This is, after all, the only “work” I have these days. I graduated with a degree in Art History from NYU and quickly got a job at a contemporary gallery. I enjoyed it, for a while, because it felt glamorous to dress up every day and sell priceless pieces of art. I felt important, hobnobbing with billionaires and attending shi-shi art auctions at Christie’s and Sotheby’s. However, when my mom passed away suddenly last year, my daily routine became too stale to digest. What was the point of showing pretty pictures to rich people every day? What was I doing with my life that actually mattered? If I were to pass away unexpectedly, what would my obituary say? “Pretty blonde from a rich family. Will be missed. The end.”
The answer, I decided, was to quit.
So I gave it up. I abandoned my cushy job, my gorgeous apartment, and any remaining ties to my socialite status. I haven’t had a job since then and spend a lot of time in my apartment with Rachel and Toodles. Financially, I’m fine because I have a trust fund. The Saint family made their bucks producing movies, and my brother, Channing, runs the empire these days. He doesn’t need my help.
I should feel guilty for not working anymore, but I don’t because I’m figuring out what truly matters to me, and what I actually want to do with my life. Handing out sandwiches to the homeless may not pay a salary, but it makes me feel good inside and gives meaning to my life. It’s something. It’s a start, and at least I’m contributing to the world, unlike before, when I was unmoored and practically useless.
I shake myself from my reverie as I approach my usual park bench. Someone’s already sitting there, and I have a feeling I know who it is.
“Marla!” I greet from a good ten feet away, and she waves enthusiastically.
“Whatcha got for me today, sweetie?” she asks as I come closer.
“Ham and cheese or peanut butter and grape jelly!” I reply cheerfully.
“Ooh, I haven’t had a PB&J for a long time. Can I have one of those?”
“Yeah, of course!”
As I dig in my backpack for a sandwich, I surreptitiously eye Marla. She’s smiling, and her grin is friendly and open. The older woman is probably only about five feet tall and as thin as a whip, but she’s looking a little sturdier these days. I catch a whiff of shampoo or hairspray as she leans near and takes the sandwich I offer. Marla definitely has somewhere to stay at the moment, and relief washes over my heart. If I could buy her a house without my older brother losing his mind at my “reckless spending,” I would.
“You can’t help everyone,” Channing’s said in the past.
“But we can help some,” I insisted. “Why don’t we do more?”
My brother just rolled his eyes.
“Please, Laurelin. Not now. I’m busy.”
I don’t blame him because Channing was in the middle of wedding planning back then, and up to his eyeballs in invitations and ribbon samples. His wife is a darling, but Jolene gives as good as she gets, and she made my brother participate, whether or not he wanted to.
But meanwhile, back to the present.
“You look good, Marla,” I tell her as she munches her sandwich.
She raises a brow. “You think so?” she asks. “I think I look like shit.”
I can’t help but laugh. Marla is older but whip-smart, with a great sense of humor. I met her the very first day I started handing out sandwiches, and we’ve been fast friends ever since.
“But you,” she continues, “Sweetie, have you been eating? You look pretty damn skinny.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine. More than fine. I’m just naturally built like this.”
Her expression softens. “Still sad about your mama?”
I shrug but can’t meet her gaze. My dad and I were never close, but my mom was always my shelter from his unpredictable storms. When he passed away, Mom helped me process my confusing, conflicting emotions. But when she passed away, I felt like I had no one to help me deal, not even, really, my older brother. I probably should have seen a therapist, but it feels too late now. I mostly try to push my feelings on the subject down, and hope that, someday, they don’t rise back to the surface and overflow.
“It’s okay, sweetie. I know how you feel. I’m still sad about my mama,” Marla says, “and she passed damn near forty years ago. There’s no shame in feeling your feelings.”
“I know.” I smile at her, simultaneously embarrassed and grateful. “Thanks, Marla. Now, enough about me. Where are you staying?”
“I’m at a good shelter now,” she nods. “I get hot showers and meals. I know I should probably leave your sandwiches for someone who needs it more, but I can’t resist coming to say hello.”