Warning: This story frequently contains language which could be offensive to some readers. The author sincerely apologises however replacing the expletive with "fudge" just wouldn't have worked.

The Rollercoaster Ride

‘Fuck!’

It was the first thing Alice said as she woke, and it wouldn’t be the last time she said it that day.

But let’s take a step back, just 5 minutes earlier.

Alice was splayed diagonally across her bed, feet dangling over the corners of her mattress, bedsheets and quilt impossibly intertwined, with her limbs caught in the mess. Her frizzy hair looked like it had been attacked by a crazy person and a can of hairspray. Her face had creases from her sheets and her eyes were glued shut with sleep - but not for long.

Alice’s brain had slowly realised she was awake, and an ominous sense of anticipation crept over her.

It was like a rollercoaster ride with the rails clicking as it starts to gather speed.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click, click, click.

Clickclickclick…

And then the heavy pause at the apex of the ride. The sense of the inevitable fall.

Always followed by the smooth and silent release into the abyss.

‘My head hurts. I can’t lift it…oh my god, my eyelids are stuck. My feet throb. Why are they throbbing?’

Alice’s mouth was parched, and her crusty lips were cracked at the corners. It tasted like she’d licked an overflowing ashtray chased with a swig of room temperature cheap wine. She felt nauseous and wasn’t sure if it was hunger or a hangover.

Maybe both.

Gradually the pieces fell into place.

Her memory was like a teenager’s video montage of a high school formal. Flashes of the previous night with sparkling disco balls, dancing (aka jumping on the spot hanging onto a crowd of people), a lot of pink and blue flashing spotlights, and singing (aka screaming the lyrics). So much singing.

She squinted and then prised one eye open, looking towards where she was pretty sure her clock would be.

8.45am.

Click.

Click.

Click.

‘Ugh. I shouldn’t even try to get up.’

Click, click, click.

‘What do I have to do today? God, I need to stay in bed.’

Clickclickclick…

But I feel like there was something I had to do…’

Pause.

And then - release.

‘Fuck!’ she screamed.

‘The job interview! I’ve got a fucking interview at 9:45am!’

8.48am.

She kicked at her sheets, but they refused to disentangle around her legs.

‘Shit!’

Alice scanned her bedroom floor. There must be something clean here, somewhere! As always, her room looked like it had been ransacked by thieves, and last night’s clothes were discarded on top - the only outfit with all parts together; top, skirt and shoes. She was still wearing her underwear and wisely resisted the urge to sniff herself. It wouldn’t be pretty.

Alice shoved her arms into the shirt sleeves, contorting her limbs. She dragged the sequinned skirt over her hips and twisted around to find the zip. Pulling it up harshly, she caught the shirt in its teeth and pinched her skin.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’

‘Shoes’, she muttered.

Bending over to wrangle her swollen feet into her scuffed stilettos, she felt the sharp taste of vomit tease the back of her throat. Using gravity to her advantage, she stood up and swallowed hard, forcing the contents of her stomach back where they belong.

‘Right - makeup next.’

Reluctantly she glanced at herself in the mirror.

‘I don’t even know where to start’, she thought. Dragging at her face with a cotton ball and remover, she smeared and scrubbed at the remnants of last night, only to realise those dark shadows were skin deep and no micellar water was going to shift them.

8.55am.

‘Fuck!’

The interview was in less than an hour and she still had to get there.

Like an artist having an emotional breakdown, she slapped on the beauty products, slathering creams, stabbing at her face with a sponge, dragging eyeliner with a shaky hand across her lids.

‘Mascara.’

She touched her bloodshot eyeball with the wand, her eyelid slammed shut and tears started seeping out, smudging dark, tar-like goo all around her eyes.

‘Fuck it - smoky eye it is.’

She used a cotton bud to blur the mess and then tried to recreate it on the other eye.

Unsuccessfully.

‘Now - lipstick.’

Requiring more calmness than she currently possessed, Alice put her elbow on the table to steady herself and slowly applied the heavily pigmented lipstick around her lips.

Also unsuccessfully.

She had missed the line of her lips and the garish red smear bumped around her mouth.

With a couple of squirts of cheap perfume (the good one that was a gift from her parents was missing) and a deep breath, Alice stood up straight and pretended that the messy clown in the mirror was her intention all along. Scraping her bird nest hair behind her neck, she concocted a ‘messy bun’ and it truly was messy.

9.05am.

‘Shit! Phone - where is my phone?’

‘Please be charging, please be charging, please be…fuck.’

Lying on the gritty carpet next to her bed, she saw the clown-like visage again reflected in the dark screen. The phone was as dead as a doornail.

‘Charger, charger, charger…WHERE IS THE CHARGER?’

She started to dig into the piles of clothes and detritus on the floor, like a gold prospector who’d been promised there was treasure somewhere in this mound.

Unsuccessfully, again.

Plan B. She grabbed her clock from the bedside table and ran downstairs to the kitchen. Well, not really running - more falling forward but her feet miraculously kept up with the speed of the fall and she stayed upright.

9.08am.

‘Coffee, I need coffee.’

The coffee canister was empty. No pods in the pantry. She scrabbled around the back - aha! One lone pod had been separated from the rest and was lying in the corner with what could have been cockroach excrement. With jittery hands, she shoved it in the machine.

Press on.

Nothing.

Press on again, but harder.

Still nothing.

Press, press, PRESS!

Nothing.

The empty cup sat underneath the spout, looking almost as disappointed as she did.

9.10am.

‘Fuck it.’

She grabbed her bag from the floor near the front door, shoved the clock in it and flung open the door.

Rain. It was definitely raining. But not just raining - bucketing down. Torrential, heavy, soaking rain.

Locating the phone charger should have been easy so Alice knew she had no hope of finding an umbrella.

Covering her sore head with her bag (ouch), Alice pelted down the path onto the street to catch the bus. Running in heels was a death-defying act at the best of times, but a wet footpath was an unfair obstacle. Like a contestant on ‘The Amazing Race’, she sprinted like she was going to lose the final challenge.

Rounding the last corner, she saw the back of the bus.

‘It’s moving. Is it arriving? Oh god, no! It’s getting further away. It’s pulling out into traffic! It’s…’

Gone.

‘Fuuuuucccckkk!’

She yanked the clock out of her bag.

9.17am.

She spun around to look behind her, expecting the relentless disappointment to continue.

Click.

Click.

Click.

But no - ‘Oh my god!’

Another bus approached. It was her bus!

Click, click, click.

Leaping up the step, she went to pay.

Pause.

Her bus pass was on her phone.

And release.

Which was at home.

Sharp unexpected turn.

Not charging.

She shoved her hand into the depths of her bag and felt around its cavity for any loose change.

‘Sticky? No, that’s chocolate.’

‘Bulky and metallic? No, that’s the damn clock.’

‘Soft cylinder in plastic? Nope, that’s a tampon.’

‘Small, round and smooth? A coin!’

Alice shakily slotted it in the ticket machine and pulled herself along the aisle. Collapsing into a seat, she looked at her clock again.

9.20am.

She’d be late, but only by a couple of minutes. Jiggling in her seat (dammit, forgot to go to the toilet), the bus seemed to catch every red light on the short ride to town. Raindrops streamed down the bus windows, mocking her haste as they left a lingering trail down the window to the sill.

9.29am.

She watched the street names go past: ‘Dilatory Road, Tardy Parade…one more street… Eleventh Street! That’s me!’

9.38am.

Jumping out of her seat, she stumbled down the aisle, oblivious to stares. Alice exploded out of the bus doors and staggered onto the kerb. The building was just around the corner so she sprinted again, not worrying about covering her head because she couldn’t get any wetter.

9.40am.

She slid to a stop in front of the revolving glass door that marked the building’s main entrance. Looking like a tiny silver guppy trapped in a fish tank, an elderly woman was leaning on her walker – mid-exit.

‘Fuck!’ Alice fumed under her breath.

Pulling her face into a polite yet insincere smile, Alice waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The old lady traversed the semicircle and almost continued past Alice for another rotation.

Alice grabbed the moving door and held it fast. She slipped past as the old lady struggled to emerge outside.

‘Careful dear, you’ll jam your fingers’, said the matron.

“I’m late!” Alice screamed, “I’m so fucking late!’

Tearing across the marble foyer, Alice wryly thought the introduction of marble flooring with wet, high heeled shoes was just not fair in this race against the clock.

9.45am.

She ran to the lift and pressed the button.

Nothing.

She pressed it again, but harder.

Still nothing.

(It was the coffee machine all over again.)

Press, press, PRESS!

Ding!

She pushed through people in the lift and slammed her body against the back wall, her wet clothes sticking to the glass.

Ding!

She burst out and threw herself towards the receptionist’s desk. Crashing her body against the dark wood veneer, Alice put a strained smile on the ludicrous face that her running makeup had created.

‘Hi! Alice Sero, here for my 9.45am interview. I’m so sorry, but I’m a little late, with the rain, and the bus and I never got my coffee. Do you have a Ladies room I could use before my interview? Just need to freshen up quickly, you know, take a breath, gather myself.’

Click.

Click.

Click.

The receptionist was meticulously groomed. She slowly raised her coiffured head towards Alice, followed by an icy gaze.

Click, click, click.

‘Alice Sero? One moment and I’ll check for you.’

Alice could feel the woman’s eyes scan over her dishevelled appearance and there was definitely a quiet sniff of contempt.

Clickclickclick.

‘I’m very sorry’ (she wasn’t), ‘but it seems I don’t have you on our schedule’, the receptionist added in a low controlled voice.

Pause.

Alice stopped breathing.

And release.

‘The job interviews are scheduled for tomorrow.’