Janice stands at the end of the bar and counts down the register. My eyes stare up at her while she counts the money in the tip jar. Big tips meant Thai food from my favorite place on the way home. The best thing about the city is that everything stays open late.
“It all looks accounted for. Good news, you two have to keep working for me.” She glances up at us with her friendly smirk once again. Janice's Latina accent peeks out from her snarky tone.
“Shit!” I say jokingly. She gives me her sly look in return.
“And now the time you’ve both been waiting for…” She puts on her best announcer voice as Jace and I drum on the freshly cleaned tabletops. “Your tips.” Janice hands me and Jace both of our shares.Yes! Looks like Thai for dinner tonight.Janice switches off the lights in the building. One by one, sections of the room go dark, and we double-check around the bar, making sure the place is ready to close before she locks up.
She fishes out her keys from her purse. Jace and I follow one another out of the bar as she holds open one of the heavy doors for us.
“Be safe, you two,” she calls out. Janice tries to play the role of our bigger sister in this dysfunctional little family we have at work. It’s sweet.
“Oh, you know we’ll be safe. Thalia listens to enough true crime to protect us,” Jace smiles as he yells back towards her taxi. Her grin is wide and she climbs in. I notice her shaking her head while she quietly laughs. Never a dull moment with our little group.
“What are you about to do?” He asks as he takes my hand and swings it down the sidewalk. “No wait, I already know. Let me guess. Don’t tell me. Thai food?”
“Am I that predictable?” I ask, adding a little whine to the tone of the question.
“Girl, yes. Thai food, then let me guess…shower, podcast, buzz and then bed.” He moves each finger down, as if counting down my checklist.
“Maybe not the ‘buzz’ part…” I admit, while using finger quotes.
“Don’t lie to me and don’t lie to yourself,” he states matter-of-factly, with full confidence.Who am I kidding? He knows me.
I shrug. I’m not fooling anyone, especially my best friend. Jace climbs into another cab and waves as the car speeds off.
I continue walking in the cold breeze to my destination. First stop noodles, next stop, home.
The smell of the greasy delicacy hits my nose immediately as I open the clear bag, and it only makes my craving for takeout worse. I turn the key in the door of my one-bedroom apartment, with my cat, Artemis, greeting me as I step in. The sound of his purrs is like pure serotonin. I carelessly throw my jacket onto my black couch. Every light is off except for a single lamp on an ebony end tableclose to my window. You could say it sits in what you would call my living room.
I flop myself down on my couch, my bag of takeout crinkling upon impact. I lay the styrofoam box on the small excuse for a coffee table that I have in the middle of the tiny area. Like a feral animal, I begin stuffing my face with the greasy noodles. It should be a sin how good these are.
I scan through Netflix on my TV, squinting to make out the letters on the monitor. I spend about thirty minutes looking for something to mindlessly watch and end up settling on a true crime documentary that I have already seen multiple times. At this point, it's just background noise while I scroll through social media apps on my phone. I switch from different ones after getting bored with the different feeds. In reality, I know how I want to end this night.
The leftovers are shut in the styrofoam box they came in, and the remaining noodles are a focal point in my mostly empty fridge. My apartment goes dark after I switch off the lamp on my end table and turn off the TV. Artemis quietly follows me into the tiny bathroom that is connected to my bedroom. I squint my eyes again as bright light fills the space with one flip of my white plated light switch.
Sounds of the shower can be heard throughout my apartment once I step in under the scalding hot water. I stand under the large drops for probably longer than needed, rinsing the smell of desperation and alcohol down the drain. While turning off the shower and grabbing for the nearest towel, my stinging eyes beg me for some relief. Only subduing the pain with one wipe of the gray cotton towel across both of my lids.
After stepping out, my towel is wrapped snug around my body, just above my chest. Like a routine, I flip off the switch to the bathroom light and switch on my bedroom light, which is only a few steps to the right. It triggers another small lamp on my nightstand next to my bed in the corner of my room. Artemis is already at the end of my full-size bed. He stares up at me, as if to say he's been waiting on me to tuck myself in. While reaching into my small dresser for a pair of charcoal cotton shorts and an oversized Ramones tee shirt, the thought of lying in my bed under my heavy comforter puts a smile on my face.
The climb into my bed is better than it should be. I like nothing more than lying down and scrolling through my phone after a tough night of making cocktails and listening to drunk people bitch about their lives.Well, almost nothing.
I turn over and reach inside my nightstand. The drawer slides out in one smooth motion, as if it’s used to the nightly routine. Without looking, my hand glides over the smooth rubber surface and I grip the hard, cylindrical device.Don’t lie to me and don’t lie to yourself.I mentally shrugasJace’s words play in my head. My fingers trace over the button that will help end this night with a smile on my exhausted face. I shut the small drawer to the tiny nightstand as his words, “Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” play in the speakers of my earbuds.
Manhattan Murders Podcast
I sit down in my large, leather office chair. It rolls ever so slightly on the plastic covering the carpet under the small wheels and the black desk. You know the covering I’m talking about. The ones you only see in offices and they leave small indentations in the carpet.
After a few seconds of assured silence in my office—which doubles as my studio—it’s time to start our new episode. With my mic placed just a few inches from my mouth, I look at Lee and silently ask, “You ready?” He gives me his universal signal of a thumbs up and pushes record.
“Hello, listeners,” I speak smoothly into the microphone.
“Yeah. Hey fuckers,” Lee chimes in. Both of us end the welcome in quiet laughter, but loud enough to be in tonight’s episode. The listeners love that. It makes them feel like they’re listening to “real people,” not just some person doing it for the money. Besides, the two of us already have enough. We do it for the connection we have with other people who love true crime as much as we do. You have to make sure you include your characteristics when running a podcast show.Thoseare what people look for. It's the tiny details that matter.
“If you’ve nevertuned in,” I continue in the same smooth tone, “you’re listening to the Manhattan Murders Podcast. I’m your host and escort through this spine-tingling adventure, Alan Jones. And to my left, for you visual viewers, is the talented Lee Reynolds.” I end the greeting by leaning back in my chair. My arms instinctively fold across my chest. The creaking sound of the chair echoes in the mic.
“Hey, everybody,” Lee starts. “What kind of shit show do you have for us today, Alan?”
“Well,everyepisode is a shit show, I’d say. People don’t come here to listen about good times, my friend.” I incline closer to the mic when I talk.
