by Theresa Alan
“I work in marketing.”
“Do you like it?”
“Oh my god no . . .” I told him what a cesspool my company was, and how poorly managed it was. I told him about how I dealt with my frustration by depicting salespeople and executives with hideous diseases, and soon John was cracking up.
“So what’s it like at your office?” I asked.
“It’s like any job. I have some great friends there and some people I’d be completely content to never see again. Isn’t every office like the dysfunctional, Jerry Springer side of the family?”
I laughed. “I guess so.”
“But who would we sleep with and gossip about if it weren’t for our coworkers?”
I laughed again and it felt good, really good. I almost felt like my old self and it was so nice, sitting here, laughing with a cute guy. There wasn’t a trace of alcohol anywhere in sight.
We talked for a few hours until they were closing the place up, and John walked me to my car and asked if we could do this again sometime.
“You mean, like on a date?”
“Exactly like a date.”
“I don’t know. You’re cute, and nice and funny, but I . . . my last few relationships have been total wrecks, they’ve been like sewage waste, and I want a relationship that’s like, a clear nonpolluted stream, something that’s beautiful and healthy and going somewhere, and I just feel like I have to be healthy, and I have to get my shit together and the deal is, my shit is just not together yet.”
“I’m in no rush. I’d like to hang out with you sometimes if it’s okay. We can just be friends.”
“Friends?” What a novel concept. Getting to know someone before I slept with him. I liked John. And he was a recovering alcoholic. He didn’t seem like a total mess at all. He seemed healthy, like he had his act together.
“Jen, are you okay? Why are you crying?”
“All I do these days is cry,” I said. “It’s nothing, I’m fine.”
If John could get sober and stay sober, even through his fiancée dying, wasn’t it possible that I could, too?
“Tell me it’s possible for me to stop drinking. Tell me it’s possible that I can have a happy life and do it without alcohol,” I said, sniffling.
“It’s possible. You have to learn how to do everything all over again. How to deal with stress and social situations and sadness. You have to learn how to feel—when you’re drinking, you’re numbing your feelings, and when you stop, you suddenly feel all this stuff, some of it is good, and some of it’s not, but life sober is better; it’s much, much better.”
RETTE
Rediscovery
With the Expert account finished, I was much less busy, and I hardly knew what to do with myself. I was actually able to stay on top of my workload and leave at five every day. I was so used to working at the fastest possible pace, it was hard to slow down.
I told Glenn I could no longer help him with his projects. I told him that I needed to focus my efforts, but I sure did appreciate the opportunity to learn new things.
I sent out a few résumés this week. I did it at work so I didn’t feel like I was wasting my own precious free time. Also, it felt delightfully subversive to look for another job while on the clock. I realized that I might need to put in a year here before I was attractive to other employers. I thought of my days with Eleanore as something I had to survive, and the experience would ultimately make me a stronger person.
The good news was that since Avery was promoted to Marketing Communications Manager in Pam’s place (Morgan liked the copy she wrote on the Expert research reports), she’d been giving me brochures, e-mail copy, Web content, and other things to write. (Except unlike Glenn, I asked her for the work so I could get some experience and get a better job. Plus, Avery would always tell people stuff like, “Didn’t Rette do a great job on that brochure?” Can you imagine? A manager who actually gave credit where credit was due?) Avery said I was doing a great job and that if a position opened up in her department, she’d do her best to see that I got the job. I’d report to Avery who reported to Glenn. At least there would be a layer of competence between me and him.
When I started to get pissed off about all the crappy management and bad decisions McKenna Marketing made because of the reckless incompetence of our managerial team, I’d think, What does it really matter in the grand scheme of things if McKenna Marketing squanders resources and generates an inferior product. This isn’t a cure for cancer or the launch of a world war. This isn’t as important as world hunger. What do I care if McKenna Marketing goes under? I can get unemployment. But it was no good. I was an editor. I had to care about every comma, every syllable, every character. Not caring would be worse than caring too much.
With a reasonable workload, I experienced the strangest thing: I wasn’t exhausted when I went home at night. I suddenly had hours to myself in which I could read and think.
One night, Greg was home from school, studying at the kitchen table, rubbing his neck.
“Is your neck sore?” I asked.
“It’s killing me. All my stress seems to lodge itself right here.”
“Want me to give you a back rub?”
“Are you kidding? I’d love it.”
“Let’s go in the bedroom.”
I followed him into our room, where he took off his shirt and lay down on the bed. I rubbed his shoulders, his neck, his back. I was in no rush, and it was so nice, just feeling his warm skin and listening to him murmur with gratitude. As I worked my way down his back, I told him to slip out of his pants. I continued massaging his legs and feet.
“Now you,” he said, propping himself on an elbow.
He spent a good half-hour giving me a full-body massage until I felt utterly, completely relaxed. Greg gently pushed my legs apart, running his fingers along my inner thigh, then slipping them inside me.
We made love, slowly. It had been such a long time since I hadn’t felt stressed out and in a rush to get to the next task, I’d forgotten how nice it was just to give myself over to pleasure.
“That was so nice. I wish I didn’t have to have a stupid job, and then I could just be your full-time masseuse and geisha girl,” I said.
“I need to figure out a way to become independently wealthy.”
“Then you and I can just travel around Europe. We’ll go to Paris, and Venice, and Amsterdam, and London . . .”
“And Athens. And Australia.”
“I feel it’s relevant to point out that Australia’s not in Europe, but we should definitely swing down there for a month or so, while we’re at it.”
“Since we’re zillionaires, we might as well.”
I smiled and looked at Greg. God how I loved his smile. How I loved him.
Why did I love him? I was going to have to articulate it when I wrote the vows. But why do we love anyone? It’s one part attraction; one part being able to laugh together even after two years together when you’ve already told all your best jokes; one part not being able to wait to rush home and share every part of your day and find out how his went. I loved Greg because of his goofy smile that made me smile, no matter how cranky I felt. I loved him because he knew what things like VPNs, Bluetooth technology, firewalls, and calipers were, so I’d never have to. I loved him because he wasn’t as reserved as my dad and was nothing at all like his own dad. I loved him because when I said, “Who do you really think is prettier, me or Jen?” he always gave me the right answer.
If I could have it my way, I’d feel this rush of love for Greg every moment of every day, I would be able to shed the stress of work with a snap of my fingers and be able to luxuriate in a lazy reverie with great sex every night. But if every moment with Greg was clear-the-table-with-a-sweep-of-your-arm-to-make-mad-passionate- tear-your-clothes-off sex, these unplanned, stolen moments of rediscovering how much we loved each other wouldn’t be quite so startling, so wonderful.
AVERY
Shift F7
Being a market
ing copywriter means becoming intimately acquainted with your Shift F7 thesaurus option. All I did all day was think of new ways to say Company X is the greatest! Use Company X and make oodles of money!
Still, this job was more creative and called on more of my intellect than my previous job. Also, my raise made a world of difference. It was amazing how having just a little money in the bank made me feel more secure.
It really shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me that I ended up in marketing. I only liked pretty things, dealing with the positive side of things. In marketing, you never pay any attention when the company you’re promoting failed a customer miserably, you only quote the customers who liked the service and you only profile the instances in which the company saved a client time and money. In marketing, there were no “problems” only “challenges to overcome.” It’s not such a bad way to view the world.
JEN
Unhappy Hour
It had been at least nine weeks since I’d gotten my period. I hadn’t had a drink for two weeks, and I hadn’t felt nauseated since that last bender, so that seemed like my little bout with nausea probably wasn’t morning sickness. If I were pregnant, the little fetus had probably been mutated from all the drinking I’d done since the romp with Tom. I was definitely going to have to figure out a way to beat this alcohol thing if I wanted to be a Mom and bear a healthy kid, and I did, I really did. Just not right now.
Marty from accounting brought my expense check to me himself. He seemed surprised to see Sharon, who had been in the middle of bitching at me for something that was her fault. Sharon watched the situation gravely as Marty and I exchanged smiles and thank-yous and see-you-laters.
When Marty left, Sharon said, “That’s not the check for the expense report you turned in yesterday, is it?”
“Yes it is.”
“It took him thirty days to get me my expense check.”
I shrugged.
“Well, clean up that section we talked about,” she sputtered.
“Will do.”
Sharon stalked off.
Yes, there are definite perks to being beautiful.
I looked at the clock. Five o’clock at last! I called Avery, who now had a new office—one all to herself. “Hey, let’s go.” It would be my first sober happy hour. I hadn’t had a drink in fourteen days. That might not seem like much, but to me it seemed huge. I loved how good I felt, I loved life without hangovers, but even so I spent every single night focusing on nothing except talking myself out of drinking. It was completely irrational. It was exhausting. I wanted so much just to go get a bottle of something and not worry about it, just get drunk and not think twice about it. That seemed so much easier.
“See you out front,” Avery said. “I just have to shut down and I’ll be there.”
I buzzed Rette. “Ready?”
“Hell, yes.”
The three of us met in the front of the office and walked downtown to Rios. It was already crowded, but we managed to get a table. When the waitress stopped by, Avery said, “We’d each like a margarita on the rocks with salt.”
“Actually, I’ll just have a glass of water with some lemon.” Avery looked at me. “I’m on a diet,” I said. “So how are you liking your new job?”
“It’s okay. I enjoy writing,” Avery said. “Pam was right, though, everybody thinks they can write. One client I wrote some collateral for just loved what I did, and we went to press with it right away. With another client, though, I had dozens of meetings with two male VPs, a male CEO, a sales guy, and the marketing director. We went over every sentence dozens of times. They’d contradict each other, go back to the way we had it a week earlier, constantly change their minds. You’d think you wouldn’t want to use up so much staff time on a brochure and some letters. I mean think about how much money a VP and a CEO make per hour, and all those hours we spent changing a few words around! They spent so much time arguing with each other about which bullet point to put first. You know how men are. It was a total territory war. Since our last meeting, they’ve changed their minds yet again about the kind of message they want, who their target audience is, what tone they want to take. It’s kind of frustrating, but we get paid for every hour I work, so their egos are costing them a lot of money.”
“Have you heard from Pam?” Rette asked.
“Yeah, actually I have some news: She’s started her own company. She got a couple big projects right away, and she said she was looking for part-time help. She’s hoping to hire a couple full-time people by the end of the year. She said if either of you are interested in making some extra money doing some marketing and publicity writing, to give her a call.”
“Extra money! Hell yes, count me in,” Rette said. “I’m not that busy at work right now, so I could work part time for Pam while I’m at the office—it’ll be perfect!”
“I know, isn’t it ridiculous, I’m so bitter, even with my promotion,” Avery said, “That I’m taking two-hour lunches and stealing office supplies, as if taking three sticky notepads and eleven pens equals all the mental anguish I’ve experienced over the past five years.”
“And if she does have a full-time position open up, oh my god, I’d take it in a nanosecond,” Rette continued. “Are you going to work for her?”
“Actually, I’ve finally figured out what I want to do when I grow up. It’s a major change, and it may sound a little crazy . . .”
“What?” Rette said.
“My plan is to save five thousand dollars, and then go to this nine-week program in California where I’ll become certified to be a Bikram yoga instructor. I figure that with doing some work for Pam and saving like crazy, I’ll be able to quit McKenna in six months and fly out to California.”
“A yoga instructor! Jesus!” Rette said.
“I know, it sounds a little nuts, but I’ve been thinking about what it really is I want to do with my life, and I know it’s not sitting at a desk all day. I want to be active and use my body, and yoga instructors—I won’t get rich, but I’ll be making as much as I make now, and I just know I’ll be so much happier. I figure sometimes you need to give destiny a little hand, you can’t just wait for it.”
“Well that’s great, Ave. I think that’s a great plan,” Rette said.
“Yeah, congratulations,” I said. Avery had barely even taken a sip of her margarita. How could she just sit there, apparently indifferent to the drink in front of her? I looked around the room at all the people enjoying their margaritas, their beers, their wine. They’d have one or two, and then stop. They wouldn’t go home and do several more shots to “help them sleep.” Why can’t I just stop at two? Why can’t I stop at two? Fuck you people who get to enjoy all that wine and beer and margaritas, fuck all of you.
“How about you, Jen, are you interested in working for Pam?” Avery asked.
“I don’t think so, not right now anyway. Right now I’m making enough major changes. I have to focus on some stuff before I can think about changing jobs.”
Avery looked at me. “What kind of major changes?”
“I’d rather not talk about it right now.”
Rette reached out and squeezed my hand in hers. “You know we’re here for you if you ever want to talk.”
“I know.” I could feel the tears coming up again. Probably the crazed hormones of a pregnant woman. “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” I said. I leapt off my stool and quickly wove my way through the restaurant to the bathroom. I opened then locked the stall door, pulled up my skirt and pulled down my underwear and saw the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen: blood.
I closed my eyes, exhaled. Then, of course, I started crying.
Maybe it’s the tears that have been welling up inside me since my freshman year in college, when drinking hard and regularly became part of my routine, when I started drinking for fun and drinking to mask how much pain I was in. Maybe part of the reason I’m crying all the time these days is that one of the twelve steps in AA is to make a search
ing and fearless inventory of ourselves. I’ve always tried not to reflect too much about the stupid shit I do. The truth is, I don’t like to reflect too much on my life because when I do, I don’t like what I see.
I’d done so many stupid things in my brief twenty-five years on this planet. My period being MIA for almost four weeks was a little reminder that actions have consequences, but I was being given a second chance. I couldn’t mess this up. I would live a life where I didn’t do this stupid shit anymore. A life where I’d remember who I’d slept with when I woke up in the morning. The next time I thought I was pregnant, I’d know for 100 percent certainty who the father was. But it was here now, like an old friend that I was very happy to see.
I returned to the table feeling a little better, as if I’d been given a gift I didn’t necessarily deserve.
“So how are things with Les?” I asked.
“Really good,” Avery said and smiled.
“He’s looking pretty good these days. I mean you wouldn’t mistake him for a star of Melrose Place, but he’s obviously been working out,” I said.
“We’re going out dancing a lot and doing yoga together,” Avery said. “My life these days is just filled with small but really wonderful moments. Like we rented this horrible movie the other night, and we both groaned at the same time, and it made me so happy. I just thought, yes, finally. How about you, Jen? How many men are you fighting off these days?”
“I have no life whatsoever. I go to work, to Tae Bo, and to sleep.” I inhaled sharply.
“What’s wrong?” Avery asked, following my gaze.
“Oh, phew. I thought that was Mary. It’s not. Did you guys hear she’s sleeping with Mark with a k?”
“I believe it,” Avery said. “I saw her sitting on his lap in his cube at the office.”
“You’re kidding. She’s married. He has a live-in girlfriend,” Rette said. “Scandal!”
“It’s true. I just can’t believe Pam is okay with getting fired when it was so clearly Mark’s fault we lost the Expert Web site account,” Avery said. “It’s this gross injustice, and there is nothing I can do about it. Well, I can take two-hour lunches and steal office supplies and plot how I’m going to get out of there, but I mean, there is nothing I can do to change what happened.”
