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Another morning. Another evil, putrid-anger-from-hell morning. I sat up slowly, the pulsating waves of pain squeezing my brain like the claws of a lunatic. My mouth felt like the inside of a moth-eaten skunk preserved by a student taxidermist sometime in the beginning of the last century.
Drink.
I gingerly put one foot on the pile of magazines on the floor next to my bed. That was a start. The other foot came suddenly in a jerk as it worked itself free from the wadded-up sheet. Standing was another matter with these mutinous legs.
I walked the three steps to the kitchen in the halting, wobbly steps of a baby wildebeest in a sixth-grade nature film, banging into the card table/dinette set that sat in the middle of the room.
“First day with your new legs?” came the voice from under the pile of blankets on the fold-out couch. When did Zach start sleeping with three coats?
Standing in front of the fridge, leaning against the open door, I took in a long, deep stream from the pitcher of strawberry Kool-Aid. The cool air blasted against my sticky body, giving an inkling of the wonderful sensation my morning shower would offer. I sat the pitcher on the counter, my hand still around the handle, and panted. My short, jerky breaths let in just enough oxygen molecules to sting my leathery mummy-skin lungs. I could feel the air moving around in there, but it didn’t feel like it was penetrating enough to offer any nourishment to my oxygen-starved air sacs. How many packs did I smoke last night? Three? Four?
Memories of the night before came to me in whirled spurts, as someone trying to read a newspaper that was being shredded in a blender. The toes on my right foot felt like they were in a vice and I didn’t remember why. I could tell my body wanted to cough but my lungs couldn’t bring in enough air to muster up a good hack. Yet.
“ZAAACCCHHH! Where did all the ice go?”
“We used it up last night.”
I stood in front of the open freezer, holding a bag of frozen okra to the back of my neck with a hazy recollection of grabbing the bag of ice and running back to my landlord’s house the night before. Even after I told them that only wienies drink frozen margaritas. Slamming the freezer door shut with a bang that made Zach jump, I reached for the pitcher again. Ahh…more Kool-Aid. Giver of life, bringer of relief, bestow your sweet sustenance on my body, Oh Great and Mighty God of Kool-Aid.
At any rate, Kool-Aid will do in a pinch when the blue Gatorade is all gone. Unfortunately, the night before we figured out that it tastes good with Stoli.
The bathroom door opened suddenly, banging into the open fridge door, and then me, splashing the contents of the pitcher into my face, up my nose, and down the front of my dress, a red puddle spreading over the floor.
It was then that I noticed I was wearing one five-and-a-quarter-inch-heeled sandal. At least that explains the foot pain. I sort of remember taking off the other one to pound ice, but that wouldn’t make sense now would it…
A strange face peeked out from the other side of the bathroom door.
“Uh, sorry…”
“That’s okay,” I gave him the most genuine smile I could grimace up. I would rather Zach’s friends spend the night than drive home drunk, but he’ll just have to accept I’m not at my best before 9pm.
He stepped from behind the door to reveal that he was completely naked. The open bathroom door also revealed that this man must eat three meals a day at Taco Bell and is prone to early-morning bowel movements.
“Oh, excuse me,” he said and ran back into the bathroom, I heard the clink of the toilet-seat shifting as he plopped himself back down on the can.
He was saying something through the bathroom door. My head vibrated pain as I yelled “HUH?” as loudly as I could.
The bathroom door swung open, but Zach’s friend did not come out. “That was some,” long pause, “party last night huh?”
Oh God. This is not happening. Please let that sound mean he dropped his keys into the toilet bowl. The grunt afterward told me it was not.
“That Larry sure knows how to ring in the New Year huh? And you sure know how to make a good margarita! How do you get them so slushy?” He came walking out of the bathroom again, picking something out of his teeth. For one of Zach’s friends, this guy has questionable taste. Come on, frozen margaritas?? Eeeww!
“Uh, I just put them in the blender,” I said, pointing to the blender which was half full of my pre-Christmas paper-mache leftovers. Good thing we didn’t have the party here last night or I might have had to wash the dishes.
“Wow, you must drink them all the time then huh?”
“No, frozen margaritas are for—“
He turned away from me and bent over at the waist, his butt-cheeks separating slightly, and started wiping the Kool-Aid spill off the floor with a crumpled mass of paper towels. I fell back to the wall, leaning against it as I stood in a flamingo pose removing my offending shoe, trying to get the image of the tiny, fuzzy punching bag out of my head.
“Uh…sorry, looks like I made a clean spot on the floor,” Was this guy making some kind of crack at my housekeeping skills?
Zach was suddenly a flurry of activity, folding up the couch with his bedding still inside. He turned his back to us and sat at the computer in the corner. Usually I find the whirr of a hard drive winding up comforting, but today it seemed to make my tension audible, like my discomfort had its own twisted little soundtrack.
“Zach didn’t tell me you were staying, what’s your name?” I didn’t hold out my hand, and pretended not to notice when he extended his arm. His toilet flush was not followed by the typical flow from the bathroom sink. Just look straight at his face and keep smiling, I thought.
“Oh, are you Zach?” The naked stranger asked, turning to my roommate’s huddled form in the corner. For the first time it became obvious to me that Zach was trying as hard as he could to make himself invisible. How is it that his hair keeps its crisp little points even when he first gets up in the morning?
“Oh…” I was confused now, I’ll have to put off contemplating Zach’s hair until this afternoon. With a crinkly forehead, I looked at Zach. He turned around quickly and started furiously typing on the keyboard. I could tell by his posture he was trying to stifle a laugh.
“Who are you then?” I asked the man who was half-sitting on my end table.
“I’m Vic, Larry told me I could sleep in the garage.”
“This isn’t the garage.”
“It looks like a garage.”
“This is the old garage. The new garage is out back.” I said walking to the front window, jerking back the curtains and gesturing toward the garage with both hands.
“Oh…sorry…I didn’t know, I thought this was the garage…” Vic was obviously very embarrassed. Zach let out a little gasp as Vic dropped himself onto the couch.
My eyes narrowed, and I’m sure I felt a little bit of vomit come up into my mouth as I asked, “Where did you sleep?”
Vic shifted uncomfortably with a squeak as his bare skin rubbed against my genuine-imitation-leather couch. “When I came in it was dark, so I guess I just sacked out on the floor over there,” he said, pointing to the area by the front door.
Okay, I thought. This makes sense. I made sure all of my clothing was accounted for as I gave myself a few quick pats. Good…checks out. No problem, there’s just one more thing--
“Why are you naked?” You can always count on Zach to get right to the point.
Vic crossed his legs, his butt rubbing a few inches to the left. That’s it, Vic, make sure you rub your ass-fragments into Zach’s bed. He grinned, “I threw up on my clothes.”
“Okay, great…well, it was nice meeting you…” I said hopefully. Hint. Hint. Hint.
I nonchalantly walked to the front door and opened it, so I could pretend to be looking outside. It really wouldn’t hurt to air out the brown cloud from the bathroom anyway.
There was Larry, walking up from the garage, a pile of clothes draped over his arm. He turned when he heard my door open.
“Hey, Candie…have you seen a guy—“
“He’s right here,” I said, conveying as little as my polite rage as possible.
Vic stood up. I could see the moist line his butt crack left behind on the couch. It grew thin quickly and evaporated.
“Well, it was nice meeting you!” He said enthusiastically, enveloping my hand in both of his, giving my hand, and my stomach, a mighty shake. He stood in my open door way and wiggled into his freshly-laundered clothes.
I was amazed, “Wow, you got up this early and did laundry?”
“It’s almost dinnertime, Candie.” Larry answered. Although Larry can throw a mean party, he seldom drinks himself. Probably a good thing, as he has the kind of personality that cannot be enhanced by strong drink.
“Why didn’t you tell me he was one of Larry’s friends?” I whirled around and shut the door in one motion. This was mean, even for Zach.
“I thought he was with you!”
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