My Rules (Chapter 2)

My Rules
(Chapter Two)

         Eighteen year old Rachael pulled up to the curb in front of her second home.  The Ruse it was called; a neighborhood bar where most everyone knew each other and lived just around the corner.  There were three people, two at a table and one at the bar talking to David, the bartender.  The lights were brighter than they would be in another couple of hours when the place would be packed.  No one was shooting pool. 

         “What will you have, Rachael?” asked David.

         “I think I’ll start with a Vodka and water, Dave, and give me some quarters for the pool table.  How goes it?”

         “It’s been pretty quiet so far; not too busy and no trouble.  I can’t ask for much more than that.”

         “I know what you mean.”  Rachael took her drink and quarters and went to the pool table closest to the door.  After a few sips on her drink she picked out a cue and racked the balls.  When she broke, the balls scattered nicely over the table with three solids falling in side pockets and two stripes in the corner.  Satisfied, she studied the table while she worked on her drink.  Playing pool alone was soothing and passed the time, and she didn’t have anyone patting her ass or using the game as a chance to get up close and personal.  She preferred to shoot against herself, taking turns shooting right-handed and then changing and shooting left-handed.  It amused her. 

         More neighbors wandered in while Rachael was studying the table.  One bought a drink and watched her while she played alone.  He sauntered over to the table a few minutes later and stood drinking his beer while Rachael kept playing and pretended not to notice.  She didn’t like the attention and he was too close. 

         “You want to play a game?” he asked.

         “No thank you, I’m already playing one.”  She shot one ball in the side pocket.

         “You can’t play by yourself.”

         “It looks like I’m doing a pretty good job of it.”  Another in the corner.

         “Come on, play me a game.”

         “No.”

         “What’s wrong with you?”

         “Nothing, I just don’t want to play a game with you.”

         “What’s wrong with me?”

         “Why don’t you just leave me alone?”

         “I hate to see a pretty girl, all alone…”

         “Here, you take the table.”  She laid the cue stick on the table, finished her drink, and returned her empty glass to Dave.  “See you later, Dave.”

         “Okay, Rachael, maybe tomorrow.”

         She climbed into her car and headed home.  "Idiot!  Why the hell won’t people just leave me alone?"

         Her one bedroom apartment was small and furnished with well-used pieces accumulated over the years from friends and thrift shops; it wasn’t much, but it was home.  Rachael turned on the lights and bolted the door.  The twelve inch black and white television she’d had since she was twelve sat on a shelf made of bricks and shelving boards.  She turned it on and turned down the sound.  Above the television, her stereo and speakers held the place of honor and when she wanted, the speakers could rock the neighbor’s walls two apartments away.  She tuned in to a radio talk show and it made her feel as if she wasn’t alone.  She hated feeling lonely, but she couldn’t stand to live with anyone either.  Roommates and boyfriends never worked out and it was just easier to live alone than to deal with all the problems.

         Her day started badly.  She was late for work again this morning.  Somehow her alarm didn’t go off or she turned it off in her sleep.  Her supervisor called her into the office, "Rachael this is your second warning this month and if there is a third I may have to let you go.  Do you understand?"  She was angry with herself.  Why can’t I just get up and be to work on time?  I’m so tired of getting in trouble.  She had only been fired once and that was when she threw a stack of papers at her boss which hit him square in the middle of his chest.  That made her smile just thinking about it.

         After work, Rachael went to her bedroom and slowly peeled off her clothes.  Her bath was waiting and she was taking her time.  Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of something or someone near the corner of the window.  She went quickly, with her heart beating wildly, and closed the drapes.  Stupid fool, I can’t believe I left those drapes open.  Maybe it was my imagination, maybe there wasn’t anyone there at all.  I should look.  No, I shouldn’t.  Oh, Lord, what do I do?  I’ll go look, then I’ll know for sure.  Rachael went to the window and threw open both sides of the drapes back at the same time and saw a man, on the other side of the glass, staring her in the face.  Terrified, she slammed the drapes closed again, dropped to the floor and crawled to the phone beside her bed.  She called 911.
         
         “Someone is peeping in my window,” she whispered to the operator.  “I don’t know what to do.”

         “Is he still there?” asked a calm voice.
         
         “I don’t know, I think so.”

         “Can you go look?”

         “Oh, hell no, I can’t go look again!”

         “We’ll send an officer out to check it out.”

         “Thanks.”

         Rachael was afraid to move.  She crawled inside her closet and closed the door.  She sat in the dark until she heard a loud knock at her door.  She crawled out of the closet to the bed and grabbed her robe and put it on as the pounding got louder.  She ran to the door, looked through the peephole and saw it was a policeman and let him in.
         
         “He was at my window.”
         
         “Do you know which way he went?”

         “No, I was too scared to look again.”

         The officer went around to the back of the apartment, looked around and then returned.
         
         “It looks like he’s gone now.  And from the outside it looks like he might have tried to pry open your window.  You need to get some locks for your windows or something to keep someone from getting them open.”

         “Thank you, I’ll do that.  And thank you for coming.”

         After the policeman left, Rachael sat quietly in her tiny living room.  She was too afraid to go back to her bedroom, too afraid to take a bath and too afraid to make a sound.  What if he comes back?  What if he tries to get in?  What am I going to do?  What if he’s waiting for me outside?  She continued to terrify herself with “what-ifs” until she was nearly crazy.  She took a joint out of the box, lit it and after a few minutes began to relax.  Her fear of the peeper had changed the safety and seclusion of her home to one of insecurity and terror.

         Rachael woke up the next morning huddled in a ball on her sofa covered in her robe.  She looked at the clock on the wall and saw she was an hour late for work.  Damn.  I guess I’ll be job hunting again.  She called her office.
       
        “I’m sick and won’t be coming in today.”
       
        “I’m sorry to hear that, Rachael.  When you’re feeling better, come in to work and see me first.  Okay?”

        “I will.”  Rachael lied.  Last night’s peeper had jarred loose something she hadn’t felt in some time.  She couldn’t remember what it was that was so familiar about last night; it sat in the back of her mind and was trying to come forward, but wasn’t getting through.  Rachael finally shrugged it off.  Today was a good day to read more of her book she started a week ago.  Maybe it would get last night out of her mind.  The author was a woman she knew and her stories reminded Rachael of her own life.  It was as if Nicole wrote books just for Rachael.  She didn't leave her apartment for several days.

         The phone rang and Rachael jumped.  "Hello?"

         "What's going on with you?"  It was her mother.  "Why haven't you called or come home?"

         "I've been busy."

         "Too busy for us, huh.  Well, that's the kind of thanks we get.  No respect.  Why aren't you at work?  Fired again?  You never could hold a job.  What's wrong with you?  You really piss us off."

         "I'm sorry mother.  I haven't felt well."

         "You really are a sorry lot aren't you?  Do you expect your father and I to support you?  Well we won't.  Don't bother asking us for help."

         "I'm not asking for help.  I'd rather starve first."

         "Well then, I guess you've gotten too high and mighty for this family.  I hope you suffer".  The line went dead.

         Rachael couldn't have felt worse.


 
         

(End of Chapter Two)