The Queen of Minor Disasters (22 page)

A police car pulls to my left.
I turn to see two officers looking at me strangely. That’s the thing about
living on the Island, there’s never any privacy when you need it most.

They roll down the window.
“Rough night?” the officer in the passenger seat asks. I peer into the car and
realize the driver is Officer Manning, a regular at the restaurant. He doesn’t
recognize me.

“Hi Officer Manning,” I say
and get his attention.

“Stella, what are you doing
walking the streets at this hour?”

Walking the streets? He makes
me sound like a hooker. Excuse me, my name is not Trisha Motley.

 I look down at myself and
realize that I do look a little bit like a hooker, especially with make-up
smeared all over my face.

“I locked myself out of my
house,” I lie. “So I’m going to the restaurant. I’ve got that key.”

“Do you want us to call your
house or anything?” the other officer asks.

“No, I don’t want to wake
anyone up.”

He doesn’t say anything, but
gives me a half smile and waves good-bye. Does he think I’m lying?

They remain parked on Third
Avenue and watch as I unlock the door and enter the restaurant. I lock it
behind me and walk to the kitchen in the darkness.

There, the kitchen mats feel
strange against my bare feet. I turn on the lights and walk to the office,
where I know I’ve stashed a pair of flip-flops. Once I locate them, I get down
to business, opening the first aid kit and tending to this blister. The last
thing I need is an infection or gangrene on my foot or something. That’s
totally unsexy. As I’m working, I spot the bottle of Sambuca I keep in my
office for good customers.

Perfect. I’ll just take a
little sip.

 I unscrew the black top and
take a swig right from the bottle. I’ve never been a fan of the dark licorice
flavor of Sambuca, but right now, it tastes so good to me that I take another
swig and nestle the bottle under my arm. I grab a fresh apron and place it over
my head, then move to fetch the chocolate out of the dry storage.

Instead of using precut
chocolate, I prefer to order big blocks and cut it myself, so I take the entire
block of semi-sweet chocolate, and the entire block of bitter chocolate off the
shelves and plop them onto the workspace.   

I search through the various
gadgets until I find our kitchen scale, and I line up large stainless steel
bowls to hold the chocolate once it’s been cut.

 Then suddenly, as if by
magic, I’m able to forget everything.

 I focus only on the task at
hand, making the batter for chocolate soufflés, and as I prep the chocolate by
cutting it into tiny slivers, I realize that, for once, I’m at peace.

The time passes quickly, and
I’ve almost forgotten that it’s past 5:00 a.m.

I feel better already, so I
focus all my attention on the soufflés, buttering and sugaring the ramekins and
melting the chocolate into the roux.

Then, of course, there are the
eggs. I skillfully separate the yolks from the whites, and drop the whites into
the bowl of the Kitchen-Aid mixer. I’m particularly slow, because I know that
when I finish baking, I’ll have to return to the real world and think about
what happened tonight. Drew’s engaged.

I take another shot of
Sambuca, hoping to wipe the thoughts out of my head.

By the time I finish making
the batter and filling the ramekins, I decide that he’s totally not worth it
anyway. The jerk.

Really, after three years of
being together he gives
my
ring
to another woman.

All this work and stress have
made me pretty hungry and instead of actually making something, I figure I’ll
just eat some of the soufflé batter.

I mean, what could be more
comforting than a warm chocolate soufflé?

Not that I’m going to
cook
it or anything. But still, the flavor
is the same cooked or raw.

I pop all of the ramekins
except one into the dessert fridge and am about to shut the door when I spot
the cake.

Of course!

The perfect cake for a
heartbreak.

I reach my fork directly into
the dessert case.

The bitterness of the
chocolate hits me hard, and I realize that this will taste
so
much
better
with some more Sambuca. I grab the entire cake and take it
with me.

On my way to the kitchen, I
stumble a tiny
tiny
bit.

But it’s okay, no one is here
to see me.

I settle on the floor of the
waiters’ station, I take a sip of liquor and chase it with a forkful of cake. I
was right. It
is
better with
Sambuca. I proceed that way, alternating between sips and bites, until I’m scrapping
up the last remnants from the bottom of the serving dish.

The problem is, I don’t really
feel better.

In fact, I actually feel a
little worse.

Maybe I was wrong about the
cake.

I look over at the Sambuca
bottle and see that it’s almost half empty. It wasn’t full when I opened it was
it? No, it couldn’t have been.

My stomach starts to really
hurt, so I figure I should lie on it for a while. I lay my face on the cold
tiles and feel more refreshed than ever before.

Now
this
is comfortable.

I’m surprised more people
don’t sleep on floors.

Don’t they do this in Asia?

Maybe I should move to Japan.
Or China. I
do
like Asian food. I
start to envision myself as a world traveler, speaking fluent Japanese….

Somewhere between thinking of
how I’d look in a kimono and wondering how much plane tickets cost, I must have
fallen asleep, because when I wake up, it’s already light outside. I move to
stand and it feels like my head was hit by a baseball bat. Then my stomach
flips and I realize I’m going to vomit. I crawl into the bathroom and just make
it to the toilet.

I feel so much better when I
finish that I decide to just lay on the ground again and sleep it off.

The next time I wake up, I
hear Mario screaming at me.

“What the hell are you
doing
?”

“Huh?” I say. I look around
and realize I’m on the bathroom floor. I should ask him what
he’s
doing spying on me in the women’s
room. I actually move to say this, but before I can talk, I scoot myself up
near the toilet and throw up.

“That’s lovely,” Mario says.
“My sister’s got real class.”

I don’t feel like talking to
him, but he makes me so mad. “What, you’ve never been hung over before, Mr.
Perfect?” I realize how bad this looks, but still.

“Not in the restaurant.”

“Well who cares where I am?”

“Mom and Dad care, actually.
They’ve been up all night trying to call you. She wanted to call the police.
But I said I’d find you.” He pauses and gives me a dirty look. “I just didn’t
know you’d be like this.”

“Can you get me some San
Pellegrino?”

He sighs and walks towards the
waiters’ station. I hear him open the fridge, then grab a glass off the shelf.
When he returns, he hands me a glass of water.

I try to sit up straight and
can feel that I have vomit in my hair. I don’t even want to look at myself in
the mirror.

“You better clean up before
Mom and Dad see you,” he says, shaking his head.

“What time is it anyway?”

“It’s just after nine.”

“Can you call Mom and tell her
where I am.”

“Fine,” he says and reaches
into his pocket for his phone.

When he steps out of the
bathroom, I try to stand again, but instead, I throw up. I don’t even want to
think of Sambuca again in my life.

I finally stand and walk over
to the sink. I run the water and splash it on my face, trying to scrub away the
remnants of the night.

Dark circles hang under my
eyes and it’s obvious I’ve been crying. I take a deep breath. The last thing in
the world that I want to do is face Mario right now, but I know I need to start
explaining myself, so I think of what I’m going to say.

When I walk into the dining
room, I see him sweeping up the broken glass. I vaguely remember knocking over
some glasses last night. It’s still hard to place myself time wise, but as I
glance out the window and see all the morning shoppers going into Beautiful
People next door it all clicks.

“What happened?” he asks when
he sees me.

I don’t believe Mario
actually
cares, but at this point, I just
let it all out. “Drew’s engaged. We dated for three years and he didn’t want to
marry me, but after only one month with a new girl he’s engaged.” I slump down
in a chair and realize that, no matter what plans I can come up with, it’s
really over. Drew didn’t want to marry me. He wants Trisha Motley.

Mario puts down the broom and
looks at me. “Other guys will want to marry you.”

“Yeah right,” I say. Suddenly
it’s clear. I’ll never get married and I’ll end up in a small apartment with
seventeen cats. “I’ll die alone.”

“You just need to calm down.”

Ha. That’s easy for him to
say. He’s never been dumped on his ass.

By the time I get home it’s
almost 10:00. Mario was nice enough to go get his car so I wouldn’t have to do
a walk of shame across Third Avenue.

Thankfully, my parents don’t
ask any questions as I pass them and make my way up the steps. Mario must have
filled them in when he came to fetch his car, so they just smile at me as if
I’m a psych patient who just escaped from the ward. I don’t mind it though,
because honestly, it’s better than having to explain why my head is pounding
and there’s dried vomit in my hair.

           
Of course, the first thing I see when I get into my bedroom is a stupid
picture of Drew and me from last Christmas. Spare me the lecture. I know I
should have taken it down a month ago, but give a girl a break, will you?

              I
place it face down on the dresser, take my cell phone out of my bag and set the
alarm.  I really need to be in the restaurant by 2:00 at the absolute latest. I
figure I’ll just take a little nap before I need to shower and make my way back
to Lorenzo’s.

           
My mom comes in and sits on my bed before my alarm rings at 1:15. When I
open my eyes, I see her smiling at me sympathetically. She pats my head and
brushes my face with the palm of her hand. “How are you feeling?”

           
“I’m ok,” I say sitting up. Man my head still hurts. Who would have
thought a little Sambuca would do such damage. I reach for my phone on the nightstand
and see the picture lying face down where I left it. “Drew’s engaged to Trisha
Motley.” Even though I’m saying it out loud, I still can’t believe it.

           
“I know.”

           
“Did Mario tell you?”

           
“No, Anna did.”