Separation Hurts, chapter 3
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In the year 2011, planes are the most luxury you can have while traveling. You get a private servant, they have every drink imaginable on board, and one word and you could get all of them. There are two chefs paid by the hour to fix up any delicacy you may desire. You have a flatscreen TV and the widest selection of movies for your viewing pleasure. You have the most comfortable seat, and you also have a personal stereo system, which doesn't disturb what the person next to you is doing.
But do you think I got any of that? I don't think so.
Instead of servants, I get to get up and go to the mini-fridge and get either water or water. I get to heat my own microwave Macaroni & Cheese. I have no flatscreen, but a portable 10-inch screen TV with radio reception but, the point is, you're in a plane, and passing over a bunch of cities, so you couldn't get in a radio station for more than one song. I have an old airplane seat with a broken armrest.
And don't even get me started on the people sitting next to me.
This lady, to the right of me, is going on and on and on about how she's going to California to start her acting career; all I'm thinking is how she can be an actress, because the criteria these days is horrible for acting. It's supposedly the "lifestyle", but if you really are so desperate for fame and money that you would stop eating so you could fit in is one of the most horrible things I could ever imagine and how she's gonna be a huge star in a year. I just keep nodding my head, not really listening to her and focusing on finding some semi-interesting movie to watch.
I get back from getting a bottle of water and the actress lady has now moved on to the other guy sitting next to her and is telling him her life story. I sigh and sit back down, chugging half the bottle in my first sip. Then the guy next to me taps my shoulder.
"What?" I ask, not even looking toward him.
"Uh, I just noticed your arm. That one scar right there looks pretty awesome," he says, and points to my right forearm, where the GD symbol is engraved in my skin.
"Thanks," I say, looking up and seeing nobody there. Then the plane starts to tip, and I'm crushed in between the window and the lady who is dreaming to become an actress. I am then shaken by someone or something that I can't see.
Then I realize it was all just a dream. Well, everything after I got the bottle of water. Which is weird for me, because I don't normally have vivid dreams like that. But the flight attendant is shaking me, and I find I'm the last person to get off the plane.
After losing half of my luggage and stumbling through the airport, not knowing where to go, I finally approach the exit doors.
You know how, in some movies, when people get off of airplanes and there are butlers and drivers for limousines with little signs that have the person's name on them? Well that happened to me.
This guy, and I have to say he was pretty cute, was standing there with a little sign in his hands, almost as if he was relaxed and would wait there all day. The sign read "Dawn Jefferson" which was me.
I walk up to him. "Hi."
"Are you Dawn?" he asks, and his face lights up.
"Well, technically, yes. But I like to be called Sherry," I say, and hold out my hand, hopefully giving the impression I'm not there to make friends but for business only.
The guy nervously shakes it. He looks excited. "Alright, Dawn...uh, Sherry, sorry...uh follow me Sherry."
I raise my right eyebrow but follow him nevertheless. He leads me into the parking lot and opens the back door of a very luxurious limousine for me. I nod and step in, and he smiles and closes the door behind me. I hear him open a side compartment somewhere. I have no idea where there would be luggage room and slip my bags in, then get in the drivers seat. I can see his face in the rear-view through a "window" that separates the driver from the passengers. He smiles at me and starts the car.
I am wrapped up in the scenery we're passing by, but soon it get's a little boring when you see the same things over and over again, and I remember that I shouldn't be enjoying California this much. So I try to look disinterested and bored.
About another 2 hours in the limousine and I realize that even though my Aunt Marge was rich enough where she would pay for a limousine to pick me up, she wouldn't want me getting too spoiled. And the fact that being in a limousine for over 2 hours is a bit much. Didn't Aunt Marge live closer to the airport than this?
It was then that I realized that we were breaking the speed limit. Not just the average 10-15 miles per hour over, but a full on 90 miles per hour. And I start to panic. Not freak out, yet, but I was definitely in super-panic mode.
"Where are we?" I ask the driver guy, but he doesn't pay any attention to me.
"Almost there," he says eventually, and I could see a huge smile on his face. Wait, where is 'there'?
We pull up to a ritsy house on the street my Aunt Marge lives on, so surely he's going to take me to her? Right now, I would rather be with obnoxious, strict Aunt Marge than with this psycho.
The driver guy gets out of the car and politely opens the door for me. I manage a fake "Thanks," and hurriedly rush to the front door, where surely Aunt Marge will come bounding out and practically drag me inside. But no, I ring the doorbell and nobody answers. Is this some kind of sick joke?
The limousine driver comes up behind me and opens the door, it's been unlocked this whole time and I walk into an empty house. Not empty like there's nobody home, I mean empty as in there is no furniture, no paint or wallpaper, and definitely no carpet. All I see is concrete, drywall, and cheap light fixtures.
The 'cute' limousine driver walks me down the hall, I'm not very willing, he practically has to pull me to a door at the very end.
"Open the door," he whispers maniacally into my ear. But I don't move a single muscle.
"OPEN THE DOOR!" he suddenly shouts in my ear and I jump about 5 feet into the air. I then clench my fist around the doorknob and slowly turn it, revealing nothing but darkness.
Then he pushes me forward, and I realize I'm tumbling down a flight of stairs.
But do you think I got any of that? I don't think so.
Instead of servants, I get to get up and go to the mini-fridge and get either water or water. I get to heat my own microwave Macaroni & Cheese. I have no flatscreen, but a portable 10-inch screen TV with radio reception but, the point is, you're in a plane, and passing over a bunch of cities, so you couldn't get in a radio station for more than one song. I have an old airplane seat with a broken armrest.
And don't even get me started on the people sitting next to me.
This lady, to the right of me, is going on and on and on about how she's going to California to start her acting career; all I'm thinking is how she can be an actress, because the criteria these days is horrible for acting. It's supposedly the "lifestyle", but if you really are so desperate for fame and money that you would stop eating so you could fit in is one of the most horrible things I could ever imagine and how she's gonna be a huge star in a year. I just keep nodding my head, not really listening to her and focusing on finding some semi-interesting movie to watch.
I get back from getting a bottle of water and the actress lady has now moved on to the other guy sitting next to her and is telling him her life story. I sigh and sit back down, chugging half the bottle in my first sip. Then the guy next to me taps my shoulder.
"What?" I ask, not even looking toward him.
"Uh, I just noticed your arm. That one scar right there looks pretty awesome," he says, and points to my right forearm, where the GD symbol is engraved in my skin.
"Thanks," I say, looking up and seeing nobody there. Then the plane starts to tip, and I'm crushed in between the window and the lady who is dreaming to become an actress. I am then shaken by someone or something that I can't see.
Then I realize it was all just a dream. Well, everything after I got the bottle of water. Which is weird for me, because I don't normally have vivid dreams like that. But the flight attendant is shaking me, and I find I'm the last person to get off the plane.
After losing half of my luggage and stumbling through the airport, not knowing where to go, I finally approach the exit doors.
You know how, in some movies, when people get off of airplanes and there are butlers and drivers for limousines with little signs that have the person's name on them? Well that happened to me.
This guy, and I have to say he was pretty cute, was standing there with a little sign in his hands, almost as if he was relaxed and would wait there all day. The sign read "Dawn Jefferson" which was me.
I walk up to him. "Hi."
"Are you Dawn?" he asks, and his face lights up.
"Well, technically, yes. But I like to be called Sherry," I say, and hold out my hand, hopefully giving the impression I'm not there to make friends but for business only.
The guy nervously shakes it. He looks excited. "Alright, Dawn...uh, Sherry, sorry...uh follow me Sherry."
I raise my right eyebrow but follow him nevertheless. He leads me into the parking lot and opens the back door of a very luxurious limousine for me. I nod and step in, and he smiles and closes the door behind me. I hear him open a side compartment somewhere. I have no idea where there would be luggage room and slip my bags in, then get in the drivers seat. I can see his face in the rear-view through a "window" that separates the driver from the passengers. He smiles at me and starts the car.
I am wrapped up in the scenery we're passing by, but soon it get's a little boring when you see the same things over and over again, and I remember that I shouldn't be enjoying California this much. So I try to look disinterested and bored.
About another 2 hours in the limousine and I realize that even though my Aunt Marge was rich enough where she would pay for a limousine to pick me up, she wouldn't want me getting too spoiled. And the fact that being in a limousine for over 2 hours is a bit much. Didn't Aunt Marge live closer to the airport than this?
It was then that I realized that we were breaking the speed limit. Not just the average 10-15 miles per hour over, but a full on 90 miles per hour. And I start to panic. Not freak out, yet, but I was definitely in super-panic mode.
"Where are we?" I ask the driver guy, but he doesn't pay any attention to me.
"Almost there," he says eventually, and I could see a huge smile on his face. Wait, where is 'there'?
We pull up to a ritsy house on the street my Aunt Marge lives on, so surely he's going to take me to her? Right now, I would rather be with obnoxious, strict Aunt Marge than with this psycho.
The driver guy gets out of the car and politely opens the door for me. I manage a fake "Thanks," and hurriedly rush to the front door, where surely Aunt Marge will come bounding out and practically drag me inside. But no, I ring the doorbell and nobody answers. Is this some kind of sick joke?
The limousine driver comes up behind me and opens the door, it's been unlocked this whole time and I walk into an empty house. Not empty like there's nobody home, I mean empty as in there is no furniture, no paint or wallpaper, and definitely no carpet. All I see is concrete, drywall, and cheap light fixtures.
The 'cute' limousine driver walks me down the hall, I'm not very willing, he practically has to pull me to a door at the very end.
"Open the door," he whispers maniacally into my ear. But I don't move a single muscle.
"OPEN THE DOOR!" he suddenly shouts in my ear and I jump about 5 feet into the air. I then clench my fist around the doorknob and slowly turn it, revealing nothing but darkness.
Then he pushes me forward, and I realize I'm tumbling down a flight of stairs.
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