Delia Suits Up

by Amanda Aksel

  Becker pushes a manila folder across the table as swift as a bullet. “The way I see it, you’ve got two choices.”

  My hands tremble as I open the folder to what looks like an ironclad nondisclosure agreement. I wouldn’t be surprised if it also bans me from ever working here in the future. It feels like the old Hollywood threat—You’ll never work in this town again! Only now, it might actually be true. “You can sign this agreement. I’ll let you leave here with what’s left of your dignity. And you will never speak a word of this to anyone. Ever.” He slides a pen over and I pick it up. It’s weighted with silver and reads Curtis Becker, Managing Director, Monty Fuhrmann New York.

  “What’s the other option?”

  Becker hints at a villainous laugh. “Jail.” The man doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. “We’ll press charges to the fullest extent of the law.”

  Jail!

  “For what crime?”

  “Fraud. And maybe we’ll throw in conspiracy for fun.”

  Fraud? Conspiracy? Me? With their hotshot legal team, who knows how long they’ll put me away? Uh-uh. I’ll never survive in jail. Orange is so not my color.

  I shut my eyes tight for a moment, knowing I have no recourse. Why does every damn door slam in my face? Why can I never win? I glance up at Becker, whose patience seems to be wearing thin. Flipping to the last page of the contract, I scribble the name Richard Allen.

  Oh, man.

  This. Hurts.

  “Good,” Becker says. “I’m glad we have an understanding.”

  I stand, wishing, praying even, that there was something I could say—anything to keep me here. But I just agreed in writing to not speak of this. Ever.

  “Your stupid bag is waiting for you outside the door, and there’s a guard nearby in case you try to pull any shit.” After this conversation, I’m surprised there’s not one here already. “You can go now.”

  I drag my feet to the door.

  “Hey, Dick,” Becker calls out, and I turn back. “Fuck you.”

  Yeah, I’m pretty much fucked.

  My Gucci’s leaning against the glass wall. I give it a quick check to make sure nothing’s missing, then hurry to the elevator. As I pass the bullpen, all I can think is dead man walking. The elevator ride down feels like descending back into an inescapable hell. Out on the street, Monty Fuhrmann Tower looms. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this small.

  It’s over. It’s really over.

  Released back into the wild.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  My cheeks burn as I move toward the subway. What was I thinking? That I could just roar like a lion and save the day? Pretend to be something I’m not, and they wouldn’t figure it out? I’m sure as hell no Serena Walters. Damn it! I’ve completely lost my chance at my dream job and my dream guy. And I’ll probably have to hawk my Gucci just to pay off lunch. My vision grows fuzzy again. For a moment, I’m not sure if the city is actually spinning or if it’s just the effect of my twisted life getting completely out of control. I blink a few times, sharpening my focus, but keep my gaze lowered to my big feet dragging along in Frankie’s shoes.

  The subway station is just up the block, but the thought of being swallowed into a sea of people on the train makes me feel less than the nothing I already am. I step off the curb, hailing with my heavy arm at half-mast. Lit taxis pass by, one after the other. Just as I’m about to give up, one finally pulls in front of me. Its bright sign is currently the sunniest thing in my life. On the ride, my despair swells with each passing block. What am I gonna do when I get back to my apartment? Mope around all by myself? I already do that most of the time. I’m tired of that pathetic habit.

  Staring out the window, I spot a familiar bar up ahead. Frankie and I meet there occasionally since the drinks are cheap and it’s close to the hospital. “Stop the car,” I groan, and the driver complies. With Frankie and Regina busy at their real jobs, a bartender might be the best company I can ask for. Not to mention, a shot is the perfect antidote to getting sacked. I leave a decent tip for the driver, as he was kind enough to leave me to my silence the entire way.

  This block is on the dingy side and the red neon BEER sign in the window does nothing to class it up. I creak open the door. The bar’s dim, but not in an ambient way, desolate, but not in an exclusive way, and a little seedy, not in a trendy way.

  “You guys open?” I call out to the bartender, whose tattoo-covered arms are draped in her dyed raven hair. It’s not like I’ve ever seen the place packed, but there are usually at least a handful of drinkers.

  “Yeah, we’re open,” she snaps with the husky voice of a good singer or a bad smoker.

  I slog across the sticky floor, taking my pick of one of the empty barstools and setting my Gucci on the stool next to me. I lean my elbows on the counter and drop my head. How bad would it be if I tucked it in my arms and bawled?

  “Rough day?” the bartender asks with a halfhearted smile.

  I can hardly look her in the eye, let alone muster a polite smile. “You could say that.”

  She blows her pink gum into a cute little bubble, then bites it dead between her teeth. “What can I get you?”

  As much as I want alcohol circulating in my veins, nothing sounds good. Not even the bottle of Sassicaia I had earlier. A place like this would never carry expensive wine like that. I shrug, pouting my lip. “Pour me a shot of whatever’ll take the edge off.”

  “Mm-hmm, comin’ right up.” She moves quickly, grabbing a clear liquor bottle from the top shelf, and keeping focused on her task. “What’s your name?”

  My name?

  Fuck if I know anymore.

  I might as well start over. Be someone new. There’s a cartoon character inked across her shoulder. I call out the name, “Mickey,” in a flat tone. Works for me.

  Her smile grows and she gives in to a small chuckle. “I’m Jen.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Now where is that drink?

  “You too, Mickey.” She slams a tiny glass in front of me and fills it to the brim. A pungent waft infiltrates my sinuses before I even pick it up.

  “Whew!” My face contorts. “What is this?”

  “Something to take the edge off,” she mocks.

  It looks like Patrón but it smells like petrol. She motions me to drink up. Lifting the cold glass to my lips, I shoot the liquor hard and fast. “Ack! Tastes like lighter fluid.” I gag, making a sour face with my tongue. Now everything from my chest up stings as badly as my ego.

  Jen shrugs. “You didn’t specify on taste.”

  “That’s true,” I say, hacking my lungs clear.

  She leans on the bar. “So what happened to you?”

  I finally look her in the eye, catching a flicker of her glittery purple eye shadow in the light. “It’s a really long story.”

  She glances at the empty bar to the right, then to the left. “I’ve got time.”

  I push the drained shot glass back and forth between my hands, contemplating getting another one. “You sure you want to know? Wouldn’t you rather scroll Instagram or something?”

  She smacks her gum like a diner waitress. “I’m all caught up on social media and I’m bored. So c’mon. Let’s hear it.”

  Part of me is dying to talk to someone about it, while the other part of me would rather suffer in silence. If I say the words aloud then they’re real. As real as my ding-dong dick and my dead-end career. I take in a deep breath and let out a long sigh. Suffering in silence won’t get me back to Monty Fuhrmann. It won’t get me anything. “I got fired from the best job I’ve ever had.”

  She looks at me deadpan. No surprise. No sympathy. “Oh, yeah? Why’d they fire you?”

  I drop my eyes when I say, “I lied.”

  “Everyone lies.” She brushes it off like a speck of fallen glitter on her shoulder.

  “Yeah . . . but
this was a pretty big lie.” I stare down at the grimy counter and it finally hits me. All of it. From Delia to Richard, from hired to fired, from a distant chance at love to no chance in hell. And now I’m sitting here in a shitty bar admitting to a total stranger that I got fired for fraud.

  “Do you wanna talk about it?” asks the wannabe therapist, folding her arms and leaning over the bar.

  My stare hardly lifts off the bar. The shot of moonshine, or whatever, hits my brain just enough to relax my frown. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  She laughs at this. “You’d be surprised by some of the stories I hear around here. I doubt you could tell me anything crazier.”

  My eyes shoot wide open. “Oh, yes I could!” I shake my head slowly. She’s got no clue. “My day’s been full of the craziest shit that’s ever happened to anyone.” She rolls her eyes, and I notice the rosary dangling around her neck. “Well, next to a virgin miraculously giving birth.”

  She shoots me a WTF look. There’s a chance she’s Like a Virgin circa 1984, but she’s probably Catholic. Are Catholics allowed to have tattoos? Frankie has one, but surely the Pope doesn’t approve of covering your entire body.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  She stares blankly at me for at least twenty seconds then finally shoots me an impatient glare. “Still waiting.”

  “Nah, I don’t think so.” I twist my face into a vetoing grimace.

  She leans back against the bar shelf, seeming a little miffed. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “Which is exactly why you should tell me. I don’t know or care about anything about you.”

  I believe that. And a girl like her working in a desolate place like this must be thirsty for some captivating conversation. “It’s a two-way street, ya know? Tell me something about you first?”

  “What do you want to know?” Her voice softens to a flirty pitch. Boy, do I have a way with women.

  “What’s the craziest thing that’s ever happened to you?”

  Her lips turn up and she gazes off as if trying to calculate the wildest event in her life. I brace myself for some drunken anecdote. “Let’s see. I think the craziest thing that’s ever happened to me was when I met Davis Gage at a record store about two years ago.”

  Davis Gage is one of those sexy funk-metal guitarists who found fame and a drug addiction with a band in the nineties, went to rehab, married a supermodel, divorced the supermodel, then went solo in the 2000s. Not my cup of tea, but some of my high school friends thought he was the hottest.

  My mouth falls open. “That’s the craziest? This is New York. I see celebs all the time.” Okay, I don’t see them all the time, but celebrities do run wild in this city. Case in point, I encountered Todd Fairbanks and Serena Walters. And that was just today.

  “You didn’t let me finish my story,” she says.

  “Okay, good. Because that was really lame.”

  “Anyway . . .” she starts with another eye roll, “I bumped into him in the vinyl section and we got to talking about new wave and punk rock. And then he took me for coffee next door. It was the most amazing hour and sixteen minutes of my whole life.” Her now still and starry eyes profess just how bad she had it for the rock star.

  “That’s pretty cool. You had a meet-cute with Davis Gage.” I think I’m using that phrase right.

  She shoots me a funny look. “A meet-cute? What are you? A romance writer?”

  Romance writer? Now there’s a profession that appreciates women. “No, I’m an investment banker.” My shoulders slump, matching my frown. “Or was.”

  “Wall Street guy, huh? That’s a tough gig.” Jen glances at my shirt and silk paisley tie, then back to my face, with a smirk on her own. “Don’t worry. You’ll get a new job soon. But maybe ditch the pink.”

  “See, you just said a mouthful there. Pink isn’t the problem. Society is the problem. They treat pink like it’s an inferior color but it’s not. Pink is a great color. It’s basically a prettier shade of red. And everyone loves red. Do you know what I mean, Jen? There’s absolutely nothing wrong with pink.” My skin prickles, and not in a tingly, intoxicated way. Frankly, I’m getting sick of having to always defend being a woman on Wall Street.

  With a knit brow she says, “Right . . .” And she sounds exactly like that executive behind the mahogany desk at my interview yesterday.

  “You know what I think? I think pink deserves respect and it’s about fucking time it got some!”

  Jen stands there slack-jawed and blinking. “I didn’t realize pink was so underappreciated by the masses.”

  “Eh.” I tilt my head in a shrug. “How could you’ve known? As far as you’re concerned, I’m just some fancy finance guy with fabulous taste in ties.” I really do love this tie.

  “You want another shot? It sounds like you need another shot.” She reaches for the clear liquor bottle.

  “No, thanks. That gasoline you served me was good enough.”

  She lets out a small chuckle and sets the bottle down. “Let me know if you change your mind.” What are the chances Jen regrets asking me to talk?

  I nod. “You know, it’s my birthday today too.”

  “Well, happy birthday.”

  “No.” I wag a finger. “It’s not a happy birthday. I thought it could be because my birthday wish came true. Have you ever had a birthday wish come true?”

  “I always wish to win the lottery, so”—she opens her arms, gesturing to the bar—“no.”

  “Well, it’s wild when it does.”

  “Is that the crazy thing that happened to you?”

  “Yeah, you want to know what I wished for?”

  “Oh, so now you want to tell me.” She gives me a wry smile and I return a flattened expression. “Okay, seriously. What happened?” Jen leans on the bar, and this time I can smell the cigarette smoke lingering in her hair.

  “Well, I’ve been facing a lot of rejection lately. And when that happens you have to look at the common denominator. In this case, me.” I tap my heart with my fingertips. “So, given the data, one can assume that’s where the problem lies. So I wanted to be someone different. And this morning, I woke up a different person. And I mean, so different that my closest friends couldn’t even recognize me at first. So I think, hey, let me use this opportunity to test this theory. And I marched out into the unknown with a completely different persona and refreshed perspective. Ready to conquer the world! But the results? Not exactly legendary.”

  “I think you need to adjust your definition of crazy.” I’m tempted to be more specific, but think better of it. “Or maybe you just need to go back to being yourself again.”

  I lower my head. If only it were that easy.

  “You want to know why I never get my birthday wish?” Jen asks.

  I hardly look up at her. “Because the odds are one in three hundred million.”

  “No, because I never get around to buying the tickets. It obviously isn’t that important to me.”

  “So what’s your point?” It’s a hopeful thing, buying a lottery ticket. The odds are stacked against us but we still trade our cash for a chance at a dream. We think positive. We tell ourselves anything’s possible. Getting to work at Monty Fuhrmann today was like winning the lottery. And like so many lottery winners, I’ve managed to squander my luck.

  “I’m saying you have to play.”

  “I do. I play again and again and again. How much more do I have to play?”

  “As many times as it takes for you to win.”

  These days it feels like I’m playing a losing game. “And what if I never win?”

  “So maybe you don’t.” She hits me with a look as if to say, Grow up. The world doesn’t owe you shit. I lower my head and let out a somber sigh. It’s a tragic thought—doing all of this, not just today but all of it, for no
thing. No payoff. Then her raspy voice softens. “But you’ll never know if you give up.”

  There it is again. It’s up to me. It’s about me. The me inside this body. If I’m going to have any shot at winning, I need to fix this and figure out how to get my life back. “You’re right. I can’t sit here all day, drowning my sorrows.”

  “Well, actually you can. We’re open until four.”

  “As tempting as that sounds, I think I’m gonna head out.” I slap my hand on the bar and reach inside my Gucci for my credit card. “Thanks for the talk, Jen.”

  She waves her hand, refusing the plastic. “It’s on the house.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Consider it a birthday present.” Jen smiles then nods toward the door. “Go ahead. Do what you need to do.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The alcohol from that mystery shot settles in just enough to dull the pain a little. I trek the few blocks to the hospital, hoping to catch Frankie on a break. I could really use a friend right now. Especially one with access to medical answers. The moment I step through the hospital doors, the sterile stench and beaming fluorescent lights are so sobering that I feel the impact of my loss all over again. A nice older man volunteering at the information desk directs me to the ENT department on the second floor. I take the elevator up and quickly find the nurses’ station. The woman behind the counter is sporting tailored blue scrubs that fit her tiny frame perfectly and a tight ponytail. She sends me a polite glance. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m looking for Dr. Frank Ramirez,” I say, peeking over the counter at the stacks of patient charts, scribbled notes on neon orange Post-its, and half-empty coffee cups littering the desk.

  She picks up the phone receiver. “Your name and business with him?”

  “Richard Allen,” I say. “He’s a friend of mine. Tell him it’s urgent.”

  She nods and begins to dial, shifting her eyes suspiciously between the phone and me. I look down at her name tag—Tara Hill, Registered Nurse.