It’s 2300 in Astoria, Oregon. A phone rings in the Rhododendron Pizza House and the counterperson answers the phone. They recognize the thick southern drawl on the other end, as well as its mix of tired and frustrated intonations. Mattocks, the one answering the call from the familiar woman, takes down the same order as they have for months now. The woman offers her usual ‘extra tip’ to have them run to the liquor store on their way and buy a bottle of Jameson to deliver with said pizza; the tip including the cost of the alcohol plus extra for the hassle. Mattocks knows what to do, and feels secure in doing something normally risky, given who they’re doing it for. The woman hangs up upon finishing ordering, and Mattocks sends the order to the kitchen, whose staff are familiar with both the caller, her usual, and the booze run; line cooks here do tend to gossip, though they are also, at least, acquaintances with the woman formerly on the line. Around fifteen to twenty minutes pass, and the food is ready. Mattocks will also be delivering it, as this is the last order of the night because the restaurant closes in a half-hour, and because their shift will have ended by the end of the run.
2320 in Astoria, and the delivery driver stops in the liquor outlet parking lot, making haste so as to ensure the food is still hot when delivered. Oliver, the clerk, sees the driver come in and, easily, recognizes them. She’s been through this song and dance as well, though she does not know who the whiskey is for. The checkout goes without a hitch. Adults of drinking age buying liquor is seldom rare. She watches the driver exit the store, and only now notices the pizza house’s logo on top, but thinks nothing of it. Her night is almost ending and she has a store to close. With the food now en route to the customer, everything seems to be tying up nicely.
2400/0000, Astoria, and the driver grabs the food, carefully perching it under their left arm, with the bag of Jameson in the right. A short elevator ride up to the second floor, down the hall to the right; there’s the place. They give a knock, the sound of tired footsteps getting close before the door opens. The woman on the other side is easily 6’1”, just under two meters; she appears to be in her late twenties/possibly just turned 30, is of medium build, white complexion, and has long straight hair the color of light sand mixed with streaks of gray. Her eyes are a cutting shade of light blue, and clearly bear the mark of a deeply tired woman on a mission with an empty stomach. “Order for Memphis?” the driver asks. “Yeah that’s me, thanks.” the harried girl responds, giving them the counterfeit-marker checked fifty-dollar bill before taking the box in one hand and the bottle in the other. She turns with a worn haste before heading back in; the driver catches a glimpse of the woman known only as Memphis opening the bottle before even having sat down.
2405/0005, in the northwest corner of Oregon. Memphis sits at her desk, takes a short swig from the bottle, and grabs a slice while moving some peculiarly marked papers out of the way.
Well, I’ve got my food. I’ve got my stuff, and the liquid courage. Let’s get to work Memphis D.
