Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight. I do own two recent college graduates whom I loosely base this Edward on. Okay ... I don't OWN them ... just their loans.
Chapter One: Out of college, Unemployed ...What a Position to be in!
They say that everybody has at least one story locked inside them that might be worthy to write about, at least according to Professor Blow Hard from Dartmouth College. (His real name is Professor Bloehardt but I mean … come on … with a name like that, coupled with a fine opinion of himself, AND the need to let everyone know about it … well, enough said.) That pretentious, old bastard, flunked me out of English Rhetoric and that's why I'm home this semester instead of trudging through the snow-covered campus of Hanover, NH.
Well, that plus the trouble I got into with my fraternity brothers.
But that's a whole other story.
This particular story began last Tuesday when my mother decided it was time for me to get my "Ass off the couch." (Which, according to her, I'd been "Glued to since early December after coming home in disgrace.") And this particular little tale isn't nearly over, not by a long shot. No, this one is what a writer would call a "work in progress," and I have zero clues on how it's going to end.
Anyway, it all began like this …
"Edward, your father just called and told me to tell you to get your ass off the couch and look for a job; so get a move on-NOW."
I let out a grunt and reached for the remote control; Doctor Phil was about to come on to discuss the sex lives of sorority girls gone wild and I didn't want to miss some inadvertent tips; Spring Break was just around the corner.
Okay… I should begin by saying that Esme Cullen (my mother) is a little bitty thing who isn't more than 5 feet nothing and weighs about 100 pounds if she's had a good weekend and hasn't been to the bathroom yet. But don't let her size fool you; she's got the strength of ten men and an iron fist, which thankfully she doesn't exhibit too often. She says it comes from lugging three boys around and she's probably right. We were all big babies; Emmett alone weighed twelve pounds when he was born, which made it a lot easier for the rest of us to come out, or so Mom says. Jasper was born ten months after Em and he weighed in at Eleven point nine. I followed a year later, the runt of the litter, at ten pounds thirteen ounces. I'm still the thinnest of the three but I'm also the tallest at six feet four and a quarter. But of course that quarter could turn into a full inch if the stories about growing while you're sleeping are true. I'm widely regarded in my family as a slug. It's my nickname and one that I fully intend to live up to, providing my mother allows me to, of course.
Whatever… not that any of this random shit matters; I only wanted to illustrate how tiny Ole Esme is so you get the visual when I tell you that she picked up the couch with one hand and literally dumped me, head first, off the couch. I still have the bump on my forehead. Christ … she could have killed me, and don't think I didn't let her know about that. But she only huffed and hit me my on the back of my head with a rolled up newspaper and said that she hoped it "knocked some sense" into me. Then she threw the newspaper at me. I looked it over because I didn't want the foot, which is a part of my mother's repertoire when her ire is piqued from one of us "lunkheads," shoved up my ass. I looked at the classified ad that Esme had circled in red marker:
Are you seeking an exciting new position that will offer both satisfaction and personal fulfillment to your life? Then we might have the purrfect position for you!
1313 Turquoise Drive (In back of the diner)
"What is this?" I asked. "Purrfect?" must be a typo. Professor Blowhard would have ripped whoever wrote this description a new asshole, that's for damn sure.
"It's a new employment agency for dumbass frat boys who flunked Rhetoric and had to take a semester off to get their shit together so they don't waste anymore of their parent's money. Now get your tail upstairs, take a shower, shave that ridiculous looking scruff off your chin and brush your teeth. It's almost nine o' clock and I want you to be there as soon as it opens. And make sure you put on something decent, please. I know flannel is part of your skin now but maybe you could remove it long enough to don a decent Oxford and a pair of khakis?"
She nudged my behind with her slippered foot. Yeah, I knew this move … classic Esme. She was poised for the double-ass kick. I jumped up off the floor and headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. My mother has been known to ass swat from behind as she follows her lunkheads up the stairs so I didn't want to take any chances.
"And don't take thirty minutes playing with yourself in there either… I just cleaned that shower and water isn't free. Now get a move on!" she barked. I sighed; my mother knows my brothers and I inside out … it's really quite disturbing. Not that I planned on "playing" anyway. I already took care of that earlier.
"And make sure you get those tissues from under your bed and return that bottle of lotion to my bathroom; I paid fifteen dollars for that, Edward. If you need lubrication then go down to Dollar Tree and get your own. After you get a job!"
I let out another sigh, grabbed a towel and turned the water on. This was going to be one long-ass semester and my mother was going to make sure that it was the last one I ever took off until I graduated.
Friggin Positions, Inc. The only position I wanted to be in involved my back reclining on the sofa with the good doctor interviewing the sorority sisters.
"I'm timing you Edward!"
I hopped in just as I heard the toilet flush. Jesus Fuck! The pulse in my back burned to the beat of Esme's cackle. She must have watched Some Kind of Wonderful recently; she gets her best ideas on how to motivate us boys from those cheesy coming of age movies. I'm going to toss out every last one of those DVD's if it's the last thing I do.
"Dad just ordered Netflix for me, Edward!" I heard her call out as I proceeded to drown out her voice and maybe, if I'm lucky, myself, in the stream of now tepid water. My mother needs to be studied by the North Pacific Paranormal Society; her psychic abilities are a well know fact in the Cullen household. Ask Jasper about the time she caught him with Alice at the Meadow Crest Motor Lodge, he'll tell you.
Thirty minutes and four lectures later, I pulled the Volvo into 1313 Turquoise Drive (behind the diner.) I parked next to a cherry red Mini Cooper, hopped out, and headed into the storefront. I recognized that it used to be the old Laundromat. The outside of the building looked the same but the window was all dressed in red and black lacy stuff with a big heart in the center that said, Positions, Inc. I shrugged my shoulders because even though it's only January lots of places are already decked out for Valentine's Day.
I grabbed my résumé, walked into the store, and promptly tripped over a big scarlet and white box. The contents spilled out and I knelt to scoop them up. A rainbow of bubble packed colors splayed before me. A low buzzing noise filled the air and looked around to find the source.
What is this shit? I asked myself.
Rascally Rabbit vibrator? Well, that explained the buzzing noise.
What the actual fuck?
I heard a long, dark, throaty chuckle and looked up to see a pair of red patent leather boots with fuck me six ways till Sunday heels attached to a curvy brunette who was holding what had to be the world's largest dildo in her hands. I let out a big gulp and blinked; maybe I'd hit my head harder than I thought. If I'm dead then I hope my mother suffers the guilt for the rest of her natural life, so help me God.
"Welcome to Positions, Inc"
And that's when I knew three things.
One: my mother's psychic abilities didn't see this coming. (Or did she? Esme always was a bit of a prankster.)
Two: Doctor Phil needs to get his ass off the air and head to Forks before he's scooped by Oprah who would come out of retirement for this story. Sex shops in the Northwest and recently removed frat boys who don't have a clue …
Three: Professor Blow Hard was right; everyone does have at least one story worth telling, and this was going to be mine.