Eight Legs, No Alibi

Painfully hungover, I pushed the black Ray-Bans over my eyes in hopes they would shield some of the fluorescent lighting from the Queen Street Bodega. I roamed the aisles slowly, as if the cure for this malevolent hangover might reveal itself between the Lays and the random rack of off-brand plungers. Although I had been in here almost every day for the last five years, I scanned each shelf with unbridled determination.

I grabbed a Protein Lean bar, whatever the fuck that is, and dragged myself to the cooler. Two Gatorades, yellow and red, one Poland Spring. Sip-top, obviously. The holy trinity.

Shied was working, as usual. He gave me that soft, sympathetic smile that said, “You again?” and asked, “Another long night, Molly?”

I peered at him through my smeared sunglasses and croaked, “Fuck off, Shied.”

Kitten, the old bodega cat, brushed up against my flip-flopped feet. I looked down and realized I was wearing two different flip-flops. I sighed, knelt down to pet her, and muttered, “At least you have your life together.”

My phone was at two percent, but it was just enough juice to tap to pay. I grabbed my bag, fantasizing about crawling back into bed for seven minutes of unconsciousness before work, when Shied called after me, “Hey! Happy Halloween!”

Oh. Shit. Right. Halloween.

I groaned out loud. Today was Mandatory Costume Day at work, a cursed phrase if there ever was one. My boss, Sandra, a woman who dressed exclusively in monochrome beige and claimed that “costumes build culture,” had a deep love for Halloween. I think it just gave her an excuse to wear cat ears and awkwardly flirt with Laurence, the front desk manager.

I swung open the door, the crisp autumn air slapping me across the face. I went to shove my phone into my bag and froze.

“Fuck.”

I fished around in hopes my wallet would magically appear. I dumped the contents of my bag onto the sidewalk like a deranged magician. Lip balm, keys, expired mascara, seven receipts, one rogue tampon. No wallet. Then it hit me. The club. The goddamn club.

The previous night replayed in blurry fragments. Flashing lights, someone dressed as a sexy Grim Reaper, shots of Fireball I definitely did not order, and my octopus costume, the duo to Meredith’s “Pussy” costume. Her idea, obviously. Together we were “Octo-Pussy.” I had been grateful to not be the “pussy” part of the joke and to finally have an excuse to use my glue gun.

Forty-seven minutes later, I was sitting in a cab in full octopus costume. Eight purple tentacles. Bulging googly eyes. Foam headpiece that made it impossible to check blind spots. I was surprised all the tentacles were still attached. I did not want to know what was on them after last night.

If you have never been through downtown traffic dressed as an octopus, I do not recommend it. A toddler in a minivan pointed and cried. A construction worker shouted, “Calamari for dinner!” I considered throwing myself under his jackhammer. Instead, I held my head out the window with pride, mostly to make sure I was outside if I threw up because I did not want to get charged for puking in the back of a cab again.

When I finally pulled up to Club Neptune (the irony of the name is not lost on me) I waddled inside, tentacles flopping with weird sounds.

The bouncer, outside smoking a cigarette, a man built like a refrigerator, squinted at me. “Uh, we’re closed.”

“I was here last night,” I said, trying to sound dignified while my foam headpiece slid sideways. “I lost my wallet.”

He blinked. “You came back in costume?”

I did not have the energy to explain my life choices. “Look, is there a manager or something?”

He sighed and disappeared inside. A minute later, the owner emerged, a woman with perfect eyeliner and the vibe of someone who was way too cool to be speaking with me.

“Oh, the squid,” she said, recognition dawning.

“Octopus,” I corrected weakly.

She smiled. “Right. You were dancing on the bar.”

That tracked.

“I think the guy who was working the door last night found a wallet. Hold on, he’s new.” She disappeared into the back and returned with a phone number written on a napkin. “This is Marcus’s number. He should still have it.”

Perfect. I texted him immediately.

Within five minutes, I was outside the building he sent me. I buzzed up. A voice came through the speaker. “You Molly?”

I pressed the talk button. “Yes.”

“Come in. Four A.”

Now, in retrospect, this should have been the moment where I said, “I’ll meet you outside,” but I was hungover and had long accepted that my life was a series of bad decisions loosely held together by dry shampoo.

So, naturally, I opened the door and climbed four flights of stairs. I knocked. The buzzer echoed inside.

Marcus opened the door. He looked like he had been awake since the dawn of time. “Wait here,” he said. “My guy’s coming up.”

His apartment smelled like weed and pizza grease. Empty boxes were stacked like Tetris pieces. A fish tank sat on the counter. No fish.

I stood awkwardly by the door, eight tentacles quietly rustling. “So, where’s my wallet?”

He pointed at the counter. “Right there. But my guy’s on his way. Just stay there until he leaves.”

Before I could grab it and go, there was a knock. Marcus opened the door and let in a guy in a hoodie carrying a backpack. They did that complicated handshake men do when they want to look both tough and casual.

The guy nodded toward me. “Who’s that?”

Marcus shrugged. “A friend.”

The man blinked. “Dressed like that?”

Marcus grinned. “It’s Halloween.”

The man looked unconvinced but opened the bag. I looked away because I did not want to know. I focused on the dusty aquarium and thought about how my life was one bad decision away from a Dateline episode.

Then, suddenly, red and blue light flickered through the blinds.

“Shit,” Marcus hissed. “Cops.”

The room exploded. The guy grabbed his bag. Marcus grabbed something from the table and shoved it into my hand.

“Hide it!” he yelled.

“Where, Marcus? I’m wearing a foam head and tentacles!”

He looked out the window, cursed, and said, “We gotta go.”

Next thing I knew, I was waddling down four flights of stairs in full octopus form, tentacles slapping against my legs like wet noodles. Somewhere behind us, a siren wailed.

We dove into his Civic. He floored it. My foam headpiece flew off and hit the back windshield.

When we finally stopped three neighborhoods away, Marcus was panting. “Okay,” he said. “We’re good.”

“Good?” I said. “We just outran the cops in a Honda Civic.”

He grinned. “You’re, like, the chillest person I’ve ever met.”

I was too tired to argue. I grabbed my wallet from the dashboard, sticky with God-knows-what, and said, “Take me to work.”

He blinked. “Like your job-job?”

“Yes, Marcus. The one where people pay taxes.”

He shrugged. “Alright.”

The sweatshirt man jumped out of the car and twenty minutes later, I waddled through the revolving doors of the office, tentacles dragging. The receptionist blinked.

“Rough morning?” she asked.

“You have no idea,” I muttered.

Sandra looked up from her desk, smiling. “Molly, I love the commitment. You’re the only one who really understood the assignment.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I just came from a cultural experience.”

Sandra nodded, satisfied. “See? Costumes really do build culture.”

I forced a smile, the faint smell of weed and cheap cologne clinging to me like bad office coffee. I sat down, cracked open my red Gatorade, and tried to breathe.

When I reached into my bag for my phone, my fingers brushed a small plastic baggie. The one Marcus had shoved at me. I froze, shoved it back, and exhaled through my nose. Then I noticed a slip of paper sticking out of my wallet.

In rushed handwriting it said, Thanks for keeping it safe. You owe me.

I opened the wallet and beside my work badge, 2015 Best Buy Gift Card and my lucky 2$ bill were dozens of tiny bags, tucked into the card slits, of different types of powders. Leaned back in my chair and whispered, “Fuck."