Pounding the Pavement

by Jennifer van der Kwast

  While rereading the very same passages I struggled with the night before, it occurs to me that reading for pleasure is a luxury I can’t afford. Is it just me, or has Princess been a little slow fanning the flames of my ardent literary burn? Come to think of it, it would also help if she fed the fire a few more chips—preferably the crisp, green kind printed by the U.S. Treasury.

  On an impulse, I pick up the phone. On another impulse, I slam it back down. Has it really come to this? Must I really beg, grovel, plead?

  You bet I do.

  I shift in my seat—better to accommodate the tail between my legs—and start dialing. She answers on the first ring.

  “Hi, it’s Sarah.” I have to force myself to sound bright and chipper.

  “Sarah?” Princess asks innocently.

  “Sarah Pelletier,” I say, fighting to keep the irritation out of my voice. She knows damn well who I am.

  “Sarah, doll, of course! So sorry. Somewhere in all this mess I must have misplaced my mind. It’s been so busy here, you know.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “Pfft,” she snorts.

  “Anything I can do help out?”

  “Oh, doll, that’s so sweet of you. But really I think I’m all caught up with the manuscripts—”

  “It doesn’t have to be just manuscripts. Is there any chance you’ve started looking for an assistant to lighten the load?”

  “God, I wish! Crap …” I hear her phone bounce off the desk and topple to the floor. Part of me thinks she may have dropped it on purpose.

  “I’m back. Sorry about that. Tell you what, doll—” Since when has she started calling me doll? It’s beginning to irk me. “I’m looking at this book on my desk. I’ve been meaning to read it myself, but I never seem to find the time. It’s very hush-hush, though. Can I trust you with it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Great. It’s right up your alley.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Hmmm? Oh, let me see. Damn. I know I’m going to butcher this, but I think it’s pronounced Die Dämmerung?”

  Somehow I find the strength to suppress a maniacal giggle. How hush-hush can a book be if I already know about it?

  “Yeah, sure, I’ll take a look at it,” I say, sounding mighty charitable indeed.

  “Fabulous. I’ll messenger it right over.”

  By mid-afternoon, I’ve taken to waiting in my living room for the messenger to arrive. So imagine my surprise when it is Amanda who walks through the front door instead. She’s caught me staring at a blank TV screen, an unused piece of floss wrapped around my index finger. I do a double take. I’m not so good with the days of the week anymore, but as far as I know, it’s either a Wednesday or Thursday. Or maybe a Tuesday. Suffice it to say, I do believe it’s a weekday and I wasn’t expecting her intrusion.

  “Must have been some night last night, huh?” I say, snapping off the string of floss.

  Amanda throws her bag on the sofa, narrowly missing me, and walks by without a word. I take it as an invitation to continue baiting her.

  “You call in sick? Feeling a little hot? A little … peaked?”

  She wheels around, eyes narrowed, nostrils flared.

  “You disapprove of me, don’t you?”

  “What? No, of course not.”

  “You think the only reason I got promoted was ’cause I was sleeping with my boss.”

  “I don’t think that. And who cares, anyway? If I had a hot boss, I’d be all over him, too. I think it’s romantic.”

  Amanda laughs once. A harsh, bitter laugh. “It’s not romantic,” she scoffs. “It’s hell and you know it.”

  She disappears into the kitchen and starts slamming drawers. I abandon my floss and follow her.

  “What is your problem?”

  She grabs a cup from the dish rack and points it at me furiously.

  “Do you really think you’re better than me?”

  Yes. “No!” It comes out a little funny.

  Amanda grimaces into the coffee mug in her hand. “Would it kill you to make sure you get the coffee grounds out of your cup?” She throws the mug into the sink. “I am sick of cleaning up after your mess.”

  Okay. Now it’s getting personal.

  “You clean up after me? Are you insane? What do you think I do all day?”

  “I don’t know. What do you do all day?”

  “Well, for one thing, I take out the garbage. I’ve been meaning to explain this to you. Taking out the trash does not mean you tie up a full bag and leave it next to the trash can. You have to take it out of the apartment for it to actually count.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Amanda pulls herself up to full height, reminding me just how short I am in comparison. “And there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she seethes. “I know you’ve been sneaking into my bedroom to use my scale. I want you to stop. One of these days, you’re going to break the fucking thing.”

  I am struck absolutely dumb. I know there are a million equally cruel things I can say right back to her. I just can’t think of a single one.

  Amanda doesn’t give me the satisfaction of coming up with a lame response anyway. She flips her hair and stomps angrily toward her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Because I refuse to be upstaged by her yet again, I stomp off to my room and slam my door, too. Harder.

  I spear a pan-roasted potato and pretend it’s Amanda’s heart. The teeth of my fork sink in a little deeper and I feel instantly gratified. I move on to stab another potato, then another, and soon I’ve amassed a pleasing assortment of wounded spuds.

  “You’re not hungry?” asks Jake, swallowing a piece of my salmon.

  “Nah,” I continue to pulverize my side dish. “I’m just out of it.”

  “You seem a little down.”

  “I’m fine.” I give my limp fish a hard whack.

  “You wanna hear a joke?”

  “I’m not really in the mood for—”

  “Did I ever tell you the one about the ignoranus?”

  “Huh?” My fork is wedged in salmon. I give up on trying to yank it out. “Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

  “Okay. What do you call a person who is both stupid and an asshole?”

  I peer up at him, over the upright utensil stuck in my entrée. I have no idea what he’s getting at.

  “An ignoranus?” I ask.

  “What? How did you—” His eyes narrow. He looks hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me you already heard that one?”

  I stare at him closely and realize he is completely serious.

  I laugh. I laugh and I laugh and I laugh. Even my fork finally collapses. The waiter returns to our table while the tears are still streaming out the corner of my eyes. Jakes smiles at him apologetically.

  “Can you wrap up the salmon? She’ll take it to go.”

  Ever the gentleman, Jake pays the check, carries out my doggie bag, holds open the door, and lights my cigarette while I struggle with the daunting task of trying to pull myself together. I wipe away the last of my tears.

  “I am sorry. You’ve been so wonderful tonight. Thank you for putting up with me.”

  “I don’t put up with you. Believe it or not, you’re fun to hang out with. I didn’t think anyone could laugh like that.”

  “I sounded like such a girl, huh?”

  Jake shrugs. “In a good way.” He snuffs out his cigarette. “Where to now?”

  “Hmm, I don’t know.” I wrinkle my nose as I survey my options.

  The restaurant was Jake’s choice, an unexpected little East Village gem. But, to tell the truth, this neighborhood isn’t really my scene. The East Village is the place where rich people come to pretend they’re not. And by claiming destitution, they think they have the right to complain. So complain they do. Loudly: Drinks are too expensive, bars are too crowded and the music sucks. (All true, by the way.) But that’s not the point. The point is the people of the East Village have created a cult out of their dissatisfaction.
The neighborhood movie theaters play crappy, low-budget independent films, the music venues book mediocre bands, just so people can pay ten dollars to have something to bitch about later at the bar around the corner.

  Jake senses my hesitation. “You wanna just grab a bottle of wine at the liquor store and go back to your place?” he suggests.

  Oh, boy. I cringe visibly.

  “You hate that idea.”

  “Well …”

  “You want to just call it a night?”

  “No, no. It’s not that. It’s just …” How do I explain Amanda to him? How do I tell him she brings out all that is vile and petty and spiteful in me? How do I put it, decisively, that I don’t want him to see me that way? That I don’t want her to reduce me to claw-scratching and fang-baring in his presence?

  “My roommate has PMS,” I tell him. “She’s been complaining about cramps all day. I think she wants to be home alone tonight with a cold compress.”

  “Well, then,” Jake spreads out his hands. “Do you want to come back to Brooklyn with me?”

  Brooklyn. That, I have to think about for a moment. For even though it lies just beyond the span of a river, Brooklyn could just as well be Brigadoon for all I know. A small forgotten village in the mist, where, by one account, Hassidic Jews light candles and read aloud from the Talmud, and by another account, liberal arts college grads dye their hair pink and write poetry. Every image I have of Brooklyn—mostly garnered from books that were foisted on me in high school—paints an entirely different picture. Am I ready to embark into a world so vast and so strange?

  Yes.

  “Yes,” I say.

  We stop first at a liquor store tucked in between an all-night Japanese toy store and a Mexican restaurant featuring live music. The wine is my treat, so I pick a nice, but relatively inexpensive bottle of cabernet. The clerk clucks his tongue and shakes his head when he rings up my selection.

  See what I mean about the East Village?

  At Jake’s insistence, we splurge for a cab ride that transports us out of the petulant city and over the noble Brooklyn Bridge. Not only is this the first time I’ve crossed the bridge—it’s the first time I ever been made fully aware of its awesome presence. I feel like I’ve been cupped in Atlas’s palm, and when I look over my shoulder, I see the rest of the world lies firmly on his back and I have nothing to worry about.

  The cab comes to a stop at the end of a pretty, tree-lined street, which seems oddly disquieting. I scan the block for late-night drug deals on the corner, a private investigator asleep in a dark sedan in the middle of a stakeout. I wouldn’t even be surprised if down the street, Spike Lee were walking toward us, dribbling a basketball. And from the other side, John Travolta were strutting in a white leisure suit, clicking his heels to the tune of “Stayin’ Alive.” And then, somewhere in the middle, a fat man smoking a cigar would throw open his window and jut out his beer belly, yelling at us all to “get the fuck out of hee-ah.” Downstairs, his middle-aged spinster daughter—tired but still strangely seductive—would give us a long hard stare, more curious than cross.

  Of course, there is nothing of the sort. Only your typical suburban block, with your typical lampposts and typical cherry blossoms. The neighborhood is completely ordinary in an altogether fascinating way.

  Jake leads me up the stoop of a real brownstone, to a door that is made of wood, not steel. Inside, we amble up a crooked stairway that creaks.

  People really live like this? Not the people I know.

  On the third floor, at the end of the last flight of stairs, Jake opens the door to his apartment. I walk in and find myself, again, dumbfounded. The place is charming. It’s a decent size, bright and airy. And almost completely empty.

  “Nice place,” I say. “It’s very … spacious.”

  “Yeah, sorry. It used to be nicer.” He points to the center of the living room. “She took the coffee table. Great table. Round? The kind that spins?” He points to the bare wall. “The bookcase, too. And obviously all the books.” He grabs the bottle of wine from my hand and steps into his adjoining kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  I sink down on the futon and cross my legs, angling myself toward the kitchen so I can admire Jake’s strong, stunning back as he pops the cork. When he reaches to open the cupboard doors above him, his shirt pulls up and I can catch a glimpse of the top of his boxer shorts. Calvin Klein. Boxer briefs, maybe? Hopefully? A delighted shiver runs down my spine.

  “Shit.” Jake slams the cupboard drawers shut.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He turns to me, his eyes downcast. “I forgot. She took the wineglasses.” He studies his barren kitchen for a moment and picks up two discarded plastic cups by the microwave.

  “Is this okay?” he asks, handing me a cup.

  “It’s perfect.”

  He pours the wine. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  We sip our wine quietly for a few moments, staring at our reflections mirrored in the black void of a Sony TV screen at the center of the room. How is it that, even when a TV is turned off, it is still the focus of any aimless eye?

  Jake picks up the remote. “You mind if I turn it on?” he asks.

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  He flicks it on and hands me the clicker—a downright gracious gesture that loses its impact almost immediately. He only gets four channels. Two are in English.

  “You don’t have cable?” I ask, shocked.

  “I did. It was in her name. I told her to cancel it.”

  “Why on earth would you do that?”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t think I was sticking around for much longer. Thought I’d be in Canada by now.” I decide not to ask why he isn’t.

  “Well, we can still find something to watch,” I say, lightly. “You have any movies?”

  “Some.”

  “Hey, you got any movies you’ve made? I’d love to see your stuff. I wanna find out if you’re really as talented as I think you are.”

  “No,” he says adamantly.

  I decide not to ask why not.

  Jake heaves himself off the futon and toys with the rabbit ears for a few minutes. We finally get somewhat clear reception for NBC, which suits us just fine because Conan O’Brien is on, and we’re both big fans, even though we can’t remember the last time we actually watched his show.

  “This reminds me of college,” I say.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I meant that in a good way.” I put down my wine and scratch my arm. When I realize I am rubbing my skin raw, a thought occurs to me.

  “Oh, hey, where’s your cat?”

  “Yeah, well.” Jake picks up his cup of wine and stares at it. “She took the cat.” He takes a deep swig.

  On the TV, the studio audience erupts into laughter, so we force ourselves to join in. Soon, laughing gives way to giggling, giggling gives way to yawning, and—if I think I’ve heard correctly—yawning gives way to snoring. I look over to find Jake’s head tilted at a funny angle on the back of the futon, his mouth hanging slightly open. I poke him gently.

  “You tired?”

  “Huh?” He snaps his head up and blinks. “Oh. Yeah.” He turns off the television and gets up, leaving me stranded on the futon. A door swings open behind me and I assume he has retreated to the boudoir. I haven’t exactly been invited, but I don’t think it would be out of line to join him.

  “So,” I say, sneaking in and closing the door behind me. “This is the bedroom.”

  “What?” Jake’s T-shirt is halfway over his head. He peeks out from under it and searches for me with sleepy eyes. “Umm, yeah.”

  I follow his lead and remove my own shirt.

  “You have a side of the bed you prefer?” I ask, coyly flinging my blouse aside.

  “Umm, I guess I usually sleep on the left.”

  I drop my skirt to the floor and gingerly step out of it. Thinking I’m being rather seductive, I sink languidly onto the right side of the bed a
nd prop myself up on my elbows.

  Jake’s tired eyes linger on me. It occurs to me that I’ve just given him the perfect opportunity for comparison. How easy it must be for him to imagine me literally taking his ex-girlfriend’s place.

  “You know what? I think it would be better if you slept on the left.”

  I recoil as if slapped and quickly withdraw to the other, safer, side of the bed.

  chapter fourteen

  Jake’s lips graze my forehead. I struggle to open my eyes.

  “I have to go to work,” he says.

  “So?” Grumpily, I grab the pillow and roll over on to my stomach.

  “I left a set of keys for you on the dresser so you can lock up after you leave. But …” He plants sweet kisses on my shoulder. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

  I open my eyes again and blink at the alarm clock: 7:45 a.m. Ugghhh.

  I don’t remember closing my eyes, but when a car honks outside I am jolted back into consciousness. Jake is gone and the alarm reads 9:15. I am wide-awake. And I don’t really see much point in staying.

  Waking up in a strange bed is a peculiar experience, mostly because it is a practice I don’t engage in regularly. But this bed is made stranger still. I slither out of the sheets as if afraid of waking a sleeping ghost. If I strain hard enough I can hear her snoring. Loose strands of her hair probably still cling to the pillowcases. I collect my clothes and tiptoe into the bathroom.

  She follows me there, too. The crème de corps, the lavender shower gel, berry lip gloss, and sugar shea butter—these all must have been hers. I find it hard to believe Jake is a man accustomed to keeping his hands soft and his lips sun-kissed. I rip off a sheet of her toilet paper, flush her toilet, and rinse my hands with her antibacterial hand soap.

  And here she is now, in the living room. Her absence, quite literally, has left a big gaping hole in the middle of the apartment. And where her coffee table once stood, now lies my colossal messenger bag, almost irreverent in its casual disarray.

  I’ve never been one for a purse, and people like Jake who can cram their wallets into their pockets and head out the door utterly amaze me. Me, I don’t go anywhere without a wallet, keys, cell phone, an extra pack of cigarettes, a journal, my hairbrush, and assorted chapters of whatever manuscript I’m still reading. And then there are the just-in-case items: an umbrella, a change of socks, half a bottle of tepid water, and a prescription for birth control pills I never bothered to fill. Shamefully, almost apologetically, I repack my items and clear the bag out of the way.