Page 7 of Puck, Marry, Thrill

“You’ve gotta befluffin’me!”

Jamie screeched and heard laughter around her at her words.

“What?!I’m trying to clean up my potty mouth, and you would not have appreciated what is flying through my brain right now. I cannot –cannot– believe this,” she seethed as she stared down at her blouse that was covered in mocha latte, complete with whipped cream and those little crunchy, chocolatey coffee bits she loved so much.

But she loved theminsideof her cup.

Not on her chest.

Not on her last linen blouse that made her look like a million bucks, whereas her bank account said, ‘Nah, gurl… move that decimal – a lot’. She might look like a million bucks, but she was as broke as broke could get. Her boss was a royal ‘dillweed’and a complete ‘astronaut’making her life a living ‘haybale’at work… so much so that she quit.

Yeah, see, when you lost your temper at work and told him what he was in front of the executive team followed with a universal gesture that was unmistakable to discern – you had two options: Quit – or get fired.

She quit and raised her other hand in mirror of the first one.

Yeah, she was mad. Hostile. Recklessly angry. But when you start messing with a girl’s money for clothes, it was like cranking up the oven’s temperature. You ‘re-evaluate’ a person’s pay plan –again, mind you – to the point where you cannot afford clothing for work or groceries, then you tend to get a little more upset.

Jamie was ‘hangry’ when both finger guns flew today.

And now she had regret.

Heck, she was wearingsaid regretall over her last nice blouse. She didn’t have the money for Starbucks, but she sincerely needed the sugar, caffeine, and honestly? She needed something in her life to feel normal before it crumbled. Her car was going to get repoed, and she needed to decide which utility to turn off so she could pay her rent on the condo – and eat.

Without another word at the man who was glaring at her like it was her fault that she spilled her drink, she shoved past him and heard his muttered words. She froze, felt her eyeball spasm, and knew if she turned around to confront him, she was looking at twenty years behind bars.

No, she was temperamental… but smart.

“You are too pretty for jail,” she whispered aloud and walked off toward the parking garage in a huff, ignoring the looks following her. In her mind, she pictured a murderous thundercloud over her head and imagined that her eyebrows were smashed down in a ‘V,’ complete with a stress crease that would never disappear.

She was almost at the garage when her entire body lurched sideways to the left, nearly ringing her skull against the lamppost like a gong. Thank goodness it was there, or she might have fallen into the street!

Today was not her day.

Looking down, her Coach pumps that she bought at Goodwill and colored black with shoe polish where they were scuffed had officially broken. The heel was lying there in a mangled, ripped mess and barely clinging to the sole of her shoe.

“That’s it,” she whispered, closing her eyes and letting her shoulders sag. “It’s official. I give up. I giveall the way up– to the point that there is no moregiveto begiven. You hear me? The ‘giveth’ has ‘gone-th’ and left nothing in its place.”

“Miss, are you okay?”

“Not really,” she snarled, feeling slightly rabid, and looked at her blouse again. No, dry cleaning was out of the question.Forget the pumps,she thought, yanking the other one off.Pantyhose, you are taking one for the team,she thought, walking barefoot down the sidewalk and pitching her shoes in the nearest trashcan.

Shirt ruined.

Hose ruined.

Life… ruined.

“Why meeee,” she whined the moment she sat in the car and glanced at her watch. Maybe she could pawn it?No, go home. Don’t panic. Keep calm – and start looking at the job ads immediately,she thought glumly.

“Karma, that pendulum can swing the other direction any day now…”

* * *

Sixty-five minutes later, because,you know, traffic… Jamie was racing up to the building feeling lower than she ever had and her bladder was spasming. She charged up the stairs, not caring if her footsteps pounded like a herd of cattle in the breezeway of the building. Her bladder was pressing her like a seller on the streets of New York holding his coat open and asking her if she wanted a watch.

Want any T.P., lady…?

Slamming her door shut, she flung her purse onto the floor, wiggled frantically as she pressed her thighs together to keep from losing it, managing to salvage what was left of her pride and hobbling the rest of the way to the toilet. She plopped down, heard a snap… and something broke within her – just like the clip on the plastic toilet seat as it slid out from under her cheek sideways.

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