Girl Walks Out of a Bar

by Lisa F. Smith

  “And what law school are you from?” the tax partner’s wife asked, with her Phyllis Diller hair, Minnie Pearl floral dress, and a fleck of spinach between her teeth. My back was pressed against a wall and I hoped I wasn’t dislodging a priceless landscape painting from its supports.

  “I go to Rutgers,” I said. “I’m from New Jersey.” I always felt compelled to add this qualifier, which I intended people to hear as, “I could’ve gone to a better law school, but I decided to stay in state for the tuition break.”

  Confusion flashed across her face, followed by what can only be described as her literally looking down her nose. “Oh,” she said, clearing her throat. “I see. Well, I think it’s noble of the firm to take a student from Rutgers.”

  Thanks only in part to my growing buzz, my mouth dropped open. She stood there for an extraordinarily awkward moment during which neither of us said a word, and then she walked away.

  “Screw her.” My friend Ed, a midlevel associate at the firm had overheard the exchange. “Next time, you should ask her what law school she went to. I’ll go grab you another glass of wine,” he said.

  Though I tried to shrug it off at the time, I knew that I’d never feel that I was as good as the rest of the lawyers at the firm. It was my default setting, just as when I was a little kid, then in junior high, in high school, during undergrad, into law school, and now at a swanky New York cocktail party. I always compared myself to others and always came up short.

  After I left Doug’s office, I did the death march back to my desk, my head swirling all the way. Now I was really in trouble. I had just been knocked into an open manhole with no idea how far down it was to the bottom. The Corporate Finance people weren’t the types to train, nurture, or be even slightly sympathetic. All I knew in that moment was that I needed drinks, several of them. I needed to drink and drink and drink—all weekend—so I could take my mind off of what was going to happen to me Monday morning.

  6

  “How are you feeling?” Jessica asked. She was the first person I spoke to late on Sunday morning.

  “Like my liver is smoking a cigarette and wondering why I hate it so much,” I answered into the phone, still buried deep under my covers and nauseated from the taste of stale tobacco and residual booze in my mouth. When had I come home the night before? Had I brushed my teeth? A sour alcohol stench enveloped my bed.

  “Yeah, it was a long night. Russell is already in the office. Poor guy.”

  “I don’t know how he does it. You married an airplane’s black box. Indestructible. Where did we end up last night? Tenth Street Lounge? Did you put me in a cab?”

  Blackouts from drinking weren’t uncommon for me. And blackouts didn’t freak me out the way they scared other people. Sometimes I blamed them on my friends for “forcing” me to do shots. Sometimes I blamed drinking on an empty stomach. Or, as in the case of the weekend after the meeting with Doug and Penny, I blamed the unfair circumstances of my life. That weekend I had to drink until my memory shut off. Who wouldn’t in my position?

  Of course I knew how risky it was to run around New York City in the early morning hours, blackout drunk. I could have experienced any number of disasters. I could have stumbled in front of an oncoming subway train, I could have died of alcohol poisoning, or I could have picked up the wrong guy who, unlike Kevin, could have made the choice to kill me instead of choosing to fuck me. I knew I should stop, but I couldn’t. Every time I swore this night will be different, that night was almost exactly the same.

  Jessica filled me in on the end of the previous night. “Tenth Street Lounge? No, we went to High Life after, so we just walked you home.” High Life was a bar only a block from my apartment, which made it one of my favorites, especially at the end of a late night.

  “So, are you going to be okay for tomorrow?” she asked. “You’ve been railing about it all weekend.” I let out a whiny half moan, half grunt in response.

  Snippets of the night before began to come back to me. I remembered pontificating about the injustice of it all to friends and strangers in a string of bars. Instead of admitting to being an extremely well-compensated kid just out of law school, I painted myself as a poor victim who’d been yanked from my humanitarian work and forced to serve as an evil oppressor bent on screwing the public. And I certainly didn’t say out loud the real reasons for my self-righteous rantings: dread of having to work harder than I already did, aversion to having my drinking clipped, and, of course, fear of complete failure and humiliation.

  Jessica, on the other hand, seemed fine. She had not only made peace with our transfer; Russell had convinced her that it was a great opportunity.

  “You heard Russell,” she tried again. “He’s going to help us. Get some rest. I’ve got to go. See you in the morning.” Great. Now even Jessica was sick of me.

  That day was a turning point. In the past, for Sunday drinking, I’d call Jerry or one of my other go-to buddies and set up a boozing brunch. If it was sunny, maybe Caliente Cab in the West Village for margaritas, and if the air was cold, maybe Carmine’s on the Upper West Side for red wine and fried calamari. We’d end up doing a bar crawl all afternoon and into the night. Other people were involved, so I considered it social drinking well within the lines. I would never sit home drinking by myself in the middle of the day. That was something an alcoholic would do. On this Sunday, the thought of entering the corporate building the next morning killed any desire to be social. But it escalated my desire to drink, and drink immediately, even though I had a blazing headache and shaky limbs from the night before.

  Still in my t-shirt and panties, I groaned my way out of bed. I had no recollection of getting out of the clothes that were scattered across the floor. Without stopping to slide my cold feet into warm slippers, I padded straight for the little wooden wine rack I had bought at a vineyard in Santa Barbara. I crouched down and examined my choices. Quickly settling on a cheap cabernet, I poured a glass with a generous hand. Just seeing the wine exit the bottle and get one step closer to my mouth gave me immediate relief.

  The clock read noon, so what was wrong with a drink? I pictured waitresses all around the city delivering trays of bubbly mimosas and Bloody Marys with giant celery sticks to thousands of hungover people. I was no different from them—I was just cutting out the middleman. While standing alone in a kitchen in my panties.

  The deep, almost wooden smell of the wine sent a wave of sick dizziness through me, and I instinctively turned my face away from the glass. My breath was heavy and dank, and my teeth felt as if they were wrapped in burlap, which made the smell of the wine even more disgusting, but adversarial senses had to be ignored. The point was simply to get the alcohol down my throat and into my blood. If battery acid worked better to get me buzzed, I would have sucked it down. With one gulp of the warm ruby liquid, I felt my fists unclench and my neck relax. I could even track the movement of the fluid down my throat as the warm fingers of the alcohol massaged my brain.

  I wandered into the bathroom and started running a bubble bath. Then I leaned against the sink and looked up. Dear God, who is that Alice Cooper ghoul in my mirror? I smelled like last night’s cigarettes and my hair hung in knotty clumps. I said to my reflection, “You look like you crawled out of a lagoon.” I knew I’d be unemployed by Labor Day.

  I decided to have my Sunday checkin with my parents before the wine kicked in. Chugging a glass of cold water helped smooth the abuse another pack of cigarettes had wreaked on my vocal chords.

  “Lisa!” my father said when he picked up. “How are we doing? Ready for the big move tomorrow?” I could see him sitting in his recliner with the remote control to his right and the Sunday Times splayed across the TV tray table to his left.

  “Yeah, I guess,” I said with the enthusiasm of someone on crutches looking up a flight of subway stairs.

  “Well, we make the best of it,” he said. “A lot of those kids out there don’t have jobs. It’s a great firm you’re with. Just hang tough and k
eep showing up. You can do it.” If only I were still five years old and could believe him.

  “You’re right. I’ll be fine,” I said.

  Dad wasn’t much for phone chat. “Your mother is out power walking. Want me to have her call you back?”

  “No need. I’m going out for brunch with friends and then maybe a movie,” I lied. “I’ll just talk to her tomorrow.” I held the wine glass to my lips and tipped my head back, letting every drop slide into my mouth.

  “OK, but don’t stay out too late. Big day tomorrow! Let us know how it goes,” he said.

  By the time I sank into the bath, I had poured my second glass of wine. By the time I ordered sushi for dinner, I had opened my second bottle. I passed out watching 60 Minutes with an empty glass in my hand.

  Despite all my magical thinking, Monday morning showed up right on schedule. Puffy, bitter, and exquisitely hungover, I managed to make it to my new office just before nine o’clock.

  “Hey, Lisa, welcome to Corporate Finance! Good to meet you!” Alberto, my bright-eyed officemate said, getting up from behind his desk to shake my hand.

  Alberto had thin black hair, thick-lensed eyeglasses, and the lean frame of a guy who fed on intellectual challenges rather than burgers and fries. I guessed he was the kind of guy who never cursed at the television while watching a Jets game or shot pool in a dive bar on a Sunday afternoon.

  “I know this must be hard for you. I’m happy to help any way I can,” he said. My knees went limp with relief as I realized he was secure enough to be an ally.

  “Thank you sooo much!” I said. “It’s really good to meet you, too.” I tried to match the firmness of his handshake and hoped that my breath and skin didn’t reek of the weekend. Just in case, that morning I’d gone heavy on the Christalle perfume.

  I took off my coat and hung it on the back of the door. When I turned back around, Alberto was already fully re-engaged in whatever document he was reviewing. I wanted to pelt him with questions, starting with “Where’s the ladies’ room?” but I decided not to interrupt him for as long as possible. For the moment, I could still pretend that I wasn’t a Corporate Finance dummy.

  On my new desk sat an envelope and two documents. The envelope was from the firm’s in-house travel department. My stomach sank and churned simultaneously. The cover of one of the documents read “United States Securities and Exchange Commission,” and had the title, “Form S-1 Registration Statement Under the Securities Act of 1933.” It’s already started, I thought. I’m already staffed on a deal. How long had this been in the works? I hated Doug and Penny.

  I held up one of the documents. “Hey, Alberto,” I half-whispered, half-pleaded. “I’m really sorry to bother you. I know how busy you are. I’m sure you know what this is, but I have no clue.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” His right eyebrow rose over the frame of his glasses. He didn’t look amused; he looked alarmed.

  “No, I’m serious. I don’t know anything about corporate law,” I said, fighting back the tears I had hoped wouldn’t flow until lunchtime.

  “Wow. OK. It’s a registration statement. It’s the document a company files with the SEC when it wants to go public. This is an IPO. An initial public offering?”

  I almost blurted, “Of course I know what ‘IPO’ means!” but Alberto kept going.

  “The company owns a chain of drugstores. They want to sell shares of their stock on the New York Stock Exchange and they have to get SEC approval to do it. We’re representing the underwriters,” he said, pointing to the name of our client, a huge investment bank, on the document’s cover. I needed to find out what underwriters did and fast.

  Alberto glanced at the registration statement. “So that’s a plane ticket to Orlando?” he asked. I shook my head and shrugged as if he’d just spoken Mandarin.

  “See? The company is in Orlando,” he said, pointing to the document as if he were giving directions to a tourist. “You’re probably being sent down there to do due diligence.”

  “Due diligence?” I asked as I opened the envelope and examined the ticket. “Oh my God. This ticket is for today? I’m leaving tonight?” Alberto’s phone rang.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got to grab this. Check out the working group list and figure out who the midlevel associate here is. They’ll be able to fill you in.” He picked up the phone and his voice became serious as he talked about pricing amendments and red herrings. I felt young and ridiculous. All I wanted was my bathtub and a glass of wine.

  A fifth-year associate named Steve was on the deal team. With Alberto deep in his own work, I was forced to present my utter ignorance to this guy who could either take pity on me or put a quick end to my career in Corporate Finance.

  “Steve Kingston,” a busy-sounding, confident voice answered on the second ring. Using one’s full name when picking up the phone was standard practice. A lot of assholes did it even when they knew who was on the other end of the line.

  “Hi, Steve, yeah, this is Lisa Smith. I just came over from the Environmental Group, and it looks like I’m on your deal.”

  “Yep,” then silence.

  “Um, I found some documents and a plane ticket to Orlando on my chair?” I was so unsure of myself that I reverted to Valley Girl upspeak, making statements as if they were questions. Not the way to be taken seriously in a law firm. “Would it be ok for me to come by and see you today? My flight leaves at eight o’clock tonight.” I examined the plane ticket. At least it’s First Class, I thought. That meant free drinks for the entire flight. There should be free drinks in this stinking law firm. How can you crank people up like this without helping to calm them down? What would be my first drink on the plane? Vodka, definitely vodka.

  “Yeah, OK. Come by my office at two o’clock. I might have ten minutes.” He hung up. Oh great. And in ten minutes I might learn enough to not embarrass both of us.

  My phone rang. Jessica popped up on the caller ID. Thank God. “Hey!” I said.

  “Hey!” she said. “Wanna meet for lunch?”

  “Yeah, definitely,” I said. “Dining room at twelve-thirty?”

  “Perfect. See you there.”

  With its twenty-foot ceiling and huge windows, the firm’s formal dining room made young lawyers feel that they had truly arrived. Male attorneys were required to wear jackets because lawyers often took clients to lunch there. Jessica and I had already been regulars, whenever we could get away from our desks long enough to run across the street and eat. And because the firm heavily subsidized what we paid for the fancy, all-you-can-eat lunch, the dining room was packed daily with associates.

  “There’s the Dining Room Hottie!” I said to Jessica as soon as I sat down. For months, I’d been watching a yummy guy with wavy black hair, a white-toothed smile, and tailored suits. I imagined that he’d been the star of a tennis team at some high school in Westchester—a Pied Piper of beautiful preppy girls as he swaggered around in tennis whites. He and I had first checked each other out across the buffet table months before, salad tongs in hand, filling our plates. Intra-office dating was as common at the firm as working past five o’clock, so I was hopeful.

  “Let’s go up! Let’s get food before he sits down!” Jessica said.

  “No! I look like garbage. You go first. My head’s not in the game today.”

  “Your head is always in the game!” She threw her white linen napkin on the table.

  I rubbed my temples. My throat burned. “I can’t handle any of this,” I moaned.

  “Hey, c’mon,” Jessica said. “You’re going to be fine. At least you’re going to Florida. I heard some deal just started up in North Dakota. Just pack your bathing suit and hope for the best.”

  Instead of skipping dessert as usual, I consoled myself with three chocolate chip cookies. I knew I’d punish myself for it later at the gym.

  At two o’clock, I wasn’t any closer to understanding what I’d be doing in Florida, but I headed to Steve’s office carrying the docum
ents, a pad, and a pen. There was a professional hush around these offices that hadn’t existed across the street; even the secretaries seemed more elegant on this side of the street, not engaging in gossip or spilling their personal business all over the hallways.

  I got to Steve’s door and gasped. He was the Dining Room Hottie! He was on the phone with his back toward me, but there was no mistaking that hair, those shoulders, that suit. What kind of sick joke was the universe pulling? Right there, about to turn around, was the sexy guy I’d been silently seducing for months, and our first conversation was going to begin with, “Hi, I’m Lisa. I don’t know shit about fuck.” I thought I was going to lose my three cookies.

  Steve hadn’t noticed me standing there, so when he hung up the phone I knocked on his door. He turned around nonchalantly and then flinched with recognition. After that, he acted as if he’d never seen me before. Fuck, what I would have given for a flask full of Ketel One.

  “Steve Kingston, good to meet you,” he said standing up from behind his desk and shaking my hand.

  “Lisa Smith.” He motioned for me to sit down. On his desk was a silver-framed picture of his wife and baby. Douche bag. Well, at least my incompetence wouldn’t be the reason I wasn’t going to see this guy naked.

  “OK. You’ve worked on deals before, right?” he asked.

  “Um, no, not really. I’ve done environmental due diligence and worked on environmental representations and warranties, but that’s all.” I heard my voice crack. Steve’s face was tough to read, but at least he didn’t shake his head or breathe any heavy sighs.