Asleep From Day

by Margarita Montimore

  I step around to the other side of the counter, ready to make a quick exit if she fires me.

  Minerva stands there, long and lean with eyebrows arched, poised like a cartoon villain ready to strike. She silently prompts me to speak.

  There’s no reasonable excuse I can think of and even if there were, I wouldn’t want to lie to her, not after she took a chance on hiring me. Might as well spill out the convoluted truth.

  “Okay . . . I was hit by a car last month and it turns out that there’s this twenty-four-hour period I can’t account for. All I can remember about it—vaguely—is that I met someone named Theo Collins. I was trying to track him down, so I called a bunch of people in the phone book that might be him. I’m hoping he’ll help fill me in on what happened that day, and also because I think—I don’t know, there might have been some kind of romantic thing . . .” Great, now I’m blushing like a little girl. “And if I had given him my number and he tried to call . . .” I explain about the fire at my Allston place.

  “Jesus . . .” She rubs her eyes like my confession has thoroughly confused and exhausted her. “But why couldn’t you tell these people the truth? Why come up with this convoluted story and involve my store?”

  Better yet, why not listen to Oliver and forget the whole stupid plan to begin with? “At the time, it seemed more complicated to go into what really happened. I was hoping that seeing Theo in person would jog my memory. If he ever showed up.” If he ever existed. “I realize it’s a terrible impression to make on my first day and, I promise, I’m not a drama queen. I’m a hard worker. I’m just going through some strange shit right now, but I’m getting it together, and I swear it won’t affect my work here.”

  “Except it kinda already has.” Her entire face seems to narrow as she considers what to do with me.

  There’s nothing else I can say to persuade her, so I chew on the inside of my cheek and stand perfectly quiet, perfectly still. Have I started sucking at life so badly, I’m going to get fired from two jobs in one month? Being responsible was one of the few things I actually took some pride in. How humiliating if I can’t even hold on to that.

  I plead with my eyes for another chance.

  She reaches under the counter and hands me a cloth.

  “Wipe down those front cabinets. And leave my store out of any other madcap plots, please.” She turns to go, changes her mind. “I’ve been through some shit, too, Astrid. Pretty dark shit. But you know what? You deal and then you get on with it.”

  So many questions on the tip of my tongue. I open my mouth, about to release one of them, but her face says, not now. Instead, I thank her and get to polishing cabinets.

  Minerva changes the CD to some kind of medieval chamber music.

  “Oh, and I don’t think the guy on the phone was the one you’re looking for,” she says. “He sounded about a hundred.”

  When I get home from work, Sally accosts me in the kitchen. The Lunar Haus party raised her spirits more than I expected it would. Her inconsistent heart has always baffled me; she’s had one-night stands that left her in mourning for months and long-term relationships she bounced back from seemingly overnight. Not that I think she’s recovered from Corey, but she’s decided Cambridge is the best place to do so. Daphne said she could use the spare room as long as necessary, so Sally’s taken a leave of absence from her job in New York, where she’s a furniture buyer for an upscale store that sells things like chairs made of mirrors and chandeliers fashioned from old pipes. Life is never boring when Sally is around, and while I could use more boring in my life right now, I am glad she’s here.

  “You must be hungry, let me heat up something up for you.” She pulls out a chair and gestures for me to sit. “We ate early tonight, but there’s lots of chicken curry and rice left over.”

  “Did you make it?”

  “No.”

  “Then sure, I’ll have some.”

  She shoots me a lighter version of her signature pouty scowl and prepares a plate for the microwave.

  “Why are you doting on me?” I ask. “Shouldn’t I be getting you bowls of ice cream and boxes of tissues and helping you cut Corey’s face out of photographs?”

  “I’m fine. But there’s something else you can do for me. With me.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Daphne and Zak are having a Buffy marathon to get ready for the new season, and I can’t watch any more teens running around killing monsters. I have to get out of the apartment.”

  “Weren’t you out all day?” I’ve spent hours on my feet and hoped for a quiet night with Memoirs of a Geisha, but trying to read with Sally around is like building a house of cards in an earthquake. I’m better off making sure she’s entertained. And I owe her some best friend time besides.

  “Yeah, but playing tourist this afternoon doesn’t count. I want to go out out. But not alone. Please tell me there’s something going on tonight.”

  She sets down a plate of curry before me; steam tinged with cardamom and coriander reminds me how hungry I am.

  “I don’t care where we go. As long as it’s somewhere I can get a drink to forget about my sham of a life for an hour or two,” she says.

  I grab the latest issue of the Phoenix to see what’s listed for tonight.

  “There’s a goth night near the Fenway. We could see if Daphne and Zak are interested,” I suggest.

  “Okay, maybe I care a little where we go. No offense, but I’m looking for something to cheer me up. Droning music and mopey people dancing like they’re caught in spiderwebs might not do the trick. Plus, those two are so wrapped up in their silly show, I don’t think they’re going to leave Sunnyvale any time soon.”

  “Sunnydale,” I correct her on Buffy’s fictional setting. “And it’s actually a really good show. You should give it a chance.”

  “Whatever.” She points to a triangle of pink paper peeking out of my jacket pocket. “What’s that?”

  “You’re our resident snoop, why don’t you find out?”

  She unfolds a pink flier with Jasleen’s number scrawled on the back of it.

  “Oh right, a friend I worked with gave me that. Some showcase for local bands. Her boyfriend’s in one of them. It’s not tonight, is it?”

  Please don’t let it be tonight. Please don’t make me spend more time on my feet, listening to the plonking and wailing of wannabe rock stars.

  She checks for a date and grins. “It’s fate. Is TT The Bear’s far from here?”

  I force my grimace into a grin. It can’t be about me tonight, it’s gotta be about what Sally needs. “TT’s is walking distance. I don’t know if these bands are any good, but we can go if you want.” If? Like there’s any question.

  “Sweet! What should I wear?” she asks.

  “A ball gown. It’s basically a bar, Sal. What you have on is fine.”

  She points down to her baggy jeans and baby doll T-shirt. “Are you crazy? You know I never wear pants to a club.”

  I finish eating while Sally Logic dictates a wardrobe change. She comes back wearing a slip dress and combat boots.

  “It’s not too much, is it?” She does a twirl.

  “The red lipstick and body glitter might be too much on someone else, but not on you.”

  “Is that what you’re wearing?”

  I actually made an effort for my first day at Curio City with a plaid grey jumper dress over a white shirt. “This is probably overdressed for TT’s, but I don’t feel like changing. Is my outfit a problem?”

  The purse of her lips says it is but out loud, she shows more tact. “It’s a little plain Jane schoolgirl, but I guess it’s fine. Please wear some of my lipstick?” A pleading sigh. She holds out the gold tube.

  The sooner I comply, the sooner we’ll be out of here, and the sooner we’ll be home, so I paint my mouth like a ‘40s starlet, which makes the rest of me feel frumpy by comparison.

  As we walk over to the club, I blot the lipstick on the back of my hand.

  We
reach the purple building of the Middle East and go around the corner to TT’s. A bouncer wider than the doorway checks our IDs, we go in, and I pay the cover for both of us.

  “I’ll take care of drinks,” Sally promises.

  There are a couple dozen people in the cozy club, and they all look like they’re stuck in the earlier grunge part of the decade: lots of torn jeans, plaid shirts, and unwashed hair. The band playing is all fuzzy guitars and choleric female shrieking, the lead singer a pale redhead in a lacy nightgown and torn fishnets who clutches at her chest like she’s trying to tear the flesh from her body.

  “If Courtney Love and Shirley Manson had a love child . . .” Sally says as I lead us to the bar, where she gets a rum and Coke for me and a Long Island Iced Tea for herself.

  A square-jawed guy with artful stubble and a forced squint I presume is his attempt at sexy gives us a drowsy smile. “It’s too bad you didn’t get here earlier, you already missed the best act,” he says.

  “Let me guess: yours,” I reply. “And you’re the lead singer.”

  “Hey, how’d you know? You see us play before?”

  Sally steps in front of me. “A lucky guess. What kind of music do you play?”

  I turn my back to them, leave her to flirt in peace.

  “Astrid!” Jasleen bounds over to me. She stands on her toes to give me a hug, smelling of pear body spray. “You’re just in time, The Blind Vultures are going on next. How are you doing? Any luck finding a new job?”

  “Actually, yeah, I’m working in retail until I figure out what I want to do next. Needed a break from the office scene.”

  “If you change your mind about that anytime soon, I’ve been talking to an editor at Houghton Mifflin whose assistant just gave notice. She’ll be interviewing replacements over the next few weeks and I could put in a good word for you.” She waves to the bartender, who slides over a drink and doesn’t charge her.

  I think of my new old room in Allston lined with stacks of books, and my new room down the street bereft of them. The free books were great, but more than that, working in publishing, even on an administrative level, gave me a sense of purpose and satisfaction I never had in any other job. The idea of returning to that industry fills me with odd longing.

  “I don’t think I’m ready to go back to publishing yet.” Why did I say that? I want to go back. “I think . . . I think I need to miss it more. Figure some other things out first.”

  “Hey, I get it.” The way Jasleen moves her head, I can’t tell if she’s nodding at me or bobbing to the music.

  “What’s been going on at the agency since I left?” I ask.

  “Jonathan had some obsolete currency go missing from his office and is installing security cameras. He was so livid, we thought we were going to have to take lie detector tests. The new office manager is like some evil old lady out of a Dickens novel. I keep expecting her to hit us with a ruler if we take too many paperclips. Nellie’s been a crab because she just found out her assistant is pregnant and probably quitting. But Nellie also . . .” She offers a modest shoulder twitch. “She recommended me for a promotion. I have to wait for all the paperwork to go through before it’s official, but as of next month, I’ll be a junior agent at Spellman Rosenberg.”

  “Finally! It’s about time. Congratulations.” I squint at her. “Why don’t you look happier about it?”

  “I just . . . I still feel really bad about what happened to you. Like I should’ve said something.” She slides her empty glass across the counter and won’t look at me. “Like maybe I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to mess up getting promoted. I was hoping I could help you get that job at Houghton to make up for it.”

  “Nothing you could’ve said would’ve changed Jonathan’s mind.” Jasleen doesn’t look convinced. “Really, it’s sweet of you, but it’s not like I was in a coma for two weeks. I should’ve called the office myself and explained the situation. None of this is on you.”

  Jasleen’s attention is diverted by someone who just walked in. “Damn, Charlie Chameleon is here. He writes for Boston magazine and I’ve been talking to him about doing a book proposal on influential musicians from New England.”

  “Go, go.” I playfully shoo her away.

  “Come by after the Vultures set. I’ll introduce you to my boyfriend. And let me know if you change your mind about the job stuff.”

  Another quick hug and she’s off, taking spring-loaded steps toward the door.

  I turn back to Sally, but she’s no longer at the bar. Did she already run off with Stubble Singer? I look around and—there she is, pressed up against an amp, half-dancing/half-making out with him. Good for her. I take a big sip of my drink. It’s not like I’m jealous, not at all, no really . . . Okay, maybe a little.

  Is that somebody waving at me from the other end of the bar? I crane my neck, but a tall dreadlocked man approaches to order a drink and blocks my view. Okay, let’s be cool in case the wave was meant for someone else. I walk over, trying to adopt a veneer of nonchalance.

  “Hey, stranger.”

  It’s Oliver, elbows out at sharp angles as he leans on the bar and sips a bottled beer. Like me, he’s overdressed, wearing grey suit pants and an untucked black button-down. Unlike me, he appears perfectly at ease in his surroundings.

  “Did you follow me?” I don’t mean to be so direct, but I’m too bewildered for a filter.

  “Of course not. I’ve been here for an hour, and I’ve heard two other equally mediocre bands before this one.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Except that I do.

  “Ask the bartender. I’ve been entertaining her with my doodles.” He gestures to a stack of napkins; sloppy stick figures adorn the top one.

  “How’d you know I’d be here?” I ask.

  “What makes you think I’m here to see you? Maybe I’m out to support some of my musical friends.”

  “Are you?”

  “Well . . . no.”

  “So what, your Spidey sense told you you’d find me here?”

  His shoulders pause in mid-shrug. “If that’s what you want to call it. I can leave if you want.”

  I should be unnerved, disturbed, and yet . . . “It’s okay. I don’t hate it that you’re here.”

  “That’s exactly the reluctant reaction I was hoping for when I was making myself all handsome for you.”

  “Every girl’s crazy for a sharp-dressed stalker.” How does he do it? How does he manage to crack me up even when I’m still suspicious of him? “I guess neither of us got the memo to dress grunge,” I say.

  “Thank god. I spent enough time looking like an ill-washed lumberjack in college. Hey, what happened to your hand?”

  I hold it up; it’s covered in red smudges from Sally’s lipstick.

  “My friend tried to give me a makeover.” I grab a cocktail napkin and wipe at the stains on my hand, then take a second one to blot my lips again.

  Oliver leans in close to my ear and says, “You know, avoiding red lipstick isn’t going to make you invisible. Your friend tries too hard to be noticed, but you try too hard to blend into the background. It works for her but it doesn’t work for you.”

  “Not all of us want the spotlight, Oliver.” I give him a tight smile. “Some of us prefer to be behind the curtain.”

  “Or that’s how you justify it because nobody’s ever let you have center stage.”

  The way he zeroes in his attention on me is both thrilling and unnerving. “I’m fine where I am.”

  He looks at me like he’s multiplying a long string of numbers in his head. A pause and he has the answer. “Nope. I don’t buy it.”

  I need another drink. Before I say anything, Oliver signals to the bartender.

  “What are you having?” he points at me.

  “Doesn’t your sixth sense tell you?” I nudge him with my elbow.

  “I don’t actually read minds, contrary to what you may think.” He leans down and sniffs the remains in my plastic cup. “
But my regular sense of smell tells me you had something with rum. Help a guy out?”

  “Captain and Coke. Thanks.”

  While he’s paying for the drinks, Sally comes over. Her lipstick is smeared around her mouth and she’s holding hands with Stubble Singer, who wears the rest of it.

  “I’m taking off with Marshall. See you tomorrow.”

  “Wait. You don’t even know this guy. No offense,” I say in case Marshall can hear me. He doesn’t react.

  “That’s what I like about him. Don’t worry, we’re going to get condoms at CVS first.”

  She kisses my cheek and is pulled away before I can say anything else.

  “She’ll be fine. It’s only a harmless one-night stand. It’s what she came here to find.” Oliver hands me my drink.

  “Is that what you came here to find?” Oh god, I really said that. Why is my inner-censor broken around this guy?

  He gives me a you-should-know-better look. “Do I really need to answer that?”

  As I scramble for a response, The Blind Vultures begin their set, pausing further conversation. They play their instruments like they’re angry at them, filling the space with melodious grit and reverb. A male and female guitarist take turns speak-singing into the microphone, until the chorus, when they tunefully shout.

  “Not bad,” Oliver assesses after the first song. “Kind of a poor man’s Pixies.”

  “Agreed.” I pick up my drink as the second song begins. Before I can take a sip, the edges of my vision go dark. The pain at the base of my skull is so instant and acute, it’s like someone threw a brick at my head. The plastic cup slips through my fingers and my knees start to give way. Determined hands on my upper arms keep me from collapsing to the floor.