I hopped out of bed at the speed of light. My arm hit several empty beer cans on the nightstand, and one flew into the window. A little scream escaped me as the shower curtain fell to the ground exposing a filthy window that overlooked a dumpster and the bum who was sleeping beside it. Or possibly dead beside it? I should probably find a phone and call 911. Hmmm, okay, he rolled over, so not dead.
Holy shitballs! What the hell happened last night? As the questions were pouring out of me, I narrowed my eyes, trying to guess if the stain on the wall next to me was either someone doing a test area of red paint for a room redesign or if a murder had happened there recently. I felt my skin crawl, and I was unable to comprehend what was happening.
It was quiet, and I felt like I was alone, but was there someone in the next room waiting to attack, kill me, and cut me into pieces? Was I being held for ransom?
I looked down to see I was sporting a huge freaking pair of black sweatpants and a “Bat Shit Crazy” sweatshirt. I normally slept in my Nigel Curtis pajamas. The Butterfly Kaleidoscope are my faves. This couldn’t have been more opposite. I peeked down my pants, and I was definitelynotwearing my own underwear. OMG! These werecottonand probably came in a six-pack from somewhere, not my Bottega Veneta lacy panties. Someone had changed my underwear and put me in what appeared to be thrift store nightwear. Yes, the disastrous mystery continued.
I quietly walked around the bed, looking for anything I could use to defend myself. There was no lamp on the nightstand or anything with any weight to it that I could slam into someone’s skull if necessary. I looked under the bed and grabbed a dusty, long roll of wrapping paper, confirming this must be a woman’s apartment. I was certain a man wouldn’t have crappy women’s clothing, right?
Back to my original thought—I must have gotten black-out drunk, wandered out into the street, and gone home with a woman? Yes, it was weird. Maybe the whole Steve incident had put me off men for good. Maybe I was trying my hand at being a lesbian.
Just in case someone was waiting in the next room to murder me, I held the large roll of wrapping paper in my hand like a bat so I’d be prepared to kick ass if necessary. Well, as much as a roll of wrapping paper and my yellow belt in Karate from the fifth grade could have prepared me.
I rummaged through the nightstand drawer and found some lottery tickets, which clearly hadnotpaid off, a small bag of weed, and pepper spray. I thought I should take the spray, but it scared me, so I put it back. Damn it, I always knew I should’ve given pepper spray a second chance. There was the time I accidentally shot myself in the face with my own pepper spray when I thought I was being followed in a parking lot. Yes, I suck at lots of things.
I cautiously walked into the living room, yellow mustard carpet as far as the eye could see, along with an ant-sized kitchen that was missing a few cabinet doors. It appeared I was alone, and I needed to search for clues, find out where I was, and get the hell out of there.
Then my eyes landed on a box of tampons on the kitchen counter. After all, where else would they be? Whew, a woman lived here in this filth. Who was the mystery woman I’d decided to go home with? I’d never pictured myself with a woman, but I would guess my type would be someone like the actress Michelle Rodrigues from “The Fast and the Furious.” Kind of a badass.
I blinked hard at the cheap, brown, designerless purse sitting next to the box of Tampax. I hesitated before peeking inside the purse that was filled with tissues, and then I saw it. MY Gucci wallet. What? I opened it to see all my credit cards and the one thousand dollars cash from yesterday. Something familiar warmed my heart a little.
Was this a dream? Well, of course, it was a dream. Just a strange dream—probably. I examined the other items in the purse and, apparently, I still had a mild case of asthma that carried over to my dream. I spotted an inhaler in the depths of the bag, and there was a bottle of brandless perfume that smelled like cat piss, so I immediately tossed it into the nearly overflowing trash can in the corner.
My eyes landed on the little teacup from the psychic that sat next to the sink, almost shouting my name. What did the teacup have to do with this?Was this a freakishly long dream, or was her tea some kind of mind-altering drug? Did I have to stay in this horrible apartment? If I walked out, would a baby grand piano suddenly drop from the sky above and flatten me to death?
Oooh, an option that I hadn’t considered: I’m dead. As I glanced around, I realized this could be hell. Everybody knew I was a klutz. Had my drunken ass wandered out to my balcony, fallen twenty-five stories, and ended up a pile of bones and blood on the street below? Hmmm.
Piano or no piano, it was time for me to fly. I went back into the bedroom and opened the closet in search of something to put on to get home.
An ear-piercing screech that I recognized as my own echoed in the room when I slid the closet door open to find that it was throwing up hideous clothing. Overalls, fishing boots, and tie-die t-shirts were just a few items that made me realize I was not able to put anything on. Nope, simply could not do it.
Instead, I grabbed my dress from last night off the sea of mustard below me and pulled it on. It was beautiful for an evening event, given it was sheer all the way to my upper thigh, sheer in the midriff area, and had a bustier. Not an ideal look for an 8 a.m. kidnapping escape, but it was the only choice I had at the moment.
As I looked in the cracked mirror, I decided it was a yes. Yes, I was going to fly out with Zoey today. I’d leave my one-night-stand encounter and meet her at the Magnolia jet at eleven. I wasn’t even going back to my apartment, instead heading straight to my personal shopper at Sak’s Fifth Avenue. Indeed, I felt the mothership calling me home.
I grabbed the sad brown purse before pulling open the front door to expose a worn and torn gray carpet in the hallway, along with the eclectic odor of all sorts of food and filth. Yucky. I looked over my shoulder at the apartment where I may have had my first lesbian encounter or was just leaving this chapter of my nightmare. Either way, Au Revoir.
I couldn’t find the elevator and then realized there was not one, so my heels clickety-clacked down the three flights to the door that led to my freedom. I exited to see a street I hadn’t been to before with no cab in sight. No shops or restaurants in sight either, although there were some boarded up storefronts.
I looked around and saw the doorman in his twenties leaning against the dark red brick building, looking down at his phone. Thank God. I walked over and stood for a moment before he noticed me. His eyes shot up and down my dress.
“Good morning. I was wondering if you could hail me a cab or call one, please.”
The man looked a little confused. “What?”
“I’m not seeing any out front here. Maybe it’s a busy day in cab world, but I really need to get across town.” I smiled as he let out a little chuckle. A doorman with an attitude? I quickly opened my purse and grabbed five dollars. “I would really appreciate it.”
He snatched the cash and shoved it into his pocket before pointing. “You have to walk up two blocks to Robert Street.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, the cabbies don’t come around these parts anymore. Too much riff-raff over here.”
Clearly, my five dollars were gone forever. I clutched my shitty purse closer to my body before heading in the direction he pointed to. A block into my journey, an old Honda pulled up to the curb beside me as I glanced over.
“How much, baby?”
Gasp. “Excuse you?”
