“Better. The blind items.”
“Ah,” she grins. “A girl after my own heart.”
She grabs the paper and generously folds it over to Page Six before handing it to me. “Hey, you ever figure out who the crack-smoking actress on Ludlow Street was?”
“I have my suspicions,” I say coyly as I scan the print. Laurie doesn’t press the issue any further. She flips open her magazine, which somehow prompts a new tangent.
“I can’t believe you’re missing the wrap party this weekend.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks, but I’d probably skip it anyway. I’m getting a little too old to keep crashing your wrap parties.”
She looks up at me scornfully. “Old?”
“You know what I mean. I’m losing my air of mystery. By now, everybody recognizes me, and they know full well I had nothing to do with the film—”
“But, you did all the painting that day!”
“I would still feel like I’m intruding.”
“You’re nuts.” She flips the page. “If we didn’t want intruders, we’d bring a keg to the set and call it a night. The whole point of a wrap party is to have an excuse to invite pretty girls. I bring you, I’m actually doing everyone a favor.”
I snort in response. If anyone really considers me a Pretty Girl, it’s only because I meet the bare minimum requirements. I’m not grossly overweight, I have manageable hair and no major facial distortions. Even my breasts are just large enough to require a bra—but unless it’s padded, I don’t really see the point.
I’m a Pretty Girl when people talk in volumes. If ninety-nine scantily clad women are gyrating their hips on a dance floor, in the dark cellar of a nightclub, under pulsating lights, and I decided to join them—then, yes, you could safely say there were one hundred pretty girls on the dance floor. I am also a Pretty Girl by proximity. If I happen to stand close enough to Laurie, there’s a good chance some of her sex appeal may rub off on me. If it’s Amanda, I might even be able to adopt some semblance of her haughty glamor. But that’s about it.
“Besides,” Laurie continues, ripping a page out of the magazine and palming it in her jean jacket. “Andy Dick might be there.”
“Oh, no, Laurie, please don’t make out with Andy Dick. I’m not capable of helping you through a psychological ordeal of that magnitude.”
“Eww!” She shudders. “I’m not going to make out with Andy Dick!”
“Thank God.”
“I have my eye on Roald.”
“No!” I swat at her magazine, demanding her full attention. She doesn’t give it to me. “The cameraman?”
“He’s not the cameraman. He’s the director of photography.”
“The German?”
“He’s Flemish.”
“But he’s insane!”
“He’s an artist.”
“Does he even speak English?”
“Just barely.” She folds the magazine over and studies the starlets on red carpets. “I think he’s really sexy.”
“Is it the accent? Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for something that obvious.”
“It’s not the accent. It’s the integrity. It’s the artistic vision. It’s the—” She cuts herself off and frowns, holding up the magazine to show me Jennifer Lopez’s latest fashion mishap. I glance at it briefly, with no particular interest.
“It’s what?” I persist.
“Hmmm?” She continues to sift through the pictures. “Oh, you know. DP’s are just such bad boys. I can’t help it. I just find that irresistible.”
“Well, as long as you know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t.” The curtain of her thick, short bangs does nothing to hide the mischievous glint in her eye. “That’s what makes it so exciting.” She rips out another page. “But tell me about your guy.”
“Oh, that.” I squirm in my seat. The woman buffing my foot fixes me with a stern look. I hold my breath and try to stop fidgeting. “I already told you about him. He was the one I was supposed to replace at that job?”
“Right. That guy.” She pauses between pages, as if her finger were stuck on a perfume sample. “Wait a second. You didn’t take that job, did you?”
“No.”
“He decided to stay after all?”
“I guess—”
“Because of you?”
“No, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then why?”
“I don’t know. He’s a little confused. He’s been having … um … personal problems.”
Laurie blows out the side of her mouth and a wisp of bangs flutters away from her face.
“Uh-oh,” she mutters. The page slides off her finger. “And what does he do exactly?”
“He … ummm.” I tense my calf, willing it not to tremble. “Well, believe it or not, he wants to be a DP.”
Laurie’s eyes snap wider. “Uh-oh,” she repeats.
The pedicurist taps my left foot. At her command, I lift it up and let my other foot drop back into the basin.
Laurie throws down her magazine and sighs heavily. She rolls her head around, cracking stiff muscles.
“Hey, any chance you came across that book I asked about? Gideon?”
“Laurie, you know how—”
“You don’t have to say anything. If the answer is yes, you can, you know, wiggle your toes or something.”
It takes an endless amount of self-control. But somehow or another, for an acceptable amount of time, I stop squirming and manage to remain perfectly still.
On the way back to my apartment, I decide once again to save myself the two-dollar subway fare by indulging in a leisurely stroll down Broadway. Mannequins in skimpy summer halter tops and titillating boy-cut underwear beckon from the window displays. With their demurely hidden faces and provocative stances, they seem not at all unlike the seductresses flashing their wares in a Red Light district. I suppose that would then make me the hapless tourist, my head buried in a hotel map, trying to ignore their evil temptations.
Until I stumble across an enticement even I cannot resist. And it hails from the deceptively unassuming storefront of Urban Outfitters.
S-A-L-E.
I pick up the pace and scurry on home.
When I return, I am forced to wait in an infuriatingly long line, with all the other suckers who’ve been lured inside. And to make matters even worse, the salesclerk who finally does offer to assist me displays no talent whatsoever for efficiency.
“When did you say you bought these?” she asks, smacking her gum and staring vacantly at the pair of jeans I’ve set on the counter in front of her.
“A couple of days ago. The guy said I could—”
“You remember what day?”
“Uh, no. Not exactly. But here, I have the receipt.” I hand it over. She looks down at it, chewing absently.
“You remember who helped you?”
“It was a guy. He had curly hair.”
“Mario!” she belts out. She shifts her gum to the side of her mouth. “Mario, can you get over here!”
We wait for a moment. I smooth out the creases of the jeans, trying to make them look as unworn as possible.
“Yeah?” says Mario, sidling up to the counter. I wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a lineup, but I recognize him now, thanks to the fact he’s still wearing his manager tag.
“Hi,” I say, smiling broadly. “I don’t know if you remember me. You sold me these jeans a couple of days ago? You told me I could come back during a sale, and you’d refund the discount?”
“Is that right?” He holds up the jeans, hopefully noting the lack of wrinkles. “You bring the receipt?”
“Yup. I gave it to her,” I nod at the gnawing saleswoman.
“Shouldn’t be a problem.” He turns to her. She twirls a curl of her hair girlishly. “You know how to ring this up?”
“Uh-uh,” she shakes her head.
While they take a few moments to sort out the details of the transaction, I wait politely with my
hands folded on the counter. And it occurs to me, in a bolt of horror, that I have now, officially, become my mother.
I’ve packed and repacked my overnight bag several times and something has to give. I’m going to have to decide between either the gym clothes or the pool clothes. I don’t even know if the hotel will have either a gym or a pool. Besides, am I ready for Jake to see me in a bikini just yet?
I go with the gym clothes. Then that’s it. I’m done. I do one last quick survey of my room to see if there is anything I’ve missed. The only thing to catch my eye is the stack of unopened and otherwise discarded mail on my desk. On top of it lies the Columbia University School of Law application I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
I check my watch and groan. I’ve got over an hour to kill before Jake picks me up.
“All right, fine!” I grumble, picking up the application and ripping it open. A perfectly diverse trio of students graces the cover of the brochure. I flip the page, confronted again with more beaming young faces.
“Your parents must be so proud,” I hiss back at them, turning the pages faster until I am safely in the application territory and far removed from those sickeningly beatific photos of baby-faced young lawyers.
I reach for a pen. Then, thinking the better of it, I reach for a cigarette instead. And after that, even better! My phone rings.
I balance my cigarette neatly on the rim of my ashtray and answer the phone on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Hello, may I please speak to Sarah Pelletier?”
“This is Sarah.”
“Sarah, hi. This is Kelly Martin. I’m calling from Aspen Quarterly?”
Now, where did I put that cigarette?
“Oh, hi, Kelly,” I try stalling. This has got to be a joke. How is it possible? How could I have wanted something so badly—then have forgotten all about it? I clear my throat. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you by phone. But thanks so much for calling.”
“I’m sorry if it’s taken us a while to get back to you. We’ve been trying to set up phone interviews with all of our applicants. Do you have a moment?”
I should say no. I should say it’s a bad time. It is a bad time.
“Of course.” I settle back in the Aeron. My cigarette taunts me cruelly from the ashtray.
“So, Sarah, I see from your letter that you’re eager to relocate. Have you been to Aspen before?”
“Oh, yes. A couple of times.” Actually, I’ve never once been. But since I grew up only four hours away, I figure that’s close enough to count. “I thought the town was lovely. Absolutely breathtaking.” If you’re into mountains, I guess.
“Yes, it’s definitely beautiful here,” she agrees. “But I should warn you. Aspen is seasonal. It can get very quiet here sometimes. It’s nothing at all like New York.”
“I wouldn’t expect it to be.”
“Can I ask why you want to leave?”
“Why I want to leave New York?”
“Yes.”
Why do I want to leave New York?
“Well, Kelly, I’ll be honest with you …” I play with the string of my blinds. The slats tilt up to reveal the pulsating neon Loew’s sign across the street. “I’m kind of fed up with New York.” The blue strobe light effect has become distracting. I pull my blinds back down again.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I continue. “I’ve enjoyed my experience here. But really, enough is enough. I think there is something seriously wrong with a city that has too much to offer, you know? I mean, I can see an underground, experimental film every night of the week at the Anthology Film Archives. But you know what? They’re all guaranteed to be awful. And I can take my pick from any one of three weekly, so-called alternative newspapers, none of which will have anything insightful to say. Or I can torture myself every weekend by going to see a poorly acted, badly written, low rent, off-Broadway play.” I can feel myself starting to ramble, so I try to shift back on track. “What I’m trying to say is that I wish I lived—and worked—somewhere where people could be a little pickier. I don’t care anymore if things are new or fresh or original. I just want them to be good. I’d much prefer to explore those opportunities than to spend any more time wading through the crappy New York slush pile.”
Perhaps, I’ve unloaded a tad too much?
“I see,” Kelly says slowly. “Well, you know Aspen doesn’t really have a lot to offer in terms of an underground film movement or alternative newspapers—”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Uh-huh.” She pauses. “Tell me, Sarah, are you an active person?”
“Oh, yes. Very active.” After all, I’ve been to the gym every day this week.
“Really? What kind of sports do you like?”
“Well, I like to—” Ski? Hike? Skydive? “Rollerblade.”
“Oh. I see …” I can hear her rifle through pages. “Just one last question, Sarah. I was wondering what drew you to our magazine in the first place. Are there any particular features or writers or columns that interest you in particular?”
“Ummm …” Oh, shit.
“Have you read Aspen Quarterly?”
Yes! Say yes!
“No,” I confess. “But I’ve been meaning to. It seems to have sold out at all the newsstands.” So much for a city that has too much to offer. “But,” I add quickly. “I did ask Barnes & Noble to call me when the next issue comes in.” Do they even put magazines on hold? One wonders.
“Oh,” says Kelly. “I see.”
After we hang up, I immediately call my mother.
“I just blew another interview.”
“How is that possible? I just spoke to you half an hour ago.”
I explain the phone call.
“Oh, sweetie-pie, that’s just terrible! Think how perfect Aspen would have been. You would have been only four hours away from us. You sure you can’t call them back? Maybe you could reschedule an interview for a better time?”
“I’m not sure that’s how it works.”
“Damn! That’s such a shame. We could have visited you on the weekends. And you could’ve come home whenever you wanted to …”
Hmm. I hadn’t thought of it that way. Suddenly the loss doesn’t seem quite so devastating.
“Okay, Mom, well thanks for putting things in perspective.”
“You know, sweetie-pie …” I can sense her trying to broach a new subject tactfully. Which is never a good sign. “If you’re really serious about leaving New York, maybe you should just come back home for a couple of weeks?”
“But, Mom, I don’t really want to leave New York.”
She sighs. “That’s what I thought.”
We hang up. I reach over to salvage what little remains of my dying cigarette. It strikes me as oddly amusing: Aspen, with its fancy resorts and condescending mountains and its exclusive little upscale community had sounded like the perfect oasis. I never thought of it as actually going home. Blech! The very idea makes my skin crawl. Thank God that disaster was so artfully averted.
Jake calls me on his cell phone from downstairs an hour later. I scurry breathlessly down four flights and meet him at his car. He takes my overnight bag from me and tosses it into the backseat.
“That’s all you brought?”
“Yeah, I like to travel light.” Big, fat lie. The reason I have only the one bag is because I don’t want him to think I’m too fussy. If I’ve learned anything from over a decade of trying to impress boys, I’ve learned that I’d much rather have them discover all my major character flaws slowly, and over a good length of time.
Jake helps me into the car and then trots around to climb into the driver’s side. He fastens his seat belt and waits. I turn to find him looking at me, smiling in a way that makes me want to bat my eyelashes.
“I really like your highlights.”
“Thanks.”
He peers in a little closer. “Did you lighten your eyebrows, too?”
“No!” I say, indignant. Of course I
lightened my eyebrows. But he’s not supposed to notice that.
He starts the car. Soft, ruminating music wafts from his speakers, and a dry male voice croons a melancholy tune.
Uh-oh.
“You can change the CD if you want,” he says, pulling into traffic. “The case is under your seat.”
“No, no. This is fine,” I insist, trying hard not to panic.
I am so unbelievably stupid. A downright idiot. It should have occurred to me earlier that I am in no way, shape, or form ready to be going on a road trip with Jake. Traffic getting out of the city is guaranteed to be a tense, nightmarish ordeal, at best. And conversation will most likely be strained. But all that I can deal with. What I cannot deal with are the tests, the pop quizzes—because at some point or another, Jake is going to ask me to pick a radio station, or suggest I select one of his CDs, and I’m either going to have to play dumb or finally break down and confess that I have terrible taste in music.
How do I know my taste in music is so atrocious? Well, I’ll tell you. I once dated a guy in college who tried desperately to indoctrinate me into the cult of Bob Dylan. One night he played “Lay, Lady, Lay” for me. I cried.
Ever since then, I’ve had it with the weepy, heartaching stuff of the chronically miserable. I don’t like it when a song knocks me in the chest and shatters the steel plate of cynicism I spent a good many teenage years trying to construct. If music can make me feel remotely human, if it provides me with any sense of communal understanding, I want no part of it.
From what I gather, there are some people who hear songs like Simon and Garfunkel’s “America” and they get nostalgic—misty-eyed, even—for the flower-scented, bygone years of the sixties. What do I know of the sixties? I hear “America” and I get nostalgic for Cameron Crowe’s Almost Famous. And frankly, that’s just how I prefer it.
Jake merges the car onto the expressway and collects his ticket from the tollbooth. Five minutes later, the moment of truth descends. The CD stops. Jake ejects it from the player and hands it to me.
“Do you mind putting this back in the case?” he asks.
“Yeah, okay.” I reach under my seat and pull out a massive black tome—weighted down even more so by its threat to expose all my inadequacies.
Pounding the Pavement Page 11
