Chapter 3 ~ Failure
Allara began to sink into the deep leather seats when she realized what she was doing and sat up with ramrod posture. The prospect of the various things that could be crawling all over that sticky leather cab seat was enough to make her skin crawl, not to mention the assortment of activities that probably had gone on there. Her thoughts turned to her recent encounter with the infamous Orlando Bloom.
That man just cannot take a hint. I swear, if I had threatened to have him arrested, he would've just smiled and offered me a cup of coffee. You know…I wonder why he's here in L.A. anyway. He’s probably visiting…shit…what’s his name? I have a whole portfolio on that kid and I can’t even remember his name? It starts with an ‘E’…E…E…Edward? Edgar? Elijah? Elijah! Wood. That’s it…they worked together on Lord of the Rings. Well, that at least explains why he didn’t have a ride yet. Most likely what happened is that Elijah was supposed to pick him up and slept in.
Oh shit, where am I going?
"The closest motel please." She leaned forward to tell the cabbie her destination; he, in turn, gave her what would have been a toothy grin if he had had very many teeth to speak of. Slightly disgusted she retreated to the depths of the hazy car to try and have another smoke. After once again ransacking her purse, she realized that Orlando had never given her back her lighter. "Fuck." She muttered under her breath. The only other lighters she had were in her lost luggage, and that had been her favorite one. It was a purple dragon and the flame came out of the mouth.
When she got to the hotel, she thought she was about to collapse from fatigue. Sinking down onto the bed, with various springs poking in her back, she didn't even bother changing clothes, removing make-up or getting under the covers before falling into a fitful sleep. In her dreams, she envisioned several different houses, most of which were gorgeously decorated and some of which had their own hired help. The next day's goal was to find a job and an apartment.
Allara woke up around noon and fixed a pot of hot black coffee, compliments of the motel, that resembled boiled mud and tasted just about the same. Still in her clothes from the day before, she rushed down to the lobby to retrieve a newspaper so that she could search the classifieds section. She found three ads for apartments that she thought might be anywhere near her price range and numerous job offers. She decided to check out the jobs first, because what's the point in having an apartment if you cannot pay for it?
She must have traveled the lengths of Los Angeles over five times that day, with the various job offers and apartment possibilities. She took some time to go down to the airport to see if they had retrieved her luggage and was told that it had gotten loaded onto the wrong plane in New York and was now on its way to Venezuela. It would be returned to her on the next flight, which was in two days. Now she was grateful for all of her precautionary measures and that single carry-on. From restaurant to restaurant, bars to clothing stores, she never found a job that was either not filled or that paid even close to enough.
The apartment prospects were so disheartening, she gave serious thought to calling up one of her friends and asking them to move to Los Angeles, just so that they could room together and be able to afford a decent apartment. The first one was overridden with cockroaches and had holes in the floor and ceiling alike. Walking in the place was almost impossible because of the stench of urine and alcohol that pervaded the air. If that wasn't horrible enough, the second one was worse. Rodents shared the space with the cockroaches and the smell was unidentifiable as anything other that gag-worthy. There was only one window in the entire facility and it was broken with a trash bag duct taped over the whole. But the third, it was the third that made her lose all hope whatsoever of ever finding a place to live that she could possibly afford until she was able to get steady business through a gallery. It was a wonder that it wasn't condemned.
Jesus. At this rate, I'll be living on the streets in a week. Maybe I can find a nice bench in the park to live under or something. Perhaps someone will take pity on me and bring me some food everyday. I could go from street corner to street corner and beg for money. Or maybe I could sing. Yeah, I could sing on the corner to make some money.
Dinnertime rolled around and she meandered into a café that was just around the corner from her hotel, completely devoid of ever finding anything that would work. After a quick glance at the menu and her purse in turn, she discovered that the only thing she could afford was a ham and cheese sandwich and some apple juice if she wanted to eat breakfast and dinner the next day. It looked like for a while she was going to have to skip a meal every day. Without a job, she just didn't have the money. Allara was rubbing her temples, trying to rid herself of the migraine that had been plaguing her all day when she noticed the HELP WANTED sign in the front window of the café. They probably didn't pay enough, but money was money and she needed some of it.
"Excuse me, are you the owner?" She asked a plump woman behind the cash register who, in turn, looked at her like she had asparagus growing out her ears. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to know if the job position is still open, do you still have a job available?" She put on her most winning smile and looked hopefully at the blank face of the woman in front of her.
"You ever had any experience waitressing?"
"Yes ma'am, I worked in a restaurant for two years before moving here." It would have been solid enough grounds for her to get the job, had it been true. But Mrs. Shostakovich, as the woman turned out to be named, did not know that Allara Evans was lying through her pretty white teeth, and so hired her on the spot. Thinking that perhaps this might be her lucky day, Allara inquired on a place for rent nearby.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Shostakovich, but I was wondering if you know of any places around here that are for rent." Just for this special occasion, she was using her ‘overly-southern-dripping-with-honey-could-I-be-any-sweeter?’ voice. The poor woman behind the counter was eating it up, taking pity on this poor soul. What a sweet girl.
"Why yes honey, there's an apartment for rent right down the street. It's not much to look at, but the water is hot and the air conditioning works. Every once in a while, you'll see a little cockroach, but it's nothing to be scared of." Allara shuddered at the mention of the bugs, but decided that it was her only option and finished her meal quickly so as to go and inquire. Maybe it was her lucky day, maybe someone up above loved her, but the apartment was still free and after a few minutes of figuring the difference between her new paycheck and the monthly rent, it was decided that she could afford it.
Oh thank the lord, maybe there is a God. Wait…I need to check on my luggage again.
The airport still didn’t have her bags ready and so, she had to move into the apartment with only three changes of clothes, a toothbrush, and the bare minimum of makeup. Starting work the next was harder than she had originally thought it would be and by the second week, it was easy to see that she had never waitressed before in her life. It didn’t help matters that she was constantly showing up late for work. It wasn’t that she couldn’t get up on time, when she had enough sleep, it was that she just didn’t get to sleep until at least 2 in the morning on most nights. During her time off, she was constantly working on new pieces, planning to put together a portfolio nice enough to take around to the local galleries and see if anyone would take her stuff. That was her plan, but it too was failing miserable. She couldn’t focus; time and time again she found herself staring at a completed piece, finding Orlando Bloom staring right back at her. It was rather disconcerting to look around her apartment because everywhere you turned there was another drawing, sketch, or painting of those haunting brown eyes.
She had only worked for three weeks before she found it impossible to keep up the “sweet southern gal” act in front of her employer. She decided to take up a double shift because the money, after taxes, just wasn’t going to be enough to pay the monthly rent and if she lost that apartment, she had no place else to go.
Stay on your feet Evans, don’t screw this up. You cannot afford to lose either the job or the apartment. At the rate you’re going, you’ll be fired in a month.
It didn’t take a month. One more week and she was gone. She was working the late shift and had been on her smoking break, taking a little longer than usual to get her thoughts together. When Mrs. Shostakovich came out to tell her that she was needed inside, Allara snapped and that was the end. “I will come inside when I am damn well good and ready you fucking cow!” She lost her temper and therefore lost control of herself. It was just too much to keep a job, an apartment, and a sunny disposition all at once. When she finally deemed it necessary to come back inside, she was called to the back by the other owner, Mr. Shostakovich.
“Allara, I think we need to talk.” She didn’t know what Mrs. S had repeated, so she decided to act like nothing had happened, hoping to God that the old woman didn’t say anything and it was just her lack of skills that they needed to talk about. “About what Mr. S?” The southern sweetie act was back and stronger than ever. If she could just save herself from the fires this once…just this once…
“I think you know what about Allara.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand towards a back booth where Mrs. Shostakovich sat, head in hands and body racked with sobs. Apparently she was very conscientious about her weight. Exhaling deeply, Allara mumbled a few expletives.
“Honey, I don’t think you’re going to be able to work with us anymore. You can give your apron to Zach, in the kitchen, and stop by next week for your last paycheck.” She looked calm, while taking off the small white apron, and to the normal passerby it would appear as if she was used to losing her only source of income, lowly as it was. But inside she was a fit of emotions.
Oh motherfucking hell. I cannot believe I just lost my fucking job. What am I supposed to do now? I won’t even have enough money to pay the first month’s rent, I’ll be kicked out of the apartment as well. Jesus Christ, what am I supposed to do?
She quietly left and went to go sit out on the curb outside. Taking another cigarette from her purse, she lit it thoughtfully and began to ponder on how ironic the entire situation was. Finally, the heavy realization of it all walked up and hit her in the face. The sob that she had been struggling to control ever since the plane ride from Atlanta took over her body and ripped itself from her throat. She could no longer quell its violence. At one in the morning, the streets around the little run-down café were all but deserted. As the sob left her chest and went up her throat, flying past her lips, it ripped at her heart. Loud, desperate, and haunting, it echoed through the buildings of the cruel, unloving city. She had dreamed about Los Angeles for years, her hopes and aspirations all rested in the City of Angels. Alas, it was not to be. Los Angeles did not want Allara Evans; it did not welcome her to the fold. And on this quiet night in the heart of the city, her defeat reverberated from every surface and was heard faintly in the ears of every inhabitant.
Oh my god. Oh my god ohmygodohmygodohmygod. I have no place to go. I don’t have a fucking house, I don’t have a job, I barely have any money.
She had never been a religious person, but now she began to scream out into the night, taking out all her rage on a deity she didn’t believe in and never had. She rose from the curb, cigarette in hand, and turned her face to the heavens.
“Where are you now God? Where are you now? When I need you the most, you sick bastard, where are you? What am I supposed to do now? Am I supposed to go home and beg for forgiveness? RESPECT THY FATHER AND MOTHER??! IS THAT WHAT I’M SUPPOSED TO DO???!!” Her screams were heard by all in the café, and everyone on the streets. Strangled and desperate, they haunted the ears of all who were listening. Still, she kept on.
“Where is MY knight in shining armor? HUH? I don’t get one? You’re clean out of knights in shining armor? So there’s NO ONE to come riding up to me on a white steed, and whisk me off to fairyland? ISN’T THAT WHAT’S SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN? THE DAMSEL IN DISTRESS? I suffer and suffer and suffer, and finally, when all hope is gone, I can’t even get my knight? I WOULD SETTLE FOR A MESSENGER ON A FUCKING ALBINO DONKEY!!!!”
Spent and desolate, she fell back down to the curb where the sob was waiting, waiting to leap up and meet her again. Throat burning, chest heaving, and eyes streaming with tears, Allara Evans sat; she had failed. On the curb, she sat. Cold. Desperate. Despairing. Alone.
