[Volume I may be found here: http://darksidelawyer.posterous.com/comment-the-dark-side-dialogs-volume-i-tippin]

May 27, 1999, 6:30 AM

"Get up." was the fist thing I recalled hearing, though I am sure that much more was said, verbally and non-verbally, before and after those two words. "I am leaving for work. Are you going in to the office today?" Shit. Trick question. I had not considered the fact that Thursday was just another workday for "adults" like me. On top of that, knowing me, I probably talked so much fucking gack the night before that not showing up at the office that day would be tantamount to admitting machismo inferiority and would result in months--nay, years--of ridicule. Unacceptable. Oh, how little did I know at that time that there would be "levels of survival that [I] would be willing to accept."

"Yeah. I'm going to go in, just a little late." I managed a complete sentence! Punctuation and everything. 

"Fine. Whatever." I could tell by the acoustics that she had her back turned to me. I gather I looked like the devil and smelled like lint trapped in the ball-leg crease of one of his hellhounds. Plus, she might still be a wee bit upset about my behavior. Just a wild guess. I'm preternatural like that. "Call me when you get in. We need to talk."

F

U

C

K

Anyone over the age of 10 knows that those four words are not an prelude to questions like, "Should I buy you the red Mercedes or the black Bimmer? I can't pick. Sorry about ruining the surprise! Tee hee!" No, that phrase is right up there with, "Does the defendant have anything he would like to say before I pass sentence?"  You're already guilty; you are just trying to mitigate the sentence where possible. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckitty fuck fuck.

"Sure." I said. I think I managed to get the response out before the lock on the door to the apartment clicked behind her. Then again, she wasn't asking a question and looking for one of multiple possible responses. Imperative voice is, well, imperative.

May 27, 1999, 9:30 AM

What? I did say I was going in late. Besides, as awesome of a drunk driver as I may have imagined myself being, I knew for a certainty that I was the polar opposite when it came to a drunk-transitioning-to-sober driver. And the three extra hours of sleep were in the bed, for once without the obligatory bruised ribs from being punched until I rolled over onto my side to abate the snoring.

So, after exercising my Wonder Twin powers ("Form of: a puddle! Shape of: a bucket (to pour my ass into the shower)!"), I washed my teeth, shaved my tongue and brushed my face. I probably still smelled like a distillery, notwithstanding the half bottle of Plax and the half bottle of Scope, but, at this point, just making it through the day would have been a monumental victory.

It is funny how you remember irrelevant details amid monumental events. Like how, on that day, I forgot to wear a belt. Now, and I understand that this is a deeply personal preference, but I think that dress slacks and an oxford without a belt should be a misdemeanor at a minimum. Of course, this realization comes to mind ONLY after I am more than halfway to the office. Not worth it to turn back at that point. I also recall how, while driving to work, my thoughts turned to that trainwreck of a special "The Day After" and how many errors that show contained about nuclear war. I was remembering how, after watching that show, sixth-grade me was TERRIFIED anytime a jet engine fired up. "Oh fuck. We're all gonna die." Not a big deal, unless you lived five miles from one of the largest Air Force facilities in America, making you five miles away from ground zero of a Top Five Russian nuclear missle target. Oddly, I recalled how seventh-grade me felt better watching the much finer BBC production "Threads" as part of the "gifted" program in junior high. The idea of instantaneous vaoprization (and the answering of the ultimate questions that puzzle us throught this quantum existence) seemed preferable to trying to rebuild soiciety from the post-apocalyptic rubble. I still can see in my mind the final scene with those dirty, grubby little fingers unravelling blanket threads so that they can be rewoven into something else. Some metaphor for the fabric of society, no doubt.

May 27, 1999, 11:00 AM

So I make it to work. Based on the reactions from everyone--attorneys and staff (word spreads fast at a smaller firm)--I can reach two conclusions. First, making it in was a moral imperative. One has one's rep to protect after all. Second, I did in fact turn it up PAST 11 the night before. One has one's rep to protect after all. I grabbed some coffee from the break room, tried to keep small talk to a minimum and made a bee-line for my office. 

Once I shut the door and slumped down in my chair, reality began to set in again. I just knew she was going to broach the "D" word. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckitty fuck fuck. That's right. That pooch is whimpering in the corner because I screwed it. HARD. NO LUBE. And, for once, I was not going to be able to bail myself out with some half-hearted promises and some half-assed gestures. The command performance necessary to pull this jumbo jet out of the tailspin would not benefit at all from the black arts upon which I could typically rely.

Luckily, I was going to be able to buy myself some time. By my calculations, she would be at lunch. I called and, as expected, got voicemail. Good sign. I left a nonchalant message like, "Hey, just giving you a call. Guess you are at lunch. I have some meetings this afternoon [lying], but I will try and call again when I have a break." Okay, so I used my +4 Voice of Deception charm to buy myself some time. Fucking sue me. Leopard and his spots and such. But I could not have her call and derail my efforts if this was to work out as I hoped.

May 27, 1999, 3:00 PM

By the time I called her back, everything was set. Put me under an impossible deadline, and I can work fucking wonders. Deep breath. Just remember to breathe. You can do this.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Listen, I am not going to waste your time with some bullshit apology about last night. I know you're still really pissed--and rightfully so. I fucked up. I mean REALLY fucked up, and I know that. I--"

"I can't go through this any more. I just---I can't. I won't. I--"

"I know. And I am telling you that I am done. For good. Really done."

"We've had this discussion before. You always promise how you'll keep it under control. And it never fucking works! NEVER! NEV-ERRRRRR!"

"No. This time is different. I mean I am quitting. For good. I need to stop. I want to stop. For me. Not just for you."

"Whatever. You won't--"

"No. I WILL. I've made a few calls. I'm getting help this time."

"Like what kind of help?"

I guess I did choose rebuilding the fabric to instant vaoprization after all.