Read Online No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella by Barbara Seranella - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Seranella
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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.
Across the top of the page of college-lined paper she
wrote INVENTORY. She wrote the date on the top right corner and
stared at it. Boogie's birthday was at the end of the month. She
hadn't seen Deb or her son in a year. Would she and Deb still be able
to read each others minds? Finish each other's sentences? And Boogie.
God. What sort of memories did he carry?
She wrote ace boon coon across the middle of
the page and beneath that Canyonville , then closed the book.
It was too quiet. She turned on the TV The eleven
o'clock news was on. The newscaster was saying something about a
sniper attack on the freeway She stood in front of the set and
watched the footage of the blue truck being towed away on top of a
flatbed. The scene cut to the Pacific Division Police Station, where
a woman, who was identified as Sergeant Lopez in black
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.
Across the top of the page of college-lined paper she
wrote INVENTORY. She wrote the date on the top right corner and
stared at it. Boogie's birthday was at the end of the month. She
hadn't seen Deb or her son in a year. Would she and Deb still be able
to read each others minds? Finish each other's sentences? And Boogie.
God. What sort of memories did he carry?
She wrote ace boon coon across the middle of
the page and beneath that Canyonville , then closed the book.
It was too quiet. She turned on the TV The eleven
o'clock news was on. The newscaster was saying something about a
sniper attack on the freeway She stood in front of the set and
watched the footage of the blue truck being towed away on top of a
flatbed. The scene cut to the Pacific Division Police Station, where
a woman, who was identified as Sergeant Lopez in black
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