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“Jesus take the wheel, because I am shitface drunk.” Zelia fell into the passenger seat, pulling the Honda Fit door close against the deluge falling from the heavens. She was pleased she managed the complex combination of tasks after downing four martinis, six jello shots, and a few beers. Little Kim had counted the pitchers of beer that had hit the table, so the waiter couldn’t cheat them, but no one bother counting the refills hitting her mug from said pitchers.
Before going into the bar, Zelia had locked her car keys in the glove compartment and tucked the glove compartment key in the back pocket of her ultra-tight jeans, her personal method of avoiding DUI. If she could maneuver the key out while sitting on the passenger side, then she was allowed to drive home. Otherwise she would sleep in the seat. She certainly was relaxed enough.
Tonight she didn’t even try the contortionist shimmy. I really shouldn’t have drunk that much. She was happy Felicia had found Marvin; he was a great guy. She just wished…
…that she had kept him instead of throwing him to the curb. All night she waffled back and forth, drinking to keep her big mouth shut.
Damn, Marvin had been a fine fuck; his chocolate dick, the stuff of legends. But she couldn’t stand him out of the bed … well, bed, bath, kitchen table, wherever a surface was flat enough. They had huge screaming, frying-pan flying fights. He wasn’t getting his apartment deposit back from the plaster damage they had done between the fights and the wild-monkey sex.
They weren’t good for each other; Felicia and Marvin were.
The pounding rain on the metal car made it hard to think; or it could be the drunk. Best just lever back the seat and crash rather than crash for real.
Minnie the Moocher on megaphone bar-hopping loud interrupted her righteous passout, complete with vibrating butt. Key was in one back pocket and her phone was in the other. God, what family member was calling her?
She barely managed to get the phone out, answering it just before it went to voice mail. Zelia, still drunk, had slid to answer before registering her sister was calling her. Tatyana only functioned during day. Her calling after midnight was either a fucking miracle or disaster. Based on previous experience, Zelia voted disaster.
“Hey little Z, you still at the bar?”
Zelia focused her eyes to verify the neon sign. She couldn’t remember where they stopped the party. ‘Tilt’ blinked through the pouring rain. Zelia sounded out the name, which was much more complicated now than when the girls planned which bars to hit, then slurred, “I guess so.”
“Still got money on you?”
“Please tell me you don’t fucking need bail again.”
“Fuck, I’ve been clean for seven months; why you still be bringing that up?” Accusation, hurt, and manipulation came through the mobile phone.
Like most addicts, Tatyana knew how to play her family until they learned how to refuse to be played. Smarter than most, Tatyana gave up her drugs when the family stopped playing. “I bring it up so you don’t backslide sis.” Two can play the manipulation game. They learned from the best; their father was a lush.
Zelia waited, hoping she had distracted Tatyana. No luck.
“So do you got cash?”
“A little bit, enough for tips.”
“Can you get to an ATM?”
“Just how much do you need sis?” Zelia frowned at the phone. The cloud of alcohol allowed worry to nibble at the family concern she usually kept firmly boxed up.
Her sister laughed on the other end … weirdly. Zelia hadn’t heard anything like it. “It actually is how much you are going to need.”
Zelia screamed as someone jerked open her driver’s side door. The looming figure grabbed the phone and threw it outside the small car where it disappeared into the black rainy night. She registered the gun pointing at her and snapped her mouth closed. Water dripped from the silver metal.
“Keys,” a voice growled.
I am so going to die.
“Don’t have them.” Zelia was sober enough to fabricate. “My so-called friends took them while I was passed out. Actually, it was a fucking good idea. I’m pretty damned drunk.”
The man grunted, then did something with the gun to make a frightening click. “Try again.”
While the intimidating sound is a very effective sound effect in the movies, Zelia had to bite her lip not to laugh. Any Texan girl worth her scars knows guns, and the man had just put the safety on.
“Okay, I can vomit. Would that help?”
The gun rushed towards her as the man leaned into the car out of the dark downpour. She nearly recognized her attacker in the feeble interior light before the pistol’s butt rammed against her head.
(Words 816 – first published 11/20/2013; published in new blog format on 5/3/2017)