Open to midnight.
That`s what it says.
This inconspicuous, 3×5 inch,
red-bordered, blue-crayoned,
double-stick-taped death warrant
stuck in the lower left corner
of Watts` Groceries front door.
Because it is 12:23 a.m.
Because the wind chill is minus 2. Hundred.
Because I am huddled here,
wearing a nightie, a trenchcoat, and snow,
scrutinizing this sign as if it were
Luther`s Declarations, nailed to the church
door, which I wish it were. Was. Were,
because at least I could
go in and get warm.
HAIRSPRAY!
The word detonated my dreams
and I jolted awake in horror,
half an hour ago.
I had forgotten to buy it.
Tomorrow, the job interview of my life,
and my hair is unqualified.
How vain, whispered my logical self.
It won`t matter, reassured
my inner parent. So you`ll look
like Harpo Marx. On a bad day.
It`s okay, asserted my feminist pride.
I looked over at Elliot.
Sweet dreams, babe, I`ll be right back.
Of course. The car won`t start.
But I`m already out; it`s only three blocks;
they`re open till 2. I`m sure.
So I start in to jog.
Beautiful night. Crisp.
Deep breaths.
I gaze at trees clenched against the sky.
I feel wind in parenthesis at my back.
I begin to puff.
Very beautiful. And very, very, very crisp.
Mrs. Watts will offer me
hot chocolate, I bet.
Mr. Watts will probably offer
to drive me home.
The perks of patronizing
a Mom & Pop store.
I`ll take him up on it.
The ride home.
I`m almost there, I gasp; I`m almost there.
And here I am.
So much for Mom & Pop.
Nestled all snug in their beds,
whilst visions of a retirement home
in St. Petersburg
dance in their heads.
All right, let`s just head back home.
Positive attitude, positive attitude.
My attitude`s positive, it`s my legs
that are frozen.
It is cold.
The snow is cold. The wind is cold.
And who cares about the lousy trees?
I think of Elliot.
Sweet dreams, Elliot.
Sure.
Thumbscrews, Elliot.
Quality time on the rack.
It`s all your fault.
If you really loved me, you`d use hairspray.
Then I wouldn`t be out here.
Oh, no, not Mr. Macho,
who`s probably hogged all the nice,
warm, wonderful blankets
for his selfish self, thank you.
Run, run, run.
Here`s Melanie`s house.
The house is dark.
We both read Shirley MacLaine`s books.
Concentrate.
Wake up, Melanie. Yoo-hoo.
It`s your best friend.
She`s about to die on your front sidewalk.
Frozen in her prime.
Melanie, if you don`t wake up,
as my dying gesture,
I will inscribe,
right here in your snow,
”Melanie`s contemplating liposuction.”
So much for the power of the paranormal.
Wait, wait.
Melanie`s house is three doors from ours!
That means. . .
I`m home!
Calm down. Deep breaths.
De-icing. Toasty.
I wonder.
Could I make it to the all-night 7-11?
