Opening pages - Variations on Jenny (upmarket/book club fiction)

[Jill Martin]

This is the opening scene (first four pages) of Chapter 1; it introduces the protagonist (one version of her, Jen), her setting, and her conflict. 

Chapter 1. Jen, January, 2017.  

What a fucking nightmare of a day, Jen thought, glancing out her office window at the D.C. streetlights and the sloth-like traffic. Her stomach rumbled; she had worked past dinnertime again, and being hungry made her an irritable bitch. But food wouldn’t erase the fact that the worst asshole in history had been inaugurated today. She’d had trouble concentrating on her immigration caseload—which had now expanded to an impossible seventy cases— knowing what was happening just two miles away in front of the Capitol. As she put her laptop in her stained shabby knapsack and crammed in a stack of files, the office manager appeared in Jen’s doorway. 

“Hey Jen, got a sec?” asked Marisol. The short chubby woman was in her fifties like Jen, and the two of them were the oldest employees at the nonprofit (which had a tendency to cause premature burn-out).

“Finally getting out of here,” said Jen, “but sure. Why are you still here?”

“Payroll. Anyway, it’s about that meeting this morning.” Marisol looked around the tiny office with its ancient worn carpeting and stacks of paper teetering on every surface, and sighed.

“Yeah?” asked Jen.

 “Well, this is awkward, but Juan complained to me afterwards, about how you talked over him? And he was asking about your role; since he’s new, he wanted to know if you were like the ‘de facto boss’? He thinks you’re too controlling.” Marisol smiled now.

“Oh, shit. Yeah, well I talked over him because he wouldn’t shut up about his workload, how the salary doesn’t justify him working harder at this nonprofit than he did at his fucking fancy K-Street law firm.” She pulled at her left earlobe (an old habit left over from years of ear problems when she was young), feeling the silver-and-turquoise studs that were a gift from Aunt Judy. “Did he have no idea what this job is like, before he decided to grace us with his brilliant presence in order to save some souls?”

“Jen, I know, I get it. But can you be a little gentler in those meetings? I mean, don’t get me wrong, we couldn’t be doing the work we are without you. You’re indispensable, and I told Juan that. And you win cases and really help our clients. You know I defend you every time.  But could you maybe let other people feel like they have more of a say in things?”

 “I’m sorry,” Jen said in a tone more angry than sorry. “Can we talk tomorrow? I really have to get home and eat.”

“Not tomorrow, since I don’t come in on Saturdays. And you shouldn’t either. Will you be at the Women’s March?”

“Oh shit, yeah, I forgot for a second! I’ll be there!” Now Jen smiled. “Got my pussy hat ready. Maybe I’ll see you on the streets.” 

   

Jen’s walk home from the Metro seemed longer than usual. She felt the cold wind through her old winter coat and wished she could afford one of those long down coats that looked so cozy. And her hands were freezing in her thin wool gloves. She walked faster to warm up, pumping her arms for circulation as she crossed the Calvert Street bridge high over Rock Creek Park. She always wondered whether the bridge’s six-foot-high railings had an effect opposite to their intended purpose, as they practically shouted “Go jump somewhere else, you loser!”

The sidewalks of Adams Morgan, normally bustling on a Friday night, seemed surprisingly empty, probably because people were huddled indoors. But the streets were full of cars as usual, and as she passed an Ethiopian restaurant and the Salvadoran one and the music bar, she saw that they were packed. People inside were laughing, having fun. Despite Trump. How could they do that?

Finally she climbed the five steep concrete steps to her rowhouse, her shoulders aching, but it was her own damn fault for bringing home so many files. Then again, it wasn’t her fault that the damn immigration paperwork for her clients had to be filed hard copy, like it was still the ’80s or something. She stopped to grab her mail, and got out the University of Michigan keychain that Becca had given her at Christmas (her daughter gave her an actual gift! And maybe it was an indication that she liked her college?). Once inside, she yanked off her hat, gloves, and coat (thank God the heat was working again), and turned on her old unsmart TV. CNN was showing clips of the Asshole’s swearing-in. A fucking nightmare! Just how horrible would things be, for the next four years? She’d been so stupid, so certain that Hillary would win. They were all stupid for failing to predict the sexism that still existed in the ‘privacy of the voting booth.’

She couldn’t stand seeing Trump in front of the Capitol, giving his inaugural address. She flopped onto the worn brown loveseat left by a previous tenant, took off her ankle boots, and started sorting her mail. Oh shit, a letter from the landlord’s realty agency. Please, not another goddamned rent increase.

When she and Harley had first moved in, back in the early ’90s, the rent on this two-bedroom apartment was already a stretch for them, but they had so wanted to be in this neighborhood, with its wonderful ethnic restaurants, the African craft shops, the immigrants from all over. (So different from Mason, Indiana, thank God!) Now, white yuppies were buying up everything, forcing out lower-income people.

Jen opened the envelope and pulled out the single piece of paper. Oh fuck. Another increase, starting in June. Renew her lease at the new rate, or move out. Shit.  She couldn’t afford to pay that much. She didn’t want to move. This was Becca’s home! Even though Jen hated the splintery wooden floors that the landlord refused to refinish, the peeled-paint baseboards, and the tacky fake-stucco ceilings, moving would be such a hassle. And she still loved the neighborhood, loved jogging in Rock Creek Park, loved her coffee shop with the familiar faces, loved even homeless Mario on the corner, and grouchy Angelique who’d been behind the counter at CVS forever. She should really get a higher-paying job. The nonprofit paid like shit. The salaries never kept up with life, and plus the place was dysfunctional these days. But first she should update her personal budget spreadsheet to see if she could trim anything. Shit, she was already over-trimmed, not a penny went to savings, which was idiocy as everyone knew. And only sack lunches, never eating out like her friends did. If only her ex wasn’t a deadbeat author with less income than she had. Harley did shit for his daughter.

Her stomach started hurting. Take a deep breath! She needed a different job, but right now she needed food. And a beer.