Best Day Ever!

By Laura J. Snyder

            I collapsed on the couch, letting my limbs fall where they may. Legs spread out in a manner that would make my mother blush with shame. Not that there was anyone to witness said shame. Except perhaps Albert. But he’s a goldfish and pretty sure he’s seen more than me spread on the couch in an unladylike manner. Naked. The fish has seen me naked. His black eyes staring with interest and his mouth opening and closing. Are you amused, Albert?

            I can feel my body sinking deeper into the old worn-out couch. It barely fits in my studio apartment. It’s fine. The couch can have me. Just swallow me and eat me whole. Put me out of my misery. My bed is only a few feet away. I could just as easily seek refuge there, but the couch was closer to the door. Plus, there is just something more satisfyingly dramatic about collapsing onto a couch rather than a flop onto the bed.

            What a shit day.

            Even the power of a scalding hot bath laced with all the lavender in the world could not wash away the awful. I surrendered to the couch and there would be no movement from me. Unless… I am pretty sure there is still half a bottle of wine in the fridge. I can roll off the couch for wine. Nope. Not yet though, my knees still hurt.

I look down to see the ruins. Leggings torn, I can see knees scraped and bloodied, through the shredded bits of fabric. My shirt is trashed too, covered in stains, what is that? Coffee? Oh… right. I forgot about the coffee. Ugh. It wasn’t even my coffee. How did I forget about the burning coffee splashed all over my boobs this morning? My coworker, Layla, was running around the office as usual, like she was rushing to some kind of emergency. Everything seems to be an emergency to Layla. Oh no, this person needs a position filled immediately, you must find me someone right at this moment. Honey, this is literally our job, employment placement. Calm yourself woman.

Anyway, Layla came barreling around the corner as I was making my way to my cubicle and BAM. Okay, I am exaggerating about the BAM, but it sounds more impressive. Bodies almost collided. She managed to pump the brakes just in time, but she did not save me from onslaught of fresh hot coffee. It sloshed right over the porcelain rim of her ginormous mug with black bold words that read: Best Day Ever! The coffee landed all over my chest.

I lean up a little on my elbows, forcing the couch to release some of its grip on me to peek down my shirt. There is still redness on my skin where the coffee soaked through my shirt, a smidgen larger than the palm of my hand. The first wound from my day. Who drinks coffee that hot? I mean really. And that stupid mug! That mug mocks me.

Sigh, an entire outfit ruined.

I let my head roll to the side. Staring at me is an unmade bed. Guilt. I always make my bed. I try to keep my small space tidy. With only so many places to put things and with a bit too much furniture and far too many books, if anything is out of place it gets out of hand and quick. I make my bed every morning. But I didn’t this morning. A sinking takes over my stomach. My bed. Oh god, I forgot about the damn bed. I am going to have to replace my mattress and it’s going to cost money I don’t have. Damn it.

That was how this whole disaster started, that stupid mattress. Screw it, I am getting the wine.

In a burst of adrenalin, I manage to roll my body off the couch in an ugly mass of flesh, my knees screaming at me in protest. Oh, shut up, I say out loud to my body. Albert mimics my action in his tank as if he is mocking me. He, she, it? I don’t know, but I named it Albert after my favorite drag queen. Albert, the judgmental goldfish.

I limp to the kitchen, which is not far, and it is more of a kitchenette than a kitchen. Think fridge, solitary cabinet, a sink large enough for a dish, and a two-burner stove top on what little counterspace I have. It’s not even a full-sized fridge. It’s one of those half size deals. I feel I should also add there is no oven. It’s all well and good, I am a terrible cook. It’s old, slightly dingy. This sad excuse of a kitchen, along with the bathroom, haven’t been updated in at least forty years, and the small Formica countertop is pealing. If I could afford better, believe me, I’d upgrade. But these days, this is what you get for $1,600 a month. God, my life is depressing.

I reach into the fridge and pull out the only remaining beverage, a half drank bottle of wine. I yank the cork and take a generous gulp. Albert can judge all he wants. He, it? I keep going back to “he”. Probably because I chose the name Albert. I don’t know. Part of the reason I named him after a drag queen. He is still staring at me with those giant fisheyes of judgement, floating there in his tank. The rhythmic bloop of his mouth. Bloop, bloop. I should get him a fish friend. Even fish deserve a friend. Maybe he will be a little less judgmental of me. Or perhaps he will just swim about sharing fish gossip. Either way.

Between being late to work, the break-up email, skinned-knee, the soap-box evangelist who dropped dead (I swear it was not my fault), the coffee, and my own near-death experience, I am finished with today, and its only Tuesday. Nothing would be better than to just give in to the sweet bliss of slumber. Tomorrow is a new day. Someday this horrendous day will be nothing more than a humorous story to tell at Christmas parties when I’ve had one too many.

And it all started with a broken mattress spring.

There was still sleep crust in my eyes, poking me in the little nook where my eyes and nose come together. There was also a pain in my hip, and not my normal pain from sleeping on my side. You know, that searing pain that goes from hip into your lower back. Having a curvy figure may be aesthetically pleasing, but it sucks when it comes to comfort. That’s not what this was. This was something different. Like something stabbing me.

I picked the crusty bits from my eyes and pushed myself up, causing the sting in my hip to sharpen. What in the hell? I peeled back the sheets and shimmied toward the center of my mattress. Why I do not sleep in the middle when there is no one to share my bed with is a mystery I will never understand. But anyway. I look down with only the light coming through the window and there is, not only a magnificent tear in my beloved flannel sheets, but a spring sticking out of my mattress. Ugh.

            The mattress in all honesty should have been replaced long before I even moved into this place. It was old. Like came from my old bedroom in my parents’ house when I was a teenager old. I am 32 now. Not that my mother understands. I can hear her voice already lecturing me about priorities and such. Sigh.

I got out of bed, inspected the would be wound. It did not break my skin, but there was a tear in my jammies, which to be fair were already looking a bit tattered. What I can I say, I like comfy, and if it’s got a few flaws, meh. Not like my boyfriend, Jason, ever sees me in them. Whenever we have a sleepover, they are at his place. His place is bigger and nicer than mine. And that man does not skimp when it comes to his mattress. My body relaxes just at the thought of the memory foam encasing my body.

            I should have seen this start to my day as an omen.

Punctuality is one of the few qualities I possess, and I am rather prideful about it. After going through my usual morning routine: brush teeth, drink coffee, get dressed, attempt at trying to beautify myself. The whole affair typically takes about 45-minutes. The pain in my hip slowed me down, but if I can hustle, I can still make the bus. I ran to the bus stop just in time to make my bus, but I stood there and waited. And waited. And waited. I glanced at my watch every thirty seconds, as if this act would conjure the delayed public transportation to me. It did not by the way. The bus could have arrived early, but I was not about to let myself go down that rabbit hole. I force myself to stop looking at my watch. It’s just making me more anxious.

            At least it’s not raining. I looked up at the sky just to make sure I was not tempting fate. Clouds floated above, but they were not the gray ones that liked to lighten their load on us down below. Not even a threat of rain. There is a light breeze that flutters my skirt a bit, but I pull my jacket tight, and all is well. Plus, I always wear leggings with my skirts.

            The bus finally arrives twenty minutes late, and it takes forever to reach downtown. It would have been faster if I had just gone on foot to the office. The office is seven blocks from my apartment and the final stop is only half a block from my office, so not a long ride, but I can feel in my gut that I am late. That panic feeling in the pit of my stomach which likes to make itself known when I know that I am late for something, anything.

            I rush into the giant building that houses my office. It’s one of those big buildings that no one has any idea what the other floors are for. My specific place of business is on the sixth floor. A modest little firm which aids in matching potential employees with employers. Lucky for me, and I use the term lucy loosely, is mostly devoid of folks rushing to get to their own offices, so there is no competition for the elevator. I also get lucky in the immediacy of the up arrow after I hit the button.

I walk through reception and am going directly for my cubicle, and this is where the coffee incident occurred. Do we really need to relive this experience again? Shirt, coffee, collision, nough said.

            I pulled out my phone and typed a quick text to Jason. He hasn’t been answering his texts for the last few days, and I haven’t seen him since the weekend before last. I should have just called him. I should have heard from him, even if he’s busy. Lisa, my brain tells me, you are overreacting, there is nothing to worry about and you are just being paranoid. He has a life, you have a life, it’s no big deal. But none of my texts have been seen though. He must be very busy, I tell myself again, yep, just busy. Too busy to send an I’m busy text. A stone in the pit of my stomach is telling me otherwise. No, stop it. It’s fine. He’s fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine, and if you start calling him, he will get irritated. Just calm down.

            I sigh it out, now is not the time to worry about Jason. Now is time to work. There is data to input, and people to find jobs for. The wonderful world of getting jobs for other people that are better than this one. It pays the bills. Sort of. Someday I will finish my degree and get a better job rather than find them for other people. Someday.

            I crack my knuckles, roll my neck, and jump in.

            First thing first, E-mail.

            A mistake. Big mistake.

            Amongst the various E-mails from co-workers, job seekers, and previously placed temps who are looking for new assignments, was an E-mail from Jason with nothing in the subject. I didn’t recognize the E-mail address. I didn’t even know Jason had E-mail. Or that he knew my E-mail. It wasn’t until I opened the E-mail that I understood what it was I was looking at.

            There it was. The dread I had been feeling. And via E-mail! What. In. The. Hell.

To: Lisa Richards

Frm: Jason Daniels

Subject:

Lisa,

We’re done. I have no words of encouragement, nor do I feel the need to explain myself. I don’t want to do this anymore. I have moved on.

-Jason

P.S. I have blocked all numbers associated with you, so do not bother attempting to contact me. Any response will be sent directly to SPAM.

            If I were a tea pot, steam would be coming from every orifice. The bad events of the day seem to be compounding.

Several hours go by as a blur of fury, resentment, and a severe lack of productivity. My boss will likely be on me about it later, but she is not an unsympathetic woman, and I am sure if I explain about the ruthless E-mail, she will understand. I hope. Karma owes me that much. I make it to lunch time, and I need to get the hell out of here.

I stood on the steps in front of the office building, taking in a deep breath of fresh air and being away from the awful fluorescent lighting.

            “How are your boobs?”  Ashley asks me. I almost forgot she was with me.

            “Huh?”

            She points at my coffee-stained chest.

            “Right, stings a little.” It stings a lot and there is a bit of swelling, but I’m too mad to give a shit about that right now.

            “He really broke up with you over E-mail?” she asks, not hiding her disgust toward my now ex-boyfriend.

            “Yep. And he blocked my number,” I say.

            “What?” Ashley stops in her tracks, “like, what?”

            “I don’t even know,” I say in earnest. And I don’t really want to talk about it anymore either. A flash of fresh hot anger comes over me. I would very much like to slap him right across that chiseled jaw of his. Smack that cocky attitude of his right out of him. Jerk. Seriously, who does that?

            As we make the short trek toward the corner café for a midday coffee, we are startled by a man shouting. We both turn to see a man standing on a literal soap box. Didn’t think those were still a thing, but okay. I expected the man to be disheveled and greasy, but not this guy. He was slick, clean shaven, hair perfectly done. A little salt and pepper in his trimmer beard. Too bad he is a psycho, otherwise, I hate to admit it, but the guy was attractive.

            “Jezebels,” he shouted, pointing in our direction, “beg for his forgiveness and mend your heathenistic ways before you are consumed by the fires of hell!” 

             Really with this guy? I’ve seen these weirdos on T.V., but this is a first for me. And I am neither impressed or in the mood for nonsense.

“Is he talking to us?” Ashley asked, knowing full well he was.

            “Piss off,” I yelled back.

            That was my mistake. I know better than to engage with these people. We should have just kept walking, but oh no. I was already in a mood, and I was not about to be called names by this whack job.

            He jumped off his soap box, coming right at us. Instinctively I leaned back.

            “Whores of Satan, repent for your sins before the Devil comes to take your souls.”

            Is this dude being serious?

            I am not in the mood. I roll my shoulders back and take a step toward the man. It. Is. On.

            “Who the hell are you? Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of you psychopath. And you know what, if Satan wants my soul, he can have it! Hail Satan!” I start yelling. “All hail Satan! All hail Satan!”

            Ashley can’t help herself and let’s out a small laugh, as do a few others around the crowd. I even get a cheer from one or two.

            The man’s face contorts into the most intense scowl I have ever seen. And he raises his hands and starts speaking in gibberish. Almost like a baby babbling. What is happening right now? But what does my adult ass do, I keep yelling “All hail Satan!”  Complete with fist pump in the air.

In hindsight, these being the last words the man heard, I probably should have just cooled it. But here we are. And I may have been projecting my anger toward Jason on this soapbox preacher.

            The man collapsed, breathing harshly, his chest heaving and that was when it hit me. The man was having a heart attack.

            When EMS took him away, and I finished talking to the police. The officer loomed over me. Tall and burley. If I wasn’t in such a bad mood, and if he wasn’t talking to me because I just killed a guy, I’d have let my shameless side out. His strong jaw line, just a hint of a five o’clock shadow. Hmm, now that I think about it, the guy looked a bit like Jason. I vomit a little in my mouth and all that anger at Jason floods over me.

“What happened here exactly?” he asks.

I shrug, “he was shouting stuff, stepped off his box thing, and I don’t know. Is he okay?”

“Unfortunately, the paramedics were unable to revive him.”

My stomach falls into my butt.

“I am told by a witness that you chanted ‘all hail Satan’ when he began showing symptoms of a heart attack.”

I nod. It sounds so childish when he says it out loud.

“Look officer,” I sigh, “it’s been a really messed up day and this dude just called me a whore of Satan, Layla spilled coffee all over my boobs” yes, I said boobs to a police officer, “and I was just dumped by my boyfriend over E-mail and…”

“E-mail?” he repeats, eyebrows in the full up position.

“Yes.”

His eyes fall to the coffee stain on my blouse. His eyes widen somewhat, and then the eyebrows come down, and his eyes soften. “Sounds like you’re having a rough day.”

Rough? Rough? Sir, we have gone way beyond rough at this point.

I finish giving my statement, along with Ashley and we return to the office, my head hanging in shame. I killed a guy. I’ve never seen anyone die before. Not that seeing someone die was on my bucket list or anything, but I mean, the dude just dropped dead. Right there in the street. And I killed him. I killed a guy with my words. The need to vomit rises again, but I swallow it down. Lisa, you didn’t kill the guy. He had a heart attack, the officer said so. And he wouldn’t have lied, would he?

I muddled my way through the rest of the workday, doing the bare minimum to not get myself into trouble. I dodged my way out of there before anyone else would have a chance to ask me questions about the preacher on the corner. Word travelled around the office fast.

            I managed to sneak down to the lobby without being stopped, and almost made it away from the building I heard a loud “Lisa!” as I took a step. Instinctively I turned, lost my footing and BAM! Down I went.

            It burned so much. I don’t remember skinning my knees hurting this bad. But then, I haven’t skinned my knees in maybe twenty years. Holy crap it hurts.

            “Oh honey,” said Karen as she rushed to me, “are you alright?”

            No.

“Yeah,” I say.

            Karen helps me to my feet. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

            I brush off my knees, seeing the tears in my leggings. There is also blood seeping through the fabric. I don’t even care. I just want to limp to my bus stop and go home.

            “You had a crazy day, eh?”

            I roll my eyes, “you have no idea.”

            “You should go home and take a nice warm bath,” she says with a smirk.

            What did you think I was trying to do, Karen? Ugh. I just nodded, told her I needed to hurry to catch my bus, and scuttled away as quickly as my knees would allow. She wanted to get all the dirty details about the dead guy, but she can get them from Ashley, who was far more eager to talk about it than me.

            I missed my bus, figures. Why not, what more icing could this cake take? My phone buzzes. There is a part of me hoping it is Jason, calling to tell me how stupid he was while he begs for my forgiveness. Nope, just my mother. I hit reject, of all the people to talk to right now, she is not the wisest choice. She’ll tell me to keep my chin up, things happen for a reason. Then she will constantly call and text to make sure I am okay, possibly insist this is the powers that be are telling me to go back to school, finish my degree or to find a new job. No, I do not need this. I’ll call her eventually, but I’ll wait until the wounds are less raw.

            I am over today. It’s been nothing but a giant pile of smelling, burning pile of garbage with me stuck in the middle and more garbage being thrown on top just for good measure. There’s a noise, something blaring and loud. I look up in time to see a car swerve to narrowly miss hitting me. An arm is flailing out of the window as my brain finally registers the noise had been a car horn. Holy crap. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears. Deep breath in, slow breath out. Last thing I need is to have a heart attack, then a car will drive right over me and smush me. I get lost in my head sometimes and I hadn’t even noticed that I had stepped off the curb into the street. That’s on me this time. My bad.

            I limped another block to my sad apartment. There’s a homeless man huddled in the entryway. I bet he is having a better day than I am. Probably not. Poor guy. I suppose I do still have a place to call home that is warm and away from the rain and wind.

            That’s it! I am done. Just done with today. Oh God. It’s only Tuesday. Tuesday! I don’t even have the luxury of a weekend to recover from all this mess. It’s just not fair. Nothing about today was good, other than the fact that the car missed me. Although at this point, I am not sure getting hit by a car would have been a bad thing. Not that I want to be in pain, or dead, but being out of commission for a hit doesn’t sound so bad.

No, don’t go there. What is wrong with you? No one sits there and thinks this way, Lisa. If that car would have just run me over, then I’d have a few weeks in the hospital and have a legitimate excuse to not be at work.

Yeah, that’s normal.

 When I get home, I am staying there, and Albert had better still be alive and empathic. With the way my day has been…

            He is by the way, yet, still judgmental.

            Now here I am, standing in my kitchen, drinking from a wine bottle, turning up on a Tuesday, and still in my ruined clothes. Sore, a bit of guilt, and a broken heart. Well, I tell myself with another swig, at least tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow won’t be worse than today, right.

Right?