Plain Jayne by Brea Brown Read Free Book Online Page A

Professional detachment. That’s what I’m
going for here. I summon the disclaimer I’ve read inside so many books and
before countless movies. This is a work of fiction. Any
similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is merely
coincidental. Yes. They’re characters, not my family members.
    After all, that’s what I need everyone to believe.
    I ignore the voice in my head that calls me a
fraud.
    It’s drowned out, anyway, by the couple next
door, who is having a very loud argument. From what I can tell, the male half
of the partnership left the seat up on the toilet “for the thousandth time,”
and the female half fell in, because she doesn’t have her contact lenses in,
which—according to the offender—isn’t his fault. It’s glimpses like this into
coupledom that make me thankful I’m a hermit-in-training and don’t have to deal
with anyone else’s bad habits and idiosyncrasies.
    Well, other than Gus’s, but that’s only
temporary, until I find my own place. Or am driven by his interesting lifestyle
to a hotel, whichever comes first. He was so generous to allow me to stay with
him, but he didn’t tell me that he lived in a sardine can with a futon serving
as his bed (and every seat other than the toilet) and a coffee table serving as
every surface. I guess it’s a testament to his generous nature that he felt
obligated to offer me accommodations when he literally doesn’t have an inch to
spare here. I’ve seen bigger walk-in closets. In college dormitories.
    But I didn’t want to settle down in this part
of the country without making sure this could be my true home. As a writer (at
least I think that’s what I am), I can live wherever I want, so I think
it’s important that I find a place where I feel comfortable and—at the risk of
sounding too arsty-fartsy—inspired. This is the first time I’ve ever been to
this area of the country, but based on what I’ve read and seen so far, I think
it’ll be a good fit for me, especially if I can find a way to live near the
water. I’ve had my fill of land-locked, drought-prone tinderbox states.
    Good news:  the couple next door isn’t
fighting anymore. Bad news:  they’re having very loud make-up sex on the other
side of the wall, about ten feet away from where I’m sitting, from the sound
of… things.
    That settles it. I have to get out of here if
I’m going to get anything done. Some things are impossible to ignore, and loud
sex is probably number one on the list.
    The laptop goes back in its bag. I check to
make sure my wallet’s still tucked in there, too, pocket the apartment key that
Gus left for me on the coffee table/desk/dining table, and vacate the premises
before thinking about where I’m going to go. I’ll figure it out when I get to a
place where I can hear myself think.
    ******
    This is hopeless. Having never tried to write
anywhere but the comfort of my own home, I never realized how particular I am
about the setting in which I work. I don’t have any weird physical rituals that
I perform before each writing session (turn around three times before sitting
in the chair; close eyes while rubbing pencil between palms; take a deep
breath; open eyes; toss pencil; type), but the conditions have to be right. And
some of those conditions aren’t conducive to public venues.
    For example, I can’t exactly set out my
favorite sugar-cookie-scented LED flameless candle in the Boston Public
Library. But somehow that smell has become an olfactory muse. As much as I love
the smell of books and polished wood, it’s not as inspirational to me.
    If that were the only idiosyncrasy I had, I’d
probably be able to work around it. But I’ve also become dependent on another
crutch:  the large fleece blanket that I usually drape over my lap, legs, and
feet. It seems like an insignificant thing, and, indeed, it started out that
way. One day I was cold, so I grabbed the fleece blanket from the foot of my
bed. And that would be