by Annie Jocoby
It was like that all that week. Dragging myself to work, trying not to snap at clients, barking at opposing counsel, writing ever nastier letters to them.
“Your client better get her ass off that couch and stop sponging off my client,” read one letter.
“Tell your client to get off the crack and bong hits and take care of the kid, or we are going to get a modification agreement faster than you than you can read this” read another.
I was on an “ass” kick, in that I was loving that word. I wanted to use it is some fashion in every letter I wrote. I refrained myself when writing my motions to the judge, however. But even these motions were more aggressive than usual, although not quite as blunt as the letters to opposing counsel.
And one client, in particular, sent me into Defcon 1. He showed up to plead for a DWI, and, when he arrived at the courthouse, the smell of alcohol on his breath nearly knocked me over. It was fresh alcohol, too, because it actually smelled like vodka, as opposed to smelling slightly sweet, which is what vodka smells like on a person's breath after a period of time.
“What the fuck?” I asked him. The alcohol was not only strong on his breath, but his eyes were bloodshot. He looked a mess.
“What?” he asked.
“Oh, no you didn't. I know that you didn't booze it up before seeing the judge about your DWI charge.”
“I’m going to jail,” he slurred. “I wanted to have one last hurrah with my friends.”
“What did I say that made you think you were going to jail today? I told you that you’re gonna get probation.” I was apoplectic. “Well, probably not now. That judge will take one look at you and one smell of you, and throw you in the clink for sure. And that would serve you goddamned right.” I shook my head. “You aren't paying me enough for this bullshit. You couldn't pay me enough for this bullshit.”
Then I looked around. The guy was there by himself. “Where’s your ride?” I demanded.
“Uh, I couldn't find a ride.”
“Then where’s your bus pass?”
He looked at the floor and said nothing.
I was stunned. “Oh.my.god. You drove drunk to the courthouse to answer your drunk driving charge?”
He hung his head and continued to say nothing.
“Well, fuck this noise. I’m withdrawing from your case.”
“What? You can't do that!”
“Oh, can't I? Where’s the rest of the money you promised me?”
“I’ll send it to you when I get paid.”
“Bullshit. I’m withdrawing.”
When the judge called my client's name, about an hour and a half into the docket, I stood up before him.
“I request a move to withdraw your honor.”
“Why is that, counselor?”
“Rule one violation, your honor.” Every attorney knows the rule number one for clients – always pay your attorney. Bastard paid me $250, owed me another $1,000, then drove drunk to the courthouse. You can't make this shit up. Nobody would ever believe me if I told them.
“Motion granted.” Turning to my client, he said “Now, young man, your new court date is August 20. You must have new counsel by then. Do you understand?”
My client nodded mutely.
“Oh, and another thing. If you show up in my courtroom drunk again, I’ll have your case transferred to the state for prosecution. That’d mean that you wouldn’t be facing probation or possible jail time, but prison time. The big house. Do you understand?”
My client nodded.
“I didn't hear your reply.”
“Yes, your honor.”
Turning to me, the judge asked, sotto voce, “counselor, did your client drive here?”
“He did, your honor.”
The judge motioned to the bailiff. “Take this man, and put him in custody. He apparently drove drunk to get here.” The bailiff grabbed my client by the arm and led him away. He didn't protest.
The judge shook his head. “Now, I’ve seen everything.”
That client was not the only one to piss me off that week. He was just the worst. I found myself wanting to strangle at least 6 people for various reasons.
“You were cooking meth while your kid was in the house. Take this offer or leave it,” I said to a criminal client who was, amazingly, being offered probation, yet didn’t want the offer. “Or should I say, take this offer or I’m gonna withdraw because you aren’t listening to me, your counsel.”
“Oh, good lord, you want sole custody of your child because your ex-husband was late taking her to band practice? Seriously?” I asked another, rolling my eyes.
By the end of the week, I realized that I was cracking up. I could usually handle the idiot clients, but that week, I just couldn't. It was because of what happened with Ryan. What is wrong with you, Iris? You.barely.knew.the.guy.
The weekend was finally approaching. I dreaded it and looked forward to it at the same time. While I no longer had to refrain myself from chewing out various clients with their various excuses and whining, which was good, I also had nothing to look forward to that weekend but my DVR.
Which was bad.
My fault. My friends were calling all that week, wanting to see how I was, wanting to get together. I didn’t answer any of the phone calls though.
I’ll call them when I am feeling better.
Chapter Seven
I dragged myself home. Friday night, let’s see what’s on the DVR. I found the most mindless thing I could find – Keeping Up With the Kardashians – then found that there was actually a marathon on the previous day, so I could watch that all night if I wanted to. Which was what I chose to do.
Feeling slightly cheered at the prospect, I opened up a bottle of wine and sucked it down from the bottle, not even bothering to pour a glass. I watched the girls go through their silly problems, becoming amused, while also feeling comforted that I wasn’t the only woman in the world who had romantic issues. Not that Ryan would be considered to be a romantic issue, per se, but my overall bad luck with men would certainly qualify.
In the middle of the night, I was snoozing on the couch, after drinking an entire Two Buck Chuck, straight from the bottle. I was dreaming about there being somebody at the door. Knock, knock, knock. I tossed a little, putting the pillow over my ears. Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.
Go away.
Gradually, I started to realize that the knocking was not in my dreams. I stumbled to the door, looking out the peephole.
Huh. Looks like Ryan out there.
Nah, I’m seeing things. I started to lie back down on the couch.
Then a voice. “Iris? Are you there?” Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.
I got back up off the couch, and opened the door. Ryan was there in the hall, looking stinking drunk, but still beautiful. He was dressed formally, in a silk dress shirt and dress slacks, and expensive Ferragamo wing-tipped shoes. He was wearing a Rolex watch, one that I had never seen before. He wasn’t wearing a jacket or tie, but I surmised that these items were a part of his ensemble earlier in the evening.
If I was self-respecting, I would have slammed the door in his face. Coming here, in the middle of the night, after not calling all week, and showing up drunk to boot.
Then I remembered that I was drunk, too, so I went ahead and let him in.
“I am so sorry, Iris, for dropping in like this. I was over at Bristol’s for a fundraiser. I am so sorry,” he repeated.
Bristol’s Restaurant is a tony seafood restaurant just up the street. Of course, “tony” is a relative term, this being Kansas City. This town is not exactly known for its seafood. Except Red Lobster, where I worked one summer. Job from hell, lower than the ninth circle.
I was vaguely aware that the apartment situation was even worse than when I didn’t let him in the door the last time. My depression was such that I didn’t want to do anything but lie around on the couch and watch trashy television all week. Thank god I didn’t really eat t
hat much, though. That helped my weight situation (I lost 5 pounds!), and it also helped the dish situation somewhat. I mean, there was still a week’s worth of dishes in the sink, but I just kinda lived on frozen pizza that I sliced up and ate on paper plates, so the dishes weren’t that bad. I’m actually a pretty good cook on most days, and use every pot and pan in the place, but this week was the sad exception to that rule.
The wine bottles were another story. I had been making a point to recycle them, but, unfortunately, curbside recycling had not yet hit my neck of the woods. At this point, there was an entire garbage bag filled with empty wine bottles which had accumulated just that week, all of them Two Buck Chuck - thank god for Trader Joe’s! His roses were dead, still in the half-there wine bottle. I never bothered to do anything about that, and they were still on my kitchen counter.
Exactly where I left them.
He looked pretty sheepish, standing in front of the door, which was still open. “I, I, uh, I wanted to call.”
Yeah, you should’ve called, so I could’ve tidied up a bit. Oh, well, nothing that can be done about that now.
It occurred to me that I should probably have him at least sleep off his apparent drunk, but that would mean that he would get the couch. I would just have to sleep on the love seat. I still couldn’t really sleep on my bed, at least until I figured out which clothes on the bed were dirty and which were clean. If I wanted to sleep on the bed, I would just have to throw all the clothes onto the floor.
“Hey, it’s okay you didn’t call,” I lied. “You can stay here tonight, or until your drunk wears off. Let me get you a pillow and blanket.”
“Iris…..” He started, looking pained. “I, I, h-h-h-ope you don’t think that I’m only coming here because I got too drunk to drive.”
Something struck me. “What time is it?”
“It’s around 2 AM.”
2 AM? This is a goddamned booty call. “What time does Bristol close?”
“I don’t really know. The fundraiser was over around 9.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Yet here you are at 2 AM.”
“Well, some of us went out afterwards to Harry’s.”
Harry’s. In Westport. A good thirty minute drive. “Yet here you are.”
“I, I, I, uh, took a cab here.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Daniel busy?”
“He didn’t answer his phone.”
“Oh.” I looked at him. You know, you could’ve come right over here when the fundraiser was over, as opposed to waking my ass up. Then again, I was probably at the height of drunkenness at 9 PM, so maybe it is a good thing that you are here at 2. I feel at least slightly coherent.
As if reading my mind Ryan said “I'm so sorry, I should’ve come right over when I was across the street.”
I merely grunted at that one. “Let me get you a pillow and a blanket, and I’ll drive you to your car in the morning.”
“No need, my car is over at Bristol’s.”
“Good, I guess you can just walk on over there when you sober up,” I said with gritted teeth. My head was starting to hurt because my jaw was so clenched as I spoke to this guy.
“You're angry. I don’t blame you.”
“Listen, I'm used to being treated like shit, so not sure why I ever thought that you would be any different.” I was used to this kind of treatment. Booty calls, no calls, text-message break ups, dropping off the face of the earth, any number of coward’s way out. Carrie Bradshaw stated once that there was a right way to break up with somebody, and it didn’t involve “an e-mail, a door man or a missing person’s report.” That line always stuck with me, because that seemed to be the modus operandi of the modern male.
However, I melted a little as I looked at him. His beautiful face was contorted, and he appeared to be about to break down in tears. I made fun of tearful guys on The Bachelor, but, in real life, men’s tears got me every time.
As I looked at him, the memory of that morning came flooding back. I thought of the phone call from the ex-wife and to Sheldon, and his therapist.
I conveniently pushed aside the phone call to “Nick” in this analysis.
I suddenly had an epiphany. His therapist! He told me about going to see his therapist, and what did I do? I gave him the bum’s rush and didn’t even bother asking about anything. No wonder he acted the way that he did. He probably thinks that I am insensitive at worst, clueless at best. What’s your problem, Iris?
Well, to be fair, I didn’t want to pry. But he probably wanted me to pry.
“Listen, Ryan….” I wasn’t sure how to broach this topic about how it suddenly occurred to me why he got distant and wanted to get rid of me, without even driving me home.
He wasn’t quite crying, but he had the puppy dog look again. He looked at me, saw that I no longer had the mask of anger, and his expression immediately turned hopeful. “Yes?”
“I, uh, I’m sorry.”
He looked perplexed. “Why’re you sorry? I was the one who dropped off the face of the earth. I didn’t even drive you home. That was so shitty of me, I can’t stand it.” He shook his head, looking miserable.
“I think I know why you did that.”
He looked expectantly at me. I continued “You, uh, told me that you were going to see a therapist, and that was my cue to act concerned. But I didn’t want to pry. So I blew it off.”
He looked relieved. “I thought that you were scared off that I was over-sharing too soon. I thought that you had lost interest in me because I am weak and seeing a therapist.”
So, it was all a misunderstanding. I smiled. “You’re not weak for seeing a therapist. God, I love that you’re getting help for whatever issues you have. It’s so much better than keeping it in. And, it takes courage to take that step.”
Now he looked really relieved. I noticed that the door was still open behind him, and he was still standing in the doorway. Kinda halfway in and halfway out. “Come on in, make yourself at home.” I smiled wryly “What’s mine is yours.” Which had no meaning whatsoever, considering Madison was the only property I really owned. Well, that and my furniture and computers. And my ancient car, Priscilla, of course.
He came in, and sat down on the couch. Madison leaped on his lap, purring loudly. I was stunned. She never goes to anybody but me. Madison is a sweet kitty, but usually very shy. Yet she goes to him like he is offering her Beluga Caviar. Well, maybe it was his seafood dinner he had earlier, and she smelled it on his breath. Still, I thought that it was a good sign – they say that animals are the best judge of character.
If he’s good enough for Madison, then he’s good enough for me.
“I, uh, would offer you a drink, but….” Let’s see, what do I have. “Actually, let’s see how this is.” I grabbed my vanilla soy milk and mixed in some butterscotch Schnapps. I tasted it. Not bad at all.
He smiled as I offered him my new concoction. “I probably need another drink like I need a hole in my head, but if you’re offering, I am taking.”
He took a sip. “Say, that’s pretty good.”
“Well, it isn’t vintage wine from my own winery, but I guess it’ll do.” I suddenly realized that I was feeling more comfortable around Ryan. I really didn’t care that he saw my disaster of an apartment. Or smelled the disaster of a litter box. It occurred to me that the reason for my newfound comfort was because Ryan seeing a therapist made him seem more human.
I noticed that everything was not all right with him, though. He was staring down at the plastic cup holding the vanilla soy milk-butterscotch Schnapp’s concoction - all my glasses have long since been in the sink dirty, and I was reduced to drinking out of plastic cups when I wasn’t drinking straight out of the bottle or out of the milk carton - and I saw that he was shaking a little.
“There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”
He looked at me. “No, nothing. I just feel bad for hurting you.”
I narrowed my eyes. I knew better, but I didn’t push.
He smiled, although it wasn’t really sincere. “This drink’s pretty good. Did you invent this?”
“Not really. It’s called throwing together whatever I happen to have on hand.”
“You’re a regular MacGyver.”
I had to laugh at that one. “MacGyver” is a word that I often use for people who are resourceful and are able to create things out of everyday household items. I realized that the fact that we were close in age was a plus, as we both get the same pop-cultural references.
“Yes, a drink MacGyver. You’d be amazed at the things that you can put together if you really make an effort.”
He smiled again, wanly, then sipped the last of his MacGyver cocktail. I sat down next to him, obsessing about the garbage bag of wine bottles, and, more importantly, obsessing about the dead roses in the smashed wine bottle. The roses were dead, and that wasn’t a problem – it’d been almost a week. But I never bothered to buy a vase for them. The inescapable conclusion was that I just didn’t care.
I took his cup. “Would you like another?” I asked, moving towards the kitchen. Surreptitiously, I grabbed the roses out of the smashed wine bottle, then threw the bottle away. I crammed the roses themselves in a drawer, and started to pour another drink.
“Actually, it’s pretty late.”
“Sure, you’re right. Um, I would give you my bed….” Oh, please, act like you really don’t want the bed. I know that it would be the kind thing to do, but, trust me, that room is a holy mess.
Well, I could always just throw the clothes on the bed into the closet and shut the door. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.
“No, I can’t put you out like that.”
“Really, it isn’t a problem,” I lied.
He looked up at me. “I hope that it isn’t too forward to ask if we could sleep together in your bed? I mean, I promise I won’t try anything. I know that we started out as a one-night stand, but I really want us to be about something other than sex.”
“Not a problem,” I lied, hoping that I wasn’t gritting my teeth as I said it. “Uh, do you mind waiting here? I have to use the bathroom.” The only bathroom in the apartment was attached to my bedroom, so it was a great excuse to do a whirlwind cleaning job.
