My eyes narrow. She just doesn’t get it. She has no idea girls like me don’t get away with calling strange boys out of the blue.
“We’ll see,” I place the drink menu back down.
Amanda’s new pal behind the bar returns to take my drink order. Like well-practiced understudies, she and I block out our old song-and-dance routine. I ask what she’s drinking. She says it’s a chocolate martini. I ask if it’s any good and she tells me it’s delicious. I take a moment to contemplate, then decide to try it. Amanda takes a moment to contemplate, then decides to have another. The bartender commends us on our wise choice. And after the whole ordeal is over and done with, there is a moment of silence, and I know Amanda is waiting expectantly for me to say something. I take the plunge.
“Right. So what’s your good news?”
She smiles coyly and polishes off the last sip of her first martini.
“I just got promoted.”
I wait for the bartender to return with our drinks before I respond.
“Great.” I hold up my glass to toast her. “Then I guess these are on you.” Which they would have been anyway.
I think it would be nice to have the last word. But I never do. Amanda would never let me.
“Oh, by the way,” she says, taking a moment to sip her new martini. “Thanks for not hanging around the another night when Ryan was over. We really appreciated the privacy.”
You tell me. Is it really so wrong of me to hate her the way I do?
chapter six
Today’s T-shirt celebrates the tenth annual “Greek Winter Olympics” at Dartmouth College. It features a cartoon character, head under the snow, skis up in the air. His brazen hand reaches up from under the snow bank, still proudly holding a flask of whiskey. I don’t know, for some reason it feels appropriate.
I skip the candy bar for breakfast this morning. As part of Amanda’s new promotion, she’s been assigned to the account of a small-town Wisconsin danish bakery. It will be her job to initiate a new mail-order service to expand their product to a broader, national market. The fruits of her labors, packed into neat little squares of puff pastry, have already reached as far as our very own kitchen—and they probably will go no further. Standing in front of the refrigerator, keeping the door propped open with my elbow, I shove my face with three samples in no time flat. I don’t feel even the slightest bit guilty for having helped myself to more than half my share (had I even been offered a share). I know for a fact Amanda would rather experiment with a crimped hairdo than tempt fate by mixing carbohydrates with a glucose filling.
I step away from the fridge and lick my fingers. Then somehow managing to avoid smearing sticky raspberry residue all over the kitchen counter, I fix myself a cup of quasi-instant coffee. I also pour myself a large glass of water and a smaller glass of orange juice. With all three cups balanced on everything but the top of my head, I stagger back to my bedroom and turn on my computer.
The cup of coffee has me revving up in the junk-and-spam-clotted, forgotten storage space of my e-mail inbox. The glass of water has me searching in vain for a spot in the online postings lot. But the glass of orange juice—that’s where I hit cruising speed.
I’ve found it! The Perfect Job. It practically leaps right off the screen and cuddles in my lap, nuzzling my leg like a puppy Saint Bernard pining for snowfall.
Company Aspen Quarterly
Job Title Associate Editor
Job Location Aspen, CO
Job Requirements Dynamic, award-winning magazine seeks bright, creative Associate Editor to report directly to Editorial Director. Excellent research, reporting, and proofreading skills required. Ideal candidate must have prior, related editorial experience. Duties include writing and/or editing articles and generating ideas. Must be extremely organized and detail-oriented. ONLY APPLICANTS SERIOUS ABOUT RELOCATING APPLY.
About Us Aspen Quarterly is a lifestyle magazine with a special interest in culture and entertainment. Our magazine provides in-depth film and book reviews and up-to-date coverage on all major media and cultural events.
Contact Please submit résumé and cover letter to Kelly Martin at [email protected].
I suppose my résumé could do with some minor tweaking. I change my last job title from “Content Development Assistant” to “Editorial Assistant,” and that takes care of that.
Then I go on to blow every rule in the book.
I know, from my vast experience, that a cover letter is best when kept simple. Short, direct, and to the point. But desperate times do call for desperate measures.
Hence, I won’t even bother to share this particular letter with you. After all, it’s none of your business. This letter is personal, it’s private—a matter between myself and Aspen Quarterly alone. An unrelated party might deem it wordy and excessive, whereas I find it eloquent and assured. Aggressive, you say? I’d call it passionate. How else am I going to make it plainly clear I am an APPLICANT SERIOUS ABOUT RELOCATING?
I spell-check the letter. Not a flaw. I reread it. Brilliant! But maybe I should cut it down from two pages to one?
No, no, no. The letter flows, it sings, it has charm. Editing, pasting, cutting? It’ll only rob the words of their magic.
I hold my breath and close my eyes. I hit send.
When my breathing returns to normal, I peer out of one eye to squint at my computer screen. The e-mail has vanished. Yet its spell on me remains.
The grating trill of the intercom tears me from my trance-like state almost immediately. Begrudgingly, I shuffle over to my front door.
“Hello?”
“Messenger!”
“Yeah, come on up.” I buzz him in.
The messenger takes his time trudging up the staircase. When he finally arrives at my apartment, I am already lingering in the doorway with my arms crossed. He balks.
“Sorry. I woke you up?”
“Huh?” I glance down at myself. I’m still wearing the college T-shirt and my Victoria’s Secret boxer shorts. What, I am supposed to get all dressed up to meet the messenger? “No, I’ve been up,” I snip, more embarrassed than angry. I make a mental note to trade in the boxers for gym shorts by noon.
The messenger hands me a manila envelope. It’s much lighter than I expected. Still, I feel that familiar tingle of excitement—you know, the excitement that comes with having to open something, anything! Uncorking a bottle of champagne, peeling security strips off a new DVD, squeezing the pus out of an explosive pimple. I don’t even wait for the messenger to leave before I rip into my new Jiffy sealer like it’s a chocolate truffle with a rich, hazelnut center.
Miami Beach Murder? Of all the manuscripts stacked high on Princess’s desk, this is what she sends me? Some breezy detective novel or, worse, a teen sex romp with a twist? I toss the manuscript with disgust on the coffee table to worry about later. I’ve got more important matters to attend to anyway.
I spend the rest of the afternoon exhaustively researching each and every Aspen real estate ad I can find on the Internet. I foresee no problem whatsoever with sticking Amanda with my share of the rent for the remainder of the year. She could probably afford it too, what with her lousy promotion and all. Maybe her new boyfriend could move in with her. When the lease is up, they can get married and buy a place in Connecticut and raise a family. God bless them!
It doesn’t take me long to find my dream home. A condo I couldn’t afford even if the asking salary for an associate editor were twice what I would expect from a similar position in New York.
Still, I let my imagination run wild and treat myself to the luxury spoils I have been unfairly denied for too long. My very own washing machine? A fireplace? A backyard?
A backyard! I could have a dog!
I click out of my real estate websites and ready my computer to launch a brand-new search for my new best friend.
I don’t get up from in front of my computer until 6 p.m. And then, it’s only because my doorbell rings again.
I buzz t
he intercom without answering, because for a split second I assume it is Amanda stumbling home drunk, claiming she can’t find her keys. It occurs to me only an instant later that even though 6 p.m. is plenty late enough for someone like me to have turned one sip into five glasses, your regular working stiff doesn’t start sampling the vintages until after dark.
The knock at the door is firm, and troublingly so. Nothing at all like Amanda’s wishy-washy tap-tap. I keep the safety chain fastened and peer suspiciously through the crack of my door.
My darling little cell phone winks back at me. And behind it, the dark hallway brightens with the glint of Jake’s mischievously charming smile.
“Hey,” he says. “Forget something at the office yesterday?”
I slam the door shut. Before I unfasten the chain, I take a futile moment to brush back my hair and smooth out the bags under my eyes. Damn, damn. Of all the times for Mr. Right to come a-knocking!
I can hear Jake talking to me from the other side the door. “You left the office in such a hurry yesterday, you forgot to fill out your time sheet. I filled it out this morning for you, and your address was on it, so—”
I remove the chain and open the door, displaying myself in glorious full view. Jake’s jaw drops.
“Jesus. You all right?”
The questioning look in his eyes makes it plainly clear I have not successfully hidden my tears. The gay, flimsy party mask peels off my face. The dam holding back the watershed springs a leak. I burst.
Jake staggers back a step, afraid to drown in the puddle I’ve just become. “Whoa. What’s the matter?”
“Come in, come in,” I choke between sobs.
I lead Jake through the living room and past the kitchen without offering him so much as a danish. Rather, I take him directly into my bedroom and gesture frantically at my computer.
“Look!”
Jake leans on my desk and squints at the desktop photo of a wire-haired terrier with a wet, pink tongue and forgiving eyes. He looks back at me, uncomprehending.
“I don’t get it. The puppy made you cry?”
“He’s abandoned.”
“He is?” Jake turns back to the computer and skims the print below the picture. I slump down into the Aeron and hug my arms to keep my shoulders from racking.
“Oh, hey, no. It’s okay.” Jake jabs a finger at the screen. “It says here he was already adopted.”
“Keep reading,” I sniff.
He peers in closer. After a moment his shoulders sag.
“You finish?” I ask.
He stays quiet. Finally, he shakes his head. “I can’t read anymore.”
I feel the well bubbling inside me again. “You get to the part where they brought him back?”
“Yeah.”
“And the part about the cigarette burns? And the broken legs? And the fact that he had been kicked in the stomach so hard, he couldn’t even urinate?”
Jake shudders and clicks the picture closed. Unfortunately, there are still similar pictures, of similar victims, all lined up in a neat little row on my computer. A chain of furry snouts held high and proud for the camera.
“What the—” Jake straightens and cocks his head at me. “How long have you been doing this?”
“All day.” I scoot forward in my chair. “Here, let me show you the litter of puppies they found at the abandoned warehouse—”
“No.” He holds up his hand, barring me from the desk. “I think you’ve had enough.”
He fixes me with such stern, blazing eyes I stop at once. For a moment, neither of us says a word. His expression softens, and he studies me with a sad smile. I hope he isn’t checking me out. This really isn’t the best time for it. I look away to pat down my swollen eyes and wipe the tip of my snotty nose with the back of my hand.
Jake clears his throat. “When was the last time you got out of your apartment?”
“Ummm, I don’t remember. Yesterday?”
He nods. He was expecting as much. “You know, I passed the Loew’s theater on my way over here. That new Robert De Niro movie is playing. I was thinking of going to check it out. Maybe you wanna come with me?”
I bite my lip. I am afraid any second now I may start crying again. “You feeling sorry for me?”
“A little. But I could also use the company.”
“Good enough.” I grab my keys from off my desk. “What time does it start?”
“Seven-fifteen.”
“Great, we can get there early.” I walk out of my bedroom and start looking for my bag. I find it on the kitchen counter beside the microwave.
Jake follows me toward the front door. He hesitates when I open it for him, staring at me uneasily. “Umm …”
“What?”
“You, uh, want to get changed or take a shower or something before we go?”
I look down at myself. I’m still wearing the T-shirt and boxer shorts.
“Oh, right.” I drop my bag to the floor. “Just give me a minute.”
When the movie lets out, I get on the escalator first and Jake steps on behind me.
“What did you think?”
“It was all right,” I say over my shoulder.
Jake squeezes past me and turns around. I’ve noticed he insists on facing me dead-on when he talks to me. It’s not disconcerting. It’s sweet. And when he stands on the step below me, looking up at me with an impish grin, he reminds me of the four-year-old nephew I don’t have and never thought I wanted. He’s adorable in a way that makes me want to show him my thumb and say, “Look, I got your nose!”
“You hated it, didn’t you?” he says.
“Hate is kind of a strong word—”
“But still not strong enough, huh?”
“No, I guess not. I’m sorry.” I shake my head sadly. “I can’t lie. I thought it was terrible.”
“Don’t apologize. I hated it, too.”
“You did?”
“Hated it so much, it makes me furious.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far—”
“I would. Nothing pisses me off more than a mediocre movie. ’Cause, if you’re going to suck, why not suck in style? Figure if things are so bad they can’t be fixed, don’t try to make them better. Make them worse. Throw in a dance number or something.”
“Tell me about it. You notice how there are no fun-bad movies anymore? Everything’s just bad-bad?”
“Paul Verhoeven. Now, there’s a fun-bad director. You see Starship Troopers?”
“Don’t you dare! Starship Troopers is a brilliant movie.”
“What about Showgirls?”
“Best bad movie I ever saw.”
“See? They don’t make them bad like that anymore. Everything’s just kind of bad.” Jake steps off the elevator. “And don’t get me started on De Niro movies—”
“Yeah, he sucks.”
“No, he doesn’t suck. He’s just … not good. And that’s the worse part, ’cause he used to be great. Now, he’s just a caricature of himself. Him, and Al Pacino, and Dustin Hoffman—”
“And Jack Nicholson …”
Jake stops cold and scowls.
“Not Jack,” he says evenly.
I smile in spite of myself. “You’re right. I stand corrected. Not Jack. I could watch Jack read a menu.” My stomach hears me say the word “menu” and does a somersault on a creaky trampoline.
“You hungry?” asks Jake astutely.
“A little.”
“Any good places around here to eat?”
“Umm …” In my head, I run down my regular list of sushi, Thai, and Chinese neighborhood joints. But as tempting as they all sound, I’d rather not leave room for discussion. In this case, anything safe and standard would do. “There’s a diner around the corner.”
“Awesome. You think they have milkshakes?”
“Well, I would guess—”
“When was the last time you had a milkshake?”
“I don’t know,” I confess. “It’s been a while.”
/>
“I think it’s important to have a milkshake every now and then. Don’t you?”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
I’m on my best behavior tonight. Even though I’d kill for a tuna melt, I settle for the rather disappointing Greek salad. Jake has sold me on the milkshake, though. And the side of fries.
“The problem is,” he says, dipping a fry into a vat of mayonnaise. He ordered it, not me. Still, I’m pleased it’s there. “Even though there are probably no good roles left anymore for actors like De Niro or Pacino, no one’s really stepped up to fill their shoes. I tell you …” He points his drippy fry at me. “Give me the name of one young actor now who you could actually watch read a menu.”
“You mean, other than Jack?”
“Yeah. Someone new.”
I ponder for a moment. “It’s tough.”
“I know.”
“Philip Seymour Hoffman, maybe?”
“You can compare Philip Seymour Hoffman to Jack Nicholson?”
“No, not really. You got any ideas?”
“Hmm.” He chews his fry pensively. “I’d say the closest one out there right now is Johnny Depp.”
“Yeah, he’s easily the best actor working today. Still, he’s made some pretty bad decisions. You see Secret Window?”
“Nope.”
“Lucky you. How about Sean Penn? Or Mark Ruffalo? Oh, I know! Crispin Glover!”
He laughs. “Charlie’s Angels Crispin Glover?”
“No. River’s Edge Crispin Glover.” I reach for a fry. Jake slides the mayo toward me. Isn’t he dreamy?
“Not exactly menu-reading material. But I like your style.”
Style? I don’t think anyone has ever complimented my style. I didn’t even know I had one.
“What about women?” I ask, pointing my own fry at him deliberately. “Can you name an actress you would watch read a menu?”
“An actress? Hey, I hate to be the one to say it. But actresses today aren’t what they used to be. Most of them are just another pretty face. No offense.”
Pounding the Pavement Page 6
