Much more ridiculous? How could anyone be real when she’s being stalked by a camera? I can’t even be natural taking a passport photo. “So how do you pick the girls who are on the show?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “You would not believe the process. Applicants had to fill out forms and send in sample tapes, then we did a round of interviews, then we finally chose four girls.” Carrie looks over at my father to make sure he’s listening, but realizes that he’s busy watching the waitresses in their garden outfits. I can tell she’s contemplating what she can say to break him out of his two-timing reverie. Doesn’t she know it’s never going to happen? “Why four?” I ask.
She seems to be searching her stock answers for an appropriate response. “Women are normally friends in groups of four.”
I laugh. “And has that happened since Sex and the City became a huge success?” I don’t have HBO, but both Millie and Dana do and they’ve made me watch enough episodes. Not my life (the Mr. Bigs, the Cosmopolitans, the Manolo Blahnik obsession), but I still laughed. Is that show even on anymore? I take another sip of my martini.
She searches for a stock answer for that, too, but appears to come up blank. She nods. “I suppose so. I need another drink,” she says, motioning to the waiter.
Two martinis later, there’s a commotion behind me.
Carrie strains her neck to see what’s going on. “Yikes, something is going down over there.” She points multiple fingers over my head. I turn to take a look.
A blond woman in a tweed Newsboy cap is standing in front of her chair, clutching her neck. A flushed man beside her is frantically trying to convince her to drink a glass of water. “Take it! Karen? Kar? Are you choking?”
I doubt the bluish tint to her face means no. She’s fine, thank you very much, and why don’t you sit down and finish your black beans and shrimp?
Apparently, Carrie was right. The dish is to die for.
Is it too late to change my order?
Silence creeps through Eden’s like frost. Karen, the choking woman, motions to her neck and throws the water on the floor. The glass splinters around her.
The man spears his eyes around the restaurant. “I need a doctor!” he yells. Our waiter howls. The hostess starts to cry.
No one stands up.
“Oh my. Oh my,” Carrie says. “She’s choking. She’s choking.” She giggles and her hands respond by waving. “Oh my. What do we do? Adam? What do we do?”
Karen heaves silently, without emitting a single sound. Is she going to pass out? Is she going to die? Are we about to witness a woman die over a plate of shrimp?
Way back when, in the days before Hotmail, DVDs and Britney Spears, to get my lifeguard certification I had to practice doing a stomach thrust. Unfortunately I’ve never actually performed this activity on anything except a mannequin.
There must be a doctor somewhere in this restaurant. I look for someone exploding into action with a stethoscope around his neck, or a prescription pad in hand. Someone must be more qualified than a has-been summer-camp lifeguard. I don’t even think my certification is still valid. I’m barely qualified to throw her a lifejacket.
I coached children on the front crawl. I blew a whistle during free swim. Once every summer we’d pretend a kid had lost his buddy and we’d hold hands, sweep the water. Since we knew the kid was hiding in the flutter-board shed reading an Archie comic, that’s not saying much for my emergency skills.
The woman is the same color as the curaçao in her martini glass. “Can’t anyone help?” the man begs.
Shit.
My head feels light and I wish I hadn’t had that second cocktail, but I jump to my feet and sprint toward the air-challenged woman. “I’m going to do the Heimlich on you, okay?” Are you supposed to ask permission? Or does that scare them? Too late.
I stand behind her, make a fist with my right hand and place it, thumb toward the woman, between her rib cage and waist. Her stomach feels squishy and hot. I put my other hand on top of the fist. Okay. So far, so good. I’m already congratulating myself and I haven’t done anything yet. All right, it’s outward and inward. No, inward and upward. That’s it. I thrust my hand inward and upward. Nothing. Inward and upward. Again. Inward and upward. Fuck. How many times am I supposed to do this? She can’t die while I’m touching her, can she? There should be some kind of rule—someone can’t die in a stranger’s arms.
A chunk of shrimp soars out of the woman’s mouth, landing in her glass and splashing blue liquid onto the white tablecloth. She coughs. She breathes. She turns around. She throws up.
The restaurant claps.
“Are you okay, Kar?” her husband/date/male friend asks her.
She inhales again and nods. I hand her the cloth napkin that was on the floor. I assume it’s hers.
Dazed, she sits down and says, “Thank you.”
You’re welcome! Everyone is looking at me, pointing. Wow. I can’t believe I just did that. Pretty impressive. I’d love to see what that looked like. Any chance anyone got that on videotape? “How do you feel?” I ask.
“Light-headed,” she says, “but all right.” A waiter hands her a glass of water and she downs it.
People are still clapping. I look at my table in the corner—Carrie is honoring me with a standing ovation, her hands gesturing all over the place. My father has his glass raised to me in a toast. A toast. My father is toasting me!
I do one of those shy I-do-what-I-can smiles. I might be a superhero. I saved a person’s life. Aren’t there customs where she’s supposed to become my slave?
The maitre d’comes over and thanks me. Maxwell the chef tells me I’m a star. Karen and her husband start to cry and tell me they can’t thank me enough. Karen then hands me her business card and a hundred-dollar bill. I decline the bill but take the business card. Why not? It says Karen Dansk, VP Programming, Women’s Network. Who knows? Maybe I can get Dana a job as a Manhattan reporter.
Ten minutes and thousands of accolades later I head back to my table. My father motions to his mouth and then to his chest.
“What?” I ask. He’s so proud he’s speechless? I’ve touched his heart? I’ve rekindled his hope in the human spirit?
“Wipe your sweater,” he says.
I look down. Dana’s three-hundred-dollar cashmere dress is covered in shrimp and black bean remnants.
I wonder if I can ask Maxwell to make me the ostrich instead.
4
Six Feet Under
Sixth Avenue. Uh-oh. Wrong way. It’s three fifty-four. I have six minutes to find the right office. Time to sprint. Ow. Feet hurt. Can’t look sweaty. Click, click, click. Need this job. Not that I expected to get a job right away, but how many Mondays can I get away with calling in sick?
I have spent the last fifteen minutes being dragged by the commuter undertow, not having a clue that I was going the wrong way.
Sometimes I’m so off, yet sometimes I’m so on.
I still can’t believe I saved a woman’s life the other night. My lifeguard skills certainly came in handy.
I fell in love with the water when I was six, the summer my mother died. Whenever I felt lost and alone at camp, I would take solace in being immersed in the water.
I loved listening to the ping of the bubbles, flowing around me.
When I couldn’t stand the sadness, when I felt utterly overwhelmed, I would sink to the sandy bottom, feet of water above me and open my mouth and scream. I would scream and scream and scream, until I felt empty and calm.
I’m going to need to find a place to swim in this city.
I keep walking. Next to the soaring buildings I’m a speck of dust on a crowded Monopoly board. One of these buildings is my dad’s. I know his office is near Grand Central (not that he’d ever go slumming in the subway). With each step the corrosion of the soles of my brown Mary Janes intensifies. These pumps are made for walking, as the song kind of goes, except walking ONLY to and from boardrooms, in and out of elevators, not journeying
along miles of jagged concrete. My feet have swollen to bee-sting proportions and each step pinches. Where are my sneakers when I need them?
Finally, at exactly five past four I arrive on the sixth floor of Soda Star.
“Hi, Heidi,” I say to the receptionist, feeling remarkably clever for remembering her name. “I’m here to see Ronald Newman.”
“You’re late.” A balding man wearing a lime-green golf shirt, beige shorts and golf shoes stomps across the waiting room.
How come he gets to wear sneakers and I don’t?
“Excuse me?” I say.
“I’m Ronald.” He sticks out a pudgy hand. “Sunny, right? Listen, Sunny,” he says before I finish nodding. “I have to get to a golf game. I’m running a little late, so let’s walk and talk?”
I nod and follow him back into the elevator. Fabulous. More walking.
“I’m hungry,” he says. “And you could probably use some coffee. Let’s do this down the road at my favorite diner. The cafeteria in this building is appalling.”
Fabulous. More coffee. I’ve already had two cups trying to wake up for my 9:00 a.m. interview. My 9:00 a.m. useless interview that began with my pal Jen at Fruitsy telling me, “It’s unfortunate we have no positions open. Your stuff is very impressive. Let me see it again.”
I can’t believe she duped me into waking up at seven—at seven—just so she could drool all over my portfolio. She knew she wasn’t hiring, but vulturelike, wanted to see what ideas and clients she could embezzle from me.
Then I had another two cups trying to stay conscious all day after waking up so early.
I hope there’s a bathroom at this diner.
Ten minutes later we’re in a seedy diner down the street, and I’m wondering exactly what his idea of appalling is. “They make the best sweet potato fries,” he promised as I sat on something sticky in a booth near the back.
My feet feel like they’ve been driven over by a bus. How unprofessional would it be if I took off my shoes? I accidentally on purpose drop my spoon and lean down. I can’t take them off, obviously, but what harm could there be if I unbutton the strap the tiniest bit?
Yes. Oh, yes. Much better.
“So if you worked for me, that’s what you’d learn,” Ronald says and takes another bite of his cheeseburger. After thirty-five minutes of lengthy descriptions of his swot analysis, his hatred of bottled water and his theories of advertising, all of which I couldn’t care less about, I congratulate myself on my skilled ability to stare someone in the eye, appear as though I’m hanging on his every word, while ignoring him completely. It’s all about the nod. “Between digital TV and integrated marketing services—we’re about to experience the modernization of the marketing of the soda industry as we know it—” Nod, nod. Between nods, I treat myself to sips of my coffee, while still maintaining eye contact.
I wonder if he conducts an interview a day just to hear himself talk.
“I can tell you’re highly intelligent,” he tells me.
And he can tell this by my continual nodding? He’s good.
“Thank you, Ronald. I think you’re very intelligent, too, and I am quite confident I would learn an immeasurable amount from you.”
He nods. Not quite my nod, but not bad, I grudgingly admit. “That you could.” His gaze drifts to the ceiling. Probably thanking the heavens for his virtuosity. “When we did the launch for our mandarin-and-vanilla-flavored caffeine-free soda…”
I have to use the bathroom.
Now.
“…you should have seen their faces when we won the ADDY award for the…”
Can I interrupt him to use the bathroom? People don’t like being interrupted. I have to wait for a natural pause in the conversation.
How is he not taking a breath? How has he not toppled over for lack of oxygen?
When he takes another bite of his burger, I make a jump for it. “Excuse me, I have to use the rest room. I’ll be right back.” I slide away from the table while he’s still chewing.
Ronald is staring at me strangely. Once I’m standing, I realize that a) the stall is only a foot away from the table, and b) he is staring at my unstrapped Mary Janes. Can’t do anything about the shoes, so I just smile as if nothing’s wrong.
If I ever design a restaurant, I’m putting the bathrooms all the way in the back.
The door handle rattles in my hand.
“I’m in here!” Someone screams from the other side.
Now what? Do I sit back down? Can I just stand here ignoring him? What’s she doing in there? Washing her hair? Why do women take so long in the bathroom? Don’t they consider that other people need to use it? She has rudely barricaded herself in there for over five minutes. I slink back into our booth and cross my legs. No more coffee.
Ronald is perusing my resume with one of his short stocky fingers. “What are your salary requirements?”
I hate that question. Do I say more than I want so he can offer me less, or less than I want to undercut the competition? “What range are you offering?”
“Forty to fifty.” Fifty’s not bad. I’ll take fifty. “Depending on experience.”
“I’m looking for fifty. I have the experience.”
“You don’t have Manhattan experience, but I think you’ll work out fine. Forty-five.” He smiles, showcasing gold fillings. “When can you start?”
Is that a job offer? Or a casual question? I take another sip of coffee to try to appear calm and normal and not as though his every word has the power to alter the course of my life. “I…um…I’d have to give two weeks notice. And then I’d like a week to move and organize myself. So if I give notice immediately I could start in three weeks.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you in three weeks.”
That was an offer. I just got an offer. I squeeze the metal rim of the ketchup-stained table in excitement. “Really?”
“Really. I’ll have all the paperwork drawn up and at your office by Wednesday morning.”
“Thank you,” I say, overwhelmed with gratitude. Ronald pays the bill, shakes my hand and then makes a run for his golf game. “We’ll be in touch,” he says, and disappears outside.
The bathroom door flies open and the toilet hog sashays through the restaurant. I notice that a woman in a beige suit is slowly rising from her seat, eyeing the open door, about to make a run for it.
I hurl myself to the empty stall before the suit-clad woman beats me to it. Since I’m far closer, I get there first and lock the door behind me. In my hurry, I almost trip on my de-strapped shoes, but in midfall I catch myself on the sink.
I might be a direct offspring of the goddess of agility.
Two minutes later, while still cramped in the stall, I decide that I’m going to surprise Steve and drop by Manna to say goodbye. I still have some time before I have to catch my flight. I undo the bun in my hair—wet and scrunch it because Steve likes it down and sexy, and then rummage in my purse for my lipstick to smooth out my lips.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door.
“I’m in here!” I scream while doing up my shoes.
Funny, there’s never a rush when you’re on the inside, is there?
“I did it,” I tell Steve.
“That was quick. It’s only nine-ten.” His morning voice is raspy and sexy and I wish I were lying next to him instead of back in my office with the door closed.
“I wanted to give Liza the full two weeks notice.”
“How’d she take it?”
“She was pissed. Told me I screwed her or something. But she would have said that no matter how much notice I gave. I want some time off to move. I don’t want my last day here to be a Tuesday, the trucks come Tuesday night, and I start at Soda Star 9:00 a.m. Wednesday.” I kick my feet up on the desk and swivel in my chair, executive style. I love my chair. I hope Soda Star has good chairs. Really, a proper, comfortable turbo chair makes all the difference in one’s performance.
“Congrats on your unemployment. I still can
’t believe you got a job on your first try. Have you heard anything more from Ronald McDonald?”
After Ronald Newman’s cheeseburger appreciation, Steve has named my future boss after his favorite so-not-kosher hamburger joint. “Not yet. He said tomorrow, I think. Okay, gotta go. I have to give my thirty days notice at my apartment.” I estimate the discussion with Jocelyn, the superintendent, will take at least a half hour. She’s a talker.
By later Tuesday morning I’ve given Jocelyn notice (“New York! How exciting! Good for you! Can we show your place tonight? The rental market is fantastic these days. Do you know—”), e-mailed all my friends and acquaintances about the furniture I’m trying to sell, with digital pictures included, and placed an ad for my car in the weekend classifieds.
I am a goddess of efficiency.
“But you didn’t hear from Ronald McDonald?” Steve asks me on the phone that night as I turn my lights out, crawl into bed, and recount my excellent organizational skills, the portable phone balanced on my shoulder.
“I’m sure he’ll send me something tomorrow.”
By Wednesday at five-thirty, I’m starting to get a wee bit edgy. After biting my nails until my fingers are raw and red, something I haven’t done since I was twelve, I call Soda Star.
“Thank you for calling Soda Star. Our office hours are nine to five, Monday through Friday. If you know your party’s extension, please dial now. Otherwise, press one to leave a message for marketing, two for operations, three for sales…”
Ten minutes later: “If you do not know the department you wish to speak to, please dial the first four letters of the person’s last name you wish to reach. Have a nice day.”
“N” is six. “E” is three. “W” is…where’s “W”?
“I’m sorry, you lazy moron, you’ve run out of time.” The phone disconnects.
Bitch. I hang up and plan my attack. First, I write the numbers on a Post-it note, and then I redial.
“Thank you for calling Soda Star. Our office hours are nine to five, Monday through—”
As Seen on TV Page 6