Last Night Was Killer

One

Monday, Presidents’ Day

A hangover is like childbirth. When it’s happening, it’s so miserable you think you’ll never forget. But later, inevitably,

you do. At least that was what I told myself as I took a long glug out of a bottle of OJ in the snack aisle of the Boise Co-op

while my seven-year-old twins stared at me with wide, identical eyes.

“Grocery store snacking is usually not okay, but today it is,” I said hoarsely, opening a bag of Pirate’s Booty, hoping the

distraction of food would erase their suspicions about my uncombed hair, the circles under my eyes. I handed the bag to Alice.

She cradled it like a baby she was about to lay away in a manger, but Phoebe greedily plunged in a hand and started munching.

“Can we get a puppy?” Phoebe asked, sensing maternal weakness.

“A puppy would tip me over the edge,” I said.

The truth: I had already tipped.

As a single mom, I always ended up paying for the rare night out—thus I hadn’t even darkened the doors of a happy hour in

months. But this level of grogginess and suffering seemed excessive. I steered toward checkout, swerving the cart to avoid

the lane with the checker I recognized from my seventh-grade gym class. (I couldn’t remember his name but could totally picture

his pimply adolescent self in polyester volleyball shorts). For a split second I couldn’t wait to tell my mom how I’d successfully

avoided a Stop-and-Chat. And then, for the thousandth time, I had the gut-punch realization I’d never tell her anything again.

Now as I swiped my credit card, I noticed I’d somehow broken a fingernail. My eyes watery, head on the verge of imploding,

I wondered: What the hell was in those drinks? They were a black hole that had swallowed hours of my life.

As Alice and Phoebe argued about what they’d name our new imaginary puppy, I silently swore I’d never again surrender to peer

pressure from the members of my new pole dancing class. While I’d initially had a better time than expected, I couldn’t go

through this again.

The girls trailed behind as I pushed our cart through the parking lot. The sky, the snow, the leafless trees, all the color

of concrete. The last nine months in Boise had been a blur of misery and grief. How I missed Los Angeles. The sunshine, my

hilarious pals, the sense that I was at the center of the comedy world instead of stuck in some remote outpost of civilization.

With the twins buckled into their booster seats, I headed to the trunk to load groceries. That’s when a familiar voice called

out.

“Tilly! Tilly!”

When I turned, Layna had appeared beside me. “So good to see you!” she cried. “Last night was killer! Did you have so much

fun?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I mean, I feel like death now. But it was fun.”

That’s when I popped my trunk.

Layna and I screamed. She stumbled backward into my grocery cart. But I couldn’t look away from the man crammed inside.

His skin was blueish gray with a waxy sheen. An egg-sized lump bulged from his forehead. Scratch marks raked his face. His

belt hung unbuckled, pants undone. A tattooed string of numbers crawled across his neck. A pair of scissors lay beside him,

yawning blades bloody.

But it was his frozen, gaping hole of a mouth that made clear—he’d never move again.