestly such a mess. They gently nudged me towards applying for the role, I was torn. Then they told me it probably wouldn’t work because I wasn’t yet registered with the ACSW, and even if I did register would still only be provisional. I felt an odd sense of relief at that, and had totally psyched myself out of being able to do the job at that point. At the last minute, I was told “just submit an application to keep our options open.” I did so. I got an interview. I interviewed (and it was SO fucking stressful…. Interviewing with people you already work with is 10x worse than interviewing with strangers. I tell ya.). And… I got the job!!! Not only did I get the job, I got a full-time, permanent contract (there were two positions, one full-time and one on a longer contract. I was told from the beginning I would just be applying for the longer contract but I ended up getting the FULL TIME ONE.) It was a HUGE boost to my confidence and again, one of the happiest days of the year.

September was also just absolutely insane for work. So many orientation presentations, students reaching out wanting to get involved, starting all of the volunteer programs, planning. I was so, so, so SO FREAKING TIRED. But we did lots of fun things. Like we took Aurore and her friend Cecile to Banff, had them try Caesers and Beaver Tails and all kinds of Canadian things.

October

On my last day in my old role, my coworkers decorated my desk with a homemade banner and got me desserts. We went to McDonald’s for a feast and sat in the Hub and made jokes. It felt really special and I was really touched.

On October 7, I started my new-but-also-kind-of-the-same job. I was very nervous and there was a lot to learn right from the get go. And it was so… strange. I HAD MY OWN OFFICE. WITH MY NAME ON THE DOOR AND EVERYTHING. The imposter syndrome hit me like a tsunami. I was extremely stressed, extremely overwhelmed. But my teammates and my boss are great. They understand I’m new not just to the role but to the field. They were (and are) so kind and patient with me and answer all of my questions.

For Thanksgiving, we went to Banff. We had beers and did a little bowling at High Rollers and then went to the Rimrock for dinner. It was very nice. A few weeks later, I hosted my own friendsgiving dinner and roasted a turkey! And spent all day decorating my parents’ house and the table to look fancy. Everything turned out really really well. I was super stoked. Note to self: throw more dinner parties.

November:

What I recall from November is just… stress. The case management / social worker life came at me real hard, real fast. I had to call CFS for the first time. My client did not want me to. It was hard. I did not cope well. My coping strategy was to fuck off to Lake Louise (?) for a weekend in a hostel and drink two bottles of wine with some random sorority girls from Chicago. And tears.

The cooking phase was in full swing at this point. Eggs benedict, soft pretzels, curry, French onion soup, gnocchi, prosciutto apple blue cheese chicken, apple and chai galettes.

The third week of November was also when I decided to start training for the half marathon. I found a plan online and set out to follow it and honestly, it’s been great. I usually don’t stick to exercise routines for longer than a month because I tend to go too hard, too fast and I overdo it and I let one hungover day derail me. But this plan wasn’t focused on distance but rather time spent running. So rather than, “I have to run 5km” today it’s, “I have to run for 45 minutes today.” I thought I’d hate that but I actually really like it. It encourages me to go a little slower and just run out the clock, at whatever pace. And the speed is building gradually, and naturally.

December:

Aaaand December!

December has been so much marathon training. Today, I am entering my seventh week of consistent running and exercise. That is a badass accomplishment for me. I am very pleased. I even managed to do my runs in Saskatoon on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

Aurore left back to Paris. She had a birthday party at the house with all of her international friends and we went for sushi and looked at Christmas lights in the rich people neighborhoods before she returned home. She ended up being so wonderful. I will miss her.

I went to Radium for a weekend with Kennedy, Matt, Amanda, and their friend Katie. The takeaways from this experience are: I am excited to get to spend more time with Kennedy and Amanda and to become better friends with them, I think I like smoking weed now, and skiing is the best.

2020:

To be completely honest, my life is pretty good. I sometimes wish I had somebody to share it with, and that’s something I hope to be a little better about in 2020 is putting myself out there in more of a meaningful way.

I also am super excited to continue down this path with my career and to develop personally and professionally as a social worker. There is truly so much to learn and I’m really motivated and excited right now to do well at this which is an awesome feeling. I do need to work on not taking my work home with me so much, about separating the social work life from the personal life. Setting boundaries and all that good stuff.

I’m hopefully going to run my first half marathon in 2020. May 31. The countdown is on. Excited to cross that item off the bucket list and experience the rush of crossing the finish line! That endorphin high is going to be insane.

And I want to keep developing my cooking skills. Though they may be small, they are mighty. I want to try and learn how to make fresh pasta dough. LOL. Simple goals.

Anyways... thank you 2019 for all you have brought me and taught me. I am grateful for the life I get to the live and the experiences I get to have. And I’m super stoked to see where 2020 takes me.

#megbox #personal #year in review #2019

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trashcanmarvelfan · 6 years ago

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Best. Job. Ever. (Tom Holland x Reader) 2/?

Summary: Reader gets a job on the set of Spider-Man: Far from Home for the 3 weeks they are shooting in New York City as what she thinks is a production assistant, but a twist of fate has her reassigned as Tom Holland’s personal assistant. As she & Tom grow close during filming, will their budding friendship turn to more or will they go their separate ways after filming concludes?

Warnings: Language, but that’s pretty much it? This is basically a PG-13 rom-com.

Word Count: 1860 for chapter 2.

Author’s Note: As this was written WAY before Spider-Man: Far from Home was released (actually before Avengers: Endgame was as well) I’ve kept plot details and which scene was being shot on what day extremely vague. Also, I’m American but tried to write Tom as British as possible, although I do think he’d try to stay(ish) in character and use as much American slang as he could while he’s still playing Peter.

Requests are always open!

Cross-posted at AO3.

The next morning, Y/N woke up before her alarm, so she got ready early and headed downstairs to get her and Tom each a coffee before going back up to their floor. She knocked on Tom’s door and was looking at her phone when the door swung open.

“Good morning, Tom, are you--” Y/N’s eyes widened as she looked up.

Tom stood before her in nothing but a towel, a toothbrush sticking out the side of his mouth.

Holy shit, he’s practically naked, she thought, feeling her face heating up . “I’m-- I’m sorry, apparently I’m early, I’ll come back--”

Tom yanked the toothbrush out of his mouth. “No, no, come in, it’s fine.” He stepped out of the doorway and ushered Y/N inside, gesturing to the armchair in the corner. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll just be a few moments.” He disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Y/N had seen Tom shirtless on screen before, but nothing compared to seeing his chiseled abs in person. Mmmph.

She mentally shook her head before placing Tom’s coffee on the dresser and sitting and taking a sip of her own, letting the warmth of the coffee calm her. Get it together, Y/N. You're here to do a job, not moon over your celebrity crush.

A couple of minutes later the door opened and Tom stepped out, fully dressed this time in a pair of jeans, sneakers, and a blue plaid button-down shirt. “So sorry about that. I was up late studying my lines so I got a bit of a late start this morning.”

Y/N checked the time as she stood. “It's ok, we have a couple of minutes to get downstairs.”

Tom hurried to drink his coffee then grabbed a hat and his sunglasses so he wouldn't be recognized, and he & Y/N made their way downstairs to the hotel lobby.

As soon as they stepped off the elevator, Y/N's phone buzzed with a text. “Perfect timing. The driver's here.”

They exited the hotel to find a nondescript newer model black town car waiting for them.

“Mr. Holland, Miss Y/L/N,” the driver greeted, shaking their hands briefly. “My name is James, and I'll be your driver to and from set while you're in town.” He stepped over to the car and opened the door for them.

“Ladies first,” Tom insisted, gesturing to the car.

Y/N slid into the back seat, Tom following behind her. They buckled in while James settled himself in the driver's seat.

“Okay,” James said once he had buckled in and eased the car into traffic, “we’ll have you at your destination in just a bit.”

Tom pulled out his phone and started scrolling through it, so Y/N took advantage of the silence to look out of the window. A few seconds later, her phone buzzed with a notification.

Instagram: tomholland2013 just posted a photo.

She glanced over at Tom, who had just put his phone away. She tapped on the notification and Tom’s Instagram popped up.

It was a selfie that he had obviously just taken, with the caption “On my way to set. Can’t wait for you all to see the finished product! #spidermanfarfromhome”.

She grinned over at Tom, who had been watching her. “You’re really good about keeping your fans in the loop.”

“You follow my Insta?” he asked with a smile.

“Yeah, I have for a while. I follow a lot of the Avengers cast.” Y/N shrugged, like it was no big deal.

Tom pulled his phone back out. “What’s your username? I’ll follow you back.”

Y/N gave him her Instagram username and sure enough, a few seconds later she received another notification.

Instagram: tomholland2013 is now following you on Instagram.

“I'm going to have to screenshot this momentous occasion so I can post it to my Insta,” Y/N joked.

Tom laughed. “I can do you one better. How about a selfie together?”

Y/N grinned and shook her head. “Nah, I'm not really going to post it. I wouldn't take advantage of your celebrity status just to gain a few Instagram followers.”

“Well how about just for us then?” Tom leaned closer to Y/N-- or at least as close as his seatbelt would allow him-- and pulled out his phone once again.

Y/N leaned in as well and smiled as Tom snapped a selfie of them together.

He texted it to Y/N and she saved it to her phone.

“All right, folks, we're here,” came James’ voice.

Y/N looked out the window. Sure enough, they had arrived at the set.

James stopped the car, got out, and opened the door for them, Tom sliding out first and Y/N following suit.

“Ok, so I just got the detailed schedule for today and it looks like it’s going to be pretty tight. You’ve got just enough time for hair, makeup, and wardrobe if you go right now. Filming is scheduled to run from 8:30 till noon when everyone will break for lunch for an hour, then it's back to filming until 5 pm.” Y/N looked at Tom. “Do you need anything right now? Coffee? Tea? Food?”

“Actually I'd love a croissant from the craft table if you wouldn't mind fetching me one,” Tom replied somewhat sheepishly. “ I could smell them when we walked in.”

Y/N nodded. “I'll go grab one and meet you in hair & makeup.”

“Thanks so much, Y/N.”

Y/N walked over to the craft table and grabbed a croissant for Tom as well as a muffin for herself and headed back to the hair and makeup room.

“Oh, darling, you’re a lifesaver,” Tom said, taking a bite of the still-warm croissant.

Y/N laughed. “It was no problem. Do you need anything else?”

Tom shook his head. “No, nothing else at the moment, thanks.”

“Um, ok then… I guess I’ll see you on set? I feel kinda weird just hovering while you’re trying to get ready.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Tom replied. “I’m almost done here anyway.”

His stylist dusted some sort of translucent powder on Tom’s face then finished taming his wild curls into Peter’s signature hairstyle. “Ok, you’re all set,” she said.

Tom hopped up. “Shall we?” he asked Y/N.

They made their way to wardrobe, where the wardrobe supervisor took a look at Tom, handed him a t-shirt to change into, then declared him ready for filming.

Tom unbuttoned his own shirt and took it off before carefully pulling the t-shirt over his head. “Ok, all set,” he said.

They then headed to set, stopping every so often for Tom to say hello to someone, including Jacob Batalon, who played Ned.

They finally made it to the set proper, where the director, Jon Watts, was wrapping up a conversation with a lighting tech. “Ok, fantastic. Thanks Josh.” He turned to Tom and Y/N. “Tom, my man! How's it going?”

Tom gave him a fist-bump/bro hug combination. “Jon, great to see you.” He gestured towards Y/N. “This is Y/N. She's my P.A. for the rest of the shoot.”

Jon shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Y/N replied.

Jon clapped his hands together. “Ok, let's get this show on the road! Places people!”

Y/N silenced her cell phone as everyone scrambled to get into their places and Jon called for quiet.

“And… action!”

Y/N watched in fascination as Tom seamlessly transitioned into Peter Parker. She had literally only known Tom a couple of days, but she could see how much of himself he put into the character.

They repeated the scene a few times from different angles, Tom and Jacob clowning around between takes.

Finally Jon called “cut” and broke for lunch.

Tom walked over to Y/N. “What did you think?”

“That was fantastic,” Y/N replied. “I can tell you really put thought into your portrayal of Peter.” She held out two bottles of water. “Oh, here. I thought you might be thirsty, but I didn't know if chilled or room temperature water was best.”

“Wow, thank you so much.” Tom reached for the room temperature bottle of water and took a swig. “Shall we get some lunch?”

“Oh, I figured you would want me to go pick you up something,” Y/N replied questioningly.

“We’ve only an hour, so there’s not a whole lot of time to actually go out. Lunch is usually catered in,” Tom explained.

“Well in that case, sure. Lead the way.”

Y/N and Tom hung out with Jacob and some of the crew during lunch, Tom introducing Y/N to everyone. Most of the crew had been together during the entire film shoot, some having also previously worked on Spider-man: Homecoming.

After lunch, a few more scenes were shot, and finally the set wrapped for the day.

Y/N waited near the entrance to the set and checked her email while Tom changed back into his button-down.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Y/N replied. “James is waiting out front.”

They made their way to where James was picking them up and had a comfortably quiet ride back to the hotel. They thanked James and headed through the hotel lobby to the elevators.

After they stepped onto the elevator and hit the button for their floor Tom asked, “so what are you planning on doing this evening?”

“Oh, probably just catching up on some reading,” Y/N replied. “You?”

Tom rubbed the back of his neck. “Actually, I was thinking about dinner?”

“Oh, yeah, ok. I can go back out to get you something once we get back to the hotel if you want to go back to your room and relax--”

Tom shook his head. “Actually I was thinking about the two of us having dinner, together. Even though last night was technically a meeting I really enjoyed your company. I eat alone so often that it’s nice to have some someone to chat with, y’know?”

Y/N felt bad for Tom. She couldn’t imagine having your every move scrutinized just because of who you were and not really being able to go out and enjoy life for fear of being mobbed. She thought a second. “Um, sure. Ok.”

“How does Italian sound? I know this fantastic restaurant not far from here. And don’t worry, it’s nothing overly fancy.”

“Italian sounds great.”

The elevator doors opened and Y/N and Tom stepped out into the hall, Tom turning towards Y/N with a grin. “I’ll come ‘round at say, 7?”

“Ok, 7 it is.”

“Fantastic. See you soon then.”

“See ya.”

Y/N watched Tom walk towards his room before heading to hers. As soon as she was in she pinched herself. Yep, this is real . She was actually going to dinner with Tom Holland! As friends, of course, but still… She sent Laura a quick text: Going out to dinner with Tom. More later! She plugged her phone in to charge before gathering the things she needed in order to shower and get ready.

Tagging: @thoughstofaredhead & @greenarrowhead

#tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #Tom Holland fanfic #Tom Holland RPF #Tom holland fanfiction #avengers fanfiction #marvel fanfiction

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vintage-kisses · 6 years ago

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Just want to vent thank u:

My brother is home for the weekend and I haven’t seen him in like 18 months. We’ve never had a good relationship but I thought things might have changed. We went for dinner with my parents and within about 5 minutes he’d made his first sarcastic comment (he said his American girlfriend didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving and I said a lot of people boycott it because they see it as problematic- he interrupted me by sighing and saying “Jesus Christ here we go again”. The whole way through dinner he picked at everything I said- nothing I thought could ever be true, I always had to be wrong, any story I told would be interrupted and he’d actively ignore my questions. He even made a comment about what I ordered. Before we even went to the restaurant we got a drink at a bar and he’d got to me enough that I was getting tearful but I thought I could power through and just cope with dinner. Anyway we got home and after bringing up my ex boyfriend I was clearly upset and was heading up to bed when my dad asked for a favour, I said no sorry and my brother told me how ungrateful I was and how rude I was being since my dad had just bought dinner. I went to do the task my dad had asked anyway and as I went he repeated what he’d said about me to my mum. I just burst into tears, my mum came into the room and saw my crying and I said ‘why is he always so rude to me’ and my mum put her arm around me and said ‘you’re both as bad as each other. One of you always has to be right, you can never just let the other one win’. She started to tell me how I’d made a fuss about not knowing what his girlfriend’s job title was as I didn’t understand how he claimed she was working as a nurse despite not having a nursing degree. Like I’m so sorry I showed an interest into the life of his girlfriend who works in the same subject as me???

This sounds like such a bratty moan but he’s so rude and so condescending that after 2 and a half hours with him I was crying and feeling so shit about myself. I feel so invalidated by my family and it gets to me so much over time because it’s just like nothing I say or do is of any value. My self esteem is so low at the moment and my mental health is just poor to the point where I’ve acted in ways I haven’t in years. I never feel like I get any praise, and I think being with my ex boyfriend who never really showed me any affection made it worse.

But I keep replaying in my head these few moments where I’ve felt really good about myself. The first two were bumping into friends of my mum; I saw one in the street and even before saying hi she said ‘oh you’re looking lovely’ and it like took me off guard because I can’t think of the last time anyone complimented me out of the blue. My family aren’t really big on compliments I guess?? But no one ever compliments me; when I told my parents that story they both said ‘did she not have her glasses on’ which is fine I can take a joke but not constantly. And my mum’s other friend told me nearly 3 months ago that I was amazing balancing a job about my placement and other things, and my supervisor at placement told me he didn’t know what he’d do without me. They were probably such little comments to them but just stuff like that and even friends saying that they love me or whatever has such a big impact on me and I just always try and remember it when I feel bad about myself because I know that one or a few people’s perceptions of me aren’t a reflection of how I really am

But ultimately yeah I feel really shit about myself rn so that’s cute

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hellospunkiebrewster · 7 years ago

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Flight Risk - Part V

Author’s note: I realized an issue with the previous chapter that I posted yesterday when going over all the stuff I’ve had written for this one. The newscast should have said the day before yesterday, not yesterday, for the day of the attack. Anyhow, here it is, Part V. As always, I love you guys! Some minor suggestions of sex in this chapter. Catch up here:

Prologue - Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV

All characters belong to Pixelberry, not me.

Summary: Liam decides what to do in the wake of the attack on his home. Riley takes a day off to help him cope.

Tags: @madaraism, @mfackenthal, @theroyalweisme, @viktoriapetit, @hopefulmoonobject, @captainkingliam, @captain-kingliamsqueen, @syltti78, @pbchoicesobsessed, @queencatherynerhys, @jamielea81, @bobasheebaby, @ranishajay, @blackcatkita, @jlouise88, @choiceswreckedme, @hamulau, @umccall71, @darley1101, @gardeningourmet, @ayo-minty-jess, @drakelover78, @jayjay879

Every great institution is the lengthened shadow of a single man. His character determines the character of the organization.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

The apartment is quiet and empty when Liam returns after tutoring Elizabeth. He is a bit out of breath as he winds his way around the clutter of furniture in the tiny room and grabs Riley’s computer before hurrying back downstairs to the Cheng’s apartment. Taking a quick moment to catch his breath, he runs his hand through his hair. He knocks briskly at their door, to be greeted by Elizabeth’s mom.

“I’m very sorry Mrs. Cheng, I left a book of mine here.”

She steps aside to let him in, nodding lightly. He pauses briefly at the dining table, “Maybe Elizabeth took it to her room by mistake, do you mind?” Mrs. Cheng motions to the hallway, there’s a single closed door at the end of it. She crosses her arms before she walks to the kitchen and continues making dinner. Liam taps on the door, quietly.

“Come in.” Elizabeth calls from behind the door. The door isn’t closed all the way and he pushes it open, not moving to step inside.

Liam clears his throat and speaks, “Elizabeth.” She looks up and her eyes widen. She scrambles out of her bed, pulls her hair down from its messy bun, and smooths it down.

“Mr. Rys? I, um, hi.” She still looks startled and she bites her lip.

“Do you know anything about YouTube?” Elizabeth inhales quickly and a small laugh escapes her.

“Yes.”

“Could you show me how to set all that up?”

“...Yes?” He watches her dark eyes, confused and curious.

“Now?” he asks. She glances behind him and checks to see if her mother has began setting food out on the table. She hasn’t, there’s time.

“Sure, it shouldn’t take that long. You do know how to use a computer don’t you?” She giggles.

“I’m not that old.”

“Hey, you’re the one who asked me if I know anything about YouTube. So first, you’ll need a username. Something that is short and to the point, maybe explains what your videos will be about. What will your videos be about?”

“About me. About Riley. About being king.”

“About being what?” She’s looking at him like he’s lost it a bit, barely holding in more laughter.

“I guess you’re in the know now.” He laughs a bit as he scratches his eyebrow. “I’m actually the king of a small Mediterranean country.” He laughs, it sounds absurd. In the current setting it was bizarre, the doorframe of the bedroom of a girl he tutored in American History in Chinatown. She’s looking at him dreamily.

“Oh god, what country is this? I feel like I’m in a movie suddenly and no one told me. Are all the guys there so-” she stops herself, blushing.

“TheRealLiamRys,” she says suddenly after she recovers. “Celebrities use that format for their Twitter handles. If you’re what you say you are, you’re definitely a celebrity, like some sort of hot, male Queen of England.” She gasps and claps her hands over her mouth.

He thinks on it for a moment. “It’s actually quite fitting, given what I want to put on the videos.”

“It’s settled,” she takes the computer from him, putting it on the small cluttered desk in her room. She starts typing, navigating to the website and creating the account. She gives him a quick rundown on recording a video with the computer and how to upload it. Elizabeth explains the importance of adding tags, in order to make your video easier to find when people search.

“That’s it?”

“Yea it’s really that easy, you old people just need to listen when we tell you how to do it.”

“Thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow. And uh, about me being a king, you’re one of three people who know where we are,” he says. She pretends to lock her lips and throw out the key. He smiles and pulls her sideways into a hug, placing the tiniest of pecks on her temple, as he picks up the computer and hurries out of the apartment, rushing back upstairs. Her arms fall to her sides, limp, her gaze follows him as he leaves her apartment.

Riley calls her boss as she walks back from the picking up take-out. Liam usually finished tutoring around seven and she tried to have something resembling food in the house by then. He tried on days he didn’t tutor, but growing up royalty didn’t lend itself to being great at life skills. Riley asks for the day off tomorrow and her supervisor obliges, reassuring her to take all the time she needs for whatever emergency she was dealing with. A nonprofit certainly paid her barely enough to afford living in the city, but at least they treated her like a human being.

She carries the bags of food up the five stories, making note that the next time they moved they had to be on a lower floor. That or they would have everything delivered. She thinks for a moment when she arrives at their door; she doesn’t know what she should say to Liam when she sees him. She wants to tell him it’s okay with her if he wants to go back. When she opens the door, he’s not home yet. She puts the food on the table and goes to the kitchen to get plates. She hears him burst through the door.

“Liam!” she calls from the kitchen. “I got us Indian.” She pops her head out of the kitchen and asks, “what would you like to drink?” Liam doesn’t look up, instead he has his head bowed and he’s reading something on her computer.

“Liam?”

“Hmm? Oh uh, just water.”

She leaves the kitchen without plates, silverware, or their drinks when she sees his face. He’s deeply focused and worry works a deep crease between his eyebrows.

“Liam, is everything ok?”

“I think I’ve figured it out.” He stops his thought there and keeps on clicking and reading things on the computer. She reaches out and puts her hand over his free one and the touch pulls him from the screen and his eyes meet hers for the first time since he left late this morning. His face relaxes when he takes in her gaze, one of the sides of his mouth pulls back into a small smile. He looks down for a moment and then back up at her as he closes the computer. She waits for a moment, waiting to see if he’ll continue.

“I asked for tomorrow off, you know, so I can be around for you. If you want to talk or anything.”

He nods but there’s something else going on in his mind. She can tell. She begins to pull the food out of the carryout bag.

“Actually that’s perfect. We can go to the city clerk’s office.” Her heart stops and she drops the takeout container of rice to the table. She looks from him to her left hand, the delicate ring. She’d nearly forgotten about it with everything that happened today. When she looks back at him, his eyes are full of hope, love, and passion.

“Riley, let’s get married tomorrow.”

The floors of the city clerk’s office are made of old checkered tiles, the surface is slightly warped and Riley runs the toe of one of her shoes along the ledge nervously as they stand at the counter. The clerk slides Liam’s identification back to him before sliding the marriage license under the glass behind it.

“So that’s it, we’re married?”

“Not quite sir, there is a twenty-four hour waiting period. Then you can have your marriage ceremony. If you’d like, we do them here, you’d just have to come back tomorrow. That is, unless you get a judge to exempt you from the waiting period.”

“And how do we do that?” Liam asks through the glass, looking anxious.

“Are you active military and being deployed? That’s usually the only reason they allow.”

“Not exactly.” Liam presses her for more information and eventually persuades her to allow them to plead their case before a judge. She motions to a door and buzzes them in. After waiting a quarter hour, a judge invites them into his office. Liam’s hand presses into her lower back and he leans to whisper in her ear.

“You look amazing today.” Riley smiles and leans her head against his. She smooths the cheap cream satin dress down, embellished with gold flowers. It was something she had from forever ago, before they met. It wasn’t anything special and it certainly anything close to what he was used to seeing her in. He holds her seat for her, before sitting in his seat next to her, across the desk from the judge.

“Mr. Rys, Ms. Collins, I understand you wish to forego the waiting period for your marriage. Unfortunately, I can only extend that to people in certain circumstances.” The judge looks over their application in front of him, barely looking up at them.

“You see sir, your honor,” Liam begins, “I am the king of a small Mediterranean country, Cordonia. Riley is a New Yorker that I fell completely and impossibly in love with when I visited this city for the first time.” He reaches over for Riley’s hand and runs his thumb over her knuckles. “My friend whisked her away to our country nearly a year ago so she could go through this completely antiquated tradition of the social season, where I’d select a wife and eventual Queen. She unfortunately became the target of a conspiracy.”

The judge has shifted from sitting back, looking a little annoyed at their request, to sitting forward. His elbows rest on his desk and he’s listening intently to Liam’s story.

“When we realized we wouldn’t be able to clear her name in time, I gave an ultimatum to my parents, the former king and queen. They refused to take it so we ran away. I’m sure you heard a bit about an attack on a palace in Europe? My country is hurting and bleeding in my absence and I can’t make a statement, return, or even dream of regaining their trust before I marry this woman.”

The judge nods, smiling. “I’m not sure if anything you said is true young man, but I know my wife would kill me if she heard I denied your request. She’d think it was incredibly romantic.”

Riley and Liam look at each other. Riley feels so happy that she’s struggling to keep all her emotion from bubbling out of her. She feels tears in her eyes. She turns back to the judge, “...so you’re?”

“I’m granting your request to waive the waiting period, yes.”

That night Liam strokes Riley’s hair as she falls asleep curled against him. After the civil ceremony, they’d returned to their apartment and Riley proclaimed that they had to drink all the wine in the apartment, just as they would’ve drank all the wine in the palace had they gotten married in Cordonia. They ended up tangled up together and pressed against most surfaces on the apartment as both of them struggled to keep their hands off each other now that everything felt so official. She wanted to scream it out loud, to tell all their friends, but instead buried herself entirely in him since they couldn’t. The food delivery guy got quite an eyeful of Liam when she asked for his wallet so she could tip him.

He feels so incredibly happy and light for the first time in months. She was his and he was hers. He looks across the apartment to the coffee table where her laptop sits. Inspiration strikes him and he gently pulls his arm from under her. He pulls his boxer briefs on and finds a shirt of his in the closet, buttoning it up. He ties a tie and pulls on the jacket he was wearing earlier that day. Liam digs in his nightstand and pulls out his glasses. He sets them on his nose as he walks across the apartment, retrieving Riley’s computer from the table and sitting at the small wobbly dining table.

He opens the video recording program that Elizabeth had shown him. He takes a moment to look at his face on the screen before pressing record.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Cordonia, it is I, Liam, your King.

“I must first extend my deepest condolences and wishes for those affected by the attack on the palace. I feel if I had made this statement earlier, been more transparent with all of you, this could have been prevented and avoided. That is a decision I will live with for the rest of my life.

“It’s not usual for a monarch to admit to making mistakes, but I have made a number. I only hope that you all realize I did the things I did because I love Cordonia and refuse to be manipulated any longer in a fashion that could hurt my country and my people.

“I left Cordonia the night after the Engagement Tour ended. Myself and Lady Riley left the country on a flight to New York City. The scandal that Lady Riley has been wound up in is a complete and total fabrication to prevent us from marrying. During the engagement tour, Riley and other members of the court worked tirelessly to clear her name, only to have the mission fail at the zero hour.

“With no hope of having her name cleared, she planned to leave Cordonia to take up her old life in New York, without me. However, being so unbelievably in love with her, I couldn’t bear to say goodbye. I gave an ultimatum and, even as king, I was met with such resistance and vitriol from members of my very own family and the court.

“I know you have no reason to believe me or to trust me ever again as your monarch, but I hope I can help expose the horrific deeds of members of the nobility. Should you all trust and believe in me, I will return with Lady Riley, my wife. Please, Cordonia, my heart still beats for you and I find little peace outside of my home with all of you. Allow me to show you the lies of the nobility so that you can make that decision for yourself. This is my most important duty.”

Riley woke up in an empty bed for the fourth time in as many nights. Groggily, she rolled over to take in the rest of the studio apartment. It was dark, the muted orange of the city lights glowed through the thin, cheap curtains that hung in their apartment. She squinted against the sleep still present in her eyes and saw the dim light across the small apartment. Liam sat at their wobbly table, the faint blue glow from her laptop barely illuminating his face. He had a cup of tea at his side and his glasses on, glasses he only wore when he read something and really needed to focus. She’d found him this way for the last four nights, in deep concentration, pouring over news and online responses to his series of statements. She hears the faint click of the electric kettle and he briefly rises, moving soundlessly to the kitchen counter to pour himself some hot water and place a new tea bag in his mug. As quietly as he moved to the kitchen, he was back in his seat by the computer, reading. Riley marveled at how he was able to avoid all the creaking floorboards of the old apartment.

Any and all efforts to get him to return to bed each night proved unfruitful. He simply would dismiss her, promising he’d return in a few more minutes and never did. She would wake up each morning, finding him still in the same spot. The back of his thumb would brush over his lips like it did when he was deep in thought as he read thread after thread and article after article on the subject of the current state of his homeland. He sometimes jotted down a note of a name or opinion, rarely more than a couple of words. Riley would glimpse at his notes, scattered thoughts, as she rose from bed each morning and padded over to the kitchen to prepare a pot of coffee. They made little sense on their own.

She gets up from the bed, making her way over to where Liam sat at the table. He doesn’t look up or notice her, as usual, until she speaks.

“Liam, honey, come back to bed.”

He looks up at her, over his glasses, as if it surprised him she was even in the apartment to begin with.

“I’m sorry Riley, did I wake you?”

“The absence of you is what woke me. Please come back to bed.”

He’s looking at the screen again, jotting a couple of words, before turning his eyes back up to her.

“Love, I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. I promise.”

“You said that last night and the night before.” She hopes she doesn’t sound annoyed and that her concern carries over in her voice. She supported whatever this was wholeheartedly if it helped him stop blaming himself for the events of four days ago. This obsession of his only seemed to drive them apart. The frequency of his touches decreasing, his kisses distracted, and his conversations one-worded and short. Riley worries she is losing him every time she wakes up alone. That he’s stolen away just like they did weeks before. They got married only days before and he was feeling more and more distant.

“You have to sleep.” She’s moved beside him, close enough to touch him, and runs a hand through his hair. Her other hand finds his cheek in the darkness and draws him to face her, pulling him from the screen. The blue light of the screen dances off of the ring he gave her when he proposed. After a moment, he sighs and leans into her touch.

“I know, my love, I know. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.” He sees her raised eyebrow, skepticism painted on her every feature in the dim blue light. “Ten tops,” he adds.

“I think it’s time for us to go home.”

“But we are home.”

“You’re not Liam, Cordonia is your home.”

#playchoices #play choices #the royal romance #trr #choices fanfiction #trr fanfic #trr au #flight risk #liam rys #king liam #liam x mc #long post

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acsversace-news · 7 years ago

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June 1995, Milan. Gianni Versace "casually" informs Donatella that he's "arranged an interview" with The Advocate. When she doesn't react, he mumbles, "For gay readers." "To say what?", she asks challengingly. "That the built-ins on this season of ACS are as envy-making as your stereotypically Versace pink butterfly blazer is hideous," Gianni does not say, although he could,

because these floor-to-ceiling jobs make me want to book a ticket to Italy like now. Mystifyingly, there is no sideways-rolling ladder with which to reach tomes on the higher shelves, but of course this isn't the point of the scene; the point is that Gianni has never said in so many words that he's gay, and that Donatella doesn't think he should do so "to print, to publish." Antonio D'Amico smirks as Donatella picks up her cigarettes and crisply points out that she handles publicity for the company. Gianni shrugs disingenuously that it's not about her, but Donatella isn't going for it: it's about more than him. She's annoyed that he didn't consult her, and now he's annoyed, clanking down his espresso cup and snarking, "What would you advise?" Yes, Antonio echoes, "What would you advise?" Donatella side-eyes him and theorizes aloud that it's Antonio's idea, that he wants to "be famous" as "Versace's lover." For 13 years everyone's mistaken him for Gianni's assistant, he grumbles, and Donatella snorts that apparently his pride is more important than the company. The sniping continues, Antonio saying he's not trying to become a public figure: "I know my place. Unlike you." Donatella cocks her head and asks at four degrees Kelvin, "And what is my place," at which time Gianni bangs a chair and snaps, "Enough!" No more fighting over this: it was his idea.

He asks Donatella to walk with him, and she stalks after him with that weird colicky gait women get who wear too-high heels every day. He wants her support, but she notes that his company supports all the people working around them -- and they have stores opening in countries where homosexuality is illegal. What if he's denied a visa? What if the stores can't open? Gianni is momentarily taken aback, and asks what she really thinks could happen. She says the rock stars, the actors, "the royalty whose endorsements we cherish" might not want to associate with the brand. Gianni shrugs, "Unless we keep Elton," but Donatella doesn't see the humor; he lives "in isolation," and has forgotten what the real world is like. He tries to argue that the women they design for are "fearless," and when Donatella says it's not the same, he asks, "Is the brand Versace braver than the man?" She doesn't have an answer for that, but when he stalks to the other side of the atelier, she follows, asking if he's angry at her, or the world. She goes on to wonder what his "admission" will cost when they take the company public. Gianni says, not terribly forcefully, that she's exaggerating, but she reminds him of Perry Ellis's final show, Ellis dying of AIDS, too weak to walk on his own. "His most important show" in many ways, Gianni murmurs, and certainly it is as far as its value as a reference in this season of ACS -- Ellis, who died in 1986, remained in resolute denial about his illness and that of his longtime lover, whom he had seen into the ground earlier that year; at that point in the life of both the epidemic and the culture, that approach was probably the default, at least for public consumption -- but Donatella's point is that, after that, people stopped buying Ellis's clothes. "Some people," Gianni says. Many people, Donatella retorts. Some, Gianni insists, and walks away from her again.

Why now, she wants to know. "Because I was sick. And I didn't die," Gianni says. It's a miracle. He has a second chance now. Why is he alive -- to be afraid? No. He's here, and he "must use it."

After the title card, we return to 1997 -- four days before Jeffrey Trail's murder. In a crappish motel in San Diego, Andrew Cunanan is seated in grimy underpants on a nubby chair surrounded by trash bags, prepping a needle full of drugs and grandly reassuring an American Express account representative that he just needs enough money to get to Minneapolis.

He's going to visit his "two best friends," one of whom owes him more than ten grand; then he can go back to being the best customer ever. As the Amex rep skeptically repeats that he's asking them to extend his credit so that he can…repair his credit, the camera lingers pointedly on an expensive watch on the floor. Cunanan distractedly taps the needle to rid it of bubbles as the rep verbally eye-rolls that she has to consult her supervisor. Cunanan chirps that he'll hold, and injects himself between his toes. I assume this is included to show both his alleged drug involvement and his much-ballyhooed ability to charm all and sundry, but I ran into some American Express credit trouble in college and was on the line with their reps almost daily, assuring them that my latest low-double-digit payment from my pizza-delivery job was winging its way towards them and please don't make me declare bankruptcy as a 20-year-old. Like, if I convinced them to let me chip down my balance 13 bucks at a time? I'm...not that charming. This is eminently doable by civilians.

Cunanan gets up, surveys his closet, and starts taking down armfuls of suits and shirts, still on their hangers. Do people actually do this? It seems like an only-onscreen thing. In any case, the removal of the last armload of blazers reveals a mini-crazy wall consisting of the very Advocate article the Versaces were arguing about before.

That pic at the top left, that looks like IRL Cunanan, should maybe have been cut, no?

In a warehouse, Jeff Trail is hoisting heavy canisters onto shelves. Later, he's not laughing alone without salad at a picnic table above the work floor when a co-worker joins him. Jeff notices the guy's tattoo as an armed-forces design; the guy notices him noticing and asks if he served. He did, in the navy, and kind of overshares about the USS Gridley and how he's sort of sad she got decommissioned. So he misses it? Every day. Why'd he leave? "I dunno," Jeff grits, and admits he regrets it, but when the guy begins to say he was never going to become an officer, it gets awk in a hurry with Jeff interrupting that he was an officer, and adding that his brother and sister are both in the armed forces. "You married?", the guy asks, probably concluding that it was Jeff's spouse who wanted him to leave the service, then. Jeff parries that, but the guy asks again why he left, especially to work "in a place like this." This place is okay, Jeff glares, but the guy's like, but for an Annapolis grad?

Jeff, icily: "I made the decision." The guy tries to smooth it over by saying his wife always tells him he asks too many questions, but Jeff just repeats over him, "I made the decision -- okay?" The guy apologizes for offending him and offers to "leave it there," but Jeff can't, leaping to his feet and shouting again that he made the decision, loud enough for other co-workers to look up from their lunches.

After lunch, Jeff is loading canisters, zoned out, when he's told "an Andrew called" -- he says he'll see Jeff at the airport.

That's where we see him next, as he greets David Madson with a fond arm-squeeze. David didn't think Jeff would come. Neither did Jeff, Jeff says disgustedly. David doesn't get why Cunanan's coming there, but Jeff's like, he has nothing and no one and everything he's told you is a lie. David gets that, right? David: "Do you even like him?"

Jeff sighs that Cunanan was "there for" him once, and he owes Cunanan, but it's not the same. David feels "kinda sorry" for him. "Don't." He's lonely. "For a reason," Jeff says, adding that after this "for old times' sake" weekend, he's done with Cunanan. David's like, he's here for three nights, ugh, and Jeff says Cunanan can have his apartment, Jeff will stay with his sister, and not to victim-blame here, but if you don't want to deal with Cunanan because he's a grifter, you put him up in a hotel, not at your house when you can't keep an eye on him and/or your belongings. Cut to Cunanan emerging from the crowd with a step almost Michigan J. Frog in its peppiness as Jeff asks David not to tell Cunanan where he is: "He's so crazy, he might just show up."

Asterisking this point is Cunanan's desperately cheerful sing-songing of "The three amigooooos!" and overly handsy hug of David. He hugs Jeff next, choosing to ignore Jeff's stiff reaction, and burbles about how much fun they'll have this weekend: "It'll be just like old times." Jeff's all, nah, and says he can't hang out with them. Cunanan asks why not. "Aside from everything you've done?" David looks down as Cunanan feigns ignorance.

Jeff says he's away 'til Sunday at a sales conference, but he'll be sure to send Cunanan a postcard. Cunanan lamely asks if Jeff's "still annoyed" about the postcard he "accidentally" sent to Jeff's dad signed "Drew, kiss kiss." "I made a mistake!" David rolls not just his eyes but his entire head as Jeff brings out his keys, saying Cunanan can stay there tomorrow night. Cunanan doesn't get why he's not staying with David; David says without much conviction that he's busy "seeing a friend." "Wh-who, what friend?" Cunanan presses, but despite this inability or unwillingness to take a hint re: David wanting to get it in with, y'know, not him -- or, more to the point, David's obvious trepidation at drawing that line brightly, or at all -- Jeff still hands Cunanan his keys, then walks off without another word. Again, I don't mean to cast aspersions on Jeff Trail; nothing he did either doomed him or could have saved him, or any of the others. I've found myself in similar situations, feeling like it's easier to just go along this one last time and then get down to the ghosting once s/he's left town -- especially when s/he's presenting as a dishonest but not noticeably dangerous asshole. I have the benefit of a hindsight of which Jeff was deprived by Cunanan, as well. That's the frustration: that it can't be undone, couldn't have been undone. Or that maybe it could have gone differently -- if Cunanan weren't so easily able to leverage the doors of the closet against his targets.

Sometimes they swing back and hit him, though, as we're about to see when he and David return to David's loft. David snuggles with Prints for a minute, and Cunanan takes the opportunity to fish that expensive watch out of the top of his duffel and make a big show of having "gotten" (read: stolen, we'll no doubt see in a future ep) David something. "Open it!" he says with an antsy body twitch that is almost endearing, except that he's horrid. David seems to know that it contains an emotional bomb as well as whatever's literally inside, and is initially speechless at the sight of the watch. Cunanan has assumed that awkward stiff-armed stance again

as David struggles for words. I'll note here Orth's Vanity Fair piece's assertion that, "though Madson was at least two boyfriends away from Cunanan by the end of April, he continued to accept gifts from" Cunanan. I still haven't read Orth's book, and perhaps she's more nuanced therein, but I'm finding implied judgment in that locution, to the effect that David "shouldn't" have taken gifts from a man he wasn't involved with, because it sent mixed signals -- or meant that David wasn't a quote-unquote perfect victim, the saint the newsmagazines are always looking for. Well, it probably did send mixed signals, and David probably wasn't perfect, because none of us is -- but here again we see Cunanan's victims a) not knowing what we know, because it's not what anyone tends to assume, and/or b) accepting overly generous gestures from Cunanan because it's less uncomfortable than rejecting him or questioning the gifts' provenance. The scene we're watching/cringing at here perfectly illuminates not only why Cunanan's victims might have had over-the-top "presents" from the killer among their possessions, but why Cunanan for the most part continued to skate on outrageous behavior.

Behavior like…refusing to read the room, because when David snaps the watch box closed and pulls a nauseated face, then goes to refill Prints's water bowl, Cunanan bustles over, picks up the box, and goes into cheesy-proposal mode. David's response is a glorious "ehh-whennnnhhhh?!" look from Cody Fern

at which Cunanan has the presence of mind to stammer that he doesn't have to answer right now, he can think about it "for the next few days." David's like, it's against the law, so. Cunanan shrugs: "Who cares about that?" "Everyone," David exasps. "Well, I…don't!" Cunanan says, and Darren Criss throws in a tiny shoulder shimmy here that is so eloquent vis-à-vis Cunanan thinking this damn-the-homophobia-torpedeos declaration will win him his case. David's like, again: no, "it's insane," and Fern's unwittingly Australian inflection of "in-sein" is rather winning. Cunanan is hell-bent on ordering a sweet roll, however, and babbles that they can call it a commitment ceremony, then. David tries to explain that "it's not -- the term" as Cunanan Manson-lampses at him and blares, "Then what is it." "The idea of you and me," David finally is able to say. His expression unchanging, Cunanan pauses, then tells David to keep thinking about it over the weekend, and then "if for whatever reason it's a no," he can keep the watch as a thanks. ..."Whatever reason," indeed. Thanks for what, David asks, exhausted. For turning Cunanan's life around, Cunanan duhs, then shares that he got a new job, a claim David doesn't believe; as Cunanan keeps lying about his new condo in San Francisco, David wearily closes his eyes and nods to himself. "I'm a whole new person!" Cunanan desperates, fastening the watch onto David's wrist. "And all I need -- is someone to be a new person for."

At his sister Laura's gorgeously porched house, Jeff surveys the family pictures (including one of Laura in uniform) in the hall, then takes the linens he'll be sleeping on from his pregnant sister; he doesn't want to be any trouble. "It's no trouble, I love that you're here. Why are you here?" his sister asks, easing herself onto a sofa. Jeff admits he's avoiding Cunanan. She snarks on Cunanan's postcard "mistake" trying to out Jeff to their dad. Jeff says grimly that he's not going to hang out with Cunanan, but Laura has Cunanan's number and Jeff's, telling Jeff he shouldn't let Cunanan have "that kind of control" over him and that Cunanan "was threatening" Jeff with the postcard. Why doesn't Jeff just tell their parents he's gay himself? Jeff knows what they're going to think. "They love you," Laura snorts, which, no doubt, but also: easy for the het sibling who's furnished grandchildren to say, even if she's correct. Jeff changes tacks, saying it's not the right time: they're so happy about the baby. It's her baby, Laura says, so as his superior officer she's ordering him to do it. "I'll think about it," Jeff says. "You've thought about it enough," Laura grumbles. Again: yeah, probably, and she's not a bad guy here, but…you know. Your loved ones' coming out is not about you. Jeff rolls his eyes, then tells Laura's belly, "I'm looking forward to being an uncle, so. Much." He smooches the belly -- aw -- and rests his head on it, listening…

…which makes the overlapping cut to the polka palace in the next scene pretty hilare and cuts the sadness nicely. Too bad we're about to be marinating in uncomf. David and Cunanan climb the stairs into the joint, Cunanan babbling that it's such an original idea, and it feels "special -- memorable." David quashes that line of thinking ASAP, saying it wasn't his choice -- his friend picked it. Said friend is his co-worker Melinda, who appears out of the crowd to greet David, and he introduces Cunanan as his "friend, Andrew." "'Friend,'" Cunanan repeats with a full "this guy, amirite" head-and-shoulders eye-roll, and says he's more than a friend. Everyone's "…k" faces do not deter him from grabbing David's wrist, still with the watch on it, and raising it to eye level to brag that he got it for David "to show how much he means to me." He adds quote casually, "It's worth ten thousand dollars." Melinda says, "Wow," and shoots David a quick, merry "by which I mean 'wow, you're gauche'" look. The silence in which nobody knows how to respond to Cunanan goes on for quite some time…

…and then we mercifully cut to David and Melinda polka-ing amateurishly and laughing a lot. Then it's into slo-mo, and the distorting of the soundtrack, as Cunanan tries to arrange his face into a "isn't this a hoot" shape but ends up Starmanning, as usual.

Later, David orders more beer and speculatively watches Cunanan from the bar as Melinda heroically tries to make conversation: "So what do you do?" Almost daring her to call him on it, Cunanan lies that he makes movie sets; he's working on Titanic down in Mexico. "And you're here for David?" "There's no one I love more," Cunanan confides, which at least is in the same area code as true. David returns with three steins, and Melinda fills him in, giving gorgeous "pfft" tone to "We were just talking about movie sets in Mexico!" "Mexico?" David says, glaring at Cunanan, who thinks for a second before grabbing David's hands: "Let's go dance!" Melinda watches them carefully as David gets free of Cunanan's grasp and says he doesn't need the whole weekend to think about it. "I can't hear you, the music's too loud!" Cunanan says through a desperately fake chuckle. David tries to repeat himself, but Cunanan's sticking with the can't-hear-you bit, bobbing frantically and shouting, "Let's just dance!" They can't get married, David says. "Even if we could -- we can't." The smile drains off Cunanan's face as David says he's really sorry, he doesn't know what else to say. He leaves Cunanan standing on the dance floor, other couples whirling around him. Oof.

At the loft the next morning, Cunanan is sitting, staring into space, still wearing the same clothes from the previous night. David comes out in a tee and boxers and asks if he couldn't sleep. "No." David half-rolls his eyes and goes into the bedroom to fish the watch out of his top drawer; the camera pans up to find Cunanan in the doorway, having Nosferatu'd his way into frame once again. David startles, then murmurs that "there's something great" about Cunanan; he's always thought that. He's generous. But it's not right to keep the watch, he says, handing the box to Cunanan. "I know money is tight." Cunanan badly lies that it isn't. David says it's okay to ask for help instead of telling "all these crazy stories," but Cunanan isn't going to admit to anything, asking through another super-fake chuckle, "What crazy stories?" David girds his loins and runs down the list: he's not making movie sets, he doesn't have a condo in San Fran…he's unhappy. He should let David help him the way Cunanan has helped other people. Cunanan looks genuinely baffled and fearful at this idea as David clarifies that he doesn't mean by marrying Cunanan -- that's not possible, it's not real. It's not what, Cunanan prompts, giving him the Manson lamps. "Another crazy story," David says reluctantly, and holds the box out for Cunanan to take.

Cut to both men heading for the elevator. As the door is closing on Cunanan, David stops it with his arm and guiltily says he can cancel on his "friend" for that night, if Cunanan needs to talk, "about anything." Cunanan tries for cheery, but ends up sounding robotic as he says again that he's starting a new life in San Francisco. "I need someone to share it with." David pulls a "yeah, still a hard pass" face and says he'll see Cunanan Sunday. Now it's Cunanan's turn to stop the door with his arm, and his face has darkened to one of Dawsonian accusation: "Is it Jeff? That friend you're seeing?" David waits a beat too long before denying it. Andrew releases the door silently. David turns away from the elevator all "Fuuuuuu."

It isn't Jeff, but whoever it is, he's cozy with David That Way when they return to David's building -- as Cunanan can see from his creeper stakeout spot across the street. When the other two head inside, he marches robotically across the street for a closer view.

From there, he heads to Jeff's apartment. It takes him a second to get the lights working, but alas, almost no time after that to come across the photo of Jeff and David, Prints nestled between them, tucked into the frame of another photo on Jeff's bureau.

The picture looks merely friendly, to my eye, but Cunanan is already paranoid about the possibility of a…"Tradson," I guess, and starts rifling through Jeff's drawers. It's not totally clear what he's looking for -- proof of a relationship; blackmail fodder a la what he unearthed at David's in the previous episode -- but when he pulls out Jeff's Navy uniform box from the closet, it seems like it's maybe both. Disrespectfully donning Jeff's hat, he digs under the dress whites and finds an unmarked VHS cassette. It's a news broadcast, interviewing active-duty servicemen about gays in the military, and the interviewee onscreen drops a few f-bombs as Cunanan keeps going through Jeff's stuff, eventually finding the gun. He's quite expertly loading a clip into the gun when he hears Jeff's voice coming from the TV; it's Jeff, in an identity-masking shadow, telling an interviewer that any gays in the military must serve in the closet. Cunanan kneels in front of the set and strokes Jeff's darkened face as Jeff says his career is probably over anyway, because he saved a gay fellow sailor from getting beaten to death by his peers, which tipped off said peers that Jeff too is gay. Cunanan sights the gun at the TV. Jeff, near tears, confesses that he's dreamt of taking that "good thing" he did back, letting the other guy die, so that the others wouldn't "suspect" him. (This interview did take place, around the time Jeff met Cunanan; the segment of it I found doesn't contain any mention of this incident.)

After the break, we're in 1995 in San Diego, aboard the Gridley. Jeff heads below decks, and comes upon a fight, or rather one seaman punching another repeatedly in the face. Jeff pulls the puncher off, and the puncher says that "that f***** brushed against" him. Jeff helps the punchee, Williams, to his feet, and as the puncher is threatening Williams if he ever touches the puncher again, Williams knocks him down with a right cross and sneers, "I'm sorry -- did I touch you?" Jeff scatters the combatants and their audience.

That night, a hand puts a bar of soap in a sock (we don't see the item, but per my father, this is how barracks justice was handed down as of the sixties, so let's assume), and Jeff awakens to hear the sounds of a blanket partyalready in progress. It's Williams, no surprise, and the gag they've put on him is no match for his wails of agony. Jeff rushes over to break this up too, telling the participants to scatter or they'll get written up, and helps Williams into the shower to clean up -- and to convince him to go to a doctor, which Williams doesn't want, because he'll have to write a report and make a complaint. "You're hurt, you need a doctor," Jeff says patiently, but Williams hollers, "I need out! …Get me out. Get me reassigned. Please!" He's near tears, and panting from the pain. Jeff cups his cheek. Williams meets his eye, then grabs his arm and pulls Jeff down onto the shower bench with him and cries on Jeff's shoulder. Jeff nurturingly busses Williams's head, and the generous comfort Jeff offers Williams is painful to watch, because you know no good deed goes unpunished, on earth as it is in American Crime Story, so of course Jeff glances up to see a NASCAR-looking dude giving them a disgusted glare from the doorway, then flip-flopping away.

The next day, Jeff goes through the lunch line and into the mess, and the shot follows him as he looks for a spot to sit, then locks eyes with NASCAR mustache guy from the night before. (The actor's name is Ric Maddox, and I'd like to note that he has also played the Joker in a short film called Gay Batman. The sort of dialogue he has here can't be an enjoyable day at the office, and Maddox is good, doesn't sell it out with ham like he might want to.) Finn Wittrock gives us a flicker of "let's get this over with" as he walks over and sits firmly down at the last empty seat at Mustache's table. Mustache can't wait to launch into a story about a guy getting caught at a "hook-up place for f**s," asking if Jeff knows it. Jeff's like, um, no, and Mustache goes on that the MPs went in undercover and busted the spot. Great use of your budget there, y'all. Jeff asks if the guy got discharged; Mustache says no, not if he agrees to name "every f** he's ever blown," but the guy doesn't know names -- so he's going to provide a list of tattoos. Cut to a super-tight close-up on Mustache's beady eyes as he asks with subtle relish, "Got any tattoos, Jeff?" Jeff glances around the table and chuckles all "FOH with that," but…

…the next scene is Jeff in the showers again, this time with an exacto knife, his issued Zippo, bandages, and a Costco bottle of rubbing alcohol. This is painful to watch, but I have to wonder what kind of clandestine blowjobs everyone else is giving that they'd see, much less take note of, a tattoo on the calf. I mean, don't the pants stay pretty far up in that instance? -- unless that's the point, that Jeff's paranoia is that far-reaching (and perhaps justified). Anyway, he takes the blade to the Martian and starts carving, but only gets about a third of the way around before he has to stop.

The next day, we're in a handheld shot of Jeff supervising other seamen, including the puncher from earlier, who glares at him. He's told the captain wants to see him, and as he's heading for the captain's quarters through a warren of hallways, it seems like everyone he passes -- and needs must nearly brush up against in these tight quarters -- along the way is eyeing him suspiciously. He takes a quick breath and reports in to the captain, and maybe this got fixed for the air version, but we probably shouldn't see what looks like a Studio City parking lot out the porthole.

Jeff is told to have a seat, and does, at which time he spots blood seeping through his pantleg from the tattoo wound -- also apparently added in post, as it doesn't move when Jeff's leg does, so I assume they fixed that too. He tries not to freak out, but then the captain hands him a booklet entitled Dignity & Respect: A Training Guide On Homosexual Conduct Policy.

This comic book -- yes, "comic book" -- also existed, which might seem hard to believe if you haven't served or don't have family members in the service but is all too credible if you have/do. Like, the parachutist at the top right…"irony-free up-fuckery," is what my vet uncle would call this. Jeff too-quickly asks if there's some reason the captain's giving it to him. It's being circulated to all officers; does Jeff not think it's important? Jeff's like, of…course, sure. Does Jeff have any questions? "No sir!" Jeff gulps. "You haven't looked at it." Jeff then grimly recites the section of the…Uniform Code? Not sure if that applies here, actually, but it's the regulation that prohibits engaging in or even admitting to "homosexual acts." The captain stares at Jeff, then asks if he knows all the regulations by heart. "Most, sir," Jeff says, which tracks. "Open the book," he's told, so he does, staring dully at a page that overexplains what "Don't Ask" means. The captain asks again if he has questions, and when Jeff answers again that he doesn't, the captain goes on about a code of conduct, without which they're "nothing." "Nothing," Jeff repeats. So they're understood? "Yes, sir."

Nighttime. Jeff's in the shower again, this time poring over the comic. He pauses when he thinks he hears footsteps, then resumes, this time at the Don't Tell portion of the book.

Daytime. He's dressing in his whites, buffing his cap, shining his white shoes. I didn't even write a note about the visual reference to Lt. Col. Markinson in A Few Good Men, because that character's about to shoot himself, but maybe I was onto something, because then we're back in the shower, Jeff standing in his whites on the bench and contemplating the belt he's looped over a ceiling pipe.

Wittrock looks about twelve years old in this shot and it is buh-rutal. Jeff puts his head through and leans on the belt, but he can't go through with this either, although it's a harrowing couple minutes, and the mood isn't lifted by his despair as he sags, crying, onto the shower bench.

He's only slightly happier about the prospect of visiting a gay bar called Flicks, but he does it, albeit with baseball hat pulled fairly far down and a body language suggesting deep conflict. Company B's "Fascination" blares in the bar as he hesitantly orders a beer and looks around at the men smiling, the men smoking, the go-go boy with the American-flag briefs smizing at him. Beside him is Cunanan, who spots him as a rookie immediately. "Was it that obvious?" "There were a few clues," Cunanan smirks, and introduces himself.

Later, they're yukking it up at a table with a few empties as Jeff reveals that he's never gone to any gay bar before. Cunanan's shaggy-dog joke about the bartender setting off fireworks that make the shape of Jeff's name to mark the occasion wigs Jeff out momentarily, but Jeff sincerely thanks him for making the night un-humiliating. Cunanan preens that it's his honor, and he feels like he's part of Jeff's history. He asks if Jeff is military, and murmurs that it must be hard. Jeff agrees that it is. Cunanan switches gears, saying rules require him to buy Jeff drinks for the rest of the night and insisting Jeff put his money away. Jeff smiles to himself. At the bar, Cunanan watches him fondly.

Another time, at the same bar, Cunanan asks how it happens that CBS wants to interview Jeff. They came to the base and canvassed the straight soldiers, Jeff says; his part is sharing "the other side." Cunanan sputters that Jeff is crazy, they'll kick him out, but Jeff says they'll keep him in shadow so he can't be identified. "How humiliating," Cunanan breathes. Jeff doesn't get it, so Cunanan notes that the bigots get to stand in the light, uniforms on, proudly; Jeff gets to stay in the shadows with his voice distorted, "like a criminal." "Yep," Jeff says grimly. Of course this is how Cunanan thinks of it, and that the Navy will witch-hunt Jeff, that nobody cares what he has to say and it's not worth it, but it's something Jeff needs to do. He can't explain it.

He pulls up to a motel in his Jeep and gathers himself, then approaches one of the rooms.

Gianni and Antonio do the same, at a different hotel.

Jeff listens at the hotel-room door.

Gianni breathes, "My heart," and puts Antonio's hand on his chest to feel the hammering. "Mine too," Antonio laughs. Gianni wonders how many interviews he's done. Antonio puts Gianni's hand over his heart and says he can't count. "None like this," Gianni says. They kiss. Gianni knocks.

Jeff shakes hands with his interviewer.

Gianni shakes hands with his interviewer. As he's posing for pictures, Antonio stares into the middle distance; he's snapped out of the reverie by Gianni coming over for help zhuzhing his shirt.

Jeff's reassured that viewers will only see his silhouette, and that the MPs can't make the interviewer reveal his sources.

Gianni's interviewer confirms that Gianni understands he's on the record.

Jeff explains that the military is his life; it's all he ever wanted to do. Asked if anyone serving is out, Jeff says the majority are closeted, "and will always be closeted."

Gianni interrupts his interview to introduce Antonio in so many words as his partner, and to ask if they can do the interview together. The interviewer smiles warmly, knowing what he's witnessing, and says absolutely.

Jeff, meanwhile, isn't so optimistic, saying that he thinks talking to CBS is probably the end of his career. But at the same time, his career probably died a long time ago, he says, choking up. They know. They've never promoted him, even though he's a good sailor. "How do they know?" Jeff tells the story of saving Williams's life. It's slightly different from what we heard before in the phrasing, but we're still seeing these two men, both struggling to do the right thing, and the hopeful version of the right thing. Both killed by a guy who couldn't see any way to get love except to never tell the truth and to trade in shame instead of pride.

The day of Jeff's death. He comes home to find his apartment in bad-guest disarray and Cunanan performatively eating Froot Loops, four of which he probably left in the box, because: dickhead. Jeff sees his uniform hat on the table, stares at Cunanan, and heads into the bedroom without a word as Cunanan scrambles to his feet. Jeff finds his uniform on the bed and stalks back into the living room: "You went through my stuff?" Cunanan non-answers that he was going to tidy up, but Jeff interrupts that he touched Jeff's uniform. Cunanan was going to put it back: "So what?" "'So what'?" Jeff snarls. Cunanan's eyes narrow as he says he doesn't get why Jeff keeps it. Cunanan didn't serve his country; he'll never get it. No, Cunanan doesn't, not after how the Navy treated him. "You've never believed in anything except yourself," Jeff says, but Cunanan protests that he believed in Jeff, "didn't I," when the Navy didn't? "Everything you gave me, the bars, the meals, the men, it means nothing -- I want my life back!" Jeff says. He means his real life, as a soldier. Cunanan croons in an oh-honey tone that they never wanted him -- Cunanan wanted him! Jeff's like, pass, and says he doesn't know who Cunanan is; he doesn't stand for anything. He isn't anything, he's just a liar. "You have no honor," Jeff finishes, heading back into the bedroom.

Now Cunanan's pissed, and tries to take control of the situation/Jeff, sneering that Jeff's not in the Navy anymore, "sweetie" -- he's a washed-up [slur] with a shitty job, in a shitty condo, "bitching about how you could have been someone." This is Cunanan, really, not Jeff, but Jeff says he's right about that. Cunanan attempts to pull rank by announcing grandly that, when Jeff walked into "that bar," he saved Jeff. Jeff: "You destroyed me!" He wishes he'd never gone into that bar; he wishes he'd never met Cunanan. Cunanan switches gears, saying Jeff's confused and can't see it, but Jeff can see it: "I see it, I feel it, I hate it." I think he means that what he sees and feels keep him from what he truly loves, serving in the Navy, but I'd hear arguments. In any case, Cunanan is still trying to work the tractor beam, putting his hands up to Jeff's face and starting to say he loved Jeff so much, but Jeff swats Cunanan's hands away, knocking him back a step: "No one! Wants! Your love!"

Cunanan Starmans out of the room, gathering his bag (with Jeff's gun on top) and leaving without a word.

David is opening the door to let his "friend" out and finds Cunanan just standing there. Cunanan brushes in, in between David and the friend, without being invited in. "Andrew!" Cunanan parks it on the coffee table: "Yes?" David didn't hear the buzzer. Cunanan didn't want to bother (read: alert) David, so he "just slipped in behind someone else." The friend's like, yikes, and David has to whisper that he'll call. He fastens his bathrobe tightly, and is about to get into it when Cunanan fake-haltingly mentions what David said "about needing help." Can they talk tonight? "Sure," David this-fucking-guys, and goes into the bedroom. Cunanan schemes.

Jeff irons his uniform and folds it neatly away.

While David showers, Cunanan calls Jeff to neener that he has Jeff's gun; he borrowed it to protect David from a stalker who's back in town. As Jeff is bitching at him about having a license and how the gun never leaves the apartment, Cunanan smiles smugly at the trap he's going to spring. Jeff says he'll come over and retrieve it, but he's done with Cunanan -- done. Cunanan tries to grade-school that Jeff said that already, but Jeff hangs up on him. Cunanan wanders into the area of David's loft that's under construction and eyes the hammer.

Jeff's downstairs now, banging on the broken buzzer. Cunanan asks if David's going to get the door, but this time, David asks if he's joking, and Cunanan grumps that Jeff is "very hostile at the moment" and he'd rather not get into it with him in the foyer. As David's letting Jeff in, Cunanan is selecting the hammer and taking up his lurking post. We see him hear Jeff say he never wants to see Cunanan again, and again here the dialogue is somewhat shuffled from what we saw last week, but it may air differently -- or be a "what Cunanan 'hears' and what's actually happening aren't the same" thing. It doesn't change the ending, unfortunately, and we cut from the door swinging shut and Cunanan rushing Jeff…

…to Jeff's sister getting wheeled into labor, hollering in pain. Slow pan across Jeff's empty apartment as his parents leave various messages about the labor and delivery; fade out on Jeff's hat, neatly atop the uniform box, as Jeff's parents inform him that he has a niece, and everyone's healthy.

#acs versace #previously tv #epic old school recaps #2.05 #recap #review #article #february 2018

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