by Jason Starr
“You won’t get away with this! I have your home address! I’ll press charges! I’ll do whatever I have to!”
“Come to my house,” Greg said. “Try it. I wanna see you try it.”
After Greg left, everyone started talking at once about what had happened. Cursing, yelling – a violent energy was growing in the office. I realized what it must feel like during the moments before a riot – I was waiting for the next person to throw a punch. Mike screamed for everyone to get back to their cubicles, but everyone ignored him. Ed went into the bathroom to clean his face. When he came back, he was pressing a paper towel against his nose.
“All right, we’re going to continue with the meetings,” he said. “No one can leave the office until his or her name is called.”
A few minutes later, the police arrived. The two tired, overworked-looking officers went into Ed’s office, took a statement from him, then left. By that time, most of the telemarketers had returned to their seats, but no one was making phone calls. Everyone was still talking about the incident with Greg, about what a crazy company this was to work for, and about what kind of jobs they would look for if they got fired. I listened to the conversation, secretly amused, anxious to be called into Ed’s office. I couldn’t wait to be fired and then to watch the expression on Ed’s face when I told him I didn’t care.
“Bill Moss.”
As I stood up, a few people wished me luck, but I wasn’t scared. I sat across from Ed and tried to keep a serious expression. It wasn’t easy.
“Bill Moss,” Ed said, involved in thought, shuffling through some papers. “Bill Moss, Bill Moss, Bill Moss, Bill Moss.”
“That’s my name,” I said.
“I guess I should thank you,” he said.
“Thank me?”
“That’s right. If you didn’t jump in there when you did, that crazy nigger might’ve really hurt me.”
Hearing the word “nigger” angered me, like it always did, and it made me think that Greg was right about Ed all along – he was a racist, and the worst kind of racist too, the kind that will only make racist comments when the person he’s offending isn’t in the room. I’d always disliked Ed, but it wasn’t until right then that I started hating him.
“I just didn’t want things to get out of control,” I said.
“I appreciate that,” Ed said. “But it’s my fault for hiring niggers in the first place.”
I laughed.
“I’m sorry, did I say something funny?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “I mean you were kidding, weren’t you?”
“Did I sound like I was kidding?”
“But you can’t not hire black people to work for you,” I said. “It’s against the law.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to hire black people – I said I wasn’t going to hire niggers. There’s a difference, you know. There’re educated black people, and then there’re the uneducated, bike messenger type of black people. Those are the niggers. Besides the fact that they’re erratic and difficult to get along with, it’s too expensive to employ them. I don’t care what anybody says, they can’t learn as fast as white people can. We’ve created models to prove it too. We can train white people much faster, and thus they become more cost-effective for the company.”
I’d heard enough. I was ready to announce I was quitting when Ed said:
“But enough about Greg Brown. He’s created enough of a distraction as it is. Let’s talk about you. To be honest, until this incident happened I was thinking about releasing you. But now I’m having second thoughts. I’m thinking maybe there’s a place here for you after all.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing – did he really think I needed a job so desperately he could throw any bone my way and I’d jump for it? He picked up a file folder and started turning pages. “I have the resume you gave us when you started here. It says you worked for an ad agency.”
“That’s right.”
“You were a Marketing Vice President?”
“That’s right, but –”
“That sounds like a good job – you must’ve been making some good money. Why the hell did you quit?”
I used the explanation I always gave, that I was taking some time off “to evaluate things.”
“Two years is some time all right.”
“What can I say? Things didn’t work out exactly like I thought they would.”
“You went to the University of Washington, studied economics and history, did a semester abroad in London, got an M.B.A. at Washington State...”
“I feel like I’m on This is Your Life.”
“You seem to have quite a background. Why didn’t you ever come in here and ask for a promotion?”
“Actually, I think I left something in your mail box once.”
“I don’t read half my mail. What about computer skills? It says here you know ACTi for Windows.”
“I know a lot of database programs,” I said.
“That’s perfect,” Ed said. “We’re going to be looking for somebody with exactly your experience. I want to make a proposal to you, Bill. As I mentioned during the meeting this morning, we’re going to be doing a lot of restructuring around here. As we trim the telemarketing staff, we’re going to expand the management staff. It’s part of a philosophy that the President of the company has that when things are going bad, you expand from within, create a stronger nucleus. So I was planning to hire an assistant, somebody who can help build a database to manage our leads more efficiently. I have an ad set to run in the paper tomorrow, but it would save me time interviewing if you wanted the job.”
“You want to hire me to be your assistant?”
“Why not? You have a good background, with management experience, and these past couple of days you’ve showed your dedication to the company. Besides, you’ve been here a while, so you know how things are run. It would save us a lot of time and money in training.”
“I’m flattered that you want to consider me,” I said, “but I think I’ve been here too long. It’s about time I move on to something else.”
“Do you have another job lined up?”
“Well, no,” I said. “Not exactly anyway. But I was thinking about moving back home to Seattle.”
“Seattle?” Ed said like it was the name of a planet. “You’re joking, right?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“Why would you want to do a thing like that? You’re in New York now, the capital of the world. And you’re still fairly young, what thirty, thirty-one years old? Why would you want to take a step backwards now?”
“It’s what I’ve decided.”
“But you said you’re only thinking about going. That means it’s not definite yet, right?”
“Well, I –”
“The job pays thirty-six a year. With bonuses and floor incentives, you could make forty a year easy, and that’s just for the first year. Management jobs aren’t a dead end here. Look at me – I started as a Floor Supervisor here five years ago and now I’m running the department. And you’d have a step up on the Floor Supervisor as far as promotions, since Assistant Manager is technically a higher up position than Floor Supervisor. But it’s up to you – I can only offer the job, I can’t make you take it.”
I paused, thinking about the money. Thirty-six a year wasn’t going to make me rich, but it was more than anyone else had offered me recently, and it was definitely a lot more than I’d make at an entry level ad job in Seattle, if such a job even existed. Of course I didn’t want to work for Ed or A.C.A., but what was the sense in turning down a job offer? My goal was still to get back into advertising, and working in a management position at a decent salary would certainly improve my resume. Besides, Ed was right – why would I want to move back to Seattle? I remembered how bored I’d been in Seattle before I moved to New York, and how before I left Smythe & O’Greeley I swore I’d never live there again.
“If you want to think about it for a couple of h
ours, be my guest,” Ed said. “But I’m going to need an answer from you by the end of the day. Things are happening fast around here now. If I don’t have this position filled by lunchtime tomorrow, I’d be disappointed.”
I was thinking about what David had said last night, that a man’s life is his work. And now I have it, I thought – a chance to make a life for myself again.
“Of course I’d be interested,” I said.
“Great,” Ed said. “Of course you’ll have to meet the President of the company Monday morning to make it official, but assuming there aren’t any problems, you’ll start work next week. Congratulations.”
When I left Ed’s office, I noticed people staring at me. Ed and I had been talking for some time and I realized that everyone must have been watching us, wondering what was going on. What would they say, I wondered, when they found out what had happened? Would they believe it?
“So,” the guy next to me said when I sat down at my cubicle. “Are you staying or going?”
“Staying,” I said.
I decided not to get into it any deeper than that. People would be upset or jealous if they found out I’d been promoted. Besides, they’d find out soon enough.
At five to one I went to the time clock to clock out.
“Where are you going?” Mike said. “Your shift’s not over for another five minutes.”
I didn’t answer him. I realized that as Ed’s assistant I was going to be Mike’s superior, but I decided to wait for a better time to get my revenge.
“We’re not going to tolerate this type of behavior from you anymore,” Mike said as I was leaving. “I’m going to report you to Ed. You’ll be sorry!”
As soon as the elevator doors closed I experienced an inner peace I hadn’t experienced in years. The answer wasn’t to leave New York, I suddenly realized, but to embrace it. My only gripe with New York had been that I didn’t have a real job. But now that I had a real job all my problems would be solved. I wouldn’t be angry and irritable all the time – my life would have meaning again.
Outside, it was cooler and noticeably more comfortable than it had been in weeks. Julie had made an appointment for me to see Dr. Goldman, the plastic surgeon who had trimmed off the tip of her nose. She had given me three hundred dollars, but I cringed at the thought of having to turn the money over to some doctor just to put some stitches in my forehead. You might think I was crazy – and maybe I was – but it just wasn’t important for me to get my face fixed. The cut didn’t hurt anymore and I didn’t really care if it left a scar. I’d be much better off spending the money on something important, like a present for Julie. I felt guilty about how selfish I had been acting recently and I wanted to do something nice for her.
Standing near the corner at Eighth Avenue was a blonde in a short leather skirt and a tight red velvet tank top. I had seen her on the corner a few days before, soliciting men. Hookers were common on the side streets around the office and, although I usually saw them in the evening, they sometimes worked afternoons. As I got closer, I noticed her bright red lipstick and fake gold hoop earrings. Her hair was dyed blond and her features were dark. I couldn’t tell what nationality she was, but I guessed she was Italian or Spanish. Our eyes met. Something about her expression – I think it was her bright green eyes – gripped me, and I thought some-thing about me gripped her. She smiled at me and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back. When I got to the corner, I looked back at her over my shoulder. She was still smiling.
6
I went to the Jewelry District. When I turned off Sixth Avenue on to Forty-seventh Street I felt like I was on a street in downtown Tel Aviv. The narrow sidewalk was mobbed with Hasidic Jewish men dressed in white short-sleeved dress shirts, tucked into gray or black slacks. All the stores looked the same to me, so I went to a large mall-like store that had about twenty dealers. An old Israeli man with thick black hair that looked too good to be his own spotted me looking at his display case and told me there was a sale today, everything was forty percent off.
“I want to spend three hundred dollars,” I said.
He directed me to the end of the display counter where he took out a tray of earrings. I didn’t know which were nice and which weren’t, but the ones with the tiny diamonds in them looked like something Julie would wear. I bought them and had the salesman wrap the box with shiny gold wrapping paper. Next, I went to a card store on Fifth Avenue and bought a card. It said something like “Thanking you for being a special person in my life,” which pretty much described how I felt about Julie.
When I got home, I called Julie to see when she was getting off work. She wasn’t in so I left a message on her voice mail. I showered, then cooked some noodles and cheese the way I liked it, with an extra slice of American cheese melted into it. I sat in front of the T.V. and ate the food out of the pot.
I’d spent a lot of afternoons this way over the past two years. When I didn’t work extra hours I was home by two o’clock, and I usually did all my resume sending on Mondays. Sometimes I took walks in the park or went to the movies, but on most days I came home, cooked a cheap lunch, and started watching talk shows and soap operas on television.
I hated my routine, but I had no hobbies or anything else to keep me busy. I hadn’t worked out or played sports since college and I didn’t have the attention span to read books. Some days I thought I was the biggest loser in the world.
But I knew my days of boredom were about to end. Starting Monday I’d be working nine-to-five again, like a real person, and these days of depression and laziness would be a bad memory.
I watched the first half of a soap opera. I knew all the characters, but this didn’t make the story lines any more interesting. Finally, I got bored and started flipping channels. Sally Jesse Raphael was doing a show on prostitution. A woman who had her face blocked out was telling about her life as a prostitute in Los Angeles. Then the woman’s husband came on stage and explained what it was like to be married to a prostitute. He said that as he made love to her he imagined all the men she’d been with during the day and that this was a great turn on for him. The audience booed. After a commercial, Sally Jesse announced that she had a surprise for the audience. Without the man knowing it, she had invited his ex-wife on to the show, whom the man hadn’t seen since he’d left her to marry the prostitute. The woman sat next to the man, but didn’t make eye contact with him. She told her story of how the man had left her with months of unpaid bills and how he was months behind on his alimony payments. The audience booed again. Then the woman announced that she was three months pregnant, with a child fathered by the man! The audience booed even louder and people stood up and called the man “a loser,” “a scumbag,” “a slime bucket,” among other names. The man denied that the baby was his which made the woman start screaming at him, calling him names so vulgar that the station had to bleep them out. Sally Jesse herself stood between the embattled couple and finally calmed the woman down. As the credits started to roll, she asked the man why exactly he had left his wife for the prostitute.
“Because she was better in the saddle,” the man said. “I’d be lying if I gave any other reason.”
I thought the show was boring, but I watched it straight through till the end anyway. It made me think about the prostitute I’d seen outside my office building. I remembered the way she’d smiled at me, running her tongue lightly over her top lip and then puckering her lips seductively. I’d never had sex with a prostitute, but the idea had always appealed to me. When I was sixteen, my friend Johnny Brewer asked me if I wanted to go with him and some other guys to Vancouver for a weekend. He said they were going to pick up some prostitutes and take them back to their hotel room. I was a shy, sexually repressed Catholic kid who had never even kissed a girl yet so of course I refused. I never stopped regretting it.
When I got older, there were other opportunities. At a college frat party, guys were taking turns with a prostitute in one of the bedrooms. I’d lost my virginity by the
n, but when it was my turn, I said I wasn’t into it. It was a lie. I was dying to go in there, yet I didn’t know what I would do when I got there, what I would say. Would I kiss her? Would I look at her? I never had any girlfriends in college or graduate school. Every once in a while I’d meet a girl at a party or a bar and we’d have sex, but the girls were inexperienced and the sex wasn’t very good. To make things more exciting, I’d imagine the girl was a prostitute that I’d just picked up on a street corner. It was an incredible turn on for me.
After graduate school, when I came to New York, I promised myself I’d finally live out my fantasy. I bought a copy of New York Magazine and circled the names of a few women who advertised that they gave “erotic body massages.” I knew this was just a catch phrase, that they were really high-class prostitutes.
I called all the numbers and decided to make an appointment with a woman who lived in the West Village. She had a sexy British accent and promised me that her customers always left satisfied. I went to her apartment that night. She was even sexier than I’d imagined. She must’ve been about forty, but her age didn’t hurt her beauty, it enhanced it. She had long golden blond hair and she was wearing a red silk robe that couldn’t hide her huge sagging breasts. I could never understand why some guys preferred small, pointy breasts. To me, if breasts weren’t big and soft, they didn’t serve any purpose.
The woman led me into the spacious apartment which was dimly lit and decorated with antiques. After putting on a Chopin CD, she seated me in a padded arm chair and started rubbing my shoulders and neck. Her touch was gentle, yet firm, and I could feel her breasts rubbing against the back of my head. My whole body was starting to tingle and I didn’t want to wait any longer.
“I’m ready,” I said.
She was silent for several seconds and I wasn’t sure why. Then she said curiously:
“Ready? Ready for what?”
“You know,” I said, “what I’m paying you for. Aren’t you gonna take me into the bedroom or something?”
