Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen here in this small, Midwestern town my husband has conveniently left us in. This isn’t a bad place, but it’s not a great place for generating income. I suppose that I could sell Avon or Mary Kay, or that I could start some home-based business. Childcare. Baking. Only I hate working with children, hell, the only child I can ever stand for any length of time is my own. And I have no real flair for the kind of baking that might sell around these parts. I can cook, but it’s a ‘down home’ world here and I’m not a down home girl.
That leaves us with two alternatives, as far as I can see: drive east, or drive west.
It’s warm in California.
If we’re going to be broke, then we might as well be broke and warm.
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My name is Siobhan Murray. People call me Shi, basically because no one can pronounce Siobhan. It’s not that hard: Shuh-VAHN, but after years and years of trying to educate the multitude of teachers, parents, and acquaintances I’ve known, I just say “Shi” and it’s easier for everyone.
I’m not twenty anymore, but I’m not dead yet, either. A little too young to be giving up on life, but a little too old to take a sudden divorce and single parenthood as a matter of course.
On the plus side, moving is a snap. I’ve been moving all my life; a born and bred Army brat. My family never stayed in any one place for more than two years. I’ve lived in and out of the country, but I consider the United States ‘home’. That’s as specific as I can get. I’ve forgotten more addresses and town names than I can remember.
In a sad attempt to root myself, I married too young to someone I thought was stable. A carpenter. A man from a town with a history in that town. It never occured to me that he would be harboring wanderlust, or that I was giving him any reasons to believe that I harbored any myself. He assumed and I was in love and we made our first move before our first anniversary.
I suppose that at some point I could have said ‘no’, and I’m almost sure that at some point, I did, but it got ignored. It got ignored along with a lot of other things.
Maybe the only thing I ever had my say on was my daughter. I picked when we were going to have her, and where, and what her name would be. Letitia. Letitia Murray Sloan. It’s a mouthful, so I call her Tish and so does everyone else. Not Tishy, not Letty, not Tita. Tish. She’s Tish. She has my auburn hair and her father’s brown eyes, instead of my greenish-blues. She’s tall and straight, intelligent and good natured, patient and more than a little sarcastic. I don’t know about the rest of it, but the sarcasm is all me.
Tish and I have scoped out more new territory than I care to name. Cities and towns. North, south, east and west. We have been a team while my errant ex sought out work here and there with about as much consistency as the wind. While Errol Sloan bargained and bartered for jobs, Tish and I explored post offices, banks, and supermarkets. While Errol Sloan filed for unemployment and food stamps, Tish and I sold off used items to buy more used items.
Errol Sloan.
You’d think with a name like that a man would make something of himself, but not my Errol. Or perhaps I should say Doris Hanney’s Errol, because Doris Hanney has him on her hands now and if I’m being honest, I can’t say that I’m sorry. Oh, I’m sorry about the way it all ended and I’m sorry that Tish will most likely miss her father, for what little time he spent with her. And I’m damned sorry that what little money for alimony and child support I could squeeze out of him isn’t going to make ends meet for Tish and me. Other than that, Doris Hanney can have Errol and I hope she likes packing and moving and poverty, because that’s just a part of the deal with Errol.
So I need a job. A good job. A stable job in a place where Tish and I can settle in for the next six years, until it’s time for Tish to go to college and she’ll probably be moving then anyway.
A long time ago I lived in the greater Southern California area. San Diego and Long Beach. Loved San Diego, hated Long Beach. I’m thinking more in the lines of some outer, less expensive suburb of some of the more upscale areas, where the work will pay more, even if the commute is a bear. The beach is out of the question. Scrimping and saving with a potential roommate is what I’ll be looking for, preferably another woman with a child and in similar straights.
I hear that my sort is pretty common these days.
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Have you ever gone through everything you own? I’ve done this all my life, weeding out and throwing away and only keeping small, portable treasures. Therefore, I have no reams of childish, homemade gifts or cards that either I or Tish has created over the years. I have no paper history other than two birth certificates, two social security cards, a worthless marriage certificate, and medical records for Tish. Every time I’ve moved the bank account has been emptied and closed, any leases have been dissolved or broken, any evidence of us having lived someplace is gotten rid of.
I don’t like to look back.
I go through every closet and see what can be sold. There’s always something. Clothes are a given. I’ve been marketing a line of “Tish-wear” since she was six months old. Rare is the time that she’s gotten something new, something that wasn’t, at the very least, slightly used. I don’t bother with myself. I’ve been a scrounge at home mother since I had her, and I don’t need a wardrobe: jeans and T-shirts have served me well. Any money that I’ve been able to save over the years I’ve put aside for Tish, for school needs, for better food, for haircuts and extras. I like nothing better than a good yard sale, a consignment shop, or a church jumble.
So I go through what Errol hasn’t taken with him. He didn’t take much more than a piece of luggage, his clothes, his tools, and his wallet. He didn’t even take the car, Doris Hanney had a better car, Doris Hanney had two cars, and he drove off into the sunset in a fairly new Toyota, leaving me the road worn, used when we got it, Honda. It runs, so I’m content with it for now. How it’s going to hold up on the drive to California is a serious matter for concern that I’m ignoring.
I pray.
A lot.
What is left for Tish and me to go through it a selection of beat up cook ware, mismatched cutlery and ‘china’, some holdover toys that she’s been unable to part with, and some odds and ends appliances and food stuffs. For the first time in my life I don’t think I have a thing worth selling. In fact, looking it all over, I can’t for the life of me remember where or how all of it was acquired, or why I would want any of it. I’ve spread it out on the cramped living room floor twice, weighed the pros and cons of packing it all up and traveling with it as opposed to splurging on some ‘new’ used things when we get to wherever it is we’re going, and opt for chucking the lot.
There IS “THE CHECK” to consider, too. I have a check. It’s a rather substantial check considering my usual financial state. It was part of the divorce settlement. It’s a personal check from Doris Hanney and every time I look at it, which is at least three times a day, I wonder why I don’t cash it, why my practical side hasn’t kicked in. It’s a lot of money. It’s also a ‘pay off’ for keeping my mouth shut and not making any kind of ruckus concerning Doris Hanney’s own divorce, which has been a direct result of my own. Basically, I’ve sold Errol for a tidy sum with the proviso that I go away quietly. And normally that wouldn’t bother me in the least, but there’s something so completely sleazy about it that it has made me hesitate for several days since I got the check. I feel guilty every time I see the damned thing sitting in my plastic napkin holder.
I know that I got the better part of that deal.
So I’ve weighed it all and I’ll cash this check and Tish and I can drive out of this place without having to worry about motels, about seed money, about getting ourselves a place. We won’t have to worry about food, gas, and some simple necessities; at least not for a little while.
I’ll have to move fast, though, and find that job.
I need a job.
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I need a housekeeper.
My life is getting out of hand, no, it’s out of hand already. I have a house that’s too big for me, I have pets I don’t want to take care of, and I don’t like to clean. Hey, I don’t HAVE to clean, but the cleaning service I have that comes every other day isn’t cutting it. It doesn’t fill my refrigerator, it doesn’t walk my dogs, and it doesn’t do anything above and beyond what my personal assistant has contracted them for, no matter how nicely I beg, or how high the bribe.
My PA, she’s no help, either, she’s too busy to begin with to get into a lot of the day-to-day things I need done. I can get her to do some marketing if I’m desperate, but it comes with a lecture. I can get her to hit up the dry cleaners and things like that, but she doesn’t do laundry when she’s scheduling my day, and I don’t really want her doing that. She’ll bring me fast food, but she won’t cook something. I don’t really want her doing anything like that, either, I want her making sure that my time is booked, that I’m working, and that my name is out there, in the public. I want her to make sure that I’m everywhere I’m supposed to be, and that I’m there on time, not making sure my socks are clean. But I’m getting a little desperate here.
I need a housekeeper. I’ve had them before, but they never work out. Either they won’t live in, or they will, but they won’t be on call as needed. Or they’ll do the 24/7, but they want a lot of overtime and extra long vacations. Or they want to get personal with me, when I don’t want to get personal with them. I’ve had a few of them who’ve sold my garbage to paparazzi, who’ve sold my clothes, shoes; I’ve had to sue people and I don’t like to sue people. When it gets that bad I do without one until I can’t stand it anymore. I’m there now, at the can’t stand it part. I just want someone living in the house who’ll take care of it when I’m gone and who’ll take care of me when I’m here. Someone who’s not afraid of after-party debris, someone who knows how to unstop a toilet, who will pick up dog messes and who won’t yell at me if I’ve puked on the carpet, they’ll just clean it UP. I want someone who’s discreet. I want someone who isn’t interested in my friends, my connections, in me getting them a job in the music business. I want someone who doesn’t have to be somewhere else, who will schedule their entire life around mine, and who’ll be happy to do that.
I haven’t had someone around like that for a while now. I’ve had a couple of girls live with me, but, honestly, they’re worthless when it comes to getting anything done. I mean, they’re beautiful women, but they don’t want to be breaking nails. They don’t eat so they can’t cook, and they won’t cook for me, because they won’t eat. They like the dogs, they have to like the dogs to get in the door. In fact, they have to like me getting THEM dogs, because I like to give dogs as gifts, as something binding, but they have to like to take CARE of the dogs: feed them, clean up after them, train them. Some don’t, and they’re the ones who don’t stay around here too long. Some do, and lately, they don’t seem to stay around much, either.
Because my house is a kind of a sty right now.
And I guess because I’m just one of those impossible, spoiled stars that doesn’t feel they have to be doing dishes and laundry and any of that domestic crap. Because I can pay people to do it for me. And when I’m out there with my band, on the road, there ARE people who do it for me and I don’t want to do it.
And because I’m A.J. McLean, the most high maintenance pain in the ass you’re likely to meet.
I need a housekeeper.
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© 2003 Chandrah, Inc.
© 2003 (*> Baby Bird Productions, Inc.
