A true story of a pretty shitty day.
Felix runs to greet me and I pet him, scratch behind his ears, rub around his eyes; my usual coming-home-from-work M.O. But Felix is about to become the happiest dog in the world because I’m not coming home anymore, I’m staying home. As in I Got Fired.
Fuck, I’ve only been here five months and already I’m way too much personality for the morning crew to handle. Maybe it was that public affairs show on prostitution? But it aired at five on Sunday morning–no one listens to radio then. Or the media paying too much attention to me and not the whole morning show? The station was the one that made me do all those goofy stunts and I can’t control what some TV or newspaper reporter covers. Or maybe the boss never got over how I didn’t live in Miami like he told me to and moved to halcyon Hollywood. I hung out in Miami a lot–Biscayne Bay, Miami Beach– hell, picadillo at Versailles on Calle Ocho was my favorite dish–I could relate to the listeners without living in middle of their turf.
I crank the jalousie window shut. It’s getting chilly for South Florida–the kind of winter chill that sends citrus growers for smudge pots or whatever they use these day. Why the hell did I call him? If I didn’t I wouldn’t hear what I just heard and I’d be fine. Or less un-fine. It was extra stupid to start the call with “I love you” because it’s like a concentrated dose of me and you have to watch out for that stuff when you have a long distance relationship. I know I haven’t seen him in months but it’s not supposed to matter when two people are in love.
“Aren’t you supposed to call your boyfriend for comfort after you get fired?” I ask.
“I’m not your boyfriend. Don’t ever call me that again. You’re such a dumb bitch, you can’t even take a hint.”
I need to get the hell out of this house. I let Felix jump in the back of my Toyota pick-up and head to the beach. Not the one that’s five blocks from my house, but the state park beach just north of Dania where dogs can run without a leash and I where I just might be able to distract myself just long enough to recharge and deal with the double hit that happened so close together they almost collided.
I hand over my license and registration. Acrid steam from my bashed radiator served as smelling salts waking me up from one bad dream to another. The owner of the BMW is talking to the tow truck driver and pointing at me. It isn’t even noon.