Page 38 of Hold the Pickle
I think about the call. The music would get louder, then fade again. It’s a bathroom at the bar. I’m almost sure of it.
She went in there, then … what? She said she was sick.
The light turns red, but I don’t care. I gun through it, swerving to miss the car that starts through the intersection.
It honks at me. I don’t care about that either.
We get a slew of over-intoxicated people at the ER every weekend. She’ll be okay. She might need her stomach pumped. IV fluids.
Unless she’s allergic to something.
Or somebody at the bar drugged her.
Fuck. FUCK!
I finally reach the block of the bar. There’s no parking anywhere.
Fuck it. I pull onto the sidewalk and slam the door. Tow the car. I don’t care.
Thankfully, there’s no line to get in, and no bouncer outside to notice my shitty parking.
I yank on the door.
The noise hits me. It’s crowded.
I scan the faces, looking for her. She’s not going to be out here.
And I don’t know her cousin. We’ve never met. I couldn’t spot him either.
The bathroom. I have to find that.
I sure as hell hope she’s in there.
The back corner has a hallway, and I head for it. There’s a crowd here, too, and a line to get in.
“Hey!” some woman says, pulling at me as I skip them and tug on the door.
I jerk away from her and head inside.
Several women at the mirrors turn to gape at me.
“Nadia?” I call out. “Are you in here?”
The noise matches what I heard earlier. This is it. I know it.
There are three stalls, all closed.
I drop to my knees.
I see her instantly, curled over the toilet, her legs crumpled beneath her.
“Shit, Nadia!”
The door is locked, but I kick it, holding the top so it won’t slam into her.
The wood splinters, and it opens.
“Jesus, man!” The women scatter.
