Post by Andrea Irene Brennan on Nov 11, 2014 1:38:55 GMT -6
Unemployment did not suit Andrea Brennan.
It honestly wasn’t even the lack of money, as stressful as that could be with a boy in school that constantly needed feeding. It wasn’t even the constant interviews, seeking out potential employment, just to have doors slammed in her face because nobody ”wants a god-damn Irish quiff working in a perfectly good household.” Andie had been expecting that from childhood, especially after she’d had her son. Nobody wanted to hire an Irishwoman – the Brennan on the end of her name was as good as a neon ‘X’ flashing over her head. But the second anyone found that she was unmarried at twenty-eight, with a son? It might have been 1920, but when it came to certain communities, and the way people looked at her in particular, well. She might as well have been a prostitute trying to sell herself on peoples’ front doorsteps. No, it really wasn’t any of that. Andie was adaptable, she’d learned to cope, to deal, and to find the sustenance for her boy that he needed one way or another.
No, it was really the inability to do anything for a majority of the day. Without work to keep her busy, wandering the streets could only do so much to satisfy her itch to be doing something productive. Maybe it was because she had all but been raised by grandparents and parents that had always been working, always doing things for the family, and in a sense, Andie wanted to do the same – she felt worthless otherwise. Useless. Being idle forced sleepless nights upon her, and the dark rings under her eyes were only additional negative factors when she showed up looking for work on peoples’ doorsteps. Powder only helped so much, and by this point in the day, it had worn and rubbed off, and after the third door slammed in her face, Andie had opted to give up for the day.
And yet, she hadn’t wanted to go home. She’d already furiously cleaned and scrubbed everything she could that morning, after Christian had left and gone off to school. She’d locked the basement door, just in case Christian was going to get home early from his paper route, to make sure her son wouldn’t stumble upon the fermenting alcohol currently brewing in the tiny room beneath their ground-floor apartment where she also did their laundry. There was nothing to be done for that particular side-business, not until tonight, long after Christian had gone to bed. So, for the time being, she was stuck, which was entirely how she’d ended up sitting on some seemingly abandoned crates on the side of the street, resting only for a moment before starting the long trek home, a newspaper in her hand as she perused more locations to scout for jobs tomorrow.
Not that there were many. The glaring “no Irish need apply”on half the damn ads really lowered her prospects, not that they were high to begin with, but still, Andie looked. There might be more tomorrow, more chances to take, but until then, she was helpless. She would have to trudge home soon, hopefully in time to settle in before Christian got home so she could make him dinner, eat the leftovers herself if there were any (she was always careful to tell her son that she’d eaten before, if there wasn’t enough for both of them).
In reality, Andie’s entire life revolved around him, around her loving son Christian. From the moment he’d been born, everything that she had done, for better or worse, had been for him. To protect him, take care of him… in some ways, Andie wondered if all mothers instinctively felt so protective or caring over their children, or if it all came down to the fact that, when he was born, he had been all she’d had, besides her grandparents. The only person that loved her unconditionally, and maybe that was selfish, but she did her damnedest to make up for that selfishness by trying to make sure her son wanted for nothing. Even if in reality… she knew that was virtually impossible. They lived in a world of prejudice, of sneers and jeers and insults, and in a way, Andie and Christian were victims in their own individual spheres, and Andie hated that she had subjected him to such hardships simply because of her irresponsibility when she was only fifteen. Though, if she hadn’t been irresponsible, she never would have had her son, and that was something she wouldn’t trade for the world.
Oh, yes, Andrea Brennan was very much a mother. An unemployed mother looking for a job to feed her child, even if she had profits flooding her basement from a homemade and magically-run distillery. Not that anyone had to know about that last part, given that if they did, it would likely earn her a one-way ticket to prison. And that, in and of itself was something she could not afford. So she sat there, looking at the newspaper and perched casually on the crates as if she belonged there, until she suddenly felt a presence hovering over her. Without looking up, she said almost casually,
”It’s rather rude to stand there like a bimbo, if you’re going to talk to me, might as well get it over with or beat it.”
It honestly wasn’t even the lack of money, as stressful as that could be with a boy in school that constantly needed feeding. It wasn’t even the constant interviews, seeking out potential employment, just to have doors slammed in her face because nobody ”wants a god-damn Irish quiff working in a perfectly good household.” Andie had been expecting that from childhood, especially after she’d had her son. Nobody wanted to hire an Irishwoman – the Brennan on the end of her name was as good as a neon ‘X’ flashing over her head. But the second anyone found that she was unmarried at twenty-eight, with a son? It might have been 1920, but when it came to certain communities, and the way people looked at her in particular, well. She might as well have been a prostitute trying to sell herself on peoples’ front doorsteps. No, it really wasn’t any of that. Andie was adaptable, she’d learned to cope, to deal, and to find the sustenance for her boy that he needed one way or another.
No, it was really the inability to do anything for a majority of the day. Without work to keep her busy, wandering the streets could only do so much to satisfy her itch to be doing something productive. Maybe it was because she had all but been raised by grandparents and parents that had always been working, always doing things for the family, and in a sense, Andie wanted to do the same – she felt worthless otherwise. Useless. Being idle forced sleepless nights upon her, and the dark rings under her eyes were only additional negative factors when she showed up looking for work on peoples’ doorsteps. Powder only helped so much, and by this point in the day, it had worn and rubbed off, and after the third door slammed in her face, Andie had opted to give up for the day.
And yet, she hadn’t wanted to go home. She’d already furiously cleaned and scrubbed everything she could that morning, after Christian had left and gone off to school. She’d locked the basement door, just in case Christian was going to get home early from his paper route, to make sure her son wouldn’t stumble upon the fermenting alcohol currently brewing in the tiny room beneath their ground-floor apartment where she also did their laundry. There was nothing to be done for that particular side-business, not until tonight, long after Christian had gone to bed. So, for the time being, she was stuck, which was entirely how she’d ended up sitting on some seemingly abandoned crates on the side of the street, resting only for a moment before starting the long trek home, a newspaper in her hand as she perused more locations to scout for jobs tomorrow.
Not that there were many. The glaring “no Irish need apply”on half the damn ads really lowered her prospects, not that they were high to begin with, but still, Andie looked. There might be more tomorrow, more chances to take, but until then, she was helpless. She would have to trudge home soon, hopefully in time to settle in before Christian got home so she could make him dinner, eat the leftovers herself if there were any (she was always careful to tell her son that she’d eaten before, if there wasn’t enough for both of them).
In reality, Andie’s entire life revolved around him, around her loving son Christian. From the moment he’d been born, everything that she had done, for better or worse, had been for him. To protect him, take care of him… in some ways, Andie wondered if all mothers instinctively felt so protective or caring over their children, or if it all came down to the fact that, when he was born, he had been all she’d had, besides her grandparents. The only person that loved her unconditionally, and maybe that was selfish, but she did her damnedest to make up for that selfishness by trying to make sure her son wanted for nothing. Even if in reality… she knew that was virtually impossible. They lived in a world of prejudice, of sneers and jeers and insults, and in a way, Andie and Christian were victims in their own individual spheres, and Andie hated that she had subjected him to such hardships simply because of her irresponsibility when she was only fifteen. Though, if she hadn’t been irresponsible, she never would have had her son, and that was something she wouldn’t trade for the world.
Oh, yes, Andrea Brennan was very much a mother. An unemployed mother looking for a job to feed her child, even if she had profits flooding her basement from a homemade and magically-run distillery. Not that anyone had to know about that last part, given that if they did, it would likely earn her a one-way ticket to prison. And that, in and of itself was something she could not afford. So she sat there, looking at the newspaper and perched casually on the crates as if she belonged there, until she suddenly felt a presence hovering over her. Without looking up, she said almost casually,
”It’s rather rude to stand there like a bimbo, if you’re going to talk to me, might as well get it over with or beat it.”
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NOTES Andie's first post! Yay!
