Th I eves

“Th I eves”

By Eric St. Pierre

 

I think it was just after eight-thirty in the morning. The top of my head tingled. My hair was wet against my forehead. I was in my bed, and my eyes were closed, aware that I had fallen asleep with my clothes on. Heels, too.

I couldn't collect any other thoughts just then. My mind was preoccupied with the persistent beat that pounded somewhere far off. I constructed a song, melody, and all to complement the rhythm.

I think it was just after nine in the morning, and I hadn't dared to open my eyes. I became aware of the wetness below me. I had sweat throughout the night. The tingle in my head now floated leisurely down the river that is my spine. The beat had faded into the white noise of my box fan, set on high, like always.

My tongue traversed my teeth. Gross. I am disgusting. An abrupt cough escaped my lungs, and I opened my eyes. All things covered in fuzz and lint until my hands met my face to rub away some of the confusion. The beat returned, presenting itself impatiently. The tingle fled from my spine into my extremities, numbing and further disorienting me.

My alarm. It wasn't a song; it was my goddamn alarm. I jolted out of bed and quickly shed my clothes. I ran down the hall wholly naked and into the bathroom, I share with my roommate, Sarah. She was already at the Bistro where we both worked. With no time for a shower, I got wet napkins from below the sink and cleaned my face and under my arms. I wrapped the towel hanging on the shower rod around me and rushed back to my room. I stubbed my toe on my dresser. Ugh. With no time to acknowledge my pain, I dug through the pile of clothes on my floor, slinging this and that all over the place. I found a work shirt and pants, threw them on, and ran out of the house with a limp.

My neighbor, Mr. Noisette, I call him Mr. Nosey. Mr. Nosey who never seems to actually go inside his house and who always has a long-winded story to tell stepped over the shrubbery that separates our yards and blocked the path to my car.

"Mornin', Morgan." He thought he was so cute with his alliteration.

"Hello, Mr. Noisette. I'm off to work now."

I scampered past him and hopped in my car. Damn, I had forgotten to lock it last night.

Mr. Nosey was always smiling. You could tell him that his dog had just died, and he'd smile and say something corny. I guess that's okay. He told me to be careful; traffic from Mardi Gras would be rough, tourists and all.

*

I had only been working there for six months. I was forty-five minutes late, give or take. I got along famously with my co-workers, but my boss had it out for me. I still had the job because my boss’ girlfriend thought I livened up the place. I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm hot. I'm not gay, but they didn't have to know that. I mean, women are beautiful and all. Considering carnival season traffic, that's pretty damn good. That's something, yeah?

The Bistro was packed. Line out the door. Carnival crowd. There were no friendly faces behind the bar or in the kitchen. Every employee acted out the black uniforms we had to wear. Damn depressing sons of bitches today. Boss Lady was livid, beautifully so. But I was distracted. The song from 8:30 this morning returned as the soundtrack to her fierce and sharp movements meant to reprimand me. I didn't hear a word. Boom, tap, boom, tap, boom, tap, boom, boom, boom, tap, la la la...

She became a blur. The bustle behind her came into focus. There was some sports game on all the TVs. The place was turning into a sports bar. Two attractive military-looking guys high-fived. Sarah dropped a martini glass. A toddler escaped from its high chair and began to terrorize patrons. A young couple looked lovingly at one another. The woman had a small diamond on her ring finger. Then, I heard the word "fired."

"Huh?"

Boss Lady came into focus again. She repeated herself, saying this is the kind of stuff that gets people fired.

"Yes, ma'am," I said. Sometimes I know when to shut up. I put my head down and got to work.

My first table was a doozy. Rich old farts. The type who became miffed if you didn't already know how they like their bloody Marys. So, I asked the lady how she wanted it. She turned away and lifted a finger to her nose. Oh my God. I had forgotten to brush my teeth.

The rest of the day didn't go well, either. I tripped over my words; I couldn't complete a sentence. I looked and smelled like straight-up death. The Bistro isn't the most prominent place, but it was easy to avoid Boss Lady most of the day because of how busy we were.

If I was a mess at the start of my shift, I was a catastrophe at the end of it. I hadn't stopped to drink water or grab a snack. I was weak and dehydrated. I went behind the bar to fill a cup of water. That's when I noticed you. Your freshly faded, curly brown hair. Your shirt was a little too tight. Your confident posture, even though your gaze was directed toward your phone. I saw the corner of your mouth turn up. I noticed that Quarter of a smile, not even your whole face, and I fell in love with you. You threw your head back and let out a single "ha!" Your attention was again on your phone.

I forgot about my water, clocked at the computer behind the bar, and poured myself a bourbon. I asked if you needed a drink or to see a menu. I was right before you, but you didn't hear me. The bar was still busy and noisy. I hardly noticed because I was fixated on you. I asked again, louder. You caught me, looked at the full glass of beer in front of you, and said, "No. I'm good." The man sitting next to you asked me for a beer. I told him I had clocked out. I leaned closer to you and introduced myself. You drew your phone to your chest and looked at me. You said, “Hi, Morgan, I'm Matt.” Something plain like that. I lingered, not knowing what to say, which is uncommon for me. You had hardly acknowledged me, and I was under your spell.

I said, "Hi Matt, I'm Morgan," repeating myself, hoping to get a laugh. You didn't. I remembered that I hadn't brushed my teeth. There's alcohol in mouthwash, right? Down went the bourbon. You pounded your beer.

The words "where are..." Of "where are you from" made it out of my mouth before you asked me for the check. I had Sarah get it, and I handed it to you. You tossed a twenty on the bar, stood up, and put on your coat.

"I'm from Pensacola. Three hours from here." Your voice startled me. I couldn't respond before your back was to me, and you were halfway to the door. I noticed a card under the twenty you had left. I learned that your name is Matthew MacDonald, and you are a website developer. You were gone by the time I looked up from your card.

“Hello, Matthew MacDonald. I'm Morgan Johnson.” My voice trailed away. Sarah asked me what I said. I told her I was just talking to a boy.

 

*

            Mr. Nosey was, of course, outside when I got home that day. He stood there motionless and fixated on the dying magnolia tree that bordered our yards. I had made it to the steps of my porch when I realized that he, oddly, hadn't said anything to me. I reached into my pocket, fingered the business card you had left, and placed my hand on the doorknob. I didn't open the door. Frustrated and annoyed, I walked over to Mr. Noisette and said,

"Pretty nice tree, yeah? Too bad it's dying." Mr. Noisette didn't respond.

"Having a good day, Mr. Noisette?" I startled him.

"Oh, Morgan, I didn't see you there. Yes, it's a good, good day."

"That's some tree, yeah? It'll have to be cut down soon. What do you think?"

Mr. Noisette's gaze returned to the tree. A couple squirrels barked and chased one another. A bird flew away.

"Do you know that I've never been married?" his accent became softer, almost disappearing. My toe began to ache from being stubbed that morning.

"No?" My throat was dry, and the effects of the bourbon I had earlier while working up the nerve to talk to you lingered. I never needed to build up the nerve to speak to anyone until you.

"No. There was a lady." Mr. Noisette continued. "She loved magnolia trees. More the smell of them than the look of them. She loved everything, though, but especially the smell of magnolia trees."

I followed his gaze to the tree and remembered that I saw a pack of cigarettes in the front pocket of your shirt. I might like the smell of fresh tobacco mixed with your musk. Suddenly, I realized a few too many moments had passed since Mr. Noisette, or I had said anything. I looked at him. His head was now tilted toward the sky. Even as the sun was preparing to set, it was a particularly yellow day.

"I'll be going inside now, Mr. Noisette," I said.

Mr. Noisette shifted his gaze to the magnolia's exposed roots.

"It's like the flowers smell better when the tree's dying. Like it knows it's expiring and wants to have a grand finale,” he said.

I wasn't used to this. He had never gotten deep with me. It was always corny jokes and comments about the weather with him. Lots of wordplay and stuff like that. The change in tone was not something I was prepared to deal with. Mr. Noisette looked at me, and for a moment, I thought I saw a young man behind his eyes. His eyes were alive. He then walked into his house. That may have been the first time I had seen him walk to or from his front door.

Sarah pulled into the driveway and next to my car. She walked up to me, visibly exhausted.

"Fucking hell, today was a nightmare." She said.

"Tell me about it. Fucking Boss Lady threatened to fire me."

"Yeah, what happened this morning?" Sarah said.

Sarah told me that Johnathan, her boyfriend, was spending the night. I cut her off and started talking about you. She cut me off in turn and asked where Mr. Noisette was. I explained that I wasn't sure; I slept right through my alarm.

"He went inside."

"Inside?"

"Yeah, he was talking about some lady he used to love while staring at the tree. Then he just went inside. So weird."

Sarah reminded me again that Johnathan was coming over, and we both went into the house.

I went to the kitchen first and poured my second bourbon of the day. Rocks this time. On I went to the bathroom. My legs seem confused by the weight of my body. I drew a bath, peeled off my work clothes, and got in, drink in hand. I fantasized about you, then. I thought about what your hands would do to me if you were here bathing me. I thought about what kind of house we would have. Uptown, of course. I thought you might like naming our first daughter after me. I thought about the pet names we would give each other that no one else would understand.

Sarah called out from the hallway. Something about Johnathan. I held my breath and submerged. The whiskey tumbler was empty by then.

Some time passed. I wasn't so much done with soaking as I was ready for another round. So, I got out of the tub. Couldn't dry off. My towel was still on my bedroom floor from my scramble to get ready that morning. Again, my legs didn't quite have a grasp on equilibrium as I made my way down the hall. Johnathan rounded the corner and immediately shielded his eyes.

“Oh, shit. I'm so sorry." He said.

"It's okay. I'm just going to my room."

I then lay down on my bed. The wind from my fan gave me goosebumps. It felt good. I spent a couple minutes staring at a painting on my wall. The one Sarah got me when we moved in together the autumn before last. It's a sprawling cityscape with people doing ordinary things, walking and holding hands, and flying kites. It reminds me more of the woods than the city for some reason. I grabbed the book on my nightstand and started reading where I had left. Jitterbug Perfume. I giggled at the Tom Robbins description of Marcel LeFever wearing his whale mask.

Two pages in, Sarah pounds on my door. Nearly broke the goddamn thing. She opened it before I could respond. I was still naked. She startled me, and I practically threw the book across the room. She let me have it. Told me I was too loose. My free spirit shit was interfering with not just her relationship but with her job as well. People saw us as the same, and our co-workers didn't like me as much as I thought. She remarked that I didn't bother to cover up as she was there now, berating me. I tried to explain that we were both women who had seen each other naked countless times. She wasn't having it.

Her relationship? I asked her what she meant, and she slammed the door. The cityscape painting fell. I found that quite comical. Like I was in a sitcom. Sarah must have heard me and thought I was laughing at her. She screamed some profanities I couldn't make out.

Fuck this. I dressed, threw up my drenched hair into a bun, quickly had another bourbon, and hopped in the car. No sign of Mr. Noisette. No lights on in his house. I didn't know where I was going or what to do once I got there.

*

I drove aimlessly for about an hour, unable to shake the day away. It was getting late. I went to the Black Penny for another bourbon and, hopefully, some comfortable conversation. The Black Penny was as divey as ever. I think one person was sitting in the side room. At the bar, there was only me and Becca, the bartender.

"Shit's crazy around here," Becca said.

I agreed, but based on what, I don't know. She poured a double for a single for herself and me. Down the hatch. The sound of shot glasses hitting the ancient wood of the bar top.

"Have you heard about that shit coming outta China? Some kinda new flu. Scientists are really worried about it."

I hadn't heard anything. I reminded Becca that I don't do social media or own a TV. I asked for another double and toasted to new things to worry about. Becca asked what was new with me. Sarah was being a bitch; that's what was new with me. Okay, she's not being a bitch. We had words. There was a misunderstanding that surprised Becca. She had always seen us having a good time together. Yeah, but Sarah didn't like to have a good time anymore. Not since she and Jonathan became serious. I then told her about you. She said she would drink to that and poured us both another. I suddenly felt embarrassed for gushing over you. So, I stood up abruptly and told Becca I guessed I was going home. Hopefully, I wouldn't run into Sarah when I got there.

On my way home, I got a text from Becca exclaiming I wouldn't believe who was in the side room the whole time. I swerved into the other lane. Red and blue flashing lights. My heart was in my throat. My hands were numb.

*

It's not like it is in the movies or TV shows. You get more than one phone call. If the cop who arrests you is tired, maybe he doesn't have the energy to be an asshole. Maybe he's a good dude. When you get to the station, or whatever it's called, you get strip-searched by a lady cop if you're a girl. I wanted to crack a "buy me dinner first" joke, but she was no-nonsense. Afterward, the lady cop asks you questions while you're drunk. Fun. Once you're thrown in the drunk tank, you can't ignore the sense of despair. It's contagious. I think it comes from the fluorescent lighting. Like the kind, they have at Walmart. Only you are not allowed to leave. You're stuck there, and the same slow creeping despair you feel at Walmart sets in after a while. It almost has a smell, the despair. Everyone there was sick with it. Even the cops. I sobered up after about an hour in the tank, but everything was still psychedelic. Bad trip psychedelic.

You get a phone call after you sober up. She didn't pick up. Sarah is the only person who I know for a fact sleeps with the ringer on. I left a message. The only other phone number I know by heart is my mom's. I wasn't going to call her. We hadn't spoken in six months.

Hey Mom, it's your star child! You'll never guess...

That night was hell. No sleep. No comfort. No darkness. Only the company of three other sad women. All older than me, I think. At one point, I had to piss bad, so I did. There was a single toilet in the drunk tank. The oldest lady told me I had better not take a shit. I didn't, but I would’ve if I needed to. I’ll do whatever I want even when I absolutely cannot do whatever I want.

I'm not sure what time it was. The lights never went off, so it was always timeless, not in a good way, but in a Twilight Zone episode way. The doors suddenly opened loudly. All I had heard for hours was the buzzing overhead light and the occasional grunts of the other ladies. One lady complained about having her period but no pads. She looked too old to have a period. Other than that, I hadn't heard anything, so the noise startled me.

 A guard tossed the three other women bags with sandwiches in them. I didn't get one. The guard told me to step out. Someone had posted bail. I didn’t understand what he had said. He repeated himself. Adios, weirdos. I thought it but didn't say it.

I almost would have rather stayed. I didn't want to hear Sarah's bullshit. She was going to kick me out; I knew it. But then again, why would she bail me out? She listened to the message I left, and here she is, bailing me out now. I signed some paperwork, changed, and was given a bag with all my things. I was then shown the way to the waiting room.

I looked at the text Becca sent me the night before and stopped in my tracks. You were the lone person in the side room at the Black Penny. You had heard everything. For a second, I fantasized that you had bailed me out. How ridiculous. I shook away the idea. I chastised myself for daydreaming when I should have taken my new situation seriously. I felt heavy, exhausted, and embarrassed.

I rounded the corner to the waiting room. Sarah wasn't there. Was she outside? Was I allowed to go outside? Sure I was. My bond was paid, and I had signed out. Walking to the exit, I heard the bathroom door shut and felt a familiar presence.

Mr. Noisette had a placid expression on his face. If you can call it an expression. He ambled towards me, waiting for me to speak. Unusual. I found out that Sarah had gotten my message and Mr. Noisette, being the way he is, knew shortly after that. He offered to take me to get my car out of impoundment. No, thank you. I needed to rest before I did anything. He understood and turned down the radio. Country music. We started our way home.

"You don't want to talk about it. So, what shall we talk about, Miss Morgan?" He asked.

I started to speak but realized I hadn't brushed my teeth. A severe lack of dental hygiene was becoming my norm. Killin' it. Mr. Noisette mistook my pause for an unwillingness to speak and assured me that it was "alright aardvark" and that sometimes a comfortable silence is good for the soul. What I wanted more than silence was to hear one of his stories. Experiencing the novelty of his silence was something. He hummed a few made-up tunes after a while. His hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly. I could practically feel his broken heart sitting in between us in the cab of his truck. Just tell me about her, already. Poor old man.

*

 

Sarah's car wasn't in the driveway. Mr. Noisette told me to get some rest and some vitamin c. He tried to make eye contact, but I bobbed and weaved out of that one. Sure will, Mr. Nosey. I walked towards my house and went for my keys. Fuck. The pound had them. Mr. Noisette saw me struggling and gleefully approached me. He offered to help.

"I reckon Sarah's at work."

"Yeah."

"Any of your friends got a spare key? Maybe Sarah's beau, Jonathan?"

"Yeah. I don't know. Nope."

Mr. Noisette scratched his head. "Why don't you come inside and have an orange juice while I try to jimmy the lock for you?"

Inside? I had never been inside Mr. Noisette's house. I felt weird about it, but what else was I going to do? I was so tired my bones ached. My body was still so heavy. He had this goofy, wide-eyed smile that calmed me. I thanked him.

"Well alright then!" he said. I followed him into his house.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. It was like old books and new leather. Speaking of books, there were loads of them. I saw three bookcases in the front room alone. Each of them sagged with age and the weight of the books they bore. His house is much older than mine and Sarah's. I could feel age everywhere. All of his floors are hardwood and creaky. In his kitchen were a dozen or so potted plants. Each of them is either dead or on their way out. I felt Mr. Noisette's age, too. Even though I'm still not sure how old he is.

"You should give a spare key to a friend, 'case you lock yourself out again." He said as he poured a gigantic glass of OJ.

"Mmm-hmm. I guess I never really thought of that."

"No, I reckon not. Young folks don't..." he stopped mid-sentence and smiled.

"We don't. You're right." I said.

Mr. Noissette handed me the big glass of orange juice.

"I could keep a spare around for you. As soon as we get your keys back, I'll run down to the hardware store and make a copy quicklike. No trouble at all."

I was becoming annoyed and guzzled the juice. "You don't have any vodka, do you?" I said under my breath.

"Say again?"

"You don't mind if I use the bathroom, do you?"

He pointed me down the hall and retreated to his laundry room. He said he had some tools to help us break into the house. I lingered on a few pictures that were hung up in the hallway. Each of them was old. Probably nothing newer than a couple of decades. One is of a little boy on a swing set. There is a woman next to the kid. She is no older than me, probably right at thirty-two in the photo. She's frowning, but the kind of frowning people do when they don't know their photo's being taken, not the sad type of frowning. There's a photo of a teenage boy in a blue cap and gown. Probably a graduation photo. He has a sorry beard and a bucktoothed grin. His eyes are alive. In another photo is a group of men in black suits. All of them have their arms folded in front of them. They look somber. There's only one reason men in black suits gather for a photo and don't smile. It seems like it was taken on a lovely day. So, there's that.

The bathroom smelled like potpourri and old soap. The kind of soap your grandparents would take home from a fancy hotel and never use. The tub didn't have a curtain. Weird. Neither did the window. I sat down to take a piss. Once I was done, I reached around for toilet paper. Couldn't find any. I figured, what the hell? Having a dirty vagina wasn't the worst thing that's happened in the last couple of days.

I heard some footsteps. Mr. Noisette cracked the bathroom door.

"You'll need this, Cherie." His arm extended through the opening. A fresh roll of toilet paper was at the end of it.

Then, without giving pause for my response, the coon ass bastard opened the door, stepped in, and held the paper in front of me. It took a few moments before he set the fucking toilet paper on the sink. All smiles while he was doing it, too. I tried to protest, but no words came out.

"I found the right tool to open your door, I believe. I'm ready when you are, my Morgan."

The idiot stood there for a long five seconds before leaving me to wipe myself. Five seconds can be infinite, or it can pass with a breath.

Don't get me wrong, Mr. Noisette never tried anything with me before. He was always nice to me. Not in a creepy way. Even then, I didn't get a creepy vibe in his bathroom. It's more like he assumed there was a familiarity between us.

Familiarity. Familiar. Family. It’s funny how words do that.

*

The door was easily unlocked. It took the quick kind of five seconds, which I was grateful for. I thanked him, and he offered again to keep a spare for me. I passively agreed to end the conversation and shut the door as he still stood there on my steps. I wanted to hear his stories in his truck on the way from the jail, but now I wanted to be far away from him. From everyone, really.

I grabbed a PBR from the fridge. The wet cracking sound of opening it made me smile. The garbage had been taken out. All the dishes were put away. It felt like I was in someone else's house for a second. The bathroom was spotless. A scrap of paper floated to the ground when I opened my door. On it was Sarah's handwriting. Nope. Nap first. I sat down the now empty can of beer and felt again at home. The mess of my room, my space, my life. I slept like the dead.

The buzz from my phone woke me up. A text from an unknown number. Thank you. I would love to meet up, it said. Followed by, is everything okay? Becca said you were sloshed when you left. I thought Becca had given you my number until I scrolled and saw that I had texted you before, the night after I had met you, apparently. I had no recollection. I got your number from your business card. The urge to respond was strong, but what was I supposed to say? Things are just dandy? You'll have to pick me up? I got a DUI? No big deal? No, I decided to wait.

I then rolled over, and there it was, Sara's note reminding me that I have work today and to please do the dishes. I drew the blinds of the window above my bed. White light from the new street lamps came in. It was night.

This is the kind of stuff that gets people fired.

I called the Bistro. My hands shook. Probably from a mixture of terror, exhaustion, and not eating enough. Sometimes you know things about yourself. Sometimes you can know things, and it isn't enough to shake the comfort of habit. I recognized the voice right away. It was Boss Lady's girlfriend. Oh! A friendly ear. I sat up and adjusted my posture before speaking. I gave my story as confidently as I had ever done anything. She gave space for my detailed telling of the last forty-eight hours. I peppered in a little embellishment of my value to the Bistro here and there. When I had finished explaining myself and made clear my case that everyone at the Bistro loves me, workers and patrons, she sighed.

“And you love me too, right? Right?” I said in my sweetest voice.

There's no coming back, dear. Sweetie, you have to understand...

I had no savings, and no real skill set. I tossed my phone to the floor and crashed on my mattress. I felt engulfed, swallowed by my bed. I held my pillow tightly over my face and screamed. I tried to cry but couldn't, and that caused an eruption of frustration. I spent the next hour masturbating. It's not that I was horny; it's what I do when I'm frustrated. Jilling off as a coping mechanism. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.

I woke up naked and on top of my sheets in the fetal position, with one hand between my legs and the other under my head. The arm under my head was pins and needles. I got up and dressed. It was the middle of the night. I think I made a sandwich. All the booze in the house was gone. Fuck. My car was still at the pound. Not like I could get it out now anyway. I wanted a drink. It was the Monday before Mardi Gras. That was my reason. When did I start needing reasons?

Sarah came out of her room and into the living room, where I had sat to figure out my next step. Our living room didn't have a purpose. It wasn't even decorated. No rug, no art. Just a couch and a coffee table. No TV. I was on one end of the sofa, Sarah was on the other. I shifted a little towards her.

"I got fired," I said. She said she already knew and started to give me a hard time by saying she had left a note.

"Why did you send Mr. Nosey to bail me out?" I asked.

"You shouldn't call him that."

"But you do, too."

"No, I don't. You started calling him that when we were out drinking in the Quarter a while back. I laughed once and you've been saying it ever since." Sarah said.

"Hey, look, sorry. I didn't know he was your boyfriend." That really pissed her off.

"My boyfriend!" Sarah took a moment to compose herself. I felt some fear of her creep in at the base of my spine.

"You have until the end of the month to move out. And I mean move everything out. Your belongings, yourself, everything. Jonathan is moving in." I felt small. She said all of this quietly and confidently and still took up the whole room.

"I don't have anywhere to go. I don't have any money. I don't have anything."

"You have friends."

"But, you're my friend."

Sarah got up, walked to her room, and spun an Electric Light Orchestra album on her record player.

I walked through the house to the back porch. With the door closed, the music coming from Sarah's room was muffled. I didn't bother to turn on the porch light. It was inexplicably cold that night. The hair on my arms stood. A chill raced up my neck. My joints were stiff. I remember cursing the new streetlamps. Hardly anything gets done in this city, and when it gets done, it gets done wrong. I heard two people arguing in the distance. I closed my eyes and prayed for a darkness so pure that it would absorb all of me.

I opened my eyes to an unanswered prayer. I wanted to destroy everything the light touched. I want to destroy the light itself. It was taking from me my slow burn, my once-in-a-lifetime desire to be so alone that I would be nonexistent.

But I didn't want to be alone, did I? No, solitude isn't in my nature. That's when I called you.

You answered right before I was about to hang up. You were confused. It was obvious that I had woken you. You didn't mention it being late. You didn't say that we didn't know each other. You didn't mention much at all, actually. You let me spill it out. Every messy detail. It went on for an hour. Your occasional verbal gestures assured me you were listening. At some point in the conversation, Sarah cranked up her record player's volume and turned it off. I paused to catch my breath, and you asked if I needed to cry. I did, but I couldn't. I felt the frustration I had felt earlier when I screamed into my pillow. I couldn't very well yell into my phone. I'm not that crazy. The two arguing people in the distance either got closer or louder. This is not what I expected. You shouldn’t have expected anything… At the end of the hour, I asked if you wanted to come over. You told me to get some rest. You will call me in the morning. We said good night. You assured me that it was nice to talk. I almost told you that I loved you. I did after I was sure the line was disconnected.

The wind that night chilled me to the bone. Sarah's light came on. I could see it through her window. I saw her shadow in slow motion to and fro, up and down. She was brushing her hair. I thought about Mr. Noisette. I thought about having to get my car tomorrow. My chill turned into guilt, and I pulled my arms into my shirt, laid on my side on the porch bench, and fell into a deep sleep.

*

Roosters. Who the hell has chickens in the city? My eyes were dry. The creamy purples and yellows of the morning sky made me smile. I was lucid and clear-headed. I heard in the distance what must have been a parade reminding me that it was Fat Tuesday. Does the party always start this early? I sat up and rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands. I looked at my phone, hoping you had messaged me. You hadn't.

The back door was locked. The windows were useless. Our front door was probably locked, too. Oh God, not again. Images of Mr. Noisette staring at me, extending his arm to hand me the toilet paper. Wait, did he want me to stand up and take it from him? Is that why he just stood there for so long? Enough of that. It's over. I shook it off. I wanted to hold on to this good feeling.

Sarah's car was in the driveway. Jonathan's, too. The empty space where mine would have been was mocking me. A couple of black birds pecked around in my spot. I tried to shoo them away, but on they pecked.

Right as I went to try the front door, it opened. Sarah was in the entryway. She wore a pink floral pattern robe and no shoes. No makeup. Bedhead looked good on her. I prepared for words. Some bit of condescension. I instead saw kindness in her eyes.

"Good morning." She said.

"Hey, Sarah. Looking good."

"Would you like to come in, or are you cool with patronizing me on our front porch?" She asked.

"I'm cool with patronizing you inside."

Sara cocked her head to the side. Her thin lips curled into a smile as she turned and walked into the living room. I sat on the couch. Sarah offered me some coffee. I accepted.

"What are you getting into tonight?" She asked. I suddenly remembered the day.

"Happy Mardi Gras!" I then recited my worse phonetic pronunciation of laissez le bon temps rouler.

"You're a fucking trip, Morgan."

"I've been going pretty hard. I think I might lay low today. I need to get my car out anyway."

Sarah said that was unacceptable. The car could wait until tomorrow. Our group was again going as sexy versions of the Muppets. I could use her costume from last year. I had better get ready. We were going to meet everyone for St. Anne's in a couple hours. Sarah finished her coffee and got up to get me the costume.

"You're going as sexy Muppets two years in a row?"

"Why the hell not?" She answered from her room.

"Fair enough. That's a great band name!"

"What?" Sarah shouted.

"Sexy Muppets."

Sarah's belly laugh reverberated through the house. I was proud of myself.

I took just a moment to text you an invite. As soon as I sent it, Sarah tossed the costume at me. It bounced off my shoulder and landed softly beside me. Fozzie Bear. I was going as a sexy Fozzie Bear.

“We call that one ‘Foxy Bear’,” Sarah was again in her room and shouting, laughing at her little joke.

“Wocka-wocka-wocka!” I called back.

“You had better wocka-wocka-wocka your ass to your room and get dressed. The parade won’t wait for us!”

“Yeah, yeah.” I spoke under a smile.

I went to my room, stripped down, and noticed myself in the long mirror on my closet door. I felt good about my body. I felt good about being me.

It wasn't much of a costume. Bear ears, a bear nose, a fuzzy, brown, short top and matching skirt, and some bear claw gloves. Isn't Fozzie a piano player? Or is that the dog?

I poured myself another cup from the French press. Sarah came into the kitchen for a second cup, too. She pulled a bottle of Jameson from the freezer and poured some into her coffee.

“Care for some hooch?” she asked.

“Who exactly are you speaking to?”

She poured a shot’s worth into my coffee.

Sarah mentioned that her old costume fit me well. I thanked her and cracked a couple ice cubes out of the ice tray and into my cup. It felt like it did when we first moved in together. The playful banter. The easy-going atmosphere. The joy of two friends who appreciated each other's company. Sarah had returned to her room as I was feeling all that. I heard Electric Light Orchestra from her record player again. It was just nostalgia, right? This feeling. She was just being nice. She is doing herself a favor because it's Mardi Gras, and she doesn't want to feel bad. She doesn't want to be a bitch and put a dark mark on Mardi Gras. She's looking out for herself. I don't want to believe it. It feels too good not to believe it.

I was staring off when my phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. I went to take the last sip of my coffee, but it was already gone. You replied to my text saying you would gladly meet me there. You asked if there was a theme to our costumes. You don't want to know.

Sarah was soon ready. The boozy coffee had worked its way behind her eyes. Mr. Noisette was outside, sitting on his white rocking chair.

"Where are you headed?"

"We're headed out to let the good times roll, Mr. Noisette." Sarah blew a kiss and skipped to her car. Mr. Noisette slapped his knee.

"Morgan, hey. You just let me know when you want to get that Honda outta the pen." Mr. Noisette said.

"Sure thing. Tomorrow afternoon."

I walked through my parking spot to get to Sarah's car. A sadness came to me, followed by a queasiness. The wind picked up a little.

We parked a few blocks away from R Bar. We looked ridiculous in our costumes. Fucking ridiculously sexy. I mean the good kind of silly, of course. I said as much to Sarah, who, in her slutty Miss Piggy get-up, agreed.

There in front of R Bar was our group. Kermit, Beaker, Gonzo, Animal, the chef guy. The whole crew was there. There was even a Big Bird. Was Big Bird a Muppet? Didn't matter. Everyone was on theme except for Jonathan, who apparently didn't get the memo. He was decked out in purple and gold with probably a dozen beads around his neck. He looked festive. He was distracted. Sarah rushed up to him, arms wide open. He surveyed the block party that was forming and gave her a side hug. The type of hug girls who go to Christian school give each other. She went to kiss him, and he diverted her lips to his forehead. Come on, guy. Don't be weird. Not now.

Rachel and Jennifer, Kermit and Animal, respectively, brought along a cooler full of light beer. Still, Sarah and I wanted something more potent. I volunteered to brave R Bar’s crowd to procure some stronger sauce. The bar was thick with bodies. People packed so tightly I could hardly tell my body parts from theirs. It was damn near an orgy. I managed to sort of slither through the flesh labyrinth to the bar. The pressure of the swelling crowd behind and all around me pressed my hips against the wood and almost lifted me off my feet. A handsome bartender took notice of me. I hadn't seen him there before. I ordered a whiskey for me, straight, a tequila sunrise for Sarah, light on the grenadine.

I felt a hand on my ass, then another on my waist. I'm not sure I cared who the hands belonged to. I suddenly cared whose hands they were. I was manic. I wanted to play. I turned around, and Jonathan was laughing his ass off.

“Nah, dude.” I dried up like a prune. Don't be weird. Not now.

Jonathan took my hand, put a plastic bag in it, and closed my fist around it.

“Catch up with us. This will help.” He shouted.

“Us?” I said as Jonathan muscled his way through the crowd and out the door.

I turned to the two drinks I had ordered, pulled a twenty out of my purse, and lingered for a moment. The plastic bag was still in my fist. The feel of its contents was familiar to me. Jonathan had given me mushrooms. His flirtatiousness. His laughter. Catch up with us. They were all tripping on mushrooms. Why didn't Sarah say anything? I put the bag in my purse, held the drinks over my head, and slipped out. It was less pleasurable going out than coming in.

I didn't see our group right away. I set the drinks down and fished through my purse for the mushrooms. My purse is perpetually full of both junk and exactly what anyone needs at any given moment. I am basically a confused and messy Mary Poppins. The mushrooms had been dried. Good. The smell of them alone makes me gag. Down they went, sort of. Some of the mushroom dust had become gummy at the back of my throat and between my teeth and cheeks. Whiskey to wash it down. I gagged and fought back the vomit that was sprinting from my stomach and up my esophagus. I won if it's possible to win a thing like that.

I saw you approaching through blurred and watery eyes. You had on a tuxedo and carried something bulky in your hands.

You had a toothy grin that could have been seen miles away. Once you were a few feet from me, I shouted your name a little too loud and threw my arms around you, causing you to drop what was in your hand. You picked it up, raised your eyebrows, and placed the object on your head. It was a mask.

"Can you guess who I am?" You asked before pulling the mask over your face.

"Marcel LeFevre! You're not running from a swarm of bees, are you?"

"Not to my knowledge. Though, one can never be so sure. And you must be..." you paused, and I posed with my hand on my hip and pursed my lips.

"Chewbacca's girlfriend!" You said.

"Nailed it."

I spotted our group a block away. I took your hand and rushed over to them. You kept your mask on as I introduced you to everyone. You were offered a drink, a beer from the cooler. When you declined, I said you should have one.

"It's not even ten o'clock yet." You took off your whale mask.

"That's right. You need to catch up with us." Catch up with us. Oh, God. Why did I eat those mushrooms? I looked at Sarah and Jonathan, who were dancing in the middle of the street. Jonathan looked back over Sarah's shoulder. His eyes were black. I almost asked you if you'd like to dance. You held the paper-mâché mask under your arm and put your free hand in your pocket.

" I'm going to grab a beer." I said.

You pulled your phone out of your pocket and started thumbing away.

"I'll be right back," I said. You kept looking down at that damn phone.

I walked over to the cooler and fished a beer from the ice. Sarah, Jonathan, Rachel, Jennifer, and the rest of her crew were deep into their dancing. Jonathan spun Sarah, and she put her arms around me, imploring me to dance with her.

“I need to get back to my date.” I said.

“Tell him to get over here and shake his ass.” Sarah’s face was beaded with perspiration. Her eyes were wide. I looked to Jonathan, who said something I couldn't make out. He appeared to be waiting for a response from me. I broke Sarah's hold and headed back to you. Jonathan got a staring eyeful at my tits. I leaned into him and told him to chill. He spoke over me.

“Did you take the shrooms yet?” I crossed my arms and walked back to you.

You had a lit cigarette in one hand and your phone in the other. I asked if you'd prefer to head down the road, do some people-watching, and maybe get something to eat. I was not hungry. You said sure, whatever is fine. You asked if we would meet up with the crew later. I said sure, whatever is fine.

We sauntered a few blocks. The mushrooms had taken effect. It had been years since I tripped or did anything like that other than drink. I had forgotten what it was like. Everything became amplified. A thousand billion smells penetrated me. I did not enjoy your tobacco scent like I thought I might. I gagged a little. Painted faces and masks invaded my eyes. When I closed them, aliens and humans with animal heads remained. You first put my arm in yours like you were escorting me. Then, you held my hand. I felt every molecule in your grasp. I experienced the slow hum of the vibration that was your very being. I couldn't stand it. I let go and didn't say why. You started taking pictures of the crowd. I told you that I really need to use the bathroom. That was not a lie to get away from you but a convenient excuse. I felt a dagger in my bladder. At that point, we were near enough to the Bistro.

Had I been born an organized person, had I any discipline to see more than an arm's length in front of me, I wouldn't be writing this, and I sure as hell wouldn't have gone into the Bistro to take a piss. At least I've got retrospection going for me, hindsight being twenty-fifty, or whatever people say.

*

The crowd was thin for Mardi Gras day. Don't get me wrong, there was a bustle. People stirring, touching, throwing back shots. Snake-like in their movements. Hungry beasts, just like outside. I became claustrophobic. My chest was tight. The fabric of my Fozzie costume strangled me. Boss Lady was nowhere in sight. I dashed to the loo.

There was an empty stall. I rushed in, slammed, and locked the door like I was being chased. The feeling of drowning left me long enough to pee. I sat down and went for what felt like forever. I was just about done with my business when the desperate need to gasp returned like a tic. I took off the Fozzie top and crammed it into my Poppins purse.

I ran to the sink and splashed water on my face. I felt wet all over. The faucet was yellow and brown with rust. The shrooms were really having a time with me at that point. I looked in the mirror and saw a fish. Then, a mermaid.

A stall door opened. I thought I was the only person there. I saw now in the mirror a black bird with human breasts. My breast. Boss Lady’s girlfriend then stood beside me, looking at me in the mirror as my form shifted to and from all manners of cats, fish, and birds, all with my human flesh.

“Are you okay?” She asked.

I think I said yes. Maybe I made an excuse. Maybe I was washing my face and top. Maybe I had spilled something. I broke my stare from the shapeshifter in front of me and looked at my purse. I dug and searched frantically for the top. Before I knew it, its contents were on the floor scattered about, my hands a blur, still searching.

She helped me up from the floor. Her eye contact momentarily tethered me to reality. The top was in her left hand. I bent to take it from her, and she kissed me. Lips, tongue, tapping teeth. She touched me. Her hands felt loving. They felt like creatures separate from her. Creatures whose purpose it was to love. The creatures cupped my chest, then brought my waist to hers. My body wanted to stay, but my brain screamed for me to run. I felt a pull in the opposite direction, but my feet were paralyzed. I closed my eyes.

I lost my ability to walk and to speak. Her hand was up my skirt. Each flick brought in a wave of pleasure. Her mouth was on my neck. Soon I was writhing.

I open my eyes. I was outside, standing in a circle with our group. You were next to me. I had a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I had never smoked a cigarette in my life. I handed it to you and walked away to find a spot to sit.

I found a spot under a tree in the median. You soon followed, the whale mask under your arm. The grass beneath us was spongy. The tree's trunk breathed against the back of my resting head. You asked if I was okay.

“It depends on what you mean by okay. Am I having a good time? Yes and no.” I said.

“Am I okay?” You asked.

“Sure, you are.” I scooted closer to you. I must have looked worried.

“I mean, do you want me here?”

My entire disposition that day had confused you. I kept myself at a distance. The way I was over the phone and spoke with Becca at the Black Penny, I acted differently now. You expressed this to me. What I could have done I could have told you I was on a losing streak. I could have told you that I had taken psychedelics. Nope. Defenses up. Put up your dukes, Mr. MacDonald. You were the distant one. You were the one with his phone in his face all day. But then, I didn't even know if that was true. You lit a cigarette. The wild furry colors of our group came closer. Soon they would be with us, and I could disappear into them. You noticed the fresh bruise on my neck no sooner than you took the fire away from your cigarette. Your face flushed with disappointment. Mine, with shame. I covered it with my hand. You walked away. I felt buried up to my shoulders in the cold ground beneath the breathing tree. Sarah extended her hand and helped me up.

“I lost my job.” I told her.

“I know, doofus.” Sarah said after a sip of beer.

“No. I really lost it.” I started to cry. Rachael and Jennifer sandwiched me. Someone asked where you were.

“Am I okay?” I wasn’t asking anyone in particular.

Sarah walked me to her car.

“I shouldn’t drive.” She said.

“I know.”

Sarah exhaled, adjusted her Piggy ears, and unlocked the door.

*

 

Once we got back to the house, Sarah took her house key off the chain and gave it to me.

“Go inside and ride it out in your room.” She turned down the radio.

“I will.”

“Drink some orange juice. I just bought some.”

“Thank you.”

“You should be fine soon. It’s already been like five hours.”

She was right. The mushrooms were on their way out of my system. Mr. Noisette was weeding his front yard. The sour sweetness of yellowing magnolia flowers made me feel light again. A bird’s song rode on the breeze that tickled my bare belly. Sarah kicked up a bit of dust as she backed her car out.

“Lovely day for a carnival, ain’t it, Cherrie?” Mr. Noisette looked at me from below his floppy hat.

“Probably the loveliest.” I looked up into a baby blue New Orleans sky. The pillowy clouds swelled and then became smaller.

"But for me," I continued, "it's been one of those days." Mr. Noisette took off his gloves, wiped the sweat from his brow, and placed both hands on a knee.

“Every day is one of those days,” he said.

"No, I mean…."

“I know what you mean. You’re wrong. Every day is one of those days and at the same time, no days are the same. Morgan, it’s a flat expression. It doesn’t mean anything to say, ‘it’s been one of those days.’”

The sour sweetness of yellowing magnolia flowers.

“One day doesn’t take the other days from you,” he continued, “you leave the other days behind. You can take it with you, or leave it behind. You can paint any day with any small joy. It’s never-ending.”

A small boy on a swing set. A woman standing near the child.

“There are no such things as bad days,” he said.

I felt my shoulders fall from my ears.

“I’m going to be okay.”

“I know you are, dear.” Mr. Noisette grinned his toothy grin, put on his gloves, and began again pulling weeds.

“Come on over tomorrow. We’ll go get your Honda outta prison. Just meet me right here at noon. Sound good?” It did sound good.

I lay in my bed for about an hour, watching patterns on my popcorn ceiling arise and disappear. The painting Sarah had given me held my attention, too. People doing ordinary things. I wanted to call you. I wanted to do ordinary things with you.

I took a cold shower and put on a robe. The top of my wet head tingled. I decided you might want to sleep on it, what you saw that day. The sun was setting. The mushrooms had completely worn off. I felt that there was life everywhere.

Sleep soon came easily to me. I left my bedroom window open. Sounds of celebration far off.

I think it was just after 8:30 in the morning. The song was paying me a visit again. Boom, tap, boom, tap.

“Hey, I know you!” I said aloud.

I rolled over and silenced the alarm. My eyes adjusted to the brightness of my phone. I called you. You apologize for leaving. I told you that you didn't have to apologize. You said that you know what needs to be apologized for. There was a long pause.

“I know it needs to be apologized for, too. I'm a mess, Matt. I've always been this way. I think I fall in love a little bit with everyone I meet.”

“By default, that means you fell in love a little bit with me.” You said.

“Exactly.”

We made plans to meet for a late lunch right after I got my car that day. I promised not to take any psychedelics, at least before our lunch. Strong emphasis on before. You laughed. I smiled. We hung up.

I got ready for the day. Can you ever really be prepared for a day? Mr. Noisette said that there are no bad days, in a way. He said every day is the same. He said I can paint any day anyway I wanted. What did he know? What do I know?

I went to the kitchen and saw that Sarah had already made coffee. I poured a cup. It was cold, which I don't mind. Sarah was sitting on the couch in the living room. The front door was open. Sarah's hair reminded me of jasmine growing on an abandoned building. I sat with her. I think it was 11 am.

“You can stay here, you know.” Sarah said, her eyes searching outside through the open door. “Until you can find another job and save up a little money.”

“Sarah,” I moved a little closer. She looked at me, “thank you. I can find something fast, I'm sure.”

“I know it's not your fault,” her eyes were fierce and sincere. She babbled, “and I'm sorry that I blamed you.”

“Why is everyone apologizing to me today?” I asked.

Sarah sighed, smiled, and said, “It must be one of those days.”

I think it was about 12 o’clock. I went outside to wait for Mr. Noisette. I passed the barrier that separated our yards and leaned against the magnolia tree. There was no sour-sweet smell now. The breeze picked up; I heard baby birds screaming for their mother.

I sat and thought about where I had been, where I am, and where I might go. I knew there was no changing who I am or where I am. I texted you saying that I couldn’t meet up with you. I blocked your number. I'm sorry.

I knocked on Mr. Noisette’s door. There was no answer, just silence as big as the universe.

 

May 1, 2020, 1:37 pm. New Orleans, Louisiana

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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