“What about trash?” It’s Clarrisha, a normally quiet girl. She’s not a smoker, so maybe her question will get an answer.
“What do you mean?” Kathy asks.
“I mean we usually take the trash out before we clock out, and if we can’t leave the building until after the shift is over, who’s gonna take the trash out? Because you know those day-shift princesses aren’t gonna do it, and I sure aint doing it off the clock. That’s illegal. You can’t ask us to work for free. Also, not that it matters to me, but you can’t keep us here on our lunch breaks either. You either gotta give us paid lunches, or let us go where ever we want when we’re off the clock. I’ll take a paid lunch.”
Kathy sighs. “You know with any new policy there are kinks to work out. Maybe the cleaners will do the trash. And of course you can leave on lunch. You’ll just have to check your bag out and back in.”
Clarrisha shakes her head. “I thought only managers from another shift could check our belongings.”
Kathy looks flummoxed. “I don’t know all the answers but those are good questions. I’ll try to get the answers for you by tomorrow when the policy takes effect.”
Well hell, I think. No more smoke breaks. At least no more smoke breaks when Kathy is manager. They’re just trying to scare us. No way their actually gonna write people up, or give them D-days, over an un-stickered book. Not that that is a problem for me. I smile, thinking of my clever receipt taping habits... Who has foresight? I have foresight. But mark my words: the first day shift princess, as Clarrisha says, who cries about it, will get off with a warning. Then we’ll all get one warning. Then people will lie about how many warnings they’ve gotten, and why the fuck shouldn’t they? Then we’ll all get three warnings. Then the policy will die its own quiet death. Oh it’ll still be there, and they may drag it out to punish someone they don’t like if they can’t find anything else to get them on, but by in large, we’ll all just live around it.
Then there’s the alarm thing, which I just bet is a lie Kathy made up to make herself look good. If I were a little richer, I’d try it out just to see. But, while I have a healthy savings account, I’m not quite sure I’m willing to dip into it just to test my boundaries. That could be a $500.00 cigarette.
This thought gives me pause and leads to another. If you get lung cancer from smoking and get the treatments: chemo, radiation, surgery. How much would that all cost? Add to that the retail value of the cigarettes themselves over a life time. Divide the total by the average number of cigarettes a pack-a day smoker smokes in a life time. Fuck adjusting for inflation, that’s all hypothetical-crystal-ball-gazing bullshit as far I’m concerned. Just using today’s prices, what then is the real cost of each coffin nail? Is it less than $500.00 a piece? Less than $50.00?
I am so distracted by my conjecture that, next thing I know, the paper is being shoved in my face by Kathy-big-boobs. “Meegan.” She says sharply. “Did you hear any of the meeting?”
I smile, because that’s what you do to management. “About breaks and books. Yeah I’ll sign it.” I take the paper, give it my John Hancock and follow everybody else back to work.
Chapter Three
Its seven PM on Saturday and my outfit is ridiculous. I'm in a long sleeved purple knit dress with a V-neck so low that my electric blue bra clasp is showing. The dress ends just below my ass. I'm wearing it over skinny jeans that have sparkles, that's right, all-over-bright-glittery-rub-off-on-everything sparkles. At least they let me keep my combat boots. Even the silliness of college girls can't argue with the sub freezing temperatures so I'm still wearing my cream colored, leather, dirt-bike jacket with the blue arm stripes. No hat though, and my rainbow hair has been gelled and sprayed to give me an extra three inches in height making me and even six foot. I look like a twitching transvestite. Also, I am aware that I'm walking like a farmer. Fin and her friends just 'could not' let me meet the band as myself.
Why am I allowing this? Irritably I try to forget what I look like, as Fin hits the buzzer to an abandoned looking building on an industrial stretch of Ohio Street. I've been by this place a hundred times on my night wanderings, but never dressed as rainbow hooker.
The speaker gives a bzzzt, and we open the glass door on a narrow stairwell, The space is littered with cigarette butts and pools of something disgusting, piss or vomit if I had to guess. Up we go. Fin is wearing a get up louder than mine, but she pulls it off well. Lime green rubber dress with black and pink leggings. Her long dark hair hangs Cher straight over her half-length, fake-fur, pimp coat. We don't even look like classy prostitutes. I hope they have beer. I'm gonna need it.
We enter, and Fin is immediately lost in a passionate embrace with Doug. They exchange tongues while I sidle past them into a big open loft. A short, buff, bald man is tuning up his bass. He wears it slung low like Flea, so I can see the black flag logo on his t-shirt. Beyond him is a deceptively normal looking guy with brown hair and glasses. He has head phones plugged into his electric guitar and is paying the world no mind. To my right is an old beat up plaid couch. There is a blonde woman draped across it. She has enough metal in her face to make her features difficult to see, but I get the impression of fat lips. Sitting on a rollie stool further down is another female, this one of Latin descent. She's very pretty, and curvy, and she's wearing a t-shirt and jeans combination that looks eerily similar to the one Fin wouldn't let me leave her dorm room in. When she notices us, she stands up and comes over, a pleasant smile on her face.
"Hi." She says to me.
"Hi." I nod back.
"So I take it that's Fin." She raises her eyebrows in the direction of the heavy petting blob over by the door.
I suck in a breath. "Yup, that's her." I say. "I'm Meegan. She brought me for moral support."
The girl nods. "Yeah I figured. You have that moral support look about you."
I laugh.
"I'm Francis." She says. "Ralph's wife."
"Which one's Ralph?"
Francis gives a sweet sort of smile. "Short, bald one with the bass."
"Ah."
She points to the average looking guy. "That's Sergio, and the blonde passed out on the couch is his girlfriend Carol."
"So Doug's the drummer?" I ask.
"Yup."
"Who sings?"
Francis shrugs. "Qasim, he's not here yet. So you in art school?” I catch her eyeing my outfit.
“Nope. I’m a hooker.” I say.
Francis laughs brightly. I’m jealous of her smile. I like her. “Want a beer?” She asks.
“Oh my God, yes.”
“Come on.” She leads me past my dry humping co-workers, deeper into the loft where there is a kitchenette. “Bathroom’s back that way.” She points. “I made sure there’s toilet paper this time. Heineken? Corona?”
I smile. “Heineken please.”
“Cool, you can have ‘em. I hate Heineken.”
“Really?”
“Really.” She says.
And all else is a loss because in he walks. He’s tall, six three at least. His skin is a beautiful caramel color and his black, wavy hair shines in the lamp light. Its shoulder length and it calls to me. He has big soft brown eyes, like a girl. When he looks over and sees us he smiles, bright, white, straight teeth. Something in his smile says “Asshole”. I am immediately transfixed. I hope he’s not an idiot. He’s probably an idiot. I take a big swig of my beer and look for some physical flaw I can latch onto to make him less intimidating. Ah, there it is: his Adam’s apple is huge, could literally be an apple. Ooo another one! His left nostril is like, twice the size of his right one. Cool. I can do this. He walks over.
“Hi.” I say, trying to remember his Adam’s apple as his pretty, pretty eyes threaten to swallow me whole.
“Hi. I’m Qasim.” He answers. And now I have it: the thing that will keep me from showing him my boobs before the night is over. His voice, it’s like a gay Chihuahua is trapped in his throat. Totally explains the massive Adam’s a
pple.
I smile, confident now, at ease. “I’m Meegan, Fin’s friend.”
“Nice Jacket.” Yips Qasim.
I nod. “Thanks.” He does smell good. Flash of my mouth on that caramel throat, the taste of his skin. I flush. Qasim smiles. “I’m so glad you’re not a mute.” I say. Wow, holy shit, why would I say something like that? But both he and Francis laugh as if I was witty. I like them. I take another swig and finish the beer. Jesus, I drank it all already?
“Here, let me get you another one.” Qasim squeaks.
“Thanks.”
A deep voice booms from over by the instruments. “Qasim get you’re ass over here and tune up man. Fuck lets get going!” It’s Sergio who has removed his head phones and plugged his guitar into an amp.
Qasim hands me the beer without looking at me and lopes off. From the back he’s less impressive. I can notice how skinny and awkward he is, when I’m not blinded by that face. Doug is already seated behind the drum set. I see Fin standing by the door, holding her coat, and giving me a dirty look. What’s that about?
She heads over to Francis and me. “Hi.” She says extending a hand. “I’m Fin, you must be Francis.”
Francis nods. “Nice to meet you. Nice dress, rubber?”
Fin blushes. “Yeah.”
And now all conversation is annihilated by the beginnings of a song. It’s fast and rambling, a little angry, a little depressed, but mostly just loud. Then Qasim begins to sing and I am embarrassed for him. Not that he’s that bad. He’s actually better than I would have guessed. It’s just that I’m almost always embarrassed by people who put themselves out there like that. I can’t make out the words but his tone is high and clear like a chandelier, or like a pre-pubescent boy. I wonder if his balls have dropped. That is before he starts screaming-slash-growling into the microphone. I take a deep swig and wish it were something stronger than beer. His face is still lovely, even when contorted with inappropriate emotion. If there was a mute button, I might actually enjoy this.
I look over at the couch, and there is Carol, still sleeping. I watch for a sec to see the rise and fall of her chest. Yup, she’s alive. I envy her viciously, before I imagine what messed up dreams she must get during band practice. After a few more stanzas, there is a drum solo, and Carol curls up her legs. That leaves an empty space on the couch. I cross the room quickly to sit there. I’ve gotta get away from the beer fridge or I’m concerned I’ll drink myself into liking this music. Then who knows what I’d do? I take off my bag and my coat, setting them on the floor next to the couch, right on top of Fin’s coat.
Now I’m seated directly in front of Qasim. I lean back into the low, lumpy couch. Qasim looks at me, then away. When the drum solo is over, Carol stretches out her legs so that they are in my lap. I let my legs spread out a little to accommodate the weight of hers, and I’m so grateful I’m wearing jeans. Before I know it, they’re on to the second song and Francis has pulled over the rollie stool for Fin to sit on. Fin elects to sit on the arm of the couch instead, which means her hair swishes into my face as she turns to watch Doug beat the living hell out of those poor, poor drums. Doug’s pretty good really, from what I can tell. Francis hands me another beer. As I start to drink it, I begin to see the reasonableness of Doug’s eyebrows, how they add to his persona.
Francis is gone for a minute. When she comes back she has a big floor pillow, a cooler full of beer for us, and a book. She throws the pillow down in front of the couch to my right. She then proceeds to fold herself up onto it, lean her back against the couch, and read her book.
This is cozy. With conversation impossible, I am lost to my own thoughts. It’s nice. For lack of anything better to do, I watch Qasim’s fingers as he picks out chords on his guitar. They’re nice too, those fingers. I stifle dirty little thoughts of where I’d like to put them. And his singing voice is much easier on the ears than his speaking one. He’s not gorgeous but he’s definitely something.
The band plays on. Every so often they stop and discuss. Occasionally Doug looks at Fin, and she smiles adoringly back at him. Their words are lost on me. Francis keeps feeding me beer. Fin is drinking. Francis is drinking. The guys are too. I go to that place I go when I’m inebriated where everything is a-ok and I love everyone. The music is now damn near brilliant. Fortunately, I am able to keep my mouth shut, so no one knows how shit-faced I am. I quit counting my beers like six songs ago.
I disentangle myself from the couch of women, as I’ve come to think of it, because I have to go to the bathroom. When I get there, everything is familiar. Which means I must’ve gone at least once before and don’t remember it. The music is softer in here. It’s like being home in my apartment with the neighbor playing his stereo. The bathroom is small and painted dark blue. The toilet is across from an old claw foot tub that is held up by cinder blocks, so that it’s actually chest height. I can picture fractured ankles resulting if I tried to climb into it, and maybe a broken wrist. A bass solo starts, and the groove in the bathroom is excellent. I realize slowly that I’m staring straight at a shadow. I must have been for a minute. I’m too drunk to bother with fear or anger. I wipe and pull up my pants, keeping my eyes on it. It wavers and undulates, looking more and more real the longer I stare at it. Its edges shimmer blue. I kneel down to get closer. It’s located between the tub and the wall.
Bang, bang, bang. Someone’s knocking on the door. I get up and weave my way over. When I open it, Fin is standing there with her hands on her green, rubber-coated hips. She says something, probably not kind by the look on her face, but I can’t hear her over the band. I smile happily and amble out of the bathroom back to the couch. As I walk, I notice the feel of my hips swaying, and I feel extremely sexy. Something in the recesses of my brain registers this as a potentially dangerous sign, but I slip right past that feeling and scoop up Carol’s legs to take my place underneath them. I lean back, closing my eyes, allowing the music to dictate the direction of the swirling sensation in my head. This dress itches. Bad sign, my reason screams at me. I open my eyes and look at Qasim.
“There’s the shadow.” I say out loud, though no one can hear me. Qasim is singing. His eyes meet mine. The shimmery blue shadow swirls behind his head, mixing with his shimmery black hair. I smile at both of them. Qasim stutters his words a little. I feel warm all over and happy, sooo happy. I wanna buy people things.
The legs on my lap move, distracting me from my overpowering good will. Carol is getting up. She nods to me in greeting. She is so cool, and pretty! Wow I love being here, but this dress itches. I feel my hands on my legs. They’re scratchy too! I rub my thighs a little and look at my hands. Sparkles! Hee hee, I’m smiling and chafing. I need a cigarette bad. I lean over and reach for my bag. When I flip the flap open I see my clothes. Oh thank God, my clothes, my own sweet clothes.
Next thing I know, I’ve got my boots off. Francis is smiling at me. I wave at her. She laughs. I pull out my clothes and stand up, wobbling. It only takes a second to peel off the sparkle pants that Fin dressed me in and then I’m sliding into my own, well worn, soft, easy jeans. Ah... that feels sooo much better. Now I’ve got that dumb ass dress off. I pull my long-sleeve, close-fitting, dusty green t-shirt over my head. It’s the one with the white sleeves, my favorite. I’m adjusting it across my body, my eyes closed in happy relief, when I realize its quiet in here.
I look over at the band, then around the room. “Is practice over?” I ask.
“Nice tattoo.” says Sergio.
“Tattoo?” My voice is all low and sloppy.
“On you’re back.” He’s smiling at me. Everyone’s smiling. I like it here.
“Oh that.” I say. “Yeah, I’ve seen that before in the mirror.” I stoop down and retrieve a cigarette. I sit on the couch and light it. “Can I smoke in here?”
“Sure, babe.” Sergio says. He is so nice. I bend over to put my boots back on. I’m just tying the laces when I register black and pink leggings in my field of vision. I look up.
“What the fuck?” Fin says.
Why is she so angry? “Angry little Shelving Fairy Fin.” I say. “There are your clothes.” I point to the messy pile on the floor. It’s a misnomer I know. Those are not Fin’s clothes. She's practically the size of howler monkey, I’d never fit her clothes. They’re a loan from her roommate.
Francis laughs, and so does Carol who is back now from wherever she went. Carol’s laugh is musical so I tell her so.
“Well, thank you.” She says.
“Well, you’re welcome.” I reply.
Fin is glaring at me. “You’re drunk.” She says accusingly.
“Well yeah,” I say. “That’s what beer does.”
This gets a laugh from everyone in the room. Everyone except Shelving Fairy, I mean Fin. My gaze sweeps the loft and lands on Qasim, who is looking at me like I’m the super bowl. That makes me feel really good.
“You are abnormally pretty for a man.” I tell him.
“Get that girl another drink.” He says.
I laugh at his tiny voice, but he doesn’t know that. This is going so well. I love everyone. Also I feel queasy. “I need food.” I announce to the room.
Ralph smacks Qasim on the back with the neck of his bass. “Go get that girl some food.” he says grinning.
“Yessss!” I hiss lustily. “Cheese sticks with sauce.”
Qasim disentangles himself from his guitar. “I guess practice is over.” His voice kills me. I giggle as I stand up. It seams a feat of Olympic level dexterity, but I do manage to slide my dirt bike jacket on, and sling my bag over my head.
Chasing Shadows Page 4