Florence Masson's Story

“Chrissy and Jackson have been addicted to methamphetamines 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.”

The words were cut off as the mocha-skinned 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 and get ready for work. 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 uniform of a simple black pair of shorts and a green t-shirt with an apron before slipping on a pair of shoes and dashing down to the cafe with her bag. “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 God, I'm dying! I've been shot! Someone help me! Woman down! Woman down!!” She gave a whimper only for the pain to subside. lt 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 apartments above her, “No worries! False alarm guys! I'm all good.” Grinning t0 herself. she skipped her way down into the cafe, using her key to get in. Eight years. That's how long she had been working at The Mighty Bean. Slinging coffees, waiting tables, making little sandwiches and baked goodies and stuff. It had been a wonderful eight years. Dakota still didn't seem to understand Cajun's attachment to the place when she had the accreditation to work much higher paying jobs. Nobody understood her attachment to the place. It was her first job. When she was younger and struggled for rent a few times, Gordon would pay it for her and never asked her to make it up. She loved meeting the people there and the fun that went on within the walls.

She pulled her hair back, her strange silver eyes dancing across the place as though she hadn't been there in years. She moved to the kitchen and began to prepare a breakfast enough for five people. She was never sure who would decide to pop in so early, but she liked to make sure that she made enough food. It would never be more than four people and hardly less than two others. She was simply sweet enough to make sure that they weren't 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. But it was nice. 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 apartments 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 Southerner 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 Gordon to come with her sown to the fish market. He was one of the only people that she knew that absolutely loved the smell of fresh fish. She didn't mind the smell, but the man had often wished that they had a fresh fish scented candle. He was a strange man but she did enjoy his company very much, even as they worked alongside one another under his father's employment. She wished that she could take him up on his offer of becoming a manager but she just didn't have that kind of time. She didn't have time to worry about who was showing up for work and who wasn't and who needed a raise and who needed to be fired. All of it just...it made her itch. She was comfortable with her above minimum wage position doing whatever someone needed her to do within her five hour work days. She couldn't add managing ten employees to her list of things to do. She absolutely adored the place, no doubt. But her passion was her an and she would go where it took her. Still...This little place was one of her favored sanctuaries. She was dishing out plates containing omelets, hashbrowns, sausages, and Belgian waffles, leaving them under a heat lamp just to keep them warm as she began to squeeze fresh orange juice.