Circus in a Shot Glass

by Beth Overmyer

  I blink. “They tried to take your money.” Was he deaf, he did not hear?

  “Who are you talking about? Who is this ‘they’? I thought I told you not to let anyone into the shop once it was locked.” He slaps each word at me, forgetting he does not want to see me half-dressed. He swears and rubs his “bleeding eyes.”

  I give him a half-dressed shrug. “They let themselves in. Said something about getting their sh—share? Something. I didn’t catch it.” I’m decent now, slipped in and tied into a long black robe that smells like somebody else so I never wash it. At this moment I realize Ringmaster is not telling me something. I open my mouth, but he wafts the words away with his sausage fingers.

  “You were hallucinating. Nothing’s wrong . . . well, something is wrong with you, that’s for sure.” He laughs, trying to put me at ease, so it has the opposite effect.

  I give him a look somewhere between “I don’t believe you” and “You woke me up for this?” But it’s two in the morning, and there is a fervent rapping at the front door.

  Ringmaster freezes, if only for a moment, and says, “You’d better get back to sleep. Lots of sales to make tomorrow, right?” His eyes beg me to go back to sleep and forget everything.

  My lips form a half-sincere smile, and as my head hits the pillow, the pounding at the front door grows louder, and Ringmaster turns out the light.

  “Good night, Scotch.”

  “’Night, sir.”

  He shakes his head, a shadowy blur in the darkness of the a.m., and he’s gone.

  Why were those men trying to rob us if they knew Ringmaster? They sure didn’t seem too worried about me mentioning their night visit to anyone, and Ringmaster didn’t act like he wanted to hear it. Something’s odd. But it’s not my problem. I lift the paper shot glass from my nightstand and down the room-warm scotch, willing it to burn and consume me.

  The morning is a re-visitation of the Chinese food I consumed the night before. I have not been this hung-over since . . . well, since before my memory starts. And I am close to crying. “Get ahold of yourself,” I tell the blotchy-faced woman in the mirror.

  After scrubbing the fuzz from my teeth, I scour my mouth with mouthwash. There is a knocking on my bedroom door. I ignore it and stumble into the shower in the bathroom.

  “Scotch.” It’s Ringmaster. He sounds like a hard, late night thrown into an early-morning rigor-mortis. In short, more hung-over than I am. “About last night . . .” He cracks the bathroom door open and presses his words through the small space.

  I hear him judging the mess in my rented room. It should bother me, but I am too busy punishing myself. “What about last night?” My teeth chatter.

  His tone is slow and careful as he says, “You must’ve been pretty out of it.”

  I nod at the shower head. My eyes are closed against the cold and soap. “I drank. A lot.”

  Ringmaster laughs, a nervous sound, and he clears his throat. “I don’t know if you remember this, but you were so out of it, you went into the shop and pushed the panic button. Do you remember doing this?” The words are casual enough to make me suspicious.

  Somehow I know my future living and working at the Antique Boutique hinges on my answer, so I hesitate a moment to consider what to say. I must take too long, because he says,

  “Answer me, please.”

  I rinse the shampoo from my hair. Stay out of it; play dumb. “No, I don’t remember anything.”

  A sigh, and the crack widens by a small margin. “Well, you did push the alarm. That is only for emergencies. In fact, I’m thinking of having it disconnected, you know? What’s the point?”

  A question hangs in the air, but I refuse to voice it. It’s none of my business anyway. “Sorry about all that.”

  He grunts, and the crack disappears, but not before, “You’re late opening shop, lady.”

  Chapter Two

  Scotch

  2014

  Something surprising happens. I’m in the storage room, and the bell over the front door tinkles. When I step back into the shop, I catch the back of a dark-haired stranger—the Englishman from yesterday—marching out the door and to the south toward the store next door. And as I go to count the ceramic elephants on their display shelf, back my way he comes again.

  I stand half-frozen somewhere between the glass flowers and the cash-out counter. But he’s to the north, having only given my shop a brief glance. I find the feeling in my knees and make a jelly-legged attempt toward the panic button before remembering Ringmaster’s wishes. It wouldn’t do to make him upset again, so I move behind the counter, take a nervous seat on my stool, and pick up Fantome de l’Opera as this strange stranger makes another pass at my door.

  I have no real reason to feel fluttery, but my hands are two leaves caught on a gust of wind. My first potential customer in months. This is why I’m here. This is why I wish to run.

  The Englishman mustn’t be able to see me, because he stares at the open sign and starts talking to himself. Well, I think he is talking to himself; no actual words reach my ears.

  Reaching for my yet-unopened bottle, and then pushing it aside, I wonder if this man might be insane. He would be in good company here. But there is no more room in this circus, so I wish him away as my brain starts to hurt. I return my attention to my book, and the bell tolls merrily.

  The Englishman is surprised and upset to see me sitting here. For all his tallness he seems like he’d like nothing better than to run from little me. Perhaps he is about to, as his feet begin a small pivot and his body follows. But he sees the book in my hands, stops, and smiles.

  “You saw me yesterday,” he says. His voice is a baritone rumble, guarded yet warm somehow.

  I quirk an eyebrow and hide my bottle beneath the counter. “Yes, you saw me, too, I believe.”

  His mouth is a thin, pinched line. The Englishman is in pain, but his voice doesn’t betray this, just his blue-green eyes. Again, he regards the book in front of me. “What are you reading, miss?”

  I’m feeling naked all of a sudden and not in a pleasant way. My finger grazes the panic button, but I jerk the appendage away. I am panicked but not scared. There is no danger here. “Just some silly book.”

  His thumb taps the bell on the counter. Tap, ring, tap, ring. “In French, miss?”

  My emotions flit between wishing to melt into the floor and feeling sorry for this guy. He does look rather melancholy. “I suppose so, sir,” I say, adopting his formal mode of speech.

  “My friends call me Ardal.” His fingers trace patterns on the coffee-stained countertop. Now his eyes meet mine. “I suppose you think that’s a silly name.”

  It is a silly name, but I don’t say anything about it. I’ve now got a rip-roaring headache and can only think about finding an aspirin. My ears ring.

  Ardal doesn’t look so well himself. “Are you all right, miss?”

  I blow a strand of the auburn nuisance out of my bleary eyes and laugh once, a short, mechanical sound. “Please. No one calls me ‘miss.’ It’s Scotch.”

  It’s his turn to be amused, and he isn’t. A frown tugs at the lower left corner of his lips, and his brow creases. “Scotch? Really?”

  I shrug. My initial sense of panic at facing a new customer fades. Should I ask him if he’s shopping for anything in particular today? Try to sell him something? I must be some lousy saleswoman because all I can do is stare at my lap and wonder when he’ll leave.

  The silence that stretches between us is bordering on soul-crushing; I hate it. He must too. The man, Ardal, swears a soft vow but washes it out of the air with an apology. “Forgive me.”

  I lift a shoulder again and glance up. “The owner here says much worse.”

  “I imagine he does.”

  The next silence is like a Christmas sweater, the kind your great aunt knits for you. This silence is uncomfortable, too big, and full of expectation.

  Finally, when I can take it no longer, he breaks the awkwardness by knocking a �
�prettier-than-real-life!” glass rose from its place of display. It tinkles into shards on the ground, and the Englishman is all apologies.

  “Oh, I am so sorry.” He picks up the larger pieces and throws them into the rubbish bin.

  I would tell him not to trouble himself, but it is all so sudden and such a relief that I allow him to continue in his labors. Me? I sit here on my perch, watching as he sweeps the smaller pieces into his left hand.

  He is slow and methodical, and pays me no mind. I think a minute has passed when he slices his thumb open and stands to attention, dripping blood onto my counter. “Oh.”

  I wince out of sympathy. “Put some pressure on it,” I say, reaching for the First Aid kit like this happens every day. And before he can complain, I take his hand in mine and dab at the gash with an antiseptic wipe.

  A pause. “I could do that,” he says, but makes no attempt to stop me. He is breathing through his mouth, rather loudly.

  I dry off the wound, dab on some anti-bacterial cream, and wrap a bandage around the appendage. “There. Right as rain.”

  He nods, eyeing my handiwork. “Thank you.” And he means it. He searches my face for a moment before remembering the rest of the wreck on the floor. “Do you happen to have a dust pan and brush on hand? Or I could vacuum it . . .” He gestures around at the room.

  I am staring at his blood drying on my hands and wondering if I should’ve worn surgical gloves. “No, don’t worry about it.” Without thinking, I wipe the crimson onto my rust-colored slacks. I acted so fast repairing his hand and forgot how much blood bugs me. My head throbs, reminding me it needs attention. But I suck it up, though my stomach is twisting. Time to be the saleswoman I am meant to be. “Is there anything in particular you were shopping for today?” My hand’s on the broom closet’s doorknob, right below the mirror.

  Ardal scratches the back of his neck. “Well . . .” There is a war in his eyes for a moment, and then he is all ease. “Window-shopping.” He laughs at himself or the face I am making.

  I nod. This I have heard of, people cruising through shops, not searching for anything in particular, simply killing time. I’ve never comprehended the practice, though, and mean to say so for a moment. But I remember: I cannot afford to put off customers, because no customers equal no sales. No sales equal no job . . . maybe.

  As if on cue, the bell tinkles again. I recognize the man in the purple jeans and ill-fitting t-shirt. Leonard, from . . . I can’t remember where Ringmaster said this guy was from, and Leo never talks about anything but the latest “lucky lady” in his life. He repulses me.

  “Hey,” he says in way of a greeting. Leonard moves in next to my customer, and it’s obvious he’s trying to crowd him out. “James said he had my shipment.” He looks at Ardal like he shouldn’t be hearing any of this, like antique pipes are something not to be mentioned in the garish light of day.

  “Just give me a sec to wrap things up with Mr.—” I’ve gone back to formal again with the tall Englishman, who says,

  “I think our business is concluded for today, isn’t it, miss?”

  “Have a nice day, then. Drop in again soon.”

  He nods. His mouth is a thin, grave line as he exits the shop.

  Leonard guffaws and pats one of his hammy fists onto my countertop with gusto. “So, about that shipment, Miss Scotch.” He laughs like it’s funny the man was polite to me.

  I have already said it: I do not like being mocked. But what is there to be done? I reach for the bottle. “Cheers, Leo.” And I point him to the back workroom, where he will collect his pipes, and I’ll be rid of him. The proverbial elephant is niggling at my brain. I want to be alone to drown it, but am too queasy. “Cheers.”

  “Really? You want to go out?” Ringmaster asks. He is sorting through paperwork at the sink counter in the cramped back workroom, sipping a diet pop, and scowling at the safe on the back wall. Behind him on the far right wall is a stack of boxes, which I have been told not to look into, because it’s none of my “bleepity bleeping business, that’s why.” And it’s not. Ringmaster swears as he drops a pink slip of paper into the sink. He retrieves it, and it is beyond drenched; still he adds it to his mounting pile and continues sorting. “What would you possibly want to go out for?”

  I choke down a small mouthful of regular coffee, only to spit it up into the cheap vase on my left. “I’m allowed to go out.” A question hangs in the air: Am I? What’s it to him if I want to paint the town red or go see a movie or go out to dinner . . . by myself? I’m about to get saucy, but he beats me with a laugh.

  “What’s up with you, kid? Got a hot date?” He laughs but then looks thoughtful. “Huh.” He does not expound on whatever dark thoughts are cartwheeling through his head, and I don't press.

  Who’d be interested in me? I’m a basket case, as he always likes to point out. His question is cruel. “No, I just need—some fresh air.” In truth, I want to go to the public library. They have a book I want. Something other than Fantome de l’Opera, which I hurled into the back of my closet this afternoon during a moment of unaccountable frustration.

  He’s quiet for a moment, pretending to think. I already know what he’s thinking (nothing) and what he’s going to say (“I need you here.”). Which he does.

  For a moment I think about protesting, but that would mean an argument, and I can’t deal with his crazy talk right now. I shrug and chomp a bite out of my Gala apple. I want a copy of a book normal people read, not French horror novels. Real Americans read in real American English, right? The Scarlet Letter is on hold for me, in English, and the library will only keep it on the hold shelf for four days. Or so the saccharine-sweet librarian chimed into the phone. I’m not certain if I trust her judgment; happy people are often wrong.

  Ringmaster grunts. “Bills, bills, bills. You are eating us out of house and home, Scotch.” He casts me a sideways glance and chuckles. “You beanpole.”

  My repartee is a laugh flatter than a year-old soda. It is the truth, though. I am a beanpole. An average, bleached-out beanpole of a person with only one redemptive feature: the auburn nuisance, which again is getting in my eyes. I try another swig of coffee and am determined to keep it down.

  Something has come undone inside of me. It wiggles its way loose from its bonds and makes a break for the light. But I’m in a tight spot, unable to afford a breakdown in front of this man. Weakness is blood in the water, and Ringmaster is a shark. I’ll be out on my ear if he thinks I’m too screwy.

  So I stand here, trying not to push my argument about going out. Because that’s not what Scotch normally does, and what Scotch doesn’t normally do shouldn’t be done. I watch my employer in silence, until . . .

  “Last one.” Ringmaster checks the last bit of the paperwork against his checkbook, sighs, and shoves the heap back into a sagging cardboard box. “Well, what am I paying you with tonight, O scrawny one?”

  I shrug. You pick, I don’t want to make you madder.

  “Chinese?”

  Again? I bite my lower lip.

  “Not Chinese? Man, don’t be so passive-aggressive about it. You’re always nagging me. Just tell me what you want so I can get it.” He makes a big production of swearing and bumbling out of the tight room with his box, knocking the vomit vase to the floor. The vase is all right—it’s cheap crap, and cheap crap is durable—but there’s now a puddle of sick on the floor. “Feel like mixing it up, huh?” says Dr. Jekyll.

  I say the first food grouping I can think of: “Thai food?”

  That makes him laugh, and all my “silliness” is forgotten . . . or at least forgiven. “Mixing it up, for sure.” He steps right over the vomit and makes for the front door. “It’ll be longer, you know,” he says. “It’s nearly a twenty-minute drive, there and back.”

  I am on my hands and knees with paper towels, blotting up my latest mistake. “Yep.”

  Ringmaster laughs again before we say together, “No one in, no one out.” And he’s gone.

 
It’s closing time. My mouth is full of too-sweet bubble tea, which I pretend to enjoy because Ringmaster felt generous tonight and splurged. In truth, it’s slimy and makes me want to gag. To top it off, I have not had a drop of the pure since yesterday, and it is fraying my nerves.

  My employer sits in the antique rocking chair, the one meant for “looking at, not lounging about in.” He is pensive as he sucks in a lungful of smoke from his homemade cigarette, a lavender and peppermint blend, as usual. “It’s full of antioxidants,” he always says when I tell him not to smoke it around me.

  As the sun nearly blinds us, he says, “Why does this building face west, Scotch?” He takes another drag, his brow furrowed. “The builders could’ve made it face any way. North or south, but no, they made it face this way.” He flicks the cigarette, and ashes go flying onto my clean linoleum floor. His eyes are distant, glazed, even, like he’s experiencing a different world than I am. Again, he flicks the paper, and the ashes scatter. “It’s like the west meant something to them, you know?”

  No, I don’t. What does it matter if the building faces the west other than the fact that the sun climbs in during the evening and almost blinds us? “I hate the west,” I say with feeling, uncertain why.

  He laughs. “Makes sense that you would.”

  No, it doesn’t. For all I know and can remember, I’ve never left this shop. Next, I say the first thing on my mind. “I’m almost out of booze.” Hint, hint.

  Grayish-purple smoke drifts up, up, up, and his stupid face is grinning. I think I hate him tonight. He doesn’t respond.

  Again I press the issue, a headache forming. “That was part of the deal, right? You get me drinks, and I run the shop.” Another maddening blast of burnt herbs tickles my nose.

  “You drink too much.” Again he laughs.

  I scratch the back of my neck, knowing I’ll be mopping and moping tonight. Does he mean I have to stop? “You never objected to my habit before.”