She taps press-on nails against the counter surface—tap-tap, tap-tap. My hand shakes—fingers going all useless on me—the pile of coins toppling over so I lose the count completely.
“Man, fuck,” I start to say, trying to cut off my words but not really succeeding—so instead I just kinda cover my mouth with both hands.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I… uh… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
I stare down at the mess of coins, wondering if maybe I should forget about it and go try somewhere else.
In fact, I’m about to start shoving the change back in my pocket, when she startles the shit outta me by bursting out laughing—long and loud and deep. “Ah, hell,” she says, cackling all over the place. “I’m just playin’ with you. Boy, you shoulda seen your face. A Christian establishment! Ha. I really had you goin’, didn’t I?”
My head nods up and down—my mouth hanging open and my body kinda paralyzed there.
The woman laughs and laughs, wiping tears from her eyes and pausing to breathe every now and then, making a sort of “whoo” noise.
“Yeah, you definitely got me,” I tell her, still kinda stunned.
She struggles to pull herself together, saying, “I did, didn’t I? That sure was a good one.”
I manage to laugh a little myself.
“Anyway,” she carries on. “What can I get you, young man? Looks like you got about five dollars goin’ there now—ain’t that about right?”
She starts dumping the coins into a cigar box, not counting ’em, and so I just ask for the cheapest bottle of whiskey she’s willing to give me, which turns out to be a pint of Black Velvet. She also throws in three little airplane bottles of flavored Smirnoff, maybe as payment for making me feel like such an asshole.
“My name’s Candace,” she says, reaching a cold hand like crackling tissue paper out to shake mine.
“Nic,” I tell her.
She says for me to come back anytime and, of course, I thank her, waving good-bye stupidly.
I walk out into the damp, clinging heat, rushing off down a side alley to take a couple more hits before work.
The black clouds have all disappeared—the sky perfectly clear and wide open.
“See,” I say to myself, “it’s gonna be okay.”
I put the mouth of the bottle to my lips.
I drink.
By the time I get to work, I’d say I’m pretty well lit up, talking to everyone, messing around. The hours go by fast, and I maybe even start blacking out a little—my memory going. I can’t keep track of most of the orders, and I end up burning a bunch of different shit. While I’m mopping, I knock over the bucket in the kitchen, and the gray water, slick with greasy sludge, soaks in behind all the appliances, and it takes me a good forty-five minutes to get the floor looking even half-assed decent. Then, as I’m taking out the heavy kitchen trash, the plastic bag rips when I’m just steps away from the back door—emptying out pounds of wet coffee grounds, discarded, no-longer-identifiable food products, and wadded-up napkins onto the freshly mopped tile floor.
Elaina, as you can probably imagine, isn’t really speaking to me anymore, which is probably for the best, considering I must be practically sweating cheap whiskey at this point. I mean, the bottle’s just about done. Not that I meant to drink it all. I was trying to keep it under control. Honestly, I’m not even sure what happened. It’s like one minute I was opening the bottle, and the next, well, I’m where I’m at now: teetering, sloppy, throwing up in the bathroom sink. The world spins out of control—the floor dropping out from underneath me—my body pinned back against the wall—like I somehow stepped onto one of those rides at the carnival—centrifugal force—my stomach tightening like a fist.
I can’t tell whether my words are slurred, but I know damn well that I won’t ever come back here. If they called me out on my behavior, man, I just couldn’t take it. I’m not gonna let them fire me. I mean, I get it, I fucked up—I drank too much. The hell if I’m gonna give them the chance to try ’n’ tell me I have a problem. Besides, I hated this job, anyway. And it’s the job’s fault that I’m drinking like I am. If I wasn’t so goddamn miserable working here, well, I wouldn’t have to numb out like this. I’ve gotta get outta here. I can’t stand it another minute.
My legs zigzag, stumbling their way up to Elaina behind the register. Believe it or not, I’ve got the goddamn hiccups.
“Hey,” she says, putting down the rag and spray bottle she’s been using to clean the pastry case. “I need you to take over for me while I go make a phone call. Why don’t you start breaking down the espresso machine? Then you can do the mats when I get back.”
I nod as she passes on by. Maybe I’m just fooling myself, but she doesn’t seem to suspect anything. I mean, she’s not treating me any differently than she normally does. It could be that I’m holding shit together better than I thought. I could even be getting away with it. ’Cause if Elaina thought I was drinking, I’m pretty damn sure she’d have called me out by now. Hell, that’s the kinda thing that’d make her day. So, yeah, maybe she doesn’t know.
But I still can’t risk it. There’s no way I’m gonna give these fuckers the satisfaction of firing me. I’d rather quit. That’s the only way to go.
So I hiccup.
And even gulping water doesn’t seem to help.
A customer comes up and orders a cappuccino—insisting on chatting me up, even though I’m hiccuping like a fool. He’s nice enough about it, though, offering some
