The Last Time I Was Me. Cathy Lamb

shouted in frustration. Everyone in the loft stared at him and there was quite a silence.

      “Well, that’s jolly good to hear!” I announced. “Women should never be bought!”

      “Shove off, Jeanne.” He glared at me, all red, all fidgety.

      “Shove off?” I tilted my head at him. “I don’t think I can ‘shove off.’ I assaulted my boyfriend and my attorney says I have to be here so it makes me look repentant in court. What did you do?”

      “This,” Emmaline announced as she floated toward us, arms outstretched, white silk outfit floating behind her, “this is Drake Windham. He’s in anger management class because he has a history of beating up women.”

      I stared at him, pretending to be aghast. “Do you beat up the poor hookers before or after you pay them to have sexual intercourse? Or do you beat up all the wives with the minivans who are panting after you?”

      Soman had to step in between us at that point and a little shoving and pushing went on as Drake said bad words to me. When Drake said to Soman, “Hey, Jungle Man, get the fuck away from me,” Bradon had to intervene when Soman shoved him up against the wall, his huge hand plastering Drake’s neck to the wall like a strangled rooster.

      Soman said, his barrel voice ringing through that room like thunder, “Only sissies beat up women, you hear that, you stupid wimp white boy? Only weak, scared, sick sissies attack women, you fuck. And only men who can’t get laid go after hookers who are only hooking ’cause they got no choice in the matter, you gay asshole.”

      (I did not ask Soman not to swear. It would have been inappropriate.)

      Bradon and Emmaline got Soman to calm down. Drake looked like he was about ready to pee his pretty pants. He huffed and puffed against that wall, and when his rooster neck was released he squirreled around with his tie and ran his hand through his pretty hair while whining, “Don’t touch me again and I don’t…I don’t…I don’t buy women!”

      Emmaline stepped forward. “I will have no lying in this class, Drake! None! I will not spare you! You have two arrests for soliciting prostitution! Two!” She held up the pointer fingers of both hands. “Disgusting, appalling, horrible! We will be discussing at length that particular perversion and your continual assaults on women!”

      Bradon and Soman looked disgusted, both shaking their heads.

      “Sick, man,” said Soman. “You fuckin’ sick.”

      “Hookers,” Bradon said. “How can you take advantage of women like that? How can you debase someone by participating in that act? How can you disrespect a human enough to pay them to do something that they actually abhor doing? How can you live with yourself after you’ve committed such a repulsive, criminal act? The poor hookers.”

      I laughed. Couldn’t help it. Bradon had echoed my words exactly. “I said the same thing,” I told Bradon.

      Drake stared up at Bradon’s chin, who was still towering over him. “Back off. I know all about your kind of gangs and you don’t scare me.” His voice quivered and he leaned hard against the wall as if his spine was made of goo.

      For a moment Bradon stared straight down at him, all six-feet-six disgusted inches of him. “For your information, I am not in a gang and neither is Soman. I have been married to my wife for twenty-five years and I can tell you she would not approve of my involvement in any sort of gang. Furthermore, we do not allow our children to run around in gangs either, unless it is called the Philharmonic Gang of Portland, in which both of my older boys play their instruments, or the Galaxy Gang, which is a science exploration group that meets weekly after school. All of my children have participated in that program because of their interest in space, aeroneutronics, thermal dynamics, and the engineering involved with the building of the space shuttles.”

      Bradon put both his palms, flat down, on either side of Drake’s head and leaned in close, his dark face inches away from Drake’s. “Now you listen close, you white priss. You and I are not going to get along unless you can control that ugly temper of yours, you got that? If you take a swing at anyone in here, or if you are rude or display unsightly behavior again, I will personally shove your head through the wall with one hand, do you get that, you hooker-buying, woman-beating loser?”

      Drake seemed to get that. He nodded weakly.

      “Good. Now go sit in the orange beanbag and do not speak, so we can all pretend you are not here.” Drake nodded, swallowed hard, and pushed his pretty hair back again. He sat in the orange beanbag with his spine of goo.

      And finally there was Becky Norwick. She looked like a blond shadow or, to describe her better, like string cheese and depression mixed up together. She sat in the blue beanbag.

      “I’m Becky.”

      I wanted to say, “Hi, Becky” like I hear they do in AA meetings, but this was not AA; this was anger management. This was AM, so I didn’t. At that moment I vaguely thought I should get my butt into AA, too.

      Becky said, “I’ve got an anger problem because I’ve got a drug problem. I started doing drugs because I was angry about how I looked. I wanted to be thinner.”

      I studied her, her blue beanbag almost engulfing her tiny body. She sure got herself the “thinner” wish.

      “The drugs destroyed my life which made me more angry. So I took more drugs and got angrier when I couldn’t get more. I started doing things…” She broke off and her voice cracked. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I did things I can’t get out of my mind, can’t believe that I did.” Soman reached over and patted her shoulder.

      “Hey, girl, we all done things we regret. It’s okay. Gotta forgive yourself. Get it out of your head, you know?”

      “That’s the problem.” Becky looked up and dried her tears. “It’s stuck in my head like an arrow right through my forehead. I went into treatment last year, got out, screwed up, and went back into treatment for a long time, and now I’m scared I’ll screw up again. It’s like the drugs are calling my name. I can hear them.”

      We waited in silence for Becky to continue.

      “I started in all this when I was a teenager. My brothers and my parents tried to help me, but I ran away. I ran away from all these funny, loving people with my drug dealer. I was seventeen. I lost my family.” She ran her hands through scraggly blond hair, then over her pale, makeupless face. “Seven years ago I lost my family.”

      We waited for her to say more, her face twisting in misery.

      “For what? For a drug dealer, then another drug dealer. Instead of sleeping in a house with a pink room, I’ve slept in slimy hotels and doorways and parks and cars. Instead of riding my horse in the afternoon, I’ve spent my afternoons trying to buy drugs. Instead of celebrating birthdays with cake and candles, I count the needle scars on my arms. I’m angry. Angry at myself. Angry at how stupid I am. My anger always leaps up at me, it seems. It’s always leaping.” Tears funneled down her cheeks. “I cry and cry. Then I cry more.”

      For some reason all of us strangers seemed content with the silence as we contemplated Becky’s leaping anger.

      I felt for the poor woman. I did.

      It was time for me. I was in the purple beanbag. “I’m Jeanne Stewart. I’m here because I took revenge on my cheating boyfriend. His name is Slick Dick.” That was a little extra information they didn’t need, but I felt compelled to throw it on in. “The police have seen fit to file assault charges against me for a small incident against Slick Dick and now he is also suing me for all my money plus any money I make in this lifetime and in heaven, if I make it there, which is doubtful.” I thrummed my fingers against the beanbag. “I’m here because I’m trying to make myself look better in front of the judge, but my true wish is that I had done more damage to Slick Dick.”

      Becky, Soman, and Bradon nodded their heads. Drake glared.

      “Some