My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts)

by Rene Gutteridge

  I was about to turn around and punch the elevator button when the doors whooshed open. I stepped aside, hoping to see Edward’s face emerge. But instead a shorter man with dark hair and intense eyes stepped off. He looked at me, didn’t offer a smile, then looked at the rest of the people standing by the windows.

  “Is this the conflict resolution class?” he asked me.

  “I think so,” I said with a shrug.

  With a heavy sigh he walked toward the group. The elevator doors clamped shut before I could step back on.

  Where was Edward? How could he be on time for everything in the world except this? I turned back to watch the crowd, squeezing my handbag strap until my knuckles were white. Then one of the women in the group turned my direction. Her gaze startled me, and I felt my face distort into something I intended as a smile but may have been a grimace. With a clipboard held against her chest, she walked toward me, her sandals tapping against the concrete. She extended a hand while still several feet out, which made the situation more awkward. Finally she arrived, her hand still extended. I shook it quickly.

  “Hi there. I’m Marilyn Hawkins. I’m the instructor.”

  “Hi.”

  “What is your name?

  “Edward Crowse.” I looked up at her. “I mean, we may be under that name.”

  “Are you preregistered?”

  “Yes.” I resisted the urge to slap my coupon down for the discount. Edward would do that, just to be doubly sure we were getting our bargain.

  She scanned the messy top page of the clipboard, which looked to be filled with names and crossed-out names. Then she lifted that sheet of paper and scanned the next page. Finally she went back to the first page. “I’m sorry, I don’t have that name here.”

  “What about Leah. Townsend.”

  “Right here!” She took her pencil and gave my name a charismatic check mark. “Glad to have you with us. We’re about to begin, so if you want to join us—”

  “What about Edward? Edward Crowse?”

  She looked at her clipboard again. “I’m sorry, I don’t have that name down.”

  “Probably an oversight. He was the one that signed us up, so he should be there.”

  She studied the paper. “Looks like you’re already paid in full. But I’m sorry, I don’t have another name here.”

  I looked at the crowd of people, who had now taken seats in the circle. About five chairs were empty. “He’ll be here. He’s probably just running . . . late.” The word felt heavy on my tongue. I’d never used late and Edward in the same sentence.

  Marilyn put a hand on my back. I felt myself stiffen. “Why don’t you go ahead and join us. As soon as he gets here, he’s welcome to come on in.”

  I could hardly swallow. Marilyn urged me on, like it was what she was best at, and with leaden steps I walked toward the circle of people. Marilyn paused to look at something on her clipboard, but momentum apparently kept me going. Some people were chatting. Others sat and watched me decide which chair to take. I aimed for a grouping of three that had a view of the elevator, plopping myself down on the one in the center. I put my handbag on the one to my right. My neck felt hot, and I placed a hand around my throat to try to hide whatever red color was making its appearance.

  A couple of seats to my left sat the guy who’d come off the elevator after I did. He was observing me with careful eyes. “Don’t strangle yourself yet,” he said softly. “You never know, you might like it.”

  “I’m not strangling myself,” I said with a frown. But I dropped my hand into my lap.

  “I was joking.” His brown eyes smiled at me, though his lips held an even line. He stretched a hand across the space between us. “Cinco.”

  I reached out to shake it. “Cinco. Odd name.”

  “I’m the fifth in a long line of people who think they’re important enough to name someone after them.”

  “I see. Well, nice to meet you.”

  “This is the point where you would normally introduce yourself.”

  I eyed him. “Sorry. I’m not feeling very friendly. This isn’t what I was expecting,” I said, glancing at the circle of people around me.

  “What were you expecting?”

  Luckily I didn’t have a chance to explain. Marilyn, a throwback to the eighties with her blue leggings, stiff-collared polo shirt, and inflexible bangs, sat down between me and Cinco and brought the meeting to order.

  I looked behind her toward the elevator, listening intently for any sign of movement from the old mechanical box. But the doors were quiet and tightly shut.

  “As you’re aware, this class is called Conflict Resolution, and as the title indicates, we’re about learning to resolve conflict. I know most of you don’t want to be here, but that just means I’m going to have to work harder to win you over.” She grinned. A nervous fellow across from me chuckled, and that satisfied Marilyn enough to release the hold she had on her smile. My gaze wound around the room as Marilyn’s words you don’t want to be here echoed in my ears. Nobody looked like they wanted to be here. And only the nervous fellow was attempting to do anything but scowl at her.

  “Every day,” she began after another award-winning smile, “we are faced with conflict. Sometimes small, sometimes big. Sometimes it’s on the job, sometimes it’s with people we love, sometimes it’s with a neighbor or even a stranger. But conflict is all around us. You’re here today to learn better ways not only to face conflict, but to resolve it. Everyone has a choice when faced with conflict. The one true thing about conflict is that you will handle it in some way. It’s impossible not to. But sometimes how we handle it can lead to more and more conflict. I’m here to teach you how to handle it in a way that will resolve it.” She gave a definitive nod and then continued, “All right. I want you to all feel like family for the next seven weeks. You’ll be working closely together, so I want you to know one another well. We’re going to begin by going around and introducing ourselves. But before we do that, let me add just a couple of housekeeping notes: First, we are normally in the conference room on the first floor, but they’re renovating, so, unfortunately, for the duration of this class, we’re going to be in this unfinished room. But nobody is here for the scenery, right? Also, this class meets Tuesdays and Thursdays. If you are here by court order, you must attend every class in order to fulfill the court’s requirement.”

  Her words punched me in the stomach. A tiny grunt escaped. Nervous fellow and I had the same stunned expression on our faces, so I tried to meld mine with a pleasant, nondubious semismile while willing the elevator doors to open. Where was Edward? And why were people here by court order? Were these people criminals?

  “Your name and why you’re here,” she said, and looked to her left, thankfully.

  My left hand found the empty chair and plopped itself down, as if it were expecting Edward’s lap to be there. It only hit my handbag.

  The man who had introduced himself as Cinco was laughing, his arms crossed over his chest, chuckling like St. Nick. It took me a few seconds to realize he was chuckling at me. I wanted to ask what was so funny, but instead I tried to act as if I was in on the joke, whatever that was. Cinco had seemed to connect with the man across from him, who looked like he should be working as a bouncer at a nightclub. They were both laughing and looking at each other, then at me.

  “Go ahead,” Marilyn said to Cinco.

  “I’m Cinco Dublin, and I’m a recovering conflict causer,” he said with a wry grin. A few people laughed. “But the guy I slugged isn’t recovering as well.” More laughs. I was laughing too, but not for reasons of amusement. It was just keeping me from crying.

  “I can see I’m going to have my hands full with you, Cinco,” Marilyn said, seeming to take it all in stride. She winked, and I wondered how a woman so stuck in one decade could be that confident. I shriveled in my seat as I watched her. “And Cinco, may I add for the record that I’m a fan of your show.”

  I looked at Cinco. He didn’t look familiar. Bu
t there was something about his . . . voice! He was the radio guy! The Cinco Dublin show. He hosted a conservative talk-radio show that loved to ruffle people’s feathers. I’d listened to him a couple of times, but I could never get past all the arguing that went on. I always felt so badly for the guest. Cinco could size them up and then throw them down with just a few swift sentences. Though I agreed with some of his views, I never could enjoy listening. Instead, I’d usually switch to the classical station with the monotone host who came on once an hour. The only chance Milbert Connelly had to stir controversy was to attribute a song to the wrong composer. And not once, in the twenty years he’d been hosting the classical station, had he ever done that. I had only once heard an inflection in his voice, on 9/11, when he reported that his listeners should get to their nearest television. It was only a slight inflection but enough to make me feel the sky was falling. For the rest of the day, Milbert Connelly played classical patriotic music.

  “Thank you, Marilyn. I hope to make myself a fan of yours soon too.”

  Marilyn laughed and a few other people chuckled. “I can’t imagine why you’re here. You? Causing conflict?”

  Cinco’s smile faded a little. “Lost my temper and let a few fly on a reporter in front of my home. I’m one of your beloved court-ordereds.”

  “Good to have you, Cinco,” Marilyn said. “Next.”

  Next to Cinco sat a woman with Merle Norman eyes and a drawn mouth. Her face was shiny with either overdone moisturizer or one too many cosmetic procedures. With penciled-in eyebrows and ratted blonde hair that looked like it’d been cooked over high heat, she was the quintessential sixty-year-old trying for forty. Her practiced smile greeted the group, and then she focused on Marilyn.

  “I’m Glenda. I’d prefer not to use my last name. You can’t be too careful these days.”

  I glanced at Cinco, who looked like he was willing himself not to zing her with some sarcastic challenge.

  “I’m court-ordered as well, but it wasn’t really my fault. The police officer that pulled me over was a complete jerk and an imbecile. And if you can’t protect yourself against the police, how can you protect yourself at all?”

  Cinco couldn’t keep quiet. “What’d you do?”

  Her head lifted with superiority. “It’s nobody’s business, but let’s just say the police will think twice about pulling me over in a school zone again.” She blinked and looked at everyone. “And listen, if you believe the news-paper article about how those kindergartners were traumatized by the event, you’re a moron. Their screams were no doubt a result of some high-sugar snack they were fed that day. And just for the record, any police officer who gets knocked down by a purse is a ninny anyway.”

  Marilyn’s mouth was hanging open, and I realized mine was too. “Next,” she said.

  “Next” was the biggest guy I’d ever seen. His muscles rippled under his shirt, his head was smooth and bald, his skin tan, and his eyes green and mean looking. He sat with both feet firmly planted on the ground and his large arms entwined across his large chest.

  “I’m Robert Goden. I’m a police officer.”

  My whole body flushed with heat, and I looked at the ground instead of all the shocked expressions I knew were making their way around the group. And, to my horror, I felt the first signs of my most dreaded weakness . . . my hives. They were simply uncontrollable, and the most I could hope to do about them was avoid uncomfortable situations. But I knew that soon enough the itching would begin. Large welts would climb up my chest, and people would start asking me if I was okay. My hand nonchalantly crept up my shirt to feel my neckline. Fairly high, thankfully. If I took a few deep breaths and tried to calm myself, I had a chance of slowing them down at least, and with some careful maneuvering of my hair around my neck, I could possibly hide it all, including my beet-red ears.

  I stared at the concrete below my feet and tried not to listen, but it was impossible. Robert was saying, “I’m here under court order. The anger management class was full.” I glanced up, and Robert was staring at Glenda. I quickly glanced back down. Robert continued. “And lady, if you’d like to try to swing your purse at me, go right ahead. Just make sure it’s not one of your favorites.”

  I could hear Cinco laughing. He was the only one. By the way feet moved back and forth slightly, I could tell everyone else was squirming in their seats. The hives were at my collarbone. I carefully moved one side of my hair and wrapped it across my neck nonchalantly, willing myself not to scratch. I glanced up once and noticed Cinco watching me. I tried my best not to appear startled. I wasn’t sure if I pulled it off. So instead, I looked at the next fellow in this torturous line. He was the nervous one.

  Maybe. But does he have hives?

  “I’m Ernest. Ernest Jones. Reverend Ernest Jones.” Why it took three attempts to get his name out was unclear, but his face opened up with an eager smile and bright eyes. “I’m here because I would like to learn more about resolving conflict. I feel it’s one area of my life that could really use some attention. God wants all of us to try to live in peace with one another, and so I’m here to try to find a way to do that while addressing the problems my church faces.”

  “What kind of problems?” Cinco asked, as if completely unaware that Marilyn was the group leader. Marilyn looked curious too. And it seemed my hives had stopped spreading long enough for me to focus.

  Reverend Jones glanced around the circle, then with a humble slump stated, “There’s been a hostile takeover.”

  “What do you mean?” Marilyn asked.

  “At my church. My committee has taken over.”

  Only silence answered the poor reverend. He looked up from staring at his feet and shrugged, a small smile acknowledging he felt it a bit absurd too. “It all started with the choir robes,” he continued. “After forty years of maroon, some of us thought it might be time for a color change. Things just got out of control after that.”

  “Reverend, I’m glad you’re here,” Marilyn interjected quickly, halting Cinco as he opened his mouth to add what I supposed would be some commentary on the situation. “Sounds like you’re in the right place.”

  Next up was a small woman I’d hardly noticed before. She was sitting on the other side of my handbag, and I hadn’t even been sure what she looked like up until now. I studied her face. She had small features, including a tiny nose that tipped a bit upward toward narrow, plain brown eyes. Her hair was fastened to the nape of her neck with bobby pins, and she wore an out-of-date skirt and glasses that looked like they could swallow her head. She was smiling, laughing almost, through her obvious insecurity. I worried that at a moment’s notice she might burst into tears. I knew the feeling. Through a tight grin she managed to state her name: Carol. But after that, nobody could hear anything, including me, and I was practically sitting right next to her.

  “Carol, nobody can hear you. Could you speak up?” Marilyn asked.

  Carol nodded but still couldn’t be heard on her second attempt. Marilyn looked to me for what I guessed was an interpretation. I heard every fourth or fifth word of the third attempt, but was unable to gather enough. “Carol is hoping to be more assertive in her life,” I said, glancing at Carol, who smiled broadly at me. Then she looked at Marilyn and nodded.

  “Glad to have you, Carol. By the end of this class, you’ll have no problem with that.” Then Marilyn turned to me. “Leah, why are you here?”

  My fingers clawed through my tangled hair, and I smoothed it around the exposed side of my neck. I tried to smile, but my lips quivered and I felt the heat return. In the best way I knew how, inspired by my new friend Carol, I lifted my head and met Marilyn’s eyes.

  That was the million-dollar question. Or, with a coupon, the eight-hundred-thousand-dollar question.

  Chapter 7

  [She shivers.]

  That was priceless. Really. I knew you were creative, but that, my friend, took you to an entirely new level. And to say it with such conviction. Maybe you missed your calling
as an actor.

  Rain poured. The wipers swiping back and forth across my windshield weren’t loud enough to drown out Jodie’s voice, even with the squeak. So I let her continue. A good berating helped me unleash my guilt sometimes. And I had enough anger going right now that I wasn’t paying too much attention to the guilt anyway.

  I do hope Edward never shows up, because I doubt he could pass for your brother. But what a heartwarming story you told. My goodness. Had it been true, you might’ve landed yourself in People magazine.

  My windshield fogged over. I quickly swiped my hand across the glass to make a circle I could see through, then fumbled to turn the defrost on full blast. I tried to stop replaying the scene in my head, but it looped over and over again, taunting me to pick through it with a fine-tooth comb.

  My plan would’ve been completely successful had it not been for Marilyn’s unfortunate mention of Edward and Cinco’s curious mouth working me over. I’d simply mentioned I was here to learn more about dealing with conflict. That was good enough, wasn’t it? But then Marilyn had to ask whether or not the Edward fellow would be coming. Too ashamed to admit my boyfriend had stood me up for therapy, somehow I casually made him out to be my brother. It was a little white lie that could’ve stayed perfectly pristine had Cinco not been so stubborn about it all. He seemed to sense my story wasn’t true and kept asking me detailed questions. By the end of their interrogation, my brother Edward hadn’t shown up because of complications from a kidney transplant, for which I’d been the donor, which was my explanation for why I was suddenly splotching and reevaluating life and attending classes that would help me become the best person I could be.

  Despite driving full speed ahead in the pouring rain, I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, trying to block the painful realization of what a pansy I was. Well, for every measure of pansy, I was certainly going to make up for it now. I looked at my clock. It was three minutes after nine. I accelerated. Edward was always in bed by nine.