A Tale Not Yet Titled: Chapter Two

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  12^th 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.