Sociable

by Rebecca Harrington

  “Did I just see you on New York 1? Don’t usually watch the news.”

  Despite how shook she was, Elinor decided to write back quickly.

  “Yes! How are you?”

  There was no response.

  Chapter 11

  Facebook: 2 posts. Post 1: “For anyone who was offended by my TV appearance about women writing about their breakups, I’m so sorry. Obviously anyone should be able to write about whatever they want to, they just shouldn’t feel pressure. That was the real point.” Three likes, no comments.

  Post 2: “Hey guys. I just want to say thanks! Thanks for being there for me in these past couple of months. Thanks for letting me be me. Thanks for letting me know how much you care. I really appreciate it, especially in these polarizing times. I wouldn’t have had such success without all the support I’ve been given. #Grateful #thankyou #blessed.”

  Instagram: 1 picture: Of a group of girls (Elinor is included) at a dark, small restaurant in Brooklyn filled with tiny wooden tables. The filter is slightly yellow, and most people (including Elinor) are wearing smocks. Caption: “#ballers.”

  Snapchat: A short video of Elinor in the makeup room at New York 1, with a filter that turns her eyes into mouths!

  · · ·

  “So tell me about yourself,” said Devin. That was the guy’s name—Devin. Elinor had met him on a site called Coffee Meets Bagel. In his picture, his hair had been carefully slicked to the side in a small bouffant, and he had been leaning toward someone who was cut out of the photo.

  “Um, what can I say? I don’t know, that’s such a weird question, I guess,” said Elinor. She was tired. Peter had told her she needed to redo a list she wrote called “10 Reasons Why Vans Sneakers Are Pretty Punk Rock.” He wanted to delete three of the reasons, but he didn’t say which ones.

  “How is it a weird question?” asked Devin.

  “It’s not, I’m sorry,” said Elinor. “It’s just such a New York dating question. You know?”

  “I just moved here,” said Devin.

  “Oh. Well, you’ll see,” said Elinor mysteriously.

  “Okay.” Devin looked confused.

  “It’s just—no one ever says anything different. Everyone is like, the same person. It’s really exhausting.”

  “How can everyone be the same person?”

  “No, whatever, it’s fine,” said Elinor. “I’ve just been on so many dates at this point. The apps are so bad.”

  “Which ones have you done?” Devin was wearing a very tight blue sweater and his eyes were much closer together than they looked in photos. In fact, they were closer together than she had ever seen eyes be. “I’ve only done Coffee Meets Bagel.”

  * * *

  · · ·

  The next weeks were sad ones for Elinor. She didn’t really talk to Sheila, which actually gave her a lot of free time, as Sheila constantly chatted her while she was at work. She was therefore productive, if a little depressed. There were parts of their dispute that would resurface unbidden, usually as she was sitting alone in transportation. Was she really condescending? Had she been a lunatic with Mike? Was it really pathetic to go to the Memorial Day party? But no! It definitely wasn’t. It was totally the polite thing to do. They had a relationship because Mike’s mother had gotten her a job, et cetera, et cetera, and forever and ever amen.

  Her life had assumed a monotonous routine. She lay in Queens on a foam pad most days after work. Nicole still wasn’t really talking to her, but Elinor assumed it was because she was doing acupuncture for her anxiety disorder.

  Soon, however, it was time for the Memorial Day party. The day it was to occur Elinor paced around her apartment, modeling different outfits, even wearing a scarf at one point (she took it off). One thing that was causing her some perturbation was that she hadn’t actually ever seen Mike since Botanica—and he hadn’t ever texted. At some point, after her essay, she had assumed she would have heard from him. All he really had to say was “good job” or something, just like she had said about his Iran piece, which she didn’t even read. But he stayed silent. Did he not see it? Maybe he saw it and hated it, which would have been crazy. The essay was simply an elegiac paean to the end of a relationship. No one could have possibly been upset by it.

  Elinor arrived at the door to Mike’s parents’ apartment about twenty minutes after the party had started. This was on purpose. She didn’t want to arrive before a critical mass had gathered. She grasped the wine bottle she was carrying, her knuckles a greenish white, and rang the doorbell.

  Mike’s father answered the door. He was holding a wine bottle, just like Elinor. It was then that she realized she had never spoken to him before.

  “Hi, Eben,” said Elinor.

  “Hello,” said Eben. He stepped backward two inches, as if startled.

  “I brought some wine.”

  “We have a lot of wine here already. But thank you.”

  “I don’t really know wine but I talked to the guy at the wine store and he recommended this. I hope it’s good? It was sort of expensive.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine. Well, come in!” said Eben. He made a hand motion, and Elinor followed him down a hall that was decorated with black-and-white pictures of Mike and his sister in their youth, wearing matching cable-knit sweaters and standing on a dock.

  Elinor had imagined this party many times before she attended it, and thus she had a peculiar sense of déjà vu when she walked into the living room, trailing after Mike’s father, and observed the scene. The first thing she noticed was that there were almost no guests present. Two men were sitting on the couch. A group of three was standing next to the window. There was a bunch of open wine bottles, all reds, littered on the mahogany sideboard. Elinor, at a loss for what to do, wandered toward the wine bottles. Mike’s father had already darted somewhere else. Mike was nowhere to be found.

  At that point, however, she saw Mike’s mother. She was balancing a silver tray on one hand and holding the kitchen door open with her foot. Elinor put her wine bottle down next to the other bottles and walked toward her.

  “Hi, Pam!” said Elinor. “Can I help you? It’s so nice of you to invite me to this party.”

  “Oh, that’s okay.” Pam smiled, but her eyes were somehow wider than normal, and Elinor had a fleeting, dreadful thought that Mike’s mother didn’t know she was coming. But how could that be? She had been invited! Pam shifted the tray to her other hand. “You know Mike’s not here yet?”

  “Is he coming?” said Elinor.

  “He’s coming eventually. You know Mike. When has that kid ever been on time?”

  “I know!” said Elinor enthusiastically, pleased that Mike’s mother was recalling her prior claims. “I mean, I totally do know. He’s never on time, ever.”

  “Well, good to see you—”

  “Also, um, I just wanted to thank you again for getting me that job.”

  “Oh yeah, right. At Journalism.ly.” Mike’s mother shifted the tray again. It looked quite heavy. There were several different cheeses on it and some pale green, hard-looking grapes.

  “Let me help you, please,” said Elinor, motioning toward the tray.

  “No, that’s fine. I should probably put this down over there, so—”

  “I just want to say that like, you have really inspired me, as like, an author. I’m writing a lot now.”

  “That’s great.”

  “I actually just wrote a piece that was kind of about the process in which we write. Just kind of about how we deal with loss and endings. I’d love to get your feedback on it—”

  “Ahh,” said Mike’s mother. It was hard to tell from her face if she knew what Elinor was talking about. It had an inscrutable expression on it. “How interesting. Well, I really have to put this tray down. But thanks for coming.”

  “Thanks for having me,” said Elinor too loud. Her volume control always suffered terribly under stress.

  * * *

  · · ·

  In an Uber across
town, another horror was happening.

  In the past week, J.W. had come to the conclusion that he could not attend the Memorial Day party without some reinstatement of “Thoughts and Musings.” All the journalists of his generation would be there, still writing their various columns. And when they asked him what he did with his time, he would have to say, what? That he wasn’t even writing anymore? That, instead, he was calling up the CEO of Walmart and asking him to write a blog about why unions are bad? It was too much! He had to say something.

  It was hard to predict how Sean would take an actual demand from J.W. After his unemployment, J.W. had been far too scared to make demands, and staying quiet seemed to be working really well. No one bothered him, and he had completely commandeered the conference room. People didn’t even try to have conferences at all anymore, especially since he put up blinds. Should he really say anything when things were going so well? The entire week J.W. had pondered the subject without incident. On the day of the party, he finally determined he would broach it with Sean while they drove to the party together.

  Thus, when the Uber—a shiny black monstrosity with chrome finishes and three sets of seats—arrived at J.W.’s apartment, J.W. was discomfited at the sight of Peter in the second seat next to Sean. J.W. had to step over him on his way back to the third seat.

  “Hi, J.W.,” said Peter, without moving his legs, which were in the center aisle.

  “Hi,” said J.W. “Hi, Sean. I didn’t know Peter was going to this?”

  “I asked Sean what he was doing this weekend, and he told me to come along!” said Peter.

  “It’s always good to network,” said Sean.

  “Of course,” said J.W. stiffly. He sat down in the third seat and leaned forward, so his face was almost in the second seat.

  “I was just telling Sean about this new initiative I was thinking of starting,” said Peter. He was leaning against the window, his seat belt unfastened. “I would love to get some virtual reality gaming on the site.”

  “What?” said J.W.

  “I’m just trying to think outside the box here. But what if we combined gaming with the news?”

  “How would we do that?” said J.W. neutrally.

  “Okay, I was playing Pokémon Go, and I just thought, What if we could apply it to news gathering? I know it’s outside the box? But that’s what we do at the Journalism.ly. We try shit and we see what works.”

  “Would the Pokémon be stories?” said J.W.

  “There isn’t any Pokémon in the game. It’s the news that would be the game. We would bring gaming to the news.”

  “I love that idea,” said Sean, loudly. “Peter, I love that. J.W., let’s make that happen. You be in charge of that. Work with Peter.”

  “Great,” said J.W. He sat back on his seat.

  “Did everyone have a good weekend so far?” said Peter.

  “I was just thinking!” J.W. yelled. He threw his face forward again “I want to restart ‘Thoughts and Musings’ at the Journalism.ly.”

  “What’s that? Sure,” said Sean.

  “I was surprised you didn’t continue it when you got here.” Peter crossed his arms, as if this truth should have been self-evident. “All of journalism is just opinion now. You were like, the only person not saying their opinion on the entire site.”

  “Maybe your column could be our first virtual reality gaming column,” said Sean, helpfully.

  “Yeah,” said J.W. “Okay, I’ll write the first one next week.”

  He sat back again. He couldn’t tell if he was satisfied or not. On the one hand, he’d gotten what he wanted. On the other, it posed a philosophical question too complicated for J.W. to answer at the moment: Is it foolish to agonize about something that is apparently not a big deal? Still, the only time he was ever happy historically was when he was writing down his own opinions, and this consideration needed to be weighed beyond all others. Plus it was a great thing to say at a party. On the whole, when he fully considered it, he was satisfied.

  * * *

  · · ·

  Mike still wasn’t at the party.

  At first, Elinor didn’t care. She just texted on her phone, which was what she usually did when she was at a party alone. But soon it became a little awkward, especially as more people showed up. She was the only person texting. Everyone else was talking. She would have talked to Mike’s mother more, but she kept running back and forth to the kitchen.

  After about ten minutes of texting, Elinor decided to approach a woman wearing red glasses, someone she had seen at Mike’s mother’s last dinner party. This was an object of some social difficulty, because Red Glasses was talking to a corpulent fellow in an oxford shirt made out of a translucent cotton, and they seemed very absorbed by their conversation. Elinor decided that forthright assurance and commonplace goodwill was the best tack.

  “He’s not going to win, thank god,” the woman in the red glasses was saying, as Elinor approached. “So I’m not worried.”

  “Hi,” said Elinor. “We’ve met before I think?”

  “Yes?” said Red Glasses.

  “I went to a dinner party here with you. My name is Elinor?”

  “Yes!” said the woman. “Are you here with Mike?”

  “Well, Mike’s actually not here yet.” Elinor let out a flat laugh. “I’m wondering when he’s going to arrive.”

  “This is Bruce by the way.”

  “Hi, Bruce,” said Elinor to the corpulent man, who was also very bald. Bruce nodded.

  “So what have you been doing since our dinner party?” Red Glasses pivoted, helpfully, in the direction of Bruce. “Pam had a dinner party about six-ish months ago where I apparently met Elinor. I’m so sorry. I just don’t remember anything anymore. It’s my election stress.”

  “Yeah! Six months ago. What have I been doing?” said Elinor. “I’ve actually been having a crazy couple of months, but they have been really great and busy. I got a new job at the Journalism.ly.”

  “Sean Patterson’s website?” said Bruce, speaking for the first time. He had an authoritative voice, like the prosecutor in the Scopes monkey trial.

  “Yeah, it’s been amazing,” said Elinor. “And recently I’ve gotten way more into writing long-form pieces, which has been super great for me. I wrote a really interesting longer thing recently about the pressure on women to write about their breakups.”

  “Why breakups?” said Bruce.

  “Well, I just went through a breakup,” said Elinor. “I actually had been dating Mike? You know? Pam Johnson’s son? We’d been dating for a while, like, four years? But then we broke up recently. And it’s fine! We’re still friends.” Elinor saw Mike’s mother walk back into the living room. She was carrying a tray of phyllo-wrapped canapés that looked like miniature paper bags. She put them on the sideboard.

  “Interesting,” said Bruce. “I’ve never heard that before.”

  “What?”

  “That women are being pressured to write about their breakups.”

  “Well, they are,” said Elinor sharply. “Like, every day I read something about a breakup.”

  “Interesting,” said Bruce.

  “I went on TV about it, actually.”

  “That’s great,” said Red Glasses. “Are you seeing anyone right now?”

  Elinor smiled at her, to buy time to recover. She had felt so insulted by Bruce’s mild skepticism that she had almost cried, which made her realize that she had been very close to crying the entire time she had been at the party.

  “Well, recently I’ve been dating a lot.”

  “Yes?” Red Glasses was interested. “Do you use the apps?”

  “I do!”

  “How are they?”

  “I have a friend who is on those apps,” said Bruce. “He’s divorced.”

  “I couldn’t do it,” said Red Glasses. “I don’t know how these kids do it. So what is it? Someone messages you?”

  “Yeah, and I’ve gotten some horrible ones. I’ll show you.
”

  Elinor took out her phone and started scrolling through her messages. She wondered if this was a good idea but then decided it was.

  “Look at this one!” She shoved her phone in the direction of Red Glasses and Bruce.

  “ ‘Hey girl, lol’?” said Bruce. “That’s a shitty pickup line. In our day, at a bar, you had to at least talk to someone.”

  “I know,” said Red Glasses. “I really couldn’t do this. This is so hard.”

  “Elinor,” said Peter, quietly. He had come up by her shoulder. She had not seen him come in, she didn’t know he was coming, his hair was slicked totally down like a helmet, his ears stuck out. It was a shock. “What are you showing these people?”

  “Ahh,” yelled Elinor. “Peter, you scared me!”

  “Hi,” said Peter, holding his hand out to Red Glasses and Bruce. “I’m Peter. I work with Elinor at the Journalism.ly.”

  “Hello,” said Red Glasses.

  “J.W. and Sean are here too,” said Peter, perhaps to Elinor.

  “I actually am going to see if Pam needs any help in the kitchen. She’s been working her butt off,” said Red Glasses. “So go say hi to them.”

  “Okay,” said Elinor. “Well, it was nice talking to you!”

  “Nice talking to you too! ‘Hey girl, lol.’ Hilarious!” said Red Glasses. “So funny, I have to tell Pam.”

  Peter started tugging Elinor toward J.W. and Sean, who were standing near the sideboard. Elinor watched Red Glasses and Bruce drift into the kitchen. Was it awkward for Mike’s mother to know she was Internet dating? Maybe it made her look cool, she couldn’t tell. In any case, it was typical Peter to stop the whole thing short before either result had been established.

  Sean and J.W. were talking to a man with a beard (was it Richard Cooley? It looked like him but Elinor couldn’t know for certain), and purposefully keeping their backs to Elinor and Peter, so that they were not allowed entrance into the conversation. She heard J.W. tell the bearded man, “Well, she has a lot of baggage. That’s undeniable.” He looked more ebullient than she had ever seen him.