Dorothy on the Rocks (19 page)

“Abby, come here,” the voice commands. And Abby turns around instantly.

I slowly sit up. Light is pouring in through the window. Hasn't anyone heard of blinds for Christ's sake? I squint and manage to stand up. My head is pounding like the clichéd bass drum. I'm dressed except for my shoes. I take steps toward the open door. I have to find a bathroom.

I venture through the door, and there sitting in a big wicker chair is a young black man. He is drinking what I assume is coffee out of a large mug and has a newspaper open on his lap.

“We meet again,” he says.

I take a moment to let my eyes focus. “Spider?” I say.

“That's right.”

“Ah, of course, Abby. And you. How did I get here?”

“I'm the night manager at McManus's. You were passed out in the back booth when I was closing. I got you up, poured you into a cab, and brought you home with me.”

I don't know what to say. This feels very awkward. I blush and drop my eyes. Funny how quickly embarrassment turns into shame, and then how quickly a clever girl like me can turn it right back.

“Geez, this is crazy. You are my . . .” Eyes back up, I smile with all my might.

“Guardian angel?” Spider finishes the sentence.

“Yeah, is there a bathroom?” I ask. “Because I really have to . . .”

“Through there to the left,” Spider says, pointing to the hallway in front of me.

“Thanks. I won't be a minute.”

“Take your time,” he says, glancing down at the newspaper. “Coffee's on the stove. I hope you like it strong.”

The bathroom is painted avocado green. Ugh. I sit on the toilet and put my head in my hands. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. I notice a framed comic book cover on the wall across from me. It's Spiderman. Well that makes sense.

I stand at the sink and splash cold water on my face. I find a tube of toothpaste and squeeze some on my index finger and brush my teeth, prisoner-of-war style. I wish I had a Water Pik. That would feel great. I look through the medicine cabinet for some much-needed aspirin. Thank God. I find a small bottle of Bayer. I take three.

“I'll have a cup of that strong coffee, if you don't mind,” I say as perkily as I dare on reentering the living room.

“Be my guest. The cups are in the cupboard over the sink.”

“Thanks.” I pour the coffee and then join Spider. I sit on the sofa. Abby plops down next to me. “This is a great dog,” I say patting her head. “Aren't you, aren't you a good doggie?”

Spider puts his newspaper aside, and I can feel it coming. We're going to have a discussion, and I have a suspicion it's going to be about me.

“Do you know where you are, right now?” Spider asks.

“I'm in your apartment, which is really lovely, and thank you so much for your hospitality. It's funny how we keep bumping into each other.”

“No, it's not funny, Maggie, it's dangerous. For you.”

“Why, what happened? Did something . . .”

“No, something didn't, but something could have, and you wouldn't have known. You were in a blackout—could have ended
up dead from a gunshot or a knife wound or you could end up with HIV from unprotected sex or pregnant or any number of things. Are you with me? Are you listening to me?”

“Are you a high school guidance counselor or something?” I ask.

“Maggie,” he snaps.

“I'm listening,” I say.

“You have a problem. You get drunk and you do stupid things.”

“I get drunk sometimes and once in a while I do something stupid,” I counter.

“And what are you going to do about it?”

“I'm going to go home,” I say, getting up. “I guess my things are in the other room.”

“I guess,” Spider says. “But before you take off I have something to say and I'll just say it once. I'm a recovering alcoholic. I know the game, and I'm telling you if you play it much longer you're going to lose. It's time for you to get help. AA. Alcoholics Anonymous. It's cheap and there are meetings around the clock or you can check yourself into a rehab or you can go to a monastery, shave your head, and take a vow of abstinence, but do something, Maggie. I'm not always going to be there.”

“What are you doing working in a bar if you're a recovering alcoholic, Mr. Smart Guy?” I ask in an accusatory tone. “Isn't that against the rules?” I can't help being a smartass sometimes, especially when people are telling me what to do when I haven't asked for their opinion.

“Well, the money's good and it gives me a chance to help poor wretched souls like yourself,” Spider says with a smile. “Remember the show
Cheers
? The character Ted Dansen played? He was a recovering alcoholic, so you can think of me as the black Sam Malone.”

“Right. Yeah. I never liked that show after Shelly what's-her-name left. It wasn't the same. Anyway, that's funny, you being the black Sam Malone,” I say, hoping to end the discussion.

“Do you believe in miracles, Maggie?” Spider continues, much to my chagrin.

“No, not really,” I say in a pleasant what-me-worry tone, “although, lately I'm more inclined to believe in unexplained events.”

“Well, you should, because in one week a total stranger has saved your life, not once but twice. A total stranger who is a nice guy and who is offering you some good advice so maybe you can end up living the rest of your life and not pissing it down the drain. If I were you I'd get down on my knees and thank God and say, ‘I do believe in miracles and I'm not going to waste these.' All right. That's it. End of discussion.”

I get my things together. I pet Abby behind the ears, and then extend my hand to Spider. “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me, Maggie, thank the big guy upstairs,” he says, shaking my hand. Then he opens the door and I leave.

I get out on the street. “Big guy upstairs.” Please. I don't believe in that personal God concept. The universe is just math. A big bang, lots of molecules, some aberrant forms of intelligence, and plenty of algebra. Nobody is looking out for anybody. Well, maybe sometimes drag queens who die of AIDS; maybe they are looking out for someone. What did Goodie say about up there?

“I said it's computerized,” Goodie says, flying close to my ear.

“Where have you been?” I say. “Why didn't you help me out last night? I ended up having to be rescued again by this guy who claims I have a problem.”

“Really, well, even fairy god-queens can't override free choice—even if the choice is downright stupid.”

“Goodie, do you believe in God?” I ask. “I mean now that you've been up there?”

“I don't know, Mags, it's different once you've crossed over. It's a much bigger picture, and you know what they say about LA?”

“What? That there is no there there?”

“Well, it's kind of like that—there is no there up there.”

“Weren't you angry about dying? I mean, did you mention that to someone?”

“That's where the bigger picture comes in. It didn't seem relevant anymore.”

“Well, I don't believe, and if Spider thinks I'm going to go to AA, he's crazy. I had a friend who did AA and ended up selling her condo and moving to Montana. Besides, I'm not an alcoholic. I'm a drinker, yes, and once in a while I get drunk. Big deal. So what? And I'm still angry you're dead even if you aren't. And if somebody is up there pulling the strings, they've got an evil streak.”

“You need a bigger God, Mags,” Goodie says and flutters off.

“It's all luck anyway,” I shout after him. It's where you happen to end up on line. If you're near the beginning, there's a chance there'll be some hot food left, and if you're near the end, well too bad for you.

As it turns out I'm just a few blocks from my apartment, so there is some luck—it's lucky that Spider and I happen to live a few blocks from each other and lucky he was in the park that night and lucky he works at McManus's Bar and lucky I'm a nice person and not bad to look at so it wasn't so hard for him to be gallant and rescue me and make himself feel good. Hell, he should thank me. People like Spider need people like me. It's obvious he likes being a hero as evidenced by his nickname and
the framed comic book cover in the bathroom. So it works out all around, and I don't think it has anything to do with the big guy upstairs—or Sam Malone. And so far Goodie the fairy god-queen hasn't made much of a difference except to make me feel more crazy than usual—so there you have it. It's math and a few random mutated cells.

A car horn honks loudly as I step off the curb. I jump back. Yikes. I definitely need another cup of coffee. Yeah, I need more coffee and a shower and I should go to the gym. And I won't drink today. I don't have to. I'll show him. I'm not an alcoholic. I don't need to drink every single day like alcoholics do.

I stop at the Amsterdam Deli for a cup of joe. I also get a bagel with cream cheese because I'm starving. My stomach is begging for fuel. I tear open the plastic tab on the to-go cup and snap it back. I sip the coffee as I walk. The sun is shining. It's a beautiful day, dammit, and everything is great. I turn the corner onto my block.

“Maggie,” I hear yelled. I see Jack coming toward me at a run walk. “Where the hell have you been?”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.

“I was calling you all last night. At home and on your cell. You didn't answer.”

“Damn, batteries are dead again, I'm the worst cell phone person,” I say.

“I was worried. I drove into the city. You weren't home. I waited for you.”

Damn, I forgot that Jack still has a set of my keys.

“I stayed at my friend Patty's place down in the Village. We went out and it was late and I stayed down there. I do it a lot.
Have you met Patty? She's great. Want a sip of my coffee? Have you eaten? We can split this bagel.”

I say all of this as nonchalantly and quickly as possible in an attempt to defuse the situation. I'm not an actor for nothing.

“I'm sorry, Jack, I wasn't thinking,” I continue as I take Jack's arm and steer him toward my apartment. “We didn't have plans to get together, so I didn't let you know. I'm so used to being on my own. Here, have a sip of coffee. It's very good. Hazelnut. I got it at that place on Amsterdam.”

The ease with which I lie amazes me, and when I get on a good roll, I go on and on.

“Patty has such a wonderful apartment. You'll have to see it someday. She has a little backyard. We had coffee out there this morning and it's so lovely. Jessye Norman, the opera singer, used to live right behind Patty.” At some point in this fiction of an explanation I have taken on an English accent. “Their gardens butted up against each other and Patty used to hear Jessye singing right outside her—”

“Maggie, stop talking, will you? I don't care what Jessye Norman was singing. I haven't slept. I was very worried about you. And I don't believe a word you're saying.”

“You don't believe me?” I stop and look hard at Jack. “And who are you not to believe me? Huh? Who are you? I have a life. I had a life before I met you, and if I want to stay at my friend Patty's, I don't have to get a release form from you. Does your daddy know where you are every moment of the day? Do you check in with Daddy? And where is your mommy? Huh? Is that what this is all about? You miss your mommy?”

The slap comes hard across my face and it stings like crazy. My eyes tear up.

“Stop it!” Jack yells as he delivers the blow. “Stop it, Maggie.”

The doorman standing in front of the building on the corner comes walking quickly toward us.

“What's going on? What's wrong with you, mister?” he says. “Leave her alone or I'm calling the cops.”

“Thanks,” I say. “It's all right. We're just having a fight, you know.”

“I know he hit you and that's not right,” the doorman says.

“Thank you. I appreciate your concern. I really do. But I think we're all right now.” He goes back to his post. Funny thing, I don't even know the doorman's name. All these years we've just nodded in passing. But here he is, ready to defend me. Maybe he wouldn't be so quick to help if he knew the truth.

Jack has turned and is walking toward my apartment. I catch up with him.

“I'm sorry, Mags,” he says, his voice still trembling with anger. “I'm sorry I hit you. I don't do that. I just don't know what is going on, and I don't know why you are lying to me. I live with my dad because it's financially good for both of us and, when my mother walked out on him a few years ago, he was suicidal. I was afraid for him so I moved back home. And I don't know where my mommy is. She went to Las Vegas with a man, a man who played the saxophone. Now there's a bad made-for-TV movie for you, but I don't think seeing you has anything to do with that. I like being with you, but that seems to irritate you, so now I'm going to get my things and I won't be back. You've got problems and so do I. Who doesn't?”

We are in front of my building. Jack unlocks the door then hands me the keys. We get up to my apartment and I unlock that door. Jack goes in and gets his backpack.

“So long, Bixby,” he says, reaching down and giving the cat-boy a chuck under his chin. “So long, Sweet Pea,” he says under his breath, and then he gallops down the stairs before I have a chance to make the situation any worse. Well, there's a blessing.

Bixby stands at the front door looking up at me. He knows. I can feel it. Like I can feel the sting of Jack's slap. Cats are intuitive and he knows exactly what a shit I am. I'm a liar. I'm a cheat. I'm a fake. And the closer someone gets the louder I squeal. I don't even know why anymore. I go in the kitchen and get a beer out of the fridge. I pop the top and drink it down in one big gulp. Then I get another one and pop the top and drink it down in one big gulp, and then I get a third beer and pop the top and sit down on the couch and drink it down in one big, long, lonely swig.