A/N: To the reviewer who remarked on Bruce having sex with Vicki while thinking about Rachel—dude, that was totally my intention! See, in my mind, Bruce heard about Rachel accepting a date with Harvey Dent, started feeling really sorry for himself and, well, had a hot blonde waiting at home. What else was he going to do with her?
This chapter has taken a long time. I have not been well. I hope to be writing more and nearer between.
Warnings: Coarse language. Emotional abuse. Violence and gore. Engagement party.
References: Numerous Buffy ones, Scrubs, Casablanca, Mastercard commercials, Catwoman, The Da Vinci Code, Bambi, Weeds, "Hey Jude", The Silence of the Lambs, Looney Tunes, VH1 reality stars, and various Dark Knight promotion sites. Also, a recent Batman comic where Vicki Vale made an appearance was referred to by the outfit she wears through the duration of this chapter.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: The Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
"I went to bed with gum in my mouth and now there's gum in my hair. When I got out of bed this morning I tripped on the skateboard and by mistake I dropped my sweater in the sink while the water was running and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day."
'Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day' by Judith Viorst
"Everything just seems to fall in your lap; upper middle-class white girl with Bambi eyes and a rack to kill. It isn't hard for you to snag anything you want."
-Margaret Kyle
"I honestly can't understand why you did it."
"We looked at each other and we knew."
"I think that morphine took its toll."
In Vicki's opinion, the emerald green fedora perched atop her curls looked fantastic, especially in the early morning sun. In Ace's opinion, Vicki was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and the ridiculous hat was a manifestation of her symptoms.
Vicki did a little twirl as Ace waited for his breakfast scone to be produced by the freckled barista.
"It makes me feel cosmopolitan," Vicki sighed dreamily, sipping her mocha.
"It makes you look like a leprechaun Bogey."
"Bogey?"
"Bogey," Ace said matter-of-factly, taking a bite of his blueberry scone. Vicki raised an eyebrow. "Bogey," Ace said again, unable to compute Vicki's puzzlement. "As in Humphrey Bogart. Casablanca!" Several scone crumbs fluttered into his goatee.
Vicki's lips contracted into a little 'o' of understanding. She shrugged and turned merrily toward the door.
"Sometimes I wonder how you live on such a low intake of culture," Ace groaned, following her.
Since Peg had a weekday wedding to be at, Ace was escorting Vicki to her first day back to work. Although the air was getting warmer as spring took effect, Vicki was covered from head to toe. Despite her extended recovery period, she was still a walking bruise. Among her wardrobe choices were a tight, long sleeved black shirt and a wooly scarf that matched her hat. She also had a black glove with the finger tips cut off on her right hand, to cover the 23 stitches in her palm. Ace had managed not to make fun of it.
As they stepped into the crowded elevator, Vicki sipped at her mocha, trying to psyche herself up. Going back to the office, where there were people to stare and ask polite questions about how she was. Most of them being journalists, they all had a fairly good idea anyway; but Vicki had used a lot of her sick leave, had a lot of bills, and had no rich boyfriend to pay them off for her. She had already considered auctioning off the designer gifts he'd bestowed on her, but… it was all too pretty.
Vicki mentally balanced her checkbook to remind herself how important going back to work was.
Bills… lots. Student loans… lots. Shoes… lots... Feeling humiliated when I turn around every corner… priceless.
The elevator opened.
When Vicki and Ace strode down the aisles of cubicles to her own, Vicki noted that the only stares she got were directed at the green fedora. Most people stayed too enthralled in the low hum of typing and ringing phones to notice her presence. It was comforting.
"Fashion tip, Doug, mouth looks better closed," Ace suggested as they passed the news editor's desk. For once, Doug's lascivious eyes were concentrated above Vicki's neckline.
"Guess I'll go talk to Palmeri," Vicki said, plopping her purse under her desk and starting her computer. She picked up her work camera and wiped off the thin sheet of dust that had gathered on it in her absence. Ace leaned against the side of the cubicle.
"You want to deal with her right now?" he asked skeptically.
"Ace, I am fine," Vicki said slowly. "I don't need looking after. I won't break if she yells at me. If anything, it'll help the transfer back to normalcy."
Ace gave her a hard look, studying her features for telltale signs of lying or distress. Seeing none, he nodded, gave her hand a squeeze and was off to his own assignment. Vicki sighed and flopped into her stiff, broken desk chair. She spun once. She spun twice. She settled in at her desk and tapped her fingernails on the plywood. Taking a deep breath, she leaned back.
It should not be this difficult to go talk to Franny, Vicki thought to herself.
"I wouldn't get too comfy," trilled a voice behind Vicki. Vicki whirled around, chair and all, to see that Constance had popped up at the entrance to Vicki's cubicle. Her strict professional garb, a pinstriped skirt and a slick bun with two pencils sticking out of it, was the polar opposite of Vicki's. Constance leaned down like she was talking to a child as she continued. "Ms. Kyle wants to see you in her office." Vicki nodded and sidestepped Constance on her way to the editor's office. Constance followed. "So, how've you been?"
"Perfectly fine," Vicki replied through pursed lips.
"Wayne had a brand new girl on his arm last night," Constance trilled, falling into step beside Vicki. "Model named Kendra, no last name." The gossip-monger laughed derisively. "I mean, can you say 'stuck in the 80's'?"
"Constance," Vicki stopped dead in her tracks and turned toward her colleague, hoping that her face wasn't turning too red from embarrassment. "Your mouth is open and sound is coming from it," Vicki said slowly. "This is never good."
"Ooh, aren't we snippy?" Constance continued, twitching her nose as she grinned irreverently. When Vicki started to walk away, Constance only followed. Her eyebrows furrowed in an attempt to seem concerned. "Painful break-up?"
Well, yes. He had no interest in me except for my breasts and my knowledge of his deepest darkest secret. Now that I've thrown him away, he's already got mono-named models on his arm that won't ask too many questions, won't have any personal crises, and will accept him for the himbo he is.
"It was a mutual agreement," Vicki called over her shoulder, trying to inject her voice with as much cheerfulness as she could muster. "I wanted to focus on my career; he needed to focus on the stockholders. We're still good friends," she added with considerably less determination in her voice. For once, God decided to help her out and Vicki felt the beautiful, beautiful vibrations of the cell phone in her back pocket ringing. "In fact, that's his text right now," Vicki said, leaving Constance frowning skeptically in the hallway that led to Kyle's office.
The text was actually from Peg, at her cousin's wedding. Peg was acting as a last minute bridesmaid.
'kill me. they wrote their own vows.'
Vicki giggled to herself as she passed Mary the Secretary's desk and pocketed the cell phone when she entered the office of Margaret Kyle.
Kyle's office was a thing of sterilized beauty. Whereas the former editor Martha Barnes had never bothered to decorate the office, leaving it a barren, white box where she merely stored stacks of paper, Kyle had transformed the space into a vibrant den of culture and organization. It was painted a muted shade of burgundy. Several framed degrees were mounted on the wall and nothing was out of order. Everything felt tethered, in place, and… symmetrical.
If not for the burgundy, Vicki probably would have died of a panic-induced heart attack. Speaking to Kyle made her feel like a fourth grader that got caught chucking spit wads at the chalkboard. The Führer herself was seated at her desk, stuffed into a prim, grey suit, intently studying a copy of Journaux Officiels.
"Constance said you wanted to see me?" Vicki mumbled inaudibly. Kyle bristled at the sudden interruption in her solemn quiet, but looked up with a sugary smile.
"Sit down," Kyle said, gesturing to the leather seat across her desk. "Someone managed to break into the Louvre," she remarked, setting the French newspaper over her desk and smoothing it out. "They stole ancient Greek art: a gold coronet, some vases, just some odds and ends."
"Very 'Da Vinci Code'," Vicki murmured, gripping the edges of her chair.
"Vicki…" Silence. Kyle could do a cold stare really well. Vicki shifted uncomfortably in her seat, fixing her eyes on the window behind Kyle. The dusty white blinds were closed but the light leaking in silhouetted Kyle like… well, it was just really creepy. "How do you think you're doing here?" Kyle finally asked.
"I'm not sure what you mean…"
"I mean, you got this job right out of college," Kyle said coolly, leaning back in her chair. "That in and of itself is pretty impressive. Already you've run some high-profile photographs and even been targeted by the government." Kyle leaned forward now, steepling her hands on the desk, keeping her intense stare trained on the anxious blonde. "What do you think of that?"
"I…" Vicki stuttered, blindsided by the kindness the Führer was showing her. Her mouth froze open as she grasped for what to say. Honesty was always risky with the boss, but Kyle seemed genuinely interested in her wellbeing. She had reason to be. "It's been really hard," Vicki admitted after a moment, settling back in her chair and looking down at her hands so that Kyle couldn't see tears welling up in her eyes. It was a weak and pathetic move, but Vicki had a harder time holding back tears these days. "I was so... freaked out about the subpoena and now I'm under a lot of scrutiny cause of the thing with the…" Vicki trailed off. Getting kidnapped by a mad scientist tended to make people interested.
"Well, Vicki, this is not 'Bring Your Problems to Work Day'."
Fucking sneak attack. What a whore… Vicki thought. Note to self: Honesty is worst policy.
"This is just 'Work Day'," Kyle continued slowly and sternly, sitting up pin-straight with her arms crossed. Her voice got lower, but louder. "Everything that's happened to you comes with the territory. The only difference is that you haven't worked long enough to know how to deal with it or worked hard enough to earn it."
Vicki's head whipped up at that comment, her face locked into an unemotional grimace.
"I've looked through your notes," Kyle added, sweeping aside the French newspaper to reveal a stack of papers. Some were memos on crisp computer paper and some were tiny pages written in green ink, ripped from a notepad, shredded and crumpled from abuse. Vicki had thought that was how journalistic notes were supposed to look, anyway. "I've spoken to your colleagues. Everything just seems to fall into your lap," Kyle sneered, letting the malice drip from her words. "Upper middle-class white girl with Bambi eyes and a rack to kill. It isn't hard for you to snag anything you want, be it billionaires or police officers."
"Are you implying something?" Vicki asked between gritted teeth.
"If I say something, it's straight forward. Any innuendo is in your head," Kyle spat. "Bottom line: you're unprofessional. I hold my employees to a high standard and flirting with your subjects is no way to operate."
Vicki made another mental note: Kill Julian.
The Führer abruptly ceased her tirade. Her posture, her arms, her face, every part of her body was still like a black marble statue. Her eyes were darting all around the little blonde ingénue she'd just eviscerated. Vicki sighed quietly and slouched down in her chair, something she'd always done to rebel in her teenhood. She was realizing that Margaret Kyle was a cold, carbon copy of her own fucking mother. The realization made her want to slit her wrists and jump out the window.
The stoney silence was interrupted by the shrill jingle of a cell phone. Kyle whipped hers out and glanced at the screen, then pocketed it again.
"I'm going to give you a chance to redeem yourself right off the bat," Kyle decided after a few tense moments. Vicki raised an eyebrow, trying to make sure her relief didn't show. "We just got a report about a shoot-out at the 'Doodad Club' in midtown. Cover that with Gellar, bring me something good."
"Could you be more specific?" Vicki asked aggressively. "I thought I was doing 'good'."
"No." Kyle seemed to be done with her evisceration. Her posture loosened and she swept the papers covering her desk into a little pile before shoving them into a drawer. Vicki, shaking with something between rage and homicidal intentions, got up and stalked toward the door. "Oh, and Vale?" Kyle called out, causing Vicki to stop in her tracks. "I'm implementing a dress code. No hats."
Vicki turned around and glared at the Führer.
"Good thing I'm on my way out."
Using the old 'count to ten' technique to manage her anger, Vicki was slowly counting under her breath, already up to 47 when she got back to her desk.
48, 49…
Vicki leaned under her desk and violently snatched up her purse. She grabbed her work camera and stuffed it inside the camera pouch on the side of her purse.
50, 51—
When she turned toward Gellar's desk down the hall, Vicki ran full-on into Julian.
"You're back!"
For the first time since she'd known him, Vicki was able to see what Julian looked like with a dumb, jolly grin pasted on his face. She felt the overwhelming urge to slap it off his face.
"And now I'm leaving," Vicki said curtly, pushing past him.
"H-How are you feeling?" Julian asked, following her as she loped toward Gellar's desk. The rest of the newsroom was staring at them, partially because Vicki could always be counted on to provide workplace drama and partially because Vicki's hat was so damn green.
"Great." Vicki turned sharply, standing at attention in front of Gellar's desk. Gen was on the phone and waved Vicki away, keeping her cell clutched with one hand and shoving papers and notepads and pencils into a massive messenger bag with the other.
Julian was clearly expecting more of an answer. He hovered behind Vicki, who stared determinedly at the wall. Tears were stinging her eyes again. Why the fuck did she care that Julian was a big, fat, Benedict Arnold? She could hear him breathing uneasily and feel his nervous breaths spurting against her hair.
"Ace said you were-"
Vicki whirled around and looked Julian straight in the eye.
"Why are you trying to be my friend?"
"What?" Julian gasped. He looked like she'd just killed his puppy.
"You obviously don't like me," Vicki said, stepping two inches away from Julian's clammy, reddening face. His mouth was quivering open as he grasped for something to say. "You don't appreciate my company, you don't think I match you intellectually," Vicki continued, her voice rising with every syllable, getting a bit shrill, "nor do you send your condolences when I get kidnapped by mad scientists."
"I did visit you…" Julian gulped.
"Why even bother?" Vicki grumbled, "Especially when you're up here bitching about my work ethics to the boss."
"No!" Julian insisted, eyes widening. "Vicki, I wasn't badmouthing you. I might have said something to Doug-"
Gen Gellar got up from her desk, still on her phone, and waved Vicki toward the elevator. When Vicki turned to follow her, Julian tried to hurry along as well.
"Wait, Vick—"
Vicki stopped and shoved him against the nearest cubicle, shaking the slight cardboard structure and gaining the attention of anyone who wasn't already watching the debacle. Julian just stared back at her, dumbfounded.
"Do not speak to me." With that, Vicki stomped off and left a flustered Julian to his thoughts.
At a society dinner that night, Constance Mooreston told the story in lurid detail to her gossip sources and bosom buddies. In her retelling of the slutty photographer/rookie reporter fiasco, Julian declared his love for Vicki, and she kicked him in the groin.
In Gotham, one could always differentiate crime scenes according to their style.
The Mob, a collection of traditional Italians who wished for a return to the good old days, was straightforward. Go after the target when they're not expecting it. Stab, shoot, or strangle the area which is likely to incur death in the quickest way possible. Walk away. Go home and have some spaghetti.
The Russian outfit, made up of and headed by immigrants, killed like Russian tragedy. If they killed someone (or a lot of someones) the kills were intimate. They were romantic—men on their knees, women flung across the floor as though reaching for something. The Russians probably thought of it as karma, comeuppance, or destiny, whatever it was that they believed in.
Jason Michael Gambol had led a gang of street toughs in his youth, going on to marshal them into an empire right under the long and far-reaching reign of Carmine Falcone. He valued skill and ambition above style, and his minions reflected his preference. Gang kills were sloppy, like bad abstract art. Eyes, brains, guts, blood, bowels… Body parts just kind of flew around and stayed were they landed, as long as nobody stepped in them.
Jason Michael Gambol had gone against the Chechen today and won, so Vicki's crime scene photos were destined to look like bad abstract art.
"Having a good first day back, Vicki?"
"Fan-fucking-tastic."
"… What are you doing on Detective Stephen's squad car?" Gordon asked Vicki.
Vicki was perched atop the hood of the squad car because it was the only way she could do her job. A crowd was gathered at the edge of the crime scene, pressing against the police tape, and most of them were taller than Vicki. Gen was there, arms waving like a windmill, a recorder clutched in one hand and a steaming latté in the other. Along with the other reporters, she was hounding the cops that were standing guard, pushing to see whatever was being hidden from the public.
Vicki had a complete view of all the bodies, the detectives, the medical examiners, the tarp soaking in web-like streams of blood. Nothing was amiss.
"If these run color, I'm up here getting another front-page spread," Vicki said, jumping down next to Gordon and letting her camera bang against her chest.
"You're going to put these mangled bodies on display, where their families can see them?" Gordon asked, eyebrows furrowing.
"The shot's not close enough to recognize what's left of the facial features," Vicki shrugged.
"It's indecent," Gordon shot back.
"The state voted in '96 that normal indecency standards don't apply to Gotham," Vicki said. "Besides, they're just bodies."
"How we treat the dead makes us different from those did the slaughtering," Gordon replied softly, like a preacher whispering over the grave of a congregant. It was an appropriately shaming comment, enough to inflame Vickie's cheeks and make her bow her head.
"Yeah, well, my editor can't tell the difference," Vicki muttered. She shouldered past Gordon, whose mustache was locked in a sad, pitying frown.
"You okay?" he asked from behind her, and Vicki knew he wasn't just asking about her day.
"The hospital told me I am," she called out, not turning around to look him in the eye.
Vicki rounded the squad car and dove into the crowd of pushing, spitting, shouting reporters. Throaty calls for commentary and slimy insinuations of corruption flew through the air. Vicki ducked under the elbow of an odorous, unshaven photographer and sidled up next to Gen Gellar. Commissioner Loeb was stationed just behind the 'Police' tape, stern and unflappable, bellowing words like 'outrage', 'culprit', and 'not at this time'. A shot of Loeb framed by the carnage might've been a nice touch, but it would've been cliché and Vicki had no patience for that.
"Are we done here?" Vicki asked, tugging at Gellar's jacket to get her attention. Gellar whirled around to face Vicki, letting a stream of scalding latté spill into the air and burn the hulking reporter from the Gazette next to them. He let out a bellow, but was otherwise distracted by Loeb's sermonizing.
"Crane must've done a number on you if you think this is all it takes to get something," Gellar barked.
Vicki inhaled sharply, feeling tears prickle in her eyes. Gellar threw back her head and downed half of her latté. When she was done, she emitted a loud, contented sigh.
"Listening to this fuck isn't going to give us anything," Gen grumbled. She grabbed Vicki's shoulder and spun her around, jostling her out of the crowd and towards a nervous looking beat cop standing guard in front of a squad car. The outline of a figure could be seen faintly through the tinted windows. On the other side, the door was open and a Latina detective that Vicki quickly recognized as Detective Ramirez was standing, hand perched on her hip, questioning whoever was in the car. "When she leaves, get over there as fast as you can," Gellar hissed into Vicki's ear.
Who was in the car, or how Gellar even knew who was in there, Vicki couldn't tell. Gellar stopped in front of the beat cop.
"Somethin' I can do for you, miss?" he asked with a heavy inner city accent.
"Fuck, yeah," Gellar replied hotly, getting up in his face. "You can give me a comment on what the hell…"
At that point, Vicki stopped listening. Iphigenia Gellar was someone who delighted in getting a tip no one else got, but these days Gellar acted as though she'd given up the concept of 'tact'. Although Gen had always been devoid of pleasantries, it seemed to Vicki that Gellar saved her worst moods for when they were paired to work together.
After one or two minutes of Gellar ripping the beat cop a new one, Detective Ramirez quit her questioning and stalked off. She left the door open, probably figuring that there were too many cops swarming the scene for her suspect to get away. Vicki casually walked over to the open door and peered inside the car.
Inside the car, with wild matted hair, an untrimmed beard, blood-soaked clothes, and a devilish scowl, sat Oleg Chechnya, better known to the public and the underworld as 'The Chechen'. Vicki gasped what she thought was an inaudible gasp, but it was enough to alert The Chechen to her presence. His scowl was soon upturned in a grin and he began to edge his way toward her. Vicki stumbled back a few steps, her muscles otherwise frozen.
Once he was close enough to the door for the sunlight to reflect off of his silver tooth, The Chechen threw his head in what can only be termed as a hair flip.
"They sent the prettiest girl to me, did they?" he chortled, winking at Vicki. He thrust his chin up into the air for a dignified pose. "We'll have to do profile. I've got Negro all down my front."
Vicki's eyes wandered to the bloodstains covering his clothes. Her arms remained pinned to her sides helplessly. Her breath was caught in her throat.
… blood welled up and out of his lips. He pitched forward… Waves of scarlet blood were seeping into her lovely dress… her hands were shaking wildly, coated in the sticky substance… she wiped her hands on her skirt…
"Miss Vale, step back!"
Detective Ramirez was back, and unhappy. She pulled Vicki away from the car and slammed the door closed on the still preening Chechen.
"Hey!" Gellar just had to join the fray. "You can't stop my photographer from rightfully—"
"Unless she's a lawyer by night, she doesn't have any right to talk to a murder suspect!" Ramirez retorted. The two women squared off, ignoring the shell-shocked Vicki.
"Yeah, right, 'suspect'! Gotham PD doesn't have the balls to prosecute him," Gellar alleged, raising her voice. "He'll be out in a few hours."
"Guess you won't have trouble waiting for him then," Ramirez said, smirking. "Parkman!" The nervous beat cop hurried up to her, sweating a bit, unable to meet his superior's eyes. "Quit scratching your balls and get us down to Central Booking." The beat cop fumbled with his keys and clambered into the driver's seat, while Ramirez, still smirking at Gellar, slid into the shotgun seat.
The car sped off. Gellar was spitting mad. Vicki hadn't really noticed the whole thing.
"Why didn't you get that shot?" Gellar roared, turning to stare at Vicki incredulously. "He was right there! What the fuck, Vale?"
"For once in your entire goddamn life," Vicki screamed at Gellar, "shut the fuck up!"
For once in her entire life, Gellar obeyed Vicki's instructions. Vicki was also loud enough to attract the attention of a few cops and one or two reporters. This time, however, Vicki ignored all the staring. She yanked her camera strap over her neck and shoved her camera—her beloved, treasured camera that used to pain her to part from—into Gellar's hand.
"If you really think that you're the expert on photography, by all means, ignore the girl who has a degree in it," Vicki raged. "But my official recommendation is to take some Vicodin, yank that ice pick out of your ass and get laid instead of hulking around all day being a grade-A, first-class bitch!"
Gellar's mouth dropped open in shock at the vitriol of Vicki's words, but Vicki ignored her, satisfied that Gellar was speechless. She shoved past her colleague and walked briskly away from the crime scene, past a tobacco-chewing photographer who eyed her like a crazy woman, past another beat cop who just frowned disapprovingly, and past brow-furrowed Gordon. Vicki could neither see nor hear anything but the ringing of her own loud voice in her ears.
When she finally fell out of her mad rage, she was at least a mile from the crime scene, on a shopping strip. She stopped to stare in a window at some shoes and caught her reflection, of a wispy blonde girl with tear trails drying on her bright red face.
Her bright green hat was gone. Vicki could not for the life of her figure out when she'd lost it.
Na na na na na, na na na, hey, Jude… Na na na na na, na na na. Hey, Jude…
"That motherfucking asshole, flaming shit-faced fuck!"
"I-I-I-I-I-I know!... Wait, I haven't told you anything."
"Bruce dumped you! I had to hear about it from great aunt-Sookie! And he's going out with supermodel! What a—"
"That happened like a week ago, Peg, I totally don't even care."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"It was a mutual decision."
"But why didn't you tell me?"
"I just had a lot going on in my head. Breaking up was the least of it."
"Would you tell me if it did bother you? I mean, you can't exactly form coherent sentences around the guy—"
"Can we please concentrate on the more pressing issue?"
"What?"
"That, as far as the Führer is concerned, I'm a damn dirty Jew."
"It's not your fault your mom's—"
"You missed the metaphor, Peg! Kyle called me into her office today and harangued me for being a lazy, good-for-nothing, dumb blonde who uses my breasts to get what I want!"
"Aw, you got your performance review!"
"That's what Ace said, too! How is this not more distressing? Can't I sue her for saying things like that?"
"If you want her to eat your liver with fava beans and a bottle of Chianti, go ahead, sue her."
"But she was really brutal! You'd think she'd been nicer to her only Batman contact."
"Nobody is happy about that, least of all her. He's your Golden Ticket, and all the other kids want him."
"Well, that explains why Gellar hates me."
"Yeah, don't make her mad. She's got major seniority."
"I know that! But it doesn't mean they have to devastate my self-esteem the day I come back to work! Gen Gellar and the Führer both, they're rude and offensive and inhuman—"
"She called my work subpar."
"... Not quite the same!"
"The Führer's here to stay. We have to get used to her. And, seeing as we're young, bottom-of-the-rung employees, we have to please her."
"It's harassment! It's—"
"No, Ma, no, I don't want to... you can't make... No, I don't want—OW!"
"You okay?"
"My mother needs me to go catch the bouquet. Listen, sleep on it, you'll feel better. Buy yourself some ice cream."
Click.
"… I don't have any money…"
The topper on Vicki's lovely day was that when she finally made it home, the creepy clown from the previous Halloween was leaning against the wall of her building, spinning a pencil through his fingers. She recognized him as Doc, the skinny, creepy one who rode around on a bike and feuded with the large Haitian man she had flirted with. His rusty, hobbled bike was even leaned up against the building next to him.
Vicki kept her usual pace as she neared the building, hoping that if she pretended not to notice, he'd leave her alone. She got up to her door. She put in her keys and turned the lock. She chanced a look back at the clown; he was staring intently at his own hand as the pencil twisted in and out of his purple-gloved finger tips. He hadn't noticed her. And for some reason, that set Vicki off again.
"You know," Vicki started, leaving her keys in the door to lean over and get his attention. His head snapped up to look at her and the pencil froze in his hand. "In my experience, guys who dress up in clown masks all year round and loiter around apartment buildings that aren't theirs are either batshit crazy or compensating for the fact that they can't get it up by pretending they're batshit and acting out.
Doc merely cocked his head to one side, still staring at her.
"Can't get it up Doc?" Vicki asked, shrugging.
After a moment's hesitation, Doc leapt up from his post against the apartment building and sidled over to her. Vicki instinctively leaned away, grasping at her keys and turning them in the lock in case he did anything funny. But he stopped just short of the stoop. He seemed unsteady on his feet, swaying a bit as he held the pencil up like a magician about to disappear it into his hat.
"How about a magic trick?" he half growled, half giggled, waving the pencil around in the air.
Vicki sighed, rolled her eyes, and slammed the door on him.
Inside, she could hear the thrumming of pop music through the halls, emanating from Papa's main floor apartment. It was bigger than all the others and he occasionally held holiday parties for his tenants. Not just Fourth of July and Christmas, but Labor Day and President's Day and Arbor Day too. Vicki searched her head for any obscure holiday that occurred today, but thinking of nothing, concluded that Papa had just forgotten to invite her to someone's birthday. But as Vicki began her trudge up the stairs, Papa's door opened, revealing white streamers and a crowd of people Vicki didn't recognize. Papa hobbled out and looked up at her, grinning.
"Ah, I t'ought dat was you, slammin my doors about," he said.
"It's been one of those days," Vicki sighed, not meeting his eyes.
"Why don't you join us?" Papa insisted, motioning toward the party. Before Vicki could even lift her head to shake it, Papa was dragging himself up the steps so that he could drag her down into the party. "You look like someone just shot your puppy."
"I don't even have a puppy to shoot," Vicki pouted, descending the steps. Papa put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed tight before he leaned on her to rest a moment.
"My leg has been actin' up," he explained with a bit of a wheeze. Vicki held on as they hobbled together toward the party, where the smell of cigarettes, pizza and beer had begun to seep out of the open door.
"Maybe you're just tired," Vicki supplied, yawning.
"I'm the tired one, huh?" Papa chortled, "Now that's a pecan callin' a macademia crunchy…"
He pushed the door open and urged Vicki inside. Papa's larger-than-most-but-still-small apartment was packed with people in their 20s and 30s, mingling together comfortably. Most people were smiling or grinning, laughing with ease. The TV was tuned to some sort of sports game, though no one was watching. Papa's ancient, Greek-speaking mother was huddled in a corner, waving her arms wildly to a captive audience.
"Wanna beer?" Papa asked, hobbling toward the kitchen.
"Who's this party for?" Vicki asked, but her question was drowned out by the sudden tinkling of beer cans. Somebody was clapping. Stuart Hobson, Hannah the Happy Hooker's boyfriend, was gesturing to the crowd for silence.
"Thanks for bein' here guys, to, uh, celebrate our union," he said, looping an arm around Hannah's waist. Hannah, despite her newly and obnoxiously peroxide blonde hair, looked radiant. "We'd like to thank Papa for holdin' the engagement party and Hannah's manager for supplyin' the eats. We ain't got a date yet, but, uh, keep your Labor Day Weekend cleared. And, uh, well, I think I'm supposed to say somethin' here, but…"
Stuart grinned sheepishly at Hannah and she tilted her head back in laughter.
"I got somethin' to say," she giggled, taking his hands in hers. She looked at the crowd, still grinning, but earnestly now. Her shoulders slumped and her voice got a bit quieter, but she had a captive audience. "When I met Stuart, I thought I was at the ass end of my life with nothin' to show. My days just ran together 'cause they were all the same. Get up, life sucks, go to bed. I wasn't whole, just a ghost. But then, I met Stuart and he..."
Hannah turned from the crowd to look into her fiancée's eyes.
"You looked at me and you knew me and you loved me," Hannah choked out, fat tears sliding down her cheek. "You were so sure. I didn't even know what love was." Hannah pursed her lips together, trying to hold back sobs. She was now visibly shaking. "I do now though," Hannah said, to Stuart alone. "It's when everything's the same, but it's okay. Nothings as bad cause when I'm with you, I'm happy and warm and..."
The crowd cooed as Stuart swept Hannah into his arms.
Vicki felt nauseous, not just from the unabashed love that was circulating or the pure cheesiness of Hannah's speech. No, Vicki felt nauseous because the feeling that was churning about in her stomach was envy. She was envious of Hannah the Happy Hooker. There was nothing lower than this feeling, nothing in the world. Hannah was a former street prostitute, someone who hadn't gone to college, someone who thought Tila Tequila and Flavor Flav were classy people. Her boyfriend was a delivery man, he was two inches shorter than she was (without heels), and despite spending most of his day around flowers, Stuart carried around the distinct smell of fermented cabbage on his person.
Yet Vicki was jealous of them. She was quite disgusted with herself, and planned on leaving at that very moment, except that fate was not done rubbing her nose in her bad luck.
"Hey Vick!"
Vicki froze when she heard Hannah's voice squeak out her name in excitement. In less than a second, Hannah's bony fingers settled on Vicki's shoulder, gently pulling her back. Vicki opened her mouth to say something polite, but was terribly disturbed when Hannah pulled her into a tight hug. It was intense, one of those hugs where one isn't quite sure when it will end and your middles are touching. After almost a minute, Hannah pulled back, still grinning dumbly, glowing and blissful.
"I'm so glad you could make it! I really wanted you to be here!" Hannah gushed, her hands wrapping around Vicki's forearms.
"Oh… Cool! Glad I could, uh, be here then…" Vicki stumbled over her words, baffled by Hannah's enthusiasm.
"I told Stuart that you were definitely gonna be in the wedding on account of you introduced us and everything," Hannah continued. "I mean, what are the chances, my future husband delivers your millionaire stalker's flowers, right?"
"Right!" Vicki affirmed after a minute of staring blankly at Hannah. "You two are gonna be great together. I… wish you hundreds of fat children!"
Hannah raised her eyebrow, but then just shrugged.
"Anyway, I'm thinking black bridesmaid dresses, not long or anything, any style you want," Hannah continued, "but you're all going to wear animal print sandals! Cause it should still be warm for our wedding, I definitely wanna be able to go outside without getting my dress…"
Holy shit, Vicki thought to herself. She turned off her ears, letting Hannah drone on while she contemplated the thought of appearing in this travesty of a wedding. Vicki had met some of Hannah's girlfriends; their vocabularies were short, their extensions were long, and none of them used proper grammar. The night dragged on interminably as Vicki was dragged around to meet the other bridesmaids, their boyfriends, their boyfriends' girlfriends, Hannah's parents, Stuart's stepdad and mom, Hannah's foster mom and touchy-feely dad, someone's third cousin once removed on someone's mother's side, the DJ, the caterer, Stuart's boss, and the hiccupping priest who was to preside over all of it.
Vicki just barely managed to keep herself from chugging some of the cheap beer on hand (there was a bottle of cheap vodka in her kitchen cabinet she planned on draining). She tore herself from Hannah's side as soon as she could go unnoticed and slipped into Papa's tiny bedroom, which was just a converted walk-in closet. She sat on the bed, staring blankly at the wall as the party continued. Eventually someone got drunk enough to puke on the carpet and the party quickly dissipated after that. Once she could only hear a few shuffles from the other side of the wall, Vicki sighed and stepped back out.
Papa was dabbing at the carpet, muttering to himself about lost change. The cleaner soon ran out. He looked up just as Vicki started to maneuver past him.
"Not in de mood for a crowd?" he asked kindly. Vicki shot him a grin that was really just a grimace with the corners of her mouth upturned. "You need somethin' from de store? I'm goin' that way for some damn carpet cleaner."
"No," Vicki sighed. "I'm fine"
"That's right," Papa said, nodding. "You're gonna be fine. Keep tellin' yourself that."
Coming from someone else, it might have sounded sarcastic. But from Corey Papakonstatinou, the words created a surge of warmth in Vicki's chest, the first good feeling she'd had in weeks. As she climbed the stairs to her apartment, she listened to Papa limp out the door without knowing it was the last time he would ever do so. The police found his body stuffed behind a dumpster the next morning.