He ordered an omelet and another cup of coffee, and I ordered the French toast.
We sat quietly for a few minutes.
“Alex, I’m going to have to let you go.”
I turned and looked at him.
He slowly stirred his coffee.
“Things are slowing down so much I’m thinking about having to move into a smaller studio. You’ve been a good assistant, the best I’ve ever had in fact, but because December and January are months when companies are pushing for sales not advertising, there’s nothing I can do. I need today to be your last day. I can always call you if stuff comes up in the future.”
My next paycheck will cover about half my rent. I only have about a hundred bucks in the bank. I’ll have to start job-hunting tomorrow? Crap!
“No, I understand,” I said.
No I don’t understand. Why don’t you move into a smaller studio? Why didn’t you tell me two weeks ago so I could have been looking for work?
When our food came we both ate quietly and then returned to the studio. The rest of the day was awkward, but I wanted to get in the last few hours I could so I hung around an hour later than I normally would have. He didn’t say anything about it. Then we said our good byes, and I went home.
I called Jo on the way home and told her what was going on. She was sympathetic and wanted to see me–to be there for me, but she was in the final throws of some huge paper. So, I went back to my empty apartment, climbed between my cold sheets (it wasn’t even 8 yet) and thought about all the things I needed to do to find work.
The next day I checked my mail and found an envelope from my mother. Inside was a photograph of her and Peter smiling, next to a Christmas tree, with the words “Merry Christmas” scrawled in wispy curves across the bottom. I tore it in half and threw Peter in the trash. Then I hung my mother’s smiling face on my refrigerator door. I was missing her. She still didn’t know about my desire to marry Jo, and she was the first person I normally would have gone to with something this huge. Of course, I was the first person who normally would have been at her wedding, but things were different now.
Over the next few weeks I set out updating my portfolio, cleaning up my resume and making some calls. I applied for work at the Tattered Cover, but they were full for the season. I called stores and restaurants. No one needed help. I applied at three different movie theaters but they were full. Everybody had already done their hiring for Christmas. If Mike had just given me a little heads up, I probably could have found something seasonal to at least hold me over until after New Year’s.
I still needed another $300 for rent even after my meager bank account and my last check from Mike. I thought about going to my mother, but I didn’t want to go to her like this, with my hat in my hand, not after months of not speaking to each other. I got even angrier as I thought about this whole situation. I knew a lot of people didn’t get along with their parents, but that wasn’t us. Mom had always been my best friend–the one I talked to about everything. The one whose door I could knock on at all hours of the night and chat with about anything.
I tried hard not to, but after pushing my December rent a week past due, I pulled the laptop box out from under my bed, opened it and counted off $300.
As Christmas drew closer, I dipped into the engagement ring savings again to spend a little on a gift for Jo. Then I dipped in a little more for groceries. Little by little I watched as the savings slowly dwindled, down to my last twenty bucks. I had never kept much food in the apartment, but I ate everything I could find, trying not to spend that last twenty.
Of course Jo knew things were tight, but I tried not to let her know how tight.
Another month had passed and January’s rent was due in less than a week.
I can’t keep on like this. I have to find some work, somewhere.
I had been thinking for days what last minute strings I might be able to pull to pay my rent, and there were only two options that I could see. Go talk to mom or pawn my Cougar.
The next day I got out of the shower and saw that I had missed a call from Mike. I called him back immediately hoping that he might have some work for me in January.
“Hey Mike, it’s Alex. I saw that you called. Sorry I couldn’t get to the phone in time.”
“Hey Alex. How is the job hunt going?”
“Not real well actually. It seems like everyone is booked up, but I’ll be calling a few more people after the New Year.”
“Well, I just wanted you to know that I was up in Boulder doing a feature piece for the Daily Camera, and I heard the photo editor mention that he was looking for someone so I gave him your name. I can’t guarantee anything, but I told him that you were the best assistant that I had ever had and he’d be crazy not to at least look at your book.”
“Oh, god Mike. Thank you so much.”
“He wants you to call him. His name is Dan Parken and his number is 303-555-1247. He’ll still be in the office. I’d call him right now if I were you.”
“Mike. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. I owe you lunch some time.”
“You don’t owe me shit. Just make the call.”
“I’ll call him right now. Thanks again.”
The moment I hung up the phone I dialed the number. Dan’s voice mail picked up.
“This is Dan Parken. I’m out of the office until the 2nd. Please leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. If this is urgent you can call the General Editor at 4569.”
I left my details and made a note to call back on the 2nd.
Then New Year’s Eve came.
“We’re all going out to dinner tomorrow night and my parents want you to come,” Jo said one morning while she stood on her tip toes, trying to find some tea bags in my empty cupboards.
“Uh, I’m not sure I can make it this year.”
In the haze of everything that was going on, I had forgotten about the New Year’s dinner that her parents liked to have every year. Some big expensive meal at some once-a-year restaurant in the city.
“Really? Why not? You should really buy groceries more often.”
I’m broke!
“I’m not really feeling all that hot.”
“Are you sick?”
“Nah, I think I might just want to have a night in.”
“But it’s New Year’s dinner. They’ll be offended if you don’t come.”
I rolled it over in my mind as I snuck off to the bathroom.
Twenty bucks. I have twenty buck left to my name. Twenty bucks that’s supposed to be for an engagement ring. I splashed some warm water in my face and wiped it with a towel. Maybe I can go and order something small. Yes, that’s what I’ll do–something small.
I came back out.
She looked at me while she tied up the laces on her tennies.
“Are you okay? Is everything okay? You’ve been really distant lately. If it’s about the money, it’s okay. We can both skip it. I just want to be wherever you are.”
“No, no. I’m alright. Just tell your parents I’ll be there.”
“Really? Great.” Then she stood up and hugged me.
We spent the rest of the afternoon flipping through magazines at the Denver Public Library, on the second floor, where we could look down over the railing and watch all the people coming and going.
The next night I drove to her house and got out of the Cougar. She came running down the sidewalk, in her bare feet, to meet me. Then she jumped into my arms.
“Guess who I just got off the phone with?”
“Who?”
“Marta Stephens, the curator at the Denver Art Museum.”
“What?”
“Apparently she is friends with Margaret Alpert, who showed her the photos she bought, and now Marta wants to hang some of my work!”
“Are you kidding? That’s amazing. I am so proud of you.”
“It’s for an artists-to-watch-this-year show that they do every January, and she said that she c
ouldn’t guarantee anything, but the museum HAS been known to buy one or two of the pieces from the show, not to mention the publishers and collectors that will be there. And, the show gets mentioned in a national art museum journal.”
“Jo that’s wonderful.”
I hugged her again and we went inside. I hated the fact that I was feeling more than a little jealous.
Susan’s fiancé joined us, and we all went down to the restaurant.
I had never heard of Rodizio’s before, but I was ready to eat. As I walked up to the door I saw the sign: Buffet Only Night. $18.95 per person.
$18.95? SHIT! I squeezed the rolled up twenty in my pocket.
As we walked in, the maitre d’ stopped me.
I had worn nice slacks, a dress shirt and a tie, but thanks to my time in the gym, my only suit jacket didn’t fit quite right any more, so I had left it at home.
“Excuse me sir, a jacket is required.”
I stopped and looked around. Every other man in the restaurant, including Jo’s father and Susan’s fiancé were all wearing dinner jackets.
“We do have something that the gentleman can borrow if he has nothing else.”
“That’s fine,” I said under my breath. I took the coat, put it on and we took our seat.
Wearing the blazer was like wearing the dunce cap of the evening, and I was already feeling out of place.
I ordered a water while everyone else ordered their drinks, then the Brazilian waiter explained to us how the waiters would bring around selections of meat, and whenever we wanted anything all we had to do was turn the tiny wooden totem sitting on the table from red to green. When we were full we just turned it back to red.
We each took a plate and made our way to the salad bar. There were quail eggs and boiled eggs, mozzarella balls with ripe tomatoes and pasta salad with ham, fruit salads, potato salads, green salads and blue salads (pretty sure the blue salad was jell-o). Then I found the hot plates.
I stacked my dish with mashed potatoes and rice and macaroni with creamy-cheese. I hadn’t eaten much for the last two days, and there was so much to take in that I started feeling light headed. This looked like it was going to be the best $18.95 I had ever spent.
After we all sat down Jo’s father rose to make a toast.
“As we go into this new millennium I just want to say how lucky I am. I have been married for 24 years to the most beautiful woman God ever put on this planet, my family is healthy, my oldest daughter, Susan, is about to marry an extraordinary young man and my youngest will, in less than three weeks, have her work on display in the preeminent art gallery in the state of Colorado. God is good.”
I smiled, lifted my water glass and took a drink hoping nobody else noticed that Jo’s father mentioned every person at the table but me.
I reached for one of the cheesy dough balls sitting in a platter in the middle of the table and tossed it into my mouth then the meat started to arrive.
The waiter was dressed in a green and yellow, Brazilian outfit and carried a giant metal skewer full of dripping sirloin steaks.
“Picanha?”
“Yes please.” Then I watched him slice off two pieces of seasoned meat and lay then on my plate. Next was the beef con alho then the fraldinha. I didn’t understand what all the names meant, but I could practically sample what each one tasted like from the amazing aroma each one brought with it to the table.
If I were a wise man I would have paced myself, but there was no wisdom found in me after two days of stale Cheerios and Ramen noodles.
“So Alex, how is studio work coming?” Jo’s father asked as I prepared for the second go-round of meats.
“Unfortunately, it’s not any more. Mike had to let me go because of how much business slows down over Christmas,” I said, uncomfortable with having to lay it out for everyone to see like that.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Jo said things were going well.”
“They were. I was practically the studio manager when I left.”
“So, what’s next for you?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve been sending work off to some magazines and newspapers around the country, but I haven’t heard anything back yet. The lead-time on that sort of thing can take six months sometimes.”
“Six months? Wow. And you have the means to hold out till then.”
I looked at him with a cheek full of something spicy.
Oh come on. Really?
“I’ll be alright.”
He nodded and took a drink of his soda.
“Have you given any further thought to school?”
“Daddy?” Jo said in mild protest.
“No, it’s okay,” I replied taking her hand.
“I don’t mean any offence; I’m just asking if you have any plans toward something more…stable, that’s all.”
“I do have a pretty solid lead at a newspaper that I am following up on Monday.”
“Uh huh,” he replied turning to the waiter who held another skewer, this one with roasted pineapples.
“I really appreciate the evening, but I should really get going,” I said dropping my twenty on the table.
“Alex wait,” Jo said following me out.
“Uh, sir?”
I left the restaurant and began walking down the sidewalk.
“Alex, please wait,” she said grabbing my arm. “Daddy didn’t mean anything by that.”
I turned and saw the maitre d’ hurrying to catch up.
“Excuse me sir, I just need…”
The jacket.
I took the jacket off, handed it to him and he went back to the restaurant.
“Jo, I shouldn’t have come tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because this isn’t my world Jo! I don’t belong in there any more than you belong with me. Let’s face it. I’m not going anywhere. You’re the one with the great family. You’re the one going to the great university on the scholarship about to show her work at the Denver Art Museum, and what am I doing? NOTHING Joe. I can’t even get a stupid magazine to call me back.”
“So you’re upset that I’m going to college? You’re upset that I’m showing some work at the museum?”
“God Jo! NO, that’s not it.”
“Then tell me what it is, because I don’t understand what the HELL is going on.”
“You want to know what is going on? That little dinner in there cost me my last twenty bucks Jo. My rent is due tomorrow, and I have no way to pay it except pawn my car, and to top it all off, the only person I would normally talk to about it is shacked up with some ASSHOLE!”
Jo put her hand over her mouth and started crying. “Let me help you,” she said reaching out for me, but I pulled away.
Twenty-Five
I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I shouldn’t have left her standing there on the side of the road with tears streaming down her cheeks, but I needed to sort this one out on my own.
When I got home my phone chirped.
“I love you. Call me,” the text message read.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I just need some time,” I messaged back. Then I turned the phone off.
I sat on the couch trying to calm down, but all I could do was look at her over-night bag sitting next to the dresser and the laptop box sitting on the dresser that I knew was empty.
Sunday was crappy.
Monday morning at 8:30 I sat watching the clock. At 9 I picked up the phone and dialed the number Mike had given me.
“This is Dan.”
“Hey Dan, this is Alex Douglas, Michael Baxter’s assistant. Ex-assistant.”
“How are you?”
“I’m good. I spoke to Mike last week, and he said I should give you a ring. Something about you needing a photographer.”
“Mike says you’re a hard worker.”
“I am.”
“What do you know about photojournalism?”
“Well, I’ve shot a few events, and I worked for the Mile High Guide as a stringer for a cou
ple of months.”
“That must have been a shit job.”
“Uh, I think no comment is the journalism term I’m looking for.”
“Hah, okay. Can you bring something in for me to see this afternoon?”
“Absolutely.”
“Tell the receptionist that you’re here to see Dan and she’ll ring me.”
“What time?”
“How’s 3?”
“That’s great. I’ll see you then.”
Click.
Wow, short and sweet.
I jumped in the air as high as I could. Then I turned my phone on and texted Jo.
“I’ve got an interview,” I typed.
“Good luck. I love you,” she texted back.
I made sure my book was clean and together. I paper clipped a copy of my resume to the inside cover, washed up and got in my car. The fuel gauge was just under a quarter of a tank. I wasn’t sure if I even had enough gas to get to Boulder, but I sure as hell was going to try.
I pulled up to the address I had found online, tightened my tie and walked up to the front doors of the building with the big white letters reading: The Daily Camera.
“May I help you?” a young brunette asked me from behind a large desk.
“I’m here to see Dan Parken.”
She lifted the phone and dialed a number.
“There’s a gentleman here to see you.” Then she hung up. “He’ll be right down. Please take a seat.”
I was too nervous to sit, so I looked around the lobby at framed photographs of significant news events spanning the last hundred years. There was also a copper print-plate with the headline: America Declares War, from December 8, 1941.
“Alex.”
I turned and saw a short man with thinning grey hair holding his hand out to me.
“Yes,” I said shaking it.
“Why don’t you follow me.”
He swiped an electronic key-card releasing a security gate, and we walked two flights of stairs up to the newsroom. We passed stacks of today’s newspapers from publications all over Colorado as we walked through a grid of cubicles filled with focused faces lit by computer monitors.
If I Lose Her Page 16