"Oh, God, Erm." A hot blotch of shame crept up my neck. "Look, I just have to go my own way. You know. I'm trying to—I have some things going." How fucking embarrassing. I hadn't thought my circumstances showed that much.
"Your clothes are shabby." She was looking at the cuffs of my jeans.
"But clean. A lot of people wear frayed clothes. It's the style."
"Come on. Even your shoes are frayed."
It was true, my Bass Weejun penny loafers had been resoled three times now, and yes, the tongues lay soft as mushroom gills. But they were clean.
In fact, I'd tried. My freelance writing just wasn't bringing in enough money, so I'd applied to several management training programs, one at Comerica Bank, one at J.C. Penney, and one at Midas Mufflers. The tests revealed that I had good verbal skills (news flash there), was lousy with numbers (ditto), and dismal on management skills, however the hell they quantify those things.
Somehow I couldn't hook into anything solid. I considered trucker school; I considered bartender school; I even considered cosmetology.
Cops excel at letting you dig a hole for yourself.
"I'm doing fine, Erma. Really." I sank my cutlery into a meatball and lifted a steaming morsel to my mouth, my saliva almost spurting out to meet it. I wolfed the thing down. "I mean, I'm paying my rent and keeping Todd in bunny chow." I didn't mention that my landlords had reduced my rent so I could afford to stay there, and that I was foraging in people's backyards for leaves for my old sick rabbit. "It's not that I think I'm too good to flip hamburgers or pull weeds, OK? It's just that I'm, I'm just, I'm—oh, hell."
"No, you're not fine."
"Well, what, then? Have you been opening my bank statements or something?"
"Look, Lillian, I can't believe you've let yourself get into such dire straits. You're actually going hungry."
"I'm a fussy eater."
"You're not getting enough to eat. Are you depressed?"
"Jesus, what is this? No, I'm not depressed. I'm happy as a goddamn lark." I kept eating. I hadn't gotten to the point of borrowing money from anyone. I just kept thinking things would turn around. Something would come up. I kept expecting myself to think of a new thing to do: a business to start, or some fabulous idea for a book everyone would need to buy. Something.
As I sat there talking to Porrocks, what I really wanted to do was burst into tears and wail, "I've wasted my life! A newspaper job I blew, a few crummy freelance bylines, a couple of half-assed warehouse jobs where they didn't even let me drive the forklift, a couple of dollars a night busking on the streets with my mandolin—that's been it! That's been fuckin' it!"
[End of chapter 1 of Easy Street. Get yours here and now.]
ALSO BY ELIZABETH SIMS
You've Got a Book in You: A Stress-Free Guide to Writing the Book of Your Dreams
Fiction
(It’s not necessary to read either series in order.)
The Rita Farmer Mysteries
The Actress (#1)
The Extra (#2)
On Location (#3)
The Lillian Byrd Crime Novels
Holy Hell (#1)
Damn Straight (#2)
Lucky Stiff (#3)
Easy Street (#4)
Left Field (#5)
www.elizabethsims.com
Elizabeth's Amazon Author Page
Table of Contents
Title Page
Reviews
Also by Elizabeth Sims
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
About Elizabeth Sims
Note From Elizabeth