Читать книгу The Last Time I Was Me - Cathy Lamb - Страница 7

Women can look so innocent.

And a few of them might be. Innocent, I mean.

Most aren’t.

Most have secrets. Pretty big ones, if I do say so myself.

They silently nurture raging passions they’ve smothered for years because life has insisted they do so. They hide who they truly are because they’re in a box and no one in their families would feel comfortable if they broke out of that box like a rose on speed. They think non-innocent thoughts like: Should I castrate my husband? Should I leave my family and pesky in-laws, head for Tahiti, and have a fling with a lifeguard while downing daiquiris?

Women can smile and be gracious and kind. And most women usually are. Gracious and kind, I mean.

But to assume that a woman, any woman, is completely innocent is to be completely naïve.

For example, take my recent not-so-innocent nervous breakdown.

The breakdown happened to occur in front of eight-hundred-thirty-four advertising execs and their minions. All of whom think they are imminently cool and vitally necessary to the earth’s continual spinning around the sun.

As the creative director for a stratospherically successful advertising firm in Chicago I suppose you could say I went out in a big way.

My mother had died two months before.

I had also found out that my longtime live-in boyfriend had not one current girlfriend on the side, but a small harem. This had prompted me to retaliate against him in a colorful and creative manner using, among other things, a hot-glue gun. The police were called, handcuffs were snapped, charges were filed, and now I had to be in court in a few months to fight assault charges.

Plus, Jared Nunley, the boyfriend, who will heretofore be known as Slick Dick, was suing me for every nickel I had.

Me, an ex-soloist in my church choir, who sold the most cookies three years in a row in Girl Scouts, had charges filed against her for assault.

The truly bad thing about it was that my ex had no lasting damage done to his body.

I had worked days and nights for a week for this particular presentation and Jessica, my insanely competitive twenty-three-year-old intern, kept implying that I was creaky-old and out of touch, with one of those saccharine sweet smiles you want to rip off people’s faces. I suddenly felt this insidious crack in my body breaking me open right up at the podium.

It was a small crack starting in my small toe on my left foot. The crack raced by my ankle like a miniature rocket. The crack said, “Cancer has killed your mother. You are alone.” The crack wound up my thigh. “You have nothing,” the crack mocked me. “Your fun little town house doesn’t count. Neither does your sports car. Neither do all your little trips. To say nothing of that silly shoe collection of yours.” The crack zipped up between my legs and another crack joined it right in the heart of my femaleness.

“You have worked incessantly for almost twelve years, with hardly a break. You have traveled to keep persnickety, picky clients happy all over the world who would only be satisfied if you brought them Pluto. You have handled other creative people, most in their twenties, who are crazed and edgy and who insist on riding their motorcycles through the building for inspiration, wear no shoes, drink beer for breakfast, and don’t wash.

“Jared cheated on you,” the crack whispered. “You slept with him, and only him, for two years. God knows how many women he slept with during that time. You paid for all the groceries, including that vile sushi he loved, cat food for his mangy overgrown rat, his various electronic toys, and his nose-hair razor. He took off with the stereo equipment, your mountain bike, and nineteen-hundred dollars in cash. You had to fake every single orgasm with Jared. You miss that mountain bike.”

The crack arrowed straight for my heart. “And you still miss Johnny and Ally.” The crack splintered into a million pieces and each crack burned its way across every pulsing artery and spindly vein in my body until I was one throbbing mass of aching pain.

The crack wound its slippery way up to my mouth. “That drinking problem of yours that started two weeks after that night has got to go. It’s out of control. You’re out of control. It is going to kill you.”

So the tears started. Right up at the podium with eight-hundred-thirty-four shallow schmucks looking on. I felt a surge of laughter bubbling and it rolled right out of my mouth-loud, rollicking laughter, who knows why.

Now, anyone who is relatively smart like me-not that I have always been smart in my life but I do know I’m relatively smart-would have hightailed it off that stage. But I didn’t.

I stood there and laughed and cried, my body quaking with pain.

The schmucks’ mouths were hanging open in shock. Slack and loose.

I decided to make a speech.

An odd speech, a little speech, definitely a speech.

I spoke my little mind. All that I had been thinking about during my years in advertising came right out of my perfectly lipsticked lips as I stood in my perfectly fashionable blue suit and blue high heels with the tiny gold chains in my perfectly way-too-thin body, and my perfectly sparkling jewelry that Jared supposedly “gave” me, but I ended up paying his credit cards off even though he had a trust fund from his daddy.

I talked about what a shallow profession we were all in, announcing, “Our profession is utterly ridiculous! Our days and lives are dedicated to packaging and selling products to the American public who really, truly don’t need or want what we’re selling. Every minute of our existence is wrapped up in lies and deceit! Wrapped up in crap! We could all die tomorrow and we’d have to face God and tell him we wrapped our lives up in crap. How’s that going to go over?”

I talked about a recent potato chip campaign that took eight people working almost round the clock for months to complete. “Potato chips! And Americans are already way too fat!” I boomed. “Way toooooo fat!”

I talked about the endless discussions that occur in the halls of advertising about how to market a new car that, if bought, would slap the average person into deep debt for years on end. “And what about the panty and bra ads where overgrown women with impossibly large bowling ball breasts strut around on high heels? Do we think that most women can wear any of that lingerie without looking utterly ridiculous? Who thinks cottage cheese thighs are sexy? Who thinks saggy boobs can be made to look better with red satin?

“And frankly,” I bellowed, “who even cares about having a perfect body except the shallow schmucks sitting right here? Yes, you people! You shallow schmucks!”

I decided to yell that part at them. “Don’t we have better things to do with our time on this planet than to worry about how we look? No wonder we’re all so miserable.”

I talked about the complete self-absorption I had seen in people in advertising. “All we do is think about ourselves, our next ad, our next success, our next promotion. We are the most boring people on the planet!” I decided to pound the podium while I cackled like an overgrown witch. “That’s not the worst of it! We’re not good people. We’re not! Our profession means nothing to anyone. We make people’s lives worse, not better. We tell them in print and on TV that if they don’t have these products, they are useless people, that they’re not keeping up, they’re not cool, they’re ugly and poor and bottom-dwelling failures. And folks, guess what? It’s all a bunch of shit!”

I suppose hysteria makes one acutely aware of life. As does death. Death is a great equalizer. It brings your own life into pinpoint focus. I decided to speak of that pinpoint focus. “When I die, what do I have to be proud of? That I designed a campaign that sent Tender Tampons skyrocketing? That Baucom’s vaginal cream is now used by more women than ever before for irritation? That overly sugared cereals for children that surely rot their teeth are being sold at a record pace? All that so a few thick-headed asshole white men with limp dicks at the top can become even richer? It’s pointless.”

I looked around the room. I dare say everyone looked mighty stunned. Schmucks look even uglier when they’re stunned.

“We’re pointless,” I said, taking a deep breath. “We’re pointless. There is more to life than this.” I cried a bit. For my mother, for my useless self, for those pesky assault charges, and for the blazing realization that I had done nothing worthwhile in my entire life. Almost forty I am, and I had done nothing. Nothing.

Well, I had assaulted and humiliated my ex, but I didn’t think that counted. That made me laugh and snicker again. I sobered up quick. “There is more to life than figuring out how to persuade women to buy a certain brand of yeast infection medicine that resembles small white bullets. There has to be more.”

I thought of my mother, with that doctor straddling her as he forced a tube down her throat so that she could die more peacefully, of all the other doctors and nurses who had tried so desperately hard to help. I wanted to bang my head against the podium. Hard.

Now they had become Someone Useful. They had tried to save my mother’s life. I had only tried to convince some exhausted mommy in suburbia to buy some unhealthy cavity-causing crud for her child’s breakfast.

“There has to be more to life than Tender Tampons.” I said this so quietly I could barely hear it myself, yet at the same time the words seemed to echo right off the walls of that room like thunder.

And then I left. I walked off that stage in my blue heels with the tiny gold chains, right out the door to my car, a low, red, expensive, humming machine.

I sold it on the way home without a second glance back, bought a big hulkin’ Bronco and a storage trailer to haul behind it and pocketed the cash. On my cell I called my friend, Joyce Her-ber, a real estate agent, and told her to sell my town house. I called a man named Isaac Porter who owned an estate business and told him to sell my stuff. It was modern and sleek and I hated it. I called my lawyer and my mother’s special friend, Roy Sass, and he told me to stay in touch because of my little problem with the police. He also reminded me I needed to enroll in a court-ordered anger management course to show that I was getting help for my poor behavior.

When I got home, I piled everything I wanted into the back of the Bronco and the trailer in boxes, including my silly shoe collection and my photograph books filled with pictures of my mom and Roy and my brother Charlie and his family that I had spent hours putting together.

I wrapped up my grandmother’s teacup collection, my mother’s china, and a set of tiles with a fruit bowl painted on them. I grabbed a violin I’d hidden way back in my closet that made tears burn down my cheeks like a mini-fountain, a gold necklace with a dolphin that my father gave me two weeks before he died of a heart attack when I was twelve and, at midnight, with that moon as bright as the blazes, I left Chicago.

I stopped by my mother’s grave and dropped tears all over her gravestone, the night dark and silky but not creepy there in the cemetery, then drove from Chicago, Illinois, toward Oregon wearing my dolphin necklace. Charlie lives in Portland, Oregon.

Me and my insanity drove off. Together. As one. I shook my brain, my nervous breakdown making me nervous.

I wondered if there were anger management classes in Portland?

But who cares, I yelled out loud. “Who cares?” Life was currently quite sucky so I yelled, “Sucky! Sucky!” In fact, I might give up on it altogether and drive my ole engine-grinding, muffler-roaring, growling Bronco straight to the west coast and make a permanent dive right into the ocean. Headfirst.