Jade McQueen

Jade pouted. She gave Quinn a rather defiant look. She dared him to say something. Quinn shook his head and took another sip of his Pepsi water. He digested it rather reluctantly. He understood the significance of the blue book. He understood what AA was all about. Quinn Hemmingway had had a moment of unbridled clarity.

Sobriety By Picasso:

Quinn's sponsor was nicknamed "Picasso." She didn't drink anymore, but she liked to paint. Picasso was a heavyset woman, but she was beautiful in some respects. She was beautiful in the right light. Picasso's hair was blond and it was tinged with streaks of red. Red was her natural color.

Quinn met her at Byron's. She was sitting in the back booth. The booth was next to a jukebox and an autographed picture of James Dean. Picasso had been sober for ten years. She wasn't a party girl anymore and she didn't roam the bars on Division street anymore and her days of drunken, casual sex were over. Sobriety was her new mantra.

"What's up?" she asked, an unlit square hanging from her mouth. A lit cigarette burned in an ashtray and the smoke wafted upward. It went to the place. The place where smoke went to before it disappeared into oblivion.

"Jade's back in town."

"THE, Jade," Picasso said, surprised at his candidness.

"The one and only."

Quinn shrugged. His hands slapped against his thighs. Quinn placed them on the table. He watched a car as it ran a red light on Lawrence.

Picasso lit the cigarette that was in her mouth. She let the nicotine into her system before she spoke and she blew some smoke into the air. Quinn coughed and Picasso tried to redirect the smoke with a wave of her hand.

"Is she using?" asked Picasso. She propped up her elbow on the table and her eyes looked towards the window and she took a drag of her square.

"Is she using?"

"Picasso."

"Is she using. Yes or no?"

"No! Ok, no! Jade isn't using."

"You're a terrible liar," laughed Picasso, who took another drag of her cigarette.

He threw his hands up in the air and he turned on that boyish charm of his.

"I'm not lying, Picasso."

She crushed her butt and leaned in closer and when she leaned in closer Quinn smelled the tobacco on her breath. He tried not to tune Picasso out.

"She's going to cost you Quinn. She's going to cost you your sobriety." Her hand sliced across the hair and then it came to rest on the edge of the table.

Quinn waved his hand and leaned back in the chair. He looked at Picasso for a moment and then he turned away. Quinn licked his lips. He was unable to wipe away the grin that was on his face. Quinn hated it when Picasso was in a negative state of mind.

"Can I tell you something Picasso?"

"Shoot."

"I think that I had a slip last night?"

"Did you use?"

"Picasso."

"Did you use? Yes or no?

"No, I didn't use last night."

"Are you bullshittin me?" asked Picasso, puffing on her cigarette. She sighed rather reflectively. Picasso had a thought about Quinn. She couldn't help him if he wasn't going to be honest with her.

"I'm not bullshitting you."

Picasso crushed the butt. She removed another cigarette from the pack and placed it behind her ear.

"You worked hard Hemmingway, don't blow it." Picasso rose from the table. She gave Quinn a pat on the shoulder. Her hand stayed there for a minute. Quinn hated himself for lying to Picasso. In the scheme of things, Jade wasn't as important as his sobriety.

And You Hated Mornings...

The sunlight poured through the window. It overpowered the cheap, dime store curtains. Jade's eyes opened. She lifted her head up off the pillow. Her temples throbbed and she felt a dryness in the back of her throat. Jade threw the covers off and she sat on the edge of the bed for a moment. Jade felt a heaviness in her legs and a heaviness in her head.

She dragged herself to the window and then she pulled the curtain back. Jade saw the patch of blue sky and she saw the broken clouds. She felt a sickness in her stomach and she thought her stomach was being downright neurotic. Jade hated it when the organs of her stomach were being neurotic. She ran to the toilet and got down on her knees and she felt the cold porcelain on her kneecaps and she wondered when she was going to puke. The alcohol was trapped within her stomach.

"See what happens when you break your promise." Jade took her face out of the bowl and turned to look at Quinn. She saw Quinn's loafers. Her eyes worked their way up. They went past his crotch and they went past Quinn's belly. She had to admit, his belly needed to be sculpted. Finally, she reached Quinn's face. The phrase, "I told you so" was on his lips.

"Not a fucking word," she said, sticking her head back in the bowl. She wondered when she was going to throw up.

"False alarm?" Quinn mocked, trying to conceal that shit eating grin of his. He wasn't concerned. Hell, she had a bad night. People puked when they drank to much. Quinn knew that fact better than anybody else did.

Jade looked at the sparkling blue water of the toilet bowl. She thought of the ocean and she thought of her days in Santa Monica. She thought about settling down there. Although, she was a nomad by nature.

"Jade?"

"Yah?" Jade said weakly. Just then, a dry heave emerged from the depths of her stomach. It emerged from the depths of her stomach and it found its way into the back of her throat and it burnt like hell.

"We have to..." The phone rang. Jade leapt up, pushed her way past Quinn. She was expecting a call from Marty, her agent. Marty had a line on a gig at the VIC. Jade hadn't worked in two months and she was practically broke. Taking care of her little white monster was rather expensive.

Jade mumbled an apology and then she disappeared into the bedroom. Quinn shook his head and laughed and then he followed Jade into the bedroom. Come to think of it, the call was important to Quinn to. He was going to be homeless in a few weeks. Quinn hoped that Jade would take him in. Then again, Jade didn't have many prospects. She hadn't worked in awhile. In the end, Quinn thought that he was going have to grovel and plead. Maybe Picasso had a spare bedroom.

"We have to," She shushed him and put her finger to her lips. Jade danced from foot to foot. She tried to ignore the pain in her head. It was throbbing and pulsing and ringing.

"Oh shit. You scheduled it... Marty I... Listen... Listen... my appearance was today... Fuck... Marty I... No I just... I just forgot... Marty... I know... I know how big it ... Fine, You're not my manager anymore. Bye Marty."

Jade put the phone back in its cradle. She exhaled and put her hand over her eyes. This wasn't a good time for a fuck up. She needed work and she needed it badly. Jade had forgotten all about the appearance that she was scheduled to attend. That's why Marty was pissed and that's why he was dropping her. Jade wasn't artistic, she was just irresponsible.

"What's up?"

Her head dropped down, then came up. She looked out the window and icked her lips. She had an insatiable craving for a double bourbon.

"That was my agent Quinn. He's dropping me as a client."

"Why?" asked Quinn. He didn't realize how stupid the question was until it came out of his mouth.

Jade sighed. She didn't want to take her frustration out on Quinn. Then again, he asked to many questions. Jade's head was fucking killing her.

"Why? Weren't you listening? I missed an appearance!" Jade put her hands over her eyes and she sat down on the edge of the bed. Quinn looked at her and he wanted to save her. He didn't want to pity her though. Pity was the last thing that Jade needed.

Quinn put his arm around Jade's shoulder. He wondered where his improvisation skills had gone.

"Don't," she whined, pushing his hand away. Jade found a spot by the window. She thought about ending it all.

Jade had trouble keeping her head up. She wasn't in the mood for a conflict.

"I can't touch you now?"

"No, you can't. You can't touch me and you can't save me."

"I'm not trying to save you."

"Bull-shit."

"Fine, I'm trying to save you. My life is all about you, it's all about you Jade."

"What life?" snapped Jade, hoping that she was just being a bitch because she was hung over.

There was silence for a few moments. They each imagined an apology and they each imagined a verbally spoken olive branch. Quinn clasped his hands together and then he put them on his chin.

"You're no fun anymore," Jade laughed. She ran her hands through her curls and she moved her neck from side to side.

"Correction, we're no fun anymore."

Quinn walked out and headed into the kitchen. He turned on the faucet and cupped his hands. Quinn splashed some water on his face and he felt the cold liquid as it opened his pores. The water went deep within his skin. The sensation was fresh and new.

"You're not going to fall."

He said it again.

"You are not, going to fall."

He said it again and he tried to make himself believe it.

Quinn looked at the gin bottle that was on the stove. He thought about the old days. He'd lose himself in some off brand type of liquor. Quinn's legs shook and his palms were sweaty and his tongue was dry. He had little balls of white spit on the side of his mouth. He could hear Picasso's voice. There was an "I told you so" in his future.

"Lord, give me the strength..." Quinn thought that prayer was the answer. He wished that he had read the bible. If only he hadn't turned his back on Catholicism. Sobriety and Catholicism went hand in hand.

A few weeks later...

Quinn had an AA meeting at Saint Francis in Evanston. The train jerked forward and then it stopped. The computerized voice told everyone that there was going to be a short delay. An older woman in a black stole was pissed at the conductor for some reason. She wrote down his number as he went by.

Across the aisle, there was a tyke who needed a hair cut. His mom whacked him in the mouth because he was clapping to loudly. The kid opened his mouth and rubbed his wound with the back of his hand. He stomped, but nothing came out of his mouth. There was an older woman with peach rimmed glasses and a slightly deformed jaw line.

Quinn looked at his black bag and he thought of Jade. She had bought him that bag for his college graduation. The thought of her made him sad. Quinn opened the smaller pocket. He removed a blue, withered envelope. It had faded red handwriting on it. He opened the envelope and took the letter out. Quinn felt the coarseness of the paper when he touched it.

Dear Quinn,

I went home to Santa Monica. I think I'm gonna settle down here. Who knows? Maybe we'll see each other again. Nothing is for certain. Do me a favor? Don't ever forget me. Please write me back. Please.

Love always,

Jade "Ellen" McQueen

"I wrote her six months ago," he laughed. He looked at the brand new edition of "Rolling Stone" the one that he had bought at the newsstand. He didn't want to open it. He didn't want to look for Jade's name on the Billboard 100. Quinn couldn't take his eyes off the cover girl that was staring back at him. He peered deep into the egg shaped eyes of Katie Holmes. Quinn shook his head and then he made a lewd comment about Katie's tits. He was ashamed of himself.

"Fuck it," he said, deciding to open up the mag. Jade was on page 26. The section was titled, "Where Are They Now?" A courier headline asked a simple question; "Whatever Happened to Jade McQueen?"