Chico woke up to a splitting headache, a horrible taste in his mouth, and the absolute certainty that he was not going in to work today.
He flopped his arm to the side, searching for his phone – fingers curling around flat plastic, he raised it to his face just in time to watch it shut down, 0% – tossed it to the side and rolled out of bed with effort, eyes still screwed shut. Water, he thought, stumbling down the hallway, hands out to brush the walls to prevent from knocking into anything, shuffling into the kitchen and filling up a glass in the sink, clinging to the edge of the counter like he’d fall over if he let go. After chugging it, he went back into his room, eyes having worked their way open at this point, and immediately locked onto the wastebasket by the bed – physical evidence that what he’d been hoping had just been some kind of fucked up dream or hallucination had actually happened after all.
Shit.
Chico grabbed the bag out and tied it shut, ignoring the brief glimpse of red inside as he did so, and staggered back into the kitchen to dump it in the main trash. After a moment, he tied that shut too.
He needed more water.
He needed to charge his phone.
Back into the bedroom, plugged in, sat on the edge of the bed holding his head while he waited for the screen to turn on – dozed off for a minute or two while waiting, head jerking up suddenly as it began to fall into his lap. He grabbed the phone, shot off a text to Enrique – can’t come in today. sick – and immediately felt nausea churn in his stomach, a vague terror twist in his chest. He was halfway to the bathroom when he heard the phone ring, and groaned.
Shit!
He leaned against the wall, briefly entertaining the idea of ignoring it – he’d done his due diligence, hadn’t he? texted and all, more than some of the guys would – but Enrique had been on one of his hardass streaks lately, would probably just keep ringing the damn thing until he answered.
“Yeah?”
Enrique’s voice was calm. “Sick or hungover?”
“Sick.” He probably didn’t sound it, but he resisted the urge to try and put on a voice, throw in a fake cough or two. “Puking and shit.” Technically not true – not yet, not this morning – but close enough. Would probably be true in another minute or two, if his currently gurgling stomach was any indication.
Silence on the line, as if to indicate, that doesn’t mean not hungover – also technically true, but Enrique didn’t need to know that. Besides, whatever the fuck was wrong with him was definitely not the result of the questionable amount of Jagerbombs he’d done the night before.
“You were sick 3 weeks ago,” Enrique said finally, and Chico sighed irritably.
“Yeah, well, I’m sick again.” As if in response to this line of thought, he suddenly dry heaved, making sure to twist as he did so over the now-empty wastebasket. Faint gagging noise that surely came through over the phone – he could only hope Enrique didn’t think he was faking that. “What, you gonna ask me to bring in a note or something?”
“Not gonna ask, no.” Yeah, he was in one of his moods alright. Chico could even understand it – they’d been short-staffed recently, everyone having either gone home for the holidays or simply quit in the lead up – the last 3 people who had been scheduled for an interview as replacement staff had been no shows, Enrique had told him at the smoke pit the other day. Nobody wants to work anymore. That’s what’s wrong with your generation – as if he was much older than Chico, rather than maybe 8 years. 9, tops. Same fucking generation, as far as he was concerned, but Chico wasn’t dumb enough to point that out; had merely nodded and joined Enrique at looking out over the parking lot, staring at nothing in particular.
“You get one, though, you bring it in,” Enrique continued, clearly having made up his mind to not push the issue. As well he shouldn’t – wasn’t like Chico was in the habit of calling out for no reason (well, at least not often; he’d worked enough shitty jobs to have figured out the algorithm for when and how often to fake a sick day). “I’ll see you on Monday,” he finished, sick or not the unspoken implication as the line went dead.
Yeah, whatever, Chico thought, and dialed Alonzo.
Alonzo Torquemada. Call back, don't leave a message. I won’t listen to it.
“Puto,” Chico muttered. “Pick up, you asshole.” Alonzo wasn’t asleep yet, surely – his shift had only ended half an hour ago, and even if he hadn’t been at work last night like he said – could never trust that motherfucker, he’d lie to your face as easily as tell you the truth, even when it didn’t matter either way, just because he liked doing it – the guy never went to bed early. Barely seemed to sleep at all, from what Chico could tell, responding at all hours of the day and night.
Which meant he was just ignoring him, which pissed Chico off and made the vague suspicions in his head grow stronger.
He knew. He gave Chico this weird shit on purpose.
Probably just because he liked doing it.
Chico dialed again. And again.
Alonzo Torquemada. Call back, don't leave a message. I won’t listen to it.
Alonzo Torquemada. Call back, don't leave a message. I won’t listen to it.
Alonzo Torquemada. Call back, don't leave a message. I won’t listen to it.
His fourth attempt didn’t even ring, just went straight to the same stupid fucking voicemail, indicating Alonzo had turned off his phone.
Asshole.
Answer your Fucking Phone! he texted futilely, then reluctantly clicked on the unread messages from Miguel lingering at the top of his screen.
Yo, are you good?
Sent 7:14am, followed by a gym selfie 45 minutes later.
Chico grinned at his phone and –
immediately felt his stomach lurch –
not a false alarm this time –
when he doubled over, a cascade of crimson petals spewed from his mouth again, only barely making it inside the wastebasket.
Shiiit.