Pounding the Pavement

by Jennifer van der Kwast

  “Are you the Rockette?”

  “Former Rockette,” I correct her as I continue dancing. “They cut me this month ’cause I didn’t make the weight requirement. Can you believe it?”

  Her brow furrows. She’s not sure what to believe.

  “Here,” I offer, hiking up my skirt. “Wanna see my high kick?”

  With that, I let loose with a kick that would put the entire ragtag team of dollar-a-day hoofers in A Chorus Line to shame. It’s a kick that isn’t part of the show—it is the show. Perfectly arched foot, pointed toe, taut thigh. A long, lean leg fueled with such passion it reaches up for the sky—

  And keeps on going. I watch in panic as it soars clear over my head, the folds of my dress catapulted behind it. The next thing I know, a sharp stab of pain hits my tailbone. And all is dark.

  I scurry to yank my dress down to a less compromising position. When I remove the fabric from over my eyes, what should I see but Jake—sweet, darling Jake—holding my shoe and howling with laughter. I glare at him furiously.

  “Do you mind helping me up?” I stick out my hand. “I think I pulled something.”

  “I’m sorry.” He wipes a tear from his eye, his shoulders still jerking with convulsive giggles. “Here.” He hands me my shoe and hoists me up. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Fine,” I snap, as I replace the slipper. He wraps an arm around my waist and helps me hobble off the dance floor.

  “I think we should get you back to the hotel.”

  “We can’t leave now. They haven’t even cut the cake.”

  “We’ll get dessert from room service.”

  “I want to stay,” I insist.

  “Wouldn’t you rather order pay-per-view?”

  “No. I’ll be okay in a couple of minutes. I promise.” I try to pull away from him, but my knee buckles. He hoists me closer to his hip.

  “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.” He carts me off limping. And in my weakened condition, it’s not exactly like I can resist him.

  Once I’ve painfully succeeded in arranging myself into a flat, prone position under the covers, I can start to feel the sore muscles in my back relax and a warm wave of pleasant inertia spread over the rest of my body. I nestle my head against two thick pillows and close my eyes, listening to Jake’s voice drifting toward me from the other side of the room.

  “Yes. Hi. I’m in room 312. I’d like to order strawberry shortcake and … what do you want?”

  I roll over and open one eye. “Chocolate,” I murmur, rubbing my cheek against the satin pillowcase.

  “Chocolate mousse?”

  “Mmm. Sounds wonderful.”

  “And a chocolate mousse,” he says into the telephone. I struggle to prop myself up against the headboard and pick up the remote control on the nightstand beside me. I click a couple of buttons. Nothing happens.

  “Here,” Jake takes it from me. He hits a few more buttons and the TV finally turns on. “You know what you want to watch?”

  “What’s on?”

  “There are all those pay-per-view movies. Or …” He flips through the channels. “Hey, check it out! Tootsie is on!”

  “Oooh! Let’s watch that.” I snuggle deeper under the sheets.

  Jake puts down the remote. He’s still fully dressed, perched on the end of the bed as far away from me as possible. I peer out of the corner of my heavy eyelids and watch him slowly unthread the tie from around his neck.

  I am fast asleep before room service even knocks on the door. But just before I slip into unconsciousness, I do remember smacking my lips and thinking that chocolate mousse will make an excellent breakfast.

  chapter eleven

  I have no idea how long our drive to Boston might have taken. I simply never bothered to check the time. Because even if we were stalled in heavy traffic, at least our conversation flew at lightning speed, often punctuated with quick interruptions and gleeful cries of “me too!”

  Our ride home is different. I count each brand-new minute as it flickers once and becomes a steady green unit on the radio dial. The seconds I have to imagine on my own—tick, tick, tick.

  Jake and I have exhausted our entire reserve of movie quotes, and creating an altogether original conversation is an effort we can’t quite muster. Right now, I am just tired and cranky enough to dare assert myself.

  “I’m turning on the radio,” I announce, fangs bared, ready to attack if he even tries to argue with me.

  Jake shrugs. “Fine with me.”

  I lean forward and eject the CD, thus silencing the husky-voiced boy who has been whining about being misunderstood for the last half an hour. It pleases me to no end that I can stick him in a sleeve and slide him under my chair, where he can rot and fester with the rest of his unhappy, self-pitying friends.

  A quick scan through the radio stations, however, does nothing to lift my spirits.

  “You ever feel like listening to the radio is like trying to pick a movie from the video store when all the good stuff has already been rented?” I demand.

  “Hey, turn it back.”

  “What? To this?” I flip back a station and tilt my head, trying to place a familiar song. “Wait a second. This is Elton John. You can’t be serious.”

  “You don’t like Elton John?”

  “Does anyone?”

  “Yeah. I do. That surprises you?”

  “No.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? You don’t think it’s cool enough.”

  To be honest, that’s exactly what I thought. I’ve never paid much mind to Elton John one way or another. I had just assumed I wasn’t allowed to like him.

  “What do I know from cool?” I say grumpily. Still, I turn up the volume, feeling generous enough to give the song the benefit of the doubt.

  “Hold on. Did he just say ‘sugar bear’?”

  “I believe he did,” Jake says cheerfully.

  “Well, that’s a little sappy, isn’t it?”

  “You hear what you want to hear. But obviously you’re not paying attention.” He turns up the volume. With his eyes half-closed, his hands gripping the steering wheel, he belts out the lyrics with the kind of emotion I never imagined him capable of. I shake my head ruefully.

  “What are you grinning at?” he demands.

  “You. I never figured you for a love song kinda guy.”

  Jake groans. “You really disappoint me, Sarah. This isn’t a love song. This is a big fuck-you to a woman he’s leaving at the altar. When he says, ‘sugar bear’? He’s being facetious. There. Does that make you feel better? Now that you can keep your oh-so-cool cynicism intact?”

  I feel my face burn. Not because he’s proven me wrong. But because he’s figured me out so right. I listen intently to the lyrics, trying to find a way to save face.

  “Okay, fine.” I say suddenly. “So it’s not a love song. Then who is the ‘someone’ who saved his life tonight?”

  “I thought that was obvious.” He grins. “It’s you.”

  Is he being facetious? It’s so hard to tell these days.

  I don’t know how much credit Elton John—or, more specifically, “Someone Saved My Life Tonight”—is due, but when we finally enter New York City, when the glittering George Washington Bridge raises its arm over the horizon and waves us on in, Jake and I sigh contentedly, the miseries of a long, slow car ride all but forgotten.

  It feels good to be home.

  Jake pulls off the West Side Highway and coaxes his car a few blocks further before we finally come to a halt in front of my apartment building. I reach over to the backseat and pull up my bag.

  “Man, I don’t envy you having to go back out in that traffic.”

  “No. It’ll be miserable.”

  “How long’s it going to take you to get back to Brooklyn?”

  “With traffic like this? An hour? An hour and a half?”

  “Eeck.”

  “I know.”

  Then it falls upon us. The thick, dead weight of the pre-farewell si
lence. The car fills with fumes of dread.

  “You know,” I say lightly. “You don’t have to go back if you don’t want to. You’re welcome to spend the night at my apartment.”

  Jake stares hard at his steering wheel. I can feel myself starting to falter.

  “I mean, it’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before,” I add. “Last night wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “I don’t know. You’ve got a pretty powerful snore.”

  My mouth drops open. I’m mortified and I don’t even bother trying to conceal it. Jake breaks into his impish grin and laughs.

  “I’m just kidding. You were fine.” He nods pensively. “All right. I’ll stay. You go up and I’ll park the car.”

  “That’s ridiculous. We’ll both park and go up together.”

  It takes us close to another hour to find a spot.

  Tired, spent, and ravaged by an entire day’s worth of traveling, we shuffle into my apartment only to find Amanda sitting cross-legged on the sofa, in the thoughtful process of selecting the very best Cheetos from out of the bag. She looks up and smiles guiltily.

  “Whasshup?” she asks, trying to sound nonchalant. Her slur gives her away.

  I drop my bag to floor with a thud. Of course she would be home tonight. I fold my arms over my chest, not pleased.

  “Where’s what’s-his-name?” I ask her.

  Amanda frowns. “Early conferesh meeting tomorrow. He couldn’t stay. But …” she points her bare, blue-polished toe at the expensive wine bottle on the coffee table in front of her. It’s empty. “He sends his apologies.” Amanda squints her eyes, finally noticing Jake standing behind me. “Hey, who are you?”

  “I’m Jake.” He casts me a sideways glance.

  Amanda looks him over. “I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” She yawns and stretches her arms over her head, exposing the soft, supple hollow below her rib cage. “Do you wanna drink? I think there might still be beer in the fridge.” She tosses her blonde locks. “You look like a beer drinker to me.”

  Whether or not Jake knows it—whether or not Amanda knows it—this is definitely a test. And he better pass it.

  “I’m good,” says Jake. I exhale with relief and grab his elbow, leading him to my bedroom.

  “Good night, Amanda,” I say deliberately. I close my bedroom door behind me.

  Jake turns his back and unloads the contents of his pockets onto my desk. He pulls out car keys from the front pocket, a cell phone from his back pocket. He fishes out a handful of change from yet another pocket. Then it’s assorted credit cards, more coins. No wonder boys don’t carry purses. How deep do those pockets go?

  “So.” He stacks his quarters into a neat little pile. “Where’d you meet her?” he asks, jerking his head at the door.

  Great. Amanda. My favorite topic of conversation. I kick off my shoes and sink down on the bed, waiting for Jake to join me. He opts for the Aeron instead.

  “Oh, you know. We knew each other in high school. Vaguely. Then we bumped into each other one fateful day at Starbucks, summer after college. Found out we’d both be moving to the same city … and, well, one thing led to another—”

  “Sounds romantic.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “How long you been living together, then?”

  “I dunno. Three years?”

  He whistles. “Wow!”

  “What? You don’t like her?”

  “I’m sorry. I know I judge people too quickly. Does that offend you?”

  Offend me?

  “No, no,” I say. “I’m the same the way. It’s just that, I mean, a lot of guys think she’s cute—”

  “Seems to me she’s the one who thinks she’s so cute. But I can see how some guys would fall for that. Most men will believe anything a girl tells them.”

  “But not guys like you?”

  “Definitely not guys like me.”

  He doesn’t like Amanda!

  Right then and there, I decide to sleep with him.

  Of course, it’s never that easy, and we don’t actually sleep together. Sure, I lean over to kiss him and he not only meets me halfway, he leaps out of the chair and onto my bed and crawls on top of me. We giggle and wiggle, and somehow or another, I end up on top of him, and in the process, we kick over the sheets and the pillows fall off the side of the bed.

  But before the belt is unfastened, I stop. I roll away from him with false modesty and fling a troubled arm over my eyes.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “What?” Jake straightens. The look of panic in his eyes almost makes me want to laugh. I bite my tongue. “What’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No,” I sigh. “It’s not that.” I remove my arm from over my forehead and try to look troubled. “I just worry that this might be wrong for you. I mean, obviously you’ve had a pretty traumatic breakup, and well …” God, I hope I sound even remotely sincere. “I just don’t want you to feel like I’m rushing you into anything you might not be ready for.”

  “Hey,” he says, brushing his lips lightly against my shoulder.

  “Hey, look at me.” He tilts up my chin and kisses me on the nose. “I’m fine. Really.”

  And so, I unfasten his belt. More kissing and groping ensues.

  But before the bra is unhooked, he stops. He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. I clutch the sheets around my chest and sit up.

  Now what did I do?

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  He sighs. “I hate that you said that.”

  “What? What did I say?”

  “I hate that you think you’re pushing me. I don’t want you to be worried about this in any way. If you don’t think the time is right—I mean, for either of us—then maybe now’s not the time to do this.”

  “No, no, no. I’m okay now.”

  And so, more kissing, more groping. More hesitation and more indecision. By four o’clock in the morning, we’re both so exhausted, we decide to smoke one last cigarette and go to sleep.

  I wake up in the morning and blink until my sight starts to rack into focus. I can make out Jake’s form perched at the edge of the bed. Seconds later I can tell he’s fully dressed and cradling a phone receiver in the crook between his neck and his shoulder. And then the garbled words of his conversation gradually begin to make sense.

  “I’m just running a little late … I had problems returning the rental car. It’s all taken care of now … I’m on my way.” He hangs up.

  I stretch my bare arms skyward and yawn loudly.

  “You leaving me?”

  Jake turns. “I woke you up?”

  “Nah, I was up anyway.”

  He smiles and crawls toward me. “I’m not leaving just yet.” He runs his finger down the line of my arm. I shiver.

  “You cold?” he asks.

  “Yeah, a little,” I lie.

  He pulls the sheets up to my chin and rubs my shoulders. “Better?”

  “Much.”

  He leans down to kiss me, a kiss without urgency, a kiss without the fury and panic of impending sex. Just a kiss.

  I don’t know how long the kiss lasts. It falls into that strange span of time that is both endless and not long enough. We pull apart sadly and lick our lips. I reach for my discarded shirt on the floor.

  “I’ll show you out.”

  We linger in the foyer, still kissing. As far as I know, we’ve kissed our way over here. Jake reaches around his back and opens the front door. Reality walks in, tips his hat, and makes himself at home.

  We pull apart for good. I’m afraid to ask when I’ll see him again. I’m afraid I’ll sound like too much of a girl.

  “Listen,” Jake rubs my arms. “I can’t see you tonight.”

  I swallow the lump forming in the back of my throat. “Okay.”

  “I have to go back to Brooklyn. I need to feed my cat. But I’ll call you later.”

  I nod. He kisses my forehead.

  And then he’s
gone.

  I close the door on an empty hallway and feel myself slowly deflating. The entire stretch of an empty day looms before me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this alone.

  Fortunately, though, like Snow White lost in the forest, I do find solace in the form of seven diminutive companions—Lysol, Pine-Sol, Windex, Tilex, Clorox, Pledge, and Swiffer. The plight of a lonely housewife is becoming all too real for me, and it makes me slightly queasy. Or maybe I should stop inhaling toxic cleaning supplies.

  True to his word, Jake calls me when he gets to the office just to say hello. His faraway, disconnected voice only serves to make me feel lonelier.

  And then, on top of it all, I get an unexpected phone call only a few minutes later.

  “Hello. May I speak to Sarah, please?”

  “This is Sarah.”

  “Sarah, this is Jeanie. I am calling from Dr. Cohen’s office?”

  My heart sinks. Great. As if things weren’t bad enough, now someone is calling to tell me I’m dying. I should have known.

  But then I remember—I no longer have health insurance. I haven’t seen a doctor in years. So, for the time being, at least I can rest assured that even if I were dying, no one would be calling to tell me so.

  “Oh, hi, Jeanie!” I vamp. “Thanks for so much for calling.” But what for?

  “Sure, Sarah. No problem. I would have called sooner, but Dr. Cohen has been very busy lately. He has an opening tomorrow afternoon, though, if you’d like to set up an interview.”

  “Tomorrow is fine.” I think. I think real hard. “Where are you located again?”

  “We’re on Sixth Avenue between Fifty-sixth and Fifty-seventh Streets?” Jeanie reminds me. I hate to tell her, but it doesn’t sound at all familiar to me. “Oh, and can you e-mail me a copy of your résumé?”

  “Of course,” I say. She gives me her e-mail address and we hang up. For a moment, I stare off into space, waiting for my memory to trigger some inkling of recognition.

  Dr. Cohen?

  The phone still dangles in my hand. I stare at it for a moment. Finally, I suck up the nerve to dial the dreaded number.