Sundays are for Hangovers

by J. D. Hollyfield

  Just then, my stomach growls. Seeing we still have thirty minutes before the alarm goes off, I squirm out of Will’s tight hold on me, having to fight twice at pulling his grip-of-steel off my boob. My stomach growls again, and I slip on a pair of Will’s boxers and my bra, then tiptoe out of his room and to the kitchen.

  I go straight to the fridge, wanting to wake Will up with a yummy breakfast before work. It’s the least I can do to thank him for such an awesome night I had.

  The problem is, when I open his fridge, I remember I don’t know how to cook. “How hard can this be?” I ask myself, pushing around items in search of eggs. “Okay, no eggs.” Who doesn’t have eggs? Me, since I don’t cook and entrust in those food services to deliver my premade meals.

  I find a box that has a picture of an egg on it. “Egg whites,” I repeat. “Hmm…eggs in a box. Okay then.” I pull them out, along with some weird organic ham and some vegan cheese? What is this poor man eating? He eats steak, so I know he’s not a vegetarian. Not sure how he ended up with vegan cheese. I’m tempted to walk home and grab us some microwavable omelets made with real ham and cheese.

  I search out some pans, finding them in the cabinet below the stove. Oil, check. Spices, check. My stomach growls again, which puts another great idea in my head. “Pancakes. Pancakes sound delicious right now.” I try and remember the ingredients from a Food Network show Daryl and I watched one day about breakfast, and go in search of more stuff.

  I manage to cover all of Will’s kitchen counters with ingredients. Placing the pan on the stove, I turn on the heat and pour a bunch of oil in it. “Okay, while that heats up, let’s make the batter.” I’m feeling good. Like really good. I haven’t had a skip in my step like this for a very long time. Per the instructions, if I remember correctly, I add a cup of flour. It doesn’t look like it would make enough, so I alter the recipe and add two more cups into my bowl. I remember the recipe calling for eggs, but Will doesn’t have any, so I take a guess and match the flour, pouring three cups of egg white mixture into the bowl.

  A loud ding sounds behind me, making me jump. I accidently knock over the milk when I turn to see the coffee maker start. “Jesus.” I grab at my chest. I look around, trying to find a towel to clean up the milk, when I notice smoke coming from the pan. “Oh shit.” I quickly grab the box of liquid eggs and pour them into the searing hot pan. At least they’ll cook fast—

  “Shit!” I yelp as the pan crackles and the egg mixture starts to sizzle and spit back at me. I grab the towel hanging over the stove handle and use it to swipe at the building smoke. The eggs crackle louder and escalate, a flame blowing up the side of the pan.

  “Oh no…” That’s not good. I use the towel to slap the flames, only to catch the towel on fire. “Oh no no no.” I begin to panic. Rightfully so, since the pan is fully on fire. I turn to grab something, anything off the counter to stop the fire, but my hand knocks the bowl of pancake mixture off, spilling all over the floor. I squeal as the mixture soaks my feet.

  “Shit!” The kitchen quickly fills with smoke.

  The smoke triggers the fire alarm, which starts blaring throughout the house. I know I need to put this fire out before I burn Will’s house down. What are the chances Will doesn’t wake up to this and I can get it handled first?

  I glance at the coffee pot.

  Bingo.

  You got this, girl.

  I take the pot and throw the hot liquid over the pan.

  And the fire erupts.

  You don’t got this, girl.

  “What in the hell is going on?”

  I whip around to see Will in just a pair of black boxers. Man, he looks angry. “I was just trying—”

  He cuts me off by pulling me away from the stove. Once he turns the knob and shuts off the stove, he grabs the pan and throws it in the sink, hissing as he burns himself in the process.

  “Uh, Will? The fire is, uh…” I can’t even spit it out. Will turns to see the flames catch fire to the backsplash. He jumps into action, grabbing a fire extinguisher under the sink, and blasts the stove, then wall. We both hear the cracking of the coffee pot spilling coffee all over the base and counter.

  Will points and shoots at the coffee maker.

  “Open the back door. NOW,” he snaps.

  I jump, running to the back door and do as I’m told. A gust of smoke races out into the open air.

  I turn back. “I tell ya, they really need to put better instructions on those—”

  “What the hell did you do?” Will stares at the wreckage. Uh-oh. Someone doesn’t look very happy. I also take note of the destroyed kitchen.

  “It doesn’t look that ba—”

  “My stove is ruined. My coffee pot is ruined. Look at my goddamn wall!”

  “Okay, I think you’re overreacting. It’s just a small—”

  He throws his hand up to silence me. “Stop. Just stop.” He drags his hands up his face and into his hair. He seems really fixated on the coffee pot.

  “The good thing is you can replace that old thing,” I say, trying to make light of the situation.

  “That was a brand-new Jura 15093 automatic coffee machine with built in expresso and milk foam capabilities,” he growls.

  “No big deal. I’ll just buy you another one.” Still trying to see the positive side of this.

  Without pulling his eyes away from the destruction, he responds, “That’s a three-thousand-dollar machine. I’m sure very much out of your budget.”

  I can’t help but feel the verbal blow. My eyebrows crease in anger. I know I don’t have a right to be mad, since I almost burned his kitchen down, but throwing jabs at me that he’s clearly wrong about doesn’t sit well with me. “Yeah, well, who says I can’t? And why do you have such a silly machine anyway?”

  His hands go back down his face. He takes in a deep breath. “Because that’s what I prefer. Do I also need a reason not to have you set the damn thing on fire? And look at this mess. The damage. My floor…” He continues to point out the unimportant things. All things that can be replaced. Way to ask me if I was okay. Make sure I didn’t get hurt, trying to cook him breakfast.

  “Yeah, I see it. I see an accident. I see all things replaceable. But don’t worry, I’m okay. No need to bother asking.” I don’t stick around for his response. I storm past him to the front door. I don’t care that I’m just in a bra and his boxers. It seems to be becoming a thing for me to walk scantily across our front yards.

  “Lilith, wait,” he calls behind me, but I don’t stop. Screw him. “Lilith, wait. I’m sorry—”

  I slam the door on his apology.

  “…And that was ‘Soul Suckin’ Jerk’ by Beck. Definitely one of my favorites and one I can relate to today.”

  “Why’s that, Lil?” D asks into his mic.

  “Well, D, because I know a few. Which brings us to our topic today. Jerks.”

  Daryl laughs into his microphone, punching in a few sound effects. “Uh-oh. What brings on the mood, girl?”

  “Oh, nothing, just thought today would be a good day to talk about it. We’re talkin’ about anal jerks who are r-u-d-e. The ones you mistake for nice guys. Understanding guys. But nooooo. They flip out first, ask questions later. We got any callers who know these kinds of guys? Call in.”

  “The lines are open. Let’s hear it, Morristown. Let’s call out those jerks.” Daryl turns off the Live on Air button and plays a quick rendition of “You Learn” by Alanis Morissette, as the lines light up.

  He begins to open his mouth and I stop him. “Don’t even.” I have no interest in talking about Will and that’s exactly who Daryl wants to talk about.

  The door to the small studio opens and Leon, our boss, sticks his head in. “Guys, I got the ratings in from yesterday. Good work. Whatever you did, keep it up.”

  Daryl’s eyes light up. “Could it have been our special first-time caller?”

  I mouth “shut up or die.” He laughs at my expense and waves Leon away knowing, we go ba
ck live in three, two, and he clicks back on the Live on Air light.

  “We’re back, and looks like Morristown might be filled with more jerks than we thought. Our phone lines are lit up like a Christmas tree. Hello to our first caller. What’s your name?”

  “Christine. Love you guys. Love your show.”

  I lean closer to my mic. “Thanks for calling, Christine. Tell us your jerk story.”

  “Lil, I swear it, my boyfriend…” She pauses and we hear her sniffle. “I mean ex-boyfriend. He straight up dogged me. Told me I was no good and left me for my…my…sister.” Christine breaks down crying.

  Daryl plays some ‘gasping’ sound effects and pulls his mic close to him. “Dang, girl. Now that’s a jerk! We’re sorry to hear that. We’re gonna treat you to a free manicure at Betty’s Salon on Sixth Avenue. Tell ’em Big D and Lil sent you. Chin up, girl, thanks for calling.” He lets her go and hits another lit line. “Yo, caller, what’s your name?”

  “Oh my God, I got through! I listen to you guys all the time!”

  I speak into my mic. “We love hearin’ that! Now let’s hear your not so lovin’ jerk story, honey.”

  “A coworker of mine. He’s been hitting on me since I started. Finally asked me out. I said no because, you know, I don’t want to mix business with pleasure, and when I turned him down, the jerk went and complained to HR that I was harassing him!”

  “He did not!” I yelp in my mic. “I hope you took your shoe to his…” I lose my concentration when Kasey, our intern, starts banging on the window, holding up three fingers. I stare at her, having no idea what she’s trying to tell me. Daryl turns and nods.

  “Thanks for callin’, honey. You need to take yourself to Manny’s. Have some of his famous tacos and margaritas. Tell him we sent ya and get a fifteen-percent discount.” Daryl disconnects the caller and clicks on line three. Ahhh… “Hello, caller, you’re on the air. You got a jerk story for us?”

  “Hey, Big D. Thanks for taking my call.”

  That voice.

  Uptight, anal, sexy, jerk voice.

  “I recognize the voice from yesterday. Mr. Wonka, right?” He smiles at me.

  I scribble on a pad of paper and hold it up that says, ‘hang up.’ Of course, his big arrogant ass shakes his head.

  “You callin’ to give us an update on your date?”

  “Yeah, I could use some advice from your listeners. You see, remember that neighbor I told you about?”

  “Yeah, the crazy one?”

  Oh no, he didn’t.

  I toss my stress ball at Daryl, nailing him in the forehead.

  “Yeah. Well, I took your advice. Picked her up and took her on that date. We had an amazing night. I’ve never seen someone take down so many cheese sticks in one sitting.”

  Oh no, he didn’t!

  I slam my hand on the desk. “Wow, sounds like she found you boring, so she passed the time on more exciting things like gooey cheese sticks.”

  Will responds, “No, trust me. She had a great time. She moaned how great a time she was having in the back room of the bar. And moans don’t lie.”

  Daryl busts out laughing.

  “Lies! Next caller—”

  “So, what’s the problem, Mr. Wonka? Sounds like all should be good in paradise.”

  Will sighs loud, that overdramatic faker. “Yeah, it was until I woke up to her trying to burn my kitchen down.” Oh, come on! He makes it sound way more dramatic than what really happened.

  I let out an exaggerated huff. “I’m sure it didn’t happen like that.”

  “Oh, it did.”

  We both hear banging on the window and see Leon motioning for us to go with it. Of course, Daryl gladly follows along. “Oh, hell no. Say again, Mr. Wonka. Your crazy neighbor did what?”

  “I have the damage report from the fire department to prove it. I thought I gave her the night of her life. She even screamed so a few times. I was hoping maybe your listeners could help me figure out what I did wrong.”

  “Pfft, maybe she was trying to do something nice for you and accidents do happen,” I bark off, tapping my fingers on the studio desk in front of me.

  “I don’t know. She ruined my favorite coffee maker. I’m also going to have to replace the stove. Not to mention the wall she set on fire. Should I go into what she did to my floor?”

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  Daryl and I answer at the same time. I’m sure it’s obvious who said what.

  “Man, your neighbor does sound cray cray. You sure she’s worth it, man?”

  I’m going to kill both of these two dimwits.

  “I think so. I mean, if you saw her in red—”

  I jump in before he goes any further. “I’m sure if you had let her explain what she was trying to do you may have realized she was trying to do something nice for you. But you sound like a man who flies off the handle before asking questions, Mr. Wonka. Am I right?”

  “That you are, Lil.”

  Damn, he catches me off guard by his admittance. That’s also the first time he’s called me Lil. And it sounds stupid sexy off his lips. “So, am I right that maybe if you had asked what happened, you would’ve realized maybe she was trying to do something super nice for you since you showed her a great time last night?”

  There’s a stretch of silence where I fear he may have hung up.

  “You still there, Mr. Wonka?” Daryl chimes in.

  “Yeah. I was just thinking how she showed me more than a great time last night. I got to see a side I feel people rarely get to see from her. I saw her truly happy and at ease. I don’t know how to explain it. She’s becoming like a strong drug for me. I always feel high in her presence. And I know after last night I’m slowly becoming addicted to her.”

  Oh shit.

  A swarm of butterflies flutter around in my belly.

  “Wow, that’s some deep stuff, homie. What would you say to your neighbor if she were listening right now?” Daryl pokes, because I’m a bit too jaw locked to speak.

  “Big D, I’d tell her I was the jerk. I shouldn’t have gotten so mad. You see, I’m kind of crazy myself. I like things in order you could say—”

  I break in with a chuckle because liking things in order is an understatement.

  “Anyway, it’s like inviting a bull into a china shop—”

  “Who you callin’ a bull?” I cut in. Just when I thought he was saving himself. Daryl won’t stop laughing and Leon won’t get out of that damn window, encouraging us to keep Will talking. Little does Leon know…

  “Well, listeners, sounds like our man Mr. Wonka here’s in a predicament. Should he try workin’ it out with his crazy neighbor?” D asks. “The one who makes him high on the sight of her? Or should he ditch her like a bad habit and rehab his love life? Let’s help Wonka decide. Make sure to jump onto our Facebook page and vote. We gotta cut to commercial. Thanks, Mr. Wonka, for callin’ in.”

  I take us off air as Daryl starts playing “Your Decision” by Alice in Chains.

  How fitting.

  Who’s Wonka?

  What’s his real name?

  Where can they find this crazy neighbor?

  The calls didn’t stop. They wanted to know who the crazy neighbor was so they could avenge him or high five her. People hated her or loved her. I couldn’t even imagine the fear I’d feel if anyone caught on I was that crazy neighbor. But then again, the mere thought of Will losing his shit over all the picketers on his precious lawn, is enticing.

  So many saw him as the poor martyr. This perfect, stable guy who just wanted to show a girl a great night out. The last comment about him being high on her? Man, did our listeners eat that shit up. I did too, until those same listeners called in, one after another, stating how he should dump his crazy neighbor. The amount of times a caller tried blasting their phone number on air was seriously pissing me off. The problem was I couldn’t tell the difference between anger and jealousy. Was I jealous? All these damn nobodies calling and thro
wing themselves at my man. Was he my man?

  I accidently set his kitchen on fire. Keyword, accidently! I lost count of how many times I was so close to losing my cool and explaining myself on air. I also bet that my neighbor was listening all day, eating it all up. Don’t get me started on how much fun Daryl was having with all this. By the end of the day I settled the debate myself. I was no longer jealous but angry and there was only one thing to be done. To get even.

  Because setting someone’s kitchen on fire isn’t enough.

  I pass on going to Manny’s for half-off tacos and go home.

  In the beginning of the day there was huge guilt about what I did. I know it was an accident. But his comment doesn’t make it right about me not being able to afford to replace his stupid coffee maker. It’s just another reason why I hate money. Why should me being able to afford it or not define how sorry I was? I did the right thing and ordered him a new one, but after the day I dealt with, I called the company back and made an adjustment.

  Hope he likes his fancy pink coffee maker.

  I pull into my driveway and notice fireman Hank’s SUV parked on the sidewalk. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble. There’s no way he can possibly think my detectors are still bad. I park and get out just as Hank is walking down my porch steps.

  “Hey, what happened?” Not sure how he got in my house. Crazy next door probably called in a fake fire.

  “Oh, uh, hey. Sorry. I—we got a call.” He tips his head to the house beside mine.

  Of course they did. I eye the house next door, shooting death lasers at his clean shutters, and watch them pretend to fall to pieces. Then his roof starts caving in and—

  “Everything’s good, though. No fire. So…I’ll just be on my way.” Hank tips his cute fire hat and hurries to his car.

  “Oh, okay then.”

  Geez, what’s his problem?

  He’s probably afraid I’m going to jump him and force him into my house again. That was kinda wrong, I think to myself as I grab the mail from the small box attached to my house and walk in. I shut the door and throw my mail onto the small entrance table.