I woke up to the sound of myself sneezing, and I realized how cold I was. I reached for the blankets and didn’t find them. I didn’t remember leaving the window open either. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and didn’t find the floor. A little more consciousness made it into my forebrain and I forced my resisting eyes open. I wasn’t in my own bed. I wasn’t in a bed at all. I was uncomfortably sprawled in an alley next to a rusty dumpster. It smelled like trash day was tomorrow. Fortunately, I didn’t hear anything like rats. I heard they would nibble on your fingers and toes if they were hungry and you were unconscious. At least vultures wait until you’re completely dead.
Time to take stock of the situation. My eyes were full of sand, my mouth tasted like whiskey-flavored cotton, I smelled like a bottle of Jameson’s, my shoes were missing, and my head hurt like it was being pounded on by a ball peen hammer in three different places. I checked it gingerly for new lumps. None. I also wasn’t nauseated, which was a relief of sorts. It appeared I was in no danger of another concussion, but everything hurt. I shivered and sneezed again. How did I end up here? Where was here? I wanted a blanket and a cup of coffee. I remembered the pushy woman with the red hair and bulging eyes
Coffee. Last thing I remembered was having coffee at the McCoys’. MacKays’. I had been waiting for Madeline and the sniffly woman with the auburn hair gave me a mug of Irish coffee. Not necessarily in that order. I sat up, wrinkling my nose at the cacophony of smells. I wondered if I was still in Slidell or was back in New Orleans proper. What time was it? I hadn’t worn a watch or taken my cell phone with me. There was something I’d ever do again.
The alley appeared to be next to a dark red brick apartment building. One light affixed to the building lit the doorway; another one in a streetlight flickered, giving the shadows an eerie orange glow. No lights appeared to be on in the building. I shivered, both from the cold and from increasing fear. I looked around and saw my clutch purse on the ground. My cash was gone, but my ATM card and driver’s license were still there. Good. Get me to a cash machine and I could get a cab home from wherever the hell I was.
I moved toward the light, wincing with each stockinged step. No signs of life in the apartment building. I walked around to its front entrance. Securely locked. The residents apparently needed a key card to get in. There was no doorman, and no phone in the lobby anyway. I didn’t recognize where I was. My choices appeared to be curl up and sleep in the doorway, waiting for someone to come home or go out or I could venture out into the street and find a pay phone, a cop or other forms of civilization. I didn’t like either option very much.
I saw no street signs, but there appeared to be a few more lights to my right. I walked in that direction for a few yards. The pavement hurt my cold might-as-well-be-bare feet and I stumbled a few times on small rocks I couldn’t see until it was too late. I’d apparently been mugged by another size eight with a taste for Italian leather. I decided that was circumstantial evidence I was probably still in Slidell, where the crime rate ran more to white-collar and the wardrobes ran to designer.
Still, even the rich get junk food cravings and need gas. After walking for what seemed like an age, I saw the familiar red and green of a Seven-Eleven sign. It had two pay phones outside. One was missing the receiver; the other had no dial tone. I staggered into the store, happy to see another human face. Or I was until the balding, middle-aged, swarthy guy behind the counter opened his mouth.
“You have no shoes, you no come in!”
“Please. I need to use your phone.” I sneezed and wiped my nose on my sweater.
“Sign on door. No shirt, no shoe, no service! You leave now!”
So much for depending on the kindness of strangers. I took a breath and tried reason. I didn’t see a badge on his oxford shirt, just a frayed collar, so I couldn’t address him by name. “Sir, look at me, do I look like I’m going to cause trouble? Your phones outside are broken, I need to call a cab and get home to the French Quarter, please.”
That only served to enrage him further. “You trouble! No prostitute in my store! You go now!”
Prostitute? I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Mom would have gone into horrified shock. Marie would have laughed, after taking a minute to be thoroughly insulted. Me, I had reached the end of my rope and gone right to incensed. I walked up to the counter and leaned over. I was five inches taller than he was and I used it.
“Look, Mister. I just woke up cold and shivering in an alley a few blocks away. I don’t know how I got there, what time it is, or if I’m still in the goddamned state of Louisiana.” Actually, that part I did know, the newspapers for sale were all New Orleans-based. “Now, I may not look like your idea of a respectable woman, but I’ll tell you this right now: I know a damn good lawyer who knows all the right people to call to get the Health Department, the cops, and/or the INS to land all over your cranky ass. Knowing that, are you going to let me have the phone or do you want to see what happens when I get angry?”
He handed me the phone.
“Thank you,” I said with as much grace as I could muster, which was not a hell of a lot. Instead of finding a cab, I decided to dial Marie’s cell. No message came on saying I needed to dial a one. Good, I wasn’t that far out of town. I got Marie’s voice mail. I tried Michael’s cell phone number and got his voicemail. Damn. I hung up and called right back. This time he answered on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Michael, it’s me,” I said with calm I did not feel.
“Zo, where the hell are you?”
“I’m not sure. I think I’m in Slidell.” The clerk nodded a nervous affirmative. I covered the receiver and asked for the address.
“What are you doing in . . . Never mind. Where in Slidell are you? I’ll come get you.” The clerk wrote down the address and handed it to me. I read it off to Michael.
“Stay right there, Zo. I’m on my way.”
I handed the phone back to short, dark and irritable. “Thank you. Your ladies’ room would be where?”
He pointed towards the back of the store.