The Enemy We Know

by Donna White Glaser

  “It scared me. I have a family history of alcoholism, but that’s not why I drank that night. My dad wasn’t in that hotel bar that night. Neither were my sister or my aunts and uncles. It was just me. Just me and the booze.

  “So I went to an AA meeting the next night. I was lucky; I knew where to go for help. And the thing is, all the things I drank over—loneliness, trying to fit in, trying to fill the empty place inside—I’m finding all those things taken care of in sobriety.

  “So I hope you find it, too, whatever you’re looking for. It’s there for you if you just take it one day at a time.”

  The group’s focus turned to Rhonda as she began the account of her decision to come to AA. Not big on taking accountability for her own actions, she droned on about drinking because of the rotten men in her life. I’d heard it before so I tuned out and thought about that last night of drinking. Thankfully, both of the women I’d attended the conference with had moved on: one returned to college and the other on maternity leave with no desire to return. It was nice not having to face them every day. The rest of my co-workers, not having been there, had laughed and teased me for a while and then forgotten about it as new items of gossip turned up. But I hadn’t forgotten.

  The humiliation burned deep, but that could be a good thing. It powered my resolve. What stood out for me tonight was the part about keeping my worlds separate. I hadn’t thought about it that way before, but I’d always been careful about keeping parts of my life categorized and boxed up. Learned that from my mama’s knee, you might say.

  Friends from school stayed at school because if they came to my home, they’d find Daddy drunk or Mama crazy. College years were spent achieving during the day and partying at night; I told myself that’s what college kids did, purposely ignoring those who didn’t. Even now, the most defining aspect of my personality—alcoholism—was concealed from the people I spent the most time and energy on, my clients and colleagues. Even from Marshall.

  What was I thinking? Especially Marshall.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Friday morning I stopped off at Al’s and sought advice on how to disable my own car. He showed me which doo-dad to unscrew and which hose to jiggle loose. That afternoon after work, I had Mary Kate walk me out to my car, where I followed Al’s directions. Soon after, Mary Kate, Lisa and Carol—all giggling and shrieking like demented geese—piled into Carol’s Suburban and pulled away. Not so very subtle.

  Forty-five minutes later, when Marshall strolled out of the clinic carrying his jacket slung over his shoulder, looking end-of-a-long-week corporate-cute, I had the hood up and my head stuck under it, poking around. As he approached, I realized he had a cameo-shot of my butt, so I scooted behind the steering wheel and cranked the key to add credible sound effects to the scene. The motor made a lovely ratchety, grinding sound, then stopped.

  Marshall came up and stood with an arm propped on the open car door. Raising help-me eyebrows to him, I heaved a theatrical sigh.

  “Why are you out here alone?” he asked.

  “Technically, I’m not alone,” I pointed out. “You’re here.”

  His lips twitched into a smile before he mastered them, turning his expression into a head-shaking scowl. Stepping back, he held the door open and spread his free arm in an “after you” gesture.

  I locked up and jumped into the Saab. Sinking into the buttery smooth seats, I momentarily closed my eyes, inhaling the pungent mixture of spicy aftershave and leather. Very manly.

  When I opened my eyes, I found him smiling at my obvious pleasure. I sat up straight, folding my hands good-girl fashion in my lap.

  “Where are we going, Letty?” he asked softly.

  Good question. And he used “we” again.

  Trying not to stutter, I gave the address of the bowling alley, without naming it. Even Marshall might have heard of Sherm’s, although he seemed more of a hiker-type to me. Despite all the elaborate planning, I hadn’t gone beyond getting him to the bowling alley. In was another matter.

  When we arrived, he parked in front of the building, leaning forward to peer quizzically at the dancing bowling pin billboard over the entrance. He looked back at me. Here’s where I needed to come up with a clever ploy to lure him, all unsuspecting, into Mary Kate’s clutches. Unfortunately, I was too conscious of sitting alone with him, too aware of his bemused flirtatious smile to develop a coherent plan.

  I reached over and confiscated the car keys.

  “I need you to follow me, no questions asked, and act surprised when we get inside.”

  He stared blankly for a moment, then his forehead crinkled.

  “Is this going to be painful?” he asked.

  “Probably.”

  “Is Mary Kate involved?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He sighed and got out of the car.

  Cigarette smoke, the explosive clatter of pins falling, and more than a dozen people screaming “Happy Birthday!” greeted us as we entered. It looked like Mary Kate had been able to coerce everyone—part-timers, interns, and all—to show up. She’d even managed to pry Bob, the office curmudgeon, and Regina, a PhD in attitude, out of the office. How she got them into the bowling alley was scary to contemplate. Mary Kate had unknown powers.

  She’d gone full out on the decorations. Balloons, streamers, and a banner blazoned with Hoppy Birthday and dancing green frogs in pastel party hats stretched across the back wall.

  With dismay, I noted a side table piled high with gaily wrapped presents. We’d all agreed that presents were unnecessary, but judging by the size of the stack, I was the only one who’d bypassed the opportunity to kiss butt. Well, crap.

  Giddy with joy, Mary Kate bounced up, flinging her arms around me. As cute as Marshall was, she was probably too shy to approach him so I ended up with the birthday bear hug. Marshall, for his part, did a very credible job of acting surprised.

  “Whose idea was this anyway?” he finally asked.

  Next to me, Mary Kate fairly vibrated with delight as all hands pointed out the guilty party.

  “I should have guessed,” he said, walking over and tossing his arm around her shoulder. “Who’s going to buy me a beer?”

  Big stampede up to the bar to get the boss a beer. Big. I snagged a seat and immediately regretted it, since it landed me next to Regina, sitting like the debutante she formerly was, and across from boring Bob.

  I’d tried to like Regina since, in addition to a full client roster, she volunteered several hours a week at a local domestic abuse center. Very commendable. Problem was, she insisted that we pronounce her name like the female body part, which both grossed me out and made me want to giggle. I was forced to avoid her name altogether. At the clinic, Regina was our resident expert on Attention Deficit Disorder in children. Unfortunately (for us, not the children) she didn’t like kids and refused to work with them, instead concentrating on what she called “feminist psychology.” Mainly she worked with divorcées, disgruntled housewives and wild-eyed women prone once a month to homicidal rages—a group with legitimate needs, but one that kept Regina perpetually angry, eternally hostile.

  Despite his theoretical maleness, she’d established an uneasy alliance with Bob when Marshall was hired on. Bob, nearing retirement, was tired of dealing with needy people and called it a “bonus hour” when clients blew off their appointments. He played a lot of Solitaire on the computer and alternated between bitching about his bleak future of staying home with the missus—I couldn’t imagine she was thrilled about the prospect either—and complaining about Marshall, whom he resented in an apathetic kind of way. Bob hadn’t bothered to apply for the position when it was posted, didn’t want the headaches that went with it, but he enjoyed complaining about the changes that accompanied the new administration. He constantly referred to Marshall as “that young guy,” while patting down the thinning strands of his own deserting hair.

  So far I’d managed to maintain a decent working relationship with each of them by the combin
ed tactics of distant cordiality and active avoidance. When forced to interact, I smiled pleasantly and listened a lot. Come to think of it, I should have charged for therapy.

  It would have been awkward to leap up as soon as I’d recognized my error in sitting next to the pair, so I resigned myself to the situation. For the first five minutes, I fretted over what we could possibly talk about. I needn’t have worried. They both ignored me, but not in the hostile way that they reserved for many of my co-workers. I was free to people-watch.

  With the notable exception of Regina and her merry band of Bob, it looked like folks were trying to have a good time in that stilted, beginning-of-the-party, don’t-know-the-rules-for-this kind of way. The laughter was a little bit too loud, the tone a little too forced as people groped for conversational topics that didn’t revolve around work so they could prove A.) they really were interested in each other as people and not just co-workers and B.) they really did know how to relax. Knowing how to relax is important to us mental health types; it demonstrates good coping skills. No one wanted to admit that we occasionally burrowed under a quilt and wished the world would go away. Or that we might drink ourselves into oblivion as a way of numbing our pain.

  However, when Marshall popped on a garish pair of blue and red rental shoes, cuffed up his shirt sleeves, and started rolling strikes, the ice officially shattered. Yet another colleague with undiscovered talents. I wonder what other. . . ?

  “Letty, your face is all red. Are you hot?” Mary Kate said as she plunked down next to me. I patted my cheeks, but luckily one of Lisa’s gutter balls—and the pungent vocabulary that followed—distracted her. Mary Kate hooted her condolences across the entire bowling alley, causing Regina to squinch her eyes shut in grim forbearance. Across from us, Bob rolled his eyes, tipping a “can you believe this?” smirk that included me. I ignored them both. The only thing worse than Mary Kate bellowing in my ear would be inclusion into their mini-clique.

  “Aren’t you drinking anything?” Either Mary Kate had had a few drinks already or she’d forgotten I was sitting next to her, because she was still bellowing. Judging from the hops-scented breath, I’d go with the former. Still, it was a good excuse to get away.

  Mary Kate followed me up to the bar where I ordered a diet pop. A huge cheer broke out behind us as Lisa’s ball finally managed to navigate the lanes, connecting bowling ball to pins. A closer look showed she had knocked over a grand total of two pins. An even closer examination revealed someone had raised the kiddy bumper rails as an assist. I grinned as she wiggled her butt and waved victory fists in the air.

  The game ended soon after, Marshall winning by a large margin. As they began to choose new teams, squabbling over who got to use the fluorescent pink ball, he made his way to the bar next to me.

  “Whew!” Marshall fanned his shirt collar while I forced my mind onto images completely unrelated to droplets of sweat rolling silkily down his torso. Mary Kate waved at the bartender.

  “Nice game,” I said.

  “Well, I had an advantage in that I wasn’t part of the advance decorating team.” He pointed at the banners and balloons. “Apparently, they’d already gone through a pitcher before we even got here.”

  “Two!” Mary Kate clarified cheerfully. And then, “Shots!”

  Behind us, the bartender lined up shot glasses, tipping a bottle of Cuervo over each. Oh shit.

  “Uh…”

  “Da don da dada dada da… Tequila!” Mary Kate sang an aborted attempt at The Champs classic. She shoved a glass in my hand and one in Marshall’s. Oh shit, oh shit. Saliva pooled in my mouth. Marshall reached over, clicked his glass against Mary Kate’s, and downed his. She laughed and chugged hers while I sat stupidly. Sweat beaded down the center of my back, an irritation that heightened my anxiety. Tickled, too.

  “Come on, Letty!” Mary Kate said. “Your turn! Go, go, g—”

  Marshall reached over, casually took the glass out of my hand, and tossed it back.

  “Mar-shall!” Mary Kate broke Marshall’s name up into two whiny syllables, a weirdly combined version of petulant adolescent and prissy maiden aunt. Eyes watering, he smiled charmingly and dug his keys out of his pants pocket. Handing them over to me, he said, “Letty’s my designated driver. You don’t want your boss getting pulled over for a DUI, do you?”

  Hard to argue, but Mary Kate looked just drunk enough to consider it. She had a closed, obstinate look on her face.

  “Hey, you’re in charge here. When do I get my presents?” Marshall tried distracting her. It worked. Squealing and grabbing us each by the hand, she pulled us over to the table piled high with brightly wrapped gifts, then flitted back and forth trying to herd everyone over to the table. After about ten minutes, she gave up on “everyone” and settled for “most.” I sat a couple of chairs down from Marshall, holding his keys in my hand. They were still warm from his pocket.

  I tried hard not to let my imagination wander to his warm-pocket regions.

  The gifts helped distract me, too. In addition to several gift certificates to area shops and restaurants and a stack of instant lottery game cards, Marshall also became the proud new owner of a pile of latex vomit and a Pull-My-Finger fart machine. But it wasn’t until he unwrapped a package of Raspberry Sorbet edible underwear—female, size 4—that the crowd really went wild.

  He turned bright red, but whether it was from laughter or embarrassment, I couldn’t say. Carol and Sarah, our other intern, dove under the table for the discarded wrapping paper, searching for the giver’s name.

  “It’s only got Marshall’s initials, MT.”

  “Let me see,” Lisa confiscated the tag. She frowned, then turned the tag upside down. “It doesn’t say MT. It says LW.”

  Silence descended on the group, then they turned as one to face me.

  I blushed so hard my brain almost ignited. “Me?” And then, stupidly, “It’s not my birthday.”

  Everyone burst out laughing, and someone passed the panties over to me. I flung them at the garbage can fifteen feet away, making a basket. The group cheered wildly.

  After the wrapping was pulled off the final present, people started sorting themselves into two groups. Led by Regina and Bob, about two-thirds grabbed their jackets and started making good-bye noises. The others—made of sterner stuff and tougher livers—headed for the bar.

  Lisa walked up, a slip of paper pinched between her fingers. The gift tag. “I thought you might want to have this,” she said.

  My initials in sloppy block letters were written on one side, a used piece of tape with shreds of gift wrap running along the top edge. I flipped it over to examine the back. Nothing.

  “I already looked there,” Lisa said.

  “I don’t suppose you saw who carried it in earlier?” That was stupid. If she had seen someone she would have said so already.

  “That won’t help. I brought it in.”

  “You did?”

  “Yep,” she said, nodding. “When I came out of the file room I found it on my desk. I was afraid Marshall would see it, so I shoved it in my purse without looking. When I got here, I remembered it and stuck it on the table. But if you’re wondering if I got you raspberry flavored undies…” She gave me an I-don’t-think-so look. “Anyway, the whole thing seems kind of creepy, so I figured you’d want to know.”

  “Creepy is right. Thanks, Lisa.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I found it strange to sit with my hand wrapped around a sweating glass of generic pop while all around me people laughed and drank. Not strange in a bad way though. Strange in a Gorillas In The Mist kind of way. I felt like an anthropologist watching the mating rituals of an obscure race.

  Almost everyone I watched managed to party without forgetting the essential point that we would all have to face each other on Monday, but there were a few who got a little blurry around the edges as the night wore on. Several offered to buy me a drink, but nobody seemed to mind when I refused, especially when I jangled Marshall
’s keys and used the code words: designated driver. I couldn’t help trying to figure out what made these folks different from me. Where was the line between social drinker and raving drunk? When had I crossed it? Was there really no going back?

  I was so absorbed in the scene I almost forgot to call Robert. He’d been less than thrilled when he’d heard I was canceling our Friday date night, especially to go to a bar. But eventually, grudgingly, he acknowledged the importance of attending the boss’s birthday party. Originally I’d planned to leave and meet up with Robert once the party got rolling, but since Marshall had entrusted me with his keys, I was stuck. It was past 9:00, which meant the AA meeting would be over, so I called to let him know the change in plans. He wasn’t as irritated as I expected, which perversely annoyed me almost as much as the mini-interrogation that he put me through.

  “You’re not drinking, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “No urges or cravings?” Robert asked.

  “No; it’s weird watching people drink, though.”

  “Weird how? ‘I feel left out’ weird?”

  “No, more like wondering what makes me … what I am … and not them.”

  Speaking of weird, I discovered I was twisted into that strange body posture that people on cell phones in noisy places assume: hunched over, one finger stuck in my ear, head turned from the room like I could find a cone of silence if I put my nose two inches from the countertop. On top of turning myself into a pretzel, I was striving for a voice range that would allow Robert to hear me over the bar noises but not inform the entire bowling alley that I was, indeed, an alcoholic.

  “What do you mean ‘what you are’?” Robert misinterpreted my attempt at subtlety. “Why are you avoiding?”

  “I’m not avoiding, but I’m in a public bar and I don’t want—”

  Somebody was tapping on my shoulder. I held my ear finger up: one minute.

  “Yeah, well, you already know how I feel about the whole bar thing,” Robert continued. The tapping grew more insistent, and I swatted backwards, waving the tapper off. “You’re not getting hit on, are you?”