Read Online My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) by Rene Gutteridge - Free Book Online Page B

thing about conflict is that you will handle it in some way. It’s impossible not to. But sometimes how we handle it can lead to more and more conflict. I’m here to teach you how to handle it in a way that will resolve it.” She gave a definitive nod and then continued, “All right. I want you to all feel like family for the next seven weeks. You’ll be working closely together, so I want you to know one another well. We’re going to begin by going around and introducing ourselves. But before we do that, let me add just a couple of housekeeping notes: First, we are normally in the conference room on the first floor, but they’re renovating, so, unfortunately, for the duration of this class, we’re going to be in this unfinished room. But nobody is here for the scenery, right? Also, this class meets Tuesdays and Thursdays. If you are here by court order, you must attend every class in order to fulfill the court’s requirement.”
    Her words punched me in the stomach. A tiny grunt escaped. Nervous fellow and I had the same stunned expression on our faces, so I tried to meld mine with a pleasant, nondubious semismile while willing the elevator doors to open. Where was Edward? And why were people here by court order? Were these people criminals ?
    â€œYour name and why you’re here,” she said, and looked to her left, thankfully.
    My left hand found the empty chair and plopped itself down, as if it were expecting Edward’s lap to be there. It only hit my handbag.
    The man who had introduced himself as Cinco was laughing, his arms crossed over his chest, chuckling like St. Nick. It took me a few seconds to realize he was chuckling at me. I wanted to ask what was so funny, but instead I tried to act as if I was in on the joke, whatever that was. Cinco had seemed to connect with the man across from him, who looked like he should be working as a bouncer at a nightclub. They were both laughing and looking at each other, then at me.
    â€œGo ahead,” Marilyn said to Cinco.
    â€œI’m Cinco Dublin, and I’m a recovering conflict causer,” he said with a wry grin. A few people laughed. “But the guy I slugged isn’t recovering as well.” More laughs. I was laughing too, but not for reasons of amusement. It was just keeping me from crying.
    â€œI can see I’m going to have my hands full with you, Cinco,” Marilyn said, seeming to take it all in stride. She winked, and I wondered how a woman so stuck in one decade could be that confident. I shriveled in my seat as I watched her. “And Cinco, may I add for the record that I’m a fan of your show.”
    I looked at Cinco. He didn’t look familiar. But there was something about his . . . voice! He was the radio guy! The Cinco Dublin show. He hosted a conservative talk-radio show that loved to ruffle people’s feathers. I’d listened to him a couple of times, but I could never get past all the arguing that went on. I always felt so badly for the guest. Cinco could size them up and then throw them down with just a few swift sentences. Though I agreed with some of his views, I never could enjoy listening. Instead, I’d usually switch to the classical station with the monotone host who came on once an hour. The only chance Milbert Connelly had to stir controversy was to attribute a song to the wrong composer. And not once, in the twenty years he’d been hosting the classical station, had he ever done that. I had only once heard an inflection in his voice, on 9/11, when he reported that his listeners should get to their nearest television. It was only a slight inflection but enough to make me feel the sky was falling. For the rest of the day, Milbert Connelly played classical patriotic music.
    â€œThank you, Marilyn. I hope to make myself a fan of yours soon too.”
    Marilyn laughed and a few other people chuckled. “I can’t imagine why you’re here. You?