Tonight’s going to be one of them nights, she thinks to herself as she attempts to turn and head north up Second Avenue, overshooting her mark and almost swerving left down 78th. Her bag flies out and hits the building, almost knocking her over, yet she rights herself and stops for a moment to smooth her hair back, as though messy hair is what has caused her to lose her balance.
She’s got a job ahead of her here, and she knows it. The goal is to walk from one of her usual haunts, Mumbles Tavern, on Second Avenue and 78th Street, up the 11 blocks to 89th, where home is. This is proving difficult. She fusses in her head - it must have been that last damn vodka the bartender bought her. She only had four, or maybe five, but nightlife has become rather unpredictable of late as her drinking has, again as yet unknown to her, entered another phase – where one is too many and ten is not enough.
Shit, I wish I could stop at Elaines Pub and score some coke so I could give this buzz some legs, she thinks. But even she knows she’s too far gone for that, having just walked out of the bar in mid “conversation” as she felt a slur coming on – highly unacceptable. Let’s just make it home.
So off she goes in her little Wall Street suit, high heeled shoes and designer bag, swerving up Second Avenue, doing her very best to track and follow the line down the middle of the sidewalk – oops, off to the left, back on line – ugh, left again, what the hell is wrong with me tonight? Maybe I’ll just light a cigarette and take a breather.
Not realizing where she’s stopped to dig into her handbag for cigarettes, she feels her right foot slip forward, and it seems like only a moment in the dark, but apparently it’s not, because when she opens her eyes there she lies, right cheek on the asphalt, palms down. Crap.
Not knowing her up from her down, she can vaguely hear water running and wonders what’s what. She finds a way to prop herself up on one elbow to get her bearings, only to focus in and see that she must have fallen off the curb and is actually lying on her side in the wet gutter, somewhere between Mumbles and home.
Terrific, she thinks. I’m so tired already and now this, what a hassle. Can you imagine what I’m going to feel like tomorrow?! Stupid bartender and his buy-backs.
This thought is quite annoying and, propped up on her Tahari-suited elbow and still lying on her side in the gutter, she decides that now is as good a time as any to get that cigarette up and running. She needs a break, she thinks, and a smoke to help her straighten up and decide how to get home from here, since she spent her last buck at the bar.
She lights up as she ponders off: What is it about me that makes things just not work out? I’m just trying to pull my weight like everyone else, trying to get by, yet you don’t see them all upset all the time, having to fight to figure things out all on their own.
She feels a victim of circumstance, she’s frustrated as hell and wants to be beamed home off of Second Avenue. I wish I could think of something, anything, a new business idea or a different place to move to, she thinks.
Then she spots them, down the block on Second Avenue. It’s a beautiful, clean cut couple in sweats, holding hands, walking their dog toward her corner, with their copy of the Late Edition of the Sunday New York Times under his arm, talking to one another and smiling. He runs ahead with the dog and she throws her head back and laughs, about to try to catch up. To the girl in the gutter, this looks like it’s happening in slow motion, through the golden-lit, vasaline-filtered lens of a shampoo commercial, like it’s set in a field of gently blown daisies instead of on the dirty streets of the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Wow, look how lovely she is, look how normal and successful her life is, she must be really, really nice. I mean, look at her flowing hair and her jogging clothes, she’s got to be really nice.
Then, it’s like the bright light from the commercial has just entered her head and she’s “stumbled” upon an idea, THE idea – see there’s a reason for everything right?
Nice! That’s it! That’s the ticket – maybe I’ll try just being nice. I’ve tried everything else, intelligent, sassy – even French! How about nice? I can do that! Right on!
But no. She remembers she’s already tried that once, when she was going out with Robert the pilot. She tried pulling off nice with him and he didn’t buy it – hell, neither did she. Something about how much she went out at night or how crazy she got. She’s just not nice, is all. Oh, well.
Again, exhaustion washes up over her, and her head drops. And suddenly it feels like the sound has just blown back on in her head, pushing through her thoughts with the volume turned up. There’s a taxi horn blaring, with some guy yelling at her to get off the road. And an arm is trying to pull her up out of the gutter.
Oh, come on, there’s no need to pull on my suit, really, I was just looking for my lighter and went over a little too far. Yes, well, I was down there for awhile, but hey, that’s none of your business, asshole! Let me go! Yeah, you – get your hands off me!
Jeez, some people just don’t know how to mind their own fucking business!
She rights herself and, without brushing the blood off her face or the wet gravel off her clothes, she aims herself back up Second Avenue and continues across the street, searching yet again for that elusive middle line in the sidewalk she is to follow that will bring her home.
And then she fades to blackout. Again.
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