But maybe they could if you were Tuck Whitaker, handsome, big-time ball player, with a fat contract and a ton of endorsements (I had been researching his financial situation). Maybe the laws didn’t apply to you, in any country. All those things had sure shielded him so far from the responsibility of parenthood.
At noon my friend Amy, an accounting clerk, came by to get me for lunch. We had thirty minutes and used every one of them. When I saw her coming down the dimly lit hallway with the baby poop-colored carpeting (the firm was busy but the office was old and ugly), I grabbed my lunch bag and ran to the elevator to push the up button.
“What’s new with Josef?” I asked her, as the elevator creaked its way up to the roof. She rolled her eyes and started filling me in.
“Well, remember how I got him that interview for the loading dock job at that store where my friend is the manager? I got him that tie that we picked out online, and I laid out his outfit, and everything. And then the dingbat forgot to go! I had texted him like an hour before, so he would remember to get ready, and then he said he got so caught up in writing that he totally forgot. He had turned off the sound, I guess, so he didn’t hear the ringer on his phone. Or feel the vibrations. Or see my emails alert on his laptop screen. Or hear the landline.”
This was the same old story, in a slightly different format. Amy’s live-in boyfriend, Josef, was a real tool.
“So still no job?” I asked, trying not to seem judgmental.
“Writing is his job,” she defended him, then sighed. “But still no paycheck.”
“That’s rough,” I commented, as the elevator doors opened at the top floor. We glanced up and down the hallway, then quietly pushed open the doorway to the stairwell to the roof. Seven months ago, I had tried the door and found it unlocked. I managed to keep it that way with the help of a rubber band over the latch that no one had noticed yet. It was a beautiful spring day in Arizona, not hot yet, and not the bone-chilling sixty-degree weather we’d suffered through in January. Ha ha.
We settled down, backs against the stairwell wall, and Amy continued her story.
“Anyway, I came home and was like, ‘Why didn’t you go to the interview?’ and he was like, ‘I lost track of time!’ and I was like, ‘But I was texting you!’”
I let my mind drift a little. Upshot was, he was a lazy A who enjoyed her supporting him while he worked on his mythical novel, in which he had been involved since dropping out of college, five years ago.
I realized that Amy had paused, and was looking at me expectantly. I had no idea where the story had gone. “Do you believe him?” I asked. That was always a safe question in any Josef story. Mostly he was lying about something.
“Well, the whole thing about the cat and the bananas, I’m just not sure about. But I do know how he loses track of time while he’s writing. Like last week, when we were supposed to meet for dinner at my parents’ house and he was two hours late.” She smiled. “They don’t understand what it’s like to be an artist! You know, following the muse.”
It made me want to upchuck a little. “Were they pissed? I mean, PO-ed?”
“Totally!”
Her parents were understandably none too fond of him. “So what are you going to do?” This was another safe question in any Josef story.
Amy sighed. “I’m not sure. I really want to support him, because I believe in his talent.”
“But he hasn’t let you read anything yet, right?” That part always got me.
“No, but I know he’s talented,” she insisted. Because he told her so. “But I’m getting a little…anxious about the engagement thing.” She looked down at her ring-less, naked finger. “He said as soon as the novel was finished we would get engaged, but when will that be?”
Never. “Maybe you could give him a more definite expiration date,” I suggested. “Or maybe just lay out a timeline.” The real question in my mind was why she would want to tie herself legally to this deadbeat. But that wasn’t really something I could just say to her face flat out.
She was horrified by my tepid suggestion. “If I give him any kind of limits, he could just say forget it and walk. He’s too free to be confined like that. I don’t want to lose him!”
Why not? Men sucked, as far as I was concerned. I had ample proof: my whore of a brother, my cheating ex, and now Tuck Whitaker. The only good guy I knew was my dad, because my mom controlled his every move. And Mr. Dodge the CPA, who was about 105. Probably a little old for me.
“Anyway, we’ll see, we’ll see,” Amy said, which were her code words for, “I’m not going to do anything about this, and I’m afraid you’re going to say something about Josef that I don’t like.”
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Fixing Lia Page 28