Circus in a Shot Glass

by Beth Overmyer

  I take an angry swipe at my nose with a tissue, which I toss at the cash-out counter, and pull up the wooden bangle on my left wrist. The door behind me jingles, and I’m on my hands and knees, and my nose is running. “Back to yell at me some more?” I need a bottle of something strong.

  Silence and then a gentle creaking of two expensive shoes. “Something the matter?” asks a soft, foreign voice.

  I freeze. “Be with you in a moment,” I say, trying to sound friendly. My head still feels like it’s being split in two. Shaking, I get to my feet and rush the wet paper towels to the back room, and freeze because his voice is so familiar I can almost place it . . .

  “You still there, miss?” asks the Englishman, standing in the doorway with two generic paper cups in his hands. He jerks his head toward the shop. “Care for a cuppa?”

  Nonplussed, I follow him, wide-eyed. “Sorry for yelling. I thought you were—”

  “Someone else. Of course.” His smile broadens and he sets the two steaming cups onto the countertop. His gaze meets the miniature circus for a moment before it meets mine. “Are you all right?” He sounds concerned and nowhere near as skittish as he had been the day before.

  I don’t want to answer this, not yet, and he seems to know, because he hands me one of the cups and begs me to take it. When I hesitate, the Englishman tells me it’s a s’mores mocha. “Thanks.” I accept the hot beverage, a favorite of mine. My voice is croakier than I would like, but he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to. Who is he? My face asks the question for me.

  “Ardal,” he says.

  “Scotch,” I say, trying to remember some long-forgotten memory. I catch myself and clear my mind.

  He nods, but not out of approval. He does not like my name. “So,” he says before taking a sip of his own drink. “Your boss seemed—distraught.” To put it mildly, his eyes say.

  My bottom lip quivers, but I hide any other symptoms of emotion by chugging down several large mouthfuls of my mocha. It burns my throat and mouth, but I don’t care. Physical pain is something I can understand. “Doesn’t surprise me,” I say, hoping to sound breezy and carefree. “He’s always upset about something.”

  Ardal sets his cup down and stares at it. When he speaks, his voice is a velvet murmur. “Are you all right?”

  For the past three years at least, I’ve prided myself on not crying, and now I am close to it as I hold Memory at bay. But I won’t weep in front of a stranger. Not even a familiar stranger who’s nice and brought me coffee. I chug down another mouthful before saying with finality, “Oh, I’m fine.”

  The Englishman eyes me askance before taking a small sip of his own drink. It seems he wants to know more but changes the subject by saying, “Reading anything good?”

  I blow a strand of the auburn nuisance out of my eyes. As usual, it’s pulled up into a messy bun atop my head but keeps trying to escape. This man saw me with Fantome de l’Opera the other day, which is perhaps why he’s trying to talk books. But I can’t bring myself to mention that particular novel, so I say, “Actually, I’m reading a crappy book I would burn if it weren’t digital.” I blow on my coffee, and he nods, the corner of his mouth jerking upward.

  “What makes it terrible?” He waits for my answer, which I give with a shrug.

  “It’s The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne.” That should explain everything, in my mind.

  He repeats, “What makes it terrible?” before taking another sip.

  I hesitate. How to explain about the unnatural child? That everyone thinks her an imp or demon? The poor, unwanted thing. For a book being reputed as moralistic, it sure seems to have its priorities backward. “It’s complicated.” I’m finished with my answer but I can tell he’s still confused. “The reason why I don’t like it, I mean. It’s complicated.”

  There is suspicion in his eyes. “Care to explain?” He sounds casual, but it is rather obvious he wants to know.

  “The child.” I cannot look at him as I say this, and I’m not sure why. It’s too—personal. Too painful.

  “Ah.” A moment passes. “The book bored me to tears.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Not my cuppa tea, not at all.”

  My eyes drift to the front door where I saw some movement. Just some people gawking at my window display. They never come in. I wish they would now.

  Ardal turns and glances over his shoulder. “Someone you know?”

  “No,” I confess. “I wish they’d come in.” Did I say that out loud?

  “Hmm.” He frowns and strokes his chin with his free hand. “You don’t seem busy. I wonder if I am somewhat to blame.”

  “You? How could you be to blame?” I am blushing, so I drain my cup and say, “Youch. Hot.”

  Ardal wears an impish grin on his face as he says, “By taking customers away from you. You do know we’re neighbors, yes?”

  I drop my paper cup, which I’m glad is empty, because otherwise it could splash up his expensive pants. “Oops.” Before I can reach down, Ardal bends over and snatches it. So, that’s what Ringmaster had meant. “How long—?”

  “I found this place recently.” His eyes narrow by a margin. “I had a hard time finding this town—” He’s upset and starts backtracking. “What I mean to say, this sort of town where there’s lots of foot traffic. ‘What a perfect place,’ I said, ‘to sell books.’ So that’s what I’m doing.”

  I fold my arms across my chest, shoulders thrust back. “So that’s why you asked what I was reading. Trying to get a feel for the community?”

  He wears a mischievous expression as he says, “Yes, of course.”

  I don’t know what he means by this, and I don’t think I’m ready to. I offer him a seat in the antique rocker, but he declines.

  “I can’t stay for long. I’m late opening already.” He points at the clock behind me. “Is that the right time? Am I late?”

  Brow pinched, I take a look at the clock, which is stuck at two fifteen. “Guess I forgot to change the battery.” I do not like being mocked, but he is all earnestness. It is somewhat disconcerting. “The clock isn’t working.”

  “Yes, I see now you’re right. Perhaps I am not late after all. Perhaps I am right on time.” He leans into the counter, thumbing through the many business cards strewn about there. “Right in the nick of time.”

  All this talk is confusing me, but I try not to let on. I’m not even quite sure what I’m confused about. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Any time, miss.” He tips an invisible hat, and it’s so Old World and cute, I cannot help but laugh. Ardal laughs as well. “Would you like to come see it? My shop, I mean?” He licks his bottom lip clean and peers deep into my eyes.

  Why am I so warm? I shudder and shake my head no. “I should stay here.”

  His fingers drum a slow beat on the countertop, and when he speaks his voice is melancholy. “Boss have you on a tight leash?”

  You have no idea. But it won’t be for long. “Not for long. We’re closing,” I say before thinking. “I won’t be here much longer.”

  He freezes, and for a moment his eyes are full of panic. But he at once masters himself, all emotion wiped from his face. He is being careful not to upset me more than I am already. “I am sorry to hear that.” He takes another sip of coffee. The silence is a violin string his voice strokes gently when he says, “Where will you go?”

  I don’t know, and it’s killing me more than the booze I take every day. How I wish I had a bottle to down right now. Maybe it’s a good thing I don’t. But maybe I am not enough without it.

  It is some time before I can answer without my voice cracking, but despite running late for work, or being right on time, Ardal stands there and watches me, waiting for an answer. “Where I’ll go? No idea.”

  “I see. And why is the shop closing?” He stares for a moment at the ceramic circus like he is not interested any more in what I am saying. Why would he be?

  “I’ve already said too much. It’
s not definite, anyway.” It’s a lie. Ringmaster seldom exaggerates—except when it comes to me. I toss my head, ignoring the strands coming loose from my messy bun. “Everyone gets into little financial scrapes. I’m sure he’ll get it sorted.”

  “Yes, it’ll get sorted.” He sounds amused at my choice of words, and stares at the black, bejeweled elephants. “How much for these?”

  “They’re not for sale,” I say maybe a bit too harshly.

  When Ardal looks back at me, there is pity in his eyes. “I am sorry.” And the pity is gone again. “Well, I best be off.” He tips his imaginary hat again, which fails to amuse me this time, as my chest feels like it’s caving in. “Have a good day, miss.” Before I can say anything in reply, he is gone.

  The rest of the day is a void. There are no customers, though there are several potential ones—but it’s as though someone told them to stay away. “Huh,” I say as a tall man who is not Ardal peeks in at my window display. It’s nothing much, because I haven’t been given much to work with: a fake, waist-high tree bedecked with old-fashioned ornaments I still haven’t taken down from Christmas in July. There is also a pair of rusty skates, which I tried my hardest to spruce up—red tinsel and a can of oil only do so much. Then there are two antique dolls picnicking beneath the tree. Everyone likes the window display, this man included. He catches me staring, smirks, and walks to the store next door, the bookstore.

  Have I done something wrong to deserve the situation I’m in? And have I done something even more dreadful to deserve losing it?

  The door swings open as I contemplate closing early. It’s Ringmaster. He has a brown shopping bag in his right hand and a manila envelope in the left. With a grunt, he sets the bag at my feet and walks away.

  “What’s this?” I ask, wondering if it’s some inventory to sort. We haven’t had new inventory in ages.

  Ringmaster grunts and disappears into the back room for a moment. “Think of it as an incentive.” What does he mean?

  I tap the bag with my black ballet flat, and there is a loud clanking sound. “What’s in it?” But I already know, and I am full of relief and dread.

  He steps out of the backroom, sans envelope, and cracks the smallest of smiles. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

  My eyes widen. It’s all I can do to keep from clapping my hands together with glee. With cool nonchalance I leave the bag where it is and take a seat behind the counter. “We’re not closing?”

  Ringmaster swears but he doesn’t seem mad. Smirking, he waves at me to calm down. “Don’t get your hopes up, Scotch. I’ve found someone to lend me the money.” He sounds relieved, but his eyes are tired and worried.

  “Bank?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Banks hate me. They smell my hobo stench from a mile away and lock their doors. No, I found a friend who—Well, you don’t need to worry about all this. Just keep doing your job and you’ll keep your position. Understand?”

  No, but what’s the use in questioning him? He’ll only become terser than usual.

  Ringmaster frowns. “Didn’t you like what I got you?”

  “What? Oh, of course. Definitely.”

  He hoists the bag up onto the counter. “I hope you don’t mind. They’re smaller than usual.”

  I count six bottles. “Oh?”

  His eyes narrow. “Not getting picky now, are we?”

  “Of course not.” My hands act of their own accord, snatching a bottle and downing a mouthful of—not my usual; it’s too light to be my usual. “What is this?” I ask, not ungrateful.

  He laughs. “Champagne for my business associate, but of course.”

  I wonder how much it’ll take to get drunk, and my stomach lurches. “It’s nice.” I drink some more. “Sweet.”

  “Good. It’s supposed to be.” He produces a flask from his hip pocket, extends it toward my bottle, and proposes a toast. “To better days, the belief miracles just might happen, and—Well, enough of that.” Our vessels collide with a clink. “Cheers.” He shudders as he downs what I imagine is something much stronger than what I’m imbibing. “Don’t drink it all at once, all right, kid? Don’t want you dancing on the countertop.” He snorts, coughs, and forces more of his personal stash down his throat.

  “Don’t worry.” I don’t like this stuff as much as the usual, but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Before he can suspect I’m disappointed, I take another swig. And it’s all rain boots and umbrellas as my aching brain sloshes in time to the beating of my heart. Nothingness is far away, but this place is better than sober.

  A day passes like a punch to the face: so fast, I don’t know what happened. And it hurts because he didn’t come in. But it’s only one day; perhaps tomorrow will bring something better. But no, the next day passes and the next. Both are almost identical, and I wonder if I’ve been sucked into a vortex, forced to repeat the same day over and over out of penance. Déjá vu causes more drinking, and more drinking causes more sullenness and introspection, which I’d been hoping to avoid. The alcohol content in these bottles must be a lot lower than I’d thought. But it’s the thought that counts . . . I suppose.

  Ringmaster doesn’t stop in much either, almost forgetting to bring me my one full meal a day. It is Mexican. Both days it is Mexican. The same dish from the same restaurant. It’s only been three days, and I am about to start bottle number four but take pause. At this rate I’ll be dead before I reach thirty . . . tomorrow.

  The bottles are behind the counter, and I try not to look at them as I close shop for the night and head back to my apartment. As I strip out of my clothes, though, I see the stretchmarks on my stomach—marks that seem to burn me when I take a peek. Sober, I run back into the shop half-dressed, and snatch up the bottle I’d sipped out of earlier.

  I trip over my laundry basket on my way back to the shower. And I sit in the tub with my full bottle, and the water is cold, and I want to drink. I want to drown. It’s not like this is a milestone birthday, or that I am a birthday person. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. “You’ve been telling yourself lots of things lately, Scotch.” Bottoms up. I take one sip, make a face, and set the bottle on the toilet next to the tub.

  I want to cry, but no tears come. It’s like they’ve been cried out of my body many forgotten years ago. “You don’t care.” Another lie I tell myself. Shivering, I turn the water to warm and let my blood circulate again. I lather up, shave my legs and pits, and dry off with a hand towel, the one clean one left.

  And for the first time in my memory—which isn’t long—I pull out my hairdryer and blow my hair out clean and straight. I am all natural curls, so this takes some work. I am naked, and water pools at my feet. In the back of my mind I wonder if I’ll get electrocuted, but nothing like that happens.

  My clothes, which I send with Ringmaster to the laundry-mat every week, all look dull and boring. I slip into some clean underthings, and start pawing through the back of my closet. I’d forgotten all about my internet shipment from two months ago.

  It’s a canary-yellow cocktail dress with off-the-shoulder straps, a tight waist, and a flared skirt. Happy birthday to me . . . in two hours.

  I am going to leave this wretched shop that’s been my sanctuary and prison for so long. I am going to walk around the town, which I’ve never seen. A stupid decision for such a late hour, maybe, but I hear the night life is lively, and the crime rate is low. Why not take a chance?

  Somewhat excited, I rummage through a long-abandoned makeup case and paint my face. A light BB cream slathers on well, like it’s not a few years old. The mascara is ancient, but I risk it anyway, separating my clumped eyelashes with a pair of rusty tweezers. A little bit of smoky eye shadow, a hint of color to my cheeks, and last but not least, a reddish-brown lipstick, and I’m ready to go. Maybe.

  I eye myself in the mirror as I slip into heels that match my lips. That’s when I start seeing the split ends in my hair. It’s probably been years since I’ve been to a hair
dresser. But should I let something so stupid keep me from having a good time? I find a pair of scissors and snip at my locks, not bothering to sweep them up when I’m done. There. To the untrained eye, no problem. Only a pro would know what had happened here. One can hope.

  I’m almost ready to step out, but there’s a problem: My wallet, which hasn’t been used during these three years, contains three dollars. I groan Three dollars? That’s not enough for bus fare from here to . . . I don’t know, but it can’t be more than a couple of blocks. “Ugh.” There is some money in the till. It’s not like I ever get paid for anything. Room and board can’t be worth my entire pay check . . . can it? After a split second of weakness I shake my head. “Out of the question.”

  So I grab my three dollars, stuff them into my bra, and sweep out of the room before I can lose my nerve. I grab the key from the ring below the counter, punch my code into the new alarm, which flashes and beeps once, and am out the door. I am in such a hurry to be on my way, I don’t see him, and we almost collide.

  “I am so sorry,” says Ardal, hiding whatever it is he’s carrying behind his back.

  I reach and pick up the key, which I dropped, and some passing men whistle as I retrieve it. “What?” I laugh; my neighbor is scowling.

  He changes the subject. “You’re going out.”

  “I suppose so,” I say, trying not to sound sour. It’s not like this man owes me anything—I owe him more than a couple of dollars for the cup of coffee. Why should he have to stop in my shop?

  As if reading my thoughts, he says, “I haven’t seen you lately.”

  Again I laugh. “Yeah. Been busy?”

  “I was rather wondering why you didn’t stop in my shop.” He is teasing me, but a sinking feeling in my gut tells me I’m missing something.

  Now I’m feeling bad but don’t apologize. That doesn’t feel like what needs to be done. Nor do I make an excuse. Instead we stand in silence, each sizing the other up. This silence is intense and nigh unbreakable, but I surprise myself by being the first one to manage it. “Looks like rain.” It’s impossible to tell, seeing as it’s too dark out.