Liam is not the sort of guy you imagine playing with your dog. He’s the sort of man you imagine doing it doggie-style with. And I prefer that anyway. I never once added a checklist box that reads, “Compliments my mother on her twisty pasta salad.” Our feet never touch the earth, I certainly don’t plan on them alighting on the streets of Long Island.
Besides, I remember Liam saying, “Family parties are not my thing. Why people feel the need to waste a perfectly good Sunday feigning interest in who’s got high blood pressure, who’s headed for a divorce, and who’s filing for bankruptcy because they blew too much outdoing their neighbors on twisty shrubbery is beyond me.” I’d had the family-pleasing boyfriend before; I’m falling asleep just thinking about it.
Still, I can’t help my mind to exploring how wonderful it would be to go home for once without anyone inquiring why it is I’m still single and whether I would like to meet Aunt Anne’s coworker’s son Jason. And if so, would I let a little thing like ulcerated adult acne get in the way of my feelings for a very nice person?
But that would be nothing compared with the fact that Sunday evenings have transformed from the loneliest time in the world to a cuddle and giggle fest of not watching movie rentals and eating microwave popcorn in bed, during which, if my phone rings, I can finally take the role of oblivious coupled friend to my single girlfriends calling to chat because they can’t bear the loneliness of a Sunday evening.
Come to think of it though, tomorrow is Sunday. And I still haven’t heard from Liam since our last night together. Surely he can’t be so busy that he doesn’t have even one moment to spend with me the entire weekend.
When I hang up with my mother the walls of my apartment seem like the most depressing apartment walls that have ever been. Just moments earlier, they were blossoming with memories of Liam, lovely Liam. Now, they are just reminders of his absence.
That is ridiculous.
I am not the sort of insecure girl who panics at a few days of silence from a gorgeous, successful British man, just because he could have any girl in the world he wants.
Still, I do feel deserted.
I can honestly feel a cactus growing right inside my chest. It’s prickly and painful and the most horrible sensation I’ve ever known.
Disturbingly, there is something exquisitely dramatic about the pain and the insecurity and the blankness of my walls. This sort of pain is anything but ordinary. It’s epic.
Isn’t this the way I’d always wanted to feel? So in love it hurts? So tormented by emotion that I would dash my life to shreds?
If I think about it, I’m actually lucky. All those years of Joanne saying I had no idea what love was all about—I held strong, and here I have finally been rewarded with its full weight.
I could sit here all night and stare at the blankness that is my painful separation from Liam. I stare. And I stare.
I feel the hours tick by.
I check the time. When it says three and three-quarter minutes have passed, I check another clock.
Well, time is nothing in the face of true love. And so, if I’ve spent minutes that feel like hours staring at the blankness that is my exquisitely painful separation from Liam, that’s plenty dramatic. Right? Besides, I’m getting to that state when you’ve stared too hard and no matter where you look, there are little dots of color where there shouldn’t be. Which just goes to show that I definitely need to get out of this apartment.
I strain my memory to think of someone to go out with who is not a guy I should be dating but I’m not interested in, or a guy I’m in love with even though I shouldn’t be who isn’t around anyway, and I remember that wonderful girl from the temp agency with the great shoes—Samantha.
It turns out Samantha is actually in public relations (hence the nice shoes) and recently left her job at one of those humongous firms. “I felt the company was taking money from clients for absolutely no service whatsoever, and that every project I worked on was pointless and of no benefit to our clients at all.” To make matters worse, they had her working horrible accounts like medications for venereal diseases and panty liners for thong underwear, and so she had difficulty feeling important in the world in general, and more specifically when it came to talking about her job to anyone at all.
When she reveals this to me, we suddenly realize that we had once spoken, about two years back, when Samantha was calling around to see if writers were doing any pieces on either venereal diseases or panty liners that you can wear with thongs, as she was assigned to organize a trip to the venereal disease medication plant and the panty liner factory all at once, since, as luck would have it, they were both located in Iowa.
I distinctly remember a girl phoning me about this and breaking down in tears. I gingerly bring up this bit of the memory.
“I can’t believe I stuck it out for so long after that,” she laments. “But now I want to do something important.”
Ms. Banker had pointed her to a boutique advertising agency, but when she went on the interview, Samantha discovered the agency handles panty liners. “The moment I saw the giant panty liner sculpture at reception, I ran out of the office without a word of explanation.” We’re giggling though it could be considered more sad than funny. “What a waste of bronze,” she says, which sets us off again.
Samantha shakes her head, looking intently at her second glass of sangria, as if for an answer. “I described my situation to Ms. Banker in detail, so I couldn’t believe she sent me to that agency knowing full well which accounts they handle!”
“I believe it,” I say, with the feelings of deep camaraderie you can only muster when you’ve suffered at the hands of the same person. I divulge my theory about how Ms. Banker likes to break people down with the express purpose of building them up again.
“Oh my God, You are so right!” she says, waving her head back and forth, as if I’ve just worked out the murderer in a whodunit.
“I’m a genius—when it comes to solving other people’s problems,” I say. Before she can probe any deeper, I continue. “So, what you have to do is go back to her, and she will trip over herself to do the right thing for you, because that’s how she plays the game,” I inform her, in my most clairvoyant, wise voice.
“That makes total, fucked-up, no-sense sense. That is exactly what I’ll do. Sometimes it’s just better to work with the system, rather than try to change everything. Easier, at least.”
“Cheers to that,” I raise my glass.
After a third glass of sangria, I get that wonderful warm feeling that I’ve made a friend that I’ll wind up loving forever; I already got a glimmer from her when she shared her views on only choosing bridesmaids you really love when you get married. We’ve covered jobs, apartments (she has two roommates—one cute British guy and his annoyingly tall and thin British girlfriend), places of birth—she’s from California (although she doesn’t have that happy-all-the-time L.A. attitude that New Yorkers cringe at), and now we’re at the crucial-but-prickly topic of men.
She brings it up, for our fifth cheers of the night, the one that marks our entrée into word-slurring and dangerous clumsiness. “To hopefully, one day fine-in’ a man worth a hill of bees in this city ‘a scenesters ‘n cute but nah sessy men.”
I really couldn’t have said it better myself. Except, of course, now I have Liam, who is neither, and is absolutely perfect, despite the fact that I haven’t seen him since Tuesday and still don’t know his last name and must break up with him immediately. But I don’t want to alienate her with my couple status. I know what it feels like on the other side.
“Hey, I have a crazy idea,” I say.
“What’s that?” she asks, wiping a dribble of sangria from her chin with the back of her palm. Her hair’s a little rumpled on the side and it makes her look sympathetic. We’ve had too much to drink and probably couldn’t even speak clearly enough to order another cocktail, but of course we won’t realize this until tomorrow, when we worry what kind of an impression we’ve mad
e and send cute e-mails to compensate for anything embarrassing we may have done. It’s certainly not the time to be getting serious about anything.
“I met this guy at my offs who’s assolutely gorgeous, knows a thinga two abow copy machines, and’s a nice ass, I mean a grade-A, genui nice ass.”
“So whasss wrong with ‘im?” she wants to know, rightfully so. What is wrong with Seth? The only thing I can think of is that he’s not Liam.
“Obviously, something’s wrong with ‘im if you don wanhim.”
“Well—” I don’t know what to say because I really don’t want to tell her I’m seeing someone; we’ve been bonding so nicely that I don’t want to build this wall between us now. I don’t want to be just another one of those alienating couples. But I can’t very well say I’ve already been there and tossed him, so I have to fess up. “I’m kind of dating someone,” I reveal in what I hope is a delicate way.
She says the magic words, “Do tell,” with a genuine smile. Encouraged, I spill the whole romantic saga of my predicament.
When I’m through, I sit back and wait for her to swoon over my good fortune.
“He sounds like a fuckinnasshole to me.”
I’m shocked. Unless she’s Joanne’s long-lost twin, I can’t work out how she could have come to this conclusion. Had I not just told her about the roses and the “I am falling in love with you” thing? Had I not told about the skipping of the underwear and the beautiful restaurants and the broken heart and the chocolate cake?
“And ‘you complete me’ is a line from Jerry Maguire!”
Is it?
I grab the edge of the bar in sheer horror when I remember the movie scene.
“Don’t worry, we all fall for it once in a while,” she says, with an excess of pity that turns my stomach. There’s no reason to feel sorry for me! Everything’s great.
“So what if it’s from a movie?” I say, re-crossing my legs, a move which makes me surprisingly dizzy. “Don’t I myself blur the lines between my own fan’sy life and fission all time?” She can’t know what I mean because we’ve only just spent this one night together and we’re both very drunk, but she’s nodding her head rapidly anyway, which can only mean I look as desperate as I feel. “This just goes to show Liam ‘n I are kindred souls,” I say.
“Sure honey,” she says, upending the last dregs of her drink. She slams it down a little too hard and then turns to me, oblivious at the bartender’s stare. “But don’t you think is’jussa lil bit odd tha you ha’nt seen his aparmin? Tha you don know his lass name?”
What is it with everyone? “He’s got company righ now ann’s my faul tha’ I dunno hissname. I never assed.”
Samantha’s got her head resting on her crossed arms now, and she s shaking it back and forth. The bartender gives me the eye, like I’d better get her out of here. She lifts herself for a second and says, “You juss better be careful. He sounnns way too cool for school.” Her head bangs back down on the bar. “I think I better go ta bed,” she murmurs into the wood.
Twelve
Practicality and the Pickle
I spend the better portion of Sunday morning applying cold compresses to my forehead and gulping water from a giant plastic cup. I’m glad to feel sick as hell because at least it’s a distraction from those awful doubts Samantha tried to plant in my head. She doesn’t even know Liam! I can’t blame her for thinking those things because on paper he does sound too good to be true. But, lucky me, in the flesh, he really is that good. Samantha is obviously one of those women with a negative attitude about men, who think Mr. Right doesn’t exist. I can relate because it wasn’t long ago that I spent an entire day cursing fairy tales, miserably counting couples, and entertaining the very same thoughts.
But, oh, how love can change you! If I’d upheld that negative, defeatist attitude and thrown my hopes into the trash can for a boring safe guy, look what I would have missed out on. I am so lucky to have been able to bring myself out of the dumps right in the nick of time. I just picked myself up, got myself a new life, and look how everything turned out. I couldn’t be happier.
I guess I’d be a bit happier if Liam worked at Smith Barney and therefore my article would have been a success. But I’ll be done with all of that soon enough, when I back out and then—bam! Perfect life, here I come. I’ll pop that e-mail over soon enough.
“You complete me!” It’s actually funny how similar we are. I’m glad he said that. It just goes to show that we share more interests than I’d originally thought. I can picture us watching love stories all day long, lying naked, taking breaks to make love to each other, ordering in chocolate cakes… .
Two gallons of Poland Springs later, a bit of regional-calling coddling from my grandmother (“poor baby!”), and I’m a new woman. Joanne and I are going to the cafe down the block to have some coffee (and chocolate for me).
She’d called a little while ago and said she needed my advice about something. Joanne never takes anyone’s opinions seriously, so I’m very interested to see what this is all about.
Maybe she’s thinking of becoming a writer and she wants me to advise her on how to get started! That would be so great. We could find some really cheap office space somewhere and get cute, but cheap, Knoll knockoff furniture from IKEA, or maybe we could get an article placed about our office and Knoll would design it for free!
And then we could work with our desks facing each other and share the burden of pitching, and when editors are nasty, we’ll be there for each other so it won’t seem all that bad.
I wear my most intelligent, sensitive-looking outfit to look the part of trustworthy friend and literary mentor. This is a lightweight powder blue cashmere T-shirt (soft and warm), a sweater tied about my neck (the editorial equivalent of a doctor’s stethoscope) and vintage denim (they say I’m still down-to-earth), but with no holes or anything, so they come across as chic and not just old and ratty. Even though we’re just going down the street, I wear black heels, to show Joanne that you really need to dress more adult in this industry.
Now that I’m not monopolizing our conversation with complaints about my love life or lack thereof, I’m free to be a better friend. I’m happy to have the opportunity to help her out. I’ve probably been pretty self-absorbed over the past … eight years, or so.
This can be a whole new start for us. Joanne will look up to me and ask things like, “what’s a dangling participle?” and I could say … well, maybe she could ask something a little easier.
It’s a little overcast today, so I don’t really need the sunglasses, but I feel like they’re elegant, and really pull the whole outfit together, so I keep them on.
“Joanne!” I exclaim when I spot her walking my way. I’m so excited about the prospect of our partnership that I can barely wait for her to come out with it. I do the double air-kisses to get her into the swing of things.
“What the hell are you doing?” she shrieks.
These things take time.
It isn’t two seconds after she’s sat down when Joanne starts to cry. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn the heels or done the double air-kisses—maybe it’s too much to handle all at once. I hadn’t known she had the ability to do something as sensitive as cry. She’s normally either bitter or happy—sadness she finds a wasted emotion.
“What’s wrong?” I venture, afraid the world may be coming to an end to merit this reaction, and well, sort of disappointed in realizing this is probably not a career call after all.
“It’s Pete. We’re—we’re breaking up.”
Pete and Joanne splitting? “But you’re an institution!” I yell.
“I know. I know.” She exhales heavily.
“But I’ve looked to your relationship as a benchmark forever! What could have possibly happened?”
“Lane, I’ve been trying to tell you for a while now. We have not been getting along. Every day we’re arguing about the loud music, the friends always following wherever we go, like we’re freaking Puff Daddy and J
ennifer Lopez. And look what happened to them.”
“But you’re so in love! I see the way you look at each other.”
“Love isn’t everything, Lane.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course it is!”
“Sometimes you have to be practical. Pete doesn’t have a job. He’s thirty years old. And he refuses to go the nine-to-five route. And while I understand having dreams, I cannot live with his would-be Moby derangement anymore. We have no money. We never get to go on vacations. We never get to eat out or do anything. I want things. I want a family. You know?”
“Money isn’t everything. I mean it’s probably nice to be able to go to Bergdorf right when the seasons change and buy whatever you want before it sells out, rather than pine over things and by the time you’ve saved up enough to put it on layaway it’s already gone. But money isn’t everything! The idea of struggling together—making your own entertainment like in Breakfast at Tiffany’s in that scene with the masks—that is so lovely!”
“Lane! Stop it! This is not a movie! This is real life! And I can’t afford to pay all the bills by myself! And neither of us has a rich patron to foot the bill.”
She does have a point. Wouldn’t that be so nice though? A patron. I’d never considered that before. It would take a lot of sure off scrapping this article if I didn’t need the money.
“So how does Pete feel about it?” Pete—a second father to me, really.
“He said he’s never giving up on his dream. He thinks I’m too hard on him and that I should know he’s nothing without music and he can’t be with someone who can’t see that. He’s sick of the fighting, too. He said he’ll never be as practical as I am. We both agreed it’s the best thing.”
Diary of a Working Girl Page 17
