Tequila Sunset
by Michele Garber
T |
he repetitive blaring of Ashley’s alarm clock is what wakes me. I pull the pillow tighter over my head, hoping she’ll drag her little butt out of bed and address this unsavory state of affairs as quickly as possible. Did I mention the walls around here are paper-thin? The wah, wah, wah continues, unabated, as I fume. Why the hell would anyone in their right goddamned mind set their alarm on New Year’s Day? Okay, so there are some good sales, big whoop, but Ashley’s never struck me as the type to haul herself up and out by...sweet Jesus, eight a.m.? For 30% off? Not to mention most of the world would be coping with crashing headaches after a late night. Or an early morning, depending on how you look at it.
Then again, some of us are exempt. Me, I’m blessedly headache-free this morning, although I’m getting one from that friggin’ noise. I pound on the common wall we share and yell, “Ashley! Shut that thing off!” No answer. I don’t hear the floorboards creak, I don’t hear water running, and I don’t hear her say “sorry” like she usually does when her ditziness causes us all to want to kill her. I almost tripped and fell down the stairs once when she decided it would be a great idea to leave a few houseplants there, her idea of saying “how-do” in a cheerful sort of way to visitors, but forgot to tell any of us. Yeah. She’s probably passed out drunk somewhere, leaving me to deal with the fallout from her carelessness.
I sigh and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, heaving myself into a standing position. Bathroom. I pee and rummage around in one of the microscopic cabinet drawers, coming up with the objects I’d hoped for: earplugs. I squish the screaming orange material into small cylinders and stop up my ears with it, groaning in relief as the noise fades into silence. Bliss. I crawl back between the covers and slip back into pleasant wish-fulfillment dreams of a world devoid of other people and their fuck-ups.
When I awaken later on the first thing I want is water. Even though I never get hangovers, I still get thirsty, you know? As I fill an old Tupperware cup with cool tap water, I toy with the idea of calling Jamie and going sledding today. I figure he’ll probably be up and about by now even after our late night, headache or no. He doesn’t answer his cell, so I leave a voicemail and pop a Sarah McLachlan CD in. There’s a new fall of snow on the ground outside, glittering in the midwinter sun, and I’m eager to enjoy it after days of dreary gray slush. I don’t see any cars on the road that threads its way along the river only a couple hundred feet away, which is unusual. Guess everyone partied like it was 1999, I snicker to myself. What is it about holidays and special occasions that causes everyone to drink themselves into oblivion? I can’t figure it out. Then again, not everyone can hold their liquor like I can.
Here’s the deal: I can’t get drunk. Literally. I can drink several fifths of Southern Comfort (if I actually wanted to, that is—I think it tastes terrible) and not even catch that proverbial buzz everyone chases after. Mostly it sucks because I inevitably end up designated driver, like last night, although I love betting heavy-drinking frat boys I can drink them under the table. It’s a hoot! They stumble and stagger around after drinking themselves half blind, but I could go out and pass any sobriety test you threw at me. My family doctor thought it was some incredibly rare genetic mutation that enables my body to cope with obscene amounts of alcohol. Winner of the genetic freak lottery, that’s me. I turned him down for the whole “you too can be a research project” thing, and he wasn’t very happy with me. Maybe I cost him his Nobel Prize or whatever, but what possible use could anyone have for knowing why I can drink huge quantities of alcohol and not die?
Anyway, I’ve had enough of waiting for Jamie to pull his sorry ass out of bed. The slopes await me.
I toss my sled, an orange plastic saucer, into the back of my Bug. The sky is a fantastic shade of cornflower blue, not a cloud in it, and I’m raring to go. No one’s moving yet on my little street, populated mostly by college kids and people in their early twenties like me, and I feel smug, knowing that my odd genetic birthright lets me look like a fun-lovin’ party girl without having to pay the price. Neat stuff.
I pull out onto the main road, still not seeing any cars. Maybe I missed the memo about New Year’s Day—did somebody decide we should hide in our fallout shelters every year until the computers finally have their meltdown and launch strategic nukes in every direction?
I start whistling, “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” by R.E.M. for fun as I stop at a traffic light. There’s a 7-Eleven on the corner and I feel a sudden urge for a Cherry Slurpee, so I skip the light and wheel on in to the parking lot. There aren’t any cars in the lot, not at all unusual—you’d be surprised how many people trek in on foot in the wintertime. I slot my VW into a place by the door, salivating in anticipation of cherry goodness.
The bell dings and dongs as I enter the store, but there’s no one behind the counter. I walk toward the drink machines at the back and fill up, watching the gloppy frozen treat spill into the cup. I finish up and drift back down the snack food aisle, past the Cheetos and the Planter’s Peanuts, and stand at the counter, waiting. Maybe the 7-Eleven worker is in the bathroom? Helluva long bathroom break, I think impatiently. Probably didn’t hear me come in. I wander toward the back of the store calling, “Hello? Anyone there?” and there’s still no answer.
This makes me worry. What if the guy (or gal) had a heart attack while perched on the throne? Pushing the door marked “Women” open with one hand, I see no one lying dead on the floor, much to my relief. Somewhat more hesitantly, I knock on the other door, announce myself, and scope out this one too. Nothing. Maybe they’re on garbage detail? I poke my head outside, congratulating myself on my logical thinking, but see only a German Shepherd nosing among the detritus scattered around the dumpster. Huh. It’s all very odd, but I’ve seen stranger things. I picture a disgruntled convenience store worker tearing off his smock and saying “screw it” to go party after his replacement fails to show up at eleven. It’s what I would’ve done, but at least I would’ve locked up. I’m conscientious that way.
Speaking of, I go to the front of the store and leave two bucks as payment because I don’t have correct change. Very annoying. I almost leave a note and then decide against it— hey, it’s not my fault if people walk off the job! I step outside, sucking sweet red fluid through the straw, and wonder idly why nobody else has come in. Oh well, not my problem. I hop back into my car and fire it up, ready for a day of fun on the slopes.
I drive through the city toward Franke Park, one of the best places in Fort Wayne, Indiana to go sledding, in my humble opinion. The snowy streets are eerily deserted, and I realize, as I chug to a stop at a light and crack my window, that what really weirds me out is the absence of noise. I hear birds singing in the trees and the occasional squirrel chittering over nuts, but no human-made noises. No cars, no machines, no radios. It’s so very quiet. Deserted. I’m suddenly uneasy, because in a city this size, there’s always someone on heavily traveled roads like this one. Even on holidays like today.
I coast to a stop at another light where a beat-to-shit Ford Taurus is sticking out into the intersection, the right front tire bumped up against the curb. There’s no crumpled metal or broken glass, so I’m betting the driver zonked out while waiting for the light to change. What I can’t figure out is why it’s still sitting there, idling. I mean, shouldn’t the police be around? Rubberneckers watching the tow truck haul it away? Somebody?
Popping on my hazards, I get out and walk over to the hunk of junk that’s spewing forth great clouds of foul-smelling exhaust, pressing my face up to the glass and shielding my eyes to see better into the dark interior. I can see someone in the driver’s seat, but the tinted windows prevent me from seeing whether they’re okay or not. I try the door and as it swings open, a woman falls out and onto the pavement, strange candy dropping from a vehicular piñata. Her body flops once as it smacks onto the hard ground, then lies still. I crouch down and reach out with a trembling hand, brushing the tousled blonde hair away from her neck as I take her pulse. Where there should be a pulse, I mean, because there’s nothing. She’s dead, and cold, and smells to high heaven of alcohol.
A shape jumps out of the car at me as I’m kneeling beside her and I scream loudly, scrabbling backward and away from the thing. And then I feel like a jackass.
It’s a dog. One of those Jack Russell terriers that I’d love to have, except my landlord won’t let us have pets. He whines and licks his owner’s face, looking up at me beseechingly as if to say, “Can’t you wake her? Won’t you help?”
“Sorry, buddy,” I say, patting him on the head shakily, “she’s not gonna get up again.” The little dog cocks his head to one side, tongue lolling. “I mean it. She’s d-e-a-d, dead.” I gather my scattered thoughts and try to come up with a plan. 9-1-1. That’s what I’ll do. I pull out my cell phone and dial, hoping they’ll come take her body away and I can forget this ever happened. No one answers, no matter how many times I call. Not even “all circuits are busy now.” Where is everybody?
Sinking down onto the curb, I wonder exactly what happened while I was sleeping. And how far it goes beyond this corner. I pet my new friend some more and procrastinate, because I’m afraid to find out.
I’ve been sitting here for the last twenty minutes, watching the traffic light switch between red, then green, then red again, as I try to decide what to do. Spent the first ten minutes panicking. Spent the next ten trying not to think at all. I haven’t seen a single car, truck, or bike go by, let alone someone out on foot, enjoying this rare and sunny day in the Fort. In the twenty-odd years I’ve lived here, this is unprecedented. And frightening.
I decide to see what the neighbors have been up to during this whole fiasco and begin ringing doorbells, my new companion trailing me like a shadow, but there’s no response. After the first five houses I start trying doors. There’s a suspicion lurking at the back of my mind, but I don’t want to contemplate that right now. I finally find an unlocked door and step inside, calling out that I need help.
No one answers.
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