“Mmm,” I reply. I’m pretty sure I shake my head no. I can’t read the bill either, but I put down three twenty-dollar bills and figure that oughta cover it. He takes the money and delivers some change, which I leave on the bar as I try to stand up.
I make my way towards the glass door under the glowing red exit sign.
“You sure you’re good?” the bartender asks.
I wave without turning around.
Outside, a blast of cool air hits me hard. Something’s different out here. I look up. Drops of rain shoot straight from the sky directly at me, as if God is holding a machine gun loaded with raindrops inside of my very own personal thunder cloud.
It’s cold, and I’m wet. I accidentally step ankle-deep in a puddle.
My right boat shoe is ruined, I think.
Then, everything turns black.
Gracie
It’s amazing how the universe can kick you when you’re down.
Ten days ago, I woke up in a bed oddly similar to the one I’m lying in now. Today’s crime-scene evidence is different though. Instead of snipped thongs, I am surrounded by glossy pages, torn hastily from their binding and ripped to pieces. Young smiling faces are shredded and strewn about, as if a wild animal inhabited my bed last night. I close my eyes and try to patch together the remains of what I can remember.
There was an Uber.
And a phone call.
And lots of angry, vicious ripping.
It takes a moment, but I realize what I’ve done. I’m sleeping in a sea of faces akin to my old high school cafeteria.
I destroyed my yearbook.
I sigh as a swarm of memories rushes over me. Things I couldn’t have possibly said aloud, like blaming Colin for the demise of my writing career.
Wow. I am a grade A asshole.
The light coming in from the window is exceedingly bright; it gives me a headache. I pull the covers over my head to block it, spilling chunks of pages onto the floor. I vow to never leave my bed, to stay engulfed inmy own filth and bad choices until eventually I die a slow, painful, lonely death.
I fall asleep this way.
When I wake up hours later, I have to reach around to get my bearings. I find my cell phone in my purse on the floor. I check it for messages. There’s only one, from Alisha, making sure I’m okay.
I check my email. Another forward from my mother. This one promises jokes about pirates.Mom needs a hobby, I decide.
I raise my arms up over my head and stretch. It’s just after noon. I have no job. No plans. No food in the house.
No boyfriend.
I trudge over to the bathroom, where I find a lighter on the sink counter and large black ashes floating in the toilet. It appears I may have lit some of the yearbook pages on fire in my agitated state last night. I pee on top of them and flush the whole mess down the toilet, praying nothing clogs.
Then, I brush my teeth, because nothing’s worse than the remnants of yesterday’s vomit in one’s mouth. I run myself a shower and try to wash away my mistakes, my errors, my missteps, and when I emerge, my body is clean and my hair smells like coconut, but my soul remains shrouded in guilt and regret.
This is no way to live, I tell myself.
I take a deep breath and head over to my computer. Sitting down at the desk, I look up the Starbucks website and print out their job application. I fill it out in my neatest handwriting and decide I’ll bring it over to the Starbucks on Emmons Avenue, across from the footbridge.
Maybe I should move back home with my parents, I think. Dad would probably love having me around. It would give him a buffer so he wouldn’t have to deal with Mom’s brand of crazy all by himself. I breathe into the idea of it. I picture Mom waking me up in the morning, pouringme a bowl of Grape Nuts and waxing poetic about how important fiber is for my digestive system.
So, yeah. That’ll be a hard pass.
