thIeves

By Eric St. Pierre

Set in 2020 New Orleans, Morgan and her twenty-something-year-old friends navigate the service industry underground while discovering the importance of small, seemingly forgettable moments.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric St. Pierre
• Release date: Dec 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215175651

Eric St. Pierre

Eric St. Pierre is a Pensacola, FL, native artist creating stories, visual art, music, poetry, and podcasts out of New Orleans, LA. His written and visual work has been featured in The Independent News Weekly, The Raffish, The Emerald Coast Review, and several galleries along the Gulf Coast. His plays have been performed at Pensacola Little Theatre.

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ThIeves | By Eric St. Pierre

About the Author

ThIeves

By Eric St. Pierre

I think it was just after eight-thirty in the morning. The top of my head tingled. My hair was wet against my forehead. I was in my bed, and my eyes were closed, aware that I had fallen asleep with my clothes on. Heels, too.

I couldn't collect any other thoughts just then. My mind was preoccupied with the persistent beat that pounded somewhere far off. I constructed a song, melody, and all to complement the rhythm.

I think it was just after nine in the morning, and I hadn't dared to open my eyes. I became aware of the wetness below me. I had sweat throughout the night. The tingle in my head now floated leisurely down the river that is my spine. The beat had faded into the white noise of my box fan, set on high, like always.

My tongue traversed my teeth. Gross. I am disgusting. An abrupt cough escaped my lungs, and I opened my eyes. All things covered in fuzz and lint until my hands met my face to rub away some of the confusion. The beat returned, presenting itself impatiently. The tingle fled from my spine into my extremities, numbing and further disorienting me.

My alarm. It wasn't a song; it was my goddamn alarm. I jolted out of bed and quickly shed my clothes. I ran down the hall wholly naked and into the bathroom, I share with my roommate, Sarah. She was already at the Bistro where we both worked. With no time for a shower, I got wet napkins from below the sink and cleaned my face and under my arms. I wrapped the towel hanging on the shower rod around me and rushed back to my room. I stubbed my toe on my dresser. Ugh. With no time to acknowledge my pain, I dug through the pile of clothes on my floor, slinging this and that all over the place. I found a work shirt and pants, threw them on, and ran out of the house with a limp.

My neighbor, Mr. Noisette, I call him Mr. Nosey. Mr. Nosey who never seems to actually go inside his house and who always has a long-winded story to tell stepped over the shrubbery that separates our yards and blocked the path to my car.

Mornin', Morgan. He thought he was so cute with his alliteration.

Hello, Mr. Noisette. I'm off to work now.

I scampered past him and hopped in my car. Damn, I had forgotten to lock it last night.

Mr. Nosey was always smiling. You could tell him that his dog had just died, and he'd smile and say something corny. I guess that's okay. He told me to be careful; traffic from Mardi Gras would be rough, tourists and all.

*

I had only been working there for six months. I was forty-five minutes late, give or take. I got