Today has been a failure on all counts. All I want is a job. It doesn't matter what it is, as long as I can make some consistent money. I've been careful with what Bancroft left for me, but I don't want to rely on that. Especially since I'm going to need to pay him rent soon.
Calling my father isn't an option since he's made it clear what I'm in for if I go back to Rhode Island. I need some perspective, so I get on the subway and head to Central Park.
It's another travel day for Bancroft, back to London to finish off his trip around Europe, so I don't expect to hear from him until much later, or maybe not even until tomorrow. The steady rocking of the subway soothes me. I close my eyes, tired from worry and the stress of knowing Bancroft is going to be back and I still have nothing to show for the weeks of pounding the pavement.
I'm jolted awake by the jerk of the subway. Apparently I've been out for a while, because I don't recognize the station. I exit the nearly empty subway and head for the platform, disoriented and confused.
Late afternoon has turned into evening while I've been passed out on the subway. I must've been really freaking tired. I'm also in a sketchy, unfamiliar part of the city. And I have to pee like nobody's business.
I find what looks to be a bar called EsQue. It's open, so I go inside. The hallway is painted deep burgundy, and a steep set of stairs lead to a glowing sign with one of those flashing arrows. Drunk people must break a lot of limbs here. The need to pee supersedes the need to find an alternate location.
I rush down the stairs only to get stopped by a bouncer. "ID, please." He holds out his hands.
I shuffle from foot to foot, kegeling to prevent an accident as I root through my bag for my wallet. I'm hit with a horribly pungent, revolting smell. The same revolting smell that's been following me all day. It's like a rodent crawled in there and died. I gag when I skim something mushy and drop my purse. I shove my face into the crook of my arm to prevent the smell from invading my nostrils more than it already has as I crouch down.
Bouncer man makes an unimpressed noise but doesn't offer to help as I hover at crotch level-his, not mine-and try to navigate my purse without touching whatever is creating the offensive odor, while still trying to make sure I don't pee myself. Opening it only serves to magnify the smell.
He ushers three men in suits around me without carding them, although they're all silver foxes, so that might explain it.
"You got ID or not?" Bouncer man asks, irritated.
"Do you have a flashlight? I can't see a thing!"
He blinds me with the flashlight on his phone before aiming it at my purse.
Surrounded by lipstick tubes, a few pens, a couple of pads, and a wad of napkins, I spot my wallet. And three Ziploc bags.
It's then that I remember the appetizers I hoarded at Amie's engagement party all those weeks ago. Following the flu episode, I'd forgotten all about them. I haven't touched this purse since. They've been marinating in here for weeks. The contents appear to have liquefied during their rotting period. One of the bags glistens, and it seems to be the main source of the putrid smell. I manage to retrieve my wallet without disturbing the bags and flash the bouncer my ID.
"Cover's twenty bucks."
"I just need to use the bathroom."
"Cover's twenty bucks," he says again, his expression remaining neutral.
My situation has become dire. I don't have time to find another bathroom. I grudgingly part with twenty dollars, then rush through the bar toward the bathroom sign. I'm fortunate there's no line for the women's room. I take the most amazing pee of my entire life. It's the physical manifestation of the word relief. So worth the twenty dollars.
When I'm done I carefully remove the appetizer bomb baggies from my purse and leave them in the trash. Then I wash my hands four times. The smell seems to be stuck in my nose and a leak in one of the bags has left a small stain in the bottom of my purse. I use paper towels to clean that up, aware I'm very fortunate that none of the baggies burst while rolling around in there, especially since I have things like tweezers and emergency scissors. Sadly, I have a feeling I'm probably going to have to throw out my purse, which is a bit tragic, since it's nice and I can't afford to replace it.
On my way out of the bathroom I nearly collide with another woman. I step aside, and mumble an apology. Her expression morphs into disgust as she passes me, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.
"It's horrible, isn't it?" I don't want her to think it was me who destroyed the bathroom, even though it was. Since I'm already in the bar, and I've paid the cover to get in, I might as well get something to drink while I figure out the best route home.