Illusions Complete Series (6 page)

Daniel, his driver, was there in five minutes, driving a Cadillac Escalade, just as Ryan had promised. Patting my head a little before I got into the car, he said “Thanks, Iris. I had a very nice time.”

That’s it? Not even a fake promise to call? Not even a half-hearted “I’ll see you later?”
I nodded my head.
Bastard.
I immediately banished that thought .
No, not a bastard. A nice guy who is dealing with a nasty problem that I can’t even begin to fathom. Well, maybe he is a bastard, if this Nick person is his girlfriend. Estranged girlfriend? Sister? Woman he wants as a girlfriend? 

Smiling, I waved.

But he already had his back turned and was walking into the house.

Chapter Six

Sitting in the back of the Escalade, I willed Daniel not to be a chatty driver. I couldn’t deal with that right now. I bit my lip, willing myself not to cry.
Daniel will no doubt report it if I cry, so keep calm.
Then I thought
ha, Daniel won’t report anything. Ryan won’t ask, because he won’t care. Daniel has probably seen it all anyhow.

Thankfully, Daniel was the stoic sort, not even trying to make small talk.

Once inside my apartment, I let loose a torrent of tears. I had no idea why I was crying. I barely knew the guy. Except that I actually had known him my entire life. That is, I had known the idea of him all my life – the seemingly perfect guy. Dare I say – Prince Charming? So, I was upset, because I assumed that I wouldn’t be seeing him anymore.

I decided to take a walk to my mailbox, which was centrally located in the middle of the apartment complex. I hated getting my mail, but I needed to take a walk and get some fresh air. Stepping out onto my stoop, I looked at the sky, which was now threatening rain. I sighed, knowing that I didn’t have an umbrella – all my umbrellas ended up getting left somewhere, so I usually just got drenched like a puppy. I hurriedly made my way to the clubhouse, where the mailbox was, hoping that I wouldn’t get caught in a torrential downpour. A loud crack of thunder, followed by a lightning that lit up the sky, told me that I didn’t have much time.

I got to the mailbox, and opened it.

“Oh, for the love of god. Not again!” I said, as I peered inside and saw only a little yellow note. The note informed me that my box had gotten too full, so everything would be waiting for me at the post office. This had happened way too many times – I had an awful habit of not checking my mailbox for weeks at a time. Nothing ever came in the mail that was important, I reasoned. But it was still a pain in the ass to have to make the special trip to the time-sucking vortex known as the post office, and wait in line while the one or two postmasters take an eternity with each and every one of the fifty customers. I briefly considered just never getting the mail, but decided that was unwise. You never know – the one time you decide to completely blow off the mail is the one time that you will miss something really important.

And, of course, the threatening sky chose to dump on me at just that moment. It wasn’t just any rain, but it was a cloudburst. The wind whipped up to about 70 MPH, and, all at once, I was completely saturated. I trudged home, not even hurrying to get out of the downpour.

It was like that all that week. Dragging myself to work, trying not to snap at clients, barking at opposing counsel, writing ever nastier letters to them.

“Your client better get her ass off that couch and stop sponging off my client,” read one letter.

“Tell your client to get off the crack and bong hits and take care of the kid, or we are going to get a modification agreement faster than you than you can read this” read another.

I was on an “ass” kick, in that I was loving that word. I wanted to use it is some fashion in every letter I wrote. I refrained myself when writing my motions to the judge, however. But even these motions were more aggressive than usual, although not quite as blunt as the letters to opposing counsel.

And one client, in particular, sent me into Defcon 1. He showed up to plead for a DWI, and, when he arrived at the courthouse, the smell of alcohol on his breath nearly knocked me over. It was fresh alcohol, too, because it actually smelled like vodka, as opposed to smelling slightly sweet, which is what vodka smells like on a person's breath after a period of time.

“What the fuck?” I asked him. The alcohol was not only strong on his breath, but his eyes were bloodshot. He looked a mess.

“What?” he asked.

“Oh, no you didn't. I know that you didn't booze it up before seeing the judge about your DWI charge.”

“I’m going to jail,” he slurred. “I wanted to have one last hurrah with my friends.”

“What did I say that made you think you were going to jail today? I told you that you’re gonna get probation.” I was apoplectic. “Well, probably not now. That judge will take one look at you and one smell of you, and throw you in the clink for sure. And that would serve you goddamned right.” I shook my head. “You aren't paying me enough for this bullshit. You couldn't pay me enough for this bullshit.”

Then I looked around. The guy was there by himself. “Where’s your ride?” I demanded.

“Uh, I couldn't find a ride.”

“Then where’s your bus pass?”

He looked at the floor and said nothing.

I was stunned. “Oh.my.god. You drove drunk to the courthouse to answer your drunk driving charge?”

He hung his head and continued to say nothing.

“Well, fuck this noise. I’m withdrawing from your case.”

“What? You can't do that!”

“Oh, can't I? Where’s the rest of the money you promised me?”

“I’ll send it to you when I get paid.”

“Bullshit. I’m withdrawing.”

When the judge called my client's name, about an hour and a half into the docket, I stood up before him.

“I request a move to withdraw your honor.”

“Why is that, counselor?”

“Rule one violation, your honor.” Every attorney knows the rule number one for clients – always pay your attorney. Bastard paid me $250, owed me another $1,000, then drove drunk to the courthouse.
You can't make this shit up. Nobody would ever believe me if I told them.

“Motion granted.” Turning to my client, he said “Now, young man, your new court date is August 20
. You must have new counsel by then. Do you understand?”

My client nodded mutely.

“Oh, and another thing. If you show up in my courtroom drunk again, I’ll have your case transferred to the state for prosecution. That’d mean that you wouldn’t be facing probation or possible jail time, but prison time. The big house. Do you understand?”

My client nodded.

“I didn't hear your reply.”

“Yes, your honor.”

Turning to me, the judge asked,
sotto voce
, “counselor, did your client drive here?”

“He did, your honor.”

The judge motioned to the bailiff. “Take this man, and put him in custody. He apparently drove drunk to get here.” The bailiff grabbed my client by the arm and led him away. He didn't protest.

The judge shook his head. “Now, I’ve seen everything.”

That client was not the only one to piss me off that week. He was just the worst. I found myself wanting to strangle at least 6 people for various reasons.

“You were cooking meth while your kid was in the house. Take this offer or leave it,” I said to a criminal client who was, amazingly, being offered probation, yet didn’t want the offer. “Or should I say, take this offer or I’m gonna withdraw because you aren’t listening to me, your counsel.”

“Oh, good lord, you want sole custody of your child because your ex-husband was late taking her to band practice? Seriously?” I asked another, rolling my eyes.

By the end of the week, I realized that I was cracking up. I could usually handle the idiot clients, but that week, I just couldn't. It was because of what happened with Ryan.
What is wrong with you, Iris? You.barely.knew.the.guy.

The weekend was finally approaching. I dreaded it and looked forward to it at the same time. While I no longer had to refrain myself from chewing out various clients with their various excuses and whining, which was good, I also had nothing to look forward to that weekend but my DVR.

Which was bad.

My fault. My friends were calling all that week, wanting to see how I was, wanting to get together. I didn’t answer any of the phone calls though.

I’ll call them when I am feeling better.

Chapter Seven

I dragged myself home. Friday night, let’s see what’s on the DVR. I found the most mindless thing I could find –
Keeping Up With the Kardashians –
then found that there was actually a marathon on the previous day, so I could watch that all night if I wanted to. Which was what I chose to do.

Feeling slightly cheered at the prospect, I opened up a bottle of wine and sucked it down from the bottle, not even bothering to pour a glass. I watched the girls go through their silly problems, becoming amused, while also feeling comforted that I wasn’t the only woman in the world who had romantic issues. Not that Ryan would be considered to be a romantic issue,
per se,
but my overall bad luck with men would certainly qualify.  

In the middle of the night, I was snoozing on the couch, after drinking an entire Two Buck Chuck, straight from the bottle. I was dreaming about there being somebody at the door. Knock, knock, knock. I tossed a little, putting the pillow over my ears. Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

Go away.

Gradually, I started to realize that the knocking was not in my dreams. I stumbled to the door, looking out the peephole.

Huh. Looks like Ryan out there.

Nah, I’m seeing things.
I started to lie back down on the couch.

Then a voice. “Iris? Are you there?” Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

I got back up off the couch, and opened the door. Ryan was there in the hall, looking stinking drunk, but still beautiful. He was dressed formally, in a silk dress shirt and dress slacks, and expensive Ferragamo wing-tipped shoes. He was wearing a Rolex watch, one that I had never seen before. He wasn’t wearing a jacket or tie, but I surmised that these items were a part of his ensemble earlier in the evening.

If I was self-respecting, I would have slammed the door in his face.
Coming here, in the middle of the night, after not calling all week, and showing up drunk to boot.

Then I remembered that I was drunk, too, so I went ahead and let him in.

“I am so sorry, Iris, for dropping in like this. I was over at Bristol’s for a fundraiser. I am so sorry,” he repeated.

Bristol’s Restaurant is a tony seafood restaurant just up the street. Of course, “tony” is a relative term, this being Kansas City. This town is not exactly known for its seafood. Except Red Lobster, where I worked one summer. Job from hell, lower than the ninth circle.

I was vaguely aware that the apartment situation was even worse than when I didn’t let him in the door the last time. My depression was such that I didn’t want to do anything but lie around on the couch and watch trashy television all week. Thank god I didn’t really eat that much, though. That helped my weight situation (I lost 5 pounds!), and it also helped the dish situation somewhat. I mean, there was still a week’s worth of dishes in the sink, but I just kinda lived on frozen pizza that I sliced up and ate on paper plates, so the dishes weren’t that bad. I’m actually a pretty good cook on most days, and use every pot and pan in the place, but this week was the sad exception to that rule.

The wine bottles were another story. I had been making a point to recycle them, but, unfortunately, curbside recycling had not yet hit my neck of the woods. At this point, there was an entire garbage bag filled with empty wine bottles which had accumulated just that week, all of them Two Buck Chuck - thank god for Trader Joe’s! His roses were dead, still in the half-there wine bottle. I never bothered to do anything about that, and they were still on my kitchen counter.

Exactly where I left them.

He looked pretty sheepish, standing in front of the door, which was still open. “I, I, uh, I wanted to call.”

Yeah, you should’ve called, so I could’ve tidied up a bit. Oh, well, nothing that can be done about that now.

It occurred to me that I should probably have him at least sleep off his apparent drunk, but that would mean that he would get the couch. I would just have to sleep on the love seat. I still couldn’t really sleep on my bed, at least until I figured out which clothes on the bed were dirty and which were clean. If I wanted to sleep on the bed, I would just have to throw all the clothes onto the floor.

“Hey, it’s okay you didn’t call,” I lied. “You can stay here tonight, or until your drunk wears off. Let me get you a pillow and blanket.”

“Iris…..” He started, looking pained. “I, I, h-h-h-ope you don’t think that I’m only coming here because I got too drunk to drive.”

Something struck me. “What time is it?”

“It’s around 2 AM.”

2 AM? This is a goddamned booty call.
“What time does Bristol close?”

“I don’t really know. The fundraiser was over around 9.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Yet here you are at 2 AM.”

“Well, some of us went out afterwards to Harry’s.”

Harry’s. In Westport. A good thirty minute drive.
“Yet here you are.”

“I, I, I, uh, took a cab here.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Daniel busy?”

“He didn’t answer his phone.”

“Oh.” I looked at him.
You know, you could’ve come right over here when the fundraiser was over, as opposed to waking my ass up. Then again, I was probably at the height of drunkenness at 9 PM, so maybe it is a good thing that you are here at 2. I feel at least slightly coherent.

As if reading my mind Ryan said “I'm so sorry, I should’ve come right over when I was across the street.”

I merely grunted at that one. “Let me get you a pillow and a blanket, and I’ll drive you to your car in the morning.”