Lashes

The thing with Rumple Minze is that it’s 100 proof.  Mike orders me a shot of the stuff as soon as I get to the bar.  It goes down easy and I thank him and I order a vodka tonic for myself as a follow-up.  I slide next to Mike and I sit on my stool and I make conversation with Kristen, the bartender.  I see Wing and Dan on the other side of the room, sitting at a table and drinking their pitchers of beer.  I hold my line of vision until one of them looks over.  I motion my chin upward, signing hello.  Dan mimics my gesture as a response and then Wing looks and I do it again.  Jesse gets there twenty minutes later, around eleven, and takes the stool to my left.  Jesse puts twenty dollars on the bar and Kristen pours four shots of whiskey.  She places a glass in front of each of us, keeping the fourth as her own.  We lift our glasses.

Jesse is the devil who sits on my left shoulder, whispering temptations into my ear.  Mike is the devil on my right, doing the same.  There are no angels in my life.  The angels left me a few years ago, when my ex-husband won custody.

Mike and Jesse are talking about sports and I’m chatting with Kristen, gossiping about who is sleeping with whom.  I don’t care about anyone’s sex life -including my own- but Kristen would be disappointed if I didn’t occasionally say “Oh my god.  Are you serious?”  So I deliver the line as I should and I fake outrage when appropriate.  Kristen responds as she always does, with raised eyebrows and an oval shaped mouth and the words, “I know, right?”

When Kristen goes off to help another customer, Jesse makes an attempt to include me in his conversation, but I have no interest in baseball.  Instead, I sip my drink and people-watch.  Scattered tables occupy the northern half of the tavern and, aside from Wing and Dan’s spot, the tables are empty.  Most of the people in this place are seated at the bar itself.  It goes like this, from left to right: John, an old guy, fat and dirty, is stationed at the far end of the bar.  He comes here every night.  Jim and Bobby are next to him.  I think that they’re alright.  The two of them are here a few times a week.  Next to Bobby sits a few people that I don’t know, three young girls with blonde hair and loud voices.  They are new here.  I hope that they don’t come back.  The guy sitting next to the girls is quiet and I find him creepy.  I don’t know him either.  He might be with the women, I’m not sure.  I bet Kristen that he’ll hit on me before this night is over.  The sketchy guys always do.  Then, after a few empty stools, is Jesse, me, and Mike.

Jesse and Mike have moved topics from sports to politics, as usual.  They invite me into the debate and I participate, playing moderate.  Kristen brings us another round of shots and we spill the alcohol onto our livers as we talk about how the latest oil disaster is poisoning our planet.  Then we start discussing some YouTube thing that Jesse saw.  Apparently, some kids were playing with a laser pointer and using it to fuck with a crackhead.  Jesse said that it was hilarious.  The three of us order more drinks, talk more nonsense, order more drinks, and talk more nonsense.

Wing and I make eye contact and I flick my fingers as a sort of wave and he responds with a similar movement.  I hope that Wing doesn’t come over here and talk to me.  I don’t like him.  We had sex once, Wing and I.  I don’t remember the details, but I do recall, afterward, how disgusted I was by his apartment.  It was as if he never cleaned the place.

Kristen leans into me and says, “Look who just walked in,” and she tilts her head to the side, motioning toward the door.  I look and I see Aly.  Mike sees her too and he drops his head and he says, “Oh Jesus.  Here we go.”  Kristen smirks at Mike and she says something to him that I can’t hear.  I only make out the word, “whore.”  Kristen doesn’t like Aly because Kristen feels that Aly is desperate for attention.  Mike doesn’t like Aly because he fucked her once.  Jesse doesn’t care either way about Aly and he orders himself another whiskey.

I hear the clap of his shot glass as it hits the bar.  I hear it over the crowd, over the yells, over the cheers, and over the drunken conversations.  I glance down at the counter, at the collected rings of moisture left from the numerous glasses of alcohol.  I feel my laughs dying.  I feel myself falling out of character.  I hate when this happens.  They all think I’m this happy party girl and I work to perpetuate that image.  I wouldn’t want to deal with any of them if they knew otherwise.

I take a hard pack of cigarettes from my bag and smack them on the palm of my hand.  “Jesse, can you watch my bag for a minute?  I’m gonna go outside and grab a smoke,” I say.  I smile to my friends.  “I’ll be back.”  I exit the pub and I drop my grin.  I breathe deeply.  I put the cigarettes in my pocket.  I’m a closet non-smoker.  I secretly stopped using cigarettes about four months ago, but I’ve never told anyone.  I like using the sticks as an excuse to escape.

There is a bus stop two blocks to the north.  I go to this place whenever I take a non-smoke break.  I walk to the stop and I sit on a bench and I take time for myself.  As I move that way tonight, however, I can see that I’m not going to have that opportunity.  There is a girl seated in my spot, facing the street.  I feel disappointed.  I feel compromised.  I ignore her and I sit on the opposite side of the bench.

Then she talks.  The bitch opens her mouth.  I just want some quiet time, but, for some reason, the bitch decides that she has to talk to me.

“All the busses on this route are asleep,” she says.

“Excuse me?” I ask, watching her in my peripheral vision.

“No busses.  The next one doesn’t come through until tomorrow morning.  They’re done running for the night.  I want a night bus.”

“Yeah,” I say and I wonder why she is here.  I pull out my cell and I start playing with the screen, hoping to look too preoccupied for further conversation.

“An eyelash,” the girl says.

I say nothing.

“I just rubbed my face and I found an eyelash.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Give me your hand,” she says.

I turn my head and see that the girl is facing me.  Her arm is extended.  I pull my shoulder back and I lean away from her.  I glance in the opposite direction and I look up the street, toward the bar.

“I have to get going,” I say.

The girl follows my eyes to the tavern and then looks back at me.  “You don’t have to go back to that place,” the girl says.  “That place keeps you sad.”

I look in the girl’s eyes and I lie, “I’m not sad.”

“I found an eyelash,” she says.  “I’ll put it on your fingertip and I’ll wish for your happiness.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, annoyed.

“If I blow an eyelash from your fingertip, I get to make a wish on someone’s behalf.  I’ll use my wish for you,” she says.  “It will make you happy,” she says.

“I really have to get going,” I say and I stand up.

“I want the busses to wake up,” she says.  “I hate it here.”  I look down.  There is silence for a moment.  I glance to her and then I look back to the pub.  I start moving toward the bar.  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she says.  I continue walking.  “I’ll bring the eyelash.”  I continue walking.

I stand outside of the tavern door and I breathe inward and I force my expression to lighten.  I push the door open and I smile and I enter the building.

I wake up at the bottom of a stairwell.  I’m not wearing underwear and I’m annoyed because the panties I had on last night were not cheap and I really don’t feel like going to Express to buy another pair.  I lift my head and I feel dizzy, so I crawl to the side of the steps and I fall asleep.

I wake up outside my apartment door.  I close my eyes and I reach into my bag and I feel for my keys.  I struggle to my feet and I unlock the door.  I rest my hands on the wood and I slide down the door and I kneel at its base.

I wake up inside my apartment, vomiting.

I wake up on my bed and I’m wearing a black, oversized tee.  The shirt used to belong to Ryan.  On the front of the shirt is a red-beached photograph of Robert Smith.  The image is old and it’s beaten and it’s worn out.  The shirt was Ryan’s favorite.  I wonder if he knows that I have it.

I wake up and I force myself off the mattress.  I move to my bathroom, using the apartment walls for support.  I sit and I urinate and I go back to my bedroom.  I find my cell phone and I call my job and I tell my boss that I am sick.  I know that I’ve already used all my PTO days this year and I know that my missing work will be documented.  I don’t care.

I wake up and I take six Tylenol PM because, at this point, I don’t really care about my liver.  I just want the headache to go away.  I pour a bowl of cereal and I eat one spoonful and I dump the rest.

I wake up and I turn the television on and I flip through the channels.  I turn it off again.

I wake up and I get out of bed and I take a shower and I clean myself up.  I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and I see an eyelash on my cheek.  I slide my finger across my face and I grab the lash.  I think of the girl at the bus stop.  I stare at the lash for a second and then I look at my reflection again.  I turn on the faucet and then I wash the eyelash down the drain.

When I get to the bar, Mike and Jesse are already there.  Johnny is behind the counter tonight and he nods to me when I come in.  Jesse lifts his jacket from a barstool and tells me that he reserved a seat for me.  I sit between my friends and Jesse puts twenty dollars on the bar and Johnny pours four shots.  He places a glass in front of each of us, keeping the fourth as his own.  We lift our glasses.