We don’t make a big deal about it. She’s way too fucking career driven to want or need a steady man in her life and I’m too drunk and/or angry to be that for anyone so… win-win.
I smack my lips and curse the dehydration that takes over thoughts of Marty in the TV station’s men’s room. I press hard against the sides of my head and try to remember where I left the pain meds last time I used them. Then I swear at the fridge because I know for a fact there’s no bottled water left.
I hate tap water. But that’s not what’s important right now. What’s important is the fact that Marty is telling viewers that there’s a mob of curious citizens starting to congregate outside the courthouse at this very moment.
“The District Attorney just arrived with his team, and not fifteen minutes to spare.” Her reference to time causes my heart to stop. I lean over and grab my watch.
“Shit.” I overslept.
One, maybe four blinks later, I focus as best I can until things begin to clear up for me. Then I give my shirt a pat-down. When I find the cig, still safe in my front pocket, I breathe a little easier and pull it out to debate smoking it right here, right now, while Marty goes on with her story.
“There’ve been rumors lately of dirty jurors, mishandling of evidence, and most disturbing, bribed judges . . .”
“Mother of . . .” I drag a hand through my hair as the phone rings. Then I hop up off the couch a little too fast and nearly fall over from the pain behind my right eye.
“Fuck.”
The cancer stick gets flicked down onto the counter with a groan as I make my way down the hallway toward the bathroom.
The landline rings again and what’s sad is I already know who it is before the answering machine picks up, which only feeds my irritation this morning.
“Jackie, it’s Nick.”
“No shit,” I tell the phone cradle as I pass it by.
“You’re about to be late.”
My brother, ladies and gentlemen. Queen of the mother hens. He also happens to be the lead detective for Redemption’s 1st Precinct, which is presumably why he’s so interested in my tardiness today. Not that he needs an excuse.
I flip him the bird and grab a towel out of the hall closet. It’s also reasonable to believe that I use some highly creative sign language, aimed at the phone that may or may not involve my nether regions.
“Again…” The tone in Nick’s voice tells me he’s out of patience with me at the moment. Maybe a little embarrassed. Quite honestly, I’m too hungover to give a shit.
I shut the door to the bathroom so I don’t have to listen to the rest of what my big brother has to say.
“Ah.” Pain relief sits there, waiting for me, on the bathroom sink. After I take a couple of pills, I wash them down with a handful of water from the faucet. Good stuff. In the shower, the scalding water wakes me up and clears my mind.
X X X
“Fastest comeback ever.” It takes me no more than ten minutes to shower, dress, and ensure my breath doesn’t smell like ass. No time for a shave. I’m still a bit shaky, and in dire need of some greasy food, but the headache is only lingering.
Very delicately, I celebrate the tiniest of victories.
In the kitchen, I grab the king-sized bag of cat chow. Frodo’s bowl only holds about a cup of food, and every day, without fail, I manage to spill most of it onto the tiled floor. Today, even more so than usual.
“It’s gonna be one of those days, buddy.” I toss the scoop back into the bag and scratch the scrawny gray cat on his head before grabbing the last green apple off the counter for myself. It’s gonna have to do for now.
Frodo’s a stray that found me about a year ago, FYI. We had a few late night chats, and I might have let him share some of my Kung Pao chicken one night. After that, he wouldn’t stop hanging out on my doorstep. I couldn’t bring myself to call animal control when he looked up at me with those pitiful hazel eyes of his.
Plus, he gets me; this is rare. So I took him to the vet, made him legal, and the rest is history.
“See ya later.” He gives me a cracked voice box meow of some sort and a flick of his long, ratted tail. I tend to interpret this as cat speak for “fuck off.” My extremely positive mother, however, once told me he’s just letting me know he adores me.
Yeah, right.
I shove the apple into my mouth, my wallet into my jeans, and pull the door shut behind me. After I turn the deadbolt, I fly down the stairs, two steps at a time. Not on purpose. My sense of balance is way the fuck off right now. I’m lucky I don’t land on my face a couple of times.
At the bottom, I find my 1970 Chevelle hardtop waiting for me in the parking lot.
I fucking love that car.
She’s not in the best of shape these days. She wouldn’t win a drag race, that’s for sure. She’s a work in progress, really, but she gets me from point A to point B, most of the time. Trust me when I say that on a good day, she can kick some ass.
Speaking of which, did I return the Charger?
I definitely returned the Charger.
I’m pretty sure I returned it.
Shit. I hope I did.