I poured myself a glass of orange juice. “So maybe it’s time for me to move on. God knows what I’d do, because this is the first and only job I’ve ever held. But obviously I’m not doing you any favors here anymore.” I felt the tears start to come. I really, really hadn’t wanted to cry. And I hadn’t planned to say any of what I had just admitted to F.X. and Jason.
“I guess what I’m saying is that I quit.”
I quit? How the hell could I say that? I didn’t have another job. I didn’t even have another prospect.
Jason and F.X. looked at each other. I couldn’t tell whether their expressions were ones of relief or concern, or even of melancholy.
“You can’t quit, Liz—” F.X. began.
“Because we’re firing you.” Jason completed his partner’s thought.
Holy shit. I’ve just been fired from the only job I’ve ever had.
F.X.’s thick lenses were beginning to fog up. “You’re the best copywriter we’ve ever had, Liz. But you’ve become more of a liability than an asset.”
“Nevertheless, we both know that you can’t collect unemployment benefits if you walk away. Which is why we’re firing you,” Jason added. There was a very long pause. No one knew what to say. “I guess it’s probably a good idea for you to start clearing your stuff out of your office.” He turned away and reached for a tissue. “Shit. This is like cutting off a leg or something. You’re family, Liz.”
“The leg has gangrene, Jason,” I said, no longer able to control my own tears now that he had lost it. “You’ve got to do what you have to. Which is to save the body. SSA is better off without me right now and you and F.X. and I . . . we all know it.” The tears fell silently down my cheeks. At least I wasn’t bawling.
Jason took both my hands in his. F.X. came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. “I really hope you win that million on Bad Date, Liz. We’re all rooting for you.”
“I hope so, too,” I sniffled, choking back a sob. “Because now I’m really gonna need the dough!”
It’s amazing how much crap you can amass in a dozen or so years at a job. My two Clio awards, which for years had made impressive bookends in my office, would now make spectacular doorstops at home. Demetrius helped me schlep cartons of detritus down to a taxi; he even rode home with me and carried the boxes upstairs in our West End Avenue building’s freight elevator.
“I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, mahn,” my former art director said, as he unloaded the last box into my apartment’s narrow hallway.
I didn’t need to ask what he meant. There were twice as many boxes lined up waiting to be removed from the apartment as Demetrius and I were bringing in. The stereo was blasting tunes from Madonna’s The Immaculate Collection.
Jem was sitting cross-legged in the center of the living room, surrounded by more cartons, methodically inventorying their contents. She looked up at me, somewhat surprised. “You’re not usually home this early.”
“You’re right, I’m not,” I said softly. “I just got fired.” I motioned to the boxes Demetrius was carrying into my bedroom. “I guess I’ll be home a lot from now on.”
Jem put down her pen and placed the clipboard on top of one of her boxes. “Then I guess now would be a bad time to tell you I’m moving out.” She tried to make a little joke out of it, to coax even a tiny smile from my lips. I wasn’t in a smiley mood. “Carl asked me to move in with him,” she continued. “And it just seems to make sense, given that I’ve been over there nearly every night since we started seeing each other, it’s only one rent for the two of us . . .”
“You don’t need to come up with reasons to convince me why it’s a good idea, Jem.”
She came over and gave me a hug. Carl had turned her into a hugger. “I was pissed off at you for a while, Liz, but that’s water under the proverbial bridge. It’s not as though you’re losing a friend.”
“No, but I’m losing a roommate.” I blinked back tears while we held each other. “Jem . . . I couldn’t be happier for you. You really deserve it. I hope Carl realizes what a great catch he’s got.” I sniffled and pulled away.
Jem brushed a wayward strand of hair from my eyes. “Wish me luck,” she said.
“I do.” I smiled.
“Hey,” she added, tugging on my hand like we were six-year-olds on the playground. “I owe you a bottle of champagne.”
I went into my bedroom for a much-needed tissue, slamming the door shut behind me a bit more forcefully than I had intended. I burst into sobs. Johnnie Walker, curious about the sound, poked her furry head out from under my bed. I picked her up, held her to my chest, and silently forgave her for shredding Jack’s Irish tweed sweater-in-progress.
There was a gentle rap on the door. “Come in,” I said through my tears.
It was Demetrius. “Jemima invited me to stay for a farewell drink. She’s going to whip up something she calls a Limbo. Dark Jamaican rum in my honor, and a coconut milk eggnog she make from scratch, plus a dash of fresh ground Grenada nutmeg on top. A hangover so sweet you won’t see the floor coming up to hit your face.” He smacked his lips.
“Tell her I’ll have three,” I said. “And see if you can find our other roommate Nell and tell her that her kitten was hiding under my bed.” Demetrius made cooing noises at the tiny fluffball, so I brought Johnnie Walker over to him. The kitten developed an immediate fascination with Demetrius’s dreds. Better his hair than mine, I thought.
I noticed that my computer was up and running. It was still online. Great. I hated to think this way, but I found myself with one less person to help with the rent, no job, and Nell had left the Internet connection on. “You and Jem start drinking without me. I’ll be out in a minute,” I said. Demetrius closed the door as he left the room, and curious to see what Web site was open, I wiggled the mouse, which “disappeared” the screensaver and brought up an instant message chat that had been running between Nell and A.J. for God-knows-how-long. “BRB,” her IM had said. I wondered how long ago she’d told him she’d be right back. I didn’t even know if she was in the apartment. Talk about leaving a guy hanging.
Intrigued, and having more or less received tacit permission from Nell to write whatever might be guaranteed to bring them together for a date, I sat down at my computer and scrolled up the length of the IM conversation. Nell had been so up front about sharing her initial chat with A.J., as though it was a game we were both playing with him, that I guessed she wouldn’t be too particular about my reading the contents of this communication either.
Jeez, it looked like they’d been pouring out their hearts to each other all day. A.J. Stevens seemed like a genuinely nice guy—in cyberspace, anyway—anxious to please, eager to fulfill Nell’s every wish no matter how insignificant, each desire no matter how slight. He told her he wanted to take her up to a mountain-top upstate near New Paltz, on the hiking trails adjacent to the Mohonk Mountain House property. He’d proposed a picnic on a plateau from which you could see something like five or six states on a clear day. Nell had assured him that she had a new pair of Timberlands that she was dying to break in. I don’t think Nell even knows where to buy a pair of Timberlands. A.J. was tossing around nature-boy terms like “Gore-Tex,” to which Nell had replied—in all earnestness—“I thought it was Bush who was the Texan.” He’d then written “LOL.” This fledgling relationship needed help if it was ever going to fly once Nell and A.J. finally met one another.
Time to play Casper the friendly ghostwriter again. I sat down at the computer and flexed my fingers like a piano virtuoso might, just before attempting to play the Rach III. “Whew! Sorry that took so long,” I typed. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”
“Not too long,” came back the immediate reply. “I figured it must have been something important. Don’t worry your gorgeous blonde head about it. I wasn’t afraid you’d abandoned me or anything.”
I typed faster. “Believe me, A.J., I’m the kind of girl who plays for keeps. The last thing
I would ever do is string you along.” Oh, God, I’m going to e-mail hell, I thought, where you’re chained to your computer in a hot, cramped room and are forced to IM with cyberflashers to whom you never gave your e-mail address and who want to know how big your hooters are.
“I love the picnic idea,” I continued. “Oh . . . but I should warn you, I’m a strict ovo-lacto vegetarian. So you can leave the curried chicken salad at home. Might I suggest we bring along some of my favorite foods? I could feed you with strawberries dipped in chocolate. If you bring them, I have a cold bag in my wicker hamper that can keep them the perfect temperature. And along with the strawberries you could bring me some Veuve Cliquot—it’s my favorite champagne. Did you know that oysters are supposed to be an aphrodisiac? You did? I bet you did. Well, I wouldn’t be eating them anyway. But guess what? You won’t need oysters, because you’ll have me.”
A.J. took a few moments to read “Nell’s” IM before responding. “It sounds like a plan. I could get us a room at the Mohonk Mountain House for the night, or even for the weekend, if you’re into it. I realize we really don’t know each other, but the proprietors are good friends of my family. We’ve known them for years. Feel free to phone them and tell them you’ve been asked to spend the weekend there with me and ask them to be candid about the kind of guy I am. Do you like fireplaces?”
“Is that a question?” I fired back. Oops, I sounded more like Liz and less like Nell on that one.
“Well, do you?” he asked, followed by a :) emoticon. Smileys and everything. A.J. was simply precious. Nell would adore him.
“Fireplaces are sheer heaven,” I wrote.
“I trust you have no objection to four-poster beds.”
“Not so long as you’re sharing it with me, A.J.,” I responded, and followed it with a ;) which I hoped was an emoticon wink. “By the way, you know it’s really bad karma to bring up our IM conversations when we’re actually on our romantic getaway. Let’s just promise each other to enjoy those moments and not rehash our correspondence, okay?” I heard a noise in the kitchen. “Oops, gotta run. Cocktail hour at the ranch. More later, sweetums. xxooxxoxoxo. Bye.”
“Bye.”
I signed off the Internet before being able to extract a promise from A.J. not to bring up the subject of our e-mail messages. I didn’t want to risk him referencing all the things “Nell” had just told him and have her vehemently deny ever sharing them with him. If Nell wondered why we were disconnected, I planned to feign surprise that the computer had been online the whole time and suggest that maybe AOL had kicked us off for not responding after a while.
I found my two roommates in the kitchen, sampling the Limbo drinks. Jem handed me one. I tasted the frothy concoction. Delicious.
“We took you at your word,” Jem said, pointing to two more Limbos lined up on the kitchen counter. “Demetrius said you ordered three.”
“These are . . . wow . . .” I said, licking my lips. I looked at the two more glasses of elixir awaiting me. “The Limbo, huh? Gives new meaning to going on a bender.”
Nell raised her glass. “Well. We have some things to toast this afternoon. Some good,” she said, nodding at Jem, “some not-so-good,” she added, looking at me, “and . . .” she hugged her glass to her chest. “And, well, who knows. To moving on.”
I looked at the happy tears in Jem’s eyes. She looked at the unhappy ones in mine. Demetrius watched us with extreme curiosity.
“Yes. To moving on,” I agreed. “And may it be— where all of us are concerned—a good thing. A very good thing indeed.”
26/
Design for Loving
The following three weeks were weird. I felt rootless. I rose at seven-thirty every morning because that’s what my body was accustomed to from years of being essentially a nine-to-fiver. I wandered aimlessly around the apartment trying to find something useful to do. The only way I could pry Nell away from my computer, where she spent the better part of every day sitting in her little blue Victoria’s Secret bathrobe e-mailing A.J., was to dangle listings of sample sales in front of her face. “BRB” became her euphemism for “Prada is discounting shoes by thirty percent from noon to two P.M. only.”
So when my computer became my own again, I took the opportunity to browse Web sites like Monster.com and scope out some places to send my résumé. I became the queen of the cover letter. But I didn’t get so much as a nibble. In fact, I learned that the downside of being able to e-mail a résumé to a prospective employer is that they can e-mail you a rejection that much faster.
I admit to being a smidge envious of Nell, because she could still afford to shop. For example, I would go into the Donna Karan store and try on an amazing pair of olive suede pants that looked like they were constructed just for me. Then I’d look at the price tag and realize it was the same as two unemployment benefit checks. Reality checkout time. The pants went back on the rack. My purchasing jones had to be satisfied with browsing for the time being. I had a closet full of clothes anyway, some of which had been there so long I’d forgotten they existed and they now qualified as “vintage.” Maybe I could unload them and make a few bucks. Had I spent the past couple of years at my job hating most every minute of it and collecting a paycheck so I could clothes shop? Ugh. What had I become? At least being jobless compelled me to confront what was really important to me. And what I could—or be more or less forced to—do without.
I was surprised at how quickly I became used to only the two of us, Nell and me, living together. Jem’s moving out seemed like eons ago, although it had only been two weeks. I missed her, but her residence seemed like something from the distant, rather than the recent, past.
Jack had been a real brick. He decided I wasn’t eating enough now that I was unemployed, so he treated me to all sorts of wonderful restaurants I never in a gazillion years would have stepped foot in on my own. In fact I suggested he curtail his gastronomic generosity because I was afraid I was blimping out on French sauces and desserts and would look like a hippo on camera every Sunday evening. My darling’s response to that was to enroll us in a gym membership.
Gee, thanks, Jack! I thought.
Well, it gave me somewhere to go during the day. I would spend a half hour on the treadmill going nowhere and think about how my career was . . . going nowhere. At least my love life was golden. Except that we had to sneak around everywhere, which somewhat tarnished things for me.
On the Saturday evening before the seventh episode of Bad Date , we were walking across town from dinner at the Tapas Lounge, enroute to Serendipity for dessert. Jack had never been there and I assured him it was a real New York experience. Hand in hand we had just crossed Second Avenue, when a sudden realization made me stop in my tracks. “This is so nice,” I said, indicating our joined hands. “But if you hadn’t seen that cab speeding toward us, I don’t think you would have touched me.”
“What are you talking about, Liz?” Jack looked totally confused.
“I don’t like keeping our relationship a secret. I don’t want to feel like we have to dine in dark restaurants or order room service from the Waldorf’s kitchen. That’s another reason I suggested we get dessert at a bright, bustling place.”
“We’re recognizable now,” Jack argued. “At least by anyone who’s hooked on Bad Date. If we’re caught . . . canoodling in public, we could end up at the center of a quiz show scandal.”
I sighed. He had a point, but I still didn’t like it.
“Cheer up,” Jack added, “maybe there’s a way to compromise. Maybe if you were sort of incognito, we could indulge in public displays of affection.”
“Incognito?”
“Yeah. You could wear your blonde wig from Jem and Carl’s Pywacket date.”
Was he serious? Besides, it had been destroyed in Jem’s attempt at a satanic ritual. “You’re kidding, aren’t you, Jack?”
He looked around, then caressed my cheek. “Of course I was.”
“See, to me,” I said, focused on the s
quare of pavement beneath my feet, afraid to look him directly in the eye. “Keeping us a secret feels . . . I don’t know . . . like we’re less than legitimate. Being clandestine is losing its allure. It adds spice, but you can’t make an entire dish with spice alone. We’re both legally and emotionally available, and we hardly get to see each other since you’re in Miami for most of the week. When we finally get the chance to be together, I don’t want to have to keep my hands and lips away from you every time we step beyond your hotel room.”
Jacked tipped up my chin with his finger. “What about the show, Liz? Answer me honestly.”
“I’ll always answer you honestly, Jack. I do have my ‘eyes on the prize,’ as Rob Dick says. Yes, I’d like to win. Who wouldn’t want to win a million dollars, especially when they’re more than halfway there? I’ve come this far. Don’t you want to win?”
“Not as much as you do, I guess. But if advancing on the show is as important to you as it sounds like it is, then why tempt fate by trumpeting our relationship for the world to see?”
“I know you’re right,” I acknowledged begrudgingly as I trudged alongside Jack. “I’m so confused. I want to tell the world what a great guy I’ve got— finally—and I want to survive Bad Date ’til the end. I guess I’ve convinced myself of the possibility of a win-win situation.”
We stopped outside Serendipity and I eyed the dessert menu posted in front of the restaurant like I was a kid in a candy store, enumerating all the mouth-watering options, each one more enticing than the last.
“One thing is for certain,” Jack muttered testily, peering over my shoulder at the menu. “You definitely want to have your cake and eat it, too.”
After week six, the studio audience had sent Luke back to the painted desert, and Feng shui’d Allegra back to Lala-land following episode seven. Candy was disconsolate over that. She started throwing her cosmetics at the mirror and cursing like a longshoreman. She admitted to me that she had fallen in love for the first time in her life but the “ass-kicker” was that now she was going to be in a cross-country commuter relationship. “It totally bites the big one!” she’d fumed. I suggested she wangle herself a business trip out there by making an appointment with the Frederick’s of Hollywood buyers to take a look at her stripwear collection. “You’re a household name now because of this show,” I reminded her. “The sale should be a piece of cake.”
Reality Check Page 21
