Eyeball Soup
an excerpt

“Madam, I must object.”

“Okay then, go ahead Tony. Object away.” I dump the plastic drugstore bags on the kitchen table, and begin sorting the contents.

“Madam, you cannot do this.”

“Think not? Watch me!” I yank a bag of barbeque chips out of one of the plastic drugstore bags and brandish it in front of Tony’s skull. Ripping open the bag, I extract one large chip, open my mouth wide, place it on my tongue, and snap down with the loudest crunch I can muster. Tony flinches. “See this? This is dinner. And this, and this, and this!” I begin rapid-fire shoving chips in my mouth, talking and gesturing at the same time. “Who can resist at two bags for six bucks! But that’s just the appetizer!” Tony groans as I pull off the top of a can of pop-top bean dip. “This is the main course!”

“Madam, please.” Tony pleads. “You are going to be sorry.”

“Sorry? I’m going to be sorry? Tony, you just don’t get it! I’m already sorry! I’m the sorriest woman on the planet!” I complete the bag unloading process by tipping them upside down. An eruption of chips, candy, popsicles, ice cream, beef jerky, and squeeze cheese cascades across the kitchen table. Tony is horrified.

“Madam, I am putting my foot down! Dispose of that insulting mess at once!”

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do!” I whip around and point an accusing finger at Tony. “You’re not the boss of me! I’m the boss of me! And on my job description there is this big blank space under a category called ‘Other Duties as Assigned’. And tonight I’ve assigned myself the duty of being a first class loser who totally screwed up everything!” I shove another angry wad of barbeque chips in my mouth, and begin banging around the kitchen looking for the blender.

“What are you doing?” Tony is beginning to sound frantic.

“I’m going to make myself a milkshake. And a rootbeer float. And then I’m going to have another Margarita.” The egg poacher tumbles off a shelf and lands on my foot. I curse and kick it aside.

“Another Margarita?”

“Yes Tony, another Margarita!

“Margaritas are…” Tony begins cautiously.

“What Tony, what are they? Dangerous? Evil? Wicked? The Devil’s Brew?” Tony shudders with each punctuated word. “What do I care? I admit it! I’m guilty! I had two margaritas on the way home tonight. On the rocks. With salt. Top shelf!”

“Perhaps, Madam,” Tony begins, trying another tactic, “you would feel better if you settled down and relaxed with a movie. Might I suggest Practical Magic? It is your favorite.”

Before his jaw has finished forming the words, Tony realizes his mistake. I drag the blender out from a far corner of the cupboard, slam it onto the counter, and suck in a vast breath through my nostrils before turning toward Tony with a piercing glare.

“Where is it?” I demand through clenched teeth. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse Cat slinking away to find a good hiding place.

“Practical Magic?” he begins, “I believe it is in the library, under ‘P’.”

“No, not that. You know what I mean.” I grab a pint of Super Fudge Brownie Chunk and ferociously squeeze the contents into the blender. “Tell me Tony, you know I’ll find it sooner or later. I turn this whole house upside down. I mean it!” I rummage in the cupboard next to the oven and pull out a value-sized bottle of Irish Cream Liqueur.

“I don’t think this is wise, Madam.” Tony maneuvers.

“I don’t care if it’s wise or not! And stop calling me Madam! I’m about as single as I’m ever gonna get!” I take a slug of Irish Cream directly from the bottle, and then dump about a cup on top of the ice cream. I slam the lid on the blender, and punch ‘puree’. “I want it Tony! Where is it?” I yell over the din. When the whole mess is annihilated to my satisfaction, I pull the entire jar off the blade assembly, rummage through several drawers until I find a bendy straw, and begin to drink.

“If you aren’t going to tell me, I’m going to find it on my own.” I threaten while furiously trying to suck a piece of brownie through the straw. It gets stuck at the bendy part, so I throw the straw on the counter and resort to drinking directly from the side of the blender jar. I glare at Tony.

“I have to state, Madam, for the record,” he begins.

“Yeah yeah yeah.” I interrupt him with a wave of my giant jar of chocolate goo. “I absolve you in advance. Just tell me where I hid it last time.”

“You sewed it into the lining of one of the draperies in the great room.” Before he can finish, I’ve snatched up a knife and am climbing the up stairs. I shake the draperies one by one until I discern a stiff place in the hem of one. I kneel down, pick open the lining with the tip of the knife and reach inside. My fingers brush the cool flat disc. I extract it and lovingly run my thumb across the words printed on its smooth surface. The Witches of Eastwick.

We all have a sinister side, an evil alter-ego. A character with whom we identify in the private throes of our darkest hours. Some terrible transgressor in one of Grimm’s Fairytales or superficial creation from a 70’s sitcom. Perhaps the knife-wielding musical murderess from Sweeny Todd or the shimmying Salome, she of the silver platter.

My alter-ego is the me I would be if I were one of the Witches of Eastwick. Not as we see them in the beginning, when they are all earnest and flawed, with chipped fingernails and cat fur clinging to their sweaters, but later in the movie. After they’ve cast their lots in with the creepily irresistible Daryl Van Horne a’la Jack Nicholson. My alter-ego would manifest that stormy passion; could turn a timid day to a tempest, could make someone she’s mad at projectile vomit 7 or 8 pounds of cherry stones.

Tony does not much fancy my doppelganger. I don’t bring her out very often, as she tends to have an overly expressive temperament and has on at least one occasion burnt a hole in the rug trying to cast a spell. I can usually blame her visits on Tequila.

I’ve watched the cherry-stone-barfing scene from The Witches of Eastwick so many times that the balance of the film actually won’t play. I stomp down the down stairwell with my prize and plop down on the couch with my tiny portable DVD player, the two bags of chips, the bean dip, and the blender of booze-infested milkshake. I shove the disc into the player and hit play. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

I wake up sometime in the middle of the night with a wet lap and some kind of alien scab growing on my face. I shift a bit, and realize I must have been mugged. In my living room. My head is pounding. Someone came in my house and hit me on the head and mugged me. I reach up to feel my face, peeling away a soggy layer of corn chips. Someone snuck into my house and bludgeoned me with a bag of corn chips. And dumped a blender drink on my lap. Oh, this is awful. I’m sticky. And I stink.

“Tony?” My voice is way too loud, so I try to whisper more quietly. “Tony?”

“Yes Madam?”

Oh no. I hate it when he takes that supercilious tone with me. It typically indicates I’ve done something really dumb.

“Am I okay?”

“I presume you will be, eventually. Perhaps you should drink some water and take an antacid. And a pain reliever.”

“Did I, do anything, uh, you know?”

“No, Madam, I do not know. Kindly elaborate.” He’s not going to make this easy on me.

“Did I light anything on fire? Or make prank phone calls? I didn’t go outside and do that dancing thing in the front yard again, did I?” I can only imagine.

“No Madame. I believe this evening’s merriment occurred mainly in the living room. And the kitchen.” Tony rotates his eye sockets and I follow his gaze toward the kitchen. Revolting.

“Oh.” As I stand, the can of squeeze cheese rolls off the couch, across the floor, and lodges itself underneath the radiator. “I guess I should go get a broom and sweep up.”

“A very sensible suggestion, Madam.”