Some Ragrats
Six weeks ago . . .
I wake with alarms blaring in my skull. I groan, pulling a pillow over my head—but the motion makes last night’s tequila roil
in my stomach, and I’m forced to sit upright to keep the acid reflux, and everything else, down.
I squint my dry eyes against the late-morning sunlight spilling into my tiny bedroom. Even though the exterior of the windows
probably hasn’t been washed since the colored television was introduced, it’s still too bright. I extract myself from the
duvet I appear to have wrestled with all night and stand to close the blinds.
Something crinkles under my foot. I pull it back and discover a mess of electric orange dust. I groan again, realizing I’ve
stepped on an empty Flamin’ Hot Cheetos bag—a completely reckless flavor. Exhibit A of my emotional state last night: downing
snacks that I know will hurt my insides like I still had the indestructible body of my twenties.
Then I see Exhibit B: Resting on my nightstand are two large teal-glazed halves of a broken vase—correction, a vase that I didn’t buy.
Because who brings ornamental décor into a place like this?
No amount of knickknacks like fluffy pillows, flowerpots, or wall hangings are capable of distracting from the laundromat-like ambience.
This isn’t home, not really. It’s a temporary situation, and there’s no point in getting comfortable.
My head continues to pound as I walk across the scraped-up wooden floor of my room to where my favorite office slacks are
crumpled in a sad pile. Damn it. I have a strict hang-up rule for that pair because they tend to wrinkle in unforgiving ways.
The rest of the outfit I wore to work yesterday—crisp white button-down shirt (now limp), black blazer (now smelling like
tequila sweat)—is strewn about the floor just as carelessly.
Dread coils inside me as my sluggish brain recalls flashes of memories: Me, ordering a second round of drinks for my work
friends, even though the giant ball-shaped ice cubes from the bar were a red flag as far as pricing goes. Me, sloppily clinking
glasses with everyone while droplets sprayed across the table. Me, ordering a third round—or was it fourth? After that, it’s
foggy.
The ringing in my head is only getting worse. Everything inside and outside of me is all wrong. I’ve not had a hangover in
years, maybe since a decade ago when I was still an undergrad. Am I dying?
I rub my temple, hoping to snuff the sound that’s rattling inside my brain that’s piercing straight through to my teeth. It’s
so loud and—wait, it’s not inside my head. There is an actual alarm.
I grab my crumpled trousers and slide them on, a strange complement to my ratty sleep tee and the itchy G-string lace panties
that only emerge from the back of the drawer when I’m down to the wire. I hardly wear them because they sometimes shift away
from the areas that I’d entrusted them to cover. Another blow: I’d been working so much these past few weeks that I didn’t
have time for laundry.
I almost trip over the hem of my pants as I stumble into the living room—they’re too long because they’re meant to be worn with heels.
In the hallway, I can hear panicked steps echoing.
Shit. People are treating this as a real fire alarm.
But the state of me. I’m not in any condition to be viewed publicly at all.
And if I leave the apartment like this, I’m not going to have enough time to get ready for work.
Only, another dreadful memory lands, this one curdling my stomach worse than any Cheeto: I can’t go to work today. That’s
the actual reason why I broke my strict three-drink absolute maximum rule last night.
Because much like the mystery vase in my room, my entire life is cracking open.
A pointed knock sounds from the hallway as an authoritative voice yells, “Everybody needs to get out immediately.”
I spot the housecoat on my bathroom door hook. Its original belt was lost during one unfortunate toilet-dipping too many.
I drape it on and glance around. What does one rescue during a fire? My nutrition powders? My color-coded to-do whiteboard?
Alice!
My black goldfish is hovering in her bowl on the coffee table, staring without looking at anything. A couple of months ago,
she found a spot that requires the least amount of swimming effort and now she just stays there and stares, barely moving.
It’s debatable if what she’s up to is even considered being alive.
Would it be irresponsible to leave Alice? She’s literally surrounded by water, which is pretty fireproof. And trying not to
slosh her heavy bowl walking down the stairs would be a logistical nightmare.
As if reading my thoughts, Alice turns just slightly away, her permanently frowning mouth blowing bubbles joylessly.
With the amount of time I spend at the office, it wouldn’t have been fair to get a real pet like I wanted .
. . one I could cuddle. But my mom had insisted on getting me something to bring some life into this place.
Somehow, that led to me getting this fish.
And I fear it’s had the opposite effect; this apartment sucked all the life out of Alice instead.
Until yesterday, she was probably the only one who had seen me with a single hair out of place. But I either have to appear
like this in front of my neighbors or risk dying a painful and/or terrifying death. I turn around and head for my door. If
I hadn’t messed up my life, I’d be at work right now and I wouldn’t be here to save Alice, anyway
A rush of shame pulls through me like it’s happening all over again. I’m back in the boardroom with our client, Bob Wolch.
A deeply unpleasant man. He got rich via his oil company decades ago, and it shows. Now he’s determined to get his new distillery to take off, and that’s where my firm comes in. For some reason, he always shoves half a dozen
of those ancient mint balls from the reception dish into his cheek. Between mouthfuls, he tends to ramble about how “fun”
Vegas is. Normally I can feign enthusiasm enough to get through the Bob meetings.
I adore working at a marketing firm. I love the cutthroat pace, the fact that’s there’s always something new to work on, and
the race to make it to the top. I love the spectacle of a big campaign—the show we put on to woo clients, the thrill of pulling
brilliant ideas out of thin air. I love the feeling I get walking into my (admittedly tiny) office and closing my door, because
I finally have one after years in the cubicle farm. I love when new hires come to me for questions, or the managers tag me
for important duties, because I’m really a part of things and on track to keep moving up the ladder.
And I was on track. If little-girl me had seen what I turned out to be after everything she’d gone through, I truly think she’d go
through it all again—every hard moment. And that’s why dread lives in me now.
Because it’s not always roses in marketing.
We don’t get to choose all our clients, and sometimes when I think too deeply about the products I’m promoting, I get a burning feeling in the pit of my stomach that won’t go away no matter how many Tums I pop.
So much of the job is finely executed deception—plans, pitches, hypotheticals—that I’ve learned to compartmentalize certain tasks as “not real.”
Bob was in yesterday to go over his company’s new limited-edition “Moonlit Barrel” series (the name was my idea, of course)
and the bold campaign we were putting together for it: glossy ads, influencer partnerships, store tastings, and a full-blown
launch event this summer.
I’d sacrificed many long nights and weekends preparing for this meeting. This was the biggest campaign I’d ever organized,
and if Bob approved it, I’d almost certainly be in line for a promotion. I watched my boss, Carolyne, talk through the bullets
I’d written for her as if she were inventing them on the spot, and silently waited for my turn to chime in about the logistics
and ad spend.
When I proffered a packet with the cost analysis to Bob, he barely glanced at the projections before muttering, “All this
money just to get people talking about whiskey. I’m already paying a fortune to make them stop talking about what it does to their bodies.”
He was referring to the quiet but aggressive lobbying his company was funding to block a nearby university’s research on the
link between high alcohol consumption and neuron damage. Sometimes marketing wasn’t just about getting attention, but what
you’re keeping quiet.
“It’s not the whiskey’s fault if people screw up their lives by drinking too much of it,” he added with a shrug. “Some folks
just can’t handle their own mess.”
Bob’s friendly chuckle was something I was meant to join in on. Carolyne did. But I couldn’t shake the memories flooding my
mind—empty bottles under the sink, broken glass on the kitchen floor, doors slamming in the middle of the night. The beep
of a heart monitor.
Bob continued, “Now there’s a marketing idea for you! Free samples at AA meetings. Those would be some loyal customers.”
As his second chuckle grated through the boardroom—and through me—I saw a man going home to his family. I saw myself watching
him open the door. I looked down at my own hands on the papers that were trembling like I was a child again.
When Bob tried to grab another file from my hands, I gripped it tighter and said, “Maybe if you pretended you cared about
people, they wouldn’t be boycotting your brand.”
Bob’s expression shifted in a flash. He looked like a bear that was about to eat me. Carolyne forced a laugh to smooth things
over. That would’ve been bad enough.
Then it happened. A giant glob of a tear fell from my eye and landed on Bob’s freaking gold pen. He saw it. Carolyne saw it.
And I knew that letting my body release that drop onto that man’s pen was a form of career suicide far worse and longer lasting
than any of the sexual harassment allegations thrown at Bob (in addition to great marketers, he had excellent lawyers).