Rebecca, 27, Personal Chef
Laura and I never really liked each other. Unfortunately, for reasons I couldn’t understand, my best friend at the time decided to befriend her. It started out innocently enough. We all worked at a restaurant together, and Laura kept to herself for the most part. At first my friend invited Laura along when we’d all go out after work, and their friendship grew from there.
My distaste began when Laura came into work on her night off five minutes before closing, ordered only dessert, and stayed for an hour and a half in my section. This is considered very bad form in Server World. The more I got to know her, the more things unraveled, such as her claims to have hailed from the ghetto in Oakland, where her friends were gangbangers and life was rough. Soon I’d come to find out that she was from an affluent neighborhood in Walnut Creek.
My distaste grew.
She had a volatile personality, and we were like oil and water.
One night, my friends and I were going bar hopping, and Laura was invited along. I was in the middle of moving, and I had most of my worldly possessions in the trunk of my car. We met at a friend’s house and all got ready together. I gave Laura a makeup brush I didn’t need anymore (she was applying her eye shadow with her finger like a hobo, so I thought it would be a nice gesture) and after changing clothes, I tossed everything back in my trunk, and off we went.
At some point in the evening, after many a vodka tonic, Laura and I had another argument, and we ended up splitting up and coming back to our friend’s house separately.
I had forgotten that she had put her keys in my purse, and I retired for the night.
I awoke to hear crashing and shouting, followed by the door slamming. I came out to the living room, where my friend told me that Laura had been looking for her keys, and assuming I had hidden them, she took mine and drove off in my car. I guess that’s how people from the ghettos of Walnut Creek behave. I eventually got a hold of her and she came back, but not before popping one of my tires (on purpose, or accident, I still don’t know) and pilfering a generous selection of my wardrobe from my trunk. Of course, I didn’t realize this until I moved into my new apartment and unpacked.
I never spoke to her after that night.
Every once in a while I will think of an article of clothing I want to wear, or I’ll run across a picture of me wearing something and think, “Whatever happened to that?” and then I’ll realize: Laura probably sold it for cash. I’m much happier believing some lucky girl bought my favorite pink sandals at Buffalo Exchange than thinking they’re at the bottom of Laura’s closet, buried beneath her bandanas and Apple Bottom jeans, reeking of cigarettes and desperation.
Laura, I want my clothes…and come to think of it, my makeup brush, back.