Sunlight pierces through the slats of my wooden blinds. My head pounds like a jackhammer listening to Metallica on speed. Emotional hangovers are more brutal than any alcohol-based malaise. Closing my eyes to the annoying happy rays, it all comes flooding back.
I got fired. I’m not going back. I can’t pay rent this month.
Emily, my best friend, is lying facedown next to me, her long brown hair blanketing out the world. She came over yesterday after wrapping up her last class of the day at Sherman Oaks Private and asked whether I was in problem-solving or wallowing mode. I obviously chose wallow. And wallow we did.
“Bacon,” she says, groaning as she flips on her back, reminding me that we can’t handle hangovers like we used to.
“Bacon is always a good idea,” I say, struggling into a sitting position. That’s when I notice the bottle of tequila on her side of the bed, empty.
“What did you do last night?” I say, tilting my head to the scene in question.
“You were snoring so loud I had to drink myself to sleep,” she says, rolling her eyes, like I’m responsible for her hangover.
“As if I snore,” I say, throwing my pillow at her.
“You’ve been snoring since I’ve known you,” she says, taking my pillow and adding it to her pile. I see she’s wearing my old Rams sleeping T-shirt and I’m reminded that she let me snot on her shirt. The least I can do is get her some bacon.
“I don’t have any bacon,” I say, getting up. “Want to go to Hot Poppy?”
I don’t have to ask twice.
A few minutes later, we’re sitting in the corner booth of our favorite cafénursing large coffees while we wait for our eggs and bacon. It’s one of those tiny cafés with one corner booth inside and a single communal table that makes you question the business decision to open a caféin such a tiny space, but it makes up for it with tables and chairs cramming the sidewalk and alley. The smell of freshly ground coffee wafting through the air dulls the whirl of the machine working double-time for fellow early breakfast goers.
“I wonder if Reseda is still looking for a chemistry teacher?” I say. I haven’t said much since we got here, lost in my own thoughts. And Em hasn’t pushed … yet.
The plan last night was to drown my sorrows from the fact I got fired. And to ignore the repercussions it’ll have on my record. There isn’t a school in the country who’d want a teacher, let alone a principal, who was caught being fondled in front of the children. To say I have no future is not an understatement. I do not fall into the category of “those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.” A career in education is “it” for me. But now I need a new plan.
“They’re not,” Em says definitively. Of course she knows. This English teacher is connected. She knows every principal within a ten-mile radius. Actually, scratch that. Every principal within a ten-mile radius knows her. Of course they’re not still looking. No one is.
“What’s even more fucked up is not only have I lost my job, my students, and my sense of purpose, but the cherry on this crap sundae is that I can’t pay rent this month. What am I going to do?” I say, finally ready to figure out a solution. Because no, I don’t have an emergency fund with six months of salary saved up. In this economy, who does?
Em’s face is scrunched up like she’s about to ask if it was me who farted. It wasn’t.
“You’re sure you can’t you ask your mom for money?”
I bore my eyes into her face.NO. FUCKING. WAY.
“Your dad?” she says, almost wincing, but still willing to explore all options.
“YouknowI would rather prostitute myself out than ask either of those people for money,” I fire back. “Serious options only.” One benefit of over a decade of friendship is I don’t have to explain why I don’t want my parents’ help. She knows the trauma they’ve inflicted. So she lets it slide.
But now Em’s not looking at me. She’s looking behind me. I follow her eyeline and see a notice board. On it is a bright red convertible for sale.
“I’m not old enough for a midlife crisis car,” I say. “And I certainly can’t afford it.”
“What kind of car do you get someone who’s in constant crisis?” Em says, and before I can react dramatically that I amnotin a crisis while flailing my hands in the air like one of those wacky inflatable arm men you see in the parking lots of carwashes, further proving her point, Em stands, walks over to the board, and rips a brightly colored piece of paper off it.
“Get paid to sleep,” she reads, shoving the paper in my face.
“What?”
My emotionally hungover brain is in no mood for riddles. She’s in the mood for a relaxing sofa session watching deranged psychopaths.
But since we’re five miles from the sofa, I scan the paper instead. It’s advertising a four-week sleep study program. They want to study insomniacs but need solid sleepers as their control group.
“You’re perfect,” Em says, when I look at her. “You snored all through the night and never once woke yourself up. You’re as solid as they get.”
“Let strangers watch me sleep?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s something straight out of aCriminal Mindsepisode, man. You know, the part where the ominous music plays as the victim gets murdered.” I throw the paper on the table and sip the last of my coffee. The waiter walks past, and I gesture to the empty cup. “Another, please.”
