I dreamed of an ugly woman that I was inexplicably in love with that helped me solve the murder of an unrepentant rapist, and woke up with false pride. It's amazing how little you can get done when you have no deadlines. I barely managed to get myself out of bed long enough to get to the liquor store let alone get another job. I thought I had it made until I called my former employer and realized they intended to challenge my unemployment claim. After ten years I thought they could offer me at least the courtesy of collecting a little free money.
Luckily under the laws of my state I was entitled to my final paycheck on my last day and was able to buy 30 days of leeway with my landlord before spending the rest. Predictably I wasted most of it on drink, spending the brief hours between intoxication shivering from nausea and reeling from the headaches. I kept my hands buried in the pockets of my jeans convinced that my fingernails would fall off and rattle like loose change. It was heaven.
But I knew that if I wanted to keep up this glorious lifestyle and avoid sticking my pistol in the face of some poor store clerk I was going to have to find a new job. I prepared to venture out into the job market the only way I knew how, with a coffee cup full of whiskey and a breakfast of dry toast and dill pickles. I checked every liquor store in the area for openings, but the ones that recognized me knew I couldn't be trusted with the stock, and the ones that didn't recognize me thought they did and guessed likewise. I downgraded my employment ambitions to basic labor, and filled out two applications for janitor positions, one at an elementary school and another at a church. Both were places I had no business anywhere near.
My brain was still swimming in the morning's booze and I wasted no time in drowning it again. I was sitting at an unfamiliar bar stool deciding if I wanted a ham sandwich or another drink when she sat down next to me. Her name was Vanessa and she was all smiles, leading me to the conclusion she was probably a prostitute. She wasn't ugly enough to be the type to approach me, but it didn't add up. A whore would notice that I was ordering only well whiskey, a sign of vagrant, and I certainly looked the part, and she even took it upon herself to pick up my tab. We drank together, I ate a sandwich that I sorely needed and she chain-smoked cigarettes. She had kids but made it clear they didn't live with her for some unspoken reason, and stared me down with her giant brown eyes while we chatted. When she got up to take a piss I watched her ass shake pleasantly and I wanted to bury my face in it. The bartender must have heard the thought go through my mind judging by his soft laughter as he shook his head. He was either jealous or he knew her all to well. Regardless I knew it was time to take her home.
At my apartment she wasted no time in tidying up the coffee table like she owned the place. I let her play house while I put some music on and drank on the couch. She was taking care of me. I wondered if she knew just how bad it was with me, or if she even cared, and decided that she was mothering me to make up for some maternal failure years ago as I slipped off to sleep. Unlike the other women I brought home I didn't want her to leave, and figured I had nothing of value to protect from her. Besides, if she wanted what little I had I might be willing to simply give it to her.