39.

DAVE WAS IN such good shape because he was a triathlete. He'd begun competing in 1981 and had been in over twenty-four triathlons. During the first thirty days of the probation period, I did great. I came in on time (usually by a hair), and I didn't miss any work (though I did have to leave early a couple of times for "doctor appointments"). Anyway, the firm seemed to be content with my minimal improvement.

Six weeks after being forced to put me on probation, Dave was training for the biking portion of an upcoming triathlon. He was riding his eighteen-speed road bike in the bike lane on Highway 101 in Cardiff-by-the-Sea, a small town in north San Diego County. Concentrating on his speed, Dave was going around twenty miles an hour. He was riding with traffic so he didn't see the car approaching behind him. Something distracted the driver who drifted into the bike lane and plowed into Dave.

Dave slid across the hood. His head hit the windshield on the passenger's side. His body went over the roof, across the trunk, and fell by the roadside just short of the bridge that crossed the lagoon outlet to the ocean.

Dave was rushed to the hospital. The doctors didn't know if he was going to make it. His condition was up in the air for weeks. His neck was broken at the C5-6 level and he had a compound fracture of his left leg. Luckily, he was wearing a helmet so there was minimal brain injury.

I got the news when I arrived at work the next day. I was hungover from my birthday celebration the night before and the black beauties I'd taken hadn't kicked in yet, so it took a moment for me to understand what the office manager was saying.

"What do you mean 'hit'?" I snapped. My head was pounding, my stomach ached, and I felt like I had to barf. I was in no mood for games.

"He was riding his bike and was hit by a car. He's in intensive care. Cup, his neck is broken," she replied softly.

I felt my legs go numb. I would have fallen to the floor, except she caught me and helped me to a chair. I put my head in my hands and started crying. The officer manager suggested maybe I should take the rest of the day off. No one ever had to tell me those words twice. I immediately left the office and went to the corner bar. It was one of my "regular" spots when my speed supply got low, so the bartender knew me.

"Hey, Cup, your usual?" he asked as he began making the Long Island Iced Tea with no coke and no ice.

I couldn't respond. All I could do was cry. Not wanting to pry, he let me cry. And I cried and cried and cried. I cried for Dave and his family. I cried for me (I didn't have any money and didn't know how I was going to pay for those damn drinks!). The drunker I got, the more I cried. The drunker I got, the louder I cried. It wasn't very long before I was very drunk and wailing fiercely. Tears gushed down my face. Wide, black mascara streaks made my face look like I'd stuck it up against freshly painted bars, but had failed to see the "wet paint" sign. Snot flowed out my nose with each wail and spit flew from my mouth with each yell. I'd begun to cuss out loud to no one in particular. I was cussing out the bastard who'd hit Dave. Luckily, it was early morning, so the bar was pretty much empty.

Still, the bartender was well aware of how I could be when I was drunk, so he let me sit and cuss and vent my grief. Cussing was one thing, but once I started throwing empty drink glasses (I never threw full glasses), he refused to serve me any more alcohol, telling me that I needed to go home. And he meant it too-that is, until I told him the whole tragic story. Feeling sorry for Dave (and for me), he agreed to keep the drinks coming, except he made me switch to vodka. He also said that having to deal with something like that, the drinks were on him.

After several more drinks, I was good and drunk. I decided to return to work (the alcohol told me to go back and see if I could be of help somehow). This time, though, instead of being irate about my being drunk during work hours, the firm seemed to understand. As she put me in a cab, the office manager told me they realized that I'd gotten drunk because I couldn't handle Dave's accident.

Dave's accident was tragic for everyone. And everyone seemed to expect me to take it hard. Now, it really wasn't my intention to take advantage of Dave's misfortune. But once I realized it provided me with the firm's understanding and, most important, acceptability of my drunkenness and tardiness, I went to work drunk and late for the next several weeks. At first, the firm put up with it, believing I was drinking my grief away. But after about a month, they decided I'd grieved enough. I was warned not to come to work drunk again.

"No problem," I flippantly replied and switched back to speed.

The doctors determined that Dave would live, although he would be paralyzed from the neck down. He was in intensive care for three months. I wasn't able to visit him during this time because only close family was allowed into the intensive-care unit. So I just kept up my usual routine and waited. I hated going to work without Dave there. He was really the only person that liked me. Everyone else thought I was weird and mean. (Okay, I usually was mean. But I wasn't weird!) Not wanting to be at work made it easier not to show up. During the next four months, I called in sick at least fifteen times, killed off two relatives, and was late almost every other day. Still no one said anything. I figured that with Dave's tragedy and all, they'd forgotten I'd been put on probation. What I didn't know is that they were just giving me enough rope to let me hang myself.

After intensive care, Dave was moved to a rehabilitation facility. I went to visit him a few times. Each time I went, I was loaded, though he was too sedated to know it. But his wife and the hospital staff did. The nurses were sick of me. If I was speeding, I'd be rushing from room to room, talking a mile a minute to patients I didn't even know, fucking with the controls on their televisions or automatic beds. If I was drunk, I was loud, obnoxious, and staggering along the halls. If I was on downers, I cried the entire time I was there. I even cried at commercials. At the end of my third visit, his wife informed me that if I came back drunk or loaded, I would not be able to see Dave. I told her to "kiss my ass" and stomped off.

I really tried not to get loaded the next time I went to visit Dave. But no matter how I tried to not drink or use, I couldn't. I don't know where I lost control. One day, I thought the booze and drugs were providing me with the peace and solitude I needed to get through the day. The next, they were working against me, flooding me with anxiety and depression and leaving me with increasingly severe hangovers. I didn't want to get drunk or loaded, but I couldn't stop. Try as I might to stay sober, I always ended up drunk. Dave's situation wouldn't, in fact couldn't, change that. Unsurprisingly, the next time I went to visit Dave I showed up drunk. His wife refused to let me in. I cussed everybody out and left. I wouldn't see or talk to Dave again for over twelve years.

It was inevitable that the firm's patience and sympathy would run out. Several months after Dave's accident, the firm notified me that I had two weeks to find another job. They said they weren't firing me; they were "letting me go" because, with Dave gone, there wasn't enough work to justify keeping me around. I suspected what they really meant was that, with Dave gone, there wasn't enough protection to keep me around.

Even though I'd been with Dave's firm longer than I'd been at any job, I couldn't believe I was already being forced to look for another one. But I knew I had to find one. The only semblance of normalcy in my life was my job. All around me, friends were losing control of their drug use. But I kept myself fooled because I had a job and the uncanny ability to periodically "fix up" my life to resemble normalcy. My life was a mess, but I refused to see it.

I just had to get another job.

40.

ALTHOUGH I WAS sick of having to find yet another job, I got busy doing so. I got the paper and perused ad after endless ad trying to figure out which position I should apply for. I really wasn't too particular about where my next job would be. Nor was I ever concerned that I wouldn't get one. The shit on my resume was just too damn good-it didn't need checking. Besides, I never had a problem getting a job; my problem was keeping one.

After four months of looking, my patience with a job search and checking ads started wearing thin. The meth I'd snorted earlier kicked in full swing, causing my eyes to move across the paper so fast, all of the ads began to blur into one. As the speed zoomed my heartbeat into overtime, I began breathing heavy and sweating profusely. I wasn't going to be able to sit still much longer.

Fuck it! I screamed to myself. I closed my eyes and slammed my finger into the paper. When I raised it, it was pointing to an ad placed by one of the oldest firms in San Diego. I decided that firm would do. I called the number and scheduled an interview for the following week.

You'd think that, as many job interviews as I'd been on, I would no longer be nervous about the process. But I was. I entered the building, frightened and doubtful as to whether I would actually be able to keep up the charade I'd been putting on for years.

I got into the elevator and pushed the round button marked 19. As the elevator jerked up toward the nineteenth floor, I considered my situation. I was applying for yet another job. I never seemed to be able to keep one longer than a year, most times even less. The gentle Voice that had been quiet for years now, speaking up only now and then to warn me not to go down a certain street or not to buy dope, now began to talk to me. It hinted that maybe things weren't as good as I'd been trying to convince myself they were.

Maybe, just maybe, the Voice calmly stated, things are actually getting worse. And maybe, just maybe, it's time you thought about doing something about it.

The elevator reached the nineteenth floor, and I stepped out into the pretty oak-paneled hallway that led from the elevators into the firm's reception area. I hardly noticed the expensive art that lined the walls, or the large fancy silver sign informing me that I was about to enter the office of "the firm."

Could the Voice be right? I asked myself as I stood in the center of the hall. I still didn't question where the Voice came from. Nor did I care. Since I was little, I just called it "the Voice." Besides, who was talking was never important to me-what it said usually was. I remained as still as a statue while I stood in the center of the hall staring down at the floor in deep, deep thought about the Voice's suggestion.

Naw, that's not it, I suddenly replied to myself.

Then what is it? the Voice asked.

I thought hard for another few minutes. Then it came to me. It was just nerves! That's all it was-nerves!

Gurl, you trippin'! I scolded myself. You just need a lil somethin' to ease your nerves and you'll be all right. You are fine! Look at you! You're on a job interview! Do people with drug problems go on job interviews? Do people with booze problems change their speech?

Fuck no! I yelled to myself.

Yup, that was it-nerves! I just needed to do something about my nerves. I asked the receptionist to show me to the bathroom.

Sitting on a toilet in one of the stalls, I tooted what was left of the meth I'd bought the night before and popped a black beauty, forcing it down my dry throat. (I no longer needed water to take pills. I could dry mouth any pill-upper or downer.) The meth seemed to instantly take effect. I sat and waited for the beauty to kick in.

I'd entered the bathroom scared, doubtful, unsure, and pondering my life. A few minutes later, however, I emerged confident, secure about my life and my employability, and prepared to let the firm know that they should be happy I was even in their legal establishment.

How silly of me to think I could have a problem with anything!

I skipped up to the receptionist and proudly and loudly informed her that she could announce my arrival. Obviously not as impressed with me as I was, she nonchalantly buzzed the officer manager.

The office manager was a black chick named Rhonda. I was surprised to see a black woman managing such a large firm. She gave me the usual grimace as she scanned me up and down, but admitted that she was impressed with my resume. That's when I decided she was cool.

She led me to the office of the attorney whom I'd be working for, a lawyer named Ken Rose. I was used to a large, pretty firm. So the walk down the corridor to the lawyer's office wasn't as impressive as it had been when I'd interviewed at Dave's firm.

As Rhonda guided me into the office, a tall handsome man stood up, gave me a firm handshake, and instructed me to sit down in one of the two chairs in front of his desk.

I sat in one of the chairs and Rhonda sat in the other. No one said a word as Ken looked over my resume.

"I must tell you," he stated, once he finally looked up, "your resume is quite impressive."

Of course it is! I smugly said to myself. I'd gotten very good at forging resumes and was quite proud of my ability to do so.

"But," Ken continued, "I'm quite uncomfortable calling you 'Cupcake.' "

I didn't understand his hesitation. No one ever had a problem with my name-my attire, yes; my drinking, yes; my attitude while drinking, yes; my tardiness, yes; my absenteeism, yes. But never my name. I didn't know how to respond.

"You see," he explained, "I'm an employment lawyer. Do you know what that is?"

The quizzical look on my face told him I didn't.

"I represent employers in labor- and employment-related matters, like wrongful termination, sexual harassment, etc. So you can see the problem it might cause if a client hears me calling you 'Cupcake.' "

Personally, I still didn't see the problem. I wasn't sure of what "sexual harassment" was. But, I surely knew what sex was, and during all of my years of "business partners" up and down the California coast, no one had ever found my name to be a problem.

"Is there another name you go by?" he asked.

I was insulted by the question.

"Cupcake is my name!" I sternly replied.

"I didn't mean to offend you," he calmly stated. "But, 'Cupcake' will definitely take some getting used to. Do you have a middle name?"

Did I? I had to think about it for a moment. Then it came to me.

"La'Vette." My stomach jumped and my forehead furrowed just at the mention of the name. I still hated it, and I still hated the sperm-donor-asshole who'd given it to me.

"Then, IF you're hired, that's what I'll call you."

Well then, this sho in hell ain't gon' work! I told myself.

Ken changed the subject and began to discuss how impressed he was with my shorthand and typing speeds. I was enjoying his praise until he said that, if I was hired, he actually intended to use my shorthand skills.

Use them? I bolted straight up in my chair. No one ever "used" my shorthand. All my previous employers just noticed it on the resume and were impressed by the fact that it was there.

I hadn't used my shorthand in years! Sure, I still remembered some of it and could probably even take some stuff down. But there was no way in hell I would ever be able to transcribe what I'd written!

"You look surprised," Ken stated as he sat staring at me suspiciously.

"Uh, y-y-yeah," I stuttered.

Think fast, Cup. Think fast!

"It's just that my last two employers never used my shorthand, so I'm probably a little slow. But I've already signed up for a refresher class at a community college, so I'm sure my speed will increase quickly."

Thank goodness for uppers. Not only did they make me move fast, they also helped me to think fast.

"That's fine," he replied. "I admire the fact that you took it upon yourself to take a class to improve your skills."

Shit, I did too.

Obviously satisfied with the explanation, he sat back in his chair and continued going over my resume.

"If you're hired, I'll give you a couple of months before I expect you to be able to take dictation at a decent speed. But I DO expect you to be able to take it."

I got excited because he sounded as if he intended to hire me.

"One more thing," he said.

Aw, shit. Here we go.

"I'll need to see some past performance reviews from prior employers. Can you get them?" he asked.

Is this dude serious? I asked myself. But the more pressing question was, Could I?

"S-s-s-ure," I replied slowly. All the while my mind was racing.

The interview went on a few minutes more, then Ken stood up, letting me know it was over.

Rhonda grabbed my arm and led me to the door.

"Get us those reviews and we'll get back to you," she said as I stepped into the elevator.

Once at home while smoking a joint and drinking bourbon, I pondered my situation. It seemed I had two problems. If I got the job, I'd have to find a nighttime shorthand course. But first and foremost, I had to get my hands on some performance reviews.

I damn sure couldn't use any of my own.

I thought and thought and thought. Nothing came to me-at first. Then, just as I was getting ready to toot some meth, an idea did come. Actually, the higher I got and the more I thought about it, the solution became quite simple. I just hoped it would work.

The next day, I called my old friend Sara. She still worked in the vocational school's administration office. Just as I suspected, she confirmed that the school conducted annual reviews of its teachers. And she just happened to have the forms on her computer. She said that, for fifty dollars, she could get me four review forms.

Fifty bucks! Ouch! That was a half gram of coke!

Perceiving myself to be a clever businesswoman, I countered Sara's offer.

"How about twenty-five dollars for two?"

Being the good dope fiend that she was, and in need of money, she accepted.

With me standing over her shoulder, we created performance reviews. Of course, we had to make minor adjustments to some of the categories on the forms-like instead of "interaction with students," we changed it to "interaction with others." And instead of "ability to encourage students to learn," we changed it to "ambitious and quick to learn." Soon, we'd properly fixed all of the categories.

Because the rest of the form needed to be filled out by hand, I no longer needed Sara's computer skills. Her job was done. I paid her her money and left. I did the rest of the job at home since the only thing left was to complete my "ratings." Each category required the "employee" to be rated from one to ten, with ten being the highest. Not wanting to brag on myself too much, I went down each form and inserted a mixture of nines and tens. I signed Dave's name to one. Then, so both forms would not have identical penmanship, I had one of the partiers sign Jack's name to the other. When I was done, I admired my work. Just as I'd done with my resumes, they looked authentic and credible.

"Damn, I'm good!" I said as I patted myself on the back and took a swig off a 40 of Schlitz Malt Liquor. It felt good going down as a chaser for the bourbon, which was burning my throat.

"You sure the fuck are!" the partier who'd signed Jack's name shouted as he took a long hit off a joint.

I loved impressing my party friends. It always felt good to amaze the lil people.