New Beginnings.

Chapter Eleven

I stare at her outstretched hand. Her fingers are long and slender, and her nails have been freshly painted a glossy dark brown. She makes me uncomfortable. She is the kind of woman who drives a German car, gets her clothes tailored, and dates men with stock portfolios. I wonder what she is doing here. This must be some kind of pro bono community service and her real job is in a high rise. She is just doing this to feel good about herself--to tell her friends about how "rewarding" it is to help people like me.

She drops her hand and wipes her palm on her trousers. She studies me for a moment then tips her head toward the back offices and says, "Do you want another cup of shitty coffee before we get started?"

My lips crack slightly at her profanity. I recognize the psychological tool she is using, but at least she is trying to connect with me and humanize herself.

I look down at the steaming brown liquid in my hands and shake my head, "I am okay, thank you." I rise from the lobby chair and she reaches to help me with my bag as I juggle my paperwork and coffee. She places the bag strap on my shoulder and smiles at me.

Her smile reaches her bright green eyes and for a fleeting moment, I wonder if she actually does give a shit.

I follow her down the short hall to the meeting room she was in previously with the elderly woman. The walls along the hallway are painted a warm cream and pictures of Mount Rainier and Mount Hood are hanging in cheap plastic frames. I stuff my hands in my leather jacket's front pockets to force myself from straightening the uneven pictures.

She holds the meeting room door open for me and gestures for me to sit in a chair at a round desk. I set my bag down on the table and she sits across from me. She looks familiar. But I don't know why--I can't seem to place her. Maybe she is on a billboard downtown or I saw her in the society pages of the newspaper. 

She places a pair of thick-frame glasses on her face and flips to a fresh page of paper on a yellow legal pad. 

"Okay, Jennifer..." She begins.

"Call me Jen, please," I interrupt and she nods. A slight smile turns up her lips.

"Jen, how can I help you today?" she asks.

I tell her about the eviction notice taped to my door and the letter I received telling me that I have to leave in 10 days or give them proof of my income.

"And you are unable to provide proof of income?" She asks. I expect her voice to be laced with judgment or pity. It is obvious that I am caught up in a seedy career. That I am most likely a prostitute, stripper, or dealer. But her tone is warm and she seems like she just wants to understand the issue. I begin to feel more at ease with her.

"No, my job pays me in cash," I reply.

She nods and then asks if she can see the documents I have brought.

I nod and slide my paperwork over to her.

"Would you mind if I made a copy of these so we can discuss them together?" She asks and I nod again. She rises from the small round desk and leaves me sitting in the meeting room.

The round desk is old and the faux wood grain is beginning to flake off. I find myself mindlessly picking at it.

She returns and hands me back the original documents as she begins to read the copies. After she finishes she looks up at me and asks, "Is this the most recent lease agreement?"

"Yeah, I talked to Larry, he's the old owner, and told him that I would renew the lease for another year but this is all I have."

She nods. "So Larry is the original owner and he is the one who stamped your old lease with this renewal stamp?" She clarifies and points at the red stamp on my original copy. I nod.