Weed, Tears, and Tequila

Jaiden Ha

The flickering fluorescent lights in Lira’s Supermarket made my tanned skin look flushed out, like a ghost ringing up customers at one of their many archaic registers. My work uniform was bland. It was a black polo shirt tucked into black jeans and fastened with a belt. It just didn’t look right on me. The dark color scheme blended in too much with my raven hair. My shabby bangs were sweeping over my eyes, framing my face nicely with my hair in a high ponytail. I added bracelets, rings, and lipstick. Then there was the signature winged eyeliner, as black and bold as my hair. But they did not conceal the purple bags under my eyes, nor the expression of exhaustion I wore on my face all day long at work.

Management had me scheduled six days a week, slaving away during the dreaded two p.m. to ten p.m. shifts. Lira’s supermarket was one of the few grocery stores left in Rio Vista, and one of the last places in the entire city still offering full time employment. Otherwise, I would not still be here, working away my youth for minimum wage.

It had been one month since my abuelito Pedro’s funeral, and according to Lira’s finest managers, that was more than enough time to grieve and handle my personal affairs.

Surprise, surprise. . .it was not.

People lose grandparents all the time. Perhaps that’s why I was shown little to no sympathy, but there was obviously much more to it. When I was five my mother shipped me from Venezuela to the United States to live with my grandpa Pedro in the hopes that I could pursue the American dream. It’s a fairly common immigrant story, except for the fact that I was the only family my abuelito had left, once we heard news of my mother’s passing back in Venezuela. It was just him and I for the majority of my life. He was the only family I had ever really known.

I couldn’t prepare for the unknown, like my abuelito being diagnosed with colon cancer the day after my twentieth birthday. He needed a full time caretaker at home when he began declining, which forced me to drop out of community college. He had been my caretaker for most of my life, so it only seemed fitting that the roles should reverse once I was old enough to take care of the both of us.

Now, here I am, two years later. No college degree. No grandpa. But, a full time job as a grocery store cashier.

Friday nights were the longest out of the entire week. We received a massive rush of customers throughout the entire evening, spending their paychecks on groceries before they could waste it on anything else.

All day long I could hear the sound of items being scanned and change being passed out. The creaking of the grocery carts and the chattering of customers made for a monotonous chorus. It didn’t help that the store had not been renovated in what felt like decades and had no air conditioning unit. Lira’s supermarket was as old and stale as this whole town, and the dry summer heat made us sweat like hot cows swarming with flies.

The scratched hardwood floors were withering away with age, worn out with the permanent smell of feet and rubber stained on them. It made me nauseous to be in the grocery store for long periods of time. The stench of the floors and nearly-rotten groceries clung to my clothes, following me for the rest of the day.

One lady in particular tested my patience like no other.

She was elderly, likely living in the large retirement community just fifteen minutes up the street. Her wrinkled clothes hung off her body in awkward angles, making her look strangely disfigured as she unloaded her basket of groceries. This close to her I could catch a whiff of dust and peanuts, which wasn’t even the worst smell coming from the line of customers behind her.

I scanned every item, the beeping noise fading into the background of my thoughts.

“Would you like any bags?” I asked routinely as I got half way through scanning her items.

She stood there across from me in silence, holding a twenty dollar bill in one hand while the other rested on her hip.

“Ma’am, would you like any bags today?” I repeated. I scanned her last item, a can of baked beans, and she handed me her cash.

“I didn’t say anything. Obviously that means no,” she said.

“Okay, your total is nine dollars. Out of twenty, your change is eleven,” I said, exchanging her bill for a ten and a one inside the cash register. When I handed it to her, she gave me the nastiest look she could muster.

“You young people are so damn lazy! You can’t even count out my change no more. Good for nothing. Look at you, for Christ's sake. Can’t even count to eleven,” the woman snapped, making everyone within earshot immediately do a double take.

Truth be told, I did consider swinging on the old bat. I didn’t get paid enough to deal with her attitude, but what was I supposed to do? It didn’t make sense to sacrifice my job for her.

“My bad, ma’am,” I said through gritted teeth. Evan, the cashier in the lane behind me, turned over at the sound of the commotion. He stepped beside me, as if to take over the situation, but I raised my hand and brushed him off. When he was back to minding his own damn business, I replaced her ten dollar bill with all ones, and slowly counted out her eleven dollars of change. When I made it to ten, I stopped, and gave her an apologetic smile. “I am so sorry. I lost count. Let me start over,” I said and slowly counted out her bills to eleven again.

She was gone a few minutes later, rushing out the store while muttering something under her breath about uneducated women.

Evan walked back over to me once we ran out of customers in our lines.

“Are you okay?” he asked. His hand ran over my arm in what he must have assumed was a soothing gesture. His dry fingers stopped at the bracelets over my wrist, and then fell down to the myriad of silver rings I had on. He tried to interlock our fingers, but I smacked his hand away before he got too comfortable.

“I’m fine. Now, keep your hands to yourself. We’re at work, asshole,” I complained under my breath, just as a customer pulled up to his register. He left to ring them up and didn’t bother to check on me again during the rest of our shift.

I was still raging with anger after ringing up the old bat, but it faded over the course of the night.

By the time that I clocked out, the dead city of Rio Vista had already closed down for the evening. It was pitch black outside as I walked to my car in the closest parking spot, one hand blindly fumbling for my keys inside my purse.

“Esperanza,” he called out to me, catching up to my car before I could even unlock the driver’s side door.

“No.”

“Come on. Let’s go out tonight. I’ll buy us dinner,” he promised, and yet we both knew that was not true.

It was never dinner, it was never just dinner, and it was never on him. He was a ‘I forgot my wallet at home’ kind of guy when the bar tab was closed out, and my minuscule paycheck could not keep indulging our mild alcoholism.

“I’m going home,” I said, finally finding the keys in my purse. I gestured for him to step aside, and when he abided, I unlocked the door. His hand went straight for the handle, opening the door for me in a chivalrous facade. Instead of closing it as soon as I was in the seat, all buckled in and ready to go, he leisurely leaned against the frame. His head dropped down, meeting my lowered eye-level. Perhaps he thought this angle made him more appealing, but this dark-parking-lot-pick-up vibe would never do him any real justice.

“Come on, love. You’ve been so stressed lately. Let me help take the edge off.”

For a moment. . .just a moment, I almost caved in. If I didn’t spend my Friday nights with Evan, I spent them alone in an empty house. But, I couldn’t. The old hag who made me count out her eleven dollars in change had convinced me that I officially hated people. Besides, maybe this time when I went home, my abuelito would be there waiting for me to return home safely from work like he always did.

“Really, Esperanza. You look so beautiful tonight. That lipstick is perfect on you. I’ve been dying to taste it all day,” he added, which only solidified my decision. He leaned in for a kiss, but I turned my chin away from him.

“Close the door and go home, Evan. Make sure to move your feet too before I run them over,” I warned him. He pouted for a minute, but didn’t bother to keep pushing. We both knew I would not hesitate to run his feet over with my trusty 2000 Honda Accord.

“Goodnight, Evan,” I said as he closed my door and disappeared into the parking lot.

We would go through this all over again the next Friday night closing shift, and maybe then I would be in the mood to go out. He would take me to the only bar in town still open on the other side of the river bank and order us a few coronas with lime slices. He would work up the courage to wrap his arm around my waist, whispering pretty little words in my ear. It always went the same way, but of course, he’d never quite get it right.

I didn’t want a corona. I wanted tequila. I didn’t want him to tell me I’m pretty with slurred, drunk undertones. I wanted him to offer me a damn smoke break on the bridge. And I didn’t want to hear the usual ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Esperanza. Let me help you,’ that came by the end of the night. The ‘Talk to me, babe, I’m here for you,’ that made my stomach churn with bad beer. I didn’t want to make out with him in the back seat of my car, either. The taste of corona and cigarettes on my tongue was enough to make me gag--not that he’d ever notice. He was a terrible kisser, and the alcohol made him blind to all the signs of my discomfort.

It was never worth it the next morning. Or the next day. Or the next.

I would wake up to him in my kitchen, making pancakes. They weren’t bad pancakes. Some days I thought they were the best pancakes I had ever had, but they were just an excuse for him to stick around a little while longer in his worn out spiderman boxers. I was used to eating every meal with a male figure in my house, I just didn’t want it to be him to fill in my abuelito’s shoes.

It would take three hits from my pipe to calm down my nerves and shove the food down my throat. It would take four hits to get through our small talk. It would take five hits to finally walk him out the door so he could take his Uber ride back home.

By eleven a.m. on a Saturday morning I would be high off my ass and hung over like a bitch.

And God I hated him.

If I could have gone as far as to blame him for everything that had gone wrong in my life, I would have. I had him and the world to be angry with. If my grandpa had not gotten sick, maybe I would have finished college. I would not be stuck at some sticky, icky grocery store that made me want to jump off a damn cliff.

Well, shit--

I gasped as I parked in front of my house, not remembering the drive home in the slightest. Did I run through any red lights? Did I stop at the stop sign around the corner?

No, no. I knew my way home like the back of my hand. One right turn at the light. One left turn at the stop sign. Straight down the street, and home at the little white picket fence on the right hand side. It was an easy two minute drive.

It was a quaint house, probably the smallest in the whole neighborhood. It didn’t take up the entire lot, as there was a large front lawn and huge gaps between the sides of the picket fence and the house. It looked more like a prison than a fence.

If that were not bad enough, the house radiated death and abandonment. The grass was yellow and overgrown. All of the red rose bushes in front of the porch had wilted away despite my best attempts to salvage them. I refused to look at them as I walked up to the front door, locking my car behind me three times so I could not forget that I had locked it in the first place.

I did the same with the front door as soon as I was inside, locking it and tapping it three times so I would not forget that I had locked it. Then I had to turn around and face the rest of the dark house by myself.

The first task was flicking on the hallway light. It brought the picture frames to the front of my vision, hanging in the green hallway. There were dozens of them, framed and re-hung after their appearance at the funeral service.

This was the hardest part. I couldn’t help but stop and stare. Each picture held one of my core childhood memories. Almost every single one of my birthdays was photographed and captured on the wall, where my grandpa would bake me a cake and have me blow out the candles at the dining table. There were pictures of our holidays, my school plays, and my dance recitals. It was easy to spot the resemblance between us, from the dark hair and tanned skin to the wide eyes and slim nose. In some of the pictures he looked like he could pass as my father. It was always just us, the two of us.

“I hate it here,” I whispered, talking to the shadows down the hall as I passed by each picture. I shoved on all the light switches in the kitchen, refusing to be alone in the dark as I grabbed my tequila bottle from the liquor cabinet.

I brought it with me upstairs, to my bedroom. It was a mess, which had been my abuelito’s least favorite part about living with me. I had a bad habit of leaving all of my clothes and trash splattered on the floor. I turned on the lamp in the corner of the room, stepping over all of it with little to no care if I crushed something valuable by accident. If it was on the floor, it wasn’t valuable. It was as simple as that.

“Maybe it should have been me,” I whispered, mumbling nonsense to myself as I took a long swig from my tequila bottle. It didn’t make any sense, I knew. My grandpa wouldn’t have been able to survive without having me as his caretaker, but maybe it should have been me that had been diagnosed with cancer. If he had been healthy, he could have lived an even longer life, with or without me in the picture.

“Where did I put it?” I asked out loud. ‘It’ was a cute red smoking pipe with exotic floral designs that I had thrifted at a local store. I took three sips of my tequila, then went to go look for it.

It was sitting there on the nightstand, right next to the lamp. I snatched it, along with my lighter and tray of loose leaves, then waddled into the bathroom.

My arms were full, and I carefully placed my most prized possessions onto the ledge of my bathtub. In a few minutes I was undressed and laying in the tub, letting the shower water cleanse away my night shift. I could never take a real bath, even as a kid. The thought of marinating in my own filth was almost as gross as Evan’s cigarette breath. So instead I let the shower water run down my limp body, dragging away the dirt and stench of bad memories down the drain.

I laid on my side, fumbling with the weed on my tray as I tried to shove it into the end of my red pipe. The chipped acrylic nails I had on made that task a total nightmare, but in a matter of seconds I had it against my lips, taking in a smooth breath of fresh air. There was nothing more healthier than nature itself, and weed was just a fun house plant from mother nature. . .a get-well-soon-gift, if you will.

And mother nature was quick to console me.

As soon as I exhaled the smoke, my anxiety floated away, and I was one with the universe. Even the water droplets raining down on me seemed like a miracle. After a few more hits, I was well relaxed and cleansed from the day. I found peace of mind, enjoying every breath I took. I knew then that I had to be grateful for every second that I was granted on this earth, but truth be told, I had never felt more alone.

I wasn’t someone else’s daughter or granddaughter anymore. My abuelito used to tell me that all we had in this world was family, and I had learned the hard way that in the absence of family, I had nothing.

What was even left anymore?

An empty, quaint house.

Dead rose bushes.

Weed.

“It should have been me,” I repeated into my pipe, taking another deep inhale. After a long pause, I released the smoke above me, watching it swirl around the raining water. The bathroom vent would take care of the smoke once it disappeared from my view. It was so loud, I could swear it shook the whole house when I turned it on. And hell, it was loud enough to cover up the sounds of my muffled, pathetic sobbing.

One more hit.

And another.

All for the pretty smoke and peace of mind.

I didn’t know how much time passed, or how I ended up back in my bed, dried and fully dressed. But I knew I was there, in my unmade bed, cradling an empty tequila bottle that night. Somehow my phone was back in my hand, and I called the only person that I could think of. . .

Evan.

Maybe I could convince him to come over that night, and the house would feel less alone. After six rings, I finally heard his voice on the other end of the call.

“Hey, it’s Evan. What’s up?”

“Hey, hi. I. . .I just wanted to call you to. . .to. . . I’m sorry about earlier. . .I--”

“Just kidding. You’ve reached my voicemail. I’m probably busy right now. I’ll call you back later when I can. Leave a message at the beep. Okay? Ready? Beep.”

I blinked, trying to process what the hell just happened. A part of me felt dumb for falling for his stupid voicemail, but I couldn’t even muster up the energy to start yelling at him. I hung up the call and dialed again. And again. And again. It all went straight to voicemail every time, making me hear his stupid audio recording on loop.

After the fifth missed call it seemed to finally hit me.

I was alone.

I was entirely alone.

I didn’t hate people, not even the old hag who called me an uneducated woman. I didn’t hate Lira’s supermarket or my managers, either. My body carried too much grief to hold anything as powerful as anger. And maybe, just maybe, I was more afraid of being alone than I had realized.

The sobbing that came after that revelation of loneliness was pathetic. I was truly outdoing myself, crying until my eyes were throbbing, withering in pure agony.

Maybe it was the weed, maybe it was just expired grief.

But the world was spinning. My life was spiraling.

Smoke clouded my room, my head, my eyes. I couldn’t see straight anymore. . .and then I heard it. I heard his voice.

“Mija,” he whispered, like my wish had been magically granted in that wistful moment.

I felt his arm around my body, pulling me into his side as I pressed the tequila bottle to my chest, hiding it away from him. I didn’t want to disappoint him. He still smelled like his rose bushes, like homemade birthday cakes, like love.

“Eres mi vida entera, mi Esperanzita,” he promised, as he did every night that I could remember.

This was the universe’s last gift, I thought: getting to live the rest of my life with a ghost I could only see with enough weed, tears, and tequila.

And the minutes ticked on until I no longer felt the warmth of my abuelito’s embrace. I finally looked up, making direct eye contact with myself in the mirror across the room. It was a shabby full-length mirror I had owned my entire life, smudged with makeup and tears.

My mascara and eyeliner were running down my high cheek bones, resembling war paint as the streaks stained my skin half-way down to my chin. My eyes were still puffy and red--nearly swollen shut from all the sobbing--and half covered by my bangs. I looked like a hot mess with my wet hair plastered to my face and neck. It didn’t help that my limbs were limp with exhaustion, and I could barely see straight anymore.

I hardly recognized the person staring back at me.

I looked dead. I looked pathetic, shattered into a million pieces by the death of one singular person. I knew that it would take a long time to adjust and get my life back together, but the person staring back at me didn’t want to get better. I didn’t want to adjust to his death, for it would admit to him being permanently gone.

Worst of all, I relished the pain. It was the perfect excuse to stay at my lowest. It was easier to sit there, wallowed up in grief, than it was to put my broken pieces back together. There were just some moments in life that I didn’t think I would ever recover from, and this was one of them.

So I laid back down in bed, averting my eyes from the mirror, and spent the rest of the night smoking from my little red pipe.