I've flipped through pages and pages now, dialed countless numbers, spoken with barely half as many "managers on duty at the moment." This is the price of trying to better myself, but at this point, I'm getting sick of sounding cheery to gum-smacking teenage girls who've lived here their whole lives and don't care about me half as much as I care about talking to them. I turn the page to the J's, not even near the end of the alphabet but nearing the end of my patience. 

I'm not a religious girl. When I was little I went to school at St. Andrews Catholic Academy for Young Ladies and I went to mass whenever our family piled into the old Volkswagon and drove the four and a half miles to the stone building I could never see as the castle my classmates thought it was. But so did everyone else. So the feeling I felt last night after hanging up on my Mother was unfamiliar to me. I wouldn't go so far as to call it a come-to-Jesus, but it was pretty damn close. I cried. I don't remember the last time I cried, maybe a lack of emotions goes with the lack of imagination, but the tears just poured. And I came out of it feeling stronger than I've felt in years, my resolve to be better was overpowering. "I should be in a Gatorade commercial," I thought, the classic [fill in the blank] picking herself up off the [blank] and trying again. 

And that's where I am now, making myself better. I dial the last J number, and start counting rings. I usually give up by the twelfth or thirteenth ring but I kept listening this time. Lulled into a stupor by the incessant tone, my eyes glazed over as I thought of what I could become. I'm actually going to do something with my life after sitting in this shithole for nearly six months. Which is why I was probably so startled by the rapid rapping at my thin door. 

"Ma'am, open up," a gruff voice called much too loudly for my landlord downstairs. I drop the phone on the ground with a clatter. With shaking hands and a shakier voice, I place the phone in the cradle with difficulty and stand on wobbly feet to answer the door. Before I can make it there, it's pushed open with fat sausage fingers that definitely don't belong to the skinny Asian man downstairs. "Ma'am," he says, "we received a call to check in on ya. Somethin' 'bout you actin' weird an' stuff." I rack my mind for my actions over the last twenty-four hours. The liquor store. "Is everything goin' okay here, ma'am?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine," I stutter out. I guess it sounded more like a slur because the man who's badge I now recognize looks me in the eye and asks if there's anything I'd like to tell him about. I stand with my mouth agape, not quite knowing what to do next. I've alway been the good kid. Always. His beady black eyes search the flat, finally coming to rest on the counter where I left the unopened bottle of whiskey last night. "Oh," I say, "I'm feeling much better..." But apparently that's not what he's looking at. The Ambien. Except for there's one problem with it: it's in a Zip-Loc bag, and I don't have a prescription. 

"Ma'am I think you should come with me," he says easily, like it happens all the time. But I'm not a criminal. I got these right before I came. "I just. Sleep. Hard. I can't." But he walks toward me. The cold cuffs click behind my back. And for the second time in twenty-four hours I cry. I tried so hard. 

I step into the backseat of the car and the man closes the door after me. There is no point in my resisting. We drive slowly toward the other end of this slum that I tried so hard to make the best of. I see ambulances and police cars and an assembling crowd by the playground. But everything going on outside is nothing. The cop slows down and asks another overweight cop what's going on. Something about a dead woman on the playground. Usually I'd feel some sadness for her, her family, the things she left behind undone, but to myself I'm dead. There is no point in trying.

So my life really is a movie. I mean, where else is all this shit going to happen but in Hollywood? I can see the storyboard now: lonely girl in big city, makes up imaginary dog, almost kills herself, then is saved by...

See, you thought I was going to say a knight in shining armor (or a shiny sports car, take your pick). But no, I'm saved by my Mother, technically. I'd just bought a bottle of whiskey from the middle-eastern guy at the liquor store and was settling in for a nice evening alone. When the phone rang. It had to have been 2 or 3 in the morning at home, but my Mom called. Funny thing was, I didn't know why she called until we got past all the formalities and she asked me how my birthday went. Two days ago. So not only did I forget my birthday but my own mother forgot it. And as I'm eyeing the liquor and pills sitting on the counter next to me because not only is my life screwed up but so is my family's on the other side of an ocean who I've been trying to get away from for almost 6 months now, I realized something. The woman on the other end of the line, who must be drunk out of her mind to be calling me this late, is nothing. This city, town, slum, is nothing. But by taking myself out of it I'm not solving anybody's problems. So I make some lame excuse to go, not that she'll remember it in the morning, and pick up the yellow pages. 

I've been thinking alot about the conversation I had with that blind bloke at the pub a few days ago. My relationships (or lack there of) have pretty much revolved around Jojo, but that guy's questions made me realize that I'm going about this all wrong. I have been trying to interact with people the last few months through my dog. I thought it would work - you know, like those movies where the two people fall in love because one of their dogs jumps on the other? Life's not really like that. If this hell hole has taught me anything it's that. But my skewed version of relationships isn't even the most pathetic part of my life. Jojo's not real. I don't really know why I made him up. I never had an imaginary friend when I was little, I was always the kid with no imagination. When we played princes and princesses, I was always the horse: no speaking role on the playground, no need to show off my lack of creativity. So maybe I'm living my childhood, but I don't think this is how the life of a girl in her late twenties is supposed to go.

I find myself in front of Mo' Liquor. As I'm wondering how I ended up down here, outside of my apartment in the damp evening cold, a man walking quickly nearly knocks me over. I regain my balance and he disappears around the corner, taking the strong stench of fish with him. I'm completely invisible. Like my dog. And a bottle of scotch and my leftover Ambien are sounding better and better by the second.

An Attempt at Normalcy

So tonight I decided to do something new. You know, maybe get out a little. It's the first time I've done anything in this town without Jojo, and my wrist feels slightly lighter, almost naked without the blue and white woven leash twisted twice around it. I don't really know what type of people hang out at the pub, but I put on my new sweater just in case. It's not really new, but I haven't worn it since I unpacked my last remnants of home last night. It'd be really nice to meet someone who I could talk to. I realize that talking only to my dog for the past month and a half is probably not healthy. I found myself talking to the box of Lucky Charms yesterday. And the day before that I apologized to the fire hydrant after I bumped into it. "Yeah," I think aloud, before I catch myself and finish the thought in my head, I need to get out more.

Once inside the pub, I look around and almost immediately regret coming in. Besides the woman behind the counter, there are only two people in the shop: a haggard-looking man by the heater in the back, and another in the corner with his dog. Strange, I think to myself this time, maybe I should have brought Jojo. I pick a table by the guy with the dog, hoping we may have something in common. After the slightly distracted woman from the counter takes my order, I would feel bad not buying anything, I turn to the man on my left. I see his cloudy eyes and understand the dog: he's blind. But he's noticed my presence (do I smell? I think back to the last time I showered in the frigid water of my flat), and says "I'm Jacen, how are ya?"

"Fine," I reply, "Loretta." We make small talk for a while about that guy on top of the bank this afternoon who everyone seemed to pay so much more attention to than the escaped convict who was all over the news. Priorities in this place are screwed up. Then I ask him about his dog, which he says he's had a few years now. "I have a dog too," I say, "Jojo, he's an Irish setter." The man raises his eyebrows, not so much in surprise but an expression of disbelief. 

"How old is he?" Jacen asks in a low voice. I think for a minute, it's not something that's ever crossed my mind. A small smile crosses the man's face, "don't worry about it," he continues. He easily pushed his chair back and maneuvers his way out of the small restaurant. 

I look around, painfully aware that I am now the only paying customer in the pub, and feeling almost as empty as when I came in, save for the brew that's not near as good as it was at home. 

Hot Tears

I'm taking Jojo to that abandoned lot today, the one over by Lu's garage. I promise myself I can get a hot milk at the coffee shop if I go out. I like the ones with almond syrup, but no whipped cream. I hate whipped cream. Anyway, the flipping lot is a let down. This Lu guy must toss all of his reject parts there, and after I decide I don't want to have to take Jojo to get a tetanus shot, we leave.

As soon as we turn onto Pulaski Jojo pulls on his leash. My drink sloshes onto the flannel jacket I've worn the last four days. I think the laundromat should give me a discount for using all of my hot water, but so far my arguments have been unsuccessful.

I guess I wasn't watching where I was walking. I am jolted out of my thoughts when a rude man, cursing worse than my uncle after six rounds of whiskey, runs right into Jojo. Neither Jojo nor the slightly overweight man seem to have noticed, though, so I take a step backward to survey all the people milling around. I don't go out much, but this is ridiculous. I ask the frizzy-haired woman next to me if she knows what is going on. The only response I get is the overwhelming stench of alcohol and cigarettes burned too long. Don't ask me how I know what too long is. But the stench reminds me of home. Warm tears trickle down my numb face as I rush back to my flat, unsure whether they're from the cold or the place I'm running from.

Still Cold

I am freezing. My toes and fingers go first. When the thermometer drops to where I can't even turn on the electric stove for the numbness of my hands, I have to leave the flat. I didn't think it would be as cold here as back home, but the wind blowing off the lake gives me chills. 

I can't clasp Jojo's leash, and we finally descend the stairs to the street without it. It's late and the clouds leftover from the heavy snow transform the moon's glow into an opaque shadow. The only light on Rouse pours around the corner from the picture window of the bar. I walk faster, trying to regain the feeling in my extremities, and Jojo trots to keep up. 

We pass the bus stop, but a crumpled figure captures my attention. I apprehensively take a step towards the thing hunched against the bent sign. Jojo bounds forward, barking. I'm afraid he'll disturb the whole neighborhood, and I call for him to stop. The figure stirs as if my shouts have startled it, but Jojo's incessant licks don't seem to phase the figure, which I now notice is a man much taller than I. We awkwardly make eye contact as I stumble backwards, regretting taking a walk this evening. As I half walk, half jog to the back of the laundromat and my frozen fingers fumble at the deadbolt and double lock, I am not so sure I should have avoided the man. I glance over my shoulder to where he sat, now a beckoning patch of sidewalk that could have meant a break in my monotonous routine. I haven't talked to anyone in four days now besides Jojo. And I'm freezing. 

Cold Water

A cold shiver runs down my spine. I brace myself against the frigid water flowing, or more like dribbling, out of the shower head I should have replaced weeks ago. But there's still so much to unpack that I haven't gotten around to it, much less worrying about the color of the water running out of the kitchen sink. I make a mental note to wake up earlier tomorrow: if I get in the shower before the laundromat opens, there's usually some lukewarm water left for me.

When I looked for a flat I thought the rent on my place was a great deal. Little did I know it came with plumbing at the level of a 19th century project. But I like living in this part of town. I'm close enough to the tower to meet people, but my flat has a smaller chance of some freak accident. Like a fire. I'm scared to death of fire.

A scratch at the door cuts through my thoughts. 

"Alright, Jojo," I call over the patter of water. I turn the faucet. It sticks. I pull harder and it snaps off. I have to find the hardware store, I should explore the town. My sheepdog Jojo is waiting right outside the door. I swear if I were to find a job he would wait for me, soggy tennis ball in mouth, the whole day. I toss the ball down the hall and look for the newspaper I bought yesterday when I was walking Jojo. By the barber shop a nice man smiled to me. Maybe I will run into him today. I open the wanted ads, but so far my meager waitressing skills haven't taken me far. I turn to Jojo, splayed at the end of my sparse hallway. That dog is just great at catch. It's the bring back part we're working on.