Today My Name is Amy

This is the first non-erotic story that I've put on this site. I hope that you, the reader, understand, and maybe even relate a little bit, to the character and her actions as much as I do. As always, thank you for reading my story, and please check out all of my other works as well.

Today my name is Amy. I have long black hair that falls straight down to the center of my back. My green eyes are hidden behind lightly rimmed rectangle glasses. I am a temp doing secretary work at a telecommunications company until the normal secretary gets back from maternity leave. I answer phones, greet people who arrive in the main suite for their important meetings with executives, and maybe do some light typing. It's a very easy job, one that took me all of thirty seconds to master. The inter-office phone list has been conveniently placed over the phone, the coffee is to the right of the desk so it is easy to offer to clients while they wait, and do not disturb the head honcho unless he told you he was expecting someone.

I live in a fully furnished rented studio apartment across the street from the village park. My "living room" window overlooks the lush, green lawn and trees in the front, and the "kitchenette" window in the back shows me a wonderful view of the dark alley between my building and the Chinese restaurant behind me. It comes complete with the obligatory dumpster and stray cats that seem to occupy all dark alleys across America.

The apartment is on the third floor of an old, converted Victorian. It used to be someone's attic. The ceiling is a tall v-shape, with the sides coming down sharply and creating two feet on either side of the apartment that are unusable for all but storage and very low furniture. There is a ceiling fan in the very center of the apartment. It blows hot air around all summer, or so I'm told by the landlady on the first floor. She advised me not to use it, and said I should buy a small air conditioning unit for the window. I think she's hoping I will just so I can leave it here when I go and let her charge the next person who rents the place an extra fifty dollars a month for the air conditioning.

But the apartment works well for me, all things considered. There is a small kitchenette that has the basic stove, fridge and microwave, a bathroom next to that with a stand-up stall that makes me wonder how long the floor will hold, and the main room that doubles as a living room and bedroom, complete with a pull-out sofa bed. Since I don't entertain anyone up here, how could I when it's constantly ninety degrees, the bed is always out and pointing to the oldest television I have ever seen. And the best part about the whole thing is that with all of the furnishings and utilities included, I am only paying three hundred a month in rent.

Every day I wake up at six to shower and get ready for my job. The office is air conditioned, so I wear nice slacks and a blouse most days. This makes my wardrobe very easy to coordinate. I walk two blocks to work in sensible flats, and arrive promptly at 7:50 to the front doors of the building. Our suite is on the eighth floor, and I take the stairs as often as possible to try to get some exercise. By the time I open the doors to the main office and walk all the way to the back of the suite to punch in, it's just about eight. Then I make a fresh pot of coffee for the break room, one for the executives, and one for my desk. My morning is spent answering phone calls, typing memos, and receiving customers until my lunch break at 12:30. After a cold deli turkey sandwich and baggie of carrot sticks, I return to my desk and finish out the day the same way I occupied my morning. I'm back in my little apartment with a light bag of groceries by 6:15, ready to cook dinner for one and lay in bed and watch television until the end of the nightly news.

Sure, it may seem like a boring way to spend the spring months, but it isn't too bad. There is a very cute executive who loves to stop by my desk every morning and take coffee from my pot because he says I save all of the good brew for the clients and myself. I think it's just a lame excuse to stop by and talk to me. One of these days I'm sure he'll work up enough nerve to ask me to dinner. And then I won't have to eat alone on a Saturday as well.

And then there's the Saturday morning trip to the art museum I take whenever the weather permits me to walk that far. Six blocks up, I can take in all of the culture I can handle as well as stop into their restaurant for a nice, cheap lunch.

I get paid pretty well at the temp agency. My weekly paycheck is about three hundred dollars, so I have quite a bit left over at the end of each month. Not like I ever spend it. Two hundred dollars of every paycheck gets immediately put into a fireproof safe I hide in my freezer. I know, that's probably one of the first places a burglar would look in a small studio apartment, but it's also the only real hiding place available to me. And I'm not really worried about being robbed. So far that safe has over eight thousand dollars in it. Not all of it was earned while I was staying in this small studio apartment, and not all of it was made by Amy.

Today, my name is Amy. And I work for a temp agency filling in as a secretary at a telecommunications company. But I am getting tired of waiting for the cute executive to ask me out. And it is getting closer to true summer, and my studio apartment is starting to hit the triple digits temperature wise. The safe with eight thousand in it is weighting down on my conscious.

Today my name is Brenda. I'm a waitress in a major restaurant chain, and I usually wear my long red hair in a braid down my back. My green eyes make me look Irish next to the bright red bangs, and at least three customers each afternoon ask if I get freckles if I stay out in the sun too long. I just smile and say that I don't get to see much sun inside the restaurant. Then I tell them the specials and soups and get them their drinks.

After a five-hour shift that encompasses the end of the lunch rush and the beginning of the dinner rush, I divvy out my tips to the bus boy, bartender and hostess and head home. My beat up Chevy takes me three and a half miles outside of the town and into the almost rural suburbs to my rented space above a garage. There is almost half the room that there was in the studio attic of the Victorian, and most of that is the bathroom. Other than the kitchen sink and stove, the only hint of an apartment is the futon and small breakfast table. I don't really miss having a television, if you can believe that. I read a lot at night now, and even go out once in a while with some of the other waitresses.

The tips are fantastic, and I can afford to put aside my paycheck for the rent and use my tips to buy groceries, go out once a week for drinks or a movie with the girls, and still put aside over one hundred dollars a week in my safe. After buying the rusty Chevy, I still have six thousand in there, and it's growing again. Maybe I can afford not to put any in for a while and spend some money on new clothes. I don't have to wear the slacks and blouses very often any more, but I don't have many casual clothes. And with fall and winter coming just around the corner, maybe it would be smart to buy a few nice sweaters and some sweats.

And maybe I should splurge and buy a nice sexy outfit for Dennis to see me in. We've been on a couple of dates now, and he seems like a down to earth guy who would be really great in bed. I'm sure he would appreciate a lace nightie and a no-strings-attached roll in the hay. Or maybe it could turn into two or three rolls if things go good.

Today, my name is Brenda and I'm a waitress. I live in a garage apartment and am casually seeing Dennis. I make decent money, and am looking forward to buying a few new items for my fall and winter wardrobes. The safe will still be there in a few months when I again have extra money to put into it.

Today my name is Clarice. My short strawberry blond curls frame my face and accentuate my blue eyes. Women always ask me where I got my perm as I scan in their purchases at the register and fold them neatly on the tan countertop. I smile and tell them it's a secret and I would have to have them killed if I told them. Some smile awkwardly and stand in silence until I tell them their total, and others laugh and nod appreciatively when they think I'm protecting my favorite stylist from hoards of needy women. In reality, I got it done three hundred miles away and didn't remember the lady's name. I just didn't think they wanted to hear that.

I work at a women's apparel store in the mall, and regret buying so many clothes so soon, when I could have gotten such a great employee discount on them now. But they say hindsight is twenty-twenty, and that you can't live in the past. Right now, I concentrate on my job, which is even easier than the secretary position, and my love life.

I share a cottage with a beautiful woman named Savannah. She's an exotic dancer at the hottest gentleman's club in the state. She's also a fantastic kisser, among other things. She was looking for a roommate and took an ad out in a paper I was reading while sitting in an all-night diner. I had just crossed the state line and was trying to decide if I was in the mood to drive any further that night or should start looking for the seedy motel that I knew would be around somewhere, and read her classified in the nick of time.

"Wanted: woman to help pay mortgage of country cottage. Needs to be tolerant of late nights and occasional parties. Rent negotiable."

What more could you ask for? The next day I called her number and asked when she was looking to move someone in. Before I knew it I was in her bed doing the nine to her six and staying in her cottage rent free. In lieu of rent, I cook her dinner before she goes to work and help her unwind afterwards.

During the day, just to have something to do with my time and to raise the amount in my safe, I work retail. Slacks and sweaters do nicely as far as wardrobe is concerned, so I didn't need to worry about buying anything that will make my suitcase any heavier. Soon, though, I will need to buy a new suitcase. This one has seen better days, and probably won't see many more before tearing at the seams.

Savannah does throw some wild parties, and I have had my first three-some because of her. I'm sure that's not her real name, and I don't ask how she got into stripping as a profession. People need their privacy. And besides, not everyone likes to talk about their past. So I take life as it comes and just have fun in her little country cottage while I can.

Today, my name is Clarice, and I sell women's clothes. I am the temporary houseguest of a bisexual stripper named Savannah and love every minute of it. I am able to put aside a lot of money for my safe, kept in the spare tire compartment of my car's trunk. Soon I'll buy a new suitcase or two for my expanding wardrobe.

Today my name is Donna. My military haircut is the height of fashion in this new era where men can be metrosexuals and women can be anything they want. Short brown spikes point to the sky and make my face seem long and lean. My brown eyes seem to blend in to my tanned skin and make me look like the total beach bunny. At least that's what the guys at the surf shop say every morning when I walk in to start my shift. They're just jealous I have such a fabulous body and can make a guy buy anything I tell him he needs for the most outrageous time surfing the waves.

I work on commission, and the tan and tight abs are a definite plus. It's a good thing that Savannah talked me into getting that gym membership last year. The couple hundred spent then instead of being saved translates into at least a hundred dollars a week now in commission.

And so what if the rent I pay is a little higher than it has been? Don't I deserve a nice loft with a view of the ocean? Five hundred a month is a little steep, but I wonÕt be here long. I can already tell that the surf shop isn't the place for me. And the job market here is too tight to find anything else. One more month, maybe, to enjoy morning jogs on the beach and evenings watching the sun set over the purple water. Then I'll pack my bags again and head out of town.

Today, my name is Donna and I use my good looks to sell surfers things they probably can't afford and could live without. I live in an apartment I shouldn't be able to afford, and am dipping into my safe more than I am putting money into it. I don't think I will be in this situation much longer at all.

Today my name is Eva. I still have the short spiked brown hair and brown eyes. But now instead of working in a store down by the ocean, I am cooking in a hot kitchen at a restaurant in a busy city. The kitchen is hot, and I'm glad my hair is short. It's mostly a thankless job, and more fast-paced than what I'm used to. The pay is lousy, and I'm wishing I was a waitress again instead of a cook.

Every night when I get out of work, the first thing I do is go home to my cheap rented room at a pay-by-the-week motel and take a shower. Then I lay in bed, trying not to think of the last person to lay there, and stare at the ceiling until I can fall asleep. I'm not using any of the money from my safe, once again in the freezer, but I'm also not putting any in. The cooking job is barely paying for the rent, and I'm lucky that I get one free meal a night at the restaurant.

I miss Amy and Brenda and Clarice.

Today, though, my name is Eva. I'm a lowly cook at a fast-paced restaurant living in a motel that I'm thankful doesn't have a rodent problem. My nice clothes and new suitcase don't mean anything here. I don't mean anything here. It's time to move one.

Maybe I should stop home, first.

My name is Teresa. That name is not just for today, but forever. I have a fireproof safe that I take everywhere with me, and put in as much money as I can while I try and satisfy my wanderlust. Today, as myself, I am going to the special care facility in my hometown. The money from the safe, all eight thousand, five hundred and eighty-two dollars of it, has been changed into a cashier's check and is tucked safely into my purse.

I park my beat-up Chevy in the parking lot and walk slowly to the front doors of the deceptively pretty building. I ask the receptionist where I could find Chase Dwyer, and head up to the third floor, the cancer ward.

There's a lump in my throat that I just can't seem to get rid of. I stop and take a drink from the water cooler, buying time and trying to clear my throat. It's just to damn hard being Teresa.

I find the right room number, and close my eyes for a brief moment before knocking on the closed door softly. The tan oak seems to mock me as I wait nervously for a response from beyond it. I wish I was Clarice again.

Joshua opens the door slowly. His eyes widen as he recognizes who is standing in front of him. He turns around quickly and assesses the situation in the room behind him, then steps into the hallway and closes us both out of it.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he hisses as he puts his back against the door.

"I came to see my son."

Joshua shakes his head violently. "You don't have a son, remember? It was just too much for you to bear. You couldn't cope with chemo and doctor's visits and just having a family in general."

I stare intently at the grain in the door above his head, trying to tilt my head up high enough that the tears are unable to trail down my face. I nod slightly, admitting that what he said was the truth. "I deserve that," I say through the lump in my throat. "I know I deserve that. Is he asleep?"

"That's almost all he does," my husband whispers. "He sleeps and wakes up to take his medication. Sometimes he wakes up long enough to talk to me, or to watch a baseball game on television."

I remember the golden haired little boy that I once loved with all of my heart. The three-year old that loved to be pushed on his tire swing and play catch in the backyard. Chase was the light of my life who wished to be a Diamondback when he grew up. I wanted to come home and be able to see him again and remember all of the good times that we shared.

I have to try again, just have to. "May I see him?"

"No. No," says Joshua as he pushes away from the door. "Chase doesn't need to wake up and see his mommy standing over his bed. He doesn't need the disappointment when she disappears in a week or a month and leaves him all alone again. You broke his hear, Terry. That little boy knows you don't love him, and knows he's sick and that's why you left him. He doesn't need a reminder of that."

I back away a step as Joshua seems to grow with his anger. His once gorgeous face seemed strained and aged beyond his years, and at this moment it was seething with pent-up rage. He was angry at me, at Chase's condition, and at fate in general. He was stuck with a wife who couldn't cope with her life, a son who was terminally ill, and a life that seemed to go from golden to garbage.

And I was the cause of most of his anger. I was the one who didn't want to face the reality of having a son who was dying of cancer. I was the one who drove away and lived from moment to moment in strange towns across the country, reinventing myself as I saw fit because I didn't like what I was.

I was selfish and greedy and didn't have any claim to Chase any longer. I was a fool to come home. And Joshua loved letting me know that.

The tears did come then. One after another they slide down my face as I open up my purse and fish around aimlessly. Not for a tissue as I'm sure Joshua thought, but for the check I knew was in there. The check that I had been saving so hard to create for the past two years.

"Okay," I whisper as I find it and draw it out. "Okay, I understand. You're right, Joshua. You're always right. I pushed you into getting married, and you knew I wasn't ready for that. I'm sorry you had to pay the price for my mistake."

Joshua's eyes grow bright with anger. "Are you trying to make me relive my disappointment again, too, now? You're a sadist, Terry."

"No, I'm sorry. That's not it. That's not why I'm here. I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have just taken off like that. I should have stayed and helped. But I couldn't, I can't." I take a deep breath. "But I can help in other ways." I hold out the check for him to take. After a few moments, he reaches out and takes it, looking like he thought it would bite him.

"No, don't you dare," he growls as he crumples the check in his hands. "You can't just wave a few thousand dollars around and think that it will be enough."

"I know it isn't!" I cut him off. "I'm not saying it's nearly enough. I know the medical bills are probably five times that by now. I just want to try and do my part. He is still my son, and I want to help."

A bitter laugh echoes through the hallway. "You want to help you son? Leave. File for divorce and never come back. If you think this will help ease your conscious, will help you sleep better, think again. Your son is worth a lot more than eight thousand, or at least he should be to you."

I close my eyes and fold my arms around myself. "I'm sorry I'm not strong enough to cope with this, Joshua. I'm sorry. That's all I can say. Do whatever you want with the check. Pay the bills, buy yourself a nice television, or just throw it out for all I care. I tried. I'm sorry, and I tried. You'll get the divorce papers in the mail when I get around to it. Don't worry, I won't ask for a thing. I know I don't deserve anything."

I walk down the hallway in slow, measured steps. I don't look back to see if he tore up the check or not. That's Joshua's call, as are all the decisions regarding our son. I'm nothing more than an innocent bystander who tried to donate to a worthy cause.