ChrisGibson
JUB Addict
BY THE time she was thirty-two, Julia Crateau had to admit she had missed life. Things just hadn’t turned out and that was her own damned fault. Really, she thought philosophically, the problem was she hadn’t believed in life. She hadn’t believed in all of its promise, so when it came for her, she didn’t take it, and now it was too late. There was no point talking like this or thinking about this shit. It would only take her off her game, and while she was no longer a beauty queen, and certainly no one’s envy, she was the best waitress at the Hasty Shake, the one who could always be counted on for quick service and a smile or an easy ear.
She wasn’t entirely annoyed when her brother came in. She was a little annoyed, because they saw each other all the time. Work, whatever anyone else though of it, was work, and it let her get away from her life at home. There was Jude with his long nose like Jughead from Archie and his little tiny blue eyes behind those glasses that made him look like a dad from the 1980s. He had come in with Bart, that short fucker, and Bart was looking at her eagerly, like he had for almost twenty years, and Jude was waving at her. She was pouring Mr. Figg’s orange juice and he said, “Is that your brother, Julie.”
“Yup,” she sighed.
“Oh, you’d better go to those young men. They look like they need you.”
“They don’t tip well,” Julia said. “You do.”
The old man laughed and he said, “Go see what they want. You don’t have to sit here and entertainment for a tip, you know that by now.”
“I know that, Gus,” she said. “I just didn’t feel like those clowns right now.”
Julia circled around the restaurant and bumped hips with Leslie, her oldest girlfriend at the restaurant, and then came to her brother and Bart.
“Whaddo you fuckheads want?”
“What a way to talk to your family?” Jude shook his red face. His hair was in layers from the nineteen nineties with a part down the middle, and Bart’s butter colored hair was buzzed. He said, “This fuckhead want’s the Farmer’s Breakfast. A pot of coffee and an orange juice. Please don’t spit in it.”
“And this fuck head,” Jude said, “wants to tell you that Homecoming is this weekend.”
“The what?”
“A Homecoming,” Bart started, “is when—”
Julia smacked him in the head and her manager said, “Hey, Crateau, no abusing the patrons.”
“He’s no patron. He’s my family.”
“Oh,” Pam said, “well that’s diffeent. Smack him all you want.”
“I’m your family?” Bart blushed when Pam had gone.
“It is the easiest explanation for a very complicated and not always looked for relationship,” Julia said.
“But Jules, you gotta be at the Homecoming.”
“I have never been at any homecoming,” she said. “And I damn, damn sure don’t want to be at one now.”
“We’re going,” Jude said, the afternoon sun glinting off his spectacles.
“Why? You were almost as antisocial as me.”
“I was not.”
“You were too. And by the way, you still haven’t ordered,”
“And I’m starving,” Bart said.
“I want the whole wheat pancakes, two eggs and two strips of bacon.”
“Great. I’ll get you the New York xtrawberry cheesecake pancakes, scrambled eggs and sausage.”
“I just said—“
“I’m your sister,” Julia said, sauntering off, “I know what you like.”
When she returned, she said, “What’s the big deal about Homecoming anyway?”
“It’s our fifteenth anniversary since graduation,” Bart said.
“That’s so goddamned depressing.” Julia noted. “How come you all know this and I don’t?”
“Because they’ve been sending mail about it since last year.”
“Not to me.”
“I knew you’d say that,” Jude said dismally, and handed her a packet of envelopes.
“Saint Ursula Academy to Miss Julia Crateau, Saint Ursula Academy Julia Crateau, Saint Ursula Academy, Julia Raines—”
“See, they got your married name there,” Bart said.
“Well, shit,” Julia murmured.
“Now, won’t you go?”
“I absolutely won’t. I don’t know why you would either,” Julia said.
Jude opened his mouth, and his sister said, “You can think of an answer later. I gotta take a customer’s order.”
“You have to go.” her brother called to Julia’s back. “Remember, the customer is always right?”
“Not this time, twin,” she said.
Jude and Julia Crateau were twins, though not identical, which Jude always unnecessarily pointed out. Even though they had the same last name, once the two of them were out of Regina Caeli, K through 8 and in high school, no one associated one with the other. Jude and Julia, in fact, had not gone to the same high school. Lassador was a very Catholic city with two large boys’ high schools, two girls’ schools and two co eds in addition to the many K through 8’s and Our Lady College out near Wallington. Jude had gone to Saint Ignatius, and Julia had gone to its sister school, Saint Ursula. Saint Jude and Saint Ursula did everything together. If you had gone to Regina Caeli or Sacred Heart, St Hyacinth or St Stephen’s, chances were you would end up at Ursula if you were a girl and Ignatius if you were a boy. Ursula girls were the cheerleaders for Saint Ignatius. Musicals and plays were between the two schools. The nuns of one and priests of the other chaperoned their mutual dances, always at St Ignatius, and their proms were together, just like, of course, their homecomings.
“Julie, you were really the toast back then,” Bart had said.
Well, yes, there it was, back then.
She was the toast then, but she was a waitress now. Ten years ago this could have been transitional and interesting, but Julia couldn’t imagine standing at Homecoming as her thirty something year old self, feet hurting from walking across the diner all day, skin greasy with work and burgers, and eyes dimmed from more than a few tears.
Later, when they got home, and Julia had made a bath for herself, there was a knock on the bathroom door before Jude came in, and it didn’t matter because even if they weren’t identical they had shared a womb together and she didn’t give a shit if he saw her tits, and he was the only man who wasn’t much moved by them. He took the scrub brush and started scratching her back in the place she couldn’t, and then he began to comb her hair.
“I want to go because I want to know if I’ve failed or not,” Jude said. “And I feel like the only way is if I can measure myself against all of those other assholes and see how I did. That’s why, Julia.”
Julia’s head was bowed as her brother washed her hair, and she said, “I’m almost thirty-three. I’m a waitress, in debt, and every time I get ahead some fucker is garnishing my wages, or debt collectors are on the phone. I’m divorced. My tits are starting to sag, and I live with my twin and my mother.”
She sighed, “I don’t have to go to a homecoming to know I’ve failed, Jude. But going there is certainly going to rub it in.”
She sighed and sank into the water, her knees rising. Jude sat there and waited for her to come back up.
“Fuck,” she said, philosophical.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it.”
“Yes?”
“If you wanna go,” Julia said, “let’s go. Let’s go.”
MORE TOMORROW, AND LATER ON.... THE ENDS OF ROSSFORD
She wasn’t entirely annoyed when her brother came in. She was a little annoyed, because they saw each other all the time. Work, whatever anyone else though of it, was work, and it let her get away from her life at home. There was Jude with his long nose like Jughead from Archie and his little tiny blue eyes behind those glasses that made him look like a dad from the 1980s. He had come in with Bart, that short fucker, and Bart was looking at her eagerly, like he had for almost twenty years, and Jude was waving at her. She was pouring Mr. Figg’s orange juice and he said, “Is that your brother, Julie.”
“Yup,” she sighed.
“Oh, you’d better go to those young men. They look like they need you.”
“They don’t tip well,” Julia said. “You do.”
The old man laughed and he said, “Go see what they want. You don’t have to sit here and entertainment for a tip, you know that by now.”
“I know that, Gus,” she said. “I just didn’t feel like those clowns right now.”
Julia circled around the restaurant and bumped hips with Leslie, her oldest girlfriend at the restaurant, and then came to her brother and Bart.
“Whaddo you fuckheads want?”
“What a way to talk to your family?” Jude shook his red face. His hair was in layers from the nineteen nineties with a part down the middle, and Bart’s butter colored hair was buzzed. He said, “This fuckhead want’s the Farmer’s Breakfast. A pot of coffee and an orange juice. Please don’t spit in it.”
“And this fuck head,” Jude said, “wants to tell you that Homecoming is this weekend.”
“The what?”
“A Homecoming,” Bart started, “is when—”
Julia smacked him in the head and her manager said, “Hey, Crateau, no abusing the patrons.”
“He’s no patron. He’s my family.”
“Oh,” Pam said, “well that’s diffeent. Smack him all you want.”
“I’m your family?” Bart blushed when Pam had gone.
“It is the easiest explanation for a very complicated and not always looked for relationship,” Julia said.
“But Jules, you gotta be at the Homecoming.”
“I have never been at any homecoming,” she said. “And I damn, damn sure don’t want to be at one now.”
“We’re going,” Jude said, the afternoon sun glinting off his spectacles.
“Why? You were almost as antisocial as me.”
“I was not.”
“You were too. And by the way, you still haven’t ordered,”
“And I’m starving,” Bart said.
“I want the whole wheat pancakes, two eggs and two strips of bacon.”
“Great. I’ll get you the New York xtrawberry cheesecake pancakes, scrambled eggs and sausage.”
“I just said—“
“I’m your sister,” Julia said, sauntering off, “I know what you like.”
When she returned, she said, “What’s the big deal about Homecoming anyway?”
“It’s our fifteenth anniversary since graduation,” Bart said.
“That’s so goddamned depressing.” Julia noted. “How come you all know this and I don’t?”
“Because they’ve been sending mail about it since last year.”
“Not to me.”
“I knew you’d say that,” Jude said dismally, and handed her a packet of envelopes.
“Saint Ursula Academy to Miss Julia Crateau, Saint Ursula Academy Julia Crateau, Saint Ursula Academy, Julia Raines—”
“See, they got your married name there,” Bart said.
“Well, shit,” Julia murmured.
“Now, won’t you go?”
“I absolutely won’t. I don’t know why you would either,” Julia said.
Jude opened his mouth, and his sister said, “You can think of an answer later. I gotta take a customer’s order.”
“You have to go.” her brother called to Julia’s back. “Remember, the customer is always right?”
“Not this time, twin,” she said.
Jude and Julia Crateau were twins, though not identical, which Jude always unnecessarily pointed out. Even though they had the same last name, once the two of them were out of Regina Caeli, K through 8 and in high school, no one associated one with the other. Jude and Julia, in fact, had not gone to the same high school. Lassador was a very Catholic city with two large boys’ high schools, two girls’ schools and two co eds in addition to the many K through 8’s and Our Lady College out near Wallington. Jude had gone to Saint Ignatius, and Julia had gone to its sister school, Saint Ursula. Saint Jude and Saint Ursula did everything together. If you had gone to Regina Caeli or Sacred Heart, St Hyacinth or St Stephen’s, chances were you would end up at Ursula if you were a girl and Ignatius if you were a boy. Ursula girls were the cheerleaders for Saint Ignatius. Musicals and plays were between the two schools. The nuns of one and priests of the other chaperoned their mutual dances, always at St Ignatius, and their proms were together, just like, of course, their homecomings.
“Julie, you were really the toast back then,” Bart had said.
Well, yes, there it was, back then.
She was the toast then, but she was a waitress now. Ten years ago this could have been transitional and interesting, but Julia couldn’t imagine standing at Homecoming as her thirty something year old self, feet hurting from walking across the diner all day, skin greasy with work and burgers, and eyes dimmed from more than a few tears.
Later, when they got home, and Julia had made a bath for herself, there was a knock on the bathroom door before Jude came in, and it didn’t matter because even if they weren’t identical they had shared a womb together and she didn’t give a shit if he saw her tits, and he was the only man who wasn’t much moved by them. He took the scrub brush and started scratching her back in the place she couldn’t, and then he began to comb her hair.
“I want to go because I want to know if I’ve failed or not,” Jude said. “And I feel like the only way is if I can measure myself against all of those other assholes and see how I did. That’s why, Julia.”
Julia’s head was bowed as her brother washed her hair, and she said, “I’m almost thirty-three. I’m a waitress, in debt, and every time I get ahead some fucker is garnishing my wages, or debt collectors are on the phone. I’m divorced. My tits are starting to sag, and I live with my twin and my mother.”
She sighed, “I don’t have to go to a homecoming to know I’ve failed, Jude. But going there is certainly going to rub it in.”
She sighed and sank into the water, her knees rising. Jude sat there and waited for her to come back up.
“Fuck,” she said, philosophical.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it.”
“Yes?”
“If you wanna go,” Julia said, “let’s go. Let’s go.”
MORE TOMORROW, AND LATER ON.... THE ENDS OF ROSSFORD
