“Chrissy and Jackson have been addicted to methamphetamine for the past eight years. Chrissy was once a lawyer and Jackson previously owned his own antique shop. After eight years of selling all that they owned to be able to afford higher grade meth, they eventually went broke. They came across each other only two years ago and have been together since. Neither of them are able to afford their own homes anymore and squat in abandoned warehouses and dilapidated apartment complexes in the ghettos of Los Angeles.”
The words were cut off as the weary Cajun sat on the couch with her laptop early in the morning, making the finishing touches to her latest documentary. She had spent the past three months following two meth-heads and questioning their every decision. She had a friend who had majored in Psychology help her with the interview’ as well as a lot of the commentary, helping the future viewers somewhat understand the addicts. She had done documentaries before on potheads, crackheads, and heroine addicts, but she had yet to cover many other drug addicts. She rubbed at her eyes some, having gotten up at three in the morning to finish up the film, now finally putting together the credits after a last review of the two hour long footage. She put her laptop down as she finished before glancing at the clock. It was already past six...She had to hurry up and start on breakfast before everyone got up. With a yawn and a few stretches, she closed her laptop and made her way to the bathroom where she delighted herself in a short shower. When she was finished she made sure to rub down with cocoa butter, paying special attention to her tattoos. She hated when tattoos faded. Every now and again she would look at the space that she had left and ponder what tattoo she would get next. She was thinking of getting a dandelion with the seeds being carried away over her shoulder by an invisible gust of wind. That was always a delicate classic. Maybe too classic. Perhaps a quill dripping ink onto her shoulder and just below it a nice little quote from Gandhi. Or Professor X. Professor X was the shit...He was Gandhi of the comic book world.
A smile danced across her features as she dressed in her favorite shirt - a tank top sporting Captain America's shield - and a pair of Daisy Dukes, slipping on neon rainbow bright socks, dashing down to the first floor. “Ah! Charlie horse! Charlie horse!” She caught herself on the stairs, dramatically falling to the floor as she let go of her bag to grasp her calf while letting out a howl of deep pain. “Good gods, I'm dying! I've been shot! Someone help me! Woman down! Woman down!!” She gave a whimper only for the pain to subside. It hadn't been that painful — But where was the fun in not overreacting like your every action was being filmed for a cheesy sitcom? Kept her on her toes and made her less bored when she was alone. She quickly recomposed herself and brushed off her apron before calling out to the other rooms above her, “No worries! False alarm guys! I'm all good.” Grinning to herself, she skipped her way down into the kitchen. Three years. That's how long she had been living there with her roommates, some newer than the others. It had been a great three years, that was for sure.
She pulled her wild red hair back, her strange blue eyes dancing across the place as though she hadn't been there in years. She moved to the fridge and began to prepare a breakfast enough for seven people. She was never sure who would be up when and who would stay to eat, but she liked to make sure that she made enough food. She was simply sweet enough to make sure that they didn't have to spend their breakfast wolfing down disgusting toaster strudels from the store or choking down a greasy breakfast burrito from a fast food restaurant that was just barely scraping by to pass health standards. The thought of it made her stomach tumble and her throat close up as though filled with sponge cake. Ugh. She hated sponge cake. It was so suffocating. She did a documentary on it before. It was only twenty minutes long.
Doing the running man, the woman maneuvered her way around the kitchen while preparing large omelets and toast, turning on a fan so that the scent would waft up through the vents and into the rooms above. She put her iPod in the kitchen dock and put on her "Taste of Home" playlist, jigging around the kitchen as she tossed various veggies into a searing saucepan. “I was cuttin' the rug down at a place called the Jug with a girl named Linda Lu. When in walked a man with a gun in his hand lookin' for you know who. He said, "Hey there fellow with the hair colored yellow! What you tryin' to prove? 'Cause that's my woman there and I'm a man who cares and this might be all for you. I was scared and fearin' for my life, shakin' like a leaf on a tree. 'Cause he was lean and mean and big and bad, Lord pointin' that gun at me. Oh, "Wait a minute, Mister! I didn't even kiss her! Don't want no trouble with you. And I know you don't owe me but I wish you'd let me ask one favor from you". I said, "Won't you give me three steps, gimme three steps Mister. Gimme three steps towards the door? Gimme three steps. Gimme three steps Mister and you'll never see me no more".”
The bubbly Cajun was unable to keep herself from smiling as she simply basked in the scents swirling around her, adding a dash of pepper here and a sprinkle of her special seasoning there with a dollop of love all around. She loved this kitchen and often spent forever cleaning it before going out to buy fresh ingredients. Sometimes she could get some of her friends to come with her down to the fish market. But only if they were willing to be up at three in the morning to get there before everyone else. She was obsessive about the food that was brought into the loft and was extremely picky about who cooked. She was dishing out plates containing omelets, hashbrowns, sausages, and Belgian waffles, leaving them on the table along with a jug of orange juice that Shay had helped her squeeze the night before. Yes, she was very picky and it had always been that way. She only worked with ingredients that were fresh and insisted on only homemade meals.
She wiped her hands on a dishtowel when everything was ready and smiled wide as though all was right in the world. It wasn't quite so, but it was under her roof. Evangeline was a quirky young woman, acting as the mother hen of their nest. She was constantly worrying about everyone and trying to help them in between doing her own thing. They were all grown – her age – and assured her that she didn't need to do so and should focus more on her. She couldn't help it though. They were the greatest family she had ever had and she needed to make sure that they were taken care of. She could still have fun and party with them but she was usually the one who would end up worried about how much everyone else was going to drink and would abstain from drinking so she could either drive them home or stay up and clean up the mess and make sure nobody got raped. It wasn't uncommon for someone to spike her soda to get her loosened up though. Still, she loved her family, she loved their loft, and she fucking loved her career.
She moved to the balcony where she stared over the street as people hustled to work. Behind her she could hear the sound of four legged beasts rushing out of their sleep to devour their beefy breakfasts. She smiled to herself and hummed, taking a seat on the ottoman that Elijah had moved outside a couple of weeks earlier. Today was one of the rare days when she had nothing on her schedule. She might get a call at some point for a walk-in appointment for a tattoo, but she doubted it. Her clients knew that she was generally too busy for that. She thought about going to the beach or maybe just laying about the house all day. She rubbed the back of her neck and cringed as she remembered that she needed to go out and buy more concealer to cover her psoriasis for the next month. She needed to refill her prescription too. Frowning, she leaned back some and let her vision go blurry as she withdrew into her thoughts, nibbling on the bar shoved through her tongue.