Saturday Mornings (S1-P1)
The fountain sat outside a dorm trashed by the party that just ended only hours before. He wasn’t the only one laid out on the lawn, hell he wasn’t the only one still asleep on the grass in the morning sunlight. But it is his phone that is ringing. He feels it in his shirt pocket rather than its usual spot. The vibration is waking him, but by the time he realizes what it was it stops, and he doesn’t bother to see who it was. He rolls over on his side, eyes half open, as he watches those have also just woken to dunk their heads in the fountain. His phone rings again, and this time he answers.
“What?” He asks, not trying to sound irritated, but it comes across as such anyway. The voice on the other end is slow to respond.
“Coming to work today?” the voice asks, but he can’t place it. Work, female, manager. It takes a moment to reply.
“Yeah, Yeah, I’ll be there.” And he’s up, still in a haze, and walks over to the fountain to join the others.
Getting to his car was no trouble. Even in his haze, he remembered parking it down the street next to a blue building. Remembering where he is in the city is the tricky part. Being relatively new to it, being late to the party last night, and now not in the best state, he doesn’t know which way is north. He has a vague memory of seeing some corner pizza shop, but after driving for a few minutes in what feels like the wrong direction he turns.
In a rush, flipping through the radio, and the morning sun in his eyes, he finds something to listen to. It’s fast to match his rush, and it’s loud to block out everything but where he needs to go, finally seeing something he recognizes, the highway. Up the ramp and on the bayside road it dawns on his exactly where he is, and he wonders how he got this far out. The road runs right along the water, beside the city, and he sees the sun coming up over the water. The highway is nearly empty, and he speeds, with the music up loud. He is in a rush.
When he takes the exit, entering the downtown streets, he dodges and passes every car in front of him. His phone begins to ring again, but he knows it’s work, he knows their angry, and he doesn’t pick up. He’s almost there. He sees it up ahead. He understands he needs to make a left, there is no traffic up ahead, and makes the turn without slowing down. Even over the music, he hears his tires screeching.
The car parked and locked. He’s mouth dry and he’s running. The sun is in his eyes as the place it perched on the top of a hill, and he burst through the door. The manager is in the kitchen. He’s about to say something, but she beats him to it.
“Delivery, 36th and central, go.”
“I’m drunk,” he says, but she either didn’t hear him or didn’t care, she doesn’t react to his words, and he grabs the order, already bagged. He’s off, back out into the morning light.