Twelve Steps To Hell

Chapter 2

Step One

“Can I talk to you for a minute, Kim?”

“Miss Katsumi!”

“Of course. I’m sorry, Miss Katsumi.”

She straightens up from unplugging the coffeemaker. With her high-heeled shoes (black like her tight skirt and the stockings encasing those incredibly long and slender legs) she looms over me by more than half a foot. Folding her similarly long and slender arms under her breasts (these are molded beautifully by the ruffled white blouse she wears, the big dark n*****s clearly visible through the thin silk) she leans against the table and favors me with that thinly expectant ghost of a smile. Her striated irises seem to have every tint of green in them: emerald, hunter, and the leaves of high summer. Scintillant with amusement they both daunt and encourage me. Like the swift way she corrected me on the formal use of her name and the familiar manner she addresses me herself, this contradiction seems to egg me on and yet warn of the consequences of continuing at the same time.

“Well, what is it Dale?”

A quick glance around reassures me that no one remains within earshot. I’m all aquiver inside. I can’t believe I’m doing this. This is the nearest I’ve ever been to her, and up close Miss Katsumi’s aura of intimidating allure is overpowering. My mouth is so dry I’m afraid nothing will come out of it but a desiccated croak. But somehow I force my voice into use.

“I wanted to thank you for interceding for me tonight, and for all the times you’ve done so in the past. It’s not easy to have everyone ganging up on you and screaming in your face, particularly for someone like me. If I didn’t have you at least obliquely on my side once in a while I could never get through it. Of course I know it’s just your job. But I wanted you to know that I appreciate it all the same.”

I pause to let her respond. She merely continues to regard me with Oriental inscrutability leavened the tiniest bit with private amusement. Then she arches one elegantly thin eyebrow.

“Is that all?”

“Well…well, er no actually.”

Suddenly I’m stammering and fidgeting like a schoolboy before his teacher, shifting from foot to foot and wanting to ask if I can have an extra day to finish some assignment. Come to the crunch at last I’m suffering under an avalanche of embarrassment and painfully acute anxiety. I want nothing more than to flee into the night and never see this victorious beauty again except in endless regretful musings about what might have been. Somehow I find it within me to take the plunge though. Either my tentative new assertiveness will be rewarded spectacularly or dealt an almost fatal setback. One or the other – it couldn’t possibly be both, right?

“You see… the thing is… well, I only have to be here for another five weeks. And I kind of doubt I’ll be coming back after that. And that would be a shame.”

“Not because I need these meetings, you understand,” I hasten to add. “Just because, well, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I’ve… oh damn it! I’ve kind of fallen in love with you. Would you like to go out for a cup of coffee or something?”

My heart is pounding like mad. Still Miss Katsumi tortures me with suspense for a few minutes, calmly regarding me with that barest hint of cool amusement. At last she effortlessly devastates me.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea. Haven’t you had enough caffeine already? You’re trembling where you stand.”

“I’m…I’m sorry!” I stammer, preparing to scuttle ignominiously off. But she stops me with the touch of a hand on my arm. This physical contact – the first ever between us – causes my shattered heart to lurch alarmingly. Then at a stroke she both mends it and causes it to swell and start racing more dangerously than ever.

“Why don’t we go out for drinks instead? Nothing alcoholic of course – you’ve taken the pledge and I’ve never touched that poison. But I know a quiet bar where we can have a private talk and discuss your future. Come with me, young man.”

Young man? Isn’t Kim – excuse me, Miss Katsumi – only four years older? And ‘discussing my future’ sounds rather more ominously formal than what I’ve imagined. Yet there’s no gainsaying her air of consummate authority over me. Anyway I’m too amazed and excited (not to mention intimidated) to dispute anything with her. As she strides toward the door without looking back I merely fall into step behind her.

At the door she stops. It takes me a moment to realize she’s waiting for me to open it for her. Then I hurriedly comply. Without a word or glance at me she precedes me through it, and this pattern is repeated at each stage of our journey. Miss Katsumi’s long strides are difficult to keep up with, and something about the set of her back and the arrogant carriage of her head and shoulders indicates to me that I’m meant to follow and not presume to walk beside her as an equal. At the door to the street she again pauses to let me open it for her, and does the same when we reach her car, a gleaming black Mercedes sedan.

After I climb in the other side she drives us across the city to a rather fancy and exclusive establishment without offering another word of explanation. Of course I dare not attempt any conversational gambit of my own. When she parks, withdraws the key and merely sits there staring straight ahead with her hands clasped in her lap it again takes me a moment to realize that she’s waiting for me to come around and again open the door for her. I scramble to comply.

Still without acknowledging me in the slightest, as if I were a servant or something, she leads me into the bar (past a doorman who tips his hat to her but ignores me completely) and through its elegant, subdued atmosphere to a secluded booth near the back. With no chair to hold for her I wait respectfully for Miss Katsumi to sweep her skirt under her and sit down before I slide in across from her.

My casual dress is out of place in this swanky establishment, and I’m feeling more uneasy by the second. When Miss Katsumi picks up the embossed leather drinks menu before her and opens it I do likewise with mine.

My eyes widen with disbelief at the prices listed. Passing hurriedly over everything with alcohol in it, I settle on Buckler, a non-alcoholic beer made by Heineken. I close the menu at the same time as my ‘date’, and at last she speaks to me, though still without looking at me.

“I will have a Perrier.”

She raises one finger, and a waiter appears almost by magic. Understanding that I’m to order for us, I proceed to do so.

“The lady will have a Perrier. Buckler for me please.”

“No.” Miss Katsumi has made eye contact with me at last, and the look in those brilliant green orbs is glacial. “Order something else. Even non-alcoholic beer has alcohol in it, if only a tiny amount. Never make that mistake again.”

Flushing with chagrin I swallow hard.

“Make that two Perriers, please.”

“Certainly sir.”

Once the waiter leaves I clear my throat.

“I’m sorry, Miss Katsumi. I didn’t know.”

She nods noncommittally, acknowledging my apology without accepting it or showing any hint of forgiveness. But at least the icy look has left her eyes. Gone too is her earlier amused indulgence. Now she studies me with a kind of silent, considering appraisal I find uncomfortable for some reason. To break the spell I look around the place, taking in its elegant décor and aura of exclusivity and feeling more diminished than ever. Finally our drinks arrive. Together we each take a sip, and then at last I’m driven to try to start a conversation. This is without a doubt the strangest date I’ve ever been on.

“So how did you become involved with Alcoholics Anonymous, Miss Katsumi?”

“Naturally enough: my parents were both incorrigible sots. My father was a wealthy Japanese businessman. My mother descended from Swedish royalty, albeit obliquely. When he died at forty-six of liver disease, she took her own life with Glenfiddich and sleeping pills. I went there for support and help in understanding their compulsion. Soon I came up with the same objections you’ve stated about the place however, which have also been raised by people such as the author, John Cheever: that it’s too one dimensional, and primarily for people who are too fundamentally broken to face life without the sort of fanatical crutch they provide.”

“Yet you continue to volunteer there.”

“Yes I do. And my reasons are my own. Now I would like to hear about your own family connections, and any close friends you might have.”

“All right.” I take a sip of my water. It tastes pretty much the same to me as what comes out of the tap, and certainly not worth six bucks a glass. But perhaps ten years of boozing and Buffalo wings have seared my taste buds into insensitivity.

“My parents live in Dallas, Texas. We each want nothing to do with the other. They’re fundamentalist evangelical Christians who belong to one of those cultish mega-churches. I’m an atheist drunk who thinks gays, liberals, and non-white people have as much right to live in this country as anyone else. Besides genes and a last name we have nothing in common.

“They beat and belittled me from the time I was born until I left for college. When I came home after freshman year an environmentalist, Democrat and sociology major they threw me out of the house and cut me off. I’d been a rebellious teenage drinker and pot-smoker, but when I voted for Gore and refused to go to church any more that was simply too much. I haven’t seen or heard from them since. I have a few aunts and uncles I haven’t heard from in years either, but no siblings or cousins. As for friends, I had my share of co-workers and drinking buddies. But after losing my job and swearing off the sauce I’ve lost touch with these.”

“I see. And how about lovers?”

I clear my throat uncomfortably and take another sip of Perrier.

“I took a few girls to Homecoming and Prom in high school, but never got so much as a kiss. I was too timid and insecure. I had a few drunken one-night stands in college before I had to drop out when my parents cut me off. But nothing that led anywhere. Then there was Dorothy.”

“Yes, you’ve spoken of her in the meetings. You were engaged. She left you because of your drinking. Losing your job was the final straw.”

“We met at a party.” I’m able to speak almost offhandedly about Dorothy. “I was just drunk enough to hit on her without being too drunk to follow through on it. We continued to see each other, more out of convenience than love, at least on my part. This went on for about a year. She kept demanding commitment and self-discipline from me. I was able to provide the former, first by moving in together and then with the ring. But the latter always eluded me, and eventually she left with no forwarding address.

“I hate to say it was almost a relief. I loved the animal comforts of having a mate, which I’d never had before. But I didn’t really love her. To tell you the truth, I never knew what love was until encountering you. This is going to sound strange coming from an atheist, but there’s something almost holy about what I feel for you, Miss Katsumi. There’s a will-sapping compulsion to it. I was thinking just tonight that I’m more addicted to just the mere sight of you than I ever was to alcohol. You are just so singularly beautiful and effortlessly authoritative that I feel a sort of helpless veneration for you as the icon of all that is desirable in a female.

“I still can’t believe I managed to dredge up the assertiveness to approach you, and that you actually agreed to go out with me. I think only the thought that I might soon never see you again gave me the determination to put myself forward this one time at least.”

Finally I run out of words. Once again I can’t believe I’ve made such a speech, a once in a lifetime soul-baring that surely no other woman could possibly bring out of me. But looking up from my glass I see that it’s had an effect. Miss Katsumi is smiling at me again at last. Her formerly faintly amused indulgence is faint no more. There’s also a certain smug satisfaction and incipient triumph in her expression that’s as unnerving as it is exciting to me. She stares almost gloatingly at me as we digest all that I’ve just said. Then she makes a speech of her own.