Published in the Amarillo College Freelancer 2004.
Snow
I feel like snow.
Scattered, cold, and wet. That's me, standing on the sidewalk and wondering if miracles still happen to women who can't even watch Cinderella anymore with a shred of belief. As if my destiny would fly out of the sky and bowl me over if I rekindled the dream that true love happens to everyone and someday my prince will come.
Just a tired song with a child's nostalgia attached.
And yet, I've stopped here in the growing sleet. I left Penny's apartment for something, but I'm not moving. Can't even remember what it was I needed.
Oh yes. Wine. Wine for Tabby's birthday dinner. Need to buy wine. My side of the street has stores that closed an hour ago, but the corner of the opposite side has a little liquor store. The night manager's really nice. He knows exactly which wine goes with what meal, dessert, mood, flower arrangement. A picture of his kids is taped to the inside of the back office's window. The first time I met him, desperate for what to serve with Pastichio so I could impress my then-future in-laws, he introduced me to all four of his kids through the picture.
But no more in-laws, because not every engagement is a keeper. At least, that's what the girls at the office tell each other. Engagements have sunk to the level of casual dating. Sometimes you just look at each other over wedding invitation booklets and decide you really don't like this person, though in my case it was during Penny's bridesmaid fitting and he was tired of stifling his "inner self."
He immediately started dating a girl who worked nights as a call girl. I still keep the voodoo doll Aimee gave me on a bookshelf. Whenever I feel particularly bitchy, I just stick a pin in and imagine him clutching his face while his call girl rolls her eyes and orders another round of drinks.
Uhm…wine. Right. Wine. I glance both directions and cross the street. I'll probably have to borrow some of Penny's clothes now. Even my socks feel squelchy.
Finally moving with something resembling haste, I slip into the liquor store and look for the night manager. But he's not here. The guy behind the counter looks at me with amusement. Then again, I am dripping on his floor and probably looking very disoriented. "Where's Rick?" I ask with no hi, how are you. I'm starting to feel very cold.
"One of his kids is sick. He won't be in." I glance at the picture of his children, wondering which of them it is. "Do you need help?" the Man Who Is Not Rick asks gently.
"Wine for a friend's birthday," I reply through chattering teeth. I shift from foot to foot.
"Are you OK?" he asks, coming out from behind the counter. He looks at the wine and not at me, so I feel like I can answer without receiving the third degree. Make polite conversation with the customers is probably rule #2 for working here. Rule #1 being don't drink the merchandise.
"I don't know," I say. "I've been standing outside a long time. I don't know why either." Raging nutcase. I need to shut up.
"Maybe something crawled across your grave." For a second, I can't even comprehend why he'd say that. But then I review it. He said it like a person who's recently listened to an aunt or a grandmother say that, possibly in regards to something he said.
"Maybe," I reply, gazing at the wine bottles in front of my face. The bell on the door jingles and goes silent. I glance at the new customer. He looks hopped up and jumpy. Probably doesn't need anything more to drink than he's already had. For a moment he glances at the counter like he's lost, then he looks around and sees me and the Man Who Is Not Rick.
"You!" the customer shouts, and I blink. Out from the coat comes a gun, pointing directly at me. Oh, I don't believe this. Now I'm cold, wet, scattered, and about to be a hostage. "Gimme all the money!"
"Uh, I don't work here," I reply, as Not Rick doesn't seem to want to speak up about that either.
"Oh. Gimme all the money!" the man shouts again, this time at the appropriate person. The Man Who Is An Actual Employee scuttles behind the counter while I wonder if there is any wrong liquor for a birthday party. Probably not.
I glance around me and notice a shelf of brandy bottles. Some of them are pretty big, probably heavy too, since they're glass. "Is there any way to bring the wrong liquor to a birthday party?" I ask aloud, crouching down to examine the brandy.
Not Rick whimpers and continues to raid the safe. The robber looks at me and considers. "Maybe tequila. Some people can't take their tequila too good. 'Specially girls." He turns back and watches Scared Little Bunny drop a handful of quarters all over the floor.
I "Hm…" to myself and heft the largest bottle of brandy. Yup. Definitely heavy, sturdy glass. I slide my feet so that they don't squelch and swing the bottle at the back of the robber's head. The bottle breaks, and brandy splatters all over my legs. Ick. Now I'm cold, wet, and smell like brandy.
Robber dude groans at my feet, clutching his head. I pluck up his gun and lightly place it in the metal trash can by the counter, setting the handle of the brandy bottle on top of it. I poke the robber with my foot and say, "Thanks for the advice. Here's some that might be useful to you. Go home." He groans more and gets to his feet, stumbling against the counter to the door.
Once again, Not Rick and I are left alone in the store. He looks at me like he might cry, he's so relieved. "Where's your cheapest vodka?" I ask. He points to the left and croaks "last shelf."
I retrieve the bottle that seems the cheapest and head for the door. Along the way, I slap a cold, wet, brandy-scented $10 bill on the counter and say, "That's for the brandy. Very top dollar stuff."
Back out in the sleet, which is turning to intermittent snow, I sling the bottle of vodka onto my shoulder and march across the street again to the darker side. Tabby hates uptown parties anyway. I think we'd all much rather get drunk and tell stories about how we've been in robberies and with whom our next engagement will be.