My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts)

by Rene Gutteridge

  I looked at Carol, and a big tear rolled down her left cheek. Now I could hear apologies rolling out of her mouth. I looked at Marilyn, but she was jotting down notes again. I was about ready to go over and snatch them out of her hands.

  “Well?” Glenda said, folding her arms and staring hard at Carol. “What’s it going to be?”

  Carol tried to control her tears. She swiped at them and after a deep breath, looked right at Glenda and spoke. But nobody, including me, could hear her. Marilyn looked up and said, “Carol, you’re going to have to talk a little louder.”

  And to her credit, each of the three attempts was louder than the previous one, but still inaudible to the rest of the class.

  Except me.

  I swallowed and watched Glenda, who was becoming more and more irritated by the minute. Carol tried again, in the best voice she knew how, but it sounded like a morning breeze, and that was it.

  “Come on, Carol! Let’s get this over with!” Glenda tapped her foot against the concrete. “What are you waiting for? Speak up! Don’t be such a mouse!”

  Carol probably wished she was a mouse. She still couldn’t make her voice any stronger. But what I’d heard her say was, “You’re nicer than you seem.” I looked at Carol, whose lips were trembling as she watched Glenda’s fuming expression. She was nicer than she seemed? Surely Carol could come up with something better than that. But as I watched Carol, I realized that was quite possibly the best she could do.

  Glenda threw up her hands like a mad cook on a wild cooking show and aimed a frozen expression of disgust right at Carol. I looked at Glenda and, without further hesitation, said, “Carol said she thinks you wear your makeup heavy to hide the fact that you look older than you are.” My pleasant smile returned. I couldn’t will it away.

  I patted Carol’s knee. Her eyes were so wide they were almost bulging. We both looked at Glenda for a reaction.

  Glenda’s mouth was clamped shut, but her lips were doing a little wiggle across her face. Then she said. “Yeah? Well I don’t think there’s anything fake about you, Carol. I just think you’re pathetic.”

  I felt my heart freeze. I took Carol’s hand and stared hard at Glenda. Words were forming in my mouth, at the tip of my tongue, and ready to be unleashed, but Marilyn said, “Okay, Robert, Leah, it’s your turn. Robert, go first.”

  My anger toward Glenda shifted to my fear of Robert. I’d already seen Robert get mad, twice, and I wasn’t so sure the second time was really acting. How could a person get his face to turn that red while acting?

  Robert wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the ground. I wanted to look at the ground, but I suddenly felt myself paralyzed. Except for one hand, which managed to climb to my neckline and feel for splotching. My gaze came to a rest on Cinco. To my surprise, he gave me a reassuring nod and a wink. I didn’t want to wink and I didn’t want to nod, so I think what I gave in return was a scowl. He looked away.

  Robert said, “Okay, look, Leah, I think you choose to be around people who are completely safe.”

  Strangely, the anger lifted. Mostly because I wasn’t even sure what Robert meant. I was contemplating that when Marilyn said, “Leah, your turn.”

  My turn. My time to hurl the insult. My chance at a small piece of justice. I focused on Robert, but what came out of my mouth stunned me. “I think you’re the one with the conflict problem and that your silly outfits and your calm, collected, caring voice are just a front for the fact that you’re unable to stand up for what is right. Your hairstyle is unflattering too.” I blinked. That didn’t even sound like my voice. I looked at Robert, and he looked a bit puzzled. He was smoothing his hand over his bald head.

  I glanced around the group, and everyone was staring at Robert’s hair . . . or the lack thereof. But Marilyn said, “Good, Leah, but you’re actually supposed to be talking to Robert, not me.”

  Had I said that to Marilyn? I rewound my brain and played back my exact words. I realized that while I’d meant to address Robert, every hateful thought I was having about Marilyn came out instead. I began to feel light-headed.

  Marilyn smiled. “It’s okay, Leah. Don’t worry. In a couple of weeks we’ll be discussing misplaced anger.”

  Sitting on my wooden apartment balcony that was barely big enough to hold both a chair and a plant, I couldn’t stop thinking about the evening. I’d made myself a hot cup of Sleepytime Tea, made more sleepytime by the two Tylenol PM I plopped in and stirred to dissolve. I wasn’t fond of using sleep aids, but Elisabeth swore by them, and if ever there was a night that sleep might elude me, this was it. I was comfortably warm in my pajamas, and I had a nonmagnificent view of the Boston skyline twinkling against the black sky. I could see about two inches of it, because another building blocked the way. But I could see a bright, illuminating halo hanging above, and as I sat there I thought I might look like a casual observer who was at peace with the world.

  On the contrary. I was distressed to the point that my organs were hurting. I had managed to horrify myself beyond my usual expectations, which were pretty lofty to begin with. No matter how many times I played events over in my head, I couldn’t understand how I’d gotten so confused and insulted Marilyn instead of Robert.

  Worse, my splotching had eventually become evident to everyone by the time Glenda handed me two Benadryl, and I had to explain I wasn’t having an allergic reaction. If I’d taken the Benadryl, it would’ve rendered me unconscious, which, looking back, might not have been a bad option.

  I was certainly having a hard time losing consciousness now. I gulped my tea and stared into the night.

  Marilyn had ended the evening talking to us about conflict. She asked us to identify the parts of our lives with the most conflict in them and write them down. Thankfully, she didn’t want us to share this information with anybody, because I couldn’t identify anything in my life that caused conflict. Besides the incident with Edward and maybe the recent conversation with Elisabeth, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had a fight with anyone, which began to confirm my suspicions that I shouldn’t be going to this class in the first place.

  I could only consider conflict in a theatrical manner, the thing that drives the story arc and the character arc.

  I thought about how I’d been avoiding Edward. I’d left him a message on his answering machine at home, knowing full well he was at his yearly chess tournament. I’d acted casual, making up something about a busy schedule this week but suggested we connect over the weekend.

  I finished my tea and used my fingers to scoop up the leftover Tylenol granules. I wasn’t feeling a bit sleepy and started to get aggravated. What was so special about this medicine, anyway? Licking my fingers, I decided to go inside. If I wasn’t going to sleep, then I would have to work.

  As I sat down in front of my computer, I glanced at the clock. It was after ten. I pulled up my play and stared at my slim beginnings to Act Two. If sleep wouldn’t come, maybe something creative would.

  Act Two is the most daunting of all the acts. Act One is exposition, which is difficult to write in that you have to make a whole bunch of facts and backstory sound interesting and entertaining. But Act Two, that is where most people bail on their story. It’s the hardest to get through, because you must write your character into a corner that seems impossible to climb out of.

  If ever I felt more in a corner, it was tonight. And I knew there was no graceful way out of it. I had managed to escape after class was over without further embarrassment. I sensed Cinco wanted to talk with me, but I excused myself to the bathroom and then down the dark, creepy stairwell that was worth every heart-pounding moment as long as I didn’t have to face anybody.

  This ending to the night wasn’t exactly a worthy resolution for any hero I would write in a story. And in fact, it had its very own playwriting term. Reversal. That’s when a character achieves the exact opposite of his or her intention, causing the plot to change either for the better or for the worse.

  For th
e worse, I would say.

  Jodie Bellarusa was itching to offer her own insight into this evening’s events, but instead I put her to work in the world in which she was supposed to be living. And I fully intended to flesh out the details of how she might survive the dreaded “reversal.”

  Chapter 10

  [She blinks, confused.]

  The first indication of something being wrong was the feeling that my lips were smashed against my right nostril, causing a restriction of airflow. Then, as I turned my face, I felt a sticky wet sensation on my cheek, which generated another red flag, because I knew my pillow always did a good job of soaking up any unforeseen drool that might leak during the night.

  I opened my eyes and saw a mouse. I screamed and lifted my head. Staring back at me was my computer screen, with rows and rows and rows of the letter L. Three hundred and two pages, to be exact. I’d apparently fallen asleep on top of my keyboard and, at some point during the night, had turned my head to where my nose was pushing the letter L down. Grabbing the mouse, I scrolled to the last page I’d been working on, checked to make sure my changes were still in place, and deleted the rest of the pages. Then I wiped off the slimy keys.

  I cranked my mind backward. At some point the Tylenol PM must’ve kicked in, but I had no recollection of even becoming sleepy. The last thing I remembered was typing out a hysterical diatribe by Jodie on the functionality (not to mention ethical) issues in the movie Pretty Woman.

  I felt disoriented at my own desk, so I decided to go get some coffee, thankful for my automatic coffeemaker. In the kitchen, the pot sat completely full, beckoning me. I fumbled through the cabinet until I found a large mug, then poured so fast that coffee splashed onto the counter. I skipped the sugar and cream for the moment. I needed a boost first. After that I would enjoy the coffee for its flavor.

  “Ack!” I spit the cool liquid into the sink. The timer indicated that the two-hour heating countdown had expired. What time was it?

  I looked at the microwave. “What?” I gasped. That couldn’t be right. Maybe there was a power surge sometime last night. I went to my bedroom, but the battery-powered clock confirmed my fear.

  I’d slept until one in the afternoon. The crick in my neck confirmed that I had also slept in a really awkward position. In fact, I noticed I couldn’t move my neck far to the left or the right.

  Slapping my cheeks, I tried to jostle some sense into my mind, which was currently as chaotic as Elisabeth’s children’s bedrooms. Then my heart skipped a beat as I remembered why, in fact, I’d drugged myself last night. The conflict resolution class.

  I plodded back to the kitchen where I stuck my mug of coffee into the microwave, willing those thoughts to leave. And surprisingly, they did. But what replaced them confused me even more. It was the sound of J. R.’s raspy voice, asking me if I was okay. Was I imagining that? Then I heard her tell me “thank you” and that she would get back to me with her thoughts.

  “Her thoughts on what?” I whispered at my coffee.

  I rushed to my computer screen and checked my e-mail, but there was nothing from J. R. Where were these thoughts coming from? I could hear myself forcing a laugh at one of her stupid literary jokes.

  I snatched up my phone and looked at the caller ID.

  “Oh, no . . .” There was her name, recorded at 8:12 a.m. We’d talked? This morning? What in the world did I say? Why had she called? What had I agreed to?

  I squeezed my eyes shut, poured the now-scalding coffee down my throat, and tried to think. My eyes flew open.

  “Yeah, J. R., it’s ready for you to take a peek. I’m halfway finished, and so far I think it’s a beauty.” That’s what I’d said. I called it a beauty? That was practically a curse all by itself.

  I scrambled back to my computer and clicked on my Sent folder in e-mail. There it was! I’d sent her the half-written play in an attachment! Squinting, I tried to focus on the time it was sent: 8:14 a.m. Falling into my desk chair, I pinched the bridge of my nose, knowing that the play was in absolutely no condition for anyone to look at. It was a little over halfway finished, at least as far as word count was concerned, but I still had a long way to go.

  The phone rang, startling me to a degree I wasn’t aware existed. The caller ID announced it was J. R. My fingers hovered and twitched over the receiver. She was calling to tell me I’d lost my mind, for which I actually had a good explanation. Okay, well, not a good explanation. And truthfully, not an explanation I could explain in less than five minutes.

  On the fourth ring I snatched it up. “Hello?”

  “Leah, hello. It’s J. R.”

  I inserted surprise into my voice. “Hi, J. R. How are you?”

  “How do you think I am? I’ve just spent an entire lunch hour and more reading the first half of your play.”

  I grimaced while sounding pleasantly serene. “Oh?”

  “Leah . . . this is . . . well, there’s no other way to say it. This is good.”

  “Good?”

  “Darling, this Jodie Bellarusa that you’ve come up with is a character like none other. I don’t know whether to love her or hate her. She just pops off the page. Most definitely your best character ever, Leah. Really. Very impressive. Peter will love it.”

  My hand was clasped over my chest, the way I might look observing a newborn that was actually adorable.

  “And I must say, you’ve really engaged me with this new technique you’re using.”

  “New technique?”

  “Well, yes. I mean, I’m on page thirty-eight, and as engaging as Jodie is, I’m still shocked that we haven’t even seen a hint of conflict yet.”

  “No?”

  “Maybe I’m missing it, but it doesn’t appear to be there.”

  “Well . . . yeah, that’s a new . . . you know, a new technique I’m playing with,” I lied. I had no idea what she was talking about. I pulled up the play on my screen and paged down.

  “I have to say it’s interesting, but I’m not sure it’s going to hold for much longer. At some point, I want Jodie to have to face something. As romantically challenged as she is, perhaps what she must face is a romantic date.”

  “Right. Yeah.”

  “Anyway, I have to run, but I just wanted to tell you how much I’m enjoying this character. I’ll put in a good word to Peter. Keep up the hasty work, and I’ll be in touch. Oh, and have a good time tonight.”

  “Tonight? What’s tonight?”

  J. R. paused. “This morning you told me you were going to meet your sister’s new boyfriend.”

  “Ooookay, thanks. Bye.” I hung up the phone. Going to meet my sister’s boyfriend? What was she talking about? It was as if I’d lived an entire other life while unconscious by way of Tylenol PM.

  I turned the phone over and checked the caller ID. There was J. R.’s number twice, and then, at 10:40 p.m. last night, my sister’s number.

  My sister hardly ever called me. And when she did call me, it usually ended with my apologizing for something I could never identify. I pressed the backs of my hands into my eye sockets and tried to push out a sliver of the conversation we’d had last night. Nothing rang a bell. So with great trepidation, I dialed her number.

  It wasn’t surprising that she picked up. Her work hours at the new restaurant started at five, according to my mom.

  “Kate, it’s Leah.”

  “Oh.” She sounded disappointed. How could I have disappointed her this early in the conversation? Anger simmered beneath my skin. “You’re backing out, aren’t you?”

  “Backing out?”

  “You were so agreeable last night about it all. It was weird, but I fell for it.”

  “Noooo, no, no,” I said, trying to resist the urge to clear my throat. “I’m just . . . just wanted the details, that’s all.”

  “What details?”

  “I must’ve forgotten to write down the time.”

  “Six. At Dillan’s place—631 Westchester. Suite 1209.”

  Westchester? That
was a nice stretch of real estate.

  “Is he . . . cooking?”

  A sigh filled my ear. “You’re acting like we didn’t even talk. What are you, on drugs? Yes, he’s cooking. I told you he’s a wonderful cook. Mom and Dad are coming too, in case you forgot that little detail.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “You said that last night too, and yes, it’s serious. Dillan’s a wonderful man. I just hope my family doesn’t screw up this relationship.”

  “How could we screw it up?”

  “Just please, try to make a good impression, will you? I’ll see you two tonight.”

  “Two?”

  A pause. “Edward, Leah. He is coming, isn’t he? I told Dillan he’s coming.”

  “Yes . . . yes, of course. We’ll be there.”

  Kate hung up the phone. I checked the time. One o’clock. Edward would be in class. I would have no way of getting a hold of him until five when he left, as his department was horrible about getting messages to him.

  As I slid my feet toward the bathroom, my mind toyed with a few good excuses to get out of this thing. Had it not been for that stupid Tylenol PM, I would’ve been able to come up with an excuse on the spot.

  You could always tell her tonight’s dinner conflicts with your conflict class.

  I could only be so lucky that something good like that would come from that despicable class. Unfortunately, tonight I was free. And I had no plans with Edward. As I stared at my face, still bright red with the imprint of my keyboard, I decided I must take the higher road. Kate had a chance to turn her life around, find someone who might motivate her in some good way. I couldn’t stand in the way of it. Not once had Kate ever wanted her family to meet one of the men in her life. The only one I’d met in the last six years was Jinx, when I went to bail Kate out of jail after a bar brawl. That relationship fizzled when Jinx took a deal from the DA and tried to blame the entire incident on Kate. Luckily, her lawyer was able to prove that a woman of her weight couldn’t turn over an entire pool table by herself.