Eileen Slovak

Chapter Two: Snow Daze with a Tequila Haze

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and locales are products of the author’s imagination. They are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental. Copyright © 2024 by Eileen Slovak.

Scarlet 

I’m in the shower with a giant cup of coffee in hand loaded with extra cream and Stevia. Multitasking seemed like a good idea a minute ago before my stomach started lurching. Now it’s a predicament.

Through the glass enclosure, I measure the distance to the toilet. If I streak over to it, there’s an excellent chance I’ll slip and fall. The thought hot paramedics finding me buck naked, twisted at an unnatural angle causes me to reconsider. Worse, I left my cell phone on the vanity next to the sink. Highly inconvenient. When the phone starts ringing, I startle, as if the device knows something that I don’t. The nausea has subsided momentarily, thank God. I switch the hot water off and grab the towel I’d slung over the shower door. Still slick, I risk the tiptoe across the white tile. Why am I answering the phone right now? Whatever it is can surely wait. I’m really in no position to talk. It’s Pavlovian.

      “How are you feeling this morning, sunshine?” Maggie asks.

      “Hang on, Maggie.” It’s back. I put down the phone to lean over the sink. Nothing happens except a bad case of the dry heaves. “I’m trying to remember what hit me last night. It’s all a little fuzzy.”

      A tidal wave of sharp pain shoots straight to the top of my head. Ah, that’s right, margaritas with Maggie and Corky at The Three Amigos.

      “Yeah, you were on a tear last night. Me and Corky tried to slow you down, but you weren’t having it.”

      I vow to give up drinking, or at least give up tequila. The only problem is once evening rolls around, I know I’ll take it up again; it’s nearly the weekend. I’m visualizing dry toast. That should help. My brain accidentally adds avocado and the wrenching commences again.

      “I have a bad relationship history with tequila,” I say. “It makes me a tad crazy.”

      “Crazier you mean. Do you remember dancing on top of the bar?” Maggie asks.

      I’m lying on the bed now wrapped in a damp towel, debating about calling out sick. I look at my watch. A chill settles in, and I pull the comforter over myself. Maybe I really am sick.

      “I was hoping I dreamed that part. Oh, God. I have to go. I’m already late.”

      “Feel sorry for me. I’ve been at the hospital since 6 a.m. I was still drunk when I got here and had to give myself a Banana Bag IV first thing. I’m making the new intern do all the heavy lifting. We can’t do that again. Call me after work, Chickee.” 

      I stretch for the nightstand drawer where I keep the Ibuprofen, lose my balance and tumble off the bed. Face planted on the carpet, I’m breathing in carpet fibers and lint. I swear to at least limit my drinking to the real weekend days. Imbibing on a Wednesday night; what was I thinking? Facial rug burn is no way to start the workday. Scarlet O’Brien, you need a life makeover!

      I commando crawl over to the window of my one-bedroom apartment. Peering down to where I parked my cobalt Mazda CX-3 on the street, I see that the car is invisible. There’s only a car shaped snow blob where I’m certain I parked. The plow has done me the courtesy of burying my ride under a nasty slush pile.

The weather app on my phone shows the overnight temperature in Providence dropped to twenty-six degrees. It has since warmed up to a balmy thirty-four for a messy drive to work. Here, a rare appearance of the sun in late January, while celebrated, is fleeting. Thanks to our proximity to the ocean, it rarely really snows properly. What I’m not looking forward to is getting the hernia inducing, heavy, wintry mix off my vehicle. If I don’t get my “happy” ass down there soon, my ride will be encapsulated in an ice block. For entry, I might need the hair dryer with an extra-long extension cord. If that fails, I’ll need to pour hot water over the door locks.

      It’s all too much trouble. I could call out sick. I am sick. I should call out. I can’t call out. My boss is a maniac. He’ll send someone over here to get me. The state police maybe? What if they smell the tequila emanating from my pores?

      Until the snow job is done, there’s no point getting dressed. I tug on sweats and layer with a down jacket. Without looking, I know I’m a train-wreck with remnants of last night’s make-up and my Frankenstein’s bride hairdo. And do you want to know the worst part? This cup is the last of the Dunkin Donuts coffee. Just shoot me! I’ll only get depressed if I dwell on all the dumb decisions I make in a single day. I add waterproof gloves, a wool hat, scarf, and boots to my abominable fashion statement. Then, grabbing the snow shovel from my front hall closet, I trudge down the stairs like a wilderness explorer.

      In the entryway of the Victorian where I live, the homeowner, my landlady and first-floor neighbor, Mrs. Adams is patiently waiting with a basket in her frail, arthritic, claw of a hand. She knows my schedule better than I do.

      “Well, good morning, dear,” she says. “Late night, last night?”

      Since I forgot again to turn off the outside lights, she already knows the answer. Not much gets past her despite her eighty years. I suspect she rents the apartment to me strictly for the companionship. I try to be a good tenant and look out for her, but it typically goes the other way. This morning she’s wearing her usual quilted, floral housecoat and blue booty slippers. She still looks prim and proper, even with her silver hair in curlers.

      “Good morning Mrs. Adams. What have you got there in your little basket of goodies?” The scent of warm blueberry goodness wafts over me. Like the Big Bad Wolf, I greedily eye the food basket.

      “Have you had your breakfast yet this morning, Scarlet?” she asks, flipping back the cloth covering on the basket, revealing six enormous scones. “I was up at dawn, and thought I may as well make myself useful. I feel terrible for you driving to work in this wicked weather.

      “Thank you. I’d love one.” With my teeth, I tug off my right glove and reach into the basket. Mrs. Adams is sweet but she’s also the reason I need to wear control top pantyhose with dress pants.  

      Looking at the shovel, she says, “Pity you don’t have a husband or a boyfriend. Someone to take care of the messy things in life.”

      “Pity I don’t have a garage,” I say, finishing the scone and heading out the front door. “Thanks again.” Sadly, right now, men are the messiest things in my life.