Chapter 2 Is The Dog Dead?
The journey began as I walked along the side of the road. My shoes squeaked with every step, rubbing raw against my heels. I knew my car would be okay since it was in the diner's lot, plus someone would have to be desperate to steal an old, beat-up piece of crap like that.
Walking gave me time to reflect on my life. My mother warned me about getting a degree in Fine Arts, but I didn't listen, and now I was paying the price by working minimum wage and eating ramen noodles for breakfast and dinner five days out of the week. The other two days I splurge a little by eating mac and cheese for dinner.
My breath fogged as I exhaled. I could finally see my building in the distance. A warm light was flickering in one of the windows. I imagined someone inside, curled up on a sofa, watching TV, maybe eating a proper dinner.. something with meat and seasoning.
But before I could finish crossing the road, a car came out of nowhere, tires screeching, horn honking. The headlights were blinding. I froze, too shocked to move and too stunned to react. My legs felt like cement. The next thing I knew, I was falling as the car tapped me. I hit my head hard on the gravel pavement, and everything went blurry.
In seconds, a man was kneeling beside me. "Hey, are you OK? Are you hurt? Can you hear me?"
"Ouch!" I groaned, rubbing my hand against my head to check if I was bleeding. My fingers came back damp with dirt. "I think my brain is scrambled," I exhaled.
"Do you want me to call an ambulance or take you to the hospital?" the brown-eyed, middle-aged man asked.
He was wearing a black and white suit with a chauffeur's hat.
"No, that's fine. It's nothing an ice pack won't fix."
He held my hand and helped me to my feet. "Are you sure you're alright, miss?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Hey Elvis, what's the hold-up? Is the dog dead or what?" someone called from the backseat of the long, sleek limousine that hit me.
"It wasn't a dog, Ms. Ripley. It was a girl," Elvis replied.
Ripley...? That name tickled something in my memory. My roommate was always going on about some girl drummer with purple hair name Ripley from her favorite rock band.
"Same difference," Ripley grunted. "Well, is it dead?"
"No, ma'am."
"Is it hurt?" Ripley asked. I was just too stunned to even reply.
"No," Elvis sighed.
"Then let's get a move on," Ripley remarked. "Elvis, here, give her these and tell her sorry she ran into our car."
Elvis took the envelope and handed it to me. I tried to catch a glimpse inside the car, but the windows were wound too high, and I'd have to have canine vision to see through the dark.
"Again, I'm really sorry," Elvis said. Then he tipped his hat, got into the limo, and sped off into the night.
I stood there, in the middle of the road, with dust on my knees and an envelope in my hand. I examined it. It was too small to have been money. But oh, I wish it were.
I hurried along and practically ran to my building door. The night was getting colder, and I could sense a drizzle coming down.
I pressed the button to my apartment door, and within a second, the door buzzed open. Good, Alecia was home.
I ran up the stairs to floor 4, where apartment 401 was. I'd lived in this building for a little over a year with my best friend Alecia and her cousin Larna, and the elevators hadn't worked since.
I placed my key inside the door and wiggled it open.
The radio was blasting on high on Power 106 FM.
"Hey Ally, what's going—"
"Shh," she shushed me as she held the house phone to her ear.
"Hello, caller, and who am I speaking to?" the radio announcer asked.
"Alecia Grey," Alecia answered, and the echo from the radio made our ears hurt.
"Well, Miss Grey, you are our lucky caller number 69, and you win a Creatures of the Night goodie bag. It's filled with all sorts of trinkets plus a signed poster from the members of the band."
"Thank you," she said, sounding sad.
"Don't worry. You still can hang up and try again. Caller number 99 will win two tickets to the Creatures of the Night concert this weekend.. and not just any tickets. These are middle-row tickets."
Alecia hung up. "Fuck this shit!" she cursed, then looked at me. "Babe, you're home." She ran into my arms and gave me a hug.
"What was that about?" I asked.
"I've been calling the radio station for hours trying to win those tickets, but I give up. I only managed to win four goodie bags!" she wailed, tossing the phone across the couch like it had personally betrayed her.
Alecia had been obsessed with this rock band for the better part of four years. It was crazy.
"It's okay. You'll get them next time."
"Yeah. So what's good? You look tired, and you smell like shit."
"Thanks. It's Vicky."
"What did that trick do now?"
So I told her about Vicky and Mr. Parks.
"Are you serious? That's fucking nasty," her tummy rolled. "But lately Mr. Parks has been looking a little sexy.. if I put a bag over his head and close my eyes."
I chuckled.
"I'm serious. I'd blow him for rent money and some groceries. If we don't come up with the rent soon, Mr. Darcy is gonna throw our asses out."
"So you haven't gotten paid yet either?"
"Yes. But boss man took half of my wages because I showed up to work late a few times."
"A few times? Ally, you were late 20 times this month. If you didn't know how to fold those beds, he would have fired you a long time ago."
"Tell me why I went to art school again?"
"So you could bang a hot French art professor."
"Yeah, and I did that, and look at me now. Living like scum with a useless degree."
"Come on, cheer up. I have a feeling our luck will soon change."
"I hope so."