Chapter 1
2:37 in the morning.
The air was thick from summer heat. It had been going for way too long—two years of summer. Wait, that can’t be right. Well, it sure felt like it. Anyway, her throat was dry, she needed something to chug on.
She finally gathered enough willpower to sit. Another seven minutes in that position, then another strike of willpower was needed. Found it. She stood up and walked to the door, banged her head on it, and looked up at the ceiling.
“Why am I like this?” Not a question.
The stairs, oh the stairs. They had a mind of their own tonight. She skipped the last step—her second head-bang in three minutes. The plastered wall this time, but it was always the stairs’ fault.
Her steps dragged, a bunny rabbit sandal caught all sorts of stuff. Her stuff. One left shoe, a bra, a second bra. A laundry basket that had no business being so close to the couch, and an empty bottle of whiskey.
“Hmm, that was a good one.”
Her eyes were still half-lidded when she stumbled upon the next few things. Her phone, her office bag, her dog’s tail, and a hippopotamus. Wait, what? No, it was her leather couch.
After what seemed like an eternity, her fingers finally found the handle of the fridge. She opened it, reached in, grabbed a bottle of milk, and took a swig.
It was empty.
Her eyes were wide open now. She shook the bottle in a last, futile attempt. Nope. Nothing. Nada. Not even a single drop of failing hope. The well was dry.
She cursed the “yesterday self” for keeping the empty bottle trap and had already begun plotting her revenge against her “tomorrow self.”
“You’re in this too?” she rolled her eyes at the bottle. It didn’t answer. She stared into the open fridge, it almost sounded like a judgmental beehive.
The door slammed. She turned around, leaning her back against the cool metal, then jumped straight again. Too cold.
The room was now filled with the rhythmical strum of her dog’s tail. “You’re not helping,” she muttered to the tail.
She had two choices now, laid bare in front of her like the flip of a coin.First, the convenience store saga. Putting in actual effort to face the daunting challenge of a three-block adventure. She knew what awaited her—the arctic air conditioning and a clerk who smelled like curry.
The second option was less dramatic, the kitchen sink. Admit defeat and drink lukewarm tap water like a medieval peasant.
She looked at the empty whiskey bottle on the floor. Then at the laundry basket. Then at the ceiling, brainstorming the idea as if she were a contestant on The Price is Right. The sink was right there, within arm’s reach. The glass cabinet was not, but that shouldn’t be a problem.
But no. That was the easy way out, and she was a warrior.
A newfound flare filled her eyes. Half a flare. Okay, a fraction. Enough to get her through the hippopotamus and her dog.
Now came the stairs. The warrior reconsidered, the sink was still there. She looked down at herself, a loose t-shirt and panties. Don’t forget the bunny rabbit sandals. Her long coat would cover everything up. Deal.
The jug of change was her next victim. She opened it so fast it almost fell to the ground. But it didn’t, and five bucks were in her hand. Perfect. The said long coat was over her shoulder now. The door closed behind her.
She fell asleep for a microsecond in the elevator that took her to the ground floor. “We’re doing this,” she clenched her fist.
“Who’s we? Doing what?” said the bum lying on the bench in front of her apartment.
She ignored him and started walking.
Three steps. Turned around. Wrong direction.
The warrior’s march was off to a rocky start. Well, more like a wobbling start. She pivoted with all the grace of something that was meant to be, the bunny ears of her intricate footwear flopping in the air at the sudden change in trajectory.
She stomped against the pavement, which seemed to have all the unevenness of the moon’s surface. Her mind was in a tunneled focus. One Direction—no, not the band.
She reached the corner. The neon sign flickered like a dying heartbeat. 4-hour, it said. She took a second look. 24-hour. The ‘2’ was already dead.
The bell chimed, the door opened. The whole winter of the wilderness crashed onto her face with the smell of cheap air freshener. Her “armor” didn’t help much against the crude invader, but something like this was never enough to stop her. She had faced worse. Her mother.
The clerk didn’t even look up from his magazine. He had reached a level of Zen that could only come from working the graveyard shift in a city that only slept once a week.
She reached her lifelong destination, the dairy aisle. Rows of white cartons stood at attention. Whole. 2%. Skim. Almond. Oat. The choices were overwhelming. Her warrior brain began to over-analyze, fueled by a fraction of a flare and zero hydration.
The Skim. The wannabe milk. Water that thought it was better than the rest. The Whole, liquid gold. A commitment. She was not sure if she was at that stage of life yet. The Oat, when you were so absolutely committed that you brought God into the business.
No, that was “oath.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. She just sighed and grabbed something without looking back. It was cold. It was heavy. It was victory.
She turned to head for the register, but her bunny sandals had other thoughts. They kissed a promotional display of discounted protein bars. The warrior wobbled. For a second, the floor zoomed in. A test for the devotee.
Whoops, she recovered just in time.
She stared at her bunny rabbit, and it stared back. A moment passed before she decided that it was a losing battle. She walked to the cashier, the sound of her thuds echoing throughout the store.
But the clerk didn’t even flinch. A girl in a long coat, panties, and bunny sandals? Just another Tuesday.
“Five thirty-five,” he said plainly.
Her eyes widened. “That’s a robbery!”
“Five-fifty now.”
Her eyes narrowed into slits. But once again, the clerk didn’t even flinch. She looked down at her fist—a crumpled and lonely five-dollar bill. Sad.
The 2:00 AM convenience store inflation was not a myth. It was as real as the betrayal of the jar of change back at her house.
She kept staring at the five-dollar bill in her hand. The lack of dignity in it. It looked so close, yet so far away.
“I have five,” she whispered. “And I helped an old lady cross the street the other day.”
The clerk finally looked up. His eyes were bags under bags—the eyes of a man who had seen people try to trade hubcaps for cigarettes. “I have seven, and an old lady who permanently stays at my house.”
She cocked her head. “What?”
“Kids, and a mother-in-law,” said the clerk with obscene sincerity. “I thought we were comparing numbers.”
She flinched and closed her eyes, refusing to let the image of his mother-in-law infiltrate her mind any further. Her fingers dived into the deep, dark pockets of the coat—pockets that hadn’t been emptied since... she couldn’t remember. She felt something crinkle. A receipt? No. A gum wrapper? Too thin.
Her fingers finally clamped onto something metal. Circular. Cold.
She pulled it out and slammed it onto the counter with the force of a Viking’s axe. A quarter. Then another. And a nickel that was covered in something sticky—probably a prehistoric gummy bear.
“Five. Eighty. Five,” she pointed at the counter with a grin that deserved an Oscar.
The clerk looked at the pile of coins. He sighed—a sound that carried the weight of the entire universe. Without a word, and ever so slowly, he swiped the five-dollar bill and the quarters into the drawer. The sticky nickel stayed.
“Keep the change,” he muttered. “You’ve won, Warrior.”
She didn’t wait for a bag. She grabbed the cold, sweating carton of milk, raised it like a trophy she deserved, and spun toward the door. The humid night air hit her again, but this time, she had the prize. She marched past the bum on the bench.
“You win?” he asked, not opening his eyes.
“I am the storm,” she gloated.
She reached her apartment door, fumbled with the keys, and finally—finally—tripped over the laundry basket one last time as she made it to the kitchen. She didn’t even grab a glass. No, glasses were for losers and she was not one of them. Not tonight.
She ripped the tab off, the plastic ring flying somewhere behind the fridge, and tilted her head back. The liquid hit the back of her throat with a funky, earthy tang that was decidedly not cow-related.
She froze. The carton stayed tilted upward, held in mid-air like a war horn ready to be blown. Her taste buds, finally waking up from their dehydrated slumber, sent a distress signal to her brain. Abort. This is not the creamy oasis we discussed.
Slowly, she lowered the carton and squinted at the label through the dim light of the open fridge. There, under a jaunty illustration of a goat with a very smug expression, were the words, “ALPHAVILLE’S FINEST: 100% PURE GOAT MILK (UNPASTEURIZED - EXTRA MUSK!)”
The warrior gagged. It was thick. It was gamey. It was nothing like what heaven should taste like. It tasted like the goat she had seen at a petting zoo three years ago—not to suggest that she had licked it at the time.
“The clerk,” she hissed, full of conspiratorial venom. “He knew. He saw a desperate soul and he chose violence.”
She looked at the sink. The “easy way out” was still there, undeterred by the new revelation. She could pour it down the drain and drink lukewarm tap water, or she could honor the five dollars—and the sixty cents—she had bled to get this.
The dog trotted into the kitchen, smelling the opportunity. He looked up at her, then at the carton, then back at her, and let out a short, judgmental “woof.”
“Don’t start,” she told him, her voice sounding more like a rusty hinge than before.
She looked back at the goat on the carton. The goat looked back, its horizontal pupils seemingly staring into her very soul. She had survived the stairs, the head-bangs, the hippopotamus-couch, and the sticky nickel.
She took another sip.
It didn’t get better. It tasted like a farm in a bottle. But as she stood there in her long coat and bunny sandals, a strange sense of pride washed over her. She was a warrior of the absurd. She walked over to the laundry basket, sat right on top of the unfolded towels, and shared a look with the dog.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered, “we’re buying a cow.”
