WHAT A WASTE of a birthday, I mused as I sucked a long swig of vodka from a tall bottle I'd managed to buy from the nearest Walmart. It was a large bottle, sure, but when I had tasted it, I was shocked that it had passed the test to be sold on store shelves. I scrunched my face as it washed down my throat, gasping as the burning sensation faded away. "Motherfucker, that's strong," I croaked.

It was times like these that I wished I'd never gotten involved in things I didn't understand. If I hadn't, I wouldn't be living out of my truck, finding mangy and cheap motels to crash in when I couldn't keep my eyes open. I would probably still be working a normal part-time job at my local grocery store, caring for my garden and binge-watching whichever shows I wanted to. If I hadn't fucked up so badly, maybe things would be normal.

But of course, normal was just the thing that made my life...well, boring as all hell. I had convinced myself that having a routine would be good for me, but all it gave me was a headache and too much repetition. I needed variation, I needed the thrill of no expectations. That's what Bucky brought me, in both good ways and bad.

The mouth of the bottle touched my lips again and I forced another mouthful of the foul drink down my throat. Coughing, I covered my mouth and squeezed my eyes shut, setting the bottle down on the floor beside me. My head tipped back and rested on the bed I was sitting up against, looking up at the ceiling. Cracks and fissures had appeared throughout the years, wearing through the building's infrastructure and leading it closer and closer to destruction.

"There's nothing like the possibility of a roof caving in on you to really brighten your birthday," I muttered to myself.

My fingers stretched out on the floor, curling around the thick, 1970s style carpet. Every two feet was a different colored square of carpet, whether it was red, lime green, mustard yellow, or speckled royal blue. It was initially hard to look at, overwhelming my senses, but after the third night of staring at the oddly painted walls and basically being transported back into the seventies, the outdated decor had started to grow on me. It was charming, the way places like this were able to keep original furniture and carpeting, acting as your own personal time machine for however long you stayed here.

Of course, I would give it a better rating on Yelp if the telephones were from this century. Even a Blackberry would help.

It's not like I had anyone to call, though.

Ever since Bucky was taken, I've been driving. Where? No fuckin' idea. Every morning, I'll just get in the truck and start the engine, driving someplace new until I'm so tired that I've almost forgotten that I can't drive with my eyes closed. Luckily, I opened them soon enough to avoid a major collision. I could have died. After that, I began pulling over and taking naps on the side of the country roads, or if I couldn't find a good spot, I caved and bought a room at a motel for a night or two.

Tonight was that kind of night. And some sick part of me, the old Elda Reid, wanted to celebrate my birthday while in one place. Even if it was a crappy motel that was strangely obsessed with 1970s decorum. 

I spotted a computer in the corner of the room, the one perk of this less-than-satisfactory temporary home. It wasn't as old as everything else surrounding me; it had to be closer to ten years old instead of thirty. Luckily for me, having a computer in a motel room meant unlimited access to the internet. Well, just the stuff I paid for. At least I had some connection to the outside world.

Standing the bottle of vodka on the desk, I tried to gracefully swing myself into the desk chair but only proceeded in tripping over my own feet and stubbing my toe on the wooden desk. A string of curses flew from my mouth in my drunken stupor. "Damn you, you delicious poison," I pointed a finger at the bottle, screwing up my face in an attempt to focus on just one of the floating bottles in my vision instead of all seven. 

Finally finding my way down to the seat, I stared at the computer. For only a moment, I forgot what I'd planned to do once I moved those last four feet from the floor. Then I remembered, pushing a button on the monitor to make it turn on, waiting for the computer to power up. In what felt like fifteen minutes but was realistically only five, I was clicking through numerous tabs that showed me news stories about...well, my dilemma. 

Woman, 26, Hides Centurian In Her Home For Money

"Okay, PopSugar," I scowled. Even in my drunk state, I knew seventy-five percent of these headlines were complete bullshit. "You don't even cover this kind of news. Get in your lane."

The Winter Soldier Is Missing Again. How Long Until The CIA Takes Him Down?

God's Righteous Man Is Now The CIA's Most Wanted Man

A Timeline of The Avengers' Rise--And Fall (Don't Worry, It's Short)

"That's a low blow, New York Times," I slurred. It was disheartening to see so many slandering headlines talking about things they didn't know. That was the whole purpose of being a reporter, but it was just...rude how wrong they were. 

Gravel crunched outside my window, and if I were any less drunk, maybe I would have tensed up, drawn the curtains and hid inside this room for the next week. But I just lifted the bottle and held it up, making a solitary toast on my birthday. 

"Here's to many more nights like these," I vowed, "'cause I'm sure there'll be plenty more." I tipped the bottle to my lips and downed a large sip, letting it burn on the way down. Then I opened my eyes, cracked a cruel smirk at the computer screen, and calmly let out a, "Fuck you," to the false news stories listed before my eyes. 

A rough knock on the door lifted my head from the computer. I hit the button on the monitor again to make the screen go black, standing up and walking toward the door. I fumbled for a second, trying to find out where to put my bottle of vodka, but then I figured it wasn't illegal to drink in a motel. Right?

The knock sounded again when I didn't answer it. Reaching for the knob, I opened it and...

He was tired. I could tell from the way his shoulders slumped, the way his hat hung loosely on his big fingers, exposing his balding head of gray, wispy hair. He looked down the hall, as if bored and wishing he were anywhere else. He reached into his uniform's pocket and pulled out a picture. 

"My name is Officer James Turner," he spoke in a gruff voice, years of service rumbling through his tone. "Have you seen this woman?"

I blinked a few times to focus in on the picture he was holding in front of me. I know that street, I thought to myself as I saw the street that I worked on, the one that held the grocery store I worked at. There was a woman in the picture, just like he said. Walking to her pickup truck that looked like it had gone through the ringer...then I zeroed in on her face. The eyes, the line of her mouth. The eyebrows. The hair. Her stance.

That's me. I looked up slowly at the man who was still looking down the hallway, his breathing bringing his chest heaving up and down. 

"Uh..." I spoke, flabbergasted. How did they find me? 

He jerked his head to face me. His eyes widened in disbelief, his jaw slackening from his gray upper lip. "Holy shit," he grunted as he recognized me. The perfect match to the picture. 

The alcohol shoved its way out of my system. Right onto the officer's shiny black shoes.

||

holy shit, bitch!! i wanted to get this story started on a fun, crazy note, so why not have the cops show up at her door right away, ya know what i mean? ugh, i hope i bring elda's story full circle and do it justice, i have so much hope for this girl and her character. thank you for reading!

april 1, 2019