Mallory

I let out a sound of frustration as I finish loading yellowed sheets into a

washer that’s further on in years than I am. The old but serviceable basement apartment I found on Temp Rent seemed so promising online. Newsflash: in person, it is a nightmare. Although the dated furniture is the same as what I saw in the photos, the ad failed to mention that when I got here the entire place would reek of a mixture of cigarette smoke and cheap floral air freshener that makes me want to gag.

The bedding was neither clean nor fresh (hence why I’m doing laundry) and the kitchen is stocked with cheap paper plates, plastic utensils, and red plastic cups you’d normally see at a keg party. Yay for me, I finally know what it would’ve been like to live in a frat house—and it’s just as gross and crusty as I always imagined. If my grandmother is seeing this up in heaven, she’s rolling over in her grave.

I knew I was in for it when my ride pulled up out front and I got a good look at the junkyard on the lawn. That hadn’t been mentioned in the ad. The other thing not mentioned was the lack of cable or internet that’s got me confined to my cellphone. With the limited data plan I have it won’t be long before I blow right through it, which means I’ll be racking up another bill. I’m hoping the nearest coffee shop will have free WiFi but even that isn’t a huge plus since I’ll have to buy coffee to be there, which means I’ll still be spending money I never planned on. Every little bit adds up.

If only it were possible to turn back time to the moment before I clicked confirm on this apartment. Spending the money on this place was a huge mistake but there’s no getting it back and that leaves me screwed with a capital S since I paid upfront for one month. After my brief chat with Mario, the super greasy owner of the house, I know he’s never going to offer a refund. He seems miffed that I’m not “feeling” the apartment.

The bottom line here is that I’m not made of money and since for all intents and purposes I don’t know anyone in the area—well, there’s one person, but I’ll need to apply myself to ‘running into’ him in a way that doesn’t make me seem like a stalker—so I’m stuck in this pit. The only thing I have going for me in this apartment right now are the locks and the heavy duty-chain on the basement door. I’ll still be shoving things in front of the door for extra safety before I fall asleep tonight.

Heading back into the bedroom, I take out my cellphone and navigate to the online classifieds. I can’t afford to let being stuck in a gross apartment get me off course, which means I need to get my butt in gear. My number one priority is finding a job and I intend to devote time to that every single day until I am gainfully employed. Once I have that in place, I’ll be able to get a real apartment. Although my savings are limited, I have just enough to get myself set up in a small, inexpensive apartment—as long as I have a job to pay the bills once my savings account is depleted.

I hum along to the song playing on my phone as I scroll through job listings and make notes in my super adorable hot pink notebook. I write down contact information for a bakery, two bars, three restaurants, two daycare centers, a flower shop, and a big box store. I know the waitressing jobs are probably my best bet since I have been working in a restaurant for the last five months, but I’m tired of food service. Although I loved the camaraderie amongst the staff, for me the issue was that customers seem to be getting ruder by the day. The amount of times I’ve been stiffed on a tip is a-freaking-lot. So many times, I’ve busted my butt to be accommodating and fast—only to get a three dollar tip on a forty dollar ticket.

By the time I’m finished making job notes my stomach is growling. Looking at the clock I see that it’s just after one in the afternoon, which means I’m due for lunch. Heading into the kitchen area of the basement apartment I pull out a packet of chicken flavored ramen. Tossing the noodles and flavor packet into an ancient looking wheat-colored plastic container, I add water and then put it into the microwave for five minutes. With that cooking, I get a small frying pan out before I open the fridge and take out an egg from the dozen I bought at the market on the way here. With the ramen noodles and the egg, I’m covering all my bases. Carbs for energy, broth water to fill me up, and an egg for protein. I’ve achieved expert status in the dinner for a dollar way of life. I spent ten dollars at the store this morning and I’ll definitely get through three or four days with the eggs, ramen, dry mashed potatoes and milk I got.

Once my food is ready, I take a seat on the less wobbly of the two stools at the counter and dig in. Needing something to fill the silence I pick up my phone, put in my headphones and turn up the volume on the country music station. I’ve finished my egg and about halfway done my ramen when I feel a rumbling. Taking the headphones from my ears, I realize the rumbling is coming from the thunderous sound of banging and many, many footsteps above me. My heart starts beating faster as my stomach clenches. Unless Mario is holding an exercise class up there something dramatic is going on, and by that I mean something not good.

Hearing pounding footsteps on the stairs outside my door I spring into action. Jumping up from the wobbly stool I look around for something—anything—to protect myself. The pan I used to cook my egg catches my eye, so I run around the counter into the kitchen and grab it from the sink. As I’m getting a good grip on it, the handle on the basement door starts to jiggle.

“Open the door,” a no-nonsense voice yells.

“Go away!” I squeak.

With the small frying pan in my left hand, I scramble across the counter and grab my cellphone. My fingers are trembling and my eyes have started to water as I begin to dial 911. I’ve got the 9 and one 1 entered in when the door smashes open. Screaming I jump like a frightened cat, dropping the pan as I sprint for the bedroom as I pray to God that someone will save me from being kidnapped or worse.

“Police! Stop running, put your hands up and turn around,” a voice behind me barks.

If I hadn’t used the bathroom before starting dinner, I’d be peeing my pants right now.

There’s a familiarity to the authoritative voice that I’m too wound up to grasp as I stop dead in my tracks and follow the commands. My phone clatters to the floor as I raise my hands in the air and turn around. When I realize there are three men with their guns drawn and pointed at me, all the blood rushes from my head and my knees start to buckle.

My vision starts to gray out around the edges and I know I’m going to faint. I lock my knees in the hopes of staying up as the officer in front lifts up the shield on his headgear that covers his eyes. Holy smokes—it’s John Wright! The very person I came to Nashville to find. The only man I’ve ever had any interest in is less than twenty feet from me. I open my mouth to ask what he’s doing here but I don’t get a word out since I’m busy crumpling to the floor.