Texted - 3

Part 2 can be found here: "Texted - 2" 

I know my formatting is horrendous right now, and I apologize. I'll fix it when I have more time, promise. :)

Amber
Last night I lost my best friend. It was a freak accident involving tin foil and a microwave. It doesn't matter how it happened, the only thing that matters is that I am now totally alone in the world, cut off from everything that was my life. I am in shock, I know I am. Sometimes I can actually see my body walking aimlessly around my shoe store, my soul floating above it, giving me an omniscient vantage point.
When I woke up this morning, I couldn't find my cell phone. And I lied about the freak accident, but I had to come up with something to cover how I really lost it, because the truth is I really don't know. My best friend, my little companion, is gone forever, and I don't know what I am going to do.
It's 9:15, my morning routine is done, and I am walking aimlessly through my store. I can't go down to the food court and risk milk man being there, although I bet he is hungover. That would provide me some entertainment if I still had a glimmer of silver lining, but I don't. He has made sure of that. The only place I could have left him, and by him I mean my phone, was at Vic's, and there were a million people there last night and I know one of them just picked him up and kidnapped him and it's been 12 hours already and everyone knows that if a kidnapper isn't caught in the first 24 hours, then you will almost certainly not catch him.
I'm going crazy. Well, crazier, every woman is crazy. Okay, I was already crazy, this whole separation from my brain, and by brain I mean cell phone, is just too much. I mean, I had everything in that phone, numbers, addresses, my calender, ringtones, pictures, emails, my facebook information, everything!. Oh God, I have got to call Sam and have her change my password. They can take my brain, but they won't get my facebook.
This, however, I cannot do until 10 o'clock. One thing about Sam is that you never, ever, wake her before 10. It Is her cardinal rule, and no one is exempt, not even me. This means I have exactly 41 minutes to kill before I can do anything productive concerning my current catastrophe.
My wanderings have brought me to the glass windows at the front of my store. I really need to redo these displays, they are getting rather old. I like to keep my windows up to date with the latest shoes, meaning the ones that I have the most of. I hate to have a customer walk into the store, eying a shoe in one of my window displays, only to tell them that we have only 3 pairs of that shoe left and none are in his or her size. Also seeing as how yesterday was a truck day and I have loads of new shoes to show off, it's time to replace the old and obsolete with the new and vibrant.
I put my body on autopilot and set about the task, glad to have something mindless to keep my brain from worrying about my lost phone. Retail displays are not always as easy as they look, and shoes are no exception. I try and group them by maker, style, purpose, and color, most of which are mutually exclusive attributes. Working by the windows also means that I can sneak peaks at the other shops as they prepare for the day. My store happens to sit across from a sporting goods shop and in between a hair salon and a store specializing in Kansas merchandise. It may sound corny, but it really is a neat little shop, and you just never know when a Kansas State University walnut cracker will be that perfect gift. I have bought some of their post cards, though. Kansas has some of the most spectacular lightning strikes and I have the 3 by 5 laminates to prove it.
The minutes crawl by as one by one my windows become hip, new centers of footwear at its finest. Were I in a less distracted mood, I would feel a certain amount of sadness and regret for the shoes that have been returned to their boxes. After all, it's not their fault they didn't sell, and they shouldn't have to pay the price for being unwanted. Sometimes its as simple as being an unusual size. Most of the time, however, the shoe is just poorly designed or colored. Some days I swear I can hear the shoes on the clearance table muttering at me about disgrace from inside their boxes. This is something I have never understood and have not taken the time to properly figure out for myself, and God forbid I am ever crazy enough to find myself talking to a shoe as if it were an animate object.
I put the finishing touches on my last display at 9:54, and am not about to wait around for 6 minutes. Sam can bend her rule for me just this once, as it really is an emergency. I rush to the counter and snatch up the phone before realizing that I don't actually know Sam's phone number. Whenever I dialed her, I just hit and held 3, 1 being reserved for my voice mail and 2 having never properly worked with speed dial. I tried to fix this, but I could only ever reach my service provider's help and assistance hotline, which was supremely unhelpful in fixing my 2 button and left me unassisted. So Sam was 3.
That, however, will not work from this phone. Dialing 3 simply ends the dial tone. Thinking quickly, I dial 411 and wait through the automated greeting, hit “1” for English, and answer the robot lady's questions, the second of which she interprets as “spam fittings” instead of “Sam Simmons.” I realize my error and properly ask for the listing for Samantha Simmons on my second try. The robot lady connects me to a real live human being, who proceeds to give me 3 listings for Samantha Simmons in Manhattan. After forwarding their numbers, she wishes me a happy day and rushes off to assist some other crisis stricken individual before I could inform her that my silver lining is now 2 days absent, my cell phone is missing, and I have a huge chocolate craving, which means my period is soon to be incoming. All in all a fantastic day.
The first number takes me to an answering machine of Samantha Simmons, one who is clearly not my Samantha Simmons. After hanging up on her recorded message I try the second number and hear the relieving sound of Sam's voice after the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Ohmygod I am so glad to hear your voice.” The words come out in a tumble and show just how upset I really am.
“Who is this?”
That hurt. “Uh, just your best friend, who is currently in the middle of the biggest crisis of her life and would really appreciate a little recognition here.”
“Amber? You sound totally different. What crisis?”
“I lost my phone.”
The line is silent for a full 5 seconds before she recovers. “Oh my God, what can I do?”
“Could you go to Vic's and see if anyone turned in a phone last night?”
“Yeah, that's a good plan. Want me to call the Humane Society and see if they found your lost puppy too?”
“Sam, I am freaking out here!”
“Okay, I'm sorry. How about I just call them?”
“Would they actually tell you over the phone if someone left a phone there?” I don't think I would in their position.
“I don't see why not.”
“You're right, there is not a single person out there who would call every business in the book, asking for lost cell phones, just to get a free phone call in, or to sell them back to the company and make some free money, or to hold your precious little baby ransom at gunpoint...”
“Okay, okay, I'll go over there. You really are upset, is there anything else?”
“No, that's it. Maybe bring me lunch later?”
“Burger or taco?”
“Definitely a taco” The last thing I need to worry about is eating cows after I so staunchly advocated their well-being yesterday.
“Okie dokie. Give me your store number so I can call you as soon as I know anything.”
I read off the digits and thank her before hanging up, then stand there with my hands on the counter and breathe a small sigh of relief. If it weren't for Sam, I would be going crazy all day long. At least now I feel like I have done something to right the situation, even if I am powerless to help out. It occurs to me, belatedly, that I could have started by calling the phone itself hoping that someone would answer it, wherever it may be.
A brisk tap on my store gate breaks my concentration. I turn to find a fat security guard hitting my gate with his little baton thing.
“Everything alright, ma'm?”
No. “Peachy keen, why do you ask?”
“Well, it's ten oh five, you need to open your store or I'll have to fine you.”
Fine me? For what, negligence to the public? “I'd like to see you try, I'm kind of in the middle of a crisis here.”
“Then you aren't peachy keen, ma'm. Is there anything I can do to help?”
This is getting ridiculous. “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean that. I've just lost my cell phone and am spazzing out over it just a little bit.” Sarah Chalke eye bulge and head shake, hands out and open as if I was surrendering.
The guard just stands there looking at me through the slats in the gate, clearly puzzled about something. Why do old men blink their eyes rapidly when they are confused? “You lost your phone?”
“Yes, my cell.”
“You know employees are not allowed to have those in their stores, correct?”
I honestly didn't know this, but you just gave me a veritable reason to hate you. “I am just trying to locate it and have a friend retrieve and hold it for me until after I get off work today.”
“Oh, alright then.” He starts to waddle away, but only gets a step in before stopping and returning to my gate. “Are you going to open up?”
“As soon as you leave my gate I will.” This nets a glare from the guard, but he finally ambles away. I hunch over and struggle with the gate. The things are much heavier than you would expect and really should come with some sort of tool for raising and lowering them. Some stores in the mall have automated gates, which are pretty neat except for one problem: the locks to raise and lower the gate require a key, and are placed exactly 1 inch above the floor, so you have to kneel down to operate them. Honestly, what was the point?
Once the gate is up, I have to stretch way up on my tip toes to secure it in place. It's when I am coming down from this task that I notice the sports store across the hall is still closed, which is odd. The guy usually opens the place at 9:30. The fat guard has made his way there and is now attempting to break that gate in with his baton. I stand transfixed and watch as the guard repeats his rapping twice more before shuffling off.
Or almost shuffling off. He sees me standing here watching him and changes directions towards me. At this point, I am all panicked out and just stay rooted on the spot, waiting for whatever this walking tub of bacon grease has for me.
“Could I use your phone, ma'm?”
No, you insensitive asshole, my phone is lost to the world. “My store phone?”
“Yes.”
“Sure, what for?”
He gestures with his head towards the sports shop. “I need to call Mr. Stevens to find out why he isn't open yet.”
“Ah, I see. Just follow me, I'll have to dial out for you first.”
We walk the short distance to the counter, him apologizing for the inconvenience and explaining that the security office is on the other side of the mall and how using my phone will save him a good 15 minutes. Once at the counter I grab the phone, cradle it to my ear, and spin the base around so I can punch in the code to dial out of the mall.
“Amber?”
“Sam? “
“You must really be wound up, the phone didn't even ring. I mean, I hit send and you answered like, point five seconds later!”
“I was actually just picking it up to dial out for one of the guards here. Something about an unopened shop.”
“I swear, if it was possible for you to make less sense, you would speak gibberish.” She lets the phrase hang in the air for an unreasonably long time. I glance at the guard, who is waiting patiently for the phone. I have to know, cell phone policies be damned.
“Did you get it?”
“Yup. I just called it from the counter to prove it was yours.”
“Oh thank God. Hey, I really need to go. I'll see you in a bit?”
“You so owe me.”
“You were already down 2, this just makes you down 1. Bye.” I hang up before she has a chance to respond, punch in the 4-digit password for the guard, and hand him the receiver before moving off toward the front of the store to give him as much privacy as a mall cubicle can provide. I make it maybe 3 steps before a chemically blonde head bounces up in front of me with a smile that is too perky to be natural, even at this hour.
“Hi, I'm Erica.” she states and takes a big swig of Monster. That explains the loony smile.
“Hello.” I respond, unsure of why I need to know this girl's name.
“I'm the new hire here? Surely Beth told you.” Beth meaning my scatterbrained manager, meaning the lady who never shows up to her job because she is plagued by a cheating husband and three children, all of whom take advantage of her at every opportunity, meaning the bitch who takes her frustrations out on me because she feels like she has no other outlet. That Beth?
“No, she neglected to mention.” Erica is an alpha female, her posture and diction are screaming it at me. So not backing down on this one.
“Well, don't you think you should show me the ropes, you know?” She balls her fists up and circles them at me as she says this.
“Sure thing. Training videos are in the back, watch the new hire one first.” I turn to the guard, who has completed his call and is just standing there. Creep. “Anything else I can help you with?”
“If Mr. James hasn't shown up in another half hour, would you be a doll and let me know?”
Just for that euphemism, at no point will I ever consider helping you ever again. “You got it.” He shuffles out, looking back over his shoulder ever few steps. Why do men do that? If you really wanted a good look, just be honest about it, and depending on my mood I might actually comply. Hell, on rare occasions I may even do a full 360 twirl for you. Just don't do the look over the shoulder thing, we all know what you are really doing.
At least I have a target to take my remaining fear and growing frustration out on, and she is in the form of an undernourished, I try to hard to fit in clothes, my skin is a fake orange color, my hair comes from chemicals, if I had the money my boobs would be as fake as my hair color, I've never had an original thought in my entire life, I'm doing what my mommy always wanted to but couldn't, and I slept with two different guys last night to feel better about myself, also called Erica, who is currently in the back room watching the cheesiest and most boring training videos ever created. The kicker is, she has 7 hours of videos to watch, so she got all gussied up for absolutely no reason today. I suppose I should have some respect for girls that put that much effort into how they look, especially if they are unfortunate and really need all that stuff to look decent, but I just can't do it. I can respect the effort they put into it, though, because I never would.
However, that target is currently busy, and I am professional enough, at this point, to not bother her. Besides, there is a more pressing matter I need to attend to. I return to the counter phone for what feels like the millionth time this morning and call Sam. I'm ashamed to say that I had to reference my little scrap of printer paper to get her number.
“Hello?”
“Where is my baby? Tell me he's okay!” I have a male phone. I can tell by the way it makes me ear hurt if I am on it too long, as if he is saying, “You are over your word limit for the hour, please stop talking.”
“About 25 feet from your doorway. Turn around.”
Sure enough, her short, dirty blonde head is bobbing through mall traffic just outside my doorstep.
“I love you!” I squeal as I run at her pellmell. Sam doesn't quite know what to do about this, and braces herself for a football tackle. This is, of course, a big game of chicken, and one Sam clearly doesn't understand. You are supposed to run back at me, not prepare to get hit. I swerve off at the last second and use a corner of the fountain as a slingshot to bring myself back around. Once I am turned around and still, I find Sam just blinking at me.
“How old are we again?”
“Six.” I respond, batting my eyes. “Is he alright?”
“He's fine. I tucked him in the inside pocket of my purse for safe keeping.”
I bounce up and down and clap my hands as Sam extracts my brain from her purse. I gently retrieve him from her grasp, then press him against my chest. “I swear to God, with Samantha as my witness, that I will never lose you again.” My vows complete, we head into my shoe shop to introduce Sam to Unorigibitch, who is currently learning about customer service etiquette and watching herself die on the inside.

Hunter
When I wake up, regardless of what time it is, I do a mental highlights reel, narrated by Chris Burgmen and presented in the form of Sportscentre, of what transpired before falling asleep. This is a useful tool I learned in college as it not only did it allow me to keep track of assignments and appointments, but it was supremely helpful in reminding me of where I was, who was lying next to me in bed, or where exactly my shoes were.
On this particular morning, having been awakened by a phone call from my brother, I would really rather have just foregone the whole exercise. Usually it served as a reminder for what I had accomplished and what yet needed to be done. Today it just sent me into a spiraling depression, one without a clear bottom. My list went something like this:
1.)You are in a hospital. Always a good starter.
2.)You almost ran into a train last night. Superb.
3.)You are now 25. If you round up, you get 30!
4.)You have a concussion. Read: untreatable headache accompanied by dizziness, nausea, sudden blackouts, and a bad step away from impaled brain syndrome, also known as death.
5.)You own a cell phone. I'm a mere ringtone away from joining the millions of other crack addicts around the world.
6.)You are wearing a hospital gown. Unlike Scottish men, I do not enjoy a healthy breeze around my easter basket.
7.)You somehow managed to rip apart some ligaments in your upper thigh in last night's escapades, so your left hip doesn't want to work properly. Well done there.
8.)You don't know where Jake is. Nor do you really care, honestly. All that matters is that he is not where he is supposed to be, meaning at work.
9.)You are going to be fined for negligence by the mall. Buttfucks.
10.)You have to go to work.
That's right, I have to go to work with a concussion, a neck stuck in the forward position, and a bum leg. I still have my casual clothes from last night which now look like shit after having undergone a near-hit train wreck, an ambulance ride, and the baggage-handler gentle people that worked on me upon my arrival, meaning the people who charged my insurance a grand to look at my head and say, “Hmmm, looks like you have a concussion.” No shit? My head only left a fucking snowflake design in a car window earlier tonight, you sure I don't have rabies? Or ebola? Maybe I'm dying at a young age from a rare disease that eats away the bone of my skull and you are just incompetent enough to call it a concussion until it's too late for me to sue you.
And while I'm at it, where the fuck is my assistant? I pay you good money for 1 reason Jake, and it is not to hear you say the word “dude” at the beginning of every sentence. I actually pay you to cover for my ass on those rare occasions when I can't do something for myself, like right now. But no, I have to limp my sore ass out of this hospital bed and go to the mall in a little hospital dress with my testicles hanging out the back so I can pay a stupid fine that will be coming directly out of your paycheck. Now you won't be able to buy Murray or whatever the fuck your old lady's name is her new dress and hooker boots to be your eye candy. Wait, my bad, it's you who is usually her eye candy since you look better in heels than she does. (You have the legs for it and she doesn't. I've heard her complain.) Does she make you shave your legs, too, or is that just a personal preference?
And since I already have a full head of steam built up here, I am a pretty attractive fella. Sure, I'm a bit on the thin side and my lips are a little fat, but I should at least be worth a second look to most women. Why then do I always get passed over? Is it how I dress? My haircut? Or is it because I'm not an arrogant, cheating asshole like every guy you have ever dated Ms. Gluttonfor'Punishment who needs to wake the fuck up and realize that the nice, emotional, romantic guy is the one you really want, not the workaholic who would rather bang his secretary and pretend it is you when you were 22.
After I had been examined upon my arrival at the hospital, I used my new nemesis to call Jake and let him know that he would need to open tomorrow, now today. My first call went unanswered, so I left a message. Somehow, the idea of leaving a message on a cell phone is still a little unsettling to me, but I realized that it isn't much different from an answering machine so I didn't lose any sleep over it. My second call got answered, but all I could hear was breathing I usually associate with extreme intoxication or a blow job. If you really pay attention, they sound strikingly similar. After a good 30 seconds of yelling at my phone I hung up and waited 5 minutes before trying again. As the saying goes, the third time was a charm and I got a real live Jake on the phone, possibly drunk but definitely blowjobless. I gave him a condensed version of my evening and politely asked him to cover my morning shift so I could attempt to feel like a human being again. In only 5 “dudes” he promised me he would take care of my store until I could return, and we hung up.
And so, pacified, I drifted off into a fitful sleep that consisted of trains, cows, and horrible ringtones. At one point all 3 were bearing down on me, mooing, whistling, and beeping at full volume and creating a cacophony that should have woken everyone in the hospital. I escaped by jumping in a car only to find the crazy bitch from Mr. Stevens in the passenger seat preaching like Billy Graham about repenting for my bovine sins. I distinctly remember her smacking me with her cow bible while saying, “Death can come at any moment! Repent, sinner! Repent!” At this I bailed out the car and went tumbling down a hill, the bottom of which dumped me into the middle of a giant sticky bun. I flailed around until I woke up and found myself restrained to my bed, for my protection.
If you have never spent time in a hospital, one of the creepiest moments in your life will be waking up from a morphine induced hallucination to find a large nurse with a huge mole on her nose staring down at you with a motherly smile, repeating the same question over and over until she is sure you are good and awake. Had I not been restrained, I know my skeleton would have jumped right out of my body, just like that Itchy and Scratchy episode. After I calmed down, she explained my injuries, their probable causes (you probably sustained a concussion when your head collided with the rear right window of the vehicle. No shit?), and what was being done to treat them. (Nothing, nothing, and viola! Nothing!) Her job done, she winked at me and left the room, leaving me to fall back into my fitful slumber.
It's now mid-morning, and I have never properly appreciated just how amazing my neck really is. I can normally move it up or down, left or right, and any combination of the four. It really is quite amazing, and even more so since I currently cannot move it at all. This drive is going to be horrific, hobbling into the mall with a hip that is frozen in place will quite possibly be the worst 15 minutes of my life, and I can't even coax my brain into thinking about the agony raising the store's gate will induce. If I can't turn my neck or use my left hip at all, how am I going to bend over and lift a heavy iron gate? Christ, I can't even swing myself out of a hospital bed, let alone put on real clothes. And I have to hobble down to the security office, and fill out their forms, and find Jake, and call Sparky to make sure my Gauss is alright. Fuck.
This is just the greatest fucking day in the history of the world. I can't find my pants and I didn't even get laid.
Fuck.

Part 4 is almost finished and will be added soon. Incoming real plots! (Read: 2 of them?! What the fuck?)