Jessica Dorfman Jones - Klonopin Lunch: A Memoir

Also by Jessica Dorfman Jones

The Art of Cheating

Copyright 2012 by Jessica Dorfman Jones

All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com

CROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dorfman Jones, Jessica.
Klonopin lunch: a memoir/Jessica Dorfman Jones. 1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Dorfman Jones, Jessica. 2. Dorfman Jones, JessicaMarriage. 3. Dorfman Jones, JessicaRelations with men. 4. Young womenUnited StatesBiography. 5. New York (N.Y.) Biography 6. Drug abuseUnited StatesCase studies. 7. PromiscuityUnited StatesCase studies. 8. Life change eventsUnited StatesCase studies. 9. Self-destructive behaviorUnited StatesCase studies. 10. Self-actualization (Psychology)Case studies. I. Title.
CT275.D8643A3 2012
974.7043dc23 [B]

2012004503

eISBN: 978-0-307-88699-6

Jacket design by Christopher Brand
Jacket photograph: (mouth) Image Source

v3.1

For the incomparable Mr. Jones

If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.

THE GNOSTIC GOSPELS

The story that follows is entirely true, much to the authors amazement, amusement, and occasional chagrin. In an effort to safeguard the privacy of the individuals whose lives touched mine and are in any way represented herein, I have changed their names and identifying details. This policy applies to those who were very good and those who were very naughty; no favoritism was applied. In some instances, it was necessary to rearrange and/or compress events and time periods to further the narrative, preserve the aforementioneds anonymity, or because my own mind-altering activities as related in this book left me no choice. Finally, the dialogue in this book was re-created to the best of my abilities, and if not verbatim, it matches what was said to the best of my recollection. If the words are not exact, the spirit in which they were said and the content as I remember them are represented as accurately as possible.

And so it was that, by the time I was on the doorstep of thirty, I was in a job Id grown to hate and had been married for four steady, if plodding, years to my college boyfriend Andrew. Sweet, predictable Andrew. While he had once been a wildly hilarious partier up for any crazy scheme at a moments notice, now he loved nothing more than a night spent at home reading quietly and turning in early. I tried my best to be equally content with his vision of a cozy and homely pas de deux, but inevitably, at least once a year, I would wind up running into the night to kick up my heels. Andrew thought these outbursts of mine were amusing and they barely registered with him as he flicked through the latest Grisham novel before turning in for the night.

The job Id grown to detest was a high-level position at a dot-com that, like so many others of its ilk, had managed to burn through close to one hundred million dollars in just over two years without actually producing anything. The New York Silicon Alley era had been fun while it lasted, but it was drawing to an obvious close and I was burned-out, unmotivated to figure out what my next move would be, and feeling dull as dirt. Gone were the days of three-hour steak lunches at Les Halles, the weeklong sales meetings in Vegas, and exorbitant expense accounts. Knowing that our days were numbered, everyone had basically just stopped working; instead of the hustle and bustle we had all experienced in the early days, going to work now consisted of sitting at your desk and waiting for the phone to ring. That ring had become the inevitable death knell from human resources announcing that the gravy train had dried up.

I occasionally considered going back to work as a lawyer, but I had hated law school, it took several tries to pass the bar, I had worked for sadists, and the day I left that world was one of the happiest of my life. I detested the legal profession and it seemed the feeling was mutual. So there I sat, sliding into thirty, with an unused law degree, soon to be unemployed, and in a mildly geriatric marriage that had become as predictable as my morning oatmeal.

I shared an office at beenz.com with an old friend, the very person who had roped me into this job in the first place. Brynne was the head of Web development and I was the director of business development, and we shared an office mostly because nobody else liked playing Jerky Boys tapes at top volume as much as we did. Brynne was also struggling with what her next steps in life would be and like me marveled daily that shed made it to thirty and hadnt yet figured out who or what she wanted to be when she grew up. We were both young but feeling old in our newfound adulthood and filled to the brim with the tedium being heaped upon us daily at the office.

On a lazy Thursday in January filled with Web surfing and vending machine abuse, we were both killing time by reading Salon.com to each other from our laptops, nestled deep inside the beanbags our company had thoughtfully scattered around the office. Why were these oversized bean-filled hacky sacks the only available seating other than our desk chairs? Because our company was called beenz.com.

I cant take this anymore. We have to do something so we dont go insane. What should we do? Brynne asked from the depths of her vinyl cocoon.

I had no idea what to do. The rigors of killing time had robbed me of my ability to make plans. Was my inertia the warning sign of an oncoming clinical depression? At that point even a descent into madness would have been an interesting change of pace.

Go for a drink?

That had become my answer to just about everything. Brynne was unimpressed. No, I dont mean that. I mean, we dont have anything to do. Lets take up a hobby. Some activity that we would never do under normal circumstances. Lets just go nuts!

Going nuts seemed like a fine idea, but I had long ago lost any sense of what that really meant. During my college years, that might have meant spending almost every summer night staying out until dawn, going to drag clubs, and doing ecstasy. Now, except for the very occasional party, going nuts meant buying the deluxe edition of Scrabble for a rousing weekend at home.

Sure, lets do it. But how? I rolled out of my beanbag and onto the floor, which still smelled slightly of stale beer from last weeks intraoffice beer-pong tournament. Staring up at the acoustic tile, I said, Well, I always thought it might be fun to learn how to play mah-jongg.

Brynne gagged on a mouthful of Skittles. What are you? Ninety?! Next stop orthopedic shoes! Vomit.

Jesus, okay, fine. Remain calm! Just pretend I didnt say anything. What do you think we should do?

Brynne remained silent as she carefully arranged the Beanie Babies on her desk into lewd positions. I think that we need to get our groove on.