Andrew Ruth: The Blog: Banana In A Sling

Out my window, the sun sets, and as I watch the orange light creep across my wall, I realize that I didn’t pick up my purple wig from the dry cleaners – the shoulder-length one with the green streak on the front. I will try not to let that ruin my night. After all, I just bought new red fish-net stockings and a baby blue skin-tight slip. The slip, it has this figure eight cut into the small of the back; it’s so hot.

From my bed, my eyes half watching the sun sink from the room and half watching the fading memories of last night, I consider rising, but know that if I give my head another couple minutes the pounding will go away. I wish I had a maid who would bring me a Bloody Mary. I’d love to suck on the celery. A Bloody Mary, two shots of espresso, and three nicotine patches, that’s what I need.

I ask, “Maid?” and my throat hurts and no one answers. I say, “Maid.”

“Are you serious?” Through the closed bedroom door, from the living room, I hear, “Let’s see if I ask for your number.” The voice low and horse, it sounds like the Marlboro man.

I didn’t realize any one was in the house much less the Marlboro man. Sitting up in bed, my head pinging, I ask, “Who’s here?” and the door opens.

Standing in my room, five-foot-nothing and skinny with a buzz cut and a diamond nose stud, is not the Marlboro man. He says, “I thought you were never gonna get up.”

“Who’re you?”

“The guy who roofied you.”

“What?”

“The guy who roofied you.”

And I would ask ‘What?’ again, but instead, I sit lost in his statement.

“Just thought I’d be honest.”

“What?”

“Honest.”

Me, with the sheets pulled to my neck, my hair screaming Medusa, I ask, “You roofied me?”

“Right; so, I just said that.” Shaking his head, he says, “Jesus,” and leaves the room.

Pulling myself from the bed, my legs tied up in the sheets, my head hazy and gray, I find myself face-first on my hard-wood floor.

My head clears.

And I realize he’s not in my room and I’m alone and I don’t know what’s happening but I need to call the police and put some pants on because I’m wearing just my panties and I stand up but it’s hard because my right leg is asleep and I hear, “What are you doing?” and behind me is a lamp and I grab it and turn and hold it in front of me like some kind of saber.

He enters the room. In his hand, like my red, beating heart, is a Bloody Mary. He stands there in the doorway, the condensation building on the glass, his eyes big and cautious, and me on the other side of the room with my lamp held out, the shade my paper shield.

I ask, “What’re you doing here?”

“I roofied you –”

“Get out!”

“Come on,” he extends the Bloody Mary to me, “The hair of the dog.”

I extend the lamp toward him, and by doing so, hit the switch. The bulb, bright through the top of the shade, acts as a spotlight on this five-foot-nothing roofier. “I’m gonna – call the police!”

“But I stayed up all night.”

“What?”

“Thinking; you threw me for a loop.”

Here, safe behind my lamp, all I can think is that I’m not wearing any pants.

He says, “Not exactly what I expected, you know what I mean?” Slowly and evenly, he puts the Bloody Mary on the dresser near him. “Last night you put me through, like a – a transcendental awakening, or something. Like at first I was so angry, you know? Like I really wanted to do some bad shit, but then I got to thinking. And, then, I was sitting in the corner, you were snoring, and I don’t know; that was at, like, six in the morning, or something.”

“Jesus, what’re you talking about? Get outta my apartment.”

“What’d’a mean? You have a penis!”

And all I can think is that I’m not wearing any pants.

“So, it occurred to me that everything happens for a reason, and, yeah, so here we are.”

“You’re fucking nuts.”

He stands there at the door, his eyes quizzical, and says, “Right; so, this isn’t going how I thought.” He says, “I’ll just leave you my card.” From his back pocket, he produces a silver business card holder. It shines in the yellow light from my make-shift saber. He places the card on the dresser next to the crying Bloody Mary. “If you want to call.”

“You are so fucked up; get the fuck outta my place.”

And with a nod, he leaves. I hear the front door open and close.

My head pounds. I put the lamp down and go straight for the Bloody Mary. Sitting on my bed, the drink half gone, I see my new slip hanging from the closet door. Baby blue with a hot figure eight cut into the back. My head pounding, I try to figure out what to do, and consider that the baby blue slip will go nicely with my red heals. The drink finished, I put it on the night stand. I try to consider what to do, but can’t come up with anything.

I’ll pick up my purple wig tomorrow.