It was 9pm and I was hungry, so when I walked in and heard Fran ordering a pizza I was eager to smile. She looked cute I thought, in her sweats, white socks, and a wrinkled tee shirt, but when I glanced at her face she snarled. “What?” I asked.

“You can’t stay.” She turned and escaped to her bedroom. I followed.

“I’m tired and hungry and I’ve got no where to go. I feel like Oliver Twist.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Who’s coming? Shirley? Did you finally bag her?” I stood within her door frame as she picked and threw clothes from her closet. “I like you in sweats, the casual look gets them every time.”

“It’s not Shirley. It’s Betsy.” She said, completely preoccupied with her wardrobe.

I smiled. “Fran, you whore.”

Her previous snarl resurfaced and whatever she was holding in wasn’t staying. She threw a handfull of clothes to the floor. “I am sick of your comments about me when I’m trying desperately to get my life together so I can be happy. I want to be happy Greg. Don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, sure. Why not?”

“See, it’s those comments that I can’t take. You hide behind this sarcastic wit that’s funny, I admit, but I’m sick of it now cause it’s debilitating. I see it on you and you try to put it onto me.”

“I was kidding Fran, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry’s not good enough Greg. This is the deal. You get a job, pay rent, buy some food ,or you’re out.”

“Fine.” I started to head out.

“Wait.” Mumbled Fran.

“What, you want me to kiss your ass too?”

“No Greg, kiss your own ass. I just want you to have a job by day after tomorrow or you’re out. It’s been months now and you haven’t paid rent. Be mad, but the truth is I want you to stay, but you can’t stay for free.”

Fran’s eyes are hazel and change hues from time to time and within this very moment I watched them change from dark olive green to a turquoise. She didn’t want to say these things to me. “I’m sorry, Fran.”

“I know you are but get a job, okay?”

“Yeah, I will. Can I ask you something? You know what you’re getting into having Betsy over here?”

“No, just trying to figure it out.”

“Can I borrow the car?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Keys are in the kitchen.”

I didn’t want to drive around too much cause I didn’t have much money and I didn’t want to use up all of Fran’s gas, so I headed for the beach and the Santa Monica pier. A job, not an idea I wanted to get used to. I parked far away to avoid the five dollar fee. On the walk to the pier I passed several over-priced Italian restaurants and a few dozen street people. Santa Monica’s famous for them cause of the weather I suppose,
but also cause they don’t throw the homeless out of town like Beverly Hills. No blacks, no homeless in Beverly Hills. There’s a painting in that I thought.

When I got to the pier I reminded myself that I needed to think about a job, not a painting. I passed the merry-go-round and I felt dizzy just looking at it. I didn’t want to go in circles any more. Like Fran, I wanted a life too, I wanted to be happy. Jesus, that’s the first I thought of that. I headed straight for the end of the pier and leaned over the edge. The moon lit the water with white light and matched the sounds of swirling waves knocking the pylons. When I turned around I saw light from within the hills of Santa Monica, The Getty Museum.