My Funny Valyntine: Book One - The Pull

Chapter One - Begin the Beguine

i.

Valyntine sits in the old, paint-chipped bathtub. The water, not quite lukewarm when it coughed out of the faucet, now sends her skin rippling into gooseflesh. Looking around the room, bringing her knees to her chest, she watches the wispy brown curtains slow dance with the Ill Winds of February as they sneak past loose panes and cracks in the walls. Powerful gusts howl, rattle the glass, and blow the curtain up in an arcing wave. She stands, giving up on the idea of being warm today, and reaches for her towel.

She doesn't want to spend another day staring at the water-stained walls of her apartment. The bath should have taken up at least half an hour of the morning. Instead, she spent less than ten minutes in the uncomfortable drafts and cold water.

Digging through the small pile of clothes on the floor at the foot of the bed, she snatches her stained and crusted work apron from off the top, balls it up, and flings it toward the door. As it lands, Valyntine hears a metallic thunk as it hits the warped linoleum. She feels a spark of hope.

Hurrying across the room she lifts her apron, reaches into the front pocket, and feels a mix of gratitude and guilt at the two bronze pieces. The coins conjure an image of Horace, sitting at his usual table the night before, a wry smile on his wrinkled face as she carries away his empty cup and plate.

"You old fool," Valyntine whispers to the emptiness. "I told you I could go without."

The night before, Horace – a regular who shines shoes in front of the Soul Sauce Coffee House – tried giving her the coins as a tip. He overheard her complaining to Margie about dropping her half-pack of gaspers in the full sink, soaking and ruining them.

"What's this?" Valyntine asked, putting his drained cup and empty plate on her tray, looking at the extra money sitting atop his ticket.

"I used to burn the sticks, too," he coughed out in his familiar wheeze, shrugging. Horace spent twenty years in the Monk Mines until the physical, grueling work became too much for him. Valyntine sees men and women like him every day throughout the West Borough. All of them walk hunched over, and all have the same, raspy breathing. In addition to allowing him to set up shop in front of the Soul Sauce, Margie and Louise, the owners, also give Horace a hefty discount.

"S'more than your coffee and cake cost, Horace. I can't," Valyntine had told him, putting the coins back on his table, appreciating the gesture while despising the charity. After all, Horace's situation isn't much different from her own. They both depend on the kindness of Margie and Louise to survive. Shaking her head, Valyntine added, "I can go without gaspers for a day." She gave him a crooked, grateful grin, and carried his cup and plate to the sink.

Now, crouching on the floor of her apartment, staring at the coins, she has no idea how he managed to get them into the pocket of her apron without her noticing.

The first pangs of withdrawal started after she woke this morning. She hasn't had a gasper since the last break of her shift the night before. She was saving the half pack for today because she knew she'd have to waste away the cold, lonely hours in her apartment before returning to work tomorrow and earning enough in tips to pick up a new chest on the way home.

The clock sitting above the broken stove reads eleven fifty-three. Only midday? Valyntine flips a short strand of dark, wet hair out of her eyes, grips the bronze pieces in her fist, and debates going ahead and buying a new pack or giving the coins back to Horace. Her lungs, demanding their routine, combined with the idea of sitting in this dreary apartment all day without a single gasper, spurs her decision.

"Fuck it," she says, grabbing her black, cracked-leather jacket. Slipping into her trusty, faded black boots, she heads out the door, down the hallway, and into the lift.