The Story With The Bad Ending, finished

Once the vomiting had ceased, I found myself rooted to my chair like someone had taken an invisible wire and lashed my legs to the bench beneath. I was at once fascinated by the display beside me and horrified that I found myself unable to move.

Thankfully, my fellow ferry-goers and myself were in the non-sypmathy-puker crowd. Being mostly alcohol, Drunk Blond Girl’s stomach contents had little smell, not to mention the fact that we were separated from the pukage by her luggage and the now ruined leather of her Louis Vuitton. I felt relatively secure, assuming that even if she had to move to the larger purse, or even if the small purse began to over flow a bit, I was more than safe.

This, of course, is always the thought that one thinks before the earth opens it’s gaping mouth and swallows you whole.

So as Drunk Blond Girl continued to hang limply between her knees, the ends of her hair now trailing in the purse-o-puke instead of the floor, I counted down the minutes until the ferry doors would open and boarding could begin.

Five minutes to go.

Drunk Blond Girl managed to pull herself up a bit, elbows resting on her skin-tight jeans. She let her right hand drop between her knees to grab the strap of the wee purse resting precariously on the floor. She pulled the strap up so she could grasp the sides of the purse while I braced myself for what appeared to be another bout of stomach expelling when Drunk Blond Girl, in her infinite wisdom, SLUNG THE PURSE DIRECTLY TO HER RIGHT, EMPTYING THE FULL CONTENTS ONTO MY SHOES, LEGS AND SKIRT.

I sat in shock, pure unadulterated shock, for a full minute. Drunk Blond Girl was completely unconcerned and proceeded to puke heartily into her freshly emptied purse. The incident had attracted only a few dead-eyed stares from the passengers around me and so I began the process of gathering my sanity and dignity, fighting back rage so sudden and acute I was shaking with the onslaught of it. I had no rags or paper towels with which to wipe myself free of the larger chunks so I slowly stood and shook out my boots and skirt while staring daggers at the Drunk Blond Fucking Bitch now leaning back in her seat, head bumping the jacket of the passenger behind her.

Though I was covered in puke, standing in puke and overall surrounded by puke, I decided a little bit more wasn’t going to hurt me.

I stood directly in front of Drunk Blond Fucking Bitch and grabbed the now full Louis Vuitton. She drunkenly slurred some nonsense about someone stealing her purse. The doors began to open and the throng of people pushed forward, leaving me in claustrophobic anonymity. As the people pushed by, intent on gaining the always illusive clean ferry seat, I dumped the contents of Fucking Bitch’s purse into her lap, shaking every last drop out, splattering her arms and chin with residual chunks. Too wasted to do much more than stare at me blankly and mutter obscenities, I then carefully took each piece of her luggage and laid them upon the terminal floor, making sure each one gained maximum puke exposure.

I stepped back to admire my handiwork.

“Bitch,” she slurred.

“Cunt,” I calmly replied back.

I turned and walked to the ferry doors, looking back once to see Fucking Bitch’s body slumped sideways over the now empty seats.

I found a seat at the front of the ferry and sat perfectly still for the choppy and turbulent ferry ride home. I exited the ferry once we docked at Staten Island and walked briskly to the bus terminal, waiting on Bus S66 to make it’s way to the front of the line. I boarded the bus and was rewarded with an entire row of seats all to myself as the 20 or so other passengers became aware of a) what the residual chunks on my shoes, legs and skirt were and b) from where the smell was emanating. I exited the bus at Victory Blvd and walked the blocks to my apartment. I unlocked both outer doors and climbed the three stories to my floor. I opened the apartment door and sat my purse and keys on the kitchen table, turning to relock both deadbolts. I unzipped my suede kitten heel boots and placed them in the garbage can. I then walked in my stocking feet to the bathroom and turned on the water. I waited until it was sufficiently warm and hit the lever for the shower. Stepping delicately in the shower, careful not to touch the shower curtain, I stood under the scalding hot spray, fully clothed, for a good 30 minutes. When the water began to cool, I stripped off my socks, skirt and sweater and pushed them towards the drain. I scrubbed my entire body with the pumice stone intended for callused feet. I washed my hair.

When I was done, I stepped out of the shower and toweled dry. I walked into the kitchen and pulled out a plastic bag from the supply under the sink. Back in the bathroom, I scooped up my wet clothes, never letting my bare skin touch the clothing, and tied the bag into a knot. With my towel tucked under my arms and wrapped around my body, I slipped my feet into my nearby house-shoes, walked down three flights of stairs, out of the two ground floor doors and into the freezing cold street.

I carried the plastic bag to the dumpster on the side of the building and placed the bag inside the smelly metal vat.

Inside the building, I went to the bedroom and extracted fuzzy pajama bottoms and a soft long sleeve sweater. I grabbed the pack of cigarettes on my nightstand and opened the French doors out onto the terrace. I slapped the pack against my hand good and hard, then pulled out a perfectly sculpted stick and struck a match against the wall. I cupped my hand over the cigarette and inhaled strongly, giving life to the burning cherry. I blew a perfect stream of smoke into the frigid blackness and lowered myself onto the reclining chair. Unable to see stars, I stared at the mottled sky above me and waited for dawn.




THE END