Party Girl

by Anna David

  “Well, Miss Amelia, cocaine fiend,” she says. “Do you believe that drugs and alcohol have made your life unmanageable?”

  “I know they did,” I reply. I partially hate myself for sounding like such a sycophant, but also love how good it feels to not always be so defiant.

  “We’re going to get along just fine,” she says, and she smiles as she walks away.

  16

  The day I’m getting out, I decide to check the messages on my machine. Everyone else has been calling their voicemail somewhat obsessively, but I’ve been doing a decent job of acting like I didn’t actually exist before I came to Pledges. We talk a lot about how we’re being reborn here in Culver City, but I’ve taken that even further by deciding that everything that happened before wasn’t really my life. Even though I’ve gone over everything in group and in post-group smoke-athons, when I talk about the girl who did coke all day at work or Special K with strangers and passed out besides Dumpsters, I feel like I’m actually talking about someone else—a troubled girl I once knew, but not me. Here in rehab, I’ve been learning that I’m not much like who I thought I was—I’m more nervous and thoughtful than I am bitchy and fabulous—and I’m starting to see that I’m also reliable and considerate, and do actually care about other people. Thinking about my behavior with Stephanie and Brian and everyone else makes me shudder, but Tommy and Rachel keep telling me not to regret the past, and that I can deal with all of that when I’m ready.

  But on my last day, I know that acclimation back into my life will feel less overwhelming if I deal with my messages, or even the fact that there might not be any messages, ahead of time. So even though the receiver for the pay phone feels like it weighs about a hundred pounds, I force myself to dial the numbers. I’d gotten so accustomed to that cold-sounding computerized woman’s voice informing me that I had no new messages that I’m shocked when I hear her announce that I have twenty-three. Christ, I don’t think I’ve had twenty-three people I know call me in the past year. The first one’s about a sample sale I missed, the second is a wrong number, but my heart starts racing on number three.

  “Amelia, it’s Stephanie,” I hear, and I prepare for a verbal assault. But she continues, “I heard about what happened with Absolutely Fabulous, and…God, this is stupid. I’m an asshole for e-mailing you that ice princess note. Will you call me? Also, someone is spreading these crazy rumors about you going to rehab!” She punctuates that with an enormous laugh. “Please call and let me know you’re okay. Are you up north with your family?”

  I push “2” to save the message and wonder what the hell I’m going to say to her. She said the word “rehab” like someone would say “mime school” or “prison”—like it was basically inconceivable. I remember feeling the same way before I got here.

  The rest of the messages are from random acquaintances, some who’d heard that I’d been fired, some just checking in. It seemed shocking to realize that I actually do have people who care about me when I’ve spent so much time alone, convinced that the whole world hated me. I guess this is the “alcoholic mind” Tommy’s always talking about. In one of the first groups I went to, someone had shared about how alcoholics and addicts see things as black or white—either everything’s terrible or it’s wonderful, we’re in love or we’re in hate—and that accepting that life is full of gray areas, of days and people that are just okay, is challenging because we can’t get high off that, or create martyrlike drama around it. I suddenly understand that share completely, as well as the ones I’d heard about how our minds are out to convince us of things that aren’t true in order to make us feel bad. Tommy likes to call this “the beast,” and Justin is always saying, “Your mind is a dangerous place—don’t go in there alone!” Standing there and listening to the messages from my former life with the ears of my new life, all the small comments and shares I’ve heard over the past four weeks start piling up and making even more sense than when I first heard them.

  When I finish listening to the messages on my home voicemail, I check my BlackBerry, which Kimberly unceremoniously returned to me this morning. And that’s when I almost pass out.

  “Amelia, darling, this is Tim Bromley—I trust you remember me,” says a voice I could never forget.

  I can’t believe this is actually happening. Tommy talked a lot about how our dreams would all come true if we stayed sober, but he’d also given a lot of lip service to the fact that we should try not to get into serious relationships during our first year of sobriety. I feel certain that an exception could be made for a perfect British man I’d been pining for, but I try to stay calm as I listen to the rest of his message.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to leave this on an answering machine but, you see, I heard what happened with you at Absolutely Fabulous.”

  My heart sinks as quickly as it lifted before when I realize he’s just calling to console me over getting fired. For a second, I hate him—there’s nothing more horrifying than being pitied.

  He continues, “And I say their loss can be my gain. You live a wild life and tell fabulous stories about it. Come write a column documenting your exciting, crazy adventures for Chat. I can surely pay you better than whatever you were getting to do those naff celebrity stories. And, well, I hope you don’t think I’m incredibly pompous for telling you this but, well, the job would surely launch you into the cultural stratosphere and possibly make you a household name. Call me when you get this, can you? Oh, and by the way, I already have the perfect name for the column.” He pauses, possibly for dramatic effect, even though the moment has plenty of drama already. “Party Girl. What do you think? I say that it’s straightforward and intriguing, just like you.”

  I’m bouncing off the walls ebullient when I walk into my last group. The weather has been so stunning that everyone, Tommy included, is wearing shorts, and I feel hopeful, excited, and like my life has entered some sunny, problem-free zone. I’m dying to share my good news about Tim’s message, but Tommy starts off group talking super earnestly—the way he always does when someone’s leaving.

  “Let me just say that although I’m proud of you, Amelia, your work in sobriety has really just started,” he says, making it a point to look me in the eye. “Remember, we’re like people who have lost their legs—we never grow them back.”

  I start resenting Tommy, thinking that this is hardly the best way to congratulate me for having survived—and for the most part flourished in—thirty days of not particularly glamorous rehab. Even though I’ve heard him do this number on Justin and Robin and everyone else on their last day, it never sounded as stern as it does now.

  “The statistics for sobriety are incredibly discouraging,” he continues. “Most of us don’t make it. Today, with thirty days of intensive program under your belt, that may seem impossible to imagine. But out there in the world, when you start getting your life together, you may let other things come before your program. You may find yourself getting the career you’ve always wanted or the guy of your dreams, and forget that these things are possible only because you’re sober.”

  “Actually, I—” I start but Tommy holds up his finger and continues.

  “I can’t tell you how many people say they get it when they leave,” Tommy says. “And then they’re back here again—next year or even next month. Alcoholism is a cunning, baffling disease, and that’s what makes it so dangerous.”

  Even though I’m still resenting Tommy for making my last group such a downer, I think I get why he’s doing it. The whole time we’ve been here, we’ve been hearing about people relapsing or “slipping,” which seems to be another word for relapsing that doesn’t sound half as bad. But Tommy has also promised us that if we go to a meeting every day, are rigorously honest, do the steps with our sponsors, and try to be of service to people every day, we will stay sober. And although I’m completely committed to all that, I can already tell that people like Vera and Robin, who have been talking about setting up a company together, where they’ll promote
certain nights at various Hollywood clubs, are less so. Rachel has been reinforcing this idea that I have to keep sobriety my “primary purpose” if I want to “keep what I have” and I’ve said that I can. I’m constantly telling her that she doesn’t have to worry about me because I never even really liked drinking and the mere thought of coke sounds disgusting at this point.

  When Tommy finishes talking, I share about Tim’s message and how excited I am to be embarking on this new phase in my life. When group ends, I go over to Tommy to savor my news even more.

  “That’s nice, Amelia,” he says, as if I’ve just informed him that I emptied an ashtray filled with cigarette butts.

  “I’m not sure you understand, Tommy,” I say. “In my field, getting offered a column at one of the world’s biggest and best magazines is considered a very big deal.” I know I’m being slightly condescending, which seems especially inappropriate given that Tommy has almost single-handedly saved my life, but I want him to swoop me into a hug and congratulate me.

  Instead he asks, “You say it’s a column where you’ll be documenting your ‘crazy adventures’?” I nod and he continues, “Well, seeing as your primary purpose is now to stay sober and be of service, I don’t imagine you’re going to be having all that many ‘crazy adventures.’”

  Amazing as it seems, this hadn’t actually occurred to me. And just as I’m about to freak out over the fact that I have to give up the best possible job I could imagine before I’ve even had a chance to accept it, I realize that I have a rich history to draw on.

  “Tommy, the stuff I got up to pre-sobriety could fill ten thousand columns,” I say, and he finally smiles.

  “You don’t need to tell me,” he says, finally laughing. “I’ve been listening to you for the past thirty days!”

  We hug, and then I go around the room hugging everyone else good-bye. When Robin and Peter left, they sobbed, but I’ve never been a big last-day-of-camp-or-school crier. Still, when Vera wobbles up to me in her spandex and heels, crying that she’s going to miss me, I get a little misty-eyed. World, I think, here I come.

  17

  “Would you like to have your lawyer look over the contract?” Tim asks me, as he leans back in his Aeron chair and puts his Converse-encased feet on his desk. We’re sitting in Tim’s penthouse corner office on Sunset, which is understated and elegant, and filled with books on media and politics, most of them presumably written by Tim’s good friends, and the fact that he is wearing an adorable striped Armani suit with Converse sneakers is doing nothing to dampen his overall cuteness. Still, now that he’s minutes away from becoming my boss, something in me has switched off—I’m not massively crushed out on him anymore.

  I’m flattered that Tim thinks I’m savvy and important enough to even have a lawyer but seeing as I don’t even have a dentist—and I already know that I’d happily sign on the dotted line no matter what the contract says—I simply shake my head and motion for him to hand me a pen.

  The publisher, John Davis, comes in. “Can I be among the first to congratulate Chat’s first and only ‘Party Girl’?” he asks, as he gives me a hug.

  “John, I can’t thank you guys enough for this opportunity,” I say. Tim had told me that while hiring me had been his idea, John had backed him up immediately.

  “No need to thank me,” John says. “I hope I’m going to be the one thanking you when you become world famous.”

  Even though this entire situation should make me feel an unbelievable amount of pressure, I am, for some reason, completely calm. It could be that I’m sober thirty-five days—something I never imagined I’d be able to do—but I actually seem to have complete faith in my ability to pull off this column. The fact that they’re going to be paying me $2,500 a month to write essentially off the top of my head—no reporting, no transcribing—feels like a blessing, but a blessing that I deserve.

  John starts talking about how the timing is perfect for me to become a sensation through this and how I’ll wipe Candace Bushnell, Helen Fielding, and The Devil Wears Prada chick off the map while I weigh whether or not I should tell them that I’m sober and thus can’t imagine getting up to very many crazy adventures in this new life of mine. Since I’ve been out of rehab, all I’ve done is play with my cats, meet Justin and Rachel for coffee and cigarettes, and go to meetings back at Pledges, but Tim has made it abundantly clear that he’s fine with me dipping into my past for material. “So long as it’s true, I don’t care whether it happened last night or last year,” were, in fact, his exact words.

  After I sign my contract and tell Tim that I’ll be turning in copy to him by the end of the week, I feel undeniably like Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City—minus the Manolo’s, adorable apartment, and three sex-crazed best friends, not to mention the Cosmopolitans.

  “So, there’s something I think I need to tell you,” Justin says over double-shot lattes and Camel Lights. We’re sitting at Starbucks later that day, and each of us is preparing to meet presobriety friends for the first time since being out.

  I’m going to be meeting Stephanie, and Justin is planning to have dinner with his old roommate Jason, so we’re doing what Rachel calls “book-ending”—that is, getting together before something challenging, and then planning to talk afterward. I feel strangely calm about seeing Stephanie again but Justin is completely freaking out about seeing Jason.

  He talked about Jason a lot in rehab—usually about how much Jason hated it when he used and about how they seemed to always fight—and even though Justin was still at a Sober Living house right near Pledges, he was planning to talk to Jason about the possibility of moving back in with him today.

  “You think you need to tell me—what does that mean?” I ask, dipping a finger in my latte to do a temperature test. “Ouch,” I say, licking the hot liquid off my finger.

  “It means…” Justin looks more uncomfortable than I’ve ever seen him. “It means I know I need to tell you something.”

  “What is it?” I’m immediately in a panic, positive that he’s going to confess that he’s been sneaking out of Sober Living to smoke crystal meth. “Did you go out?”

  “Dear God, take that back,” Justin says, shaking his head.

  “Then what is it?” I ask. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. Remember what Tommy used to say: ‘There are no big deals’?”

  Justin nods and looks down. “Jason wasn’t just my roommate,” he says, and before he utters another word, I know exactly what his big confession is going to be, and something inside of me isn’t all that surprised.

  I should have known. Whenever Justin talked about people he dated, he’d say “this person” and never “he” or “she.” And of course it was kind of weird for a thirty-five-year-old to have a roommate, let alone one he was always brawling with. Even though when we first met, I fantasized that our friendship would one day morph into true love, something in me had basically abandoned that concept long ago, and I think that something was a sixth sense that he wasn’t exactly oriented that way.

  “I know,” I say.

  “You do?” he asks, looking immensely relieved. “How?”

  I smile. “Honey, I live in West Hollywood and grew up outside San Francisco. As far as I’m concerned, we heteros are the minority.”

  Justin laughs. “I know, it does sometimes seem that way,” he says. “And I’m not ashamed of it. Or maybe I am. I don’t know. Jason thinks I am. But I think it’s just that I have a kind of deep voice and don’t wear supertight clothes and so people just assume I’m straight.” He shakes his head. “Straight people will say, ‘Wow, you look so straight,’ like that’s a compliment.”

  “I get it,” I say. “When people find out I’m Jewish, they say, ‘You’re Jewish? But you’re pretty!’ I’m never sure if I’m supposed to thank them or tell them to fuck off.”

  Justin laughs again. “Well, I’m glad I could tell you this,” he says softly, once he’s stopped.

  I grin at him. “Me, too.”
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br />   He takes a sip of his latte and licks foam off his upper lip. “And, I want you to know that if I were ever going to be with a woman, it would be you.”

  “And if I were ever going to be with a gay man, I want you to know that it would be you.”

  “Shut up!” he exclaims, tossing a napkin at me. “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I,” I say, tossing the napkin back.

  “Seriously deranged,” he says and then we both start laughing like we’ve just inhaled entire tanks of nitrous oxide. The phrase “high on life” floats through my mind and I want to share it with Justin, but I’m laughing too hard to get the words out.

  Stephanie and I meet at the bottom of Runyon Canyon. She’s the one who had suggested hiking, and while the old me would have tried to convince her to do anything else, I’m realizing that there are so many things in L.A.—and the world—that I haven’t experienced or even been aware of because trying them has always seemed more daunting than just, say, meeting for drinks.

  I’m not exactly sure what’s going to happen here—if Stephanie wants to talk about my making out with Gus or just proceed as if nothing happened—but I feel clear about the fact that I want to apologize either way. With some sobriety under my belt, I see how truly out of control my behavior was. It really didn’t start and end with making out with Gus the night of the party, either; I’m starting to see how much I’ve always felt entitled to whatever I’ve thought I wanted and how few boundaries I’ve had with friends. But I’m also learning not to beat myself up for that. Rachel is always reminding me that alcoholics and addicts are naturally self-centered people, and that I haven’t been bad but “sick.” And now I’m trying to get well.

  “Hey there,” Stephanie says, giving me an awkward hug when I walk up to her at the Gardner entrance. “You look good.”