Week Twenty: Thursday Who: Sasha (open) What: Snacks and karaoke and, duh, snacks. When: Evening Where: The Garage
Some days just didn't end like they began.
Sasha had started the day in fine form: cotton-soft top, chic tartan skirt, and sensible footwear. She ran her errands without much fuss or trouble, double-checking with the grocer on Blues’ behalf, dropping off a roll of film to develop for Dr. Quinn, and successfully finding the local hardware store to snag a Dremel MultiPro. Unfortunately, she spent too much time deciding on the model and too little paying attention to the sky. The freaking rain got her like a sniper shot.
Rain, rain, rain. Crazy, pretty, incendiary rain. Hiding the sky, ruining her shoes, knocking on coffins, giggling at the girl below. It felt like someone rubbed menthol on the wrong side of her skin: invisible, impossible, and cool. Cold. Why did it have to be rain, why here? The rain in Spain stayed mainly in the pla—stop that.
Her “form” never had a chance; Sasha’s subsequent meltdown wasn’t quite Oz-worthy, but it did grate her composure into pure irritability. She spent a commendable couple hours caged in her room before admitting defeat and bolting back into town. Trooping across the still damp streets—while dutifully avoiding the few surviving puddles—Sasha considered her options.
The Pitt? Too much. Loft? Too little. Imaginarium? No games. No, what she wanted was—what? Noise. People. Life. Food. Definitely food, preferably in reckless, copious amounts—oh!
What passed the Garage’s doorstep didn’t look soft or chic or sensible. Either the jeans or the braids would have been enough to get Sasha quarter-horsed back home. Though truth be told, she didn’t look strange; she just didn’t look like…Sasha. The only recognizable part of her on the clock persona was the dog by her side.
(“It’s my roommate,” she explained, straight-faced and earnest. “Poor thing’s still recovering from the last full moon.”
Sure, the lie was stunningly obvious and Sasha got her first weird look of the night, but both dog and girl got in. On Bacalao bravado got you far, or at least far enough.)
First, she caught a bar seat. Second, she got Dizzy water and a bowl of “fixin’s” (as her Papa used to say when talking about delicious miscellanea.) Then…oh, then Sasha got to work.
Pizza. Onion rings, basket of fries. Potato skins with extra cheese. Bacon-wrapped jalapeños. A horde of chili-and-cheese poppers. That crunchy thing sprinkled with parsley? Bring it on. Oh, and did they have anything pickled and fried, ‘cause she’d take three if yes. Sasha quickly compiled a shove-down worthy of a starving Viking. Folding the pizza pita-style over the heart attack mess, Sasha grinned like the Big Bad Wolf coming off a tofu diet. It was almost perfect.
“Kid, you’re gonna choke.” The bartender shook his head.
Ah, perfect. “Time me?”
Exactly three minutes and twenty-seven seconds later, Sasha was sucking the last splotch of marinara off her fingers. The bartender shook his head again…but he was smiling. Sasha capitalized on the moment by commandeering the nearest bowl of peanuts. On stage, the latest karaoke fatality was belting out “My Way” and Sasha grinned to hear it.
Yes, there were times, I'm sure you know when I bit off more than I could chew… Oh, she liked this one, yes.
The place was crowded, she noted. Good Friday fodder. People were talking and smiling, touching shoulders. Laughter spilled frequently through the whiskey-toned atmosphere. The mood had a good, generous feel to it. A large number of the tables was fully loaded, and the tavern door never seemed to stay closed for long.
When the song ended, Sasha applauded wildly, adding a two-finger whistle for good measure. She swiveled back round to the bar, exchanging her perfectly empty bowl for one with better prospects. Admittedly, this means stealing the peanuts right out from under her neighbor’s nose, but, hey, all’s fair in love and snackery.
“Feeling brave?” she asked, purloined munchies in no way shadowing her smile.