From Drunkard's Leap, Chapter 2. Lena has had an unsettling encounter in a bar that took the pleasure out of last night. Today, she has to go to work.
This time of year, on the mornings when I woke alone at 6:30, the light was crisp, inviting me into the unfolding day. Not today. I felt roughed up, dirty in yesterday’s clothes, hung over, befuddled, cranky and unsatisfied. A hot shower improved my outlook a couple of degrees, enough so I would only commit mayhem on the streets, not manslaughter. Breakfast moved me a few steps closer to human. In my clean work outfit, I might pass for relatively harmless.
I walked the blocks to the train station briskly. No Warden came in sight, nor any train, so I ducked in to the coffee outlet to grab a go-cup. I clipped on my pass, barely slowed for the turnstile, and reached the platform just as a train pulled in half-empty. I grabbed the scenic seat and thought about all the opportunities I’d had to turn last night into something different. But no great ideas came to mind. Thoughts of awesomeness, briefly glimpsed, were creeping up, so instead I paid attention to the grandeur outside. Mt. Hood and the plume of its growing neighbor were steady on the horizon as the nearby scenery flew by. By the time the train reached Beaverton, the coffee and the view had dissipated much of my funk.
Something from last night must have showed on my face, though, because Stan the Man pulled me over after the morning stand-up. “Lena,” he said, “do you want to invoke the contract?”
“Etiquette by night, contract by day,” I replied. “Actually, I’m trying to figure out who broke etiquette last night. This morning I wasn’t the Lena you know, but it’s okay now. But let the contract be for now.”
“Well, nevertheless, I’m assigning you the girly leather stuff today so you won’t break anything.”
I started to protest, but thought better of it. Stan the Man had a nose for my moods, not to mention everybody else’s, so I’d use the assignment to come back to my normal, charming self at my own speed.
I said, “Okay, Stan, you’re the boss-man.”
He grinned and took my assignment sheet, handing me a new one. For all the claims of general uprightness in today’s society, I knew better. Those kinky mail-order catalogs were barely touched by the Watch and Ward; their wrappers just got a more opaque white when the upright crowd was in charge. The orders came to people like me. Inside what looked like a big truck terminal, we did “order fulfillment” for any number of outfits. We were the back end of the slick catalog operation; whatever the return address, the goods all shipped out from Beaverton.
Today I got Cowboy Intimates orders. All the items were unbreakable – thanks, Stan – though definitely not my kind of fashion. I cruised the aisles at 10 over quota, loading travel bins with leather garter belts, rawhide-trimmed corsets, lace-trimmed chaps and less obvious useful gear. Some sort of weird harness with a pommel seemed to be a favorite today. I lost myself in the rhythm of work. It was easy to fill a bin, bring it to the drop, pull the next order sheet, work out the best route in my head, fill a bin, and repeat. At this rate I would push 20 over quota, enough that Stan would make me relax the rhythm.
But the steady pace helped burn off all the residue of last night, and by noon I was only 18 over. After lunch I felt almost relaxed. Another hour of steady stock-picking reduced the Cowboy queue to its last few orders. I plotted my next run to veer off toward Stan’s post so he could get a fill-in assignment ready for the last couple hours of the day.
