Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Eileen Rendahl is the author of the Downtown Press novels Balancing in High Heels and Do Me, Do My Roots, which was nominated for a RITA Award. Her short fiction appears in the New Year's story collection In One Year and Out the Other. She lives near her tight-knit family in California.

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Balancing in High Heels

Downtown Press

by Dr. Gail Peterson

Recognizing Anger

Do you clench your fists? Frown? Grit your teeth or breathe rapidly in and out through your nose? The first step in learning to control your anger is to recognize the signs of your own emotions before they start your Anger Train on an out-of-your-control journey. You don't have to go down the tracks into the inferno.

Helpful Hint: If you've already thrown something or hit someone, it's too late.

Alissa's Anger Workbook:

Exercise #1

List three ways you can tell that you're angry:

1. Trail of broken office equipment and furniture.

2.

3.

I fed the pages of the brief, which had to be in the judge's office by four-thirty, into the fax machine. It was ten after four. I was cutting it close, but I was going to make it. My client was counting on me to get these papers in; they meant the difference between simply continuing her probation or possibly doing jail time.

The pages flowed through one after another, and the machine began the electronic beeps and boops that said it was dialing. Then it stopped.

The digital readout said "Call Failed." No explanation; just "Call Failed."

Okay. Remain calm. The clock was ticking, but there was still time. I tapped the pages into a neat pile, put them into the machine again, and redialed. This time, the pages stopped after only three of the six pages went through. The digital readout said nothing. It was as if I hadn't even dialed.

Quarter after four. Gerald Winters came sprinting by, coffee cup in hand. "Hey, Alissa, let me know when you're done with the fax. I've got some papers to get out today."

"You might want to go to the other machine, Ger. This one seems to be malfunctioning."

He stopped. "Bummer. The other one's completely dead."

Damn! I fed the pages again and started to dial, but no numbers appeared on the readout. It didn't even beep when I pushed the buttons. The machine was plugged in; maybe it had overheated? I turned it off to reset it and then heard the slightly muffled tones of the Lone Ranger theme emanating from my purse. My cell phone. If it had been my sister, it would have been "The Ride of the Valkyries." If it had been my mother, the phone would have buzzed like an angry bee. The Lone Ranger meant it was Thomas, my husband. Well, he was nominally still my husband; we were having a bad patch.

I rustled through my bag and grabbed the phone, tucking it between my shoulder and ear while I stacked the brief in the fax yet again and turned the machine back on. "Hey, Thomas."

"Hey, yourself, Alissa."

"What's up?" I jabbed the fax buttons. Still nothing! What the hell was wrong with this thing?

"I need a favor, babe."

That was a good sign. Asking for a favor implied that the askee would receive a return favor in the future. Which implied a certain amount of give-and-take. Give-and-take implied a relationship that still functioned, right? "Sure. What is it?"

"I've gotten myself into a little situation and I need to move our papers through."

I froze with my thumb on the fax machine's Send button. "What papers?"

"Our divorce papers, Alissa. Bethany's pregnant."

Bethany? He was talking to me about Bethany? Bethany, who was the source of the chlamydia that had given me PID? (That's pelvic inflammatory disease, for those unaccustomed to the acronyms of the sexually overactive and underprotected.) The PID that had landed me in the emergency room with a fever of one hundred and three degrees and nonstop vomiting, which had led me to discover my husband's infidelity, which had, in turn, led to the previously mentioned "bad patch" we were currently going through.

"Wh-what?" I croaked out. I smacked the fax machine three times hard on the side. This had worked for me in the past, and not just with fax machines. Still nothing, though.

"Bethany is pregnant, Alissa. The baby's mine. I need to do the right thing."

Now he was worried about doing the right thing? How come he didn't think about that before he started shtupping Bethany? "How is this the right thing, Thomas? We're trying to build a life here." I shook the fax machine. Just a little.

"Yes, but there's a new life coming into the world. An innocent one, Alissa."

And I was guilty? Of what? "Thomas, we need to discuss this. Let's not rush into anything."

"There's nothing to discuss, Alissa. I've made up my mind. I'm messengering over some papers, and I would appreciate it if you'd sign them and return them immediately."

"Thomas, wait!" The only response I got was a burst of static. I looked at my phone. "Call Ended."

My chest heaved. My heart beat fast and I couldn't seem to get enough air in my lungs. Thomas was leaving me. For good. For real. For Bethany.

With shaking hands, I tried to dial the judge's fax number again. I just wanted to get the stupid thing to go through so I could leave before Thomas's messenger arrived.

Nothing. Not a beep or a buzz or a blip.

A white buzz filled my mind, and suddenly the room was unbearably hot, my legs weak. I braced myself against the fax machine -- the stupid, useless fax machine that couldn't send the stupid, useless papers to the stupid, useless judge so that my stupid, useless client could stay out of jail and take care of her stupid, useless children who would undoubtedly also become drug users, since the vicious cycle never ended!

I picked the damn fax machine up and flung it across the room.

"So, Alissa, tell us why you're here."

I looked around the room. Dr. Gail had a good question there. I certainly wasn't here because I wanted to be. Who would choose to spend their Tuesday evenings in a room with sour-smelling industrial-grade carpet, uncomfortable orange molded-plastic chairs arranged in a circle, and Starving Artist Sale artwork on the wall? I closed my eyes and prayed for some kind of out-of-body experience to whisk me away. Remember those Calgon commercials? I needed an industrial-sized box of the stuff.

"Alissa," Gail prompted again.

I opened my eyes and tried to smile at her, but it was hard to make my face obey. I couldn't believe a woman with 1980s Mall Bangs held my life in her hands at this moment. How could I take her seriously when every time she spoke, I was distracted by the six-inch bangs standing straight up and waving in the breeze?

After our last meeting Gail had taken me aside and confided (in an exceedingly passive-aggressive tone, I might add) that if I didn't start "sharing" more in Group, she would be forced to tell the judge that I was not participating fully in my court-mandated Anger-Management Classes. I had promised to "share" at the next meeting, managing to keep myself from pulling out a pair of scissors and chopping her bangs off at the roots only because, well, I don't carry scissors around with me.

"I had a little incident at work," I said.

"A little incident?" Gail smiled -- if you could actually call such a condescending facial expression a smile. "Could you explain more?"

Gail knew it wasn't a "little" incident. "Little" incidents don't wind up with you talking to a judge, writing apologies to your colleagues, or having your ex-husband take out a protective order against you.

I cleared my throat. "I destroyed a piece of office equipment."

"What kind?" Anthony piped up. Anthony is a car salesman at a Land Rover dealership. He'd whipped a stapler at the head of another...