The Voice of Alison Masters
Janice: Hey! Do you want to get a drink after work?
Me: Sure. Where do you want to go? (Not particularly, because I’ll probably hear about how FANTASTICALLY AMAZING, WONDERFULLY BRILLIANT, YOUR WHOLE LIFE IS!!!! Yeah, you!
Not that I want you to be unhappy. I REALLY DON’T. It’s just—I’m having a bit of a shit time. It’s hard to be around people who are deliriously happy when the cosmos is lining up for them. Also, because you’re my friend, I don’t want to bring you down with all my whining. It would be as if you were on a rollercoaster at the top of a hill that overlooked a sunshine-drenched field where children galloped about and eat cotton candy, while their delighted parents looked on, and I then summoned a thunderstorm that caused everyone to scurry for shelter. That’s a solid, NO.)
Janice: Let’s go to Jackie’s on 5th and 23rd. What time do you get off work?
Me: 5 PM. I think I can be there by 5:30. (I currently move at the same speed as a sloth. Today, I am clever enough to include extra buffer time in my E.T.A.)
Janice: Hmmm…That could be a problem. It’s Thursday. Jackie’s gets really busy. (Thursday is apparently the new Friday; or, that’s what I’ve heard.)
Me: Sigh. A few seconds go by. Then this text message pops up on my phone from Janice: Can you leave work early?
Me: (No. The people I work with hate me. They think I’m lazy and I don’t pull my own weight. If only they knew how difficult it is for me. Dragging my lunch bag to work is considered strenuous exercise.) I really can’t. I’ve had a couple of doctor’s appointments this week. I feel like I’m getting the side-eye at work. 😉
Janice: Lol. I know how that feels. Nothing serious, I hope?
Me: With the doctor’s appointments?
Janice: Yeah.
Me: No, I don’t think so. (Extreme fatigue: Could be cancer? Or, maybe heart problems? Burnout? Maybe, depression? No, it’s nothing. Don’t worry! All’s good!)
Janice: Ok. Well, I get to leave today at 3 PM. David said he really appreciated all my work in setting up that conference in Texas last week because it generated a lot of new sales leads for the Account Managers. He’s giving me the afternoon off. J I’ll get there early and hold a table for us. Ooh….I’ll check to see if Sandra can come!
Me: (Oh god. Can I back out now? I love Sandra. But honestly, trying to make conversation with two people will probably mean I won’t make it into work tomorrow. Oh, no. I just had a terrible thought. Please, please—that bar, Jackie’s—don’t be loud tonight.) That would be great! I haven’t seen Sandra forever! Can’t wait to hear all about her baby!
Janice: I talked to her last week. She sounded really happy. Her husband’s off on paternity leave too, so he can handle the kid. 😉
Me: Excellent. (I have no sarcastic thoughts related to that. I’m already too tired.)
Stomping feet smack against the carpeted floor as Roxy Lane, our VP of Communications, glares at me as she passes my workstation. My hands begin to shake. Shoulders roll forward in an attempt to conceal my phone as I mimic the actions of an espionage agent who’s received a secret assignment that I can’t share with anyone. I cradle my cell while bending forward and punch at the keys:
Me: Got to go! Roxy just saw me texting! I’ll see you at 5:30!
***
I’m standing outside the door to Jackie’s Bar and push the button on my phone. A glowing light flickers and then 5:45 stares back at me.
Shit. I’m late. How did that happen? I included extra time, buffer-time, sufficient sloth-moving time. Yet, there it is. Concrete proof, I’m late.
There’s nothing I can do about it now. With that, I struggle to push the door open. My mouth drops open at the scene before me. There’s a crushing crowd of alcohol-guzzling drinkers that sit at tables and stand at the bar. Overflow people fill in all the gaps. We’ve come here before on a Thursday night (me and Janice), but this is the busiest (worst!) I’ve ever seen it!
I want to run.
Before I can though, I hear a woman’s voice screech, “Ali!” I’m still staring at the crowd. I know there are limits on the number of people that can be in a bar. Certainly, this group has exceeded THAT requirement.
I swivel around when I hear a thump-thumping sound. My head pounds in time with the beat. It doesn’t give me the feeling of: I love the sound and I want to shake my butt! Instead, it’s more like: I think Ronda Rousey just punched me in the head! I whisper, “Crap, it’s Live Band Night.”
“MASTERS!” The woman’s voice bellows at me again.
My eyes glance over the heads and I see them. Sandra and Janice are standing on their booth seats, arms flapping as if they’re lost at sea, and I’m the Captain of a single passing ship who can save them. I drop my chin and bump shoulders through the crowd mumbling to no one in particular, “Sorry, excuse me… Sorry, excuse me…” I continue to gently elbow through the mass of beings. My arm knocks against a man. He spins around and sloshes his beer on me.
Great, now I smell like a brewery. Foamy suds drench my shirt. I swipe at it with my hand.
The beer-holder glares at me with annoyance. The man’s hair is black. His biceps bulge like he’s Superman. He’s good-looking, but he stinks of booze and cigarettes. No apology is made on his behalf. I stare at him and say, “Sorry.” His jaw twitches. Blood-shot eyes flicker at me. Then he returns to his conversation with no other acknowledgment of my existence.
As I approach Sandra and Janice’s booth, Janice blurts out, “Finally! What took you so long?” she asks as she wraps her arms around me.
“Two words,” I retort. “Roxy Lane.”
Janice’s face flattens. Her lower lip curls under like a pouting two-year-old. “Oh god, what did she do now?”
She specifically told me I had until the end of the week to finish the write-up for a marketing brochure. It’s for a new product our company is launching called: Wrinkle Eraser. But then on my way out tonight, she decided she wanted it today. I know I didn’t make a mistake on the due date because I found the email Roxy sent me with the deadline. Then I checked, double-checked, and triple-checked today’s date against the email: Today was NOT that day. Roxy did this at exactly 4:55 PM.
I wave my hand dismissively at Janice and Sandra shaking my head back and forth, saying, “Never mind, it’s no big deal.”
Sandra loops her arm around mine pulling me into the booth beside her. Feeling like a teenager again at my friend’s giddiness, I giggle.
“We ordered you a Sex in the City,” Sandra announces to me. Her eyes glow. Chin is raised triumphantly at me.
I grab the martini glass. I taste the sweet deliciousness of vodka and lemon. There’s something relaxing about holding a drink. All of my problems disappear. Well, disappear until the buzz wears off.
“So, you ordered me a Sex in the City, because I’m sexless?” I ask raising one eyebrow, smiling.
“No,” Sandra tilts her head at me like a confused Fido would as if she’s trying to figure me out.
“We ordered you a drink because it’s busy here AND you got here late!” Janice hisses.
Ugh, so much for my buzz. My eyes fill with tears. Why did I come tonight? I’m just going to ruin everyone’s good time. I should make an excuse—headache, nausea, tiredness—anything will do. “Sorry,” I mumble. “It’s been a long week.”
Sandra’s arm remains looped through mine. She says, “Don’t worry about it. We all have our bad days.”
Janice’s eyes narrow at me from across the table. Her smile has been replaced with a serious thin line. She says, “Listen, Alison, we all have our problems. But for some reason, you think you’ve got it worse than everyone else.”
“She apologized,” Sandra’s voice cuts her off. “Let it go,” she adds with a wave of her hand.
“Why?” Janice asks. “We always let it go with her. Every time she’s short-tempered with us. It’s not our fault that Jason left her.”
I twitch.
I can’t say anything.
“It’s my first night out in months.” Sandra’s voice is firm towards Janice.
I’m only half listening now. My mind is swimming with everything Janice said. Jason left me, probably for good reason, because I’m always short-tempered. God knows, if I’m like that with my friends, I must have been the same way with my live-in boyfriend.
My face flushes with heat. I blink back tears. I take a deep breath in sucking in the smell of stale booze, fried foods, and tobacco stench that clings to smoker’s clothes. It’s everywhere. A wave of nausea washes over me. My stomach flips in response to the putrid smell.
A voice says, “Hey? Are you alright?”
I try to open my eyes wide in an effort to remain calm. The tables, chairs, and mob of people flip in and out of my vision as if someone is flicking shutters open and closed in rapid succession.
My mind continues to cling to the evidence Janice has thrown at me. Sure, Janice’s moods are difficult to keep up with sometimes, but she speaks honestly, and never holds anything back. I really respect her and wish most of the time I could be more like her. Although, I would like to control my edit button a little better. Despite the old adage, brutal honesty is not always the best policy.
My head bobs up and down. Then, it sways from side to side as if I’m trying to steady my feet on shifting ground except, I’m not standing. I’m still sitting in the booth. At least, I think I am. It’s really hard to tell right now.
Sandra releases my arm. Her concerned face is the last thing I see before my head rolls backwards and continues to roll, until a hand cradles it, buffering it against the wall.
***
“What’s her problem?” a gruff voice asks. I swing my head forward. Before anyone can answer he says, “Drink too much?” as a whooping roar of laughter breaks out from the crowd.
Everything around me is dark. Slowly, I begin to see light. My eyes widen. I focus on the clustered group of people standing close to our table.
“She had one sip!” Janice’s voice cracks through the laughter as she leaps to her feet. Staring at the man she adds, “Now, leave us alone!”
The man’s eyes are fixed on Janice as if she were an ant. Janice’s rounded up height is five feet one inch and the man stands a good foot above her. She holds her ground. Unwilling to be bullied, she stands up to the giant above her. A moment later, the smiling, plaid-shirt-wearing-mammoth-man backs away, but he keeps one eye on the petite muscular woman in front of him until he turns, and marches in the direction of the bartender.
“Are you alright?” Janice asks spinning around when the man and the rest of the lookie-loos disperse.
A confused expression sweeps across her face. I follow her gaze and notice a man is holding my wrist with his thumb pressed against it. He’s partially kneeling with one leg bent. His eyes are focused on me.
“Do you know where you are?” the man says crisply cutting through the noise in the bar.
Do I know where I am? Jackie’s. Someone, get me another drink! My face twists at the man. “Jackie’s,” I answer. There’s a slant of bewilderment in my voice.
“What’s your name?” impatiently, he asks me.
Is he trying to pick me up? I mean—he’s kind of cute with his blonde, curly, shoulder-length hair; blue eyes, blue jeans, and a black t-shirt. Still, I’m pretty certain my face is white. Ewwww! Reaching behind my hair, I feel my neck. Cold sweat covers it. When I bring my fingertips forward to examine them they slide easily together with perspiration.
“What’s your name?” he asks a second time.
I blink at him. “Alison,” I mumble.
He casually looks past me to where Sandra sits. I turn around. Sandra’s head finishes nodding at the man interrogating me. Her face is pale. I glance over at Janice who’s seated across from me again. Janice’s mouth is partially open but she says nothing. Her eyes fill with tears.
“I’m a doctor,” the man announces.
Doctor? My mind sputters. Wildly, my eyelids flap together. Suddenly, I realize what’s just happened. I fainted. Worse yet, I fainted at Jackie’s. I’ve ruined Sandra’s first night out in months AND—Janice’s evening drink night. I’ll never be able to come here again because I’ll be: “The girl who fainted at the bar because she can’t hold her booze.”
“Has this ever happened before?” blonde, blue-eyed, doc asks.
“Not in front of people,” I whisper. It’s happened several times at work. Most of the time it’s after Roxy screamed at me, or sometimes she’ll only quietly berate me in front of my co-workers. I’ll then slink back to my workstation. Once there, sometimes my vision begins to darken and my desk sways for no good reason. My mouth will become parched as if I’ve run a marathon across the Sahara Desert. That’s how I know it’s going to happen. Before it does though, I’ll fold my arms together on my desk and rest my head on them, and wait for the “episode” to pass. When it’s over, I’ll pop my head up, drink some water, go to the bathroom to wipe the dampness away from the back of my neck, and throw some water on my face. After, I’ll continue working on whatever task is before me. No one is ever the wiser.
“What do you mean, not in front of people?” Janice asks. “When did this start happening?”
My face flushes. “It started a couple of years ago.”
The doctor crouched beside me says, “How are you feeling now?”
“It’s passed—like, it normally does.”
“Okay. Do you want me to call an ambulance? Just to be sure?”
“No,” I wave at him. “I’ll be fine.”
Besides, I really want to salvage what remains of our drink night.
***
Doc is back on the other side of the bar. Every now and then, I catch him glimpse over at me, waiting to see if I’ll drop again. I know that’s not going to happen. I’m 100% certain.
Okay. Well, 90 % certain.
Okay, you know what—I’ve never been very good at calculating odds. I guess it could happen again.
“What do you mean: This has been happening for a couple of years? You’ve never mentioned it to us!” Janice’s lower lip drops open with the final sentence. A second later, she snaps it shut. Her fingers are clasped tightly together and then she releases them. Frustration seeps from her. With a huff, she wiggles out of her side of the booth, stands, and pushes herself in beside me. We inadvertently squish Sandra into the corner. Sandra grunts in protest at being crushed. I’m sandwiched between my two best friends.
“You know,” Sandra starts, “I’m claustrophobic!”
Sandra squirms down the booth seat. Before I know it, she’s under the table. A few seconds later, her head pokes up to where Janice was sitting. She’s comfortably by herself, on the other side of the booth. Satisfied, she folds her arms in front of her and smiles.
I’ve decided something: My friends are weird. Who does something like that at a bar? I always thought after you had a kid, you would be extra proper. No joking. No laughing. No, doing crazy stuff like crawling under a table to get away from being squished into a corner by your two friends. Or, for that matter—standing on a booth seat flapping your arms trying to get a person’s attention.
Then for no reason, Sandra’s eyes gloss over with tears. “Also, I’m not certain, but I think I might be suffering from postpartum depression.” Her eyes flip down to the table. She won’t look at us.
“What?” Janice asks. “I thought you loved motherhood?”
“I do! My baby has that baby smell. She gurgles and smiles. I love her to pieces! But she also throws up on me and wakes me up every four hours to feed her. I sometimes feel like I’m disappearing—as if I’m no one anymore—that I’m simply a milk pumping machine!” In a rush, her filter-free, hurricane words tumble out of her.
“That’s ridiculous!” Janice shouts. “You had a baby. Sure, I guess some things change. But you’re still the same person. We don’t see you any differently. Right, Ali?”
“Absolutely!” I jump at the chance to agree with Janice. (Oh god, did I really think that Sandra would become instantly transformed and become someone else because she had a kid? Why can’t mothers be fun? You know, stand on booth seats and flap their arms at their friends when they have a night out? Clearly, I have some deep-rooted incorrect assumptions about motherhood that I’ve picked up from somewhere. I’m placing a post-it-note in my brain to think about that one later.)
“Becky had a fever of 102. We had to take her to the hospital.” Sandra shouts-whispers to us over the noise as her lower lip trembles. “I was in hysterics. I thought my little girl could…” Her voice wobbles on the “could” and then trails off.
“Oh god,” Janice says. Her eyes skip over to me. We both reach our hands across the table and place them on top of Sandra’s.
“Babies are a lot of work,” I begin, “and Becky got sick because she has a little baby immune system. It’s new and for a little while, she’ll get sick more often. But as she gets older, she’ll get tougher and won’t be so vulnerable to illnesses.” I say it with an authoritative voice that surprises me. (Where did I hear that? Is that true? It seems like it’s true. Flu shot? Yes, flu shot! It’s suggested that babies get their flu shots because they can’t fight the flu as well as adults and are more likely to be hospitalized. My deductive reasoning skills at work! Ta-Da! Hmm….I really hope what I said is true?)
“Uhm…Scott lost his job last week,” Janice blurts out. Her eyes skim the bar as if she’s searching for something.
“What?” I stare dumbfounded at her. I suddenly realize my mouth is open. I clasp it shut before anyone notices. (How did I miss that? There must have been signs? Some body language she would have given off that indicated she was stressed?)
“Yeah, and we have a lot of debt. If I lost my job tomorrow, we’d be financially screwed. I’m so scared.” Janice shakes her head from right to left as if she can’t believe it herself.
“Roxy’s making me crazy.” (Yup, it’s confession time.) “What happened to me here tonight—happens at least once a week in the office. Roxy’s always hovering over me: watching me, signaling me out. I feel like I can’t do anything right.” I pause and then say, “So, anxiety attacks.”
“Geez, you need to get out of there. That job’s not worth it,” Sandra says.
“Maybe we should get out of here,” Janice says, shoving her drink across the table. “I don’t know how you guys feel but I could use a real talk. You know, somewhere we can hear each other but other people can’t.”
A crooked smile sweeps across my lips. (Inside joke.)
But then, I decide I want to share it with my friends. “Uhmm….Well, I just fainted. So,” I raise my eyebrows, “I would be good with leaving!”
Sandra and Janice, both snort with laughter.
We all get to our feet. As Sandra stands, she says, “Hey, I don’t get out very often. I’m happy to go anywhere. Take me to the gas station, and it’s as if you took me to a free concert in the park and Adele’s singing!”
Janice’s face contorts. She says, “I think there’s a diner attached to a gas station?”
“Oh yeah, it’s called Break Here! I’ve been there. Mostly, they have breakfast food but it’s good!” Quickly I add, “Oddly enough.”
Dimples pinch at Janice’s cheeks as she says, “You’ve been there before?”
“Yeah,” I say confidently. (Hey, we’re all about the sharing now.) “I went there after work sometimes. Most of the time, I had coffee and lemon meringue pie. But sometimes, I would have breakfast. It was my time to cool off before I went home to face Jason. I didn’t want to bring my work problems home to him.”
Janice’s eyes flip up to me. Her smile evaporates. “I didn’t mean what I said…” There’s a pause, as she struggles to find the right words, “….about Jason—”
I raise my hand.
She stops.
I loop my arm through Janice’s arm. I spin around. Sandra stands back from us. I reach for Sandra’s hand and pull her towards me. I face Janice again. Quietly, I say, “I know.”