As a personal aside from the editor I'd just like to say, Fuck that guy.
Otherwise, fuck yeah, this is a piece worth reading. Give it a go and then check out her fiction.
CriMemoir by Marietta Miles
Lost in Los Angeles, thousands of miles away from home, I
lived surrounded by people too busy to see me. From myrtles, magnolias and mom
making dinner, to palm trees, traffic and people who could care less.
No matter, I was young and fearless. I was steel.
L.A. was crowded, fast, and exciting. L.A. was unreal and I
had sunset sized dreams. Discover the next Nirvana. Get them signed, make them
famous. Work A&R for some cool indie label. Travel around and listen to
music.
I wanted to have my own apartment, maybe a house with a
courtyard and a lemon tree. Send my tight-lipped, twitchy-eyed, cat-hating
roommate back to Pasadena.
Until then, I was working as a receptionist for the second
hottest radio station in L.A, filing health claims for the employees and making
coffee for the executives. Living catless with my angry little roommate.
One weekend my best friend from Virginia came for a visit.
She met me at work around 5:30 so I could show her around the station. The top
two floors were programming and promotion. Glass walls encased cubicles and
offices. Red and gray carpeting ran throughout the halls. Pictures of on-air
staff and different bands lined the walls.
When she and I stepped onto the elevator Davis Lee, Music
Director, and his record-label buddy also walked on.
“Where you going?” He offered to hit the button for us.
“Sales and AM, please.” I answered.
“Why the fuck would you wanna go there?” Davis Lee looked at
his friend and laughed. “Nothing but old guys down there.” The friend bobbing
his head to an imaginary beat, grinning.
“Showing my friend around.” I said.
Davis Lee was an important guy at the station. He had two
secretaries. One smart and one pretty. He stalked the hallways, chain smoking,
and flicking ashes in the potted plants.
It was almost 6:30. The two men had worked late but seemed
wired and ready to go. By the time the doors opened on ground level, they had
invited us to join them. I asked how much cash we might need and they laughed.
“L.A. is our treat.” My near-empty bank account was grateful.
After climbing into his BMW, we cruised through Hollywood
and into the hills. We entered through a security gate, to a driveway and
parked. The house hid behind a wall of stucco and Spanish red tile.
They led us through arches to a porch with a pool and a
fountain. They gave us drinks and showed us the balcony. Past several telephone
poles and blinking streetlights, we could see the sky changing from pink to
blue, lights of the city winking.
With no warning or sign, everything around me fell to black.
Noises sounded far away and foreign. I heard myself cry. I heard someone laugh.
I came to, lying on a floor, not sure of where I was.
Feeling my way down the dark hallway I found a small room with the door open. I
couldn’t see. I looked and looked for a light switch.
My guts twisted, almost knocking me to the ground. Leaning
against the wall, I held onto whatever was in my way. I felt something with a
handle and a chord. It rolled away when I fell.
My muscles tightened. Tears streamed down my face.
Everything inside my stomach came up or came out. I ran from the room and down
the hall. I tried to call out to my friend, my throat so sore I couldn’t
whisper.
I found her, lying on a lounge chair on the side porch,
alone. He kicked her out when she said no too many times. She looked for me but
became confused and then sick.
She wiped my face with her shirt and righted my dress. We
held hands and walked down the strangely quiet street. She had kept her purse
while mine was lost. From a bodega on Sunset, we called a cab and eventually
made it home.
She cut her trip short, leaving the next night. She promised
it wasn’t my fault.
I chewed my fingernails, cracked my knuckles but Monday came
anyway. Still dazed, I walked to my desk only to find it cleared out. I was
told to go to the conference room.
“We’re moving
you to the AM station.” Davis Lee and the program director sat at the far end
of the conference table while I stood in the doorway.
“They need another secretary.” AM radio. The all-talk
station. News, lost pets and tradio. I could feel my face growing red, tears
rising. He just stared at the papers in front of him.
I had no savings, no credit. I had nothing. I meant nothing.
I was lucky I still had a job.
After work, I sat in my Toyota and watched him drive off, a
pretty girl in the passenger seat. I wasn’t the first girl he tricked. I
wouldn’t be the last. I left Los Angeles soon after, heading home, tale tucked
between my legs.
I’ve filed my time in L.A. fairly far back in my memory
bank. Still, a small part of me takes dark solace knowing Davis Lee won’t
forget me. The girl he sent running home. Because, you will remember a
roofied-up redhead defecating in your broom closet.
Marietta Miles has published stories with Thrills, Kills and Chaos, Flash Fiction Offensive, Yellow Mama and Revolt Daily. She has been included in anthologies available through Static Movement Publishing and Horrified Press. Please visit her website or Facebook for more stories and further information. Her first novel will be available in spring 2016 through All Due Respect Books. Born in Alabama, raised in Louisiana, she currently resides in Virginia with her husband and two
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