Page 17 of Glass Half Full
They lasted just long enough to make me crave the storm that used to follow their arrival. I want to close my eyes and wait for the avalanche, for the blizzard that would chill me to the bone until something deep inside me caught on fire. That’s what it felt like to write. It felt like burning in the middle of a snowstorm, like each element crashing against its enemy within me, demanding more, more, more until I found out who would win.
In some poems, it was the ice. In others, it was the fire.
Now there’s only darkness—darkness and silence, except for the briefest flash just seconds ago when I swear I saw a light.
Saw the light? You really are crazy. You’re as crazy as everyone at school said. And Dylan is not your fucking gravity. He’s your boss.
My left brain keeps punching my right brain in the face as Dylan wraps his routine up. I do my best to plaster a semi-convincing smile on, to keep my breathing steady enough that no one else can see my chest rise and fall far too fast.
“All right, listeners, we’re going to start things off on a slightly more...romantic note than usual tonight.”
Goddamit.
His beat boxing might have been terrible, but his radio announcer voice is all honey and chocolate and smooth whiskey slipping down my throat.
“So slow it down, turn it up, and head on over to Avenue Mont Royal as fast as your fine asses can get here because we are about towork.” He does a full-on mic drop—although maybe ‘spatula drop’ is the proper term—and turns to the stereo before adding, “And because I know you’re going to ask, Lisanne, yes I plan on washing that spatula.”
He presses play, and a hip hop beat starts pumping through the speakers. I wait a few bars before the vaguely familiar sounds turn into a song I recognize.
It’s Lil’ Wayne’s ‘You Song.’ Without even realizing it, I start grooving along beside DeeDee. Chance the Rapper features on this track—also known as one of my favourite artists of all time.
“Woo!” DeeDee shouts. “On y va!”
She sashays her way down the hall with me, and the servers following in her wake like mice after the pied piper. Chance the Rapper is singing about buying broccoli for his girlfriend as I pass by Dylan at the stereo. We’re not even looking at each other, but my whole body is aware of him. He’s a heat lamp, and I’m the desperate reptile stretching out toward his warmth.
What a sexy look.
I make it behind the bar without totally embarrassing myself and stand waiting for DeeDee’s instructions. She’s in the middle of explaining some filler tasks she saves for dead nights when a group of six guys shuffles in. They’ve only just gotten seated when another big group arrives.
Then a couple.
Then a third group.
After that I stop counting.
DeeDee is a whirlwind, slamming shot glasses down on the bar and topping them up with liquor only to spin around and start pulling a pint with one hand while she pops a bottle cap with the other. All the while, she manages to sway her hips in time with the music just barely audible over the rumble of the crowd, never spilling a drop.
If I’m half as good as her one day, I’m sure I’ll be guaranteed a job at any bar in the city.
“Ma belle, could you go to the walk-in and fill up thispetite chosewith limes?”
I try not to let my jaw hit the floor as she holds up the nearly empty insert of limes from the garnish station while still pouring shots with her other hand.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I stammer, grabbing the insert and heading to the back as I wonder whether DeeDee is human or some sort of sparkly space fairy from the Planet of Tequila.
I have to dodge a few harried cooks to get to the walk-in fridge; the kitchen is just as busy as the bar. I pull on the huge metal handle and step inside, goose bumps rising on my bare arms as the chilled air meets my skin. The thick door thuds to a close behind me, cutting off all sound but the humming of the fluorescent light above.
It’s creepy being in here, surrounded by crates of vegetables and bags of cheese arranged in claustrophobia-inducing stacks on the shelves. I hunt around for the large insert of lemons and limes DeeDee had me slice earlier tonight.
Despite the frigid, morgue-like stillness of the room, I pause for a moment before I let myself leave.
How are you feeling, Renee? How are you really feeling?
I’ve learned the best way to deal with an episode is to stop it before it starts. I don’t always get advance warning, but I know the signs by now. It’s sort of like having the stomach flu for so long you know exactly when to run to the bathroom to avoid puking mid-conversation.
I search myself for the signs: the dry mouth, the lump in my throat, the sensation of a fist squeezing itself far too tight around my heart. I wait for the voices in my head to fill the silence.
I wait, and I wait. All I hear is the hum of the light above me. My heart pounds, but it’s not with nerves; it’s beating out its impatience.
