by Tia Williams
“Absolutely not, that’s where I perch to dream up ideas. I can’t share that viss the vorld.”
Turns out, Greta was averse to Eric filming anything meaningful or “special” in the showroom; the one place she agreed to shoot was in front of a white closet door. After setting up, he peered in the lens and saw that the setup looked as cheap and amateurish as it felt.
Faced with no other choice, he cued Jenna and Greta to start. “Hello again! I’m here with the famous, but mysterious Greta Blumen, Isabel Mirielle’s shoe designer.”
Greta leaned on her right crutch and waved hello to the camera, her casted hand whipping back and forth like a bulky white windshield wiper.
“Greta, can you tell us about your inspiration?”
“Too personal! All I can say is that I find joy in taking risks. I dance like no one’s watching.”
“Well, what’s your process? Do you have any rituals?”
“I do, but they’re my rituals, leibling. Telling you would be like giving away one’s birssday vish.” She burst out laughing. “But seriously, I try to work smarter, not harder.”
“Can you tell us what’s coming up from Isabel Mirielle?”
“I can nacht, but there’s somessing for everyone. Because, it’s like I always say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“You must have some fabulous new styles you’d like to show our viewers. Just a sneak peek?”
“Nein! After all, good things come to those who wait.”
Jenna glanced at Eric, whose expression was an exasperated blend of “Is she for real?” and “I want to kill you.”
“Okay…well, we at least have to discuss your famous over-the-knee ‘Clara’ boot, with the studded, six-inch stiletto heel. Why do you think it made such an impact?”
“Vell, I’ve thought about this deeply, and you know vhat my theory is?”
Jenna looked hopeful. Finally, some details that would give this dead-end interview some meat!
“What’s your theory?”
“Sex sells.”
“Cut!” said Eric, turning off the camera. “Greta, you’re doing great. I just need to have a word with Jenna. We’ll step outside for a second. Don’t mind us.”
Jenna smiled at Greta, and then followed Eric into the hallway. The second he shut the door, they began whisper-yelling at each other.
“Jenna! What in every kind of fuck?”
“I know!”
“This is why I asked you if she’d be good on camera. She’s your friend! You didn’t know she was on crack?”
“I haven’t seen Greta in years, all I remembered was that she had huge personality. I thought she’d be epic!”
“Epic? This bitch speaks in memes!”
“What’s a meme?”
“And I can’t believe her minion didn’t tell you she was, like, in a full body cast.” Eric started pacing. “I mean…I can’t…this is a fatal fail, kid.”
“Well…why didn’t you dissuade me?”
“You’re seriously suggesting this is my bad? Nah yo, this was your struggle idea. You picked that madcap medium.”
“But you went along with it!”
“Because arguing with you is so demoralizing, Jenna! Has anyone ever told you that? You have no chill!”
“I do have chill!” Jenna wasn’t positive what ‘having chill’ meant, but she had a feeling he was right. “But what are we going to do? We don’t have time to shoot anything else. How can we fix it?”
“I’ll have to make the best of it, somehow. I’ll edit it to death?
I don’t know. I’ve never had to package anything this shitty.”
“This is all my fault,” groaned Jenna. “We’re so screwed!”
“When you said you needed me yesterday? You really do. And not just as a Twitter tutor. One of the keys to greatness is realizing what you don’t know, and then pillaging the people around you that do.”
“You’re lecturing me on greatness.”
“Actually, that was a quote from my academic advisor.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” Her forehead was knotted with worry. “The enormity of this just hit me. And I have everything riding on this.”
Jenna looked scared, utterly defenseless—which made Eric feel guilty. He had set her up. He’d known that her idea sucked, and could’ve put a stop to it—but he let her flop to prove a point.
“Jenna, look,” he said. “We’re both responsible for this fuckery. If we still have jobs after we turn this in, we’ll make sure the next one kills. But we have to work together. Cool?”
She nodded. “Together. Cool.”
Grimly, they went back into Greta’s lair to continue the ‘interview,’ which she wrapped up in five minutes—but not before pressing a calming alexandrite crystal into Eric’s palm and declaring that his Sahasraha chakra seemed pissed off.
In less than a half an hour, the hot mess of a shoot was over. This time, Jenna and Eric shared a cab downtown. They were both pressed to the door on their respective sides, seated far apart, and submerged in brooding silence. The only thing uniting them was the shared feeling that their run at StyleZine might be over before it started.
CHAPTER 8
Forty-five agonizing minutes later, Jenna and Eric were still in the cab. The midday traffic down Sixth Avenue was locked to a standstill on 29th. The temperature had risen to ninety degrees, and the cabbie’s AC wasn’t working. The air, so clear earlier that morning, had gone humid and oppressive. The cab smelled like kimchee and onion rings.
They were too far from Soho to walk (Eric had too much bulky equipment). The closest train, the F, was rerouted that morning due to a bed bug infestation. Jenna and Eric were stuck in hell. They were starving, wilting, and ready to crawl out of their skin.
Jenna had rolled the arms of her shirt up to her shoulders and was fanning it out from her chest (she’d stolen the slightly cropped, micro-sweatshirt idea from the Marc Jacobs runway, buying a little boy’s version from Marshall’s and shrinking it in her oven). Her cluster of chunky pearls felt like they were choking her, so she unhooked them—at which point the cheap, Claire’s Boutique beads popped off, bouncing to the floor.
Apt metaphor for my life. It’s about to fall apart. How much longer can I pretend to be fancy when I’m really a knockoff? How much longer can I act like I can handle this job, when I’m in over my head?
Embarrassed that her necklace was now pooled at her feet, she scooped up the plastic pearls and dumped them in her purse. Then, she glanced over at Eric. He hadn’t noticed. He was swiping away on his phone. Clearly exasperated, he suddenly dropped it and, with an angsty groan, he stretched a little, trying to make his 6’2” frame fit in the tiny space. His shirt slid up to expose the briefest glimpse of ridiculously taut abs. Jenna’s mouth went dry. His stomach was ridiculous. It could’ve starred in a weight loss supplement ad.
“I need air,” she mumbled, fanning with a Marie Claire from her purse. “I can’t breathe.”
Eric didn’t even look up, which was fine, because she wasn’t addressing him. They weren’t ignoring each other, but neither one of them had spoken to each other the entire time. At random intervals, they would mutter exasperated exclamations under their breath.
Eric: Yooo this heat, son! I’m gonna die in this bitch.
Jenna: I completely sweated out my hair. I am offensive.
Eric: I want Shake Shack. We’re near Shake Shack.
Jenna: What are those cars honking at? There’s no point, no one’s going anywhere!
Eric: Yo, why does this cab smell like the Bloomin’ Onion appetizer from Outback?
But soon, they accepted that they were stuck in there—together and indefinitely—and gave up on bemoaning their fate. Jenna laid her head against the windowsill, closing her eyes and trying to breath in some fresh air. But Eric was all antsy, pent-up energy. First he listened to music, bobbing his head to a rap song with a bass so throbbing that Jenna heard it through his Beats by Dre hea
dphones. That ended, and then he zeroed in on his phone, tweeting, playing video games, watching WorldStarHipHop.com—loudly. Eric had the volume turned up on his phone. Every “click” of a key, every sound effect, reverberated through Jenna’s head at the eleventh decibel.
Finally, she spoke up.
“Do you mind turning down the phone?”
“My bad.”
“Thanks.”
Eric went to adjust the volume, but before he could, the unmistakable “ding” of a new text rang out. He checked it, and then sat up straighter and began texting in a flurry. Over the next two minutes, his expression ran the emotional gamut (frowny, hopeful, bummed, smiley).
If it’s that important, thought Jenna, why doesn’t he speak to that person on the phone instead of texting?
Like clockwork, the phone rang. Eric froze, looking at it like he’d never seen it before. Then he glanced at Jenna. It kept ringing. And ringing.
“Aren’t you going to answer?”
“It’s cool,” he said, stalling, “It’s rude to talk while we’re both trapped here; I don’t want to bother you. You seem so serene. A calm you is a happy me.”
“Eric, answer the phone!”
“Okay.”
He put it to his ear and leaned even closer to his door. In a low voice, almost a whisper, he said, “Hey. No, I can’t talk right now. So…I’m sorry too. I will. But right now I gotta go. I…umm…” He lowered his voice even more. “I miss you, too.”
Eric turned off the phone, slid it in his pocket and slumped in his seat. Jenna folded her arms and eyed him, a surprised smirk on her face.
“Oh really?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” He rubbed his temples.
“So, who was that goddess among women?”
“Here we go.”
“Eric, do you have a girlfriend?”
“An ex-girlfriend. Ex.”
“And how long has she been your ex? Were you…together when, you know…”
“No, I don’t cheat. I never got the point. Why be in a relationship?” Deeply uncomfortable, he rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. “We just broke up.”
“How long ago is ‘just?’”
“Jenna,” he said. “I’m just gonna close my eyes and get a moment of peace before we go back and my mother shits on my entire existence. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, but she was bursting with curiosity. Who was this girl? What did she look like? Did he kiss her the way…
Don’t even think about it. Never happened, remember?
Still, she had to know.
“Can you at least tell me her name?” she blurted out. “What does she do?”
“Madison,” he said, stiffly. “Ballerina.”
“Why did you break up?”
“No offense, but it’s none of your business.”
“True, but what else are we going to do? We’re stuck in here together, we might as well talk. Plus, I give great relationship advice. Though I never could figure out my own.”
He raised his brows. “You’re in a relationship?”
“No. I’m in that terrible set-up phase between relationships.”
“How’s that going for you?”
“It’s not. Men my age want women your age,” she said. “So, tell me more about Madison.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“’Cause you’re mean to me. And I’d like to keep a healthy emotional distance from you.”
“Please?”
“Omigooodd,” groaned Eric, leaning back against his seat. “Get me outta this cab.”
“Why did you break up?”
“Fine,” he said, exasperated. “She dances with this company in LA, and she’s a sophomore at UCLA, but I’m here. So it would’ve been a weird long-distance thing.”
“Wait. She’s a sophomore in college? How old is she?”
“Almost nineteen.”
Jenna swiped aside the sweat-soaked curls plastered to her forehead and nodded, trying not to broadcast how she felt—which was shock over the realization that Eric was young enough to conceivably date an eighteen-year-old.
“Well,” she started, “sometimes long-distance works. Did you try?”
“I mean, it’s complicated. I met her when I was at USC. When I graduated, she wanted to transfer to NYU so we could be together.” He frowned, remembering. “I told her to stay on the West Coast. That she shouldn’t move across the country for some dude. But then she got mad. Like, very.”
Jenna nodded. “Madison wanted you to want her to move here.”
“She never said that.”
“But that’s how she felt. She wanted your feelings to be so intensely passionate for her, that you couldn’t fathom any other option.”
Eric hit Jenna with a look, like he was engaging a silly little girl. “Intensely passionate? That’s a cinematic affectation.”
“You don’t feel intense passion for Madison?”
“I feel ‘hearty like’ for her,” he said, listlessly. “Seriously, I’m too hot and weak to talk. Let me preserve my energy for editing.”
“Do you want her back?”
“I don’t know. Yeah?”
“That’s so sweet.”
Eric rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Yo, there are so many things I’d rather be doing than sharing this specific moment with you right now.”
“So what do you love about her?”
“I said hearty like.”
“What do you heartily like about her?”
“She’s sweet. Nice.”
“Sweet and nice? You could be describing a maltipoo.”
“What do you want me to say? That’s what I like.”
“Does she feed you?”
“Like, does she cook and shit?”
“No, does she feed your soul. Motivate you. Inspire you.”
“Is a girlfriend required to do that? I motivate myself.” Eric paused. “Look, I don’t get all introspective about my relationships. To me, it’s straightforward. Just make each other happy and, like, don’t not. Complicated situations with complicated women? I’m all the way good on that.”
“What do you consider complicated?”
“My boy, Tim’s girl, for example. Last week she chased him down Mott with a sword she stole off the wall at a Thai restaurant. And he loved it. What’s that about? I like easy-going girls that aren’t always trying to get mouthy.” He shrugged. “Women I know how to make happy. Uncomplicated girls like Madison.”
“Here’s a secret, though,” said Jenna. “Madison is complicated. We all are. She probably senses that you need her to be simple, so that’s what she is.”
“You don’t even know her.”
“Believe me, I do. I was a so-called ‘simple girl.’ I was ornamental for twenty years. My job was to look pretty, smile, and shut up. Those setups are doomed, because no woman can bury her needs forever. And when she shows herself, the men leave. But you know what? Even the men that date feisty spitfires, like your friend, Tim? They end up running for the hills, too. Because those relationships aren’t real either, that’s a drama addiction and it fizzles quick. The only ones that make it are equals, like my friends Billie and Jay, who trade power. Sometimes he’s the top, and sometimes she is. But that’s rare. Maybe you should look into why you feel most comfortable with women that let you get to be you, in all your multi-layered complexity—while their role is to stay un-mouthy.”
Eric looked at her. “That was the most judgmental bullshit indictment ever. I’m a great boyfriend. The men coming in and out of my house when I was a kid were complete garbage; I know how not to be. You think I thought Madison’s role was to shut up and let me shine?”
Jenna hadn’t intended to offend him; she was just offering some perspective. Unsolicited, but she wasn’t trying to cross the line. All she’d wanted to do was satisfy her intense curiosity about Madison while also engaging Eric in some non-confrontational chit-chat. And now she’d brought
them right back to where they always ended up.
“I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
“You’re making me sound like I dismissed Madison as some inconsequential trophy wife. Like it was all about me.
It was the opposite. I told her to stay in LA because it was best for her. I care about her, I was being thoughtful.”
“I wasn’t criticizing you, I was trying…”
“Damn, Jenna. What happened in your life? You’re mad bitter about men.”
“Bitter?”
Eric was already in a terrible mood from that shoot. He was thrown by the Madison call, and hot. And now Jenna was making damning assumptions about him based on nothing. Yet, her assessment of him struck a nerve. A very small part of him did value that Madison was so agreeable (meek, even) because it made his life easier. But overall, Jenna made him sound self-serving and callous, which hurt him a little—and this was a feeling he loathed. To Eric, hurting a little opened the door to being hurt a lot, which he refused to let happen.
He was pissed at Jenna, but even more irritated with himself letting her opinion matter. So, Eric did what he’d always done when someone punctured his usually impenetrable veneer. He went for the jugular.
“Hell yeah, you’re bitter,” he told her. “You basically said that all men, no matter what kind of woman they’re with, will find a reason to lose interest. See, this is why old dudes date young girls. They’re still open and optimistic. No one wants to chill with a woman just waiting for you to fuck up.”
Jenna glared at him, fuming. She’d accidentally offended Eric, but now he was deliberately insulting her.
“That was so nasty.”
“You dragged me into a conversation I didn’t wanna have, only to suggest that I treat my girl like an inflatable doll.”
“Your girl? Are you together or not?”
“We’re not! And why do you care?”
“I don’t,” snapped Jenna. “You know, what I really wanted to say is that it’s obvious why you like quote-unquote simple women. You grew up with Beowulf. You’re looking for the opposite.”
“Beowulf?” Eric was so taken aback, he burst out laughing.
No one had ever had the balls to say anything like that to his face. “Oh, that’s genius. Please, continue.”
