A Little Slice of Hell

"This," I told Stella, beaming the thought to her so people wouldn't hear me talking to a box, "was not how things were meant to go. Stella, are you listening? Stella! I'm trapped in a bus stop!"

"Better than being trapped in a toilet," said Stella.

"Fucking wiseass." I beamed bad thoughts at her, knitting my brow to increase their potency. "This is all your fault, you know."

It was Stella's fault, and all. I was in the shower when everything went off the rails, crumpled up by the soapdish thinking about pointy things. (Pointy things: my elbows and knees, protruding at odd angles; those little red hats on garden gnomes; rats' noses.) I was hard up for things to think about. I'd already been through my grocery list, my work schedule for the next six weeks, and what it would be like if I died in the shower and nobody found me till the water had washed all the mushy, decaying flesh off my bones:

"Hey, this shower has a skeleton in it."

"Good grief! So it has. Well, it'll be out by the end of the month, I assure you."

Stella, she was in the kitchen. I don't know how; I don't know why. Last I'd seen of her, she was happily entombed in her nest, sleeping off a big plate of carrots and tomato sauce. Imagine, then, my dismay, when I shuffled out to get a book* and discovered my poor rat stunned on the floor. She was on her side, breathing shallowly and kicking her feet in a panicky sort of way. When I picked her up, she sagged.

"Stella?" I tapped on her head--no-one home.

I, unfortunately, was equally out to lunch. Sleep-deprived and stuffed full of codeine, I reasoned as follows:

Rat in the kitchen, not responding > OH, NO! THE RAT HAS HAD A STROKE! MUST...TAKE HER...TO THE VET!

rather than thus:

Rat in the kitchen, not responding > Bugger. Stupid rat must've fallen and hit her head. I'll wait a while and see if she comes around.

So I got some clothes on, put Stella in a box, and--well, this is the part where it was my fault, really. I mean, if I'd had half a brain, I'd have gotten someone else to take her in. I had no business wandering about the city in that condition, all drugged and in pain. (Even now, hours later, I'm too muzzy to write about what happened with any degree of clarity. It's taken me forty-five minutes to get this far. I have to stop and consider every word--inspect it for sense, sort of thing. I keep dozing off, too. I'm so tired. Maybe I should finish later.)

Sod it--carrying on. There I was, rat in box. I got in the elevator and went downstairs, then out into the street. It was...it was cold. I rubbed at my face, which suddenly felt slick and greasy. A clammy wind surged up my sleeves, covering my arms with the same horrible margarine feeling.

"This is dreadful," I informed Stella, making a face. "I hate this weather more than I could possibly explain."

There was no response from the box, so I wandered off in the direction of the Four Seasons hotel, looking for a taxi. The wind kept changing, alternately blowing rudely in my face and threatening to sweep me out into the street. One inopportune gust, I thought, feeling fragile, and I'm history. You too, Stella. If I get hit by a bus, I'm taking you with me. At length, after what felt like an interminable trek through an oily wind-tunnel, I found myself in front of the Pacific Center. I decided to go in rather than walking around--a shortcut, sort of thing, not to mention an excuse to get out of the cold.

No sooner had I gone in, however, than I began to feel woozy and weak. I'd forgotten my walking stick in my panic, so I had no way of holding myself up. Fearing total collapse, I retreated into a bathroom, intending to sit down for just a moment before getting along with my errand. But I fell asleep, and then Stella bit me, and--

--oh, right. Stella. She came to at about the same time I zoned out completely. By the time I'd curled up for a quick rest on a toilet seat, she'd gotten quite lively. I didn't mean to stay there long enough for her to gnaw through the box and bite me, but I was so tired, and it was so warm, and I was afraid to leave, to boot. I mean, in case I simply couldn't walk all the way home. That would've been a disaster. People would have stared, and Stella would have gotten away, and then where would I have been?

So I waited till I felt my strength return. People came and went, chattering and peeing and putting on makeup. I pretended not to be there. I don't think anyone noticed me. After some time, I left, but soon found myself once again unable to proceed--and that was how I ended up trapped in a bus shelter.

"Stella," I groaned (but not out loud, of course), "this is the worst. Check me out, slumped over a box on a damp little bench. Someone, Stella, at some point, has probably vomited on this bench. If not on it, then certainly near it. People who ride buses...Stella? Stella? Are you listening?"

Stella shifted around in her box, in search of a comfortable position.

"This is so embarrassing. I wonder if people are looking at me? I probably look like a junkie, or a runaway, or some tired McJobber on a coffee break. Oh, well. At least no-one will come and talk to me. Nobody wants to talk to that sort of person. This city is full of bums. No-one's going to stop and be all 'Hey, are you all right?', or anything like that. I mean, what would be the point? If I was a bum--and there's no reason I shouldn't be--asking after my welfare would be a mockery. 'Yeah, I live on the street and eat out of dustbins, but I'm fine, lady, just fine.' If I'm not a bum, I must simply be tired, in which case it'd be frightfully rude to bug me. I could sit here, completely unmolested, for the rest of my life, if I felt like it. You'd think people would be able to tell, when you feel like your life-blood's staging a desertion through the soles of your feet, but they can't. As long as you sit quietly and don't move (or make funny faces), no-one has any idea."

Stella stuck her nose out, and I pushed it back in with my sleeve.

"Don't come out, Stella. If anyone sees you, they'll be curious. Then, they'll come and talk to me. Talking will use up my last reserves of energy, and we'll never get home. Never, ever, ever." I gazed longingly in the direction of Seymour Street, imagining myself already there, safely ensconced in my couch.

Some indeterminate time later, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"What? What?"

"You looked like you were sleeping." This crinkly OAP type had materialized from--oh, I don't know, some Saturday Bingo game from hell--and was peering under my hood. "You'll miss your bus," he said, bobbing his head earnestly.

"Oh, thanks," I mumbled. "Late night last night, what. I reckon I'll just walk." And I did. I got up and walked...er, shuffled, more like--I got up and shuffled all the way home, head hung down, feet dragging. I didn't think I'd get there, but that OAP was at the bus stop, waiting for his bus. I had to get away from him.

Blimey--it all sounds so banal, written down like that. My rat hit her head. I went to the Pacific Center, sat around for a while, then came home. It was a complete horrorshow, though, at the time, I mean. I was all confused, and my feet hurt, and I couldn't breathe. Stella bit through my second-worst shirt, and punched a hole in my skin right below the navel. I was harassed by the president of the Fogey Patrol, and molested by the north wind. It was horrible, I tell you--horrible! Horrible!

Stella, for the record, is absolutely fine. She most decidedly did not have a stroke, nor was she permanently damaged doing whatever it was she did in the kitchen. I was not permanently damaged, either, although I much beshrewed Stella for forcing me out in this weather. (Beshrewed? Beshrewed! Get it? Stella's a rodent, so...oh, forget it. It wasn't that funny. I think I'll go back to bed now.)

* My bookcase is full, so a small colony of books has sprung up atop the refrigerator.