I could dance away and tap my toes… Claire thought. The day had turned into a shitter by demand, but she was hopeful to turn the day into a brightside. She pulled out her old typewriter. Dusty and likely to be slow on the first try. She found a whole stack of copy paper in her closet. I’ll take whatever brightside I can get. Claire sighed.
Back to the coffee table, Claire grabbed her array of tools and tray and hit her mini bong yet again. A smoke filled fest, and found her emergency cigarettes. It had been four months and she still had three left in her brown container with a kiss lock. It could hold hundreds, but she smoked the crushes instead. Shorts, like her.
No matter how tall life looked like Claire was in constant distraction. Depression and Bipolar Disorder had reckoned her life, along with Social Anxiety that seemed to be dealt with since birth. Never quite fitting in as a puzzle piece, always something a little more profound to shine brighter in thought or theory.
She had battled addiction early in life and facing difficulties with being prescribed medication. The sleeping; she used to yearn for it, now it comes at every daybreak that she needs something to feel zippy with a rush, usually resorting to caffeine and nicotine and weed. Her holy trinity of zoom, so to say.
Claire waited for the right moment to assemble all the parts of the typewriter, anxiety with every touch. What a day… I’ll be starting a new career here. She smoked a cigarette and finished her white russian and prepared to start typing.
Her thoughts were bountiful, unseizing with trepidation. Skidding and tapping along the keys, easily. Speed like she once remembered. Every echo pouring out into reverb and memories of the past. Awakening a dark night of the soul. She had wasted her time in marketing for four years and had no desire to return back. “I am relieved.” another time, it crossed her mind. She seemed to make this her mantra. Her way out.
There was nothing so cross, about it. She felt there should’ve been tides of jubilation for this moment. Getting back to it all. However, the more she thought about it, the more it made her sick. Was she throwing her life away, or just finally getting to what she wanted to do in the first place? Writing was never just a hobby. Her English courses in college and her music classes for viola were her only escape from the marketing major.
She typed four pages. A journal entry, a small epic poem so to say. Just everything to get the mind to breathe and the burden off the back of a confused, young, and lonely woman.
Ozzie came to her side and jumped on the keys. “ Fuck!” Claire shrieked. A jumble of letters left on the last page, with no liquid to cover up the letters.
Well its not like I was going to submit it to the New Yorker or anything like that. Let it be for myself and for Ozzie. A tribute to my first try and the chaos behind it. At least someone is looking out for me, even if it’s a cat. Funny to admit, but so sound in reasoning. I’ve got to let go. I have my savings, the world is my oyster. I can keep doing this. Claire thought deeply to herself.
Claire decided to order some food. Pizza or Chinese were the usual delivery options, but she loved to go to this sushi spot in the city when she can. Only a few blocks away. She decided to be nostalgic and order a lunch tray of sweet and sour pork, fried rice, and an egg roll. Perfect, that should hold me over for the day, at least until night. Claire thought. She made the phone call and went to go get the cash. She grabbed a tenner and thought this should be enough for a $5 tray and and tip for the cold. She always tipped high, she wanted to make people feel secure and sound, even if she didn’t see their smile. The gratitude didn’t matter – it was the ethics.
About thirty minutes later, she heard a knock on the door hoping it was the delivery man and not another disturbance. “For Claire? Sweet and sour pork lunch tray.” “That’s me.” Claire said. She handed over the money and the delivery person was very thankful and left smiling. See, that’s why I do it. You can believe in the simple things. It was worth it. Claire smiled.
She got to eating and it was delicious and reminded her of childhood. Ozzie sat on the coffee table while she ate. She turned on the tv and adjusted her typewriter on the table so she could eat with some space for the remotes and tray. An armada of tools she thought. A cooking show came on.
A woman was making duck a’la orange. Claire knew nothing about French food but adored butter and bread and cheese, not so much a wine person. Her Italian namesake and passed down surname, made it difficult to blend in as someone with Asian markers. Filipino but still highly rooted in the colonialism of the Philippines. A blended country. Her Spanish outlets rang prideful in adoring Spanish music, bachata her favorite.
Claire liked to think she traveled the world in her mind. Watching shows and movies, reading the books, cooking the food, finding the music; all necessary involvement in learning about culture, her own and her friends and deeply rooted neighborhoods. She grew up on an Hispanic block with many islanders too in California before she moved to New York. She knew more Spanish than Tagalog, mostly to her Mother’s wishes. She didn’t want her to have an accent, a controversial preference of “ going-far in life in America.”
There was many careers that Claire thought of. There was always the doctor, lawyer, engineer Asian thing her Mother wished for, or the Military like Dad wished for. All she wished for was freedom and a stable job. Marketing her done her well, but the hiccups and no private life led her to many stressors in the first place. Is it so bad to feel relieved from losing your job? She always wanted to do something creative.
Follow the path. I can’t lose. Claire felt settled with herself.
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