Ruby Slippers 1
Things always came easy to Miranda Midnight.
“No! No, no, no, you piece of shit!,” she screamed. “Goddamn, cocksucking, piece of shit!”
With a howling wail, she stormed out of the smoking Datsun and viciously kicked it’s ancient, rusted bumper--which then promptly fell off onto the curb, taking with it the front axle.
Right. Unfortunately, things never went easy for Miranda Midnight.
Held together by spit, gum, and determination, her loyal but ancient car finally passed from this world with a hiss and huff and a fart of foul-smelling smoke. It had once struggled valiantly through the worst of winters and the constant, droning abuse of traffic. It had once carried her across the country with all her worldly goods on its back. It had, at times, been her only home.
Oh, how we shall miss you tiny Datsun. A moment of silence, please.
“Shit!” she screeched, kicking the poor machine with renewed fury. “Goddamnit! I have to get to work! You rat, sucking bastard! I can’t believe you’re going to shit the bed five minutes before I’m fucking late!!”
And, despite the vulgar and pedestrian nature of this particular outburst, it should be known that Ms. Miranda Midnight possesses a rare talent for language, indeed. A bona fide linguistic genius, her capacity borders on savant. And, at the time of this display, she currently spoke French, German, Latin, Spanish, Italian, Greek, Russian, Farsi and Thai.
None of which were going to drive her to work.
Turning this vast linguistic skill up to Brando volume, she tipped her head back and screamed at the sky in the little known tongue of Irish Mountain Banshee. She sank down to the curb with a vitriolic, “schisse,” and dug into her bag for the cell.
She called the only person in this world who actually gave a damn, her best friend and sister of soul, Gina. Like Miranda, she had, despite brains and beauty to spare, fallen into the sucking whirlpool of the Southern Florida food service industry—easy to get in, impossible to get out. They had been swimming those waters together for years.
Blonde haired and blue eyed, Gina was the kind of woman that men referred to as “hot”. Other women tended to think of her as “that bitch”. Gina took no prisoners and—friend or not—didn’t have the slightest difficulty with telling you exactly what your problem was. Or how she felt about it. Or what you should do about it. Most people found her to be an…acquired taste. Miranda respected the hell out of her.
“Gina? Hey, it’s me… So. The car took its final dump and I need a ride. Can you pick me up? Aw, I know, dude. But Eddie will understand if we’re a little late. You’re around the corner? Sweet. See you in a shake.”
With one last disgusted look at her ruined car, she closed the phone and dropped it back into her bag. Santo Cazzo, what a nightmare. She rubbed her temples and sighed. She should be used to this by now. Crappy job, no family, no man, no money, now, no car. The hits just….kept...coming….
Miranda’s short little pity party broke up as the rumble of Gina’s ancient Jeep announced her arrival a good minute before she actually rounded the corner. Miranda laughed, and rose to meet her.
“You are so lucky to have me as a friend,” Gina announced through the open passenger window as she rolled to a stop. “And if he screams at me, it is so your fault. Get in, we’re already late,” she insisted, peeling out onto the road the instant Miranda had shut the door.
“There’s nothing we can do about it now.”
“Famous last words, darlin’. He’s gonna kill us.”
“Not if we make it in the next two minutes.”
“Remember you said that.” Gina said as she stepped on the gas. The full-sized V-8 engine leapt to life, throwing the two of them back against the vinyl bench seat. “Yee-fucking-haw,” she joked.
They rocketed through the sunny afternoon like two Daisy Dukes of Hazzard without short shorts. When they roared into the back parking lot of Eddie’s restaurant bistro, their chests were heaving and Miranda would later swear that her thighs were actually trembling.
“Holy crap. I think I wet my pants,” Miranda joked.
“Pansy,” Gina laughed. “Get the Visine from the glove, there’s gum in my purse and for the love of god, don’t you dare let this afternoon fuck up your night.”
“Aye, aye, capt’n.”
“Hey, I need this job. And I need this to be a good night.”
“I hate this job.”
“Gawd, do shut up. It’s what we’ve got.”
The two made their way through the backdoor of the trendy, downtown bistro they called their second home. A quick right snuck them into the bathroom undetected. Visine dropped, gum popped and hair was quickly straightened.
“Jesus, this outfit kills me,” Miranda groaned, fussing into the mirror.
“Tell me about it. Whoever decided to put women into men’s shirts never considered how valuable tits are to tips. I look like a damned box.”
“At least you’re petite. I look like a fat cow.”
“You’re not fat, Midnight. You’re shapely.”
Miranda took one last look in the mirror, smoothing back her unruly ponytail of midnight black curls and examining her mascara for Visine drips.
“I’m ready. Lets go,” she said.
The two cruised into the dining room just as Eddie was wrapping up the specials.
“Nice of you to join us, ladies,” he sneered.
“Car trouble.” Gina’s tone was perfectly reasonable and completely void of the salty Rhode Island brogue that usually decorated her tongue. This was her service voice, cultured and carefully modulated for optimum respectability.
“Call next time. Cindy, fill them in on what’s up,” he said, tucking his Sharpie into the pocket of his coat. “Dinner’s up in five,” he added, scratching his balls.
“Charming,” Miranda muttered under her breath.
“You try standing in front of a five hundred degree oven all day and then tell me how your balls feel, Midnight. And don’t pretend to me like you haven’t got ‘em. ‘Cuz I, for one, know they’re made from the shiniest of brass and hang real low. Is it your car that blew?”
“Yeah. Its done.”
“That sucks,” he said before walking away.
“I’d say his potential for rampage is high tonight,” Cindy warned as they sat at the bar and swapped notes.
“At least a yellow alert,” Andie said. “He hasn’t been bitching. But he’s been scratching at his nose since we walked in…”
“Crap,” Gina muttered, writing in her book. “Just what we need. Funky Midnight and Pissy Eddie. Fucking great. God, what is this? Lamb again? Does chef own a sheep farm or something? Christ.”
“Lay off my specials, Gina.” Eddie practically barked as he swung through the doors with plates in his hands. “Or I’ll spit in your dinner.”
“The lobster dish looks beautiful, boss,” Gina groveled.
“That’s what I thought.” He dropped the plates to the bar. “The rest is in the window.”
And he left.
“Damn that man. He has ears like a cat.”
“Yes he does. And an ass that likes to be kissed,” Miranda whispered.
“Not going to work tonight, hon,” Andie warned.
“We’ll see.” Miranda rose, and pushed through the kitchen doors to retrieve the rest of their dinners. “Thanks for dinner, Eddie. Looks delicious,” she sang with false brightness, smiling wide.
He looked at her through the hot window with squinty eyes, pinning her with his knowing stare. Ah, yes, Eddie the Hun it is tonight--perfectionist extraordinaire, judge of all and sundry, and general intolerant prick.
One long, slender finger reached up to subtly tickle his left nostril. She grabbed the dishes and spun quickly before he could reply, hauling ass out of the kitchen doors. Now that had been a bad idea.
“Ooookay, then,” she said as she sat at the bar.
“I told you, “Andie said.
“Yeah, you know Ms. Genius always has to try things her way first.” Cindy shook her head.
“You can’t hate me because I’m smarter than you,” Miranda joked. “That’s discrimination. I could sue.”
“Yeah, ‘cuz waving a flag at the resident bull is pure evil genius,” Gina teased her over a mouthful of linguine. “How’s that plan working out for you, Dr. No?”
“Oh, shut up. Evil geniuses end up in jail and orange is not my colour.” Miranda said. “Now can it and eat your dinner.”
Gina put a crooked pinky to her lips and raised a brow. “Only for one meeelion doolars…”
Midnight laughed. “Bitch.”
“Skank.”
“Ho.”
“Tramp.”
“Slut.”
“You got that right.”
Miranda smiled at her comrades, and ate her dinner in relative peace, and conveniently forgot the ominous omen offered to her not more than half an hour ago. This night was one of those nights, just as this afternoon had been one of those afternoons. It was the one immutable law of Miranda’s Universe at play—easy come, not so easy go. And, truth be told, for her sanity, that was probably best forgotten.