Ace Jones: Mad Fat Adventures in Therapy

by Stephanie McAfee

  ACE JONES

  Mad Fat Adventures in Therapy

  Stephanie McAfee

  NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Published by New American Library,

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  Copyright © Stephanie McAfee, 2013

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  ISBN: 978-0-698-13655-7

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  To Mary MacLean

  1

  “All rise!”

  I stand up, knees shaking and nerves shot to hell. The Honorable Benjamin Wren comes in and takes his place behind the giant wooden desk or podium or bench or whatever it’s called. Without looking up, he instructs us all to be seated. I sit down on top of my purse and, in trying to discreetly pull it out from under my rump, I drop my file folder and watch in horror as my Very Important and Embarrassing Papers fan out on the floor. The Honorable Benjamin Wren calls someone’s name. Thank God it’s not mine. I scramble to get the papers back together. Arrest report, statement of probable cause, court-appointment information sheet. Judge Wren calls another name and then another. Everyone who’s been called so far has an attorney. Great.

  I glance at the jury box where three men are seated. They’re all wearing orange. One has his hands cuffed behind him and a fancy array of neck tattoos. Wonderful.

  “Graciela Jones,” the judge says. When I stand up, I feel like I might pass out. Heart thumping and cheeks burning, I put one foot in front of the other until I’m standing at the double-wide podium where I saw everyone before me go.

  “Do you have counsel, Ms. Jones?”

  “No, sir.” My mind spins visions of the worst, horrid thoughts of what my life will be like behind bars. I can’t stop thinking about The Shawshank Redemption. Ninety days. That’s what one of my Very Important and Embarrassing Papers indicated was the maximum penalty should I be found guilty of my alleged crimes against civilization.

  “You’re representing yourself?” The Honorable Benjamin Wren raises an eyebrow at me. Someone could weave an afghan rug with the hair above his eyeballs.

  “I guess I am, your honor.” I knew better than to punch that lady in face. I knew better than that. Walmart has video cameras everywhere, which means there’s no way I’m getting out of this. I’m going to jail. I’ll have to join one of those gangs for protection.

  “You guess you are representing yourself?” His tone is not friendly. I nod. I’m going to jail. I know I am. “Hmmph,” he says. I hear sniggering and glance over to see the fellows in orange laughing at me. At me! They have BUGTUSSLE COUNTY DOC stamped across their shirts, but they are laughing at me. I catch the eye of the fellow with the neck tattoos and give him my dirtiest dirty look. He winks at me and I want to vomit. I look back at the judge, who is shuffling papers. He scans the courtroom, no doubt looking for my accuser. I want to turn around and scan the crowd, but I’m afraid to move. I didn’t see her before court was called into session. I got here an hour early this morning hoping that when she showed up, I could hide behind something, get her attention, and then smack my fist against the palm of my hand and point to her. That was my only plan today. Run the bitch off. That was it. Well, that and picking up a forty ounce bottle of cheap beer on the way over. I wanted a Corona, but a girl scraping change from the glove box, cup holder, and ashtray has only so many options.

  “Patricia Desmond,” the judge says. He’s looking around. The bailiff is looking around. The court reporter is looking around. Even the guys in the jury box are craning their necks. Assholes.

  I should’ve just followed Patricia Desmond to her house and socked her in the nose there, but from the looks of her, she probably has a meth lab in her garage that’s guarded by rabid pit bulls who would’ve surely eaten me alive. Maybe it’s better that I punched her at Walmart, where it’s safe. I got a round of applause when security escorted me out of the store, and some other folks booed the police who arrested me just before I got to my car, which told me that my fellow shoppers were as tired of listening to that old hag run her mouth as I was. You could hear her all over the store. Kids and little old women shouldn’t have to listen to crap like that. And neither should I. Nobody needs to hear a bunch of idiotic foul language in a place where we’re all trying to save money and live better. She deserved to be punched in the face. I should be here to receive a ribbon of commendation for shutting her up because that was an act of community service in and of itself.

  Patricia Desmond does not come forward. Maybe her meth lab exploded and she’s busy with that.

  “Patricia Desmond,” the judge says again. He looks at the court reporter. “Let the record show that the plaintiff failed to appear.” The Honorable Benjamin Wren turns his attention and his eyebrows to me. He frowns and says, “Case dismissed.”

  “Oh thank you, Jesus,” I mumble and pick up my folder. When I walk past my brothers in orange, I throw up a victory sign and whisper, “Peace out, homies.” Outside the courtroom, I toss my folder full of Very Important and Embarrassing Papers into the first trash can I see. I can’t wait to start forgetting this ever happened. I drive home where my super chiweenie, Buster Loo, is waiting for me in the kitchen.

  “Not guilty!” I tell Buster Loo, who sits up on his rump and waves his paws. “I knew you’d be proud!” I settle into my sofa, thankful the “incident” is over, and pick up the phone to call Pier Six Pizza. Buster Loo brings me his favorite little-dog toy and we celebrate with a few rounds of Victory Fetch. Now all I have to worry about is how to pay Lilly Lane back for posting my bail.

  • • •

  The phone rings and it’s my friend Chloe. “J.J. wants to know how it went today.”

  “Case dismissed,” I tell her.

  “I’m so sorry we were out of town when that happened,” Chloe says. “I’m sure J.J. could’ve done something.” Chloe and Sheriff J. J. Jackson had gone to Gatlinburg for a long weekend in January and while they were away, I found myself locked up in the Lee County Jail. By the time they got back, the paperwork was already in the system and there was nothing J.J. could do to help me. But that was fine. I didn’t mind. I wasn’t even going to tell Chloe about it, but Lilly’s boyfriend, Deputy Dax Dorsett, told J.J. as soon as he got to work that next Tuesday. Then J.J. went home and said something to Chloe and she called me all freaked out. I told her not to worry about it, that I got myself into it and I could get myself out of it. Or so I thought. As it turns out, I was an idiot because when I made that dreaded “first appearance” and they issued me another Very Important and Embarrassing Paper, this one with an
actual court date on it, I became quite concerned. Then I happened across a little paragraph that stated the maximum penalty for my crime was ninety days in jail. That got me a helluva lot more worried. But it was too late because it was happening, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. At that moment, I realized that I needed a lawyer worse than I ever have, but the only lawyer I know is Mason McKenzie, my ex-fiancé. And I couldn’t exactly call him, now, could I? Okay, honestly, I did think about calling him but in the end, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Which is fine because it’s all over now and I’m ready to stop talking about it but my friend Chloe obviously isn’t.

  “All’s well that ends well, my friend,” I tell her. I hope no one told Mason about my legal predicament, but I’m sure they did. Small-town gossip spreads like herpes in a whorehouse, and the fact that Mason lives four hundred miles away in Pelican Cove, Florida, means absolutely nothing. Someone called him. I know they did. Probably his stupid-ass mama who I heard was positively thrilled about our breakup. Bitch.

  “Ace, I’m concerned about you,” Chloe says.

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. “That lady knows she got what she deserved and that’s probably why she didn’t show up today. She got up this morning and said, ‘Come to think of it, I needed that,’ and then decided to spend the day assembling a new meth lab in her bedroom.” Chloe thinks that’s a little bit funny. “You worry too much, Chloe.”

  “I can’t help it, Ace,” she says, back to serious-as-usual. “What if that woman had shown up? What if you had been sentenced to serve jail time?”

  “She didn’t and I didn’t, so can we please move on?”

  “But what if she had? What would you have done?”

  “I guess I would’ve gone to jail.” I look down at Buster Loo, who puts his snout between his paws and whimpers. If I’d gone to jail, I wouldn’t have seen my dog for three months. I don’t want Chloe to know how bad this bothers me, so I change the subject and then start trying to get off the phone.

  “Okay, well, you seem to be in a rush so I’ll let you go, but would you be interested in meeting Lilly and me for coffee in the morning?”

  “Before y’all go to school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me get this straight,” I say. “Lilly is going to be up early enough to meet us for coffee before she goes to school?”

  “She has recently become somewhat of an early riser,” Chloe says, and I wonder if she’s lying. “I think it has something to do with Dax sleeping over.” Or maybe she’s telling the truth.

  “Well, if she can make it, surely I can,” I say. Maybe I have enough change lying around the house to cover a cup of coffee. Or I could use my emergency five-dollar bill.

  2

  When I get to the Morning Perk on Friday morning, Lilly is already there.

  “This is unbelievable,” I tell her. “Here you are at six fifteen a.m.”

  “I get up early a couple days a week and go to the gym with Dax.”

  “Before school?”

  “Yep, he gets up at four a.m. every morning.”

  “That’s amazing,” I say. “What do you do at the gym?” To my knowledge, Lilly Lane has never owned a pair of shoes designed for athletic use.

  “Sit in the sauna mostly,” she says. “Sometimes the hot tub. It’s very relaxing. And I’ve started a yoga class that I absolutely love.”

  “I can see you doing yoga,” I tell her.

  Chloe arrives and seems a bit too chipper for this time of the morning. We go to the counter where they both place elaborate drink orders and fork over six or seven bucks each. I order a small cup of coffee and worry that I’m embarrassing them because I don’t use the coffee shop’s stupid little term for small. And my small coffee, for which I’m issued a cup to fill up myself, costs nearly three bucks. Fantastic. I ignore the tip jar and decide that today is not the day to ask the weird snobby lady behind the cash register what exactly she’s done to constitute a cash bonus. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for tipping. I waited on tables all through high school and college and worked my butt off every time I clocked in, and my hourly wage was half of the legal minimum. I certainly didn’t stand behind a computerized screen smirking at people and making change for a five. Hell, the checkout clerks at Walmart, most of whom are extra nice and super friendly, have to scan and bag hundreds of items a day and then deal with coupons, government checks, handwritten checks, people like me who never can remember to press the “No” button on the cash-back option, and then sometimes they still have to make change, but you don’t see a tip jar next to their register, do you? The sulky cashier acts like it hurts her fingers to get my change out of her register, and then I have to reach for it because she obviously can’t unbend her arm. Then she starts staring at her tip jar. I drop the money into my purse, pick up my empty cup, and turn around. She doesn’t say “thank you” or tell me to have a nice day. Jeez. If I were the richest woman east of the Mississippi, I wouldn’t tip someone who acts like they’re doing me a favor by doing a job for which they get paid a full wage. I want to punch her right in the face. I really do. But I cannot punch her in the face, so I head for the coffee urns where I take my time making a selection. I hear Chloe’s name called and then Lilly’s and we return to our table and they start talking about school. I smile and try to be conversational while simultaneously ignoring the fact that I’m broke and unemployed.

  “Thank goodness January is finally over,” Lilly says. “It seems like payday was a hundred years ago.” I’d tell her she was being dramatic, but I used to feel the same way.

  “Tell me about it,” Chloe says and I just sit there. They both have savings accounts that could float them through a thousand rainy days. Especially Chloe, who comes from “old money” in Jackson. I take a sip of coffee. And then another. The coffee tastes like shit. I wish I would’ve just stayed in bed.

  “What about that storm system that’s all over the news?” Chloe asks. “Do y’all think it’ll be as bad as they’re forecasting?” I look at Chloe and then at Lilly. We’re discussing the weather now? Something is wrong here. Chloe continues, “Everyone seems to be gearing up for a big winter storm.” She looks at me. “Do you have everything you need?”

  “I have a twelve pack of Corona and a freezer full of frozen pizza,” I lie. “I’m all set.” Am I a charity case now? If so, then I wish someone would’ve bought me a caramel macchiato.

  “I hope it snows like hell,” Lilly says. “I could use a few days off work.” Chloe shakes her head. She never needs a day off work. They look at me and I can see they expect me to participate in this parlay.

  “The nine weeks after Christmas break was always the worst,” I say and, again, I’m striving to be conversational. “Even back in high school, it seemed to drag on forever.” Call me Bruce Springsteen, because I’m reverting to the glory days.

  “But we always had spring break,” Lilly says. “Good times.”

  “Good times,” I say. Bruce was right. The glory days will pass your ass by like you’re sitting still. I look at my coffee. It’s so hot in this place that I feel like I might suffocate to death. I’ve got to get out of here.

  “I saw on the Weather Channel that Jim Cantore is coming to Memphis,” Chloe says. While I’m somewhat concerned that we’re still discussing the weather, Chloe has had a crush on Jim Cantore since college.

  “Maybe we should drive up there and stalk him!” Lilly says.

  “We could borrow Ethan Allen’s truck in case the snow gets deep,” I say. Chloe laughs and waves off that idea. She’s not much of a stalker, unlike Lilly and myself, who are seasoned professionals. “I could use some fun like that in my life,” I say and then immediately regret it because they get quiet and give me that “we feel so sorry for you but we can’t tell you how sorry we feel for you because you’re our friend and we don’t want you to know that we think you’re a loser” look.

  “I have a gift for you, Ace,” Chloe says.

  “For
what?” I ask. “It’s not my birthday.” These two are definitely up to something. I look at Lilly, who looks at her skinny vanilla latte with a double shot of espresso. Chloe picks up her purse and pulls out an envelope.

  “It’s a gift certificate,” she says. I get excited, thinking that maybe they’ve chipped in and bought me a pedicure or a massage. Or both! I’m embarrassed by how excited I am, but when I open the envelope, I see that my assumption was incorrect.

  “Who is Rosemary Tallis?” Chloe is smiling, Lilly has yet to look up.

  “My therapist,” Chloe whispers. “She’s great. You’ll love her.”

  “Lilly,” I say, and she finally looks at me. “What is this?”

  “We’re worried about you, Ace.” She looks like she’s about to cry. Of course. In addition to being a seasoned professional stalker, Lilly is also a seasoned professional squaller. I look back at Chloe, who has the phoniest smile I’ve ever seen plastered across her pretty face. Chloe has on a dark gray pantsuit with a lavender button-up shirt. Lilly is wearing black leggings with knee boots and a cream-colored sweater with a multicolored scarf. I’m wearing sweat pants and a hoodie that’s three years old. I didn’t bother to put on makeup. I want to ask them why they chose the Morning Perk to give me a freakin’ gift certificate for a freakin’ therapist, but deep down inside, I know. They knew I wouldn’t make a scene about it here.

  “Uh, thank you, I guess.” I slip the envelope into my purse.

  “I made you an appointment for Monday,” Chloe says. She’s happy now because the gift certificate is in my purse.

  “Thank you,” I say again. And so this is what an intervention looks like. Nice. Maybe I’ll go lie in the street and hope a dump truck comes through.

  “The gift certificate is good for as many sessions as you need or want,” Chloe says, and Lilly is looking at her cup again.

  “Okay,” I say, getting up. “Thank you both so much, but I better run.” They look at me like I’m crazy, and their expressions have new meaning to me now. I hug them both and grab my jacket. We all know I have nowhere to be. I pick up my half empty cup of designer coffee and drop it in the trash on the way out the door. Squinting against the cold, I walk to my car, which is parked between Lilly’s BMW and Chloe’s Lexus. “I love my Maxima,” I mumble to myself as I get in and start the engine. “It’s a great car. And I love my jogging pants.”