Authors: Marie Turner
“En
tierra de ciegos, el tuerto es rey.”
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed is king.
In the glittering bathroom of our law firm’s banquet hall, I stand
in front of the black-framed mirror looking at myself. My red dress barely
reaches my knobby knees. It also makes me look like a prepubescent girl, but oh
well. It is the best I can do on a budget. The slim-fitting garb has a layer of
red lace that covers the fabric underneath. In the front, it looks as boring as
a hand towel. In the back, the v-neck suggests the party is happening behind
me. And my strappy black heels look almost too chunky.
While I have concealed the freckles on my face with makeup, I’m
not fooling anyone. Everyone will still remember I have freckles. So what is
the point? Fortunately, my long red hair looks a little less Medusa than usual
even though I didn’t have much time to work on it. I snuck out of work ten
minutes early just to go home and change and come back.
After applying lipstick, I place the cap back on and shove it into
my small black purse. Inside it I carry my weapon of choice. Patting the bag, I
exit the bathroom.
In the banquet hall, attorneys and staff are sitting around
tables. Some still mull through the buffet line, selecting sautéed food and
decapitated shrimp. A cluster of sullen legal assistants sit in chairs along
the far wall making the palest of commotion. In front of me two interns order
from the bartender.
I take a place behind them. They’re from Columbia Law School and
have spent the entire summer kissing some partner’s backside. They’re dressed
in little black dresses. After they pick up their orders, they scurry back
toward their partner, a hairy man who looks rather like a dog waiting to
pounce.
The barman puts his hand on his hip and asks me, “What would you
like?”
“Two piña coladas, please.”
While the bartender mixes my drinks, I reach into my purse and
maneuver the crushed Xanax from the pill bottle into the palm of my hand. Then
I ball the gritty powder into my fist.
Don’t misunderstand me. I know I’m on the brink of a dark abyss,
sanity nowhere in sight. In fact, I can visualize the rushing black waters
below me. The adult somewhere inside me has vanished. The child inside grins
wickedly. I stand hitched over the edge looking down and feeling the cool
after-spray of contemplation. It tastes sweet.
On the other side of the room, I spot Todd and Henry chatting up
two good-looking male interns at a table. Todd looks like an Asian model on
display wearing a beautiful tailored suit. Henry seems to have gone with the
brown sweater vest. Henry looks like a senior citizen provoked to leave the
senior home. One thing I’ve learned about having gay friends: when there are
good looking men around, I don’t exist. I will likely not talk to them the
entire night. Todd nevertheless spies me from across the room and gives me a
thumbs up. I wave at him.
When the barman hands me my first drink, I drop the Xanax into it
and mix the elixir with the little umbrella. The air in my lungs feels prickly.
The barman doesn’t seem to notice. After he hands me my second drink, I sweep
toward table I’ve been assigned to, gently carrying a drink in each hand. Of
course, I’m supposed to sit directly next to Robert, which on any other
occasion would be all the more reason not to attend. On this occasion, however,
it’s as if I’ve been handed a platter of opportunity.
Maneuvering across the room, I spot Robert at our table. He’s
wearing the same perfect suit he wore earlier today because, after all, who
needs to parlay into evening attire when you already look stunning? He’s
talking to two male interns who are yard-fowl in his presence. Their eyes dart
around the room no doubt looking for some means of a getaway. A book that opens
a secret door. A carpet that exposes a secret tunnel under the city. Anything.
Ah, it’s nice to know Robert makes other people feel as if they’re food for the
cookfire too.
Around me, forks and knives tinkle while the tables shift and
breathe and chitter. The enormous hardwood-floored, chandelier-lit room smells
of gravy and garlic and expensive leather.
“Here’s your drink,” I say to Robert, setting down two piña
coladas.
Robert doesn’t look at me. He seems to lurch back, perhaps
disturbed that my current attire violates his dress code. But this is not work.
Just a work
event
, so he has no reason to lambaste or cook-fire me.
“Thank you,” Robert says, his voice wooden.
The two male interns at our table are dressed in ill-fitting blue
suits. It’s like being at a convention of blue suits. I can tell from their
faces that they both see my arrival to the table akin to being rescued from a
villain. As soon as I sit down, the tall one leans forward and says, “So
Caroline, how long have you worked for Robert?” He talks as though he’s just
sparking conversation. I know better.
“Two years,” I say and nod my head slowly. Peripherally I watch
Robert as he takes a sip of his piña colada. I can feel my pulse in my ears. I
sip too. Delicious is the sweet nectar of revenge—at least this is what I tell
myself while my heart feels like it’s racing uphill. Part of me wants to knock
over Robert’s glass and run from the building. The other part of me wants to
watch him being led to the flames while I dance around the fire like a naked
savage.
The smaller intern’s eyes grow wide, “Two years? Wow,” he says, a
little more surprise in his voice than he perhaps intends. Yes, yes, I want to
say. I’ve spent two years being eaten alive by that well-dressed vulture. And
not just any vulture, but the red and black kind that reminds you of a devil
chicken. But I don’t say anything. I just sip. I’m going to need all the
courage this nectar can give me. As it is, I’m beginning to seriously question
the plan.
The tall intern seems desperate for conversation. He asks, “Did
you go to college?” Of course lawyers only think about brand-named, expensive
colleges. Robert graduated from Stanford, and these interns are probably in
their second year of Yale or Brown. I can’t remember which ones. I can’t even
remember their names. I only remember the way they have fled from Robert’s
office looking whipped and castrated.
“Yes, but I didn’t graduate,” I reply. “In my second year of
undergrad at UCLA, my father passed away. At the time I was studying business,
but quit and got a job to help out. My brother was only sixteen at the time. I
worked as a checkout clerk at Target before I landed this one at the firm. But
it all worked out in the end. My mother remarried, my brother’s off at college,
and I got this great job. Everyone wins.” I smile.
I can feel Robert frowning at me. Does he sense sarcasm? I’m sure
this is the most he’s heard about my personal life in the last two years. What
I don’t mention is that I’ve been helping my little brother get through Ohio
State. His academic scholarship only pays partial tuition. I’ve been sending
whatever I can for books and remaining tuition. Not everyone in the world has
parents who can help them get through college. I don’t bother to say this. Too
personal. I wouldn’t want Robert to know.
“UCLA’s a nice school,” the smaller intern condescends. “Sorry
about your dad, though. What’d he die from?”
“Colon cancer,” I say, taking a quick gulp of my drink. “Terrible
disease. By the time you catch it, it’s pretty much destroyed your colon and
worked its way into your bones and internal organs. A real vulture.”
“Huh,” the small one nods.
Then the tall one looks bold. His Champagne must be kicking in.
“So Robert,” he says, “You married?”
Oh, classic intern mistake. Never ever ask Robert a personal
question, but how would this poor intern know that? He’s only worked at the
firm for a few months. He hasn’t wizened to law firm politics. He hasn’t
realized that he’s merely an unharnessed game-chicken just waiting to be fodder
to partners. He actually thinks he has a shot at being Robert’s friend. I
foresee a reckoning at this table.
Robert loosens his yellow tie and exhales. “No,” he snarls, “not
married.” His voice reminds me of someone tired of talking. The insult stands
barefoot on the table as the two interns eye each other.
Told ya.
Yet, it’s a valid question. Why isn’t Robert married? Could it be
that his cuddly, lovable nature is so endearing that he just repels women? Do
they find his saccharine sweetness nauseating? Do they think him too
considerate, too selfless, too altruistic? I smile at my own thoughts.
On the table in front of the interns are half eaten salmon and
rice plates. Robert’s plate looks empty. Apparently, he hasn’t eaten or wasn’t
hungry, or he couldn’t insult himself by eating in the present company. I
haven’t eaten, but I’d rather carve stone with my fingernails than eat right
now. My nerves are shrieking.
“Did you get my shirts?” Robert asks me abruptly. He was gone from
the office all day, thank god, but this is his primary concern:
shirts
.
See what I must deal with?
“Yes,” I say. “I put them in your office, on top of the filing
cabinet.”
“Boxed?”
“Absolutely.”
Robert contorts his brows at me. Does he feel weird yet?
I sip.
The two interns observe our interaction, the looks on their faces
suggesting they think Robert keeps me locked in a mud-walled dungeon, only
letting me out for work or events. I smile at them the way a school teacher
smiles at students. They smile weakly back. Together we are an advertisement
for awkwardness. Peripherally, I watch Robert gulp down the last few swigs of
his piña colada, and I’m reminded of those sacred moments at church when people
drink the sacrament, the supposed blood of Jesus. Sweet redemption. I can only
pray that Robert gets tottered enough to find me more attractive than a clay
pot.
Robert clasps his hands loosely in his lap and seems to take
pleasure watching the lawyers and staff grazing at other tables.
“Robert,” I begin sheepishly. Phase one of my plan. “I was
wondering if you wouldn’t mind walking me down to the BART station over on
Market Street on our way out? I’m worried about walking alone so late at
night.”
Robert looks at me as if I’m a headless child.
“Walk you?” he echoes, scrunching his pretty face.
The interns hold still like ice, waiting for what happens next.
Robert’s eyes look dark blue and mottled, cranky stone.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s going to be late, and dark. I’m your
assistant, so I would really appreciate it, if you could. I don’t want to get
robbed, or stabbed, or pillaged,” I say. My chest feels electric.
His eyebrows are suddenly crazed hats to his lovely eyes. It takes
him about a week to answer. “I suppose so,” he replies. And then we sit there
silently like enemies who’ve just signed a treaty.
I sip.
“But why can’t you walk with Todd?” Robert asks all of a sudden.
The crazed hats are still there.
“Todd and Henry are leaving together later, and I need to catch
the last bus from my station.”
Does Robert suspect? Has he sewn together my gestures and actions
tonight and realized what’s up? Did his drink taste funny?
Thankfully, the Chairman begins his expected pilgrimage toward the
small podium that stands like a little steeple at the far end of the banquet hall.
He approaches in the same manner I would imagine Humpty Dumpty approaching the
wall. He, too, is somewhat bald and round. Across the room, I see Henry who
stops talking to the good-looking intern and pays attention to his boss at the
podium. For a minute, the Chairman stands silently watching the churning crowd.
Then he shifts to one side and addresses us in a faraway voice.
For at least thirty minutes, we listen to him blab about the firm,
lawyers, and interns. Swirling toilet water is more exiting. While listening, I
feel any remnant of life inside me draining, as if everyone present is being
silently dismantled and carted away limb by limb. See, this is the problem with
partners. Their minions have showered them with so much fake accolades that
common sense has winnowed away. He is ignorant to the fact his audience is about
two blinks away from unconsciousness.
Robert yawns.
Someone sneezes.
Far off, I hear someone cough. The sound echoes like a distant
avalanche.
Perhaps from sitting in the same position for so long, my arms
feel like wax. I cross my legs and scoot in my seat. Then I look up. The
ceiling overhead is suddenly a furling mass that exhales thinly in the yellow
light. The chandeliers are now crystal trees kicking yellow through their flickering
leaves. The room has lost its balance. It feels shapeless.
“You okay, Caroline?” one of the interns asks me. I don’t know
which one. Robert turns his head toward me. Through a thin veil of glassy haze,
I observe Robert leaning forward to grab my arm. Why is he grabbing my arm?—is
all I can think. In the process of reacting so quickly, however, Robert knocks
his empty plate into his piña colada glass. It clanks loudly. Several heads
turn.
But why are Robert’s reflexes are so good when he should be a swell
of frayed consciousness right now? I feel Robert pulling me into an upright
position. I hadn’t realized I was off-kilter. The good news is that Robert has
apparently found me less revolting than a clay pot. The plan just might be
working.