j.k. armstrong

The city began to stir, awoken by the warm golden glow of a Sunday dawn. In the dark shadows of an alleyway, untouched by the sun, Magpie opened his eyes and was disappointed to find himself still alive, still singing in the chorus of all God’s creatures. His cheek rested on the asphalt, gravel digging uncomfortably into his skin. Some had made its way into his mouth. He was gazing at the space beneath a dumpster, staring at a rat sniffing for some secret entrance through which it then disappeared. Inexplicably, Magpie felt hurt that the rat had not lingered with him longer. He was struck by a sudden and profound sense of loneliness.

Slowly, with an immense amount of effort, he pushed himself onto his knees. Wiping dirt off his face and spitting pebbles and dust out of his mouth, he noticed he didn’t recognize the jacket he was wearing. Blinking at the strange, unaccounted for change, he tried to fill the gaps in his memory, though calling them gaps was generous. There was, in fact, something like a yawning abyss where yesterday was supposed to be.

He was reminded of the abandoned granite quarries in his hometown, these unfathomably deep holes they flooded all the way to the top. It was impossible to see or swim to the bottom, so who knew what hid in its depths— terrors, maybe, or treasure. Like the quarries, he knew that it wouldn’t be possible for him to reach the bottom of that great pit of the Forgotten Yesterday, so all he could do was try to figure out the current moment.

He had both his shoes on, which was nice, he wasn’t always so lucky. He had his pants on too, another bonus, though the thinning fabric over his knees had finally torn and the skin beneath was scraped rather nastily, dried blood smeared and staining the dark denim. The pockets of his pants were empty, which wasn’t ideal because it was where he usually kept his apartment keys and wallet.

The jacket he had found himself wearing was a very nice black pea coat, much nicer than anything he personally owned, though sleeping on the ground had gotten it muddy. He dug through the pockets and found a napkin with a number written on it in blue ballpoint pen, and a little golden ring.

The phone number he recognized as his own, the ring he didn’t recognize at all. He stared at it intently, waiting for something to reveal itself, but nothing did. It was a smooth golden band with a date that meant nothing to him engraved on the inside. Since it was so small, he slipped it onto his pinky, then held out his hand to see what it looked like, how it felt.

He had dirt under his fingernails, a red stick-and-poke tattoo of a star on his index finger, scars on his knuckles, and prominent white tendons pushing against the pale skin of the back of his hand. It just looked like his hand wearing a golden pinky ring. He wondered who it belonged to, how much it was worth. He decided to keep it on, worried he’d lose it if he put it back in the pocket.

He patted himself down but, aside from his dingy second-hand hoodie with torn cuffs, that was everything he had with him. His phone must have been left in the pocket of his own jacket, and he hoped his keys, wallet, and cigarettes would be there, too, but he knew that was a stretch.

At least he knew where he was, having woken up in this same alley at least least a half-dozen times before (he could recognize it even from the ground). He stood uneasily, feeling a little dizzy and off-balance, clumsy, like a newborn fawn. Without a watch or his phone, he had no idea what time it was and the sun was no help, sitting too low on the horizon to shed any light into the pit he’d woken up in. If he had to guess though he’d say it was probably 7 a.m. It seemed that his hangovers always woke him up at precisely 7 a.m.

He stumbled toward a metal door in the brick wall a few paces away and pulled on it. The icy handle bit hard into his bare fingers, but there was no give. He let go of the metal quickly and blew into his hands to warm them and relieve some of the burn. He wondered if he’d lost his gloves or simply forgotten to wear any.

However, he reminded himself, the ring and nice coat might be able to pay for a new pair of gloves, maybe a hat and scarf, too. Roch didn’t open the pawn shop until nine, so he wouldn’t know for sure how much he could get for the ring until then, but he liked imagining the opportunities it might open for him. New socks? Fresh groceries?

With the back door to the bar locked, there was nowhere for him to go but out into the street. He stumbled toward the curb, which was illuminated by the burning winter rays of the Seattle sun. He stopped right at the border between the merciful darkness of the alley and the sunshine pouring down the street. He knew that as soon as he stepped into the light, the agony of a migraine simmering just behind his eyes would boil over. Even the light reflecting off the concrete was enough to force him to squint. He glanced back at the locked door, reconsidering, but there was no way he could open it and there wasn’t anyone to open it for him.

What a glorious morning, he thought, tongue firmly in cheek, and it occurred to him that he might be able to walk to the gas station with his eyes closed if he needed to. If not, getting hit by a car still seemed like an improvement over his current situation. Inexplicably, he held his breath as he stepped out into the sun, as if he were stepping off a dock into a lake.

He walked past the front of the bar and stopped a moment to wrap his hand in his sleeve and pull on the front door, just to be sure. As expected, it was locked. His apartment was above the bar but he couldn’t get to it without keys. He stared up longingly at his dark window.

He continued on to the gas station a few blocks away, eyes nearly closed and fingers pressed to his temple trying to contain his headache, as if worried the pressure might cause his whole head to crack open like an egg and he was holding it together.

He walked through the sliding glass doors, which gave him a friendly ding, and the fluorescent lights seared straight into the back of his eyeballs. He grabbed a pair of sunglasses off the rack and slipped them on as he walked to the cashier, smiling a little more widely than usual to hide the grimace of intense pain.

“You paying for those?” Cherry asked, snapping her gum. She’d been the morning cashier here for as long as he’d been waking up hungover in Seattle at 7 a.m. A tall woman with some extra weight, she had permed blonde hair, dull with cigarettes and age. She wore too much makeup for a gas station job, but she was the type of woman to always be made up if she was going out for anything. The polo shirt with the gas station’s logo embroidered on the breast wasn’t very flattering, but she’d tried to make it more fashionable with a few chunky necklaces and a seasonally relevant brooch– it was a snowflake today, the star shape of it glittering under the synthetic lights. 

“I lost my wallet,” he answered.

“Of course you did,” she said. “You need to start handcuffing it to yourself. Or get one of those wallet chains like those kids have. Everything in here has a price tag, you know? There’s not much for you without a wallet.” She was extraordinarily gifted at having a sharp tongue but a lovely tenderness. She could never truly sound angry or upset or annoyed; she’d chastise him and he would still feel warm and comfortable with her.

“There’s you,“ he said and gave her a big sweet smile, tilting his head childishly, reminding her why she let him get away with as much as he did. He was young, cute, and flirty, and that made her feel young, cute, and flirty.

Her son was grown and moved away and she missed him and the energy of his friends, stomping and laughing in the house. Pie was like a tiny slice of her son’s youth checking in on her every weekend.

“What do you need, Pie? Did you go home last night? Get in a fight? You look terrible. Were you working?”

He couldn’t remember, but that did explain why parts of his face felt out of place, rearranged, not quite their normal size. “Those are all good questions, Cherry. Unfortunately I’ve got no answers for any of them. However, I’ve got a question for you– do you know whose coat this is?” He grabbed his collar to indicate he meant the one he was wearing.

She reached under the counter for a bottle of ibuprofen and gave him a strange expression. Without him needing to ask, she passed the bottle to him. “You mean it’s not yours?”

He stepped away to fill a paper cup with lukewarm coffee, then gratefully took three pills from her bottle. “No,” he said, back at the counter, after drinking deeply and swallowing the pills. “I woke up with it. And this ring.“ He wiggled his pinky at her.

She unexpectedly grabbed his hand with her ornately manicured fingers and pulled him a little closer to see it. “Pie! Is this real gold?” She stared at him with eyes wide in wonder. “It’s like a wedding ring or something.”

“I don’t know. I hope so. I was going to go by Roch’s and see how much it’s worth.”

She laughed and let go of his hand. “They’re gonna think you stole it. Roch doesn’t buy anything hot, you know that.”

Suddenly self-conscious, he stuck his hand in his pocket. “I didn’t steal it, though,” he said defensively.

She raised her penciled eyebrows and pointed at his cup of coffee. “Like you aren’t about to steal that dark roast?”

He scowled. “It’s hardly stealing, I know you’re about to pour it out and brew new stuff for the after-church crowd.” Then, as if it were a natural segue, he said, “By the way, did we talk at all yesterday?”

That same strange look passed over her face and he very nearly recognized it as concern. “You don’t remember?”

Just then, a man emerged from the back room and, as soon as he laid eyes on Pie, a long series of profanities spilled forth from his mouth at a volume incompatible with Pie’s headache.

“Sorry, Pie,” Cherry said, with genuine regret in her voice. “He came in early and fell asleep in the back. He must have just woken up.”

“No apologies, Cherry. Can I have a cigarette and then I’ll be gone?“

As the man approached, bald, thin, a cloud of anger and aftershave, the deluge of insults turned into threats.

Cherry passed a cigarette from her purse to Pie, who took it and leaned over the counter to kiss her gently on the cheek, breathing in deep the smell of her floral perfume and powdered makeup. He grabbed a lighter from the display case to light the cigarette, then gave the man a wave of acknowledgement and escaped back outside before the backroom ogre decided to act on anything he’d threatened.

He’d been escorted off premise before by the man, who resented the fact his employees tended to like and seek advice from a dirty junkie more than they liked or respected him, their employer. That was what Magpie believed, though the truth was a mix of variables and included at least four stolen sunglasses, half a dozen stolen lighters, and several pots of stolen coffee.

With his sunglasses, nicotine, caffeine, and 600 milligrams of ibuprofen ready to kick in at any second, he felt better about approaching the enigma of the Forgotten Yesterday. He wished he could have spoken to Cherry a little longer, but there were other people he could ask.

This early in the morning, there was one place he could try.