I’ve never been special. I grew up in a small town in Louisiana and thought I would never get out. That all changed when I met Nathanial Darcy. He was a walking definition of tall, dark, and handsome. I was the walking definition of awkward. My sandy blonde hair stuck out in fifty different directions, and my boyish figure didn’t help the situation either. I had braces clear through high school and often daydreamed of moving to a big city and living life in the fast lane. This daydreaming got me my nickname- Olivia the Oblivious. Anyways, so when Nate swaggered into the cd shop I was working at one hot summer day, let’s just say I was more than happy to direct him towards the smooth jazz section. We got talking about music; he told me he was a musician, a real big shot back home. He was originally from France. Slowly but surely, I found myself falling for his deep brown eyes, lightly tanned Parisian skin, curly brown locks like Michelangelo’s David, and suave foreign accent.
We talked about starting a life together, but this all went down the drain when I told him I was pregnant with his child. The night that I told him, he said he “needed time to think.” After waiting a few days, I decided to call him. Of course he didn’t answer. I never saw him again.
Actually that’s not entirely true; I see him every time I look at our son Nu-Nu. He is my entire world; there isn’t much I wouldn’t do to make him happy. I started to work at a grotesquely greasy diner shortly after Nu-Nu was born. After a couple of months, I realized I would need some other kind of work as well if I wanted to pay the bills. Turns out, kids are expensive. I tried all sorts of things, but nothing stuck.
That was when I turned to prostitution. It pays well and doesn’t require any sort of fancy college degree, so it was really my only option. I’m not proud of what I do, but I’m supporting my family, and that’s all that matters.
The phone rings, “Well, howdy darling, how can I help you today?” I purr into the receiver. For a second all I hear is some swearing and then, “Um, hi there. I’m looking for a Miss Cinnamon? Is that you?” The man on the other end asks with a thick Southern drawl. “Mmhhmmm, that’s me.” This is a typical call, no better or worse than any other. When he arrives I can already tell this isn’t going to be fun. He is a short, stout little man. In a way he reminds me of a character from a movie I saw a while back; Vernon Dursley, if I remember correctly. We get into the bedroom and everything happens surprisingly fast. A short 15 minutes later I’m left with nothing but some goo in my hair, 50 bucks wrinkled up on my dresser, and a broken bed frame. I only have half an hour before I have to pick up Nu-Nu from his play date. I’ll fix the bed tomorrow.
The next day, I drop off Nu-Nu at my parents’ place along with my bed. I can’t meet my father’s eyes when I ask him to fix it. He asks me how it happened, “I um, was standing on it and running back and forth trying to catch a fly, when I heard a loud screech?” I reply, covering my eyes to ward off the accusing glare of the sun behind him. Eventually he lets me leave and agrees to fix the bed for me. As I’m driving home, I realize that I can’t do it anymore. I pull over and cry; trying to figure out what I’m going to do. A good 20 minutes later, I decide to do what I’ve always wanted. I’m gonna move to the city and get a job with a record label. Who knows, maybe I’ll be the next Etta James.
When I get home the first thing I do is sit down with my guitar and start to write a song, “Nu-Nu My Love”.