Sad Janet

by Lucie Britsch

  I don’t want it to be like this, he texts me. Well it is, I text back.

  I feel sad. Which is fine. It’s something I know how to do.

  22

  Week six. The penultimate week of meetings. Just one more and I’m free. If that’s even a thing.

  We’re so close to Christmas now, but the people at the meeting already seem to be flagging. I worry that Karen is going to make us sing songs or something, or act out the nativity, just to liven us up, but she doesn’t because she knows we’d all leave. I get the sense that she’s bored of us, of all of this, by now, that she wants it to be over as much as we do. She has a life, it seems, one that doesn’t include babysitting a bunch of killjoys.

  The pills are working, in that everyone’s here and we’re not dead. Everyone in this room is trying to embrace this Christmas thing that’s invading our lives, but mostly we’re all tired, at least by the looks of it.

  Karen reminds us that there’s only one meeting left. Karen reminds us to report any problems. Karen tells us all we’re doing great, but no one believes her.

  I think Karen might be a robot.

  As we’re leaving, a woman whose name I’ve forgotten asks me what my plans are for the holidays. The usual, I say, and she nods. I can’t remember her name, but I like her. She tried, and I tried, and that’s enough. I wish all interactions were like that. Maybe there were other people in this room I could have bonded with. Guess I’ll never know.

  Maybe we were supposed to rise up or something, start a movement, take back Christmas, but we just sat here every week and listened to Karen tell us how exciting this all was, how we were part of something big, how drugs could really help people rejoin the world. I think she was trying to convince herself she made the right decision doing this, not us. I imagine she gave herself a pep talk in her car each week before she came in. Karen, you’re doing something great, she’d say. You’re actually helping people. Christmas is wonderful. Everyone should be able to enjoy it. You’re giving people Christmas, Karen! And the Karen in the rearview mirror would blush at herself. Oh, stop it, she would say. And then she’d put on her coral lipstick from the eighties that she thought made her look more youthful, because she used to wear it in the eighties when she was youthful, and she would march into that church hall and see us sad sacks sitting there and she’d know that somewhere along the way she had made a wrong turn.

  Maybe that’s what we should have been talking about every week.

  * * *

  A couple of years ago, on Christmas Eve, I googled how to be full of Christmas spirit.

  The boyfriend was already asleep. I’d told him I’d come to bed as soon as I finished wrapping gifts, because that sounded like something people did. It sounded better than I’m so sad I can’t even masturbate anymore and tomorrow will only be worse since it’s Christmas.

  I didn’t really think the search would bring up anything. Maybe some ads for alcohol, which I would click so fast. I wasn’t expecting there to be a whole wiki guide. According to the wiki, all I had to do was follow their simple guide and I’d be full of Christmas spirit.

  At ten steps, this plan was already two steps easier than Alcoholics Anonymous:

  No. 1 was Watch Christmas movies. In case you were a moron, it even listed a few. They never mentioned Black Christmas, which is the best Christmas movie.

  No. 2 was Get in touch with family and friends, which is a big leap from watching Christmas movies alone under a blanket that reeks of despair and Cheetos.

  No. 3 was Read Christmas books. Like The Shining. It didn’t say that, but it should have. Fucking Dickens, I mean, who can really be fucked?

  No. 4 was Decorate as much as you can, which reeked of desperation to me, like a dead giveaway that you’re really trying to avert people’s eyes from the sadness underneath. It reminds me of those people who leave their tree up deep into the new year because the thought of taking it down is too heartbreaking. Some flirt with leaving it up all year.

  No. 5 was Make a to-do list of stuff you need to get done before Christmas. So now, I thought, I’m reading a list that’s telling me to write a list. Fuck this, I thought, I didn’t get on the internet to be given a bunch of errands.

  No. 6 was Send holiday cards. If someone got a card from me, they’d know I was having a breakdown.

  No. 7 was Make a Christmas list. Wait, wasn’t that number 5?

  No. 8 was Make sure everything is clean and uncluttered. WTF. You just told me to decorate everything!

  No. 9 was Make a display counting down the days. Or, as we called it when I was growing up, Buy a calendar.

  No. 10 was Get a calendar. WTF? I just said that. It was one of those moments when you feel so seen that you’re sure they’re watching you. Was this all an elaborate ruse to sell calendars? Are the calendar people secretly evil geniuses? All those cute kittens and hot firemen a fiendish trap?

  It was late, and I was sure the internet was playing tricks on me. I crawled into bed, defeated. He was fast asleep, dreaming of sugarplums or whatever boys are into, and I lay awake worrying how I’d get through the next day. The only way I could pull it off, I thought, was to forget it was Christmas at all and pretend it was just another day. A day I had to spend doing a load of things I didn’t want to do. I would have gone to work if I could.

  I knew there were people out there like me who felt the same way. That it was all so much pressure. Only no one else wanted to admit it, because Christmas is supposed to be nice.

  Those pills couldn’t have come soon enough, really.

  * * *

  A dog comes in two weeks before Christmas. A scruffy mutt we’ll never shift, because these days people want to know what breed they’re getting, but also because people like things that look rich. They want designer babies and designer dogs and designer vaginas. I introduce myself and he shakes a little and I think he might pee on my foot, but he just looks at me like, You better not be my new mummy, I’ve read about girls like you. Debs tells me his family couldn’t afford to do both Christmas and a dog, which is sad on so many fucking levels. Debs is so good with those people. She told me years ago how to zone out when they’re talking and think of the dog, so that’s what I’ve learned to do, but this time I really want to go to their house and tell them they’re scum and Christmas doesn’t have to be expensive and they can have their dog back and just be together and that’s when I know my mind is not my own.

  Melissa is suddenly there, making a fuss over the new arrival. She’s like a vampire, but a really bad one, the kind who can only appear out of thin air and has good teeth but does none of the killing.

  They should have brought the kids instead, I tell Debs. We could shift those quicker.

  * * *

  People always want pugs, and we have never have any fucking pugs. They’re all on the internet being celebrities. People don’t give up fancy dogs like pugs, or treat them badly, which makes you wonder if people who have pugs are slightly better humans than people who don’t, or if they just don’t like risking their investment.

  Sometimes people come in, look around, then say, Have you got anything else? As if maybe we keep the good shit out the back. I don’t have time for these people. They’re the same people who won’t buy a wonky carrot and probably can’t wait till it’s Gattaca because they want a fancy kid. I hand them off to Melissa; she’s more tolerant. Sometimes I think if it weren’t for her, Debs and I would be in real jail instead of dog jail.

  Some people come in looking for a very specific dog. They even have the name picked out. These are the same awful people who have lists of what they look for in a partner, who think it’s all about checking things off: Job. Marriage. Car. House. Family. Like they really believe there’s one right way to do things, and those of us who go off script are going to hell.

  I’m supposed to be feeling Christmassy now, but mostly I feel angry and tired.


  When I get home I accidentally flick over to the channel that’s all Christmas movies all the time and I worry my hand isn’t my own anymore.

  * * *

  Before Melissa, no one cared if we had a work Christmas party. There were only two of us humans anyway, so it would have just been me and Debs getting drunk and wondering what we were supposed to be talking about—TV, work, our feelings, even—but we didn’t much feel like it, because one thing we have in common is that we both feel like everyone else does enough talking.

  But Melissa expects something, wants something, and she feels it’s her duty to rally the troops. A party will boost morale, she thinks, though she doesn’t say it, because she knows we don’t want our morale boosted any more than we want out breasts lifted. They’re fine where they are. What we want is a long nap. We want someone to rub our feet. Well, not me—I don’t really like being touched—but I suspect Melissa could use it, those puppies probably haven’t been touched for decades. When the kibble delivery guy comes, I pretend not to notice, but Melissa goes a bit red and somewhere inside her brain a light saying boy boy boy starts flashing, and I know she’s doing everything in her power not to throw herself on the ground and beg him to take her away. Debs barely raises an eyebrow. Every month he tries to hoist the huge sacks of food down to the cellar, and every month Debs elbows him out of the way and does it herself.

  The guy who delivers the kibble reminds me of someone released from maximum-security prison who has lost all ability to engage with other humans, so I quite like him. He never even says hello, which gets him extra brownie points. Every month Melissa stands by his van twiddling her hair when he arrives, asking him what the world is like. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.

  Debs would probably take a foot rub from Kibble Guy, but I think she keeps her shoulders stiff and hunched as a badge of honor. You can have my feet, but don’t even think about touching any part of me I actually still care about, I imagine her saying. I’m afraid I’m starting to get a hunch like hers. I don’t know if it’s the work, or my way of mirroring Debs like lovers do, but our decrepit bodies do seem to be mirroring our decrepit surroundings. So far Melissa is resisting the forces of decay—she still paints her nails—but soon they’ll be jagged and bitten like ours.

  But Debs and I both want to keep Melissa off our backs, so this time when she asks about a Christmas thing, we tell her, Sure, whatever, Melissa, whatevs. A dinner, maybe, Debs says. Someplace dark with alcohol, she’s thinking. No gifts. No paper hats. We don’t say that, but Melissa knows by now when to stop pushing.

  * * *

  A week before Christmas, Melissa drives us to some restaurant she says she loves loves loves. Debs tries to back out, but Melissa says they have good margaritas, which pulls her back in.

  I wear my most festive black shirt, the one with the least armpit stink, and Debs brushes her hair. (I only know this because one of her kids tells me.) She calls her folks in to babysit while we’re gone. There has to be an adult on site at all times in case shit goes down. Debs rarely ever goes out, but that’s how she likes it. People think she’s saving those dogs, but really they’re saving her—and not for any Hallmark reasons, just because they give her a good excuse to avoid most of the bullshit that normal life offers.

  Debs’s parents are really nice, normal folk. Good people. And it’s awful for all of us. Her dad is always trying to get me to go back to college; Debs keeps telling him to stop trying to lure her staff away with empty promises, but he still does it when she’s not around. He always asks me what I’m reading, like he’s trying to check that my brain still works. My own dad doesn’t know what to say to me, so I appreciate the effort, but mostly I just mumble that I’ve got stuff to do.

  Call me if something happens, she says to her dad, who’s already settled in to watch a show about war. Some people really love war. I’m not sure if it’s the outfits or the shouting.

  Like what, he says. He always says this. Like if you hear any sudden commotion, Debs says, like maybe a cat is dicking about down there or someone’s trying to steal a dog or a dog escapes or if they start doing any 101 Dalmatians shit. They’re used to her snark because they made her.

  Nothing ever happens at the sanctuary at night. It’s surprisingly quiet. Even the best dogs are mostly idiots, but they know when bedtime is. There’s no rogue canine trying to tell ghost stories while everyone else is trying to sleep, no hound farting under the covers and giggling. I’ve been to two sleepovers, and that’s what happened at both. And we think girls are better than boys. Anyone who’s seen inside a ladies’ public bathroom knows we’re monsters, same as boys.

  Sometimes, a dog who’s new to the shelter might cry a little, which can trigger some whimpering from other dogs, but mostly they’re quiet. Debs always does a last check after she’s put her kids to bed, to make sure one of her idiot humans hasn’t left a bucket out where someone might trip over it (me), or forgotten to lock the food room (Melissa).

  Then it’s off to Melissa’s restaurant. The place is rammed because people like to drink, but we’re all on our best behavior. None of us feels like eating, or drinking even, and even less like talking, so we sit and people-watch. For as long as I can remember I’ve watched people. People want to be watched, after all. It’s all a performance. Those people with giant TVs, so you can see what they’re watching from the street? They might as well let us see their digestive tract, which they basically are now when they show us their dinners on Instagram. I keep my phone on vibrate, but that hardly matters because I usually leave it somewhere, so the only one who ever feels wanted when the phone vibrates is a sofa cushion. The ex-boyfriend was always telling me how irresponsible I was, how people needed to be able to contact me. I’m not someone important, I wanted to say. You know where I am, I wanted to say.

  Another work party is happening across the room. It’s like an office party from the eighties. The type Melissa has wet dreams about. The table is decorated with all sorts of festive tat and everyone is wearing a paper hat. One woman falls off her chair because she’s already too drunk, and I watch as she tries to get back up, clinging to the table. But she has no upper-body strength, because she works in an office and doesn’t shovel shit all day and walk massive dogs who weigh more than her that want to rip her arm off. She has normal lady arms that are no match for that table. If Dave from accounting fell down, he’d get back up no problem because he has those big arms from pumping iron and jacking off to whatever image of a female is available. I know he’s Dave because a bald man says, Another beer, Dave? I was listening because I need to know how these people live.

  This party is my worst nightmare. The more I watch, the more I see it’s not an eighties party at all but something from the Stone Age, when the men were men and the women were tipsy and endangered. Right now they’re all bitching about some lady called Melody who didn’t come. I like this Melody already, if that is in fact her real name.

  That people like this exist still fascinates me. I could study them forever. Part of me wants to follow them home, rent their back bedroom, learn what it’s like to live their lives. It would be awful, but it would be different awful, and these people are so unaware of their awfulness it’d be like a holiday from my crippling self-awareness.

  I know what their days look like. I had an office job once. Not a lot of people know this; they just see the big coat and boots and surly disposition and assume I’ve only ever worked at the shelter or down a mine. I’m surprised my mother doesn’t lead with this when she talks about me: She did work in an office once, there’s still hope. Because of course offices are places where important stuff happens, not just carpeted warehouses where people stare at their computers till they can escape and go home to numb themselves. I forget what the company I worked for did, exactly, or why I was there; the whole episode feels like a dream now. I don’t know who that person was who thought she could fool the world into thinkin
g she was that high-functioning. But I kept up the façade for two months, which is not nothing.

  The Christmas party there was mandatory. At five o’clock they just switched the lights off, and some lady from HR shuffled out with a boom box and another lady whipped out a tray of depressing snacks and we were all trapped there for an hour that seemed like weeks. We just sat there in the dark at our desks thinking we were having a collective stroke. One brave guy from IT got up to inspect the snacks, but they were so depressing he just stood there, stranded, for a solid twelve minutes. I admired his bravery. I just stayed at my desk and kept working in the dark—the equivalent of bringing a book to a party, which is also my style.

  Meanwhile, at my current Christmas work party, Debs is starting to get antsy. I catch her stealing a glance at her fake watch—fake as in she doesn’t have one, but looking at her wrist seems to comfort her, maybe because she hopes it’ll fool other people into wanting to leave.

  I shouldn’t leave them too long, she says. She means the dogs, not the kids. They like to be home for Law & Order, she says.

  Who doesn’t, Melissa says, and we all smile and nod.

  After around seventy-eight minutes, we call it a night. We tried. I’m just glad to get out of the restaurant without the townspeople noticing us.

  We all pile into Melissa’s car. When she turns on the radio, Mariah Carey blasts out like she’s been trapped in there this whole time. Melissa goes to turn it off—she knows how we feel about cheesy Christmas music—but I stop her. It’s okay, I say. I’m suddenly filled with an unfamiliar feeling. I’m not sure it’s Christmas spirit, pity maybe, but more the margaritas, which were not awful. Melissa looks at Debs, who just shrugs and says, What the hell, because margaritas. We aren’t drunk, but we’re fuzzy enough to choose our battles.