Brash Blackberry #9

My head was pounding and palms sweating when I stepped out of the taxi. Naturally, the physical ailments were my fault. While I was at work, my mother called to tell me my uncle David died an hour before. His melanoma had metastasized in his blood. And in response to that news, I took my hidden bottle of Jack Daniels out of my desk and proceeded to drink more than half of it in one sitting.

I fumbled through my wallet and paid the gruff taxi driver, thanking her for the prompt ride to my apartment complex. As I walked in, I saw beautiful woman heading into the elevator. And nothing looks better to a grieving drunk than a space alone with a hot female, even if it’s brief.

As we stepped inside, I got a better look at her. Tight dark blue jeans, a red blouse, and black hair, she looked dazzling and angelic. She pushed the button for 26, the top floor, and I hit 7.

“You look incredibly familiar,” I said.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met,” she said as she stuck out her hand. “I’m Kim.”

And just as she introduced herself, the elevator suddenly stopped on the sixth floor. I grabbed the emergency phone and got an operator. The guy on the other end said they’d get a maintenance person right on it.

My current scenario sounded like a poorly conceived snuff film, like a movie my uncle and I would have rented for a good laugh. But I didn’t want to think about how he was, so I initiated a conversation.

“You know, since we have a moment, we might as well use it,” I said. “I’m Li. Do you live here too?”

“Nope. Just on my way to see a friend,” she said.

I had heard the best place to start in an awkward conversation was to compliment an accessory, so I told her I adored her seashell necklace. She replied by telling me she made it herself.

I was catching an artsy vibe and my suspicions were confirmed when she told me how she was a professional poet. She even had a book you could buy at the store.

“Would you like to see something I’m working on?” she said.

She handed me the notebook she carried with her. I read one of poems scribbled in her book. Something about a beach and a sunset. A little contrived, but I wasn’t about to judge her off of a lousy poem. I lied and told her I liked it.

As soon as I finished reading it, the elevator started up again. When the door opened on my floor, I held my hand over the sensor to keep it open and asked for her number.

“I would, but my phone’s disconnected right now,” she said. “But don’t worry about it. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”

I said good-bye to her and wished her luck with her career. I staggered to my door and hurriedly unlocked it. I grabbed the newspaper that I had already partially read during breakfast and a bottle of Canadian Mist. I sat down on my La-Z-Boy and skimmed today’s news.

Then I saw her – the woman from the elevator. The bottom of the front page. The semi-famous poetess Kim Lai Chen drowned yesterday at Santa Monica State Beach. Authorities weren’t sure if it was suicide or an accident.

My head spun wildly. I’m drunk. What just happened? Who was that? Let me read that again.

I passed out.

When I woke up, my uncle David stood above me with his arms crossed, looking at me with an odd face.

“Hey, you really gotta stop drinking so much on the weekdays,” he said.