Pounding the Pavement

by Jennifer van der Kwast

  “The good news is you’ll be getting a little bit of extra help this afternoon. Jake might be dropping by later.”

  “Umm …” I stare at my phone curiously. “Jake?”

  “The person you’ve been replacing?”

  “I see,” I say, when in fact I don’t see at all. Did I just get fired halfway into my workday? “He’s coming back?”

  “Well,” The voice sounds more distant this time. Like Gregory has already given up on the conversation and has literally begun to wander away. “I don’t know if he’s coming back, per se. I think for today he’s just going to show you around, explain how the office runs. That sort of thing. He hasn’t been very reliable lately. He’s been …” His voice drops to a whisper. Which isn’t very effective on speakerphone. “Well, he’s been dealing with personal problems.”

  “Oh?” For the first time during our entire conversation I perk up with keen interest.

  “He’s just taking some time off. You understand, right?”

  “Sure.” Of course I understand. Sounds like heartbreak to me.

  “Oh, also,” Gregory continues. “I’m having my assistant Marcia bring over more deal memos that need to be filed. Marcia!” I hear him bark, from both my phone and from directly behind me. “Can you bring these over to Jake’s temp?” I turn to gaze over my shoulder. A girl seated across from me stands and disappears into the adjacent office. I can make out only a vague silhouette of a man hovering over his desk. “Talk to you later, Sarah.”

  “Bye!” I say to a phone that has already gone dead.

  Not a minute later, Marcia trots over with the stack of deal memos. I’ll take my time with this load.

  I take a bathroom break and when I return, there is a tall, thin woman hovering about my cubicle. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d assume she’s Susanna Carlyle, the executive vice president of Stellar Productions. She scurried past me this morning without so much as a word and fled into one of the back offices. Her door remained closed throughout the day. Call me irrational, but I’ve never much cared for people who close their office doors. The quest for privacy in the workplace can only mean one thing: someone is going to get fired.

  “You’re the temp?” she asks me, staring down the long, thin ridge of her nose.

  “Yes. Can I help you?”

  “The coffeepot in the back is empty.”

  “It is?” I ask, playing dumb.

  “Do you mind making another pot?”

  What I would give to be twelve years old again. To be able to snidely reply, “Why me? I didn’t finish it” But even at twelve, I wouldn’t want to risk losing my weekly allowance.

  “Sure, no problem,” I say brightly as I skip my way into the pantry.

  Now, see, I have a theory about being asked to brew coffee. It’s a theory I have about being asked to perform any degrading office task. I figure if I absolutely have to do it, I’ll do it once. I’ll do it wrong. And I’ll never have to do it again.

  My secret to making bad coffee is quite simple. I decided long ago, harking way back to my intern years, never to learn how to make coffee at all. Oh, I suppose if push came to shove I could measure out an appropriate amount of coffee grounds. (Or beans? No, grounds. Right?) And I guess I could figure out just how much water to add. But I don’t much care to fuss with such details. The less effort, the better. Reuse yesterday’s soggy grounds, keep the same gaping filter, fill to the brim with tap water, presto!

  When the coffee has brewed to my satisfaction, I carefully pour out two full cups. One for Ms. Carlyle, and one for her bitchy assistant for good measure.

  Susanna Carlyle’s door is, of course, closed. I tap a cute little ditty on her name plate and she answers with a clipped, “Come in.” I open the door.

  “So sorry to interrupt,” I tell her assistant, seated in the guest chair. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you,” says Ms. Carlyle. Her assistant takes her mug wordlessly and glares at me over the rim. To piss her off, I beam her an unnatural, oafish grin.

  “You’re welcome.”

  As I prance out of the office and nudge the door closed behind me, I hear Ms. Carlyle speak to her assistant in a purposefully loud whisper.

  “Jake’s coffee is much better,” she says.

  Ah, yes. Him again. Maybe it’s just absence that makes the heart grow fonder. But there was no mistaking Jim Abbott’s look of despair when Jake couldn’t be found. No ignoring the catch in Gregory’s voice when he said his name out loud. And that look of scorn Ms. Carlyle’s assistant shot me when it was I who walked through that door? That was a decidedly feminine look, and a hostile one at that—a look generally reserved for the woman holding the last pair of jeans you specifically came to the store to buy. Believe me, that look would have been far softer and more docile if it had been intended for someone else.

  These are the only clues I have to go by, but with them I have myself convinced Jake is someone I really, really want to impress. And so when I commence my filing, I pay special attention to my posture. I furrow my brow and look studious. I read the legal memos laboriously, and sometimes I even look off into space and pretend to be absorbing incredibly useful information.

  Eventually looking off into space turns into looking wistfully at the door, imagining his dramatic entrance. First I picture him carrying his motorcycle helmet in one hand, a single red rose in the other, which he will gallantly place on my desk to thank me for coming in today. Then I remember the Tom Robbins book, and think maybe he wears glasses, but he also has outrageously wild, red hair. And the interns will leap up when they see him, and he’ll goofily slap their outstretched hands with a high-five and tell them the funniest thing just happened to him on the subway …

  At 4 p.m. I figure he must be balding. At 4:30, I decide he is also grossly overweight. And by 5, he is also short. Not just a little short. Like shorter than me short, five feet two at the most.

  In the end he turns out to be none of these things. He turns out, in fact, to be just like every other guy.

  He doesn’t show up at all.

  Happy hour at the Dancing Burrito is always packed, but Laurie is easy to spot in even the most crowded bar. She waves to me when I walk in, the pillowy sleeve of her shirt drooping to expose a glimpse of her black lace bra underneath. Laurie might not have Amanda’s legs, or her cleavage, but she’s damn sexy in a way Amanda could never get away with. When people compliment Laurie—and they do, constantly—they tell her how much they love her chic new haircut (Louise Brooks pageboy, jet black), or her fantastic taste in clothes (tonight, impossibly short jean skirt, cowboy boots). Yes, this is probably what she wore to work this morning.

  If you think Laurie might treat her office like a nightclub, you should see what she does to her table at the bar. Her deflated messenger bag is strapped to the back of her chair, its contents neatly arranged in front of her. Personal cell phone on the right, work cell phone on the left. A stack of manuscripts in the middle.

  “What are those?” I ask, eyes wide.

  “They’re for you.” She slides the manuscripts toward me.

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I touch the pages lovingly. I was afraid to even hope Laurie might show up with her latest contraband. Usually, about once a week, she’s able to sneak me out a copy of the latest book or script her boss has optioned for the film studio. Two manuscripts are a blessed rarity. I flip the top manuscript open to the first page, suddenly ravenous for new people, new places and new beginnings.

  “What, you’re going to read them now?”

  “Of course not,” I say, feeling a hot flush on my cheeks. Reluctantly, I close the manuscript. “I just wanted to see what it was.”

  “The top one is the new Ian Pascal—”

  “You’re kidding! Already?”

  “The other is a translation of a German book that has been a best seller for months in Europe. No one in the States has seen it yet.”

  “Cool! You read it?�
�

  “Oh, please. I don’t have time to read.”

  She’s not kidding.

  Laurie’s left cell phone rings. She grimaces at it.

  “Shit. They’re going to want me back tomorrow morning. I was so looking forward to the day off.” She picks up the phone. “This is Laurie.” Her eyes roll upward. “Leon, this is my work phone. Call me back on the other line.” She hangs up and waits, drumming her fingers against the table. “Some people,” she seethes.

  Her phone rings on the right. She picks it up. “Yeah?”

  Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember Laurie as that bright-eyed New York neophyte I met only three years ago, back when we were both fresh out of college, working at the film festival by day, scamming our way into exclusive premiere (and after) parties at night. I’m sure that same little bon vivant still dwells somewhere inside her, popping up every now and then to tempt her with glitter eyeshadow or a pair of fishnet stockings. Maybe now her edges are a little hardened, her tone a little more gruff, but God bless her for being the only friend I have who still gets a thrill from crashing parties.

  “Sorry about that,” she says, snapping her cell phone shut and sliding it back into place. She reaches for one of the menus propped up at the center of the table and flips it open. I already know I’ll be having the Bay Burrito and that she’ll probably want to split it with me. But as long as her eyes are temporarily averted, I nudge open the top manuscript with my elbow and start reading the first page.

  “So, how’s the new temp job going?” she asks.

  “Fine. They want me back tomorrow.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “Maybe it is.” Then again, maybe it isn’t.

  Laurie snaps her menu shut. “Wanna split the Bay Burrito?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  I close the manuscript discreetly and slip it into my bag. Laurie leans forward on her elbows.

  “Oh, hey! I totally forgot to tell you. Guess who I just saw in the elevator?”

  “Was it Ben Stiller?”

  “No.”

  “Owen Wilson?”

  “No, okay. Stop. It was Princess.”

  I gasp. “My Princess?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What was she doing in your building?”

  “I think she works there now.”

  I gasp again. “Shut up!” I squeal. “Since when?”

  “I’m guessing this is very, very recent. She acted all excited when she saw me, remembered my name and everything.”

  “Yeah, she must be brand new.”

  “She got off on the fifteenth floor.”

  “What’s that? Marketing?”

  “Uh-uh. That’s not even one of our own offices. We’re leasing the space to an independent film company that just lost their output deal with one of the studios. Miramax, maybe? I can’t remember. Anyway, Princess says she’s their new head of development.”

  “No way! I want to work in development!”

  “I know you do.”

  We pause for a moment to acknowledge the presence of our waitress. Laurie places our standard order—two frozen strawberry margaritas and the burrito.

  “Two plates for the burrito!” Laurie calls out to the retreating waitress. She turns back to me and smiles. “So, I think you need to ask Princess to get you a job.”

  “Not in a million—”

  “I’ll bet she’ll need an assistant soon.”

  “Laurie, I can’t go asking my old boss for a job. That’s so degrading.”

  “Well, what other options do you have?”

  I think for a moment. Real hard.

  “None,” I admit glumly.

  “Thought so.”

  The waitress returns with our margaritas. It is one of the few times in my life the sight of a plastic umbrella perched atop a frosted glass does nothing to lift my spirits.

  I return to my apartment a few hours later and struggle with the faulty lock on my door, silently begging it to spare me the grief. When it finally allows me inside, I freeze. The door slams closed behind me.

  The sudden, and rather loud, announcement of my entrance startles Amanda.

  “Jesus Christ!” she yelps, bouncing off the lap of her gentleman suitor. They disengage and dart for opposite ends of sofa. Amanda flicks an unruly blonde tendril back into place. Her confused friend cowers in his corner, looking about as inconspicuous as one of Michelangelo’s unfinished nudes suddenly appearing in the center of my living room. He crosses his hands and tucks them under his arms. If he’s trying to conceal the outline of his sculpted torso—clad in a disturbingly inadequate white Hanes T-shirt—he’s overlooking the fact there’s no hiding the massive bulge in his pants.

  “Oh, hi …” says Amanda. She turns to the man seated beside her. “Ryan, this is my roommate Sarah … Sarah, this is Ryan. He’s the managing director at my firm.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I mutter, brushing right past them both and into my room. I slam the door behind me.

  chapter four

  The very first thing I do once I arrive at Stellar Productions is sit at my desk, dial an extension, and hit speakerphone.

  “Gregory?”

  “Yes?” answers the far-off voice.

  “It’s Sarah. I just wanted to let you know that I have a lunch date this afternoon.” I flip open the new folder of deal memos. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “It won’t be longer than an hour.”

  “Oh.” He sighs loudly, distorting the phone static. “Oh, all right.”

  “You sure it’s okay? I mean, I usually put down an hour lunch break on my time sheet, even though I’ve been eating at my desk these past couple of days.”

  “Yes, it’s fine,” he concedes grumpily and hangs up.

  I steal away from the office at lunchtime and arrive at the restaurant fifteen minutes late. There is no sign of Princess, so I grab a two-seater by the window and proceed to wait for another fifteen minutes.

  Then my phone rings.

  “Sarah, doll, it’s crazy here. Just crazy! The phones, the faxes, it never ends. I will be there soon, but I can’t stay long. Order me a Caesar salad without croutons, and I’ll be there before it arrives. Remember, no croutons!” Princess hangs up abruptly.

  In a way, her phone call is reassuring. I was worried our reunion lunch would be awkward, that there would be uncomfortable silences, futile stabs at small talk, a vague, boring catch-up conversation. I am relieved to know our relationship will pick up exactly where it left off.

  When Princess finally does show up at the restaurant, she is a full forty-five minutes late. She barrels through the front door and shoots past the restaurant patrons like a high-speed locomotive—the Jimmy Choo Choo Express. Women like her who constantly defy death by attempting to run in such questionably engineered high heels never cease to amaze me.

  “Sarah,” she drips the vowels of my name through a tight smile. Her perfectly uniform blonde hair (I don’t think I’ve ever spotted a dark root the entire time I’ve known her) has been swept up into her signature bun. Better to balance the tiara, I’d imagine.

  “Lovely to see you,” she says, delicately placing her foundation-caked cheek against mine. She slips into the seat in front of the Caesar salad. If she notices my turkey club is already half-eaten, she decides not to mention it.

  “How’ve you been, Gracie?”

  “Oh, good God. It’s been hell.” She hangs her bag delicately on the back of her chair. For the benefit of those of us who know next to nothing about fashion, Princess likes to emblazon her accessories with designer labels. Like the Kate Spade silver-plated logo above the outer tweed lining of her tote bag. And the eagle-crested, Armani-tattooed stems of the sunglasses perched above her forehead. Princess picks up a fork and sighs. “All these manuscripts and screenplays, I tell you, Sarah, there is a stack on my desk so high, I can’t even see over it.” She spears a piece of lettuce a
nd holds it in mid-air. “I just started this new job … wait, did I already tell you about this?”

  “I found out from Laurie.”

  “Laurie?” Princess cocks her head to the side and pretends to think. “Oh, right. Laurie. Your little friend who used to come round the office. Did I see her recently?”

  “She says she saw you in the elevator.”

  “That’s right.” Princess swallows her lettuce leaf and wrinkles her nose. “Jesus. If there is anything I can’t stand it is a wilted salad.”

  Then maybe she shouldn’t let it sit at the table thirty minutes before she plans on eating it.

  “And how’s work going for you, Sarah?”

  “Well—”

  “I hear the job market is just terrible these days. I wouldn’t know. I was at Paramount for a few months, as I’m sure you heard. And quite happy there, too. But you know me.” She smirks. “I’ve never been one to pass up a better offer.”

  “Must be nice. These days I’d be lucky to get any offers at all.”

  “They’ll come, you’ll see. They’ll come.”

  “No, I don’t think so. It’s already been six months now. And the future, well, it looks kind of bleak.”

  “Six months!” Princess gasps. “I had no idea it had been that long. Nothing’s turned up at all? You’d think it be easy for you. You went to Yale, right?”

  “Brown.”

  “Oh.” She nods her head, as if this explains it all.

  I take a deep breath. “It’s funny you should bring this up, though, Gracie. ’Cause, see I was wondering, since, you know, you are in the inner circle and you do seem to hear of things before anyone else—”

  “It’s true,” she agrees.

  “Maybe you’ve heard of some potential job leads?”

  “Hmmm.” She places a manicured nail against her chin. “Let me think.” She taps her finger. “Well, we do have a great intern pool at the office. Would you like me to recommend you for that?”

  I try not to seem so stunned.

  “Actually …” I trail off. My confidence has ruptured like a car tire, and I can hear the air seeping out in a plaintive moan. “Actually, I was looking for something more—”