New York City – SaaS Onboarding Storyteller

Bella, Part Three

For three solid weeks, Bella and Hancho hobbled around his apartment in silence.

They moved like mute pantomimes, directionless and bruised by something neither would name.

Hancho’s time at the gym doubled, denying Bella the chance to watch the veins bulge in his arms during a bicep curl. So she stayed home, staring out the window, eating beans out of a can.

On the street were happy couples, arm in arm. Some walked dogs. Others pushed baby strollers.

“Will I ever get there with Hancho?” she asked herself.

Before she had a chance to answer, he came bursting through the door with a box.

“This is for you,” he said, sliding it her way. The side of it grazed her left calf.

Inside was a leather briefcase.

What the hell was Bella supposed to do with this?

“It’s very nice,” Bella told him. “But… what’s it for?”

“What’s it for?” Hancho’s face turned red. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. “You’re gonna go to work.”

Then came the expletives. Then the mumbling. Something about how ungrateful she was.

Back in Wisconsin, Bella’s only job was at Dairy Queen. She started in high school and worked there until several days before she left for New York. If she showed up to Dairy Queen with a leather briefcase, everyone would’ve laughed. The manager might’ve pulled her aside and asked if she intended to move up in the company.

As she stared at the briefcase — tilted sideways in its cardboard cradle — Hancho told her to use her time wisely. He gave her two days to find a decent office job.

“And what if I can’t?” Bella asked.

“You don’t want to know,” Hancho replied, gym bag in hand.

He slammed the door behind him. Its vibration sent a chill down her back.

In next week’s post, Hancho’s abusive energy is put on hold while Bella navigates joy in unexpected places.

Oh, and if that briefcase link above gave you a tingle of “maybe I need that,” just know it’s an affiliate link.

If you grab one, I might make a few coins — not enough for a mansion, but maybe enough for Bella to upgrade to a can of organic beans.

Bella, Part Two

As I zipped up the tent, I figured Bella would mumble a quick thank you, and we’d both be out like lights. But the moment my head hit the makeshift pillow, the questions started. Who was she? Would this be Abby’s and my last night on Earth?

I started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Here we are, two strangers, lying side by side—almost as intimate as it gets—yet we know nothing about each other.”

“Would you like to hear my story?”

You’d think the scream that prompted me to “rescue” her would’ve been a sign to say, “Maybe tomorrow?” or “Just a quick version?” But nope—I told her to go ahead.

Bella’s originally from Wisconsin. Estranged from her parents, who used religion as a weapon. Two summers ago, she’d had enough. She hit the road for New York—on foot, no less—wearing these badass motorcycle boots.

She had never been to NYC. Instantly, she fell in love—not just with the city, but with the wrong man. Hancho. A Greek Jew who spent more time in the gym than he did sleeping.

Hancho wore tight shorts and a muscle shirt. Bella fell in love with the veins running down his arms. She wasn’t paying attention to the force behind them.

“Sit here!”

“Get out the fucking way, bitch.”

She’d never encountered a man like Hancho in Wisconsin. Bella did everything to appease him—polished his lifting shoes, ironed his sweaty socks, handed him his 128 oz thermos between sets.

It didn’t take long before Bella lost track of her finances. One day, sent to buy protein bars, her card declined. She panicked. What would she tell Hancho?

She raced back to the gym—where else would he be?—and muttered her confession. For a moment, he looked at her like she’d turned into a rotting corpse. Then he resumed his workout and ignored her for the rest of the day.

There’s only so much of Bella’s story I can tell in one sitting before getting ill. It’s so tragic. Absurd. And it’s to be continued.

Until next week, I hope your eyes stumbled across the affiliate link above. May the boots fit—and may you never trip over your own feet. Bella didn’t. Why should you?

Whitley’s Great Offense

Whitley did everything in her powers to avoid being offensive. Regardless of the path she lead, Whitley left people pouting, blushing or rushing into a state of utter depression. It took only one man to inform her that she held an unconscious desire to destroy others. He went by the name Charles Boswell. Charles was a retired architect living on the upper west side of Manhattan. When he came in contact with Whitley, it was a sweltering day in Central Park. Nearly every male was shirtless. Charles, however, felt his form inferior, thus kept all fabric affixed to his body.

A golden retriever searched for a tennis ball nearby Whitley. This had been her first time sunbathing in seven months. Disturbed by the canine’s prodding, Whitley reached for her t-shirt, covering her cleavage.

“Whatever you’re looking for, dog, it ain’t here,” Whitley whined.

The golden retriever leaned in, licking Whitley’s face.

“Yuck,” pushing the dog off her.

Charles rushed in apologizing, “Spark! That’s not my dog. It’s my friend’s. He’s away…”

“I don’t care,” Whitley barked. “Take that beast away from me.”

“Spark,” Charles giggled. “He’s a sweetie!”

All Whitley wished for was her space back with the sun. “Take whoever’s dog this might be and leave me. You’re wasting my time.” She then fell back onto her giant beach towel, shaking with grief.

Stroking Whitley’s hair, Charles questioned her mental health. “I know a great therapist. She charges little and works her ass off.”

“I don’t need one.”

“You’re delusional and mean.” Charles then dropped his business card beside Whitley. “Call me if you’d like the therapist’s contact information.”

Whitley watched the man disappear into the crowd of sunbathers. She stuffed his card into her purse, knowing full well that a therapist would do her wonders.