Opus

14. Playtime

Rule 16: In-between sets, the playground is closed except for two ten-hour periods, one before and one after the sets. During the ten-hour prior set, the playground is strictly reserved to appointed positioners for setup purposes. The ten-hour periods after sets are for cleanup purposes.

I wake at dawn. It might be dusk for all I care. With the crazy schedule I keep because of the competition, when I open my eyes, it takes my body and mind long minutes to realize I'm still alive. I've never quite sure what time it is until I've blinked at the clock a few times.

Voices on the other side of my bedroom wall pull me out of my reverie.

"Is she awake yet, you think?" Bree's twangy voice.

"Don't know. Go check." Gav's deeper one.

"No, you go."

"No, you. It's your idea." Could they act more childish?

"You're the one who called the gang."

"They're your friends too."

Whatever those two have planned, I already know I won't like it. I take my time to shower.

Ouch!

Damn!

Fuck!

A few curses later, I slather a generous layer of ointment on my nicks and bruises with a touch of honey to help the healing. To distract from my sweet-smelling, shiny face, I dress from neck to toes in a retro commando outfit. Black army boots. Skinny camouflage-print pants. Curve-hugging, long-sleeved v-neck. Heavenly-soft, black deerskin gloves to hide my hands. I screw a ball cap on and finish my ensemble with a coat of fire-engine red lipstick and three coats of black mascara. Ready to go.

They pounce on me as soon as I open my door, jumping and screaming like teenage girls. On coke.

"You won!"

"You won!"

Damn, I hate when they parrot one another, and I'm in too crabby a mood to play nice. "What did I win?"

"The Competition!"

"We're barely halfway through, guys. I've won diddly-squat."

"You're in fourth!"

Their piercing enthusiasm does not improve my disposition. Hence, I keep playing dump. "In fourth what?" I'm worried, though.

In my temporary dementia, could I have gathered enough chips to move from average player to top dog? If so, I hope I can revert to my old pattern in the next set without arousing suspicion. Did anyone besides the siblings from hell remark my sudden improvement? More importantly, did wee notice?

The strident duo pushes me out the front door and in effect shuts down my musing.

"Wait! Where are we going?"

"Celebrating!"

"The gang's waiting for us at Jack's!"

Jack's is an infamous bar downtown, a few blocks from the Registration Desk (and Harry's apartment). Jack the man does not exist, though. Nobody knows who owns the place, not even the barkeeps, but hey, as long as they get paid, they don't care, right? I think Jack stands for Jack Daniel as in the whiskey. A glass of whiskey at Jack's is cheaper than a beer.

"I don't like that place. The whiskey's watered." Or more like adulterated. You want to get drunk fast, Jack's the place to go.

Needless to say, the joint is packed.

I don't wave at the gang. Drifters, munchers, and groupies the bunch of them. Ah, our idle youth. They're not my people, but the sibs'. Relics from Ken's glory days. I head straight to the bar, motioned one of the bartenders, a heavily made-up fortyish woman that I know has a soft spot for females in general, and tall brunettes in particular. She ambles to take my order readily.

"Three shots hold the ice."

"Coming right up, sweet thing."

I jerk my chin at Gav and Bree. "Put it on their tab."

I throw back the drinks one after the other without taking a breath. The alcohol burns my tongue, the inside of my cheeks, even my teeth hurt, then I feel the liquid slide down, down, down setting my insides on fire. I breathe quickly in and out three-four times as it settles in my stomach.

"I'm hitting the dance floor," I mumble at my annoying sidekick.

I'm a good dancer but not tonight. Tonight, I bounce, trash into the crowd, rub the strangers around me until I'm panting and sweating, numb from the pain and the booze. Bree and Gav take turn bringing me shots.

I last two hours and twenty-four minutes, right until Bree decides to grab my ass.

"No." Yes, I'm acting like a bitch. I've been pinched, squeezed, groped, pawed without losing the beat during those hundred and forty-four minutes of dancing. Bree cares, though, and her ass-grabbing was emotionally charged. I don't want her to fall for me. "I'm out'a here. I need a fuck."

"We'll do it," one of the sibs offers. Strange how when I'm drunk enough, I can't tell the two of them apart.

"Let me rephrase that. I need a mind-obliterating fuck." Not second-hand masturbation.

I stumble to the exit and flag a cab home.

How ridiculous is it that I'm too drunk to unlock the door? Thankfully, the night is warm and bright. I climb on the roof. Fear not, I've done it plenty of time before. I'm as lithe as a cat. A piss drunk cat is still a cat. I settle on my lounge chair. A moving-in gift from me to me.

"Best laid plans suck," I tell the stars up above. "Are you laughing? My delirium in the playground has cost me dearly."

The stars wink at me but say nothing.

The fourth position, how ironic! I hate my life.

Soon after that enlightening conversation, it's light out.