The Journal of Mortifying Moments

by Robyn Harding

  “Hello.”

  I look up. Jesus Christ! It’s Dave. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to talk to you . . . to clear this all up.”

  “I’m not interested in anything you have to say. And I’m meeting Trevor here in five minutes.”

  “No, you’re not.” He sits down across from me.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Trevor set this up so we could talk.”

  He is dead to me.

  “Kerry, this isn’t worth losing your job over. We need to figure this out.”

  “What is there to figure out?” I snap. “You tried to kiss me. I turned you down. Now you’re trying to ruin my career.”

  “It’s not that simple, and you know it.”

  “It is that simple! It’s sexual harassment.”

  “Come on . . . there’s always been this sexual tension between us, and I thought it was about time one of us acted on it.”

  I gape at him, speechless.

  “I’m sorry that I told Tanya that you came on to me, but what could I do? If she knew what really happened between us, she’d quit, and she’s a valuable art director.”

  “And I’m a completely dispensable account manager?”

  “Well . . . no, but . . .” The waitress interrupts us. “You want something?” she asks. Dave orders a beer. “Do you want another one?” she asks me.

  I look down and realize my glass is practically empty. “Sure,” I say. “Bring me another.”

  Three pints later, I am very drunk and embroiled in a deep discussion with Dave about the future of the agency, the negative side of a career in advertising, and the end of his three marriages. “People who aren’t in the industry just don’t understand,” he explains about his first and second wife. “The hours it takes to build a career and the social side of it.”

  “I guess.” I shrug. “My ex, Sam, never cared about me working late or socializing with clients or coworkers. But that was actually the problem. He didn’t seem to care much about me, period.”

  “He was crazy,” Dave says, looking at me intently. I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

  “We’re getting off topic here,” I say formally (although the pints of beer have made my speech a little slurry). “I want you to tell Tanya that I didn’t come on to you at that NAPI party.”

  “Tanya . . .” He sighs heavily and signals the waitress to bring us a couple more pints. “I’ve got to find a way to end it while still salvaging our working relationship.”

  “Well, Dave, I’m afraid that’s your problem. I’d appreciate you leaving me out of it.”

  “But I can’t leave you out of it, Kerry,” he says seriously. “You’re a big part of the reason I’ve got to dump her.”

  Oh, shit. I look at Dave through the beer-induced fog in my brain. He is not a bad-looking guy really, now that the arrogant sneer is gone and his permanent scowl has lifted somewhat. And he’s not nearly so rude and obnoxious in a one-on-one conversation. And I would have to say that our serial-killer suspicions were largely unfounded. If anything, Dave is like a lost puppy, looking for the comfort and solace of a home, but not finding it, so he’s throwing himself into his career and putting up walls and . . .

  What am I saying? I hate Dave! He embarrassed me in front of my peers and almost got me fired today! He is sooooooooo not the one Ramona was talking about in my reading. “Dave . . . there’s nothing between us, okay? I’m sorry that I am so irresistibly feisty and good-looking, but it’s never going to happen.”

  “Even if Tanya was out of the picture?”

  “Even if Tanya was out of the picture . . . What do you mean out of the picture?”

  “If she left the agency . . . would you go out with me then?”

  “What?” I start to stand up with indignation, but I am drunk and clumsy and hit the table with my thigh, sloshing beer all over it. I sit down again and pass Dave a napkin. “Are you saying you’d get rid of Tanya if I said I’d go out with you?”

  “Would you?”

  Well . . . I do hate Tanya, but no! I can’t stoop to that level. And I don’t like Dave that way, I don’t! “And then when you were tired of me, you’d have me fired so you could date some other coworker! No thanks.”

  “It wouldn’t be that way with us.”

  “Dave . . .” I pause. “I’ll tell you what. You get me back in Sonja and Bob’s good books, and maybe we can talk about this further at some later date?”

  “Deal,” he says. We clink mugs.

  I take several large swallows. “I’d better go,” I say, digging in my purse.

  “I’ve got this,” he says throwing some money on the table. “Can I drive you home?”

  “Drive? You’ve got to be kidding? Neither one of us can drive. I’ll catch a cab.”

  He follows me out to the street. It has grown dark while we were ensconced in the dingy bar. I manage to hail a taxi almost immediately.

  “I’m really glad we talked,” Dave says as he opens the door for me.

  “Me, too. You’re going to take care of things with Sonja and Bob?” I ask.

  “I will.” He leans in to kiss me, and I proffer my cheek.

  “Take care of this issue, Dave, and there might be more where that came from.” Did I really say that? God, I’m really learning how to play the game. I hop in the cab and take off.

  “Oh, my God,” I whispered to Sandra. “He is, like, totally the sexiest guy ever!”

  “He totally is,” she agreed, sipping her beer. We were seated at a sticky table in The Den, the campus bar in the basement of the Student Union building. Our seats were close to the stage, where a shaggy-haired musician was singing Cat Stevens. The air was filled with a haze of smoke and the aroma of draft beer. The stage lights illuminated him in the darkened space, making him ethereal . . . surreal. (I’d had quite a bit to drink.)

  “ ‘Climb on the peace train!’ ” I sang along joyfully, my eyes interlocked with his. I was sweating, trembling, almost high with the excitement of this flirtation. I had always had a thing for musicians. (I was almost the lead singer of a band, after all.) But as yet, my “thing” had consisted of erotic fantasies about Bono and Eddie Vedder.

  “Thank you very much, everyone,” the singer said as the song finished.

  “Woo-hoo!” Sandra and I screamed and applauded.

  “I’ll be back after I take a pee break and grab a beer.” The shaggy-haired sex god exited.

  “Did you see that?” I asked Sandra when he had left the stage.

  “What?”

  “The eye contact! He was totally eye-contacting me!”

  “I saw it,” she said. “You are so lucky.”

  “I know!” I giggled despite myself. “Do you want another beer?”

  “I should probably get going. I’ve got an exam—”

  “No!” I screamed. “No, Sandra. You can’t go yet. Let’s just stay for the rest of his set!”

  “But it’s a statistics exam, and I’m doing really badly already. . . .”

  “Pleeeeeeeeeze,” I begged her. “Just one more beer? I’m buying.”

  As I leaned on the bar, waiting for the bartender’s acknowledgment, I was suddenly aware of a presence at my left shoulder. I glanced over, and there he was.

  “Hi.” He smiled at me sexily.

  “Hi.” I smiled back. “You were great.”

  “Thanks. You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

  “I was. I love music. I used to be a singer . . . sort of.”

  “What do you mean, sort of?” His eyes were dancing with amusement.

  The bartender interrupted our banter. “What can I get you?”

  “Two beers,” I said. “Make that three beers.” I turned to him. “You are drinking beer, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. Thanks a lot. I’m Chris.”

  “Hi, Chris. I’m Kerry.”

  By the end of his set, I’d practically had an orgasm in my chair. He’d been singing to me all night, l
ooking directly into my eyes, both of us oblivious of our surroundings. In fact, I was so oblivious that I didn’t even realize Sandra had gone home some time ago. It was better this way, though. Chris was coming to join me.

  “That was awesome,” I said. “Really amazing.” I hoped I wasn’t overdoing it with my enthusiasm, but he was so talented . . . and so good-looking. “You should be playing much bigger venues.”

  “One day . . . I hope.”

  “I’m sure you will,” I flattered. “You were so awesome! Really amazing!”

  “So . . . do you go to U Dub?”

  “Yeah. It’s my first year.”

  “Whatcha taking?” He lit up a cigarette.

  “I’m thinking about majoring in communications.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Yeah, right!” I squealed. “It’s really boring, actually.”

  “I just mean you’re lucky you can afford to go to school. I have to scrape for every penny.”

  “But you’re a musician,” I said. “College would be a waste of time for you. You’ve got bigger and better things ahead.”

  “Maybe. It’s a tough row to hoe,” he said, taking a long and stoic drag on his cigarette.

  “Have faith in yourself,” I said, leaning in close to him. “You are really talented . . . really special.”

  He leaned in and kissed me, and I soared to the highest heavens on a wave of euphoria. His lips were soft and tasted like cigarettes (which I have never really minded). He had a bit of manly and bohemian stubble, which scratched my cheek and chin. When he pulled away, he touched my cheek and stared at me with smoldering eyes. Oh, my God! I was already head-over-heels.

  “Do you want to come to my place for a drink?” I said hoarsely.

  I had never had a one-night stand before—in fact, at nineteen, my sexual experience was extremely limited—but something about this felt so right. Chris was so sexy and charismatic and talented. He was sure to become a huge success, and I would be by his side, the woman who saw something special in him and supported him while he struggled to the top. When he won his first Grammy award, he’d say, “I dedicate this to the woman who always believed in me. To Kerry! My love, my muse, my raison d’être!”

  I let us into the darkened apartment that I shared with Sandra. Her door was closed, and the light was off. I was relieved that she wasn’t still up studying for her calculus exam . . . or whatever exam she was supposed to be studying for. I held my finger to my lips and led Chris to my bedroom. We didn’t need the facade of a nightcap; we both knew why we were there.

  “Chris,” I murmured between kisses. “I don’t usually do this kind of thing. . . .”

  “What kind of thing?” He whispered huskily.

  “Bring guys home that I’ve just met . . .”

  He stopped midkiss and looked at me. “It doesn’t feel like we’ve just met,” he said. “I don’t know what it is, but . . . I feel like I know you . . . like I’ve always known you.”

  “Me, too!” I said, kissing him passionately. I couldn’t believe he felt the same way I did! It was the most magical moment of my life.

  We made love, hungrily, passionately, and yet, somehow, still tenderly. It felt incredibly right. I wasn’t worried about tomorrow, when the effects of the beer had worn off and we were facing each other with sticking-up hair and hangovers. I knew it wouldn’t be awkward and uncomfortable; it would be the start of something wonderful.

  We fell asleep in each other’s arms. Normally, I could not sleep with a stranger’s shoulder under my head, but with him, it felt natural, comfortable. It was also close to 2 am, and I had four pints of beer in me—I could probably have slept with a cactus for a pillow.

  He stirred a few hours later. I wasn’t sure what time it was, but the sky was still dark. “Shhhh . . .,” he said as I rolled over to face him. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got to go now, but I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Okay . . .,” I said sleepily. “You don’t have my number, though.”

  “I’ll write it down off your phone,” he said with a smile. “I’ll call you, okay? What time will you be up?”

  “Around nine,” I whispered, smiling up at him. “I had a great time last night, Chris.”

  “Me, too,” he said, kissing me tenderly on the forehead. “Talk to you soon.”

  I fell back to sleep.

  I was awakened several hours later by Sandra’s shrieking. “Oh, my God! Kerry! Get out here!”

  “What? What?” I stumbled blearily into the living room.

  “We’ve been robbed! Someone broke in and stole our TV.”

  I glanced at the overturned milk crate that served as our TV stand. Sure enough, it was now vacant. “Oh, no!” I said, running frantically around the apartment. “Is anything else missing?”

  “I don’t think so,” Sandra said. She rushed to the door. “It’s unlocked! You left the door unlocked when you came home!”

  “Oh, shit.” I sank down onto the couch. “I didn’t leave it unlocked, Sandra.”

  “Well, how do you explain the fact that it is unlocked, Kerry?” She sounded angry.

  “It was Chris,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Chris . . . the singer. He, uh . . . came over here last night. And when he left . . . well, he couldn’t lock the door without a key.”

  “Jesus, Kerry! What’s wrong with you? You can’t bring a strange guy into our apartment like that. It was probably him that stole the TV!”

  “It wasn’t him!” I screamed at her. “He would never do that to me. We have something special.”

  “Special?” she snorted. “You picked him up in a bar, and you think you have something special?”

  “We do!” I cried. “It’s like we’ve known each other forever!”

  “Whatever.” Sandra turned her back to me and stalked to her room. “I’ve got a statistics exam in ten minutes.”

  I would prove Sandra wrong. When Chris called, I would ask him if he saw any suspicious characters loitering in the hallway. I would suggest he get his own key cut so he could lock the door behind him when he had to leave early. I didn’t worry about seeming too forward with Chris. We both knew this was real.

  But he didn’t phone all day. I rushed home between classes to check the answering machine. Nothing. I decided to visit The Den.

  “I’m looking for Chris, the musician who played here last night?” I asked the bartender.

  “He’s done,” the burly guy said while drying beer mugs. “Last night was his last night.”

  “Oh . . .” I could not start crying in front of this man. If I ever wanted to be able to show my face in here again, I could not start crying in front of this man. “Any chance you have a phone number for him?” I said, playing it cool. “He’s got some stuff that belongs to me, and I need to get it back.”

  “Sorry, hon,” he said. “Chris was a bit of a drifter. He didn’t leave a number.”

  “No big deal,” I said with a phony laugh. “Catchya later.”

  I hurried through the Student Union building to the nearest bathroom, where I dissolved into tears.

  Chapter 16

  I close the lilac journal and blow out the vanilla candle. God, I am such a loser. I can’t believe that the first guy I have a one-night stand with most likely robbed me. And the worst part is, it didn’t even scare me off one-night stands. I had several others, a few of which will likely make their way into the journal of mortifying moments, as well. Apparently, I am too stupid to learn from my own mistakes. The journal is backfiring. I am supposed to absolve myself of blame and learn to love with an open, unguarded heart—not beat myself up further.

  Okay, deep breath. I close my eyes and envision myself in my therapist’s wood-paneled office. I am seated in the dark brown leather chair. She is opposite me, wearing an ill-fitting, beige polyester suit. I can hear her soothing voice: “You were young and naÏve, Kerry. At that age, you were unable to discern a grifter from the love of your life. It’s okay.
It’s a common mistake.” Ahhhh . . . I feel so much better. Maybe I could subsist on these imaginary therapy visits and save myself some money?

  The rest of the week is a grand improvement, thanks to the positive karma generated by my good intentions. Dave was true to his word, and I have been reinstated as the project manager for the Prism TV campaign. It is a bittersweet development, as I am less than eager to work on this project and am considering reevaluating my career in general. On the other hand, I’m relieved that I am not being fired, because I can’t afford to lose my job.

  I even got an “apology” from Sonja (inasmuch as Sonja is capable of apologizing). She walked into my office the morning after my night out with Dave, just as I was taking a couple of Tylenols to combat the draft-beer-induced headache. “Dave explained the situation to us, Kerry.”

  “Explained?” Oh, God. What did he tell her?

  “I’m pleased to hear that you two have been able to put aside your differences and can work together to create an award-winning campaign for Prism.” She flashed a phony smile. “Sometimes it’s good to just sit down and hash things out over a beer.” She kind of punched the air to emphasize her point. God, she’s weird.

  I also passed the psychiatric exam for the Shooting Star program with flying colors. Well . . . there was one “area of concern.” Dr. Shleminger called me into his spacious office to discuss it with me in person.

  “Your test results indicate a very stable and secure individual, Kerry.”

  “Thank you.” I nod, as though I would have been shocked if they had indicated otherwise.

  “There was one area of concern, though.” He puts on his reading glasses, his gray brows furrowing as he scans my multiple-choice exam. “You seem to feel that people are out to get you, that your destiny is not in your own hands but in the hands of those around you. Do you ever suffer from panic attacks?”

  “No.” Although I feel I could have one right now.

  “Do you have any explanation for these feelings? Is there anything going on in your personal or professional life that has made you feel powerless and at the mercy of others?”

  Only everything. I decide that would be the wrong answer. “I have had some relationship issues recently that could be at the root of this,” I say. “But I’m in therapy and feel very confident that I’ll be able to overcome these hurdles.”