Liquid Courage
Rhonda finds the perfect purple ball on the rack
that fits her slim fingers snugly, hefts it skyward
with one hand, gel-lacquered nails disappearing
into the drilled holes. “Remember this color,”
she says. “I want my eyes to be this color.”
I nod, pulling out the little wire-bound notebook
I keep in my pocket along with a yellow stub
of stolen pencil from the afternoon’s mini golf.
“Looks like Violet Vixen from Not Your Mother’s Makeup,”
I scratch the name down for future reference.
“Or possibly Facebeat’s Heather the Storm.”
Rhonda hasn’t changed her shoes yet, traipsing
in three-inch heels, tok-tokking on the alley floor.
“Beat Your Mother Purple, huh?” she says. “Sounds great.”
She’s only half-heard me, already more than half-
drunk and slightly less than half-dead.
To anyone else at Midnight Rock & Bowl,
it’s clear as the ice melting in her plastic cup
of Seagrams and Sprite—this woman wants to forget.
She waves the waitress over and orders a round
for the neighboring lane, a group of teenagers
who cheer her on. “Can’t do that, hon,” the waitress says,
putting a hand on Rhonda’s arm, then flinching back
when she feels no cushion on the bone.
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Rhonda says, winking
with visible strain on her face. Her eye
takes a few seconds to open back up all the way,
almost like it wants to be closed. Catcalls
of “Aww!” and “Come on!” float from the teens.
The waitress says, “I’ll bring ‘em the good canned Cokes,
not the watered-down stuff from the soda gun.”
Rhonda shrugs at me. “Can’t take it with me, right?”
She’d used the same phrase yesterday
when she visited my counter, sauntering in
to the store while I was shaving down lipsticks,
swatching them on a roll of paper towels—
Revolutionary Red, Pinky Promise,
Nude Sunbathing, all the lined-up streaks a spectrum
of mass market beauty. I’d been her makeup artist
for years, and noticed the past few months
she’d worn headscarves, asked for concealer
to cover dark circles. Finally, she told me,
between sips from her Stanley tumbler
I knew was full of Everclear, “The doctor
won’t put a number on it, but it’ll be soon.”
I asked her if she had anybody.
She only scrunched her face, which I knew
was Rhonda for I’m still not talking to my son,
or maybe, He’s still not talking to me.
Suddenly, she grabbed my wrist, her bony hand
shockingly cold and strong. “John, I want to ask you—”
And she made the pitch. She’d keep me on the clock
for the entire day. We’d travel around
looking for inspiration. “I was never
a looker in life,” she said. I tried cutting her off
to protest, but she squeezed my wrist harder.
“But I’m damned sure gonna look good
when I’m gone. You’re the only one I trust
to get it right.” I tried to tell her the money
was too much. She wasn’t having it.
“Either that or everything goes to the state.
Can’t stand the thought of my whole damned life
adding up to paying six guys for a week
to fill some crack in a sidewalk somewhere.”
In the bowling alley, Rhonda teases
her blonde wig, twists it into a bun,
bunches it in pigtails, then tears it fully off.
Blue veins lightning bolt across her scalp.
She dumps the wig in her bottomless purse,
then roots around for a bandanna, purple paisley
to match her ball, and ties it in place on her head.
“John,” she says, “I need some liquid courage.”
What am I supposed to say? No, I think
you’ve had enough? I could never. Would never.
“Want me to flag the waitress?” She laughs,
softly wheezing. “No, this time I meant foundation.
Probably bronzer, too. When I check out,
I want to look like I just flew home from Cabo.”
And I say, “Sure, I can make that happen.
Maybe Gleaming Gold by Original Skin?”
She’s already tottering up to bowl,
hugging the ball like a child, then unfurling,
letting the ball roll down the ramp
of her wiry arms. Later, I drive her home
while she makes a list of what she wants served
at the party following her funeral. “Got to have cake,”
she says. “Why are those three-tiered cakes
only made for weddings? Can’t I get one
with a tombstone on top?” Dawn breaks, purpling
the horizon like an old bruise. “Do you see that sky?”
she rasps, her voice tired. “That’s the eyeshadow color.
Forget the other one.” Outside her townhouse,
the porchlight hangs like ripe, plump fruit,
dripping light, blurry through my welling eyes.
“Did you hear me?” she asks. “Yeah,” I sniff,
dabbing my face with my sleeve. “I know just the thing.”
Chad Frame
Chad Frame is the author of Little Black Book, nominated for the Lambda Literary Award, Cryptid, and Smoking Shelter, winner of the Moonstone Chapbook Contest. He is the Director of the Montgomery County Poet Laureate Program, a Poet Laureate Emeritus of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, a founding member of the No River Twice poetry/improv performance troupe, and the founder of the Caesura Poetry Festival. His work appears in Rattle, Strange Horizons, Pedestal, Barrelhouse, Rust+Moth, on iTunes from the Library of Congress, and is archived on the moon with The Lunar Codex.
also by this writer:
Love this?
Subscribe to our infrequent newsletter
- content roundups, competition news, and more - direct to your inbox
Read next:
