Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Though the setting and some businesses are based actual places, names, characters, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. I promise ; )
Friday,
June 21, 2012 10:55pm
The blaring sound of my alarm
stabbed at my brain like daggers of spit fire and hate. Like toddlers
squealing, “Hangover! Hangover” repeatedly while circling me in some sick and
torturous game of ring-around-the-rosy.
“YO LINA!!! You’ve been ignoring
that thing for 10 minutes. If you don’t get up now we’re all going to be late
for work. Let’s go!” Trent’s voice is muffled and groggy from the other side of
my bedroom door, a sure indicator that he’s just as hung over as I am, but for
some reason he was able to get up promptly at the sound-off of his iPhone.
I shuffle out of my bedroom heavy
and weak. The tops of my feet, dragging against the rough carpet as I press my
shoulder into the wood wall paneling. The hallway is spinning as I hold on to
the wall’s slippery surface for guidance. The journey to the bathroom feels
epic. I moan at the distance from the spot where I stood in the hallway to the
entry way of the bathroom. As I gather my strength, I decide the only way I’m getting
into that bathroom is if I catapult my body from the wall through the door way.
So I straighten myself up, and press the palms of my hands against the wall,
and quietly count to three.
“One……Two….Three….”
With that I push against the wall,
praying that at the end of this leap, I would land successfully through the
entrance of the bathroom without banging my shoulder into the jam of the door.
I am not so lucky.
Showing mercy for my eyes, I opt to leave the
lights off. The natural light creeping through the window blinds is enough. I
know what I look like hung over. There’s no need to relive that nightmare
today.
I gaze at my reflection in the
mirror. My hair is a mess of reckless abandon and curls. What I can see of my
eyes is smeared with the mascara and eyeliner I rebelliously left for the
morning; the same mascara and eyeliner that became smeared as a result of my
somber slumber. My modest and perky breasts emphasize the phrase on my blow out
tank top, the words “Fancy as Fuck” contradicting the image staring back at me.
My eyes travel down the curves of
my body and land on the bulge beneath my tank top. This mound was no doubt the
result of the many beers that comforted my waning confidence and cradled my
advancing intoxication. I grimace as I lift my tank to reveal its offending
roundness, shaking my head in slow and steady left to right cadence. My thighs
add more misery to my failing body image: thick and definite. Wes loved my
thighs. He would no doubt fuss at me for criticizing myself so harshly if he
knew I was doing it. He never admitted it, but I could see his constant
disapproval in my opinion of myself. His growing frustration in having to
remind me how, quote, truly beautiful I was became ever apparent.
“Fuck me!” I moan to myself as I
open the cabinet door and reach for my toothbrush. My thoughts are loaded and
my chest aches with self doubt and tequila. I haven’t checked my phone yet. The
idea of that buzz indicating there was a message from no one in particular is
just too much to take when I’m drowning in memories of loss and heartache.
Why
did you leave me? Tears role down the swollen skin puffy and bunched against
the underside of my eye; purple with the indication of a sleepless night, as
the truth mushrooms in my chest. My
toothbrush hangs from the corner of my mouth. Toothpaste dripping down its
handle as my hand covers my eyes, the sound of sobs escaping from my throat,
spilling from my pores.
Why did I let you go? Why did I try to call
your bluff? I’m so stupid! Images of the last time I saw Wes spring up into
my mind: his chin parallel to my nose as
he holds me close to him, leaning down to whisper good-bye in my ear. I know he
won’t really leave, I say to myself. We’ve been through this shit before. He
always forgives me. He always looks me in the eyes, strokes my hair behind my
ears and kisses my wide lips and forgives me with his loins. He’ll be back.
He’d never really leave me.
My shoulders shake as I press my
weight against the sink. The sound of my nose reminds me of the way I cried as
a child: when I fell off my bike or fell skating down the street. This isn’t
how adults handle things. Crying like children. This is not how they handle loss.
I blink the remaining tears from my
eyes and wipe their tell-tale trails from my cheeks. I viciously finish
brushing my teeth and begin to wash my face. I make a pact with myself, right
there in that mirror; I will shed no more
tears for him!
“I will shed no more tears for
him!” I say out loud. I can barely recognize my voice as it cracks and
disappears before the sentence is done. A few more tears escape. They meet the
same fate as the tears that came before them. I practice smiling as I tame the
hair from my scalp, dancing in every direction. There is no fate worse for a
woman, than that of the day she is unable to conquer her own mane.
***
“I don’t understand why this
concept is so hard for you! When you’re done trimming your beard, just fucking
sweep up the stray hairs, take a damp cloth and wipe your nasty face whiskers
form the countertop. When you’re done brushing your teeth, wipe off the tube
and clean your toothpaste chunks from the sink. I don’t even understand how
there are toothpaste chunks in the sink after you’re done, clearly that means
you’re using too much toothpaste than that which is required to clean your
fucking mouth.” Casey was already well into her morning lashing of Trent’s
peculiar bathroom habits.
She stood next to him at the
kitchen sink, facing the window to the backyard, looking at nothing specific,
ranting along about how inconsiderate and dirty Trent is as a roommate. Trent
was leaning nonchalantly against the counter, finishing off a Golden Delicious
apple, his gaze floating aimlessly at the kitchen floor. This was nothing he hadn’t already heard. He
confessed to me once, that he remained a notorious bathroom slob intentionally
just to spite her.
“No one else uses that bathroom but
me. You and Casey use the bathroom upstairs. What the hell does it matter?”
This was his argument to me the first time Casey got on his case about the way
he left the first floor bathroom. I tried to explain to him that, technically,
that bathroom was the guest bathroom and he really shouldn’t be using it at
all.
“Fuck that!” He responded. “If it
was the ‘guest bathroom,’” He stressed the phrase with bloated air quotes, “then
it wouldn’t have a stand up shower in it. The stand-up shower automatically
enlists said bathroom as a bathroom for personal hygiene maintenance of the
person who resides in the third floor bedroom, aka the basement.” There really was no debating with him after
that graduate level argument. My response was that he simply keep the peace and
try to clean up after himself. Clearly he didn’t take my advice.
They had gotten to the point of
yelling over top of each other when I walked into the kitchen doorway.
“Hey babe, do you want me to make
you something to eat?” Casey’s smile was concerned, her blonde hair, wrapping
her face in soft waves as she swiped it gently away from her tanned cheeks.
“Um, no thanks, I’m not hungry at
all.” I said remembering the reflection of my thighs in the bathroom mirror.
“At least have an apple Lina.”
Trent offered as he retrieved the round fruit from the Frigidaire and tossed it
in my direction. I caught it in both hands and smiled at him. He returned mine
with one of his own and a wink. As soon as we began to leave the kitchen Casey
started on him again.
“You’re not off the hook yet you
jerk! I’m going to buy you some all purpose Mr. Clean and a scrub brush and
force you to clean that bathroom at gun point when we get home later.”
Trent’s head fell heavy to the back
of his neck as he followed me out of the house and toward his car. The morning
sunlight was piercing and the neighborhood noise of south Philadelphia did
nothing to drown out the incessant banter of Casey’s morning drawl. It was a
beautiful summer day but I could barely enjoy it. My eyes were nearly swollen
shut, sensitive to the bright sun. My ears were deaf to the sounds of teenagers
and toddles running back and forth on the sidewalks and narrow streets, though
I was fully aware of their presence. The walk from the house to the car took
eons though it ended in moments. I just wanted this day to end already. All I
wanted was to be alone.
The interior of his Dodge Charger
reeked of Axe deodorant spray and Kenneth Cole Black cologne. I volunteered to
sit in the back seat. Today was not a day for fighting for shotgun. Trent
started the car immediately upon shutting his door. He rested his head on the
steering wheel in exasperation. Casey’s voice droned on as he began to bang his
head back and forth on the steering wheel. When he finally stopped he pushed
the radio-on button. Maynard Keenan’s voice rung out from its speakers as he
pulled out of the parking space and tore down 12th street toward Lombard Street in
a passive-aggressive desperation to get Casey out of his head.
***
I
never wasted much time thinking about myself. This was something new, dwelling
on my troubles. I was always everyone else’s shoulder to cry on. Me, needing a
shoulder was something I was not at all use to. I always had my shit in check.
Whether it was work, or school, or my men, and trust me I had plenty, I had
everything under control. It wasn’t until recently, the last four years that I
began to feel in an entirely different way. Thus the fluctuating self
confidence, the nocturne water works, the overwhelming and chronic anxiety
episodes, became a normal occurrence in my life; even before he left.
I barely noticed the distant hum of
my computer screen. I stared at it involuntarily waiting for it to do something
for me rather than I doing something to it. This office felt way too open
rather than quaintly private, as my supervising editor had described it the day
of my promotion party. My door was open, as always, as was custom in an office
work space, but that wasn’t the reason for its bare naked quality. The ceiling-to-floor
windows were glass but I’ve had no issues with that in the past. Simply turn my
chair in the other direction and instant privacy from prying eyes.
My hand reached for my phone on its
own. Lord knows I didn’t want to look at its empty notification bar for the hundredth
time. It was like a tick. I had to make sure the buzzing I heard last night was
still just a game invitation for Diamond Dash from my cousin in New York and
not a text, or Facebook message, from Steve. Or even Wes.
I flicked the phone back on my desk
and scrolled down Steve’s profile page. I spoke out loud to myself mostly just
to remind myself I was alive.
“Steve Tower. Age 34; Works for THE
leading health insurance company in America. Graduated from Rowan University; Born
September 30, 1977; Lives in Somerdale, New Jersey; From Sewell, New Jersey.” I
should just walk away based on that last fact alone. “Single. Likes women; Religious
views: God is dead.” Ugh! “Political
views: Anti-Obama” What the fuck?
His Cheshire cat grin gleamed at me
from behind the glass of my computer screen as I realized that I may have just
been fooled by the most cunning of anti-hipster disguises.
“Likes skiing, polo, disc golf, and
camping in exclusively remote places. My favorite authors include Chuck Palahniuk
and Jack Kerouac.” I didn’t even have to will my eyes to roll. “My favorite
music artists are U2, Creed, Third Eye Blind, The Semisonic, Weird Al Yankovic,
and Black Sabbath.” What?
“Adelina?”
“Yes!” I said abruptly as I put my
computer to sleep.
“Marna wants to see you. Something
about one of the new submissions that just came inbound. She said she emailed
you but heard no response so she sent me over.” Littie’s voice tore gashes in
my brain when she spoke. It was like having railroad nails scrapped across your
front teeth while dwarfs sat on your arms and legs so you couldn’t stop your
torturer.
“Did she say whether it was
absolutely necessary for me to come down to her office? Like can I just call
her?”
“She didn’t say.” She squeaked as
she shimmied out of my office doorway and through the maze of cubicles.
I pressed the phone receiver to my
ear. Before I dialed Marna’s office extension, I took one last look at Steve’s
Facebook profile, his most recent post. It was a picture of him and the work
buddy that came in the bar after Casey and Trent arrived. Their dress shirts
were slightly unbuttoned and work ties undone. The darkened tint of the windows
behind them indicated that it was close to or moments after closing. Tia and
Kelly, the other bartender at Good Dog, were straddling them as they sat on bar
stools with empty shot glasses between their fingers. Above the picture his
friend posted “Bangin’ shots and hoes at Good Dog with my #1 Homie Sir. Steve
the Pussy Fiend!” To which Steve replied in the comments, “CTFU! What an awesome
happy hour. Can’t wait for Roxy this Saturday night. #steadybarhopping #yolo”
And
on that note!
***
The
nights get stiller as the hours progress forward. You could skip a stone on the
alley street and hear its light thud, thud, thud as it traveled. It was that
quiet. My dad and my brother use to skip stones when we went on day trips in
the Pinelands in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. Steadies the mind, Dad would say. Sure Pop, I would respond.
I
hate nights like this. The air is so empty all I can hear is my brain making
assumptions. Assumptions about work; assumptions about life; assumptions about
all the assumptions I’ve ever made and if I could ever fix the mistakes that
have gotten me to this place. They were going to be the end of me and I knew
it. I just didn’t know how to overcome them on my own. That’s what Wes was for.
I
always saw myself as a strong woman. An implicit feminist that took what she
wanted with authority. You knew where I had been by the trail of men in my wake.
I worked hard and partied harder. A cliché I was glad to embrace. I guess that
was what attracted him to me. He could see right through my hardened shell and
pull out the fleshy pink, girly, mush that made up the core of me. I hated him
for it and I loved him for it.
“So did you ever hear anything from
that Steve dude?” Clara was brushing my hair and braiding it for me,
preparation for a curly updo-ish style she was going to finish in the morning. She
insisted the reason I was in such a funk was because I had become too familiar
in one image; too familiar in one head space. Something she was determined to
correct.
“No. I was browsing his Facebook
profile and…well…let’s just say that excavation ended in an unfriending.”
“Ouch, that bad!!”
“Umm, a 34 year old man used the hash-tag
yolo seriously and was referred to as the “pussy fiend”! I’d say that roast
needs to stay in the oven a little while longer.” We chuckled.
“Sorry to hear Lina. He was so cute
and not to mention he has a real job. I guess you can never tell.”
“Seriously, it’s getting so bad I’m
considering getting ‘if you listen to Creed, you need not apply’ on my forearm.”
“Oh man!”
“I could have told you that guy was
a tool bag!” Trent often appeared out of nowhere when Casey and I found
ourselves held up in one of our rooms. “He was drinking BudLight and completely
ignoring the Phillies game. You can’t trust a guy who doesn’t like sports.”
“Look at you the dating expert.”
Casey taunts Trent with a flat and judgmental tone. Just as she promised, a
bottle of multi-purpose Mr. Clean and a scrub brush was waiting for him when he
came through the doors after work. She even made him wear a cap on his hair and
a matching one for his beard, so his efforts weren’t in vain. They continued
their tirade of pointless arguments about cleaning the entire time he polished
the bathroom and only concluded when I came in and agreed to let Casey braid my
hair. Upon entering my room, Trent just ignored her, which was probably the
smartest thing he’s done since he’s moved in.
He kneeled down in front of me at
the edge of my bed, bringing his eyes level with my as my head jerked back and
forth from Casey’s braiding.
“Lina you don’t need to pick up
some dilhole in a bar. That’s not your style anymore anyway.” His hands found
their way to my knees. He gave them a gentle squeeze as the tone of his voice
grew more brotherly with every syllable. “Honestly, if you want my opinion, you don’t need
to date anyone at all right now. It’s still too soon. Just hang out with us and
your other friends and enjoy being single.” He ended that sentence with a
toothless smile and squeezed my hands.
“What would you know? If anything
she needs to get out and play the field. Let Wes know she’s not hung up on him.”
Moment ruined!
“Do you ever shut the fuck up?”
Trent grunted as he flew to his feet and stormed out the door slamming it
behind him.
“Ass.” Casey huffed.
I
didn’t talk after that; there really wasn’t much else to say. I mean I guess I
could have told Casey about the tall, dark and hazel eyed man I met on my lunch
break. He was enjoying a club sandwich and reading on his tablet, when I
noticed he was wearing a ring with a Lamb of God emblem on it. He noticed me
smiling at him and we sparked up a conversation about music and books. He was
pretty nice. I guess I’ll Facebook stalk him in the morning.
