I wake up to a web of pale blue chewing gum preventing my eyelashes from actually separating. I peer through the tangle of eyelash and gum to look at the digital clock on my cell phone, which I’ve dislodged from between the mattress and my aching neck. It’s 2:38 in the afternoon, which means I’d gotten a good six hours or so in. I had fallen asleep talking to my mother. With gum in my mouth evidently. I like calling mom when I’m high. It’s sort of a challenge, but not really. She doesn’t have the sensory expertise of most mothers. And, besides, even if she did know I was high, what could she say about it? She’s in no position to tell me what and what not to do in the area of drugs. Well, unless I wanted advice on how to smoke crack or cut heroin.
I snigger at myself and sit up. “Damn!” My hair is stuck to the pillow. After carefully, and not painlessly, pulling the strands of rubbery gum out of my eyelashes; I do the same for my hair. I get out of bed to fetch the jar of peanut butter in my kitchen cupboard. I remember my mom using peanut butter as a remedy for slept-on gum hair when I was a kid. My abs are sore, but I haven’t exercised in a while…it’s probably from getting high last night and then cramming myself with pizza and Little Debbie’s Snackcakes, and my stomach expanding to the point of doing actual muscle damage to my abdomen. I’ve always liked sore muscles. Gives you sort of a sense of accomplishment.
I smile, regardless of the gum in my hair, and begin to scope out the peanut butter jar after not finding it in the cupboard. I scrutinize the shoddy landscape of the kitchen counter. Empty bottles, empty pizza boxes, empty plastic wrappers, and an empty peanut butter jar. I hold it up to find that it’s actually half full of beer…or piss…I sniff it…no, it’s beer. “Of course,” I mutter to myself. Who’s the dumbass who did that? I don’t want to get out the scissors just yet, so I forget about gum and hair for the time being. I sit on the kitchen linoleum and pick the olives and cold greasy pepperoni slices off of a piece of coagulated cheese pizza before eating it out of the box.
Who was at my apartment last night? Just as I ask myself this I hear a rustling from the couch in the adjoining living room. Then I hear some phlegm being sucked from his sinuses to the back of this guy’s throat…ewww, and he’s a swallower. Then a wheezing cough to replenish his sinuses with a fresh batch of audible phlegm. I look up as he ambles to the front door, pulling a frayed pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his vintage cowboy shirt, the kind with the pearl snaps. His name is Ted, or Jed, or something…I don’t remember, so I just smile when he spots me and keep eating my pizza. Did I have sex with him last night? He’s cute, I wouldn’t mind having him on my track record. No, I think I’m just having vague memories of wishful thinking; we didn’t actually do anything.
Who brought the pot? I used to be the kid that “pretended” to smoke pot. Not really inhaling, just sucking a little smoke into my mouth and thinking about how all of these losers, who for some reason or another I had to be accepted by, would smoke the rest of their summer away, and probably a lot of their young lives; then I’d discreetly exhale, making sure no one was watching to see how little smoke I had actually managed to suck into my mouth. Not that I thought I was better than them, I just had certain goals that they didn’t seem interested in. I had ambition for school and a career, and they seemed to have ambition only for sex, pot, and beer.
I’m supposed to go to a job interview today. Some telephone customer service job. The kind of job that you’re able to get right after you graduate from high school. Which seems like a long time ago for me. Which is why I’m deciding to bag the interview and go back to bed.
I snap awake to a mouthful of phlegm. I was dreaming that I was being put to death in a gas chamber with a bunch of other assholes, and we’d discovered that the only way to save ourselves was to breath through our phlegm. It filtered the poison in the gas or something. Anyway, where exactly am I? I’m too disoriented to spit the phlegm out of my mouth, so I just swallow it and have my morning smoker’s cough. I sit up and see evidence of a party that has been over for quite a few hours. Some dude’s apartment. I came last night with Candice. Is she still here? Fuck, my throat is dry! I need a cigarette too.
I stand up and fight the dizziness as the blood rushes to my brain. I spot a kitchen sink, and my throat rejoices. There are no clean glasses though. I remember because I spent half an hour trying to find something to drink beer out of last night. Some bitch kept slapping me in the back of the head every time I drank straight from the keg. Finally I found a jar of peanut butter and emptied it out with my fingers. I need to wash my hands too. I’ll do that after I drink from the faucet. And splash some cold water onto my face. That kitchen sink and its trickle of cold water is becoming the number one goal in my life right now. Damn, I’m so thirsty!
Shit, there’s someone on the kitchen floor. Don’t act startled. Don’t act awkward. This is awkward. I don’t want to talk to this person. I feel like I’ve never seen this person before in my life. In fact, I probably haven’t. He’s pretty fucking homely, I’d probably remember this hopeless individual for being extra bug-eyed and pale. Stop staring. I’m not a social being first thing in the morning. Sacrifice the water.
I guess it’s just straight to the cigarette. I open the front door and step through the blanket of heat. I search my pockets for a lighter or matches. Damn, I left my lighter inside. Along with my wallet and my cell phone. And my keys. Which means I’ll have to eventually go back in there. Do I knock now? Or just walk back in? It’s not my apartment, or even a friend’s apartment..,but I did just spend the night on the couch. I sit down on a concrete step outside, still squinting at the blinding light of mid-afternoon. I take my shirt off, hoping to get a little sun. An unlit cigarette hanging from my dehydrated lips, I pick at the dirty rubber on the edge of my sneaker.
I hear heavy breathing rounding the corner to my right. An older woman, mid-fifties, comes huffing around the building. She’s sort of disheveled and totes a small, brown leather suitcase. She doesn’t look like she’s the smoking type, but you’d be surprised sometimes. “Got a light, ma’am?” She jumps a bit, a mixture of what looks like fright and astonishment that someone has just spoken to her. She stares at me for a moment, and I feel a little embarrassed. What’s the deal? This is my second bug-eyed blank stare and I’ve only been awake for a total of maybe three minutes. I try to swallow, but there’s nothing to swallow and my throat just burns
She drops her suitcase and begins rummaging through the big-ass purse strapped around her shoulder. She forces an embarrassed smile and mutters an apology for her reaction to my politely phrased question. She slathers on a little extra drama, like she expects me to ask her what’s wrong or how she’s doing today. I just keep my lips shut around my cigarette and stare at her. I love staring calmly at people who are fidgeting, it just makes them more nervous. Finally the bitch finds a lighter and tries to light my smoke with her bony, shaking hand. After a few seconds I calmly take the lighter from her, light my Marlboro; take a long, deep drag; and offer the lighter back to her in my open palm. I fake a gracious smile and say, “Thanks,” hoping the tweaky old twat will get out of my face now.
She takes the lighter, still all fidgety, starts to say something a couple times, then mumbles, “Ok…ok…OK.” Accenting each “ok” with a bow of her head, like she’s from fucking China or whatever, even though she seems about as white bred as they fucking come. She picks up her lame little suitcase and continues to trot her way down the sidewalk in her clunky grandma shoes. She glances over her shoulder at me every ten seconds or so, with this look on her face like she expects me to say something. I’m not even up for five minutes and I’m already pissed off. I hope this cigarette lasts a long time. Maybe if I wait here long enough someone will open the door from the inside and I can brush past them to get my stuff.
Oh, heavens to Betsy! I’ve overslept! I must have pushed snooze too many times. 9 too many times to be exact. I tell myself to get it together as I thrust yesterday’s clothing into my suitcase. I wiggle into a grey pleated skirt and a silk blouse that doesn’t really match. It doesn’t matter, there’s no time to dig out the right color. Where’s my purse? Under the comforter. The bedding! I hurriedly make the bed, but make sure there is no trace of me having been there. Roger will be home from work any minute now. I dig my bottle of Diazepam out of my purse and swallow one of the pills dry. Valium. What a vulgar word. Diazepam sounds much more professional.
I hear the front door open. Roger! Already! I’ve really overslept. I very quickly toss my suitcase, my purse, and my shoes out the open window. I take a final scan around the room. Oops-a-daisy. The wrapper from the Snickers I ate earlier. I pick it up and bury it in one of my skirt pockets, adding to the 3 wadded up tissues and a peppermint candy. Ok, I can do this. I’m only 38 years old, and it’s only the 2nd story, no big deal. I hoist my right leg over the windowsill and pull myself up so I’m straddling the wall. Oh, heavens, I hope no one sees this. What a sight I must be. A grown woman, hanging half-way out a second story window, in a mismatched outfit nonetheless. I chuckle at my situation, because what else do you do? I’m stuck for a moment, not knowing the next step to take; then I hear Roger fussing around in the kitchen. I’ve got to do it. I hoist the left side of my body out the window as well and clumsily lower myself down, sliding along the dirty aluminum siding of the apartment building. I’m hanging about 8 feet above the lawn. I can’t believe I’ve actually gotten out the window without injuring myself. Okay, one…two…three—I drop to the grass and my knees buckle. The lawn cushions me as I thump onto my back, and I lay stunned for just a moment. I’m not getting out of that one without a few bruises, but overall I’m still in one piece. My ankles tingle. I stand and promptly gather the little can of mace, the lighter, and the loose change that fell out of my purse when it hit the grass, 37 cents. I squirm my left foot into its shoe and hop over to slip on my right shoe about 4 feet away. I pick up my suitcase and scurry around the building. I can’t believe I cut it that close. I’ll have to be more careful from now on. If Roger would have caught me in there…
What? Oh, heavens, I thought that was Roger. A light? Oh, yes. Oh jeepers, I must look like a mad woman. I better lighten up so he knows I’m not this flustered all the time. Should I explain my mismatched outfit? He called me “ma’am”. I’m not that frumpy, am I? Where’s the lighter? Ok, I’ve got to hurry in case Roger decides to take the garbage out or come check the mail. I wonder if this young man is a friend of Roger’s. Oh, no, wouldn’t that be a disaster? Maybe I should tell him not to mention this encounter to Roger. He doesn’t look like Roger’s type. But then again, when have I ever proven to know cock-a-doodie about Roger’s “type”? Oh, goodness, I better be on my way. Ok, ok,..ok. When’s the next bus? Maybe I’ll just walk all the way down to the Chevron and take the bus from there. That’d probably be smarter. I can get something to eat and straighten myself up a little. I can also change into a more suitable blouse.
Did that young man say something to me? It doesn’t matter. Keep walking. Goodness, it’s hot out. Did I leave anything in Roger’s bedroom? Maybe I should have told that young man the truth. I’m sure he doesn’t even care one way or the other. It’s really none of his business anyway. Okay, I need to get it together.
Oh, no! Oh, heavens to Betsy. Was that cat black? A black cat just crossed my path. Dear, I hate to be superstitious; but I’m sure that’s a sign to be extra cautious today. Okay, just keep avoiding the cracks. Don’t step on any cracks. But don’t look suspicious. You’re just like everyone else. There’s the Chevron. Only another 236 steps.
Awake. Stretch. Hunger.
Bug. Paw. Gone.
Hot. Thirst. Yawn.
Door! Scram.
Smell. Trash. Jump. Scratch.
Bark! Arch. Hiss. Dart.
Shade. Hide.
Hunger. Remember. Bowl. Milk. Food. Walk. Remember.
Woman.
Fence. Jump. Balance. Hop. Land.
Sniff. Caution.
Milk! Lap.
Bang! Pain! Run…Limp. Pain. Burn. Leg. Pain.
Dark. Hide. Pain. Lick. Blood.
Good to be home. The shop was dead today, $162 in eight hours. I can’t believe I made rent this past month. Maybe we should stay open a bit later. That’s when the young people drink coffee--later in the day. Heaven knows why. I don’t know when coffee became an evening social event. My customers now are all stuffy business types, drinking merely because they have to. It could be a nice hot spot for the younger crowd though. Just like the little shop that used to be open 24 hours on the corner of Washington and 34th Street. Maybe that’d be good for me. The younger crowd seems to be a lot more accepting of things. My sex life has been pretty barren since Floyd. I don’t think I’m hip enough for sex. Is that a valid excuse? Look at what I’m wearing. I dress like my father. It’s good that dad is dead. I don’t think he’d approve of my new lifestyle.
Oh, I need to stop worrying. I’m not Linda, for crying out loud.
I laugh a little at that thought and take a deep breath. I open the cupboard and take out a Cup O’ Noodles. I make these every other day and I still have to read the directions. You’d think some things you’d just commit to memory. Fill to line. Ok, and in the microwave for…
Huh? That cat can’t jump into a second story window, can it? What was that noise? I probably shouldn’t leave the window open, stray cat around or not. I put on my oven mitt and grab a spatula, just in case it attacks. I walk to the bedroom door to check out the noise. Today is the day I’m going to get that cat, one way or another. I’ve always hated cats. And it’s not just the allergies, like most people think. There’s something satanic about them. I could never actually say that to anyone. Most people love cats anyway. But there’s just something behind those eyes. Cats know something.
I toss the bedroom door open and prepare to protect myself with the kitchen utensil. Nothing. I scan the room. No sign of an unwanted animal. Must have just been the breeze. I peek under the bed, just in case. Nothing. I cross to the window and close it. Did I leave that open this morning? I look down onto the lawn. Nah, I don’t think a cat could jump this high. I open the window back up a little, just enough for the breeze but not wide enough for a cat. Look at me, with my oven mitt and my spatula in the bedroom ready to take on the neighborhood stray. I’m going nutty. I slide the window back open all the way.
I can smell Linda. And no matter how many times I wash these darn sheets I can’t seem to get her smell out of my bed. Oh well. I guess she’ll always be a part of me. That’s cliché. I feel terrible. It’s not my fault though. It’s the way I was made, and it just took me a little while to realize that I like to have sex with men. More admit than realize, really. It would have ended with Linda soon anyway, she’s been worrying me with the whole Valium thing. I hope she’s found a place to stay though. She’s so stubborn. Stubborn and independent. She always has been.
Anyway, that cat. I go to the closet and grab my .22 caliber handgun from the top shelf. Not a real gun, really. Just looks scary enough to hold an intruder at bay--if I ever had the misfortune of having one in my apartment, that is. I go back into the living room. As I pass the kitchenette, I allow myself to put a hold on the Cup O’ Noodles for just a bit. I open up the French doors and step out onto the balcony. Yep, that little guy downstairs has set out that pie tin full of milk again. He doesn’t realize that if he keeps that up, he’ll never get rid of the darn thing. I’d tell him that, but I don’t want to be the badgering old man from upstairs. Besides, I’ve never even spoken a word to him. And he’s just unattractive enough that he might consider an older fellow like me anyway, so I better not muss up my chances. At least I think he’s gay.
Oh, what luck. Here comes the pussycat now. I raise the sights of the .22 up to eye level and aim at the dish of milk down below. The cat approaches cautiously. Can’t see papa up here though, can you, pussy? I don’t think I want to kill the animal, just wound it so it won’t come back. Yes, that would be inhumane to kill a defenseless animal. Even if it is spawn of Satan. Shhhh. I can’t laugh, it’ll run off. Ok, steady. I aim the gun at the cat’s left rear leg and squeeze the trigger. The cat leaps into the air and let’s out a demonic little moan. It limps around the corner and out of sight. I smile like a naughty child and commend myself on a job well done.
The little guy’s back door opens and the little guy himself steps out. He looks around. He looks sweet, like he just woke up. He’s always so done up when he comes into the coffee shop. Should I say something? “Howdy.” Why did I have to say that? Why not just ‘hi’ or ‘how are you today’? Who says ‘howdy’? A cowboy? He looks up at me with a quizzical look on his face. I hide the gun behind my back.
“Was there a cat, or some cats down here just now?”
“Um…nope, not that I seen.” Uh oh. “Saw, not that I saw.” I had to let him know that I do speak correctly, even though he already thinks I’m a massive idiot. Can he tell that I’m lying?
“Oh, weird, I thought I heard a cat fighting. I wanted to come give it a little pizza.” He smiles sheepishly and holds up a piece of pizza that looks to be about five days old. He’s actually quite cute, in a way.
Should I tell him not to feed the strays anymore? No, I’ve already made an ass of myself. I just grin and say, “Hmmm.” Should I try to continue the conversation? I can’t tell what he wants me to do. I want to go back inside, “Well…I better get back to my cooking.” I take a step backward and give him a little wave.
He stops me with, “You cook? What are you cooking?”
Cup O’ Noodles, my friend! No, I can’t tell him the truth. What a way to start out a relationship though, two lies in a row, right off the bat. No cats, no Cup O’ Noodles. “Oh, um, just some pasta. See you around.” I step inside and shut the doors, a little more loudly than the situation called for. My heart is blaring in my ears. I sit on the floor and lean my head back against the wall. All in all, not a bad first conversation.
I gag on the chewed up wad of greasy cheese and cold tomato sauce making its way down my throat when I see that the pizza box on the floor is now home to dozens of ants. I can handle an ant or two on its own, but ants in bulk make me squeamish. I immediately begin to itch. Everywhere on my body, but mostly in my hair. I rotate my neck and scratch the back of my head with one of my shoulders as a chill runs down my spine. I look at the piece of pizza in my hand and praise the Lord that I can see no ants, not that I examine it thoroughly before I toss it into the trash can. I wash the grease off of my hands, and they both go right to my scalp for a good scratching. Shit, the gum! I pull my fingers from my gooey hair and head to my bedroom for a baseball cap. I just don’t want to worry about it while there’s nothing I can do, so I’ll cover it up in the meantime. I’ll go buy some peanut butter at Albertson’s later.
I find my North Carolina Tar Heels cap. I’m not even sure what sport the Tar Heels play. Josh bought me this hat while we were dating. Now that I think about it, I bet it was so I’d look more ‘butch’ in front of all his straight friends. I toss the cap back into my closet and pick up a turquoise handkerchief to tie around my head.
Oh, the kitty cat! It’s either fighting or having sex. Those are the only two things that make a cat scream like that. Ooooh, I’ll go feed the cats some pizza, otherwise it’ll just go to waste. Those ants aren’t going to finish it off. I jog into the kitchen, prepare myself for the sight of hungry ants, and open up the box. I take one of the pieces that the ants haven’t gotten to yet, trying to ignore my itchy scalp, and head for the back door. I open it a crack and peek out. No sign of the kitty cat. Maybe it heard me open the door and took off. I swing the door open and step out onto the concrete. I look around for the kitty, but it must have fought and fled. I know I heard a cat screech out here just a second ago though. It’ll be back, I’ll just leave the pizza out here.
“Howdy.”
Huh? I look up and see the coffee shop guy that lives above me standing on his balcony. He seems startled when I look up at him, even though he’s the one that said, ‘howdy’.
“Was there a cat, or some cats down here just now?” He must have heard them fighting too and came out to see what was going on.
“Um, nope, not that I seen. Saw, not that I saw.”
What is he talking about? See-saw? “Oh, weird, I thought I heard a cat fighting.” Oh, now I look like a dumbass with this waxy piece of pizza in my hands. “I wanted to come give it a little pizza.” I hold it up and make myself look even more stupid. I don’t think he recognizes me from the coffee shop. I go in there at least once a week. I think he’s flirted with me in there before. He probably has lots of customers though. I guess it’s his job to be friendly when he’s there, he looks kind of uncomfortable right now.
“Well…I better get back to my cooking.”
He starts to go back inside, but he doesn’t look like he really wants to. Is he nervous because he thinks I’m cute? Yeah, fat chance. He’s pretty attractive for an older guy, but I think he’s married…to that kooky lady with all the bad silk blouses. I’ll try my luck, “You cook? What are you cooking?” Oh, man, that was a lame line. ‘You cook?’ Like that’s something fancy and I’m so impressed. I don’t cook, but still…
“Oh, um, just some pasta. See you around.”
Nope, I guess he wasn’t flirting with me at the coffee shop. Could he have been any less interested just now? I probably made him uncomfortable because he knows I’m gay, and he thought I was trying to pick up on him. God, I hate that. No. I don’t think I said anything too palpable. Oh, well. I set the pizza down by the bowl of milk that I put out last night when I was high. I think I even drank from it. On all fours, lapping it up with my tongue. Maybe the guy upstairs saw me do that, and that’s why he acted like he was afraid of me just now.
I go back inside. I sit on the couch and immediately notice that Jed, or Ned, left his belongings here. Cell phone, cigarette lighter, keys, wallet…I open it up. Ah, it’s Jed. Jed Nobleman. And what a noble man he is, spending the night on this couch. It always makes my ass quiver a little just to sit on it. God only knows what’s underneath these cushions, and I don’t dare to find out. That’s probably where the ants came from in the first place. Sick! I’m creeping myself out. I stand up and scratch my head through the handkerchief.
So I guess that means Mr. Nobleman will be back to get his stuff. How far could he have gotten? Maybe I’ll go chase him down and hand deliver all this stuff myself. I pick up the wallet, the keys, the cell phone, and the cigarette lighter and walk to the front door. I open it and see Jed sitting on the steps, smoking a cigarette. Maybe I should have brought him a piece of pizza too. And a bowl of milk. I laugh at the thought of cute men rubbing up against me just for feeding them and giving them milk. That’d be nice, just go to the bar with my pockets full of kipper snacks and I’d have my pick.
Jed snaps around and quickly says, “Don’t shut that door, dude, my stuff’s in there.” I hold up his stuff, not meaning to make him feel stupid, but I think that’s how he took it. “What the fuck are you laughing at anyway?” he says as he turns back around and takes a drag from his cigarette.
“Nothing,” that’s all I could say. I didn’t want to mumble out some excuse, I’m kind of intimidated by this guy. I hand him his stuff, kind of clumsily, and turn around to go back inside.
“Hey, dude. This your place?”
I turn around quickly, and a little too attentively blurt out, “Yep, uh-huh, it is.”
He stares at me calmly, like I’m a crack addict and he’s a shrink. Damn, I’m a dork. “Alright,” he says, with a cynical ‘you’re-crazy-kid’ tone in his voice, “I just wanted to know if my girlfriend is still in there.”
Of course I’m intimidated by him, he’s straight. Oh, that’s right, he came with Candice. God bless the girl, but she tends to date real assholes. I think she’s a bit of a masochist. “I think Candice left a little earlier. She came in and told me good-bye at like noon.”
“Fuck! What the fuck did she just leave me here for? I don’t have a fucking vehicle, she was my fucking ride!”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just give him an oversympathetic look and shrug my shoulders. When people say ‘fuck’ more than once in a single statement, they’re either a really pissed off individual or just white trash. And I don’t really want to be standing here, alone, with either one.
“I need a drink of water.” He stands up and flicks his cigarette into the grass.
“Well…you can come in,” I tell him as he’s already brushing past me and into the apartment. “There aren’t any clean c--”
“Whatever, I’ll just drink from the faucet.”
“Cool.” I shut the door and my anxiety floods in. Candice is going to get it! What am I going to do with this pissed off, straight guy stranded at my apartment? I run to my bedroom to get the Tar Heels cap from my closet.
I trace the tattoo winding around my bicep with my pinky, then take another long drag from my cigarette. I need to get my load off, but I can’t jack off sitting here by the sidewalk. Maybe Candice is inside and she’ll let me do her. I’ve got a shitty fucking hangover. I press on my temples with my thumbs and try to block out all the noise of the day. The occasional car roaring by, fucking kids down the street and their high pitched screams, cat screeching on the other side of the building; all of it is intruding my brain, which is already being baked by this heat.
I take another smoke from the pack and light it using the cherry from the end of the last one before I flip it into the grass. I’m not a chain smoker, but I’m not ready to get up and knock on this stranger’s door. I start to count how many of the chicks in the passing cars I’d fuck. Definitely not the old dyke in the pickup…not the fat chick in the convertible…that’s a dude, and he’s old and bald anyway. God, the people in this town are so fucking ugly. Oh, this one’s got three kids in the back, but she’s still pretty hot. I’d do her. So that’s one. One out of what? Four. Not too bad. I start to discreetly rub my dick through my jeans and take another drag from my smoke.
What am I going to do today? Hell, it’s going to be a long one. I really should go to class tomorrow, I think there’s going to be a test. Something I don’t give a shit about, fucking Chris Columbus and the redskins or something lame. I’ll have to read that chapter…I’ll do it before I go to bed tonight. Fucking gen eds. I know I didn’t miss anything today though. I think we were just working on our projects in Drawing I. Mrs. Jeffries wants to fuck me anyway, so I could get away with missing a few more days.
I take a couple more drags. As soon as this cigarette is done, I’ll stand up and get my shit from inside. Then I can wake up Candice and we can go.
I hear the door open behind me and turn around to the bug-eyed ghost boy from inside, laughing. “Don’t shut that door, dude, my stuff’s in there.” He holds up my stuff and makes a face like I’m a dumbfuck and he’s one step ahead of me. Is he laughing at me? He’s by himself. “What the fuck are you laughing at anyway?” Fucking dipshit. I turn around and take a drag. I didn’t need the reject to bring me my stuff. If he thinks I’m not coming in to get my girlfriend and a drink of water, he’s very sadly mistaken.
He hands me my stuff, like I thought he would, and I ask him if this is his place.
He whips around and answers with a mouthful of drool, like I just asked him if he wanted to suck my dick or something.
“Alright.” I can see that he’s squirming. “I just wanted to know if my girlfriend is still in there.” And my eyes say, ‘You better not tell me to stay here while you go and get her, or I’ll pummel your face.’
“I think Candice left a little earlier. She came in and told me good-bye at like noon.”
How the fuck does he know I’m talking about Candice? Pretentious little asshole, first he brings me my stuff like I forgot it on accident, and now he’s gonna start name-dropping. Oh yeah. Candice had to work today at noon. Shit, I forgot. “Fuck! What the fuck did she just leave me here for? I don’t have a fucking vehicle, she was my fucking ride!” I say this for bug boy’s benefit as much as anything. Candice just works down the street. I stand up, toss my cigarette, and head in for a glass of water. Praying mantis man starts to tell me something about not having any cups, but the pretentious little fuck doesn’t realize that I already know that. “Whatever, I’ll just drink from the faucet.”
I splash my face into the running water and slurp some of it into my mouth. I probably shouldn’t bend over in front of this guy, he might get the wrong idea. I look up to see if bug boy is checking out my ass, but he’s gone. Whatever. I drink some more and then turn the faucet off.
I grab my cell phone, scroll down to CANDICE WORK, and hit ‘send’. I go into the bathroom and shut the door for a little privacy.
“Chevron. This is Candice.”
“Candy, why the hell did you just leave me here with this creepy guy?” I’m not as pissed anymore after hearing her voice. She did tell me she had to work today at noon.
“Creepy guy? Honey, that’s Patrick! You met him last night.”
I laugh at her insinuation, “You think I remember last night?”
“Oh, God, Jed. He’s Patrick…from my high school…that I always talk about.”
I don’t give a fuck, really. But I don’t want her to freak out, “Oh, yeah, okay. Is he going to hit on me or anything? He’s a homo, right?”
“Yes, we’ve talked about it before. He’s a cutie, huh?”
Dammit, he looks like a fucking albino bug! She better not be starting up with that bullshit again. “Candice…you better not be starting up with that bullshit again.”
“Jed, cool it. Remember, if you love me…”
I grunt into the phone. I don’t want to lose her, but sometimes she has the craziest demands.
“Oh, you never know. Talk to him a little, I bet you two will get along. I’ll be over there in about fifteen minutes, I’m only working a few hours today.”
I’m pissed, but I don’t want her to know. “Okay…hurry.”
“I gotta go, babe. See you in a bit.” She hangs up.
I set my phone down and undo my pants. I pull down my boxers and take a long, liberating piss. I shake off my dick and scoot in front of the mirror. It always looks bigger from this perspective than looking straight down on it. I start to get a hard on, but then think about the chance of this dude having hidden cameras or double-sided mirrors in his bathroom. The idea actually kind of turns me on a bit, but I zip up and flush the toilet.
I look into my reflection’s eyes. Candice is cool. She’s the longest girlfriend I’ve ever had. I’m going to try this. For her. But just this once! I nod, crack my knuckles, and open the bathroom door.
I think I finally feel myself waking up. I think I only got like an hour and a half of sleep last night. I had to get up so damn early! I was like Night of the Living Dead walking down here this morning. Four cups of bad gas station coffee later though, and I finally feel like I’m perking up a bit.
I just realized that Patrick hasn’t really changed at all since high school! I can’t believe it, he still knows how to throw the best parties. Only now we don’t have to wait for his parents to go out of town, and then worry about not breaking all their shit once they do. His apartment is cute too. Small, but really clean and cute. Typical gay.
It was so sweet how Patrick came out to me when we were in high school. It made me feel special, like I was ‘PC’ enough to handle it. But at the same time I was a little bit wounded at the fact that, even though I was never consciously attracted to Patrick before I knew, he had never had one sexual thought about me. You know, you always figure. Especially when you’re not attracted to them. Not that Patrick is ugly, I think he’s adorable. I hope Jed liked him—
Shit, the phone! “Speak of the devil, I bet it’s Jed.” I pick up the phone professionally, just in case, “Chevron. This is Candice.” I say it with a bit more smile than usual, because I know it’s my honey.
“Candy--” Yep, I was right! Should I tell him I was just thinking about him, or is that cheesy? Cuz I really was. “Why the hell did you just leave me here with this creepy guy?”
“Creepy guy?” What’s he talking about? Oh, God. “Honey, that’s Patrick! You met him last night.” I totally left you there on purpose, you know. Has he raped you up the ass yet, you big idiot? I giggle, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“You think I remember last night?”
He can be such a dufus. “Oh, God, Jed. He’s Patrick…from my high school…that I always talk about.” The one I always say I want you to meet, and you always, ‘Don’t want to meet him if he’s going to hit on you or anything.’
“Oh, yeah, okay. Is he going to hit on me or anything?” Jesus. “He’s a homo, right?”
“Yes, we’ve talked about it before.” I hope he’s being nice to him. “He’s a cutie, huh?”
“Candice…you better not be starting up with that bullshit again.”
I know he’s up for it, because we’ve been talking about it all week. He’s had a chance to prepare. He’s probably freaking out cuz I’m not there. “Jed, cool it. Remember, if you love me…” That always works with him. I know they’ll like each other though. If they just let their guards down. “Oh, you never know. Talk to him a little, I bet you two will get along. I’ll be over there in about fifteen minutes, I’m only working a few hours today.”
Oh! That made me jump. My second customer of the day. I hate that little bell on the door. Ooooh, she looks like a nutjob. Oh, shit, is she shoplifting?
“Okay…hurry.” Damn, I need to get rid of him. “I gotta go, babe. See you in a bit”.
I hang up the phone and think about what you’re supposed to do in a situation like this--when you think someone’s shoplifting, but you’re not sure. I come out from behind the counter. Smiling, trying to not look suspicious—or rather, trying not to look like I know she’s trying to not look suspicious. Oh, my God. Did I just have that thought? I am waking up, and I think I’m still high a little bit.
I take some Gatorade bottles from the display and act like I’m going to put them in the fridge. I swear I saw her stick a couple liter bottles of Coke in that big ugly purse she’s got. I walk up behind her, I can tell she doesn’t know I’m here. Oh, shit, she totally did steal. I saw at least three in there before she put her arm over her bag and walked off. Ummm. I quickly stock the Gatorade bottles into the fridge and keep my eye on her. She’s pricing now. She’s trying to find the cheapest thing in the store so she can pretend like she’s buying stuff to make her look less suspicious. God, lady, I know your type! I work at a fucking gas station. I walk back to the counter.
Sure enough! She wants to buy some gum, huh? Damn, what do I say to her? I’m not 100% sure she stole any Coke, or I’d just call her on it. “That it for you?” Not without insinuation.
She looks around, totally guilty; and nods—too eagerly for such a simple question.
“Twenty nine cents.” Aha! I can tell she just realized that she has to open her purse to get her change out! I got her now. Whatcha gonna do, lady?
“Hmmm, do you have any for cheaper?”
Nice one. God, and I have to continue to act the fool. “Ummm, I don’t think so.” I give a courtesy glance toward the row of gum, pretending to ‘check just to make sure’, even though I know the one she’s got is the cheapest. What’s she gonna say?
“Oh, well,” she’s going to try to get out of it, “I guess I’ll just go without then, hon.” She smiles and sets the gum back on the rack, trying to look motherly. Whatever, lady, I know that shoplifters come in all different shapes and flavors. Shit, if this shows up in the inventory, I’ll get in trouble; but if I call her on it and it’s not there—I could get fired.
“Um, I can probably give you the gum for five cents.” Good one, smart move. Oh, shit, does she know I’m on to her? Bitch runs out, I’m calling the cops. She’s thinking about it.
“Can I use these?” Shit, the lady outsmarted me. They’re communal pennies, what am I supposed to say?
“Ummmm…I guess so.” I can’t believe I just did that. I just need to see inside her purse. “Can I see your ID?”
“For a pack of gum?”
Dammit, she’s going to get away. And with a free pack of gum too! “Oh,” fake embarrassed laugh, “nevermind. I’m so used to selling cigarrettes all day.”
“Ah, yes, I understand.” Damn, this lady is kind of creepy. I bet she’s on Valium. She looks like the type. She hands me the five pennies from the little container that says, ‘TAKE A PENNY’.
“Thank you, hon.” She takes her free gum, and her free Coke, and scurries out. I can’t believe that just took place. Oh well, karma’s a bitch.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Darn, I’m good. Right to the front door.
“Now, Linda, you’re going to feel okay about this; because you need to eat lunch much more than the owner of Chevron needs your lousy five bucks.” Which I don’t have anyway. Okay, I’ll just get it done quickly, and try to look inconspicuous. I feel the empty cavity of my stomach—especially after the walk—sucking blindly, like a newborn puppy, eyes sealed shut, searching for its mother’s swollen teet.
I open the door and obviously startle the poor girl behind the counter. Good she’s on the phone. Distracted. Oh, heavens, I’d never be pressured into something like this if I still lived with Roger. Okay, sandwich in the purse. That was quick. I feel like time is leaping forward, much more quickly than normal. As if every beat of my heart is a flash, a leap, ahead. And I’ll need some Coca-Cola for the day too. Is that girl still on the phone? Good. 4 should be enough. I can’t get too greedy. I wonder if I should have chosen Diet—
Oh, darn! She snuck up on me! I impulsively snap my purse shut. I don’t think she saw into my bag, but was that too suspicious how I closed it so quickly. No, she’s only doing her job. Nice girl. Why would she suspect a sweet woman like me of thievery? Alright, I need to not look suspicious. I’ll look for the cheapest thing I can purchase, then at least I’ll look like I came in here for a purpose. A small bag of Dorito’s for 59 cents…a donut for 49 cents…25 cent gum, yes, that’ll do. She doesn’t suspect a thing.
“That it for you?”
I have to pretend like I’m really thinking if that’ll be it. Not a problem, I’ve had my thespian days. I nod confidently.
“29 cents.” 4 cents tax, of course. She’s pretty. Kind of like an old ‘40’s movie star. Jean Harlow or Greta Garbo, only modernized and with less glamour.
Oh, drats. All my money is in my purse. I can’t open it up or she’ll see my booty, or my loot, or whatever they call it these days. I check my skirt pocket for change, even though I know there is none there. Just 3 wadded up tissues, a peppermint candy…oh, and a Snicker’s wrapper. I’ve got to think quickly. “Hmmm, do you have any for cheaper?” Oh, no. I just sounded like a homeless woman. I am a homeless woman. Oh, dear.
“Ummm, I don’t think so.” Of course you don’t, dear girl. I surely hope she doesn’t get in trouble for what’s taking place here.
“Oh, well, I guess I’ll just go without then, hon.” I think that’ll do. I had my purpose for coming in, now it’s proper for me to leave. I won’t have to do this sort of thing much longer, I’ll have a job soon enough. I’m going into town for that purpose alone today.
“Um, I can probably give you the gum for five cents.” Oh, that’s sweet of her. She’s offering me a discount on the gum because she thinks I can’t afford it. What a sweet girl. I still can’t get a nickel unless I reach into my purse. Maybe there’s a nickel on the floor. Oh, what about these pennies here? I’ve seen people use these before.
“Can I use these?” I feel my face flush with embarrassment as I dip my fingers into the shallow little dish and scoop out 5 pennies. What a sweet girl, although I do feel a little bit silly being the charity case. Shall I thank her?
“Can I see your ID?” Uh oh, that’s in my purse too. Wait a minute…why on earth..?
“For a pack of gum?”
“Oh, nevermind. I’m so used to selling cigarrettes all day.”
Oh, the poor girl. She thinks I’m under 19. I haven’t been IDed for years. I guess I’m flattered. She looks tired. “Ah, yes, I understand.” I thought she knew I had stolen goods in my purse for a second, but I think she’s just tired. Probably been here all morning. My heart is pounding in my neck. I take my pack of gum and hustle out of the store. My, that was an awkward situation. I hope I don’t have to resort to that again any time soon.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt and walk the 47 paces to the bus stop bench. I rest my purse, on it’s side, on my lap. I begin to discreetly pull the cellophane off of the sandwich inside. I really need to find a job today. Oh, heavens I forgot to change my blouse! I can’t interview for a job in a blouse that doesn’t match my skirt. Well, I can’t go back into that gas station again, that’s for sure. That’s how you get caught--walking back into a trap like that. What’s happened to my life? I’m a grown woman, for crying out loud! I feel like a scavenger, like that stray cat that crossed my path earlier. The black cat. Well, my luck hasn’t lapsed yet, has it? Everything went pretty well back there. Could have gone a lot worse. I’ve just never had to make it on my own before. I could get help from Roger, but I don’t want to be the weak one. Besides, he doesn’t need me for anything anymore; I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of me needing him still.
I eat my sandwich, pulling bit by bit out of my purse mindfully. It’s good. A little soggy, and maybe a little tasteless. I can certainly prepare a better sandwich myself….I can feel that familiar pressure in the back of my throat, the soft palate swelling to numbness, a mixture between gagging and the smack of sucking on a lemon--the feeling I get right before I cry. I squash the bit of sandwich in my hand, and crumbs spray down my wrist. I’ll never make Roger another sandwich again. My eyes fill up and spill over. I’ve lost the responsibility, and the privilege, of nurturing another human being. I needed him, and he needed me. He depended on me. And now—just like the flick of a switch, lights out, goodnight—he doesn’t need me at all. He doesn’t need me to do his chores, with the attention only a wife could assemble (heaven knows I don’t put that much care into my own errands), he doesn’t need me to repair him at the end of bad days, he doesn’t need me to receive and embellish the pleasure of good days. I wonder if he even misses me at all.
Oh, heavens to Betsy, I’m sure I’m a sight. That makes me cry even worse. Thinking of the sight of me—the shattered, single, old, fat lady. The one whose husband left her for a man. I sob. It feels good to let it out. But I just feel…I just feel—oh, God, I’m so alone!
