Madeline
Sam woke up. She touched her fingertips to her forehead. Her head pounded. She smacked her lips together and searched for a glass of water or a water bottle in grabbing distance. She glanced at her nightstand searching the various items for anything that may resemble a cup, a glass, or a bottle. No dice. If she wanted water, she needed to make the kitchen trip. She weighed her options. The water could wait.
She picked up her phone to check the time—one in the afternoon. Sam groaned. Four measly hours of sleep. Four restless hours of sleep. She needed to be back in the bar to open it in less than three hours which left her less than two hours to write. If she is going to finish this novel she needs more than two hours a day. She weighs the options, sleep more or write?
Sam musters up the urge to stand. The room spins and she grabs the edge of the bed in a bit of a crouch to right herself. She looks down and realizes she is still wearing her black corset and skinny jeans she was wearing the night before.
She goes to the kitchen. There is a note on the counter, “Sam – I have told you before: No more parties after you close the bar! I have to work at 6am every morning and can’t sleep because of the noise! -Randi P.S. Rent is due.” Sam grones and picks up the letter and crumples it. She grabs a glass from beside the sink, giving it a once over with a sponge before rincing it and filling it with sink water. She takes a big gulp and takes almost all the liquid in a single gulp. She refilled the glass and turned to go back to her bedroom.
She squeezed out of her jeans and untied the corset so she could wiggle out of it. She throw a t-shirt on from the floor, giving it a quick wiff first, and climbed back into bed. She grabs her purse from the night stand pulls out her wallet, glancing at the plastic bag of white powder before she does. She opens it up and counts the money inside. Three hundred dollars. She opens the drawer to the bedside table and pulls out a stack of cash held together with a rubber band. She counts out six hundred dollars and adds it to the three. That is rent.
She puts the wod of cash on the bedside table in exchange for her laptop. She is congnesent that she needs to close the lid at three to give herself ample time to get ready and make it to the bar by four. She opens the lid and reads the prior paragraph she wrote. Is this even English? She jumps ahead a few pages and starts to edit so she can pick up where she left off. When she gets to writing it is like a faucet she can’t turn off. It is flowing out of her.
She glances at the top right of the screen, 2:49. Eleven more minutes. She puts her fingers to her head to rub out the hangover. And continues with her writing.
She glances at the top right of the screen, 3:02. She needs to be done and jump in the shower. But she is in the middle of a thought and it would be broken if stops now.
She glances at the top right of the screen, 3:21. She was cutting it close. She shuts the lid of the laptop.
Her night is likely to start slow, putting away the dishes that washed before she left the bar, taking the bar stools off the bar so that patrons have a place to sit, and turning on the ‘open’ sign. Then she waits. People will start trickling in around five. Around six or seven, some old man or a regular will buy her a shot. By midnight she will have had at least five shots. She will find the little baggy in her bag to right herself. She will excuse herself to the bathroom and revisit the bag every thirty minutes or so before running out. At that point she will either find one of her dealers in the bar or call one of them to make a delivery.
Once the bar closes, she will allow the people she knows, just about everyone, to stay as she closes up. When she is ready to leave the bar, she will take whoever is left back to her house. Where they will continue to snort powder and drink beer until Sam finally gets tired and kicks them out. This cycle has been going on for months and was not likely to break tonight.
Sam goes to set it on the bedside table and stops to spot the cash on the bedside table. She tilts her head, holding the laptop in the air. Between her rent, utilities, cell phone bills, food and other necessities, she would need about two thousand a month. She would need to cut out the powder and beer habit of course. But two thousand a month should do it.
She replaces the laptop with the bills and starts to count. Although her powder habit was quite expensive, she was able to save enough for six months. Six months of writing. Six months to make this work. In six months, if her income is zilch, there were plenty of bars she could continue with. Or better, at her thirty years of age, perhaps it was time to find a big girl job.
Sam stands and walks to the kitchen. She found the pad of paper that Randi wrote on earlier, and wrote her own letter, “Randi – I apologize for all the noise I have caused. I am quitting the bar and I am turning over a new leaf. I plan to be a better roommate and a better person. -Sam”
Her next step was to send a text, “Hi, Joe. I quit. Find someone else to work for me today.”
Sam laid back. She had quit the beer and the powder before and she was determined to do it again. Her hangover still thudded in her head, but this was the last hangover she planned to have for a long time. She needed a nap before she could continue to work on her novel.
