Last Train Home

For my younger self, you can have it all. You might just have to lose yourself a little bit first.

I was moving as fast as I could, folding the shirts meticulously as the team screamed in my ear. The walkie was the bane of my existence, and my coworkers used it far too often. I realized that even though I felt like I was exerting myself heavily, I was still folding the same shirt.

I looked down, my hands covered in age spots and my veins protruding. They were large and deep blue, crossing over my bones. My skin was transparent, looking like most elderly people I knew. I looked around in confusion. I was frightened. I searched for an exit, noticing the store was growing dark and dusty. Suddenly, the store turned into an outdated shop that I didn’t recognize. I woke up practically heaving and pooled in sweat. I had been tortured by the same nightmare for weeks now. It always starts with me hunched over and folding clothes in a large department store. It’s hard to tell, but it seems that I’m living out of the department store, because there is always a kitchen where the Gucci bag display should be. Or perhaps that is the eccentricity of my subconscious. It feels like I’m folding the clothes in a panic, but I’m actually moving at the slowest pace possible.

No matter what I do, how much energy I exert, I can’t pick up my pace. I wake up in a pool of sweat every time. My heart racing. Today was no different as I roll over to silence the alarm on my phone. I exhaled loudly, relieved that it was just a dream. I laid in my bed, trying to analyze this recurring dream (and my life in general). Maybe this was my subconscious filtering the normal fears from my mind, or maybe it’s from late night binge eating while watching Pride & Prejudice for the millionth time.

Either way, I am awake, staring at the ceiling to find I am not elderly and folding clothes in an upscale department store. But rather I am 28 years old, single, and living alone in my overpriced studio here in Beverley Hills. I do, however, spend my days folding designer clothes and styling the rich and famous.

Most girls my age would give anything for the reality I’m living: A thriving nightlife, running into celebrities on brunch outings, and a closet full of Jimmy Choo’s. But after almost eight years of living here, the truth is that I never aspired to any of this.

After graduating high school, I applied to the furthest colleges from my hometown in Connecticut. My dream had always been to live within tube distance from work, maybe stopping to grab a coffee and scone on my way to a beautiful office, at the perfect public relations job in London. That dream still lives on but was postponed when I got rejected from King’s College and instead was accepted to UCLA. It was aspirational of me to assume I would get accepted to any study abroad program. I had always maintained a fairly high GPA but I was far from a valedictorian.

Unfortunately, I had to work a full-time job throughout high school to afford anything outside of an essential. My mom was a single parent, raising me on a teacher’s salary. My father was never in the picture and as my mom said, “Was the least bit interested in funding my upbringing.”

I often wished I had that paternal figure to make up for the lack of connection with my mom. She couldn’t keep a man around for more than a few weeks. She was naturally hot-headed and possessive which never failed to run them off. When I was close to graduation, the reality of me leaving her sank in. She wouldn’t hesitate to give her two cents about my choice to move away. My whole life she had taught me to be wildly independent and to never “lean on a man for anything”. Which only applied until I was ready to leave. That’s when the narrative changed.

Suddenly, there was a laundry list of things that could go wrong and I would be all alone to figure them out. This couldn’t have pushed me away more. I also refused to move to New York City, like most of my peers had. I couldn’t blame them for being enticed by living so close to a major city like New York. It had never been that exciting to me though, not like London had and it was still too close to home.

So, I went with the first school I was accepted to, UCLA. I knew it would be unlike anything I was prepared for but I didn’t expect to hate it this much. My suburban upbringing did nothing to prepare me for LA. My first year in LA had been quite a culture shock and with the industry I’m in, I had no choice but to assimilate.

Now, after eight years here, LA had only proven to be the smelliest, season-less, and most superficial place I’ve ever lived. I’d always felt that I was made for something bigger that I couldn’t accomplish by staying in my hometown, but I am not a health nut, influencer, or aspiring actress. I was just a girl with an unutilized degree and a dream. Los Angeles had seemed like a fun, short-lived prospect when I made the decision to uproot my life here. But in reality, I’m working a dead end retail job, loveless, unmotivated, and feeling hopeless.

I wanted to use my major and build a future for myself. You would think that in a city like Hollywood, they would need as many PR workers in the field as most cities need nurses but alas, I’m sat sending my fifth job application this week. No bites.

I’d been working at Saks Fifth Avenue and doing personal styling on the side to make ends meet (or to finance my shoe collection, however you want to look at it) ever since gradua‐ tion. I looked at my phone to check the time. Shit! If I was late today, that would be the third time this week and my second write up this month. I had one hour to get ready and get to work. Those write-ups don’t mean anything. They wouldn’t fire me. They need me. The commission they would lose from letting me go would be detrimental.

I continued to stare at the ceiling, thinking about how desperately I needed a vacation. My mind wandered to the last trip I’d taken, to my favorite city, London.

I’d only been able to afford a London trip twice while living in LA. Both times were equally euphoric, lighting a fire in me that doesn’t seem to be extinguishing any time soon. During my trip, I took my time marveling at the architecture and eating at local pubs as much as possible. I made conversation with shop owners and patrons of their businesses trying to live like a local. I made a few friends doing too and still kept up with most of them on social media. I lived every overcast day abroad to the fullest, especially the second trip where I spent 10 blissful days in London. I closed my eyes, trying to imagine it all again. I couldn’t help but see that handsome blonde figure in my head. I’d invited my then boyfriend, James. A tall, blonde heartthrob from Upstate New York, with a heart of gold. At the time, we had only been dating for a few months. We met at UCLA in the Arts Library; I was taking an elective class and James was an Arts major. I still vividly remember the first time we met. He commented on my Dictionary of objects and Symbols in Art textbook.

“The depiction of a cultural rebirth” he said.

I had the book open to “The Birth of Venus”. I was sitting down at a large table studying. I jolted as I heard his voice, even though it was just above a whisper. I immediately melted when I looked up at him. He was as beautiful as a painting himself.

His hair was like a wheat field, blonde and thick. I remember his bright blue eyes glistened behind his long lashes. I sat there for a moment in silence before saying, “umm, yeah, I was just getting to that part.” It was all I could manage to say.

He’d caught me off guard.

But he had a softness to him that made me feel safe. He was warm in nature and had manners unlike any guy I’d ever met. It took me by surprise. I still remember what he was wearing. A grey pair of chinos with a white t-shirt tucked in, along with a pair of penny loafers. His style was unique and I admired him for it. It was timeless. Old money, Ralph Lauren vibes.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m James.” he said and extended a hand.

I shook it gently and asked him to join me. We sat in that library and talked for hours.We connected instantly over our love for surrealism and being from the East Coast. We got absolutely no studying done that day. Although, I felt that I had with how passionately he spoke about his studies. James told me about his dreams of becoming a curator and moving to Paris one day.

“I’ve heard the fourth is the perfect place to live, if you manage to find a place.”

“The fourth? The fourth what?” I asked.

James laughed until he realized I had no idea what he was referring to.

“The fourth arrondissement, its a district. There are 20 within the city.” He explained.

He said that he had interned at a small gallery there the summer before Fall semester and fell in love with the culture and the ‘pain au chocolate’. James was wildly intelligent and completely well-rounded.

“You should definitely see Paris one day,” He smiled.

I remembered it so clearly. Of course I wanted to experience Paris. Mainly to see if it lived up to all the romantic movies I’d seen. I’d always wondered if it truly was the city of love.

James and I ended up dating for two years before I broke it off. I often have flash-backs of the night I ended things. I’d spiraled after he told me he was moving home for the summer. He wanted to apply for jobs and see his family. I didn’t believe in long-distance relationships then and I still am not sure if I do. I certainly couldn’t imagine moving back East either.

I still picture those sad blue eyes begging me not to do it. Begging me to come with him. He gave me all the reasons to stay, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand the thought of moving back to the coast. I thought it would be easier to just break it off then and there, before we became too serious, not realizing until now that maybe we already were. He was my first love and just like the movies portray, there’s nothing like it. But I was career focused then, I still am. I’m sure he thought I was heartless and second-guessed our whole relationship after the fact.

I had no idea if he ever actually moved to France, or if he was still on the East Coast, but I was scared of missing out on my own potential, or stunting his.

So I broke his heart the night we graduated UCLA. I was depressed for months after, but I knew it was the right thing at the time. We were young and there was so much life to live. I was never able to truly say that he was 'the one' but I knew that it was real love.

Somehow, despite all of that, I still ended up here. Miserable. Single. And ironically hating the dating scene, all while wishing I had found ‘the one’ already.

It was exhausting dating in Hollywood and my career was unfulfilling. To think that a budding romance could’ve distracted me was ridiculous in hindsight. Here I am, three years later, working a job in luxury sales at Saks Fifth Avenue, with a useless degree in communications.

There was one silver lining to all of this, Hanna Robinson, my one and only friend. Hanna is a gorgeous southern belle with the hair like a Victoria’s Secret Model. She’s got the height to match too. Most would look at this sweet model- esque creature, and never guess that she sells provocative feet pictures to pay her way through college. Most would never guess she’d never been in a serious monogamous relationship, or that she sustains five-plus ‘sugar daddy’ arrangements to afford her lifestyle. I am not judging. I admired how shamelessly she hustled.

Meanwhile, I live paycheck-to-paycheck and work two jobs to sustain my own lifestyle. Not to mention, my credit card that was practically maxed out at the moment. Hanna and I met at Saks Fifth Avenue four years ago, junior year of school at the height of her modeling phase. Back then, she was still doing freelance gigs here and there for sketchy photographers in the city. However, she gave it up after one too many uncomfortable encounters with photographers. I suppose manipulating old men out of their generational wealth seemed was a better gig.

Hanna and I were drawn to each other instantly. We both had a mutual dry humor and a love for fashion. I still remember what she wore the first day of work; a cashmere sweater from The Row and a pair of leather pants. I’d been eyeing that sweater for months prior, but couldn’t pull the trigger because of the price. Her style was simpler back then. I remember her fragrance too, she wore Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue. I remember what I had worn that day too. I wore a J. Crew turtleneck with a pleated Dior skirt and a pair of Monolo’s (the only pair I own) that I got on Ebay. I paid for everything on credit. I couldn’t imagine showing up in anything less than designer. Back then, I thought living in LA meant that anybody and everybody knew and cared about fashion. It’s hilarious how naive I was, or that I even cared about something so superficial. I’d always had expensive taste growing up. A taste that my lower class family couldn’t support. I’d always been thrifty enough and found a way to replicate designer looks on a Target budget.

I snoozed my alarm for the 5th time and shook off the memories of James and all the other flashbacks I was having. I decided to get myself together for the sixth consecutive shift at the store this week. I hastily cut the tags off my new dress and steamed it while my coffee brewed. I looked at the clock again. 10:20am. I shoved a protein bar in my mouth and started on my hair. I quick blow-dry would have to do. I doused my scalp in dry shampoo and massaged it vigorously. I swallowed the rest of my protein bar and started on my makeup. I heard my coffee pot steaming and poured myself a hefty cup. I looked at the clock once more. 10:40am. Shit!

I knew it wasn’t enough time to get there with traffic and my makeup was only half done. “Owe,” I yelped, burning my tongue on my coffee.

I raced back to the bathroom and finished my makeup as fast as I could. I ran to my closet, desperately searching for a pair of matching shoes. I grabbed the nearest pair of pumps and slipped them on. I took one more generous gulp of coffee as I searched for my keys. Purse, phone, sunglasses. Keys! Where are my keys! I sifted through the junk mail on the counter, not there. I dumped out my large tote bag, not there.

The time was slipping and I knew I was going to be late no matter what. Ah! There they are! My shiny Louis Vuitton keychain was reflecting in the morning light. I swiped my keys from my bedside table and ran out the door. I rushed past my neighbor Miss Breyer and her standard poodle.

“Jessica, slow down! You almost knocked me over.”

She yelled.

“Sorry, Miss Breyer!”

I clicked the down arrow five times.

“Come on, come on.” I whispered to myself.

Finally, the doors opened. I tapped my foot all the way down to the lobby and ran out as soon as the doors split open. I ran as fast I could to the parking garage. I fumbled with my keys before peeling out of my parking spot. It was 11am. I was officially late. My boss was going to have my head on a platter. A designer platter nonetheless. I raced through traffic, cutting off people left and right. I circled the parking garage of the department store for what felt like forever. Of course I couldn’t find a single spot. I settled for the first one I could see on the top story. I raced out of my car and into the elevator of the garage. I glanced at my watch. Shit! It was a 11:30. A whole 30 minutes late. My toes were being pinched by my shoes as I raced inside. I zig-zagged through the store, inconspicuously hiding behind clothing racks. I felt something pinch my ass.

“Ouch!” I hissed.

I spun around to see Hanna standing behind me.

“Oh, you’re in deep shit, Chadwick.” She said with a half smile. “Hanna! Please tell me Herb isn’t here, please.” I begged.

Her half smile dropped. She ran a hand through her perfect hair and sighed.

“I have bad news for you, my friend. He’s waiting for you in the office.” She said, looking at the ground.

I groaned in defeat and sauntered to the back room. I found my locker and placed my things inside of it and took five reluctant steps towards the office. Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Come in.” Herb’s sassy voice called from behind the door that was ajar.

I cleared my throat.

“Good morning, Herb! How are you?” I said in a forced chipper voice.

“Have a seat.” He said flatly, without looking at me.

“I am so sorry for being late. I promise it won’t happen again. I couldn’t find my keys and then I spilled my coffee-”

“Jessica, you’re fired.” Herb said, cutting me off.

My stomach dropped. “What?”

I knew my tardiness was higher than normal lately, but this was retail. I’d covered so many shifts, worked countless holi‐ days, and never made a fuss. This couldn’t be happening.

“I’m sorry but your tardiness and lack of care this last month is unacceptable. You’ve missed multiple styling appointments and it’s not a good look for the store. I want to be top in the district. If I’m going to do that, I need a strong reliable team. One that’s dedicated and professional. I’m sorry.” Herb said, looking up at me slowly.

He adjusted his blazer and began typing on his computer. I sat motionless with my mouth open. I thought I was going to be sick. “Please clean out your locker by the end of the day.” He added before leaving the room.

I sat in complete silence for about five minutes before I got up from the chair. Hanna was lurking around the corner.

“Im fired..” I said in shock. Her eyebrows raised as high as her botox would allow.

“Fired? How?” She asked, sounding surprised.

I knew she was trying to make me feel better. It was no surprise at all. I had been unreasonably late more times than I could count. Apparently Herb was keeping score though. I walked to my locker in silence, Hanna’s heels clacking behind me.

“Too many tardies, he said. I’ve really been trying my best, but all these extra shifts have been burning me out. I guess I couldn’t keep up.” I said, the blood leaving my face.

I had been working overtime to save up for a trip to London. I’d saved up just enough for a plane ticket. I saw the ticket disinte‐ grate in mid air, knowing it was all for nothing now. I slowly filled my tote with the items in my locker and stared at the magnetic name tag on the door.

“Jess, don’t you worry! Look, I have just the guy for you. All you have to do is go to dinner-”

“Hanna, stop. I’m not like you. I’’m not interested in that.No offense,” I said, curtly.

I was tense.

“Fine. Just trying to help.” Hanna said, rolling her eyes.

I couldn’t believe this.

All my credits cards were nearly maxed out and rent was due in two weeks.

“What, am I going to do?” I asked, mainly to myself.

I couldn’t bare the thought of using my savings on bills instead of a flight.

“Look, we’ll figure this out. I can come over at the end of my shift and help you sort this out, ok?” Hanna said, reassuringly.

She was being a good friend and I was being a bitch.

“I’m screwed. I’m so screwed, Hanna. This is bad. Like, really bad.” I whispered in a panic.

The shock was wearing off and reality was setting in. I turned around to face Hanna, work belongings in hand.

“Thank you. I’m sorry for snapping. I’ve just never been fired before and you know I’ve been saving for this trip and now....now it’s all for nothing.” I said, a lump growing in my throat.

“Look, you’ve still got a check coming. That should buy you some time to find something. This is LA! There’s got to be someone out there willing to hire someone like you. Maybe reach out to some clients and do some more personal styling.”

Hanna was being optimistic. I wasn’t in the mood to be optimistic yet. So I nodded instead and said I’d see her tonight. I slowly walked out the building with my head down. Once I reached women’s dresses, I looked up and around. I watched as the line at the cash wrap grew. The store was playing the same song it played everyday at this time. A wave of relief washed over me suddenly. This was the last time I would have to hear this stupid song or muster the energy to make it though a nine hour shift. After all, this job was only ever a place holder for my dream job. I sighed as I exited the building with my bag full of junk. There had to be something better than this.