TRIXIE'S DIARY - May 11, 1992

 

 

Sorry I haven’t written in you lately, Diary, but I’ve been busy. This time I actually have a good excuse, though.

I can’t believe my luck. About time, right? Well, it’s more than just luck, I guess. I shouldn’t downplay the fact that my hard work paid off. I think my fingers are permanently inky from hunting through the Help Wanted ads on a daily basis. Unemployment checks kept a roof over my head, but I sure as hell didn’t like having to live back in the Friendship Motel again. Had to force myself to diet a little more than I had grown accustomed to while living with Jesi’s greasy culinary skills—God, I miss her homemade chile relleno—but I probably needed it anyway. No need to look like I’m preggers. I shoplifted some extra goods from Graves Park Groceries a few times, only when I really needed to. I feel totally awful about that, but I didn’t have much choice. Felt like the old days when I used to steal from Mom’s purse or shoplift my clothes from Modyrn Gyrlz. Geez, that was forever ago, wasn’t it? Way to regress, huh?

But yeah, get to the point, Trixie! Duh! I managed to score a new job! It’s kinda on the outskirts of town at this 24-hour diner called Audrey’s. Working from ten at night to six in the morning might seem like it’s tough to get used to, but I definitely have some familiarity with that sort of a schedule. But you already know that, Miss Diary. Sucks that it feels like it takes a full week for the bus ride up there every night, but whatever. It’s steady pay and so far removed from my past that I really do feel like it’s a fresh start.

I just moved into a new apartment, too. Can you believe it? I’m not doused in adult responsibility repellent after all. The apartment’s nothing fancy, but I couldn’t have expected something posh when I haven’t exactly been blessed with steady employment. It’s an okay size and feels like it’s mine, like it could be some semblance of a home. It’s on the third floor and there’s no elevator, which kinda blows, but I guess it’ll keep me in shape.

Oh! And there’s this totally cute little calico kitty cat that hangs out on my fire escape. Doesn’t have a collar or anything, so I don’t think he has a home. I’ve been putting some tuna fish out there for him and he loves it, natch. Maybe I’ll start leaving the window open and see if he’ll come in. Ooh, maybe this means I get to think of a cute name for him, too! I’ll scribble down some choices in you, Diary, so maybe you can help me decide. I sure do need a friend right now, so even a furry one will suffice. Did I mention he’s super, super cute?

So yeah, Audrey is a sweet older woman. Not just because she gave me the job. She really feels like a caring grandparent or something. Her hairdo looks like a hive of bees co-opted a cotton candy machine. I love her cat-eye glasses, though. I can’t even imagine being that old, but if and when my eyesight goes bad I’m definitely getting some cool frames like those.

Obviously I’ve had waitressing experience, but I was really worried that there might be some judgment about where it had taken place. As luck would have it once again, Audrey had never even heard of MOXY, so I just played it off like it was any regular old restaurant. Since Nico skipped town and there aren’t any real remnants of MOXY left—someone even stole the huge sparkly sign that used to hang in the front window—there was no way it could be verified.

Only problem was, I had to buy another fake ID, this time one that didn’t have my old boy name and gender on it. Ugh. So glad to be rid of that gross thing. Didn’t matter much at MOXY, but I needed to make sure I totally passed for this job. Good thing I kept the number for that guy Jesi hooked me up with before. He sure is getting a lot of my money. One of these days I’m just going to have to get my name legally changed. Seems only fair.

Audrey took a leap of faith hiring me without any sort of legit reference, and I’ve been busting my butt to prove myself these first few days. She seems happy with me so far. I’d like to think my attempts at needy puppy-dog face helped a little, too.

What’s really amazing is how well I pass here. No one knows a thing about my past and no one needs to. I’m just another pretty face working the graveyard shift. The truckers and assorted weirdos that come in occasionally flirt with me, and I just pretend to be flattered. Sometimes it results in a better tip, but not as much as I wish.

Maybe this is far from wonderful, but it’s definitely one more step toward erasing my past.

Now If I could just score a boyfriend with little to no baggage, I’d be living pretty large as far as I’m concerned. Got any tips, Diary?