No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella (8 page)

7

MUNCH RETURNED TO her ground-floor apartment in
Reseda. She kept the tiny one-bedroom apartment spotless, cleaning
the floors on her hands and knees and polishing all the chrome
fixtures until they sparkled. When she had first moved in she had
regrouted and recaulked the bathroom. She had also found that when
she watered the little patch of brown grass in front of her door, it
came to life. Now her unit boasted a luxurious green lawn, even if it
was no bigger than a three-by-five throw rug. The bush of blue
hydrangea under her living room window had also responded well to a
little care and encouragement.

It was a far cry from the house in Venice she had
grown up in, where cockroaches scattered when she turned on the light
in the kitchen. She used to hate the sight of the large bugs
scurrying across the countertops, but there seemed to be no getting
around it. Leaving the lights on didn't work. They would still be
waiting for her when she returned, and without the sudden intrusion
of 150 watts, they wouldn't even have the decency to hide.

On her way home, she had stopped at the market to
pick up cookies for the meeting. She showered and changed, then
waited out front for her friend Danielle to pick her up. Ruby was the
one who suggested the arrangement. She said Danielle needed the
responsibility and Munch needed to learn to depend on someone else.

Danielle finally pulled up at eight-fifteen. "Been
waiting long?" she asked as she leaned over the seat of her
Datsun to open the passenger door. Her large lips were painted a
bright shade of red. "You wouldn't believe the afternoon I had."

Munch almost smiled. "We'll make it in time."

Danielle was always late and she was always sorry.

"You should let me fix this door," Munch
said.

"I still owe you for all the other work you've
done."

"Don't worry about it," Munch said, meaning
it. She'd much rather people be in debt to her than the other way
around.

When they arrived at the clubhouse, they found Ruby
already inside arranging literature on the table next to the coffee
urn.

'We have a little time left before the meeting
starts," Ruby said, reaching for a doughnut. "If you wanted
to talk."

"I saw an old friend today" Munch began,
rubbing the ball of her foot into the parquet floor of the meeting
hall.

"Is this someone you used with? You know how I
feel about that."

"Right, end of story." The matter was an
ongoing battle between the two of them. She had tried to explain to
Ruby once that not all her old friends had been terrible. Deb, for
instance, had always been a good influence. Deb didn't use a needle.
When Munch partied with Deb, they usually only drank. Another lower
companion, Ruby had said, with a finality that got Munch's back up.
Her sponsor didn't know everything about everything. Munch had even
said as much. Ruby agreed that she didn't know everything, but about
some things she was pretty damn sure. Munch decided not to tell her
sponsor about the Snakepit.

"Why do I get the sense that this isn't the end
of it?" Ruby asked.

'Well, it's not like the guy is the Antichrist. Maybe
I should have tried to carry the message to him or something. Isn't
that what we're supposed to be doing?"

"Honey he's not your responsibility He's in the
hands of that Old Boy upstairs," Ruby said.

Munch didn't want to say anything, but there were
many times when she suspected that that same old boy had gone
fishing. Like try the decade of her own teen years.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," she said,
stubbing out her cigarette as she exhaled the last of the smoke from
her lungs. " better go grab a seat."

"Call me."

"Sure."

"You say that and then I don't hear from you."

"I'll call you. Promise."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Munch cracked her little lopsided grin. "There
are no big deals, remember?"

Ruby pushed her shoulder. "Get out of here."

Munch feinted left and raised her fists into a
pugilistic pose. She left Ruby laughing and shaking her head. As she
crossed the room, she kept her eyes averted from the crowds by
pretending concern over spilling her coffee. Once upon a time, she
had been bold—not afraid of going head to head with anyone,
anytime. Sobriety had mined that—another of the side effects of
getting well.

Danielle, as usual, was surrounded by a group of
admiring men. She was wearing a hooded navy blue sweatshirt and
somehow managed to look sexy in it. Perhaps it was the skin-tight
jeans and four-inch heels, Munch thought. Or maybe it was the way her
curly dark hair fell playfully down her back and shoulders all the
way to her belt. Danielle also had a way of looking at a guy like
together they had a secret. Munch had tried to imitate that coy smile
once with a tow truck driver she thought she might like to get to
know better. He had asked if he had food on his nose or something.

"You want me to get us some seats?" she
said. Danielle turned at the sound of Munch's voice.

"Just a sec," she said, grabbing Munch's
hand and holding it as she wound up her conversation with the guy she
was talking to. "Monday then. Pick me up at seven-thirty"

The guy leaned over and kissed Danielle's cheek.

She graced him with one of her secret smiles.

Munch felt her palm begin to sweat. Danielle's
fingers were securely laced within hers. As much as part of her
enjoyed the expression of friendship, the rest of her recoiled at
holding hands with another woman. She pulled loose.

She cast a covert glance toward the group of men
lounging against the back wall. "So you got a date Monday huh?"

Danielle threw back her head and laughed.

Munch watched the men watch her.

"It's an AA date. A meeting and coffee
afterwards."

"Beats a blank."

"Do you want me to ask him if he's got a
friend?"

"Naw, then I'd have to watch both of them ogling
you all night."

Danielle laughed again. "Don't exaggerate."
She looked around the room, her gaze lingering on the group of men by
the coffee machine. Munch noted how the men puffed out their chests.
Danielle ran her hand through her hair. Munch noted that, too.

"Anything here look good to you?" Danielle
asked, as if consulting a menu.

"Every time I think a guy is cute," Munch
said, "he raises his hand as a newcomer"

"Sounds like you're still attracted to the
disease."

"That's what Ruby says."

"I know," Danielle admitted. "That's
what she always used to tell me when I was new."

"So what's the answer?"

"Time, just give it time. C'mon," Danielle
said, grabbing Munch's hand again. "The meetings about to
start."

They took their seats and the meeting began. Munch
had trouble following the discussion. She kept thinking about that
boot dangling from the open truck door, and then those bodies in
Venice. What were the odds that she'd be at two murder scenes in the
same day? She felt as if she existed in a bubble, protected by her
secrets. When that bubble finally burst, she suspected, reality would
come crushing in. But until then, she planned to coast on this
curious sense of detachment as long as possible.

At the coffee break, Danielle flitted from man to
man. Munch envied the ease with which she made small talk. Munch sat
in her folding chair and watched the large clock on the wall. She
wondered if this was how she'd be spending the rest of her life,
sitting on other peoples furniture and waiting for time to pass.

What was the point of it all? You grow up, you go to
work, you get married and have kids so they can grow up, go to work,
and get married. Eventually everybody dies. She didn't see her own
involvement in the life equation. Maybe if she had her own kid, life
would feel different. Relationships with men didn't seem to be
happening. The few dates she had been on had all ended in disaster.
Ruby had suggested that maybe Munch shouldn't reveal so much about
herself, that it scared men away Munch said she didn't want secrets
in her relationships. A man took her how she was or forget him.
Besides, she argued, the guy had a right to know what he was getting
into. Ruby maintained that not all needed to be revealed on the first
date.

The meeting started again. While the speaker droned
on, Munch sat back in her chair feeling disconnected. Without really
thinking about what she was doing, she grasped the biceps of her left
arm with her right hand and made a fist until the veins popped up.

At last ten o'clock arrived. Munch stood by the door,
holding up the wall and waiting for Danielle to say all her goodbyes.

"You about ready?" Danielle finally asked,
standing next to Munch, her face flushed.

"If you are."

"God, yes. Let's get out of here."

In the car, Danielle said, "I really admire how
comfortable you are within yourself."

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean, I can never sit still. I jump from
person to person like a madwoman. I don't even know what I say to
half of them. And then I'd look over at you sitting there so
perfectly relaxed and I wished I could be calm like that."

"Any more calm, I'd be dead," Munch said.
She looked out the window then back at her friend. "Do you ever
miss it?"

"Miss what?"

"The life, the excitement, the rush?"

"The jail, the shakes . . ."

"Yeah, yeah," Munch interrupted. "Thats
how we're conditioned to think about it now. But this is me talking
to you. Don't you just sometimes wish you could be out there in the
thick of it again?"

"I think that's why I go so overboard on the sex
thing," Danielle said. "It's like the only thrill I have
left." She turned off Sherman Way and onto Munch's street.
Without looking over at Munch, she said in a softer voice, "Some
people call me a slut."

"Hey fuck 'em."

"I probably already have."

They were still laughing when Munch got out at her
apartment building.

"Are we still on for tomorrow?" Danielle
asked. Munch grabbed the door handle. "Unless you've got other
plans."

"We had a deal. Although I still think you sold
yourself short."

"I need a lot of help." She stepped out of
the car.

"It'll be fun. You'll see. I still can't believe
you don't like to shop."

"There's something I need to do in the morning,"
Munch said, looking everywhere but at her friend, "something I
need to check on."

"The stores don't open until ten."

"I'll call you in the morning."

"All right," Danielle said as she pulled
away "I'm counting on that."

When Munch entered her apartment, she realized she
wasn't a bit tired. Sleep would be out of the question for at least
another three or four hours. The events of the day swirled in her
head. She knew they would haunt her when she closed her eyes. The
committee inside her head attacked at night, when she was the most
vulnerable. Tonight they would come at her from all sides, nagging
her with questions that she couldn't answer.

She picked up a sponge and wiped down the clean
counters, opened the refrigerator and moved a carton of milk an inch
to the right.

She shouldn't have come home right after the meeting.
On Friday nights, people went on from the meeting to local coffee
shops, where they would talk, catching up on the latest fatalities:
who had gone back out and died or gone to jail or had their ear
bitten off. The survivors would sit around and drink coffee and smoke
cigarettes and wonder how to fill the long hours before sleep.
Tonight she hadn't been in the mood for more talk and hadn't made
herself available to be asked.

Ruby was always telling her to go to the AA dances
and picnics. Why all this emphasis on group activities? she had asked
once. Ruby said that alcoholics and addicts were anti-social—another
thing to change. Sometimes Munch wanted to clamp her hands over her
ears and shield her brain from the steady bombardment of shoulds and
should nots. Sometimes this being restored to sanity felt a lot like
going crazy She wished she could just take a break from it all. The
kitchen clock read a little past eleven. She sighed. The spiral
notebook on her kitchen table called to her, and she eyed it guiltily

Ruby had been after her to start writing another AA
fourth-step "searching and fearless moral" inventory When
Munch pointed out that she had already done one, Ruby explained that
these things worked in layers, like onions.

Munch had no idea where to begin. The Big Book of
Alcoholics Anonymous was no help. The example it gave had a mythical
inventory-taker writing about feeling resentful towards a Mr. Brown
for "his attention to my wife." Maybe that kind of stuff
was helpful back in 1939, when alcoholics were all men and strictly
boozers. But for a modem-day dope fiend such as herself, that Mr.
Brown's-attention-to-my-wife shit just didn't cut it.