Hard Feelings (23 page)

“About seven-thirty, eight o’clock. I have to stay late tonight.”

“Of course you do.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

“You sound strange.”

“Strange? Why do I sound strange?”

“Look, I have to take this other call. I’ll call you right back.”

“That’s okay, I’m going to be busy most of the day too. I’ll just see you at home, sweetie.”

“I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. Have a wonderful day.”

After I hung up, I whispered, “Slut.”

Concentrating on work was impossible. My phone rang several times during the afternoon, but I let my voice mail pick up and then I listened to the messages. There was one message from Paula, but I decided not to call her back.

I was getting stir crazy so I left work early, at around four-thirty. Like yesterday, I covered with a bogus appointment on my calendar. As I headed home I was getting more and more upset. Fearing I might say or do something I’d regret, I stopped at the Subway Inn, a dive bar on East Sixtieth Street near Lexington Avenue. I knew that having a drink or two might not be the best idea in the world, but alcohol always took the edge off, and I figured anything was better than going home sober.

I ordered a Scotch and soda. I put the glass up to my lips and paused, asking myself, Do you really want to do this? Myself said, You bet. I swallowed the drink in one steady stream. Suddenly, my problems with Paula didn’t seem so bad. So she was fucking a stockbroker. It was going to be a difficult time, of course, but one way or another we’d get through it. It definitely wasn’t going to be the end of the world.

I guess I should have left the bar after that first drink. Ordering my fourth and fifth drinks were probably mistakes too. But it was too late for regrets—the alcohol was already in my bloodstream. When I stood up from the barstool I almost fell down. I stumbled out into the muggy twilight. The bar was near Bloomingdale’s so there were plenty of people around. The sidewalk felt like it was moving as I walked toward Third Avenue, close to the building on my left, to avoid bumping into people. All the optimism I’d had while I was getting drunk was gone. Now I was just bitter and hurt. I decided this was because I was losing my buzz, so I stopped at a liquor store and bought a small bottle of Kahlúa. Like a Bowery bum, I drank straight from the bottle, which was wrapped in a paper bag. It was too late when I realized that mixing Scotch and Kahlúa was a lethal combination. I didn’t know exactly where I was going. I thought I was heading home and I somehow wound up on York Avenue, several blocks out of the way. I concentrated on the street signs and gradually made my way to East Sixty-fourth Street. By the time I reached my building I was completely trashed.

I steadied myself before I passed my doorman. Trying to act sober, I focused on maintaining my balance, but I sensed I wasn’t fooling him.

I tossed my suit jacket onto the floor in the foyer and then I went to pee. Standing over the bowl I felt dizzy and my urine sprayed wildly onto the floor and all over my pants legs. Without bothering to clean up, I went to the living room and sat on the couch, continuing to drink Kahlúa. The room was spinning and there were at least two Otises asleep on the ottoman across from me. I had almost finished the bottle when Paula arrived.

“Hi, how are you?” she said. She must not have noticed that her supposedly recovering alcoholic husband was slumped drunk on the couch, clutching a bottle of Kahlúa, because she went into the bedroom without another word. It seemed like several seconds later she returned, although it must have been several minutes later because she was wearing shorts and a long T-shirt.

“I had a really shitty day and I’m starving,” she said. “You in the mood for Chinese or Vietnamese?” Then she must’ve taken a good look at me for the first time because she said, “Oh my God! What’s going on? Have you been
drinking?
”

“You noticed,” I slurred. “It took you fucking long enough.”

“I can’t believe this. What’s the matter with you?”

“You tell me,” I said.

“Tell you? Tell you what?”

“Tell me,” I said. “Just tell me.”

“You’re drunk and you’re not making any sense. Did something happen with the police today? Did they come back to your office? Is that why—”

“Just tell me, damn it,” I said.

“Fine, you don’t want to talk about it, don’t talk about it.”

She headed toward the kitchen. I went after her, accidentally knocking a vase off the coffee table. It smashed on the floor and Otis started barking.

“Look what you did!” Paula yelled over the screeching dog. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Tell me,” I said. “Just fucking tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“You know what. Don’t tell me you don’t know what. You know what the fuck I’m talking about, bitch.”

“Why are you doing this?” she said, starting to cry. “What’s wrong with you?”

I grabbed her shoulders and started shaking her. Otis was still barking.

“Tell me,” I said. “Tell me, damn it!”

“Let go of me!”

“Tell me! Tell me!”

Paula was crying hysterically. I realized that I was starting to lose control and that was exactly what I didn’t want to happen. Just because she had hurt me didn’t mean I had to hurt her back. I was better than her—I didn’t have to stoop to her level.

I loosened my grip on her shoulders and said in a calmer voice, “Tell me. Just be honest and tell me and I’ll forgive you. I promise.”

Still crying, Paula said, “Why? . . . Why are you doing this again? Why?”

Otis was barking louder—shrieking. I yelled, “Shut the fuck up!” and the dog ran away. Then I said to Paula, “Tell me about you and Doug. Just tell me, for Christ’s sake!”

Suddenly, Paula stopped crying and her blue eyes widened.

“Is that what you think?” she said. “Well, you’re wrong. There’s nothing going on with us. There never was.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying. I’m telling you the truth.”

“You’re always lying to me! All you do is fucking lie! Even when you say you’re on my side, you’re still lying!”

“I’m
not
lying,” she said with tears dripping down her cheeks.

“Kirsten called me,” I said. “You remember Kirsten, don’t you? . . . Don’t you?!”

“What did she tell you?”

“I see you’re not denying it anymore.”

“Look, I really don’t care what you think happened, all right? I just want you to know I’m not going to forgive you for this—ever!”

Paula marched by me and Otis joined her in the bedroom, just beating the fast-closing door. I remained near the kitchen, swaying drunkenly.

I didn’t feel like being home with Paula, even with her in the other room, so I took the bottle of Kahlúa and left the apartment.

I stumbled around the neighborhood until I’d finished the bottle, then I wandered into a bar on First Avenue. It was crowded with kids in their twenties, but I managed to get a seat at the bar. Screaming over the pulsing music, I ordered a Scotch and soda. I don’t remember drinking it but my glass somehow wound up empty. I ordered another and took a sip, when a guy bumped into me. Next thing I knew, we were standing up, facing each other, and I was saying “Fuck you” and “I’ll kick your ass.” He was bigger than me, and younger, but that didn’t stop me. I took a swing at him, or at least I
tried
to. He grabbed my limp arm and started laughing. I spat in his face, then he let go of my arm and started punching me. I fell onto the floor and he was kicking the shit out of me, but it didn’t hurt as much as I knew it should. Then the bouncer, a big Italian-looking guy, came over and picked me up. He pushed me outside and I must have tried to go after him, too, or said something to him, because he had me against a brick wall, and started punching me in the face. People were standing around, cheering and laughing. Later, I was lying on the sidewalk in a fetal position, tasting blood on my lips, wondering how I was going to explain all this to the guys at A.A.

18

WHEN I OPENED my eyes I couldn’t breathe through my nose. I took a deep breath, inhaling whatever was clogging my nostrils, then I noticed a disgusting odor. It smelled like a combination of rotting milk and urine. I thought I must still be outside, in the garbage, then I gradually realized that I was home in bed and that the disgusting odor was coming from me.

My whole body hurt. I was too dizzy and nauseous to move. My throat was sore and dry and my breath smelled like vomit. I closed my eyes, wanting to fall back asleep, then I realized that the light shining against my eyelids was daylight coming through the venetian blinds. I opened my eyes again and turned painfully in the direction of the digital clock on the night table. The digits read 10:23. I was convinced that I was dreaming or reading the clock wrong—it couldn’t be so late. Maybe it was 5:23 or 6:23—that was more like it. But after several seconds I realized that the time I was seeing was correct—it was ten twenty-three and I had to attend a sales meeting at eleven o’clock.

I stood out of bed too suddenly and my knees buckled and I fell down. I coughed up the taste of Kahlúa and Scotch. I stood up and stumbled into the bathroom, cringing from the pain in my legs and stomach. I was bare-chested, but I was still wearing the pants and dress shoes I had worn to work yesterday. After I peed, I looked in the mirror, shocked by the sight. One of my eyes was purple and swollen, and crusted blood or vomit surrounded my mouth. There were also deep scratches on my cheek that had been bleeding and were starting to scab. I figured a cat must have scratched me while I was lying in the garbage. I took off my damp pants and went into the shower and scrubbed myself clean as quickly and as efficiently as I could. When I came out, I still felt and looked horrible, but I couldn’t afford to take the day off. I had a ton of work to do and missing a sales meeting would be a bad move if I wanted to stay on track for a promotion.

I was angry at myself for getting so drunk and I swore that I would never drink again. Then I remembered about the fight I’d had with Paula before I went out last night.

“Paula!”

There was no answer. What was I thinking? She must have left for work three hours ago.

I opened the bedroom door and Otis started barking at me. Vaguely, I remembered how I’d yelled at him last night when I came home from drinking.

“All right, take it easy,” I said. The barking was aggravating my hangover. “Just shut the hell up!”

But Otis continued to bark, growling and jumping against my legs, as I went into the living room.

When I’d gotten home last night, stumbling drunk, Paula had been in bed next to me. But I must have disgusted her so much that she had gone to sleep on the couch.

Or maybe she had spent the night at Doug’s.

I dressed for work, then I took Otis out for his walk. The dog still didn’t seem like his usual self, probably still holding a grudge for last night.

The eleven o’clock sales meeting was already in progress when I entered the conference room through a back door and took a seat at the long table. There were seven or eight people in the room, including Bob, who was standing by the dry-erase board, and everyone looked at me when I walked in, with a combined expression of fascination and disgust.

Bob tried to continue with the meeting, as if nothing were wrong, but I was too much of a distraction so he finally said, “Are you all right, Richard?”

“Fine,” I said, knowing this answer was ridiculous considering how I looked.

“What
happened?
”

“I’ll tell you all about it later,” I said. “It was no big deal— really.”

Bob went on, talking about a minor change in the company’s commission structure.

When the meeting ended and everyone left the room except Bob and me, Bob said, “So, what the hell happened to you?”

“It was the craziest thing,” I said, smiling. “My wife and I were walking by a construction site last night and one of the construction workers shouted something. Paula gave the guy the finger and the guy said something back. Next thing I knew I was fighting this construction worker. Well, not exactly fighting him, as you can see.”

Bob was staring at me. I had a feeling that he didn’t believe my story, but that he didn’t want to go to the effort of figuring out why I was lying either.

“Well, I’m sorry that happened,” he said. “Are you going to press charges?”

“Charges?”

“Against the construction worker.”

“No. I mean maybe. I don’t know, to tell you the truth I’m just a little embarrassed about the whole situation.”

“If you want to take the rest of the day off you can,” he said. “You could probably use the rest.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I have a lot to do today and I want to get to it. Don’t worry, I’m all right. I mean this won’t get in the way of anything.”

Despite two cups of black coffee, I could barely stay awake at my desk. The caffeine only seemed to intensify the throbbing in my face. I’d already checked my e-mail log once and I checked it again, relieved to see that I had received no new threats.