Episode 1: “The Girl in Question” (Part I)
Saturday morning goes a little like this:
4:30 a.m.
The alarm clock goes off. I reach blindly out into the darkness, and eventually find the snooze button, which I slap pretty hard. Now, I can enjoy the couple extra minutes of sleep that are legally mine.
4:31
I’m suddenly convinced that the alarm clock is mad at me because I slapped it in the face – and that it will retaliate by not ringing. But ha ha! The joke is on you, stupid alarm clock thing, because I am up and not sleeping.
4:32
Ugh. So tired. Maybe I’ll just keep my eyes closed for a little bit. Waking up will be easier if I get used to the idea of waking up before I actually
4:37
The alarm clock goes off again. So it wasn’t mad at me. Very cool.
“Now, shut up,” I grumble, as I slap it once again.
Right at that moment, it decides that a life of abuse is not worth living and leaps to its own death on the floor below. Its glowing red eyes extinguish. I get out of bed and decide to mourn later – I have to get ready for work.
4:38
I zombie walk to where the shower lives, and secretly wonder why the floor is always so cold in the apartment. Maybe it hates my feet.
4:39
Oh, shower, shower, shower, shower, shower. Who loves you? That’s right, I love you. Soapy, soapy, scrubby, scrubby, lather, rinse, repeat.
4:51
Maybe the floor is cold because it feels unloved? If that’s the case, it should entirely know better. My alarm clock loved it so much, it decided to spend the rest of its natural life with it.
4:59
Dressed, combed and brushed, all in 8 minutes – I am entirely glad that I was born with a penis.
4:59.06
My brain tells me to check if I was, in fact, born with a penis. I decide to ignore this command, and continue with my day.
4:59.19
Yep. Still have a penis. On a related note, I think my brain might be defective.
5:04
I knock on the door to Darren’s apartment. A few seconds later, he emerges, eyes puffy from a lack of sleep.
“I’m going to punch you in the face,” he tells me, “Any second now. It’s going to happen.”
“I know,” I nod in a very understanding way, “Its okay. Let’s just go to work.”
As we walk down the hallway, he raises a fist and weakly tosses it into the air.
“Did I get you?”
“Almost. Try again.”
5:12
In the middle of our walk to the coffee shop, Darren finally wakes up enough to use a few more words.
“I think we should be doing something,” he says.
“We are doing something,” I tell him, “We’re going to work. You remember work, right?”
Darren shakes his head slowly, “I mean in the larger sense. We’re totally wasting our summer with this work shit, you know?”
I shrug, “Maybe.”
“Not maybe, we are,” Darren insists.
“Okay, so what do you want to do?”
Darren takes no time in coming up with his response: “I want to get out of this stupid town.”
“…sounds like a good idea,” I say, “But how are we going to do that?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “By being awesome?”
“Or, we could find a car.”
Darren laughs at this idea, “Please. You wouldn’t last half an hour in a car without going crazy.
“…probably,” I admit, “Being awesome it is, then.”
“Count it,” he says, holding his fist out for me to pound.
I pound his fist with my own.
And then, he grabs my arm with his other hand and swings at me with his fist. I manage to duck just in the nick of time, and I feel a breeze pass over my head.
“Almost,” I say with a smile, twisting my arm out of his grip, “Try again.”
And I get chased all the way to the store.
5:15
I’m going to die, I’m going to die, my lungs are going to give out, my heart is going to explode, and I’m going to die in the streets of Brinkley, and I’m never going to get the chance to go anywhere, or ask her out, and holy shit, I’m going to die.
5:16
We make it to the shop, and we’re both exhausted, so we collapse on the sidewalk in front of the front door.
“That was not cool,” Darren tells me, “Not [breathe] cool [breathe] at all.”
“If I die, I’m totally going to kill you,” I respond.
I love that crazy bastard.
5:18
Finally, we’re up and in the store – we open in just twelve minutes.
“We’re not going to have enough time,” I tell him.
“We’re totally going to have enough time,” he replies, “If you can manage to do your till quickly today.”
We both know that isn’t going to happen.
5:23
I’m glaring at the till. It’s grinning at me, with its rows of dead looking button eyes and its unmoving mouth full of cash.
Darren has already opened his own till, counted the float, and has started getting things ready in the back.
“Just open the stupid till,” he yells while the smell of brewing coffee hits the air.
“I can’t just open the till,” I explain, “It’s a delicate process.”
He emerges from the back and sits on the counter space next to my till, “It is?”
“Sure,” I mumble, “It’s a complex piece of gadgetry. If you open it wrong, it unleashes its rage, and attacks you. I’ve told you this before.”
“I know,” he grins, “But it’s always fun to hear you try to explain your crazy with words.”
My brain begins to concentrate very hard, and so my face scrunches into an expression to match.
“You have to be very careful,” I say these words at a whisper while I move my left hand towards the button that pops the till open, “Or else it knows what you’re doing…”
“You look like you’re diffusing a bomb,” Darren lets me know as I slowly move my body away from its mouth.
My finger touches the button.
And in a burst of thunder and rage, it shoots its lower jaw towards me. The sound of the ball bearings moving roars until the jaw stops dead with a jolting THUD. The momentum causes a rouge quarter to hop over the lower lip, where it lands on my foot with a soft “puh”. Slowly, I retract my hand.
“Missed me again,” I taunt the machine while I bend down to pick up the liberated quarter.
“Sorry little guy,” I apologize, foiling its bid for freedom, “You gotta’ go back inside.”
As I stand up, the back of my head cracks against the strong jaw of the till, and coins spill everywhere. I grab the back of my head, while Darren starts to do one of those sudden laughs that would’ve made an awesome spit take if he had been drinking anything.
“That,“ he chuckles, “was the best thing I have ever seen.”
I look up at the register with what I hope is anger, and not pain.
“I’ll get you next time gadget,” I tell it ruefully, “Next time…”
