My Cardboard Balcony

Hyde, One AM by Belinda Roddie I'm sneaking sips from a mini bottle of Jameson at the bus stop with the best view of the bridge. Its metal snout breathes in fog and breathes out light and heat and bubbling stars. I think the whiskey's gone to my head, because I have the strange belief that behind me, the streets are being repaved with silver, and all the divots in the sidewalks are being filled with diamonds, like a ritzy operation on a broken nasal cavity. And all I want to do is curl up on a mattress where the sun hits me just right, but bird shit can't touch me, out where the silhouette of a brass arrow buries its nose deep into the drought-choked soil, and the rattling of repainted cable cars is the best free alarm clock I could ever ask for, and deep in the stew of my memory, I can see dinner for two at the wharf where sea lions sing harsh lullabies, and smell hot coffee and burnt sugar, and hear Irish reels telling me run away run away run...

The ward was sealed off from guests, which meant today, I would be alone in my room again. The judge had not come this morning like she had promised, to properly analyze and interview me, to see if I could finally get out of this hellhole. I was left with nurses with stiff white collars and rigid trays of multicolored pills that I was expected to swallow dry. The least they could have done was provide me some water. Maybe a shot of whiskey.