That’s it. I’m convinced my life is some guys’ comic strip. A figment of the imagination to someone with a lit cigarette stuck to the Carmex on his bottom lip. A Ziggy. Doonesbury. A brown Cathy with cute shoes. He absently gnaws the paint off the calligraphy pen he stole from Aaron Bros., wondering how many frames he needs before “Jenn” pees on herself in the work bathroom. The last frame ending with some crap like “At least I wore black pants”, the irony being that “Jenn” only wears black pants. There is no other explanation. It is impossible for one person to experience this level of oddity, irony, and drama without the divine intervention of someone with a sick sense of humor.
FIRST FRAME: “Jenn” starting her week by sitting in a coffee bar, the least cool person in the room. Her comfort zone in a galaxy far, far away. She knows of dimly lit bars with a neon wall of thick bottles coated in high percentage proofs, of velvet couches and ropes, tight clothes and high heels, long lines and cover charges. Swap the grocery-bag covered textbooks with coffee grinds it’s the first day of school. Amid the jeans and Tevas, “Jenn” sits by the drafty window table swaddled in Tiffany & Co., (fake) Chanel tote, and non-Apple laptop label. One of these things is not like the other, indeed. But our heroine is a trooper and sets up her laptop in anticipation of Friend Of A Friend’s performance. Only he’s not performing for another 90 minutes. First up are the vocal stylings of the itty bitty denim skirts from New Zealand. “Jenn”’s table is right next to stage and she’s the only one here with a laptop. So much for fitting in. Should she turn it off? Close it? Pretend to be in rapture by their Indigo Girl-osity? She can’t. The Blond just said “idear” and “Jenn” can’t stop staring at Blondie’s scuffed white patent leather boots. Really? There’s never a good day for white patent leather boots. Not even before Labor Day. They’re distracting.
Friend Of A Friend walks in. All 6’9” of him in a white oxford and jeans, approaching the Indigo Girls as they tune up for their set.
“Um, my name is Performing Friend of A Friend and I’m supposed to be performing here tonight. Is there another location with the same name? Am I in the right place?”
Super “Jenn” the rescue! (Draw cape here)
“Hi, I’m “Jenn”. I’m a friend of The ABFF. I checked the schedule and you are performing at 9:30pm. After them.”
He gives looks at her as if she’s asked if he’d like to see her piercing ‘down there’ until his friend confirms the information. He scampers off to suck back a few bottles of Dos Equis and “Jenn” returns to her laptop to ponder her life. Because introspection cannot go on without its supporting cast of patchouli, coffee grounds, desperation and pretention.
SECOND FRAME: In a cloud above “Jenn”’s head
“Jenn” is fortunate enough that talented people find her interesting. That they actually want to be friends with her. She suspects they keep her around for those times when their creativity is blocked by happiness and they need some new material. She get calls like “Tell me again about that time you hit that kid twice with your car!” or “Remember that time when you had sex for the first time with your gay college boyfriend and ended up bleeding all over the crispy white hotel sheets because you forgot to take your pill?” The ABFF is this amazingly talented poet who has mastered the art of relocation, the acquisition of skills that render her impervious to unemployment, and successfully maintains meaningful communication with every person she’s ever met. Ever. She is the queen of networking without a hint of smarm or self-promotion. She’s published. “Jenn” went to one of her readings and teared a little as the man waits in line to tell The ABFF how much her work means to him. She runs shit. She travels. She’s doing exactly what she went spend thousands of hours reading textbooks to do. And she’s effing great at it, even if YOU haven’t heard of her. Yet. And her Friend of A Friend, when he finally does perform, is he’s talented too. Then there’s The Singer, who dreamt of being a singer long before there were fat contracts, bling-bling, and video vixens. The Singer poked a middle finger at the industry who told her she needed to lose weight, manage severely plucked eyebrows and plunging cleavage to be heard. She put out her own album, which “Jenn” gave to friend who said “WHO.IS.THAT? I love her!” And The Singer does it. Everyday. Creates the opportunities. Looks for windows in doorless houses. And our protagonist? Well, she’s recovering from the Friday evening when she drunkenly fell off a club’s stage and banged her head on the concrete floor. So that’s what an egg feels when you crack it on the side of the pan! Although it seemed like quite an accomplishment to secure 1 drink for every inch of heel she was wearing, it paled in comparison to the ability to make complete strangers stare at you with open mouths. At least for something positive.
THIRD FRAME: “Jenn” is not deterred. She has THE interview this week.
The one she has to “take an early lunch” to go to and rush back from in less than 90 minutes. Sure, the interview requires a presentation but she rocks presentations. They’re her thing. She’s even better at that than inhaling 3 martinis, a mojito, and a shot in a single bound. Then we remember that she has the Forrest Gump of a mind. It keeps running. Usually at 2am. So “Jenn” wakes the night before her interview with the idea to create folders to distribute at the presentation. She’s copy the company’s logo onto stickers and affix them to the folder covers. She’d download color PDF’s from the company’s website and insert them in the folder with her current business cards and a color copies of her power point. Because “Jenn” is a fucking badass.
Only its 2am, she doesn’t have time to buy folders or stickers and ink printer cartridges. And now she can’t sleep because there are too many things on her mind. What will she buy with her new salary? Certainly she’ll need new clothes. And a gym membership. And gas money because this job requires significant travel. How much notice should she give her current employers? After the holidays is fair? But what if the new job wants her to start sooner? Oh, it’s 4am. Should she even bother to go to sleep now?
An exhausted “Jenn” rushes to the interview, with crappy power point copies made in her office. Damn college students ruining the makeshift folders she’d created with their stupid coffee. Note to self to burn down Starbucks. The interview? In a word: Craptastic. She only printed enough copies to distribute, not one for her to read from. Fatigue rendered clever and charming to babbling and anxious. The joke about parents being a brace and not a full-body cast? Effective. The first time. The second was a bit much. Blame the sweat trickling from her back to the crack of her butt.
FINAL FRAME:
“Jenn” is up again at 2am and simply cannot go back to sleep. No amount of reading, visualizing leaping DSW gift certificates, or slow breaths makes the sleep come. So she stays up to watch the shows she’s DVR’d until it’s light outside and time to go to work. Only her fatigue resembles mirrors symptoms of intoxication. She has trouble concentrating, stumbles, jumbles words, doesn’t eat, and forgets to drink enough water. When it’s time to go home she realizes she hasn’t gone to the bathroom all day and should go before she boards the bus home. But she’s not familiar with the building near the bus stop. And can’t find the bathroom. Isn’t there a law that requires them to be on all floors?? She’s gotta find it soon because the bus driver who makes eyes at her promises to wait. And she finally finds a bathroom on the third floor. But the button on her pants is tricky and her bladder has something better to do than hold the contents of her day and lets them go.
Good thing she’s wearing black pants.
