Experienced in narration and advertising
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (US General American - GenAM)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Two New Orleans, Louisiana 1999 max. Wake up babe. Maggie gives me a gentle shake and my eyes open. The faint glow of the television illuminates her profile, the small chin, full lips, aristocratic nose. I sit up my co shifting on thin aluminum legs grinding into the faded linoleum. Are we going trick or trading? She drops clothing into my lap be a good girl and put them on quick. Now a blink in the dim light. A rush of excitement at the prospect of going door to door for candy. Can I wear my fairy costume? She points to RJ staring in the recliner, one arm thrown over his face. His yellowed western shirt is unbuttoned. A half empty bottle tucked into the crook of his elbow. Confusion turns to disappointment. As I realize I was wrong, there will be no costume. Only a simple shirt and shorts like every other day with my dreams of Halloween dashed. I want to bury my head in the safety of my blankets and go back to sleep. But all I can do is watch in silence as Maggie shoves some of our clothes into a plastic Walmart bag. That dangles from her forearm. The light catches a new purple blotch on her cheek as she bends to fasten the thin straps of my pink sandals. Her hands shake as she fumbles with the clasp. I want to ask her where we are going. But the threat of RJ S temper keeps me quiet. She slides the dead bolt with a soft click and ushers me through the door washed in green flickering light. The hall outside our apartment is as hollow and unloved as the rest of the complex, someone is yelling in three b followed by the sound of glass breaking. Where are we going? Maggie's voice is bright. Her palms sweaty as it presses into my back. We're going on an adventure. I want to question her more but I don't, I never do. I've been taught to respect my elders to know my place, which means no talking back, no matter how sick I am of moving from house to house, school to school, man to man. For as long as I can remember, I've just wanted to be still be normal. Canal Street feels strange in the dark and I have to run to keep up my feet tripping across the warm damp pavement. As Maggie pulls me along. Even in October, the weather hasn't cooled, the air is soft and heavy like a well worn cloak as we turn the corner an on, on a bike speeds past her habit flapping wildly behind her, I talk on Maggie's arm at the site but she says it's just a costume. Why can't we go trick or treating? Because we have somewhere more important to go besides. You're getting too old for that anyhow. A he a sigh unsatisfied with her. Excuse. I want candy and costumes and friends. I want to skip through the garden district, ringing doorbells and peeking through mail slots of the grand old homes. Instead I'm on the big people side of town, the busy French quarter where police sirens mingle with faint strains of jazz and Halloween is just another excuse to get drunk adults in costume, shuffle past loud and stumbling. One man pauses long enough to puke onto the sidewalk. A frothy mixture that smells like stomach acid and whiskey. The same scent that lingers in the bathroom long after RJ is left for work. A block shy of Bourbon street. Landry's red mustang is parked by the curb windows down radio blaring. Maggie opens the back door and tells me to get in Landry flicks her cigarette onto the street. The last drag seeping from her nose to mingle with her perfume. Something sweet and fruity. Her signature scent. She might be Maggie's first cousin, but the two look nothing alike. Landry is all legs and curves with fair skin and red lips while Maggie is thin, an angular with dark eyes and hair like me. Ample cleavage drains against Landry's cheetah print dress as she tosses her head to the side with long hair bleached white on the ends. I think she looks like a real-life Barbie complete with a tiny waist and shiny sports car. I've made up my mind to be just like her when I grow up. Just look how big you are. She says into the rear view mirror. My little Sugar Bee is growing up too fast. I smile at the compliment. Enjoying the look of pride on Landry's face, but it's not long before disdain clouds her beautiful blue eyes at the side of Maggie's fresh bruises. I hope you've had enough of that son of a ***** because this is the last time I'm doing this ****. Landry says with narrowed eyes. Max deserves a better start than you and me had. Maggie lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. That's exactly why we're going to Texas. I'm done with everything. You may be content to spend the rest of your life on a pole at the penthouse. But I'm not Landry bites her lip but doesn't respond. Quieting the conversation until we reach the long straight bridge spanning lake poet Train, black choppy water glistens below stretching to an infinite horizon and I shiver at the thought of going over the edge sinking into the dark violence of the waves. Landry breaks the silence. You're wrong about me, Maggie. I have dreams just like you. Maggie turns to the window staring into the pitch dreams and plans are two different things. The bus from Baton Rouge to Beaumont is crowded with people in the sickly sweet scent of cheap air freshener. I lean on the window, the cool glass smooth against my forehead and my stomach rumbles. I'm hungry. I whisper. Maggie pulls a bottle of water from her purse and hands it to me here, babe. This is all I have, but we're almost to Beaumont. The woman in front of us turns around her smile wide in coffee, stain short hair sticks out from her head in all directions. And fuchsia cat eye reading glasses are perched on her nose. I like the way the tiny rhinestones glitter when she bobs her head. I wonder what they would look like on me. Would your little girl like to have this? She asks, holding out a bar of chocolate wrapped in orange plastic. I'm watching my cholesterol. It feels odd for a stranger to acknowledge Maggie as my mother. Most people assume she's an older sister or something and she likes it that way. You can't go around calling me mama. You hear it's bad for business. She always says before we leave the house. The funny thing is I don't remember ever needing the reprimand. She's been Maggie forever. Even in my thoughts. She takes the candy with a smile. You sure? Of course, babe, Maggie's elbow digs into my ribs. What do you say? Thank you, ma'am. Well, aren't you just a little doll. The woman says with a wink. Such ladylike manners. You don't hear that much these days, Maggie's eyes sparkle at the praise. Her smile lingering while I devour the candy. Listen, babe, she whispers as I lick chocolate from my fingers. I have something real important. I've been waiting to tell you we aren't going to Aunt Dorothy's relief washes over me at the memory of the old woman's house in Beaumont. Garbage piled high in the garage wheel of Fortune blaring in the den. A manji Chihuahua dragging its butt across orange shag carpet. But I thought Maggie takes my hand and squeezes, forget all that. I couldn't tell Landry this, but I'm gonna tell you because you're getting bigger. Now, 11 is almost a young lady. You know, I smile enjoying the idea of knowing something important. She pulls a crumpled letter from her purse. Do you remember Mr Delacroix from the Y2K meetings? I nod, thinking of the tall handsome man who pulled us aside after it was over. Maggie Smooths the pages in her lap. Well, since he left New Orleans, he's been sending me letters, secret letters all about what the government is up to here. You can read this last one. She hands me the paper and leans close breathless with excitement. There's no telling what's gonna happen come January 1st. I mean, the whole world could fall apart and then what? But Jude has it all figured out and he's given us the opportunity of a lifetime. He's invited us to live with him. It's the only way we'll be safe. RJ says Y2K is a crock of ****. But Maggie's fear of the clock striking midnight has become our constant companion. In the past months. Ever since attending Mr Delacroix's first lecture to be exact standing room only we squeezed into the musty backroom of the florist shop on Canal Street among other wide eyed souls mesmerized by his top secret knowledge of governmental affairs. And the fallout, the year 2000 would inevitably bring as a lecture concluded, anxiety warded with excitement, creating an intoxicating mix that left the crowd hungry for more, but only a select few were invited to stay after three. From what I remember all young women, all beautiful. When I shake my head, Maggie holds up a finger. No, none of that. She scolds. You haven't even heard the best part. You'll never believe where he lives. Where an island? I gulp. Could it be possible? A real island like the kind and Swiss family Robinson. Surely not. Ain't that something Maggie continues? We'll have a whole new family, a whole new chance at the life. We were always meant to have. She hugs my shoulders as I try to absorb the information. I want to believe her words are true. But I tamp down the hope she lowers her voice to a whisper. Plus out there away from everybody, we'll be safe. Completely self sufficient. Jude says we could all live the rest of our lives without needing anything from the outside world. It's like some kind of miracle, ain't it? I agree. But part of me doubts such a place really exists when she drops her purse in my lap and retreats into the bathroom at the back of the bus. I study Mr Delacroix's letter fixating on the last sentence. Maggie is instructed to memorize, be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it and rule over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the sky and over every living thing that moves on the earth. After a moment, the woman in front of us turns back around honey. Can I borrow a pin out of your mama's purse? I feel a moment of panic at the request and hesitate, not sure how to answer. I don't know if she has one. I finally say give it here sweetie and I'll take a quick look. Won't take a minute promise. Um I don't think the woman's eyes turn to slits, but her smile stays in place. You wouldn't want me to tell your mama you're being rude. Now, would you reaching through the seats? She clutches the strap before I can respond. My heart beats fast as she tugs the purse from my lap. I lean forward trying to see as she rifles through the contents within moments, she produces a blue ink pin and begins scribbling on a postcard. I sigh in relief and settle back in my seat. Content when she returns the purse to my lap. A moment later. See, now that wasn't hard. Was it when I shake my head? She reaches into her own purse and pulls out a beautiful silver ring with an oval stone. This mood ring was my daughter's but she outgrew it. Would you like to have it? Oh, yes, I say allowing her to slip it onto my finger. Look, she says, pointing to the ring as it changes color on my finger. Purple means you're very happy. What's that? Maggie asks. Sliding into the seat beside me. The woman waves her hand in the air. Oh, just something I had lying around in my purse. I'm glad it found a good home. Maggie hugs my shoulders. Well, isn't that the nicest thing? The woman smiles, don't mention it.