the words tumbled out of their own accord. She knew she was making perfect sense, if only he’d see. Eventually he simply walked away.
She felt close to tears, in part because of her frustration. He wouldn’t listen, but then, too, as often happened when she’d had a little bit too much, a part of her mind stepped off to the left and watched the rest of her—watched and laughed. Practically brayed. She was not in control and knew herself not to be in control. She was at that point in the evening when she saw quite clearly things were happening that she did not want to happen. She was blurting out every little thing, and no one was more interested than she to hear what they might be. She feared she was making a fool of herself, but the train was hurtling down the track, the brakes completely blown. She tasted the whisky and orange of her drink. How many was this? Fuck it. Damn the torpedoes. She drained it.
That was a mistake. Within moments her stomach rebelled. There was no way she would make it all the way through the crowd to the ladies’ room. No, it was the men’s room or the potted palm. She lurched to the men’s room, praying no one was inside. Vacant, thank the gods. Burst into a stall. Kicked the door shut behind her. Retched and heaved. Up it came. Not so bad . Some smeared mascara, and a need for mouthwash, but she would live. She might evenget out of the men’s room with nothing more than a giggle. Sorry, wrong door ! She stepped out of the stall, only slightly stained, and who should be entering but the Dean of Arts and Science, Dr. John J. Stachell, a man with the face of an irritated rooster, a man with no sense of humour or compassion. He took one look at her and turned tail.
She became teary then, and the rest of the night was clouded in Manhattan mists. Someone, possibly Gloria from the Dean’s Office, put her in a taxi.
THE CENTRE OF IT ALL
E ven if Colleen didn’t remember precisely what happened that evening, she didn’t see the necessity of going over it all again now. But David Moore persisted.
“I’m afraid we found the bottle of vodka in your desk. Or should I say bottles,” David continued.
There was a fifth of vodka in her bottom drawer, as well as a variety of small “nips,” most of them empty. She’d been meaning to get rid of them, but lately someone always seemed to be hovering about. Colleen opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. All her clever words dried up and her throat felt as though someone had stuffed it with gas-soaked rags.
“That is quite against university policy,” said Pat Minot. “I’m sure you’re aware of that.”
“Yes, of course, they were just things I meant to take home. I don’t drink on the job.”
“But you do, Colleen,” said Moore, leaning forward, his elbows on his spotless blotter. “I’ve seen you myself, grabbing a little sip or two in the kitchen when you think no one’s looking. You go into the bathroom and come out stinking. You think no one can smell it, but of course we can. You’re reeking of it now.”
She felt like crying, and she mustn’t. She just had to get out of this office. If she could just have a few minutes to herself. She swallowed and took a breath. “I haven’t had anything to drink today. It’s nine o’clock in the morning, for God’s sake.”
“Colleen.” Minot inched her chair closer. “Even I can smell it, dear, which means, if you haven’t had anything to drink today, and I believe you on that front, I do, that you were drinking heavily last night and it’s coming out of your pores. It’s your body’s way of trying to cleanse itself.” She tried to take one of her hands, but Colleen pulled away. “All right. All right. But this is a crucial moment for you, Colleen, and you have to make a decision. You are at a crossroads.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Colleen sniffed and her eyes stung. Her head was pounding.
Pat Minot reached into her pocket and pulled out
She felt close to tears, in part because of her frustration. He wouldn’t listen, but then, too, as often happened when she’d had a little bit too much, a part of her mind stepped off to the left and watched the rest of her—watched and laughed. Practically brayed. She was not in control and knew herself not to be in control. She was at that point in the evening when she saw quite clearly things were happening that she did not want to happen. She was blurting out every little thing, and no one was more interested than she to hear what they might be. She feared she was making a fool of herself, but the train was hurtling down the track, the brakes completely blown. She tasted the whisky and orange of her drink. How many was this? Fuck it. Damn the torpedoes. She drained it.
That was a mistake. Within moments her stomach rebelled. There was no way she would make it all the way through the crowd to the ladies’ room. No, it was the men’s room or the potted palm. She lurched to the men’s room, praying no one was inside. Vacant, thank the gods. Burst into a stall. Kicked the door shut behind her. Retched and heaved. Up it came. Not so bad . Some smeared mascara, and a need for mouthwash, but she would live. She might evenget out of the men’s room with nothing more than a giggle. Sorry, wrong door ! She stepped out of the stall, only slightly stained, and who should be entering but the Dean of Arts and Science, Dr. John J. Stachell, a man with the face of an irritated rooster, a man with no sense of humour or compassion. He took one look at her and turned tail.
She became teary then, and the rest of the night was clouded in Manhattan mists. Someone, possibly Gloria from the Dean’s Office, put her in a taxi.
THE CENTRE OF IT ALL
E ven if Colleen didn’t remember precisely what happened that evening, she didn’t see the necessity of going over it all again now. But David Moore persisted.
“I’m afraid we found the bottle of vodka in your desk. Or should I say bottles,” David continued.
There was a fifth of vodka in her bottom drawer, as well as a variety of small “nips,” most of them empty. She’d been meaning to get rid of them, but lately someone always seemed to be hovering about. Colleen opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. All her clever words dried up and her throat felt as though someone had stuffed it with gas-soaked rags.
“That is quite against university policy,” said Pat Minot. “I’m sure you’re aware of that.”
“Yes, of course, they were just things I meant to take home. I don’t drink on the job.”
“But you do, Colleen,” said Moore, leaning forward, his elbows on his spotless blotter. “I’ve seen you myself, grabbing a little sip or two in the kitchen when you think no one’s looking. You go into the bathroom and come out stinking. You think no one can smell it, but of course we can. You’re reeking of it now.”
She felt like crying, and she mustn’t. She just had to get out of this office. If she could just have a few minutes to herself. She swallowed and took a breath. “I haven’t had anything to drink today. It’s nine o’clock in the morning, for God’s sake.”
“Colleen.” Minot inched her chair closer. “Even I can smell it, dear, which means, if you haven’t had anything to drink today, and I believe you on that front, I do, that you were drinking heavily last night and it’s coming out of your pores. It’s your body’s way of trying to cleanse itself.” She tried to take one of her hands, but Colleen pulled away. “All right. All right. But this is a crucial moment for you, Colleen, and you have to make a decision. You are at a crossroads.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Colleen sniffed and her eyes stung. Her head was pounding.
Pat Minot reached into her pocket and pulled out
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