Guest Art: Soaked to Capacity

Bars are sometimes filthy places. I don't mean that in a moral way, or from a high horse--I mean that materially speaking, they can be pretty disgusting. Grimy bathrooms, dirty floors--if you ever worked at one, like I have, you know that you might be as chaste and delicate as a cherub and still end up sweating and reeking of cigarettes you didn't smoke and beer you didn't drink by the time you get home.

So one one hand, you might imagine this young woman as a college girl who, in spite of a recently broken ankle, wanted to hit the town. She wanted to feel the eyes of frat boys on her, the damsel in distress, waiting for a pair of strong arms to carry her to bed. She drinks too much instead, watching patrons less hobbled than her dance, flirt and hook up. She spent the night as the invisible girl in distress, and now, in spite of a couple of pills and yet another drink, she can't sleep. The ankle hurts too much.

I rather imagine her as a waitress at such a bar, though. That her boss called her up and said it'd been twelve days--that, if she couldn't come in, he'd had to find another girl who could. No hard feelings, right? She fiddles with her cell phone a moment as she lays on the couch, under a blanket, her ankle propped on throw pillows. The choice between listening making rent, or listening to her doctor and her body is a sad, no-brainer.

So she winces through her pre-work routine, balancing herself at the counter as she applies make up, flinching when she tugs on the gaudy, retro aerobic socks they make her wear. There's a busy night. Obnoxious customers. Spilled drinks. By the time she gets back to her apartment, her ankle is throbbing like the day they bandaged it. Her clothes and her socked cast are saturated with sweat, beer, and not quite two weeks of wear.

Should she try one painkiller, or two? A glass of wine finds her sheets easier than it finds her throat.

It's past four. Class is at eight.

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Art notes: I really liked drawing this, difficult as it was (the lines are a bit hard, and the work never comes out as soft or graceful as I'd like). Most of the gloom of the picture crept in as I colored it. One of these days I'll have to draw a girl with a cast, getting her exposed toes massaged. Finding romance.

This isn't her, though. Not yet, at least. Maybe she needs a couple of weeks.

If any of you read "Her Vices," a story I wrote some years ago for another site, this young woman might remind you of the title character, Nicole. While she was a hobbled waitress, too, I don't think they're the same girl.

They could share some stories, though. =)