A Love Ballad: A Fictional Memoir (Song for You Book 3)

by Megan Rivers

  As a full week went by I received email after email from Marie with job openings throughout the city. Some, she said, weren't publicly posted yet, which gave me a head start. I sat on Meadow's couch, my laptop permanently in my lap, as I emailed resumes and cover letters. I kept a schedule on a sheet of notebook paper and called to follow up on my submissions.

  Fifteen days after I talked with Marie I had three job interviews at galleries and one at the Metropolitan Museum of Art for an internship. Marie later told me that an old college colleague of hers was an administrator at the MET and found my resume in the growing pile of other applications and put in a good word for me. I owe that woman everything.

  “Christie! THE MET! That's a big deal!” Meadow said, shocked. She just returned home from her afternoon class and plopped down at the couch, excitement accentuated her features. “Congratulations. When's the interview?” She put down a plastic shopping bag with Ramen noodles on the floor and put all of her attention on me.

  “Tuesday,” I said, biting my lip and tapping the pen I was holding on my notebook. Working at the MET would be a dream come true for anyone in my shoes.

  “I know that look,” Meadow started. “What is it?”

  It had been on my mind since I was called for the interview. “Well, it's not a job. It's an internship; I won't get paid. The other jobs have salaries.”

  Meadow thought about her answer before speaking. She tossed her head from side-to-side as if testing out her answer before saying it. “You know you can stay here, with me, as long as you need to. The MET is huge. It will definitely open doors for you.”

  “I know, but I've already been a huge inconvenience to you. I can't freeload any more than I already have.” Meadow looked at me like I was crazy. “Okay, I could freeload some more, but I can't. I need to start owning my own.”

  Meadows eyes suddenly lit up, gasped, and said “Wait!” then dug in her book bag. She handed me a piece of paper. “I saw this on the message board today. NYU is looking for night staff-custodians. You could do that at night and do the internship during the day.”

  “IF I get the internship,” I reminded her, weighing this plan.

  She rolled her eyes. “You always get stuck on the ifs. You'll get it, I know you will. Now, how about some Ramen for dinner?”

  The following Tuesday was the seventh of March. I made myself look professionally irresistible: I actually showered, curled my hair, borrowed one of Meadow's nicest, most authoritative suits, put on a pair of shoes that made me feel important because they made an impressive clack-clack sound when I walked down an echoing hallway, and I carried a black leather case with my portfolio, copies of my resume, and letters of recommendation.

  The entire day prior was spent practicing my answers to interview questions. I was ready for anything; I wanted this opportunity so bad I could taste it. My mask of confidence was shakable.

  The interview went as smoothly as I could have hoped for. Even afterwards, playing the entire conversation over in my head on the train, I wouldn't have changed a thing.

  Of course I went to the other interviews as back-up plans. Then I anxiously waited by the phone. When I didn't hear anything the next day I started worrying that I was too confident, that maybe I shouldn't have asked them questions. Did they get my thank you card? Should I have sent a thank you card? Did my manners ruin everything?

  The second day the phone rang twice. My heart beat faster as I ran to it with anticipation. Nope, just Kevin. I checked my email religiously. I stared at the MET's website, reading and rereading the pages. The phone rang again in the afternoon. It was the Neue Galerie of New York wanting to schedule an interview. Yeah, sure, whatever. I need to keep this line free.

  The third day I convinced myself that I didn't get it and had to move on. I had an interview that afternoon and was getting ready to leave the house when the phone rang.

  “I'm sorry, say that again,” I said gripping the arm of the couch. Perhaps I was too preoccupied to leave the house on time that I misheard that wonderful woman's voice on the other side of the line.

  “We would like to offer you the internship in the Roman Art department at the MET,” the woman repeated.

  My heart skipped a beat. “Are you sure?” I literally pinched the skin on my wrist to make sure this wasn’t a dream.

  “We are sure... are you?” she asked with a hint of amusement in her voice.

  “Yes! Of course! Thank you for this opportunity!” Geez, Christie, be cool!

  “Are you still able to start on Monday? We will send you more details along with the proper documents for you to fill out to your email address.”

  “Yes. Definitely.” I had to control myself! I didn't want to lose this opportunity before it even began. “I will look forward to your email. Thank you.” I hung up the phone and danced in elation.

  Oh my God! I had a job! Okay, an internship, but still... I was going to go to the MET every day for work. Me! Working at the MET! I smiled back at the walls in the apartment ready to burst with excitement.

  IV.

  Pleased to Meat You

  “They Can't Take That Away From Me” – Ella Fitzgerald

  My first day of work was mainly a tour, orientation, and paperwork with two other interns: Kate and Brad. Kate was about to graduate from the New York Academy of Art in a few months and Brad was working on his Ph.D thesis—how in the world did I get grouped with these talented people?

  As an intern, I basically worked behind the scenes doing anything but my major: paper work, errands, filing, copying, running from department to department for signatures and approvals and sometimes making phone calls. For six months I did this from eight to four each day, then I'd rush home and sleep until midnight to work one to six in the morning as a custodian at NYU. It was worth it, though. I was busy, I had a purpose again. I had money again. I was independent again.

  After my internship was over I applied to the Educator position in the Contemporary Art department. I basically gave tours to school groups on field trips and V.I.P.s while also planning education lessons to take into schools and other organizations. It was fun, but education wasn't where my heart was; I eagerly watched and applied for open positions.

  Four long, arduous, hard-working years later, long after Meadow graduated and moved to L.A. (leaving the lease to me), there was a junior curator position opening up in the Roman Art department—if I got it, I'd be going back to where I started at the MET. I didn't have a Master's degree, so it was a long shot, but I really wanted it!

  For weeks I worked late, gathered references, studied up on our collections, and prepared for the interview. I had applied and interviewed for other positions in the past four years, but I really really wanted this promotion. Though I loved surrealist artwork, I developed a passion for the art history in the Roman Arts during my internship.

  Brad—excuse me—Doctor Bradley Cooper, my once-upon-a-time fellow intern was promoted to junior curator shortly after he defended his thesis. Now he was on the hiring team to find his replacement as he moved onto Corporate Curator. I was a little nervous because he was a straight-laced, no nonsense, bow tie wearing, fact checker who spoke three languages.

  Kate helped me every day with mock interviews, preparing paper work, study guides, presentation booklets, forming follow up questions, and researching the Roman Art department. I was as prepared as much as I could be and after a little over an hour, I emerged from the conference room extremely grateful for extra strength anti-perspirant.

  “Come,” Kate said, when she saw me walk back into our department. “Let's go get lunch and refresh. You can tell me all about it!”

  It was mid-October, though it didn't feel like it. Summer was being stubborn and, honestly, we all didn't mind. The breeze that met us on the steps evaporated the leftover worries that drenched my temples. “I know the perfect place. It's just up the street. It's called The Meat Up,” she said, leading me down the steps littered with tourists.

  The Me
at Up was a deli where a customer could get a variety of meat sandwiches, handmade and hand cut, at a reasonable price. Kate was raving about the place the whole way there.

  It didn't look like much from the outside: large windows that reflected our surroundings and a simple hand painted sign with the store's name on it. The door bore the name on its glass. It looked like any other deli, really, with a glass case of meats to choose from and chalk board menus hanging on the walls. When we walked in, the scent of meats and fresh baked bread whooshed up to greet us as the bell above the green painted door tinkled. There were enough customers inside to know that this deli was well-known among the locals and a favored place to eat.

  Kate and I stood in line waiting to place an order. It was noisy during the peak lunch hour, but Kate pointed out the different sandwich meats she already had tried and was critiquing them, so I would walk away with the best decision wrapped in wax paper and placed in a paper bag. “I can't decide between the meatball or the pastrami. Did you decide?” I asked Kate, glancing back and forth between each meat, my stomach rumbling.

  “The Italian Deluxe,” Kate told the man behind the counter, “with provolone cheese, please.”

  “Anything else?” the man asked.

  “Her order too,” Kate said, throwing a thumb in my direction and stepping aside so I could order.

  I glanced between both meats, biting my bottom lip, indecisive and worried about holding up the line. “I don't know. Which is better, the meatball or—” I looked up from the logs of meat and into those eyes.

  It was one of those moments you only see in movies that you roll your eyes at because things like that just don't happen in real life. But you know what? Sometimes you meet someone who simply takes your breath away. Sometimes it's after you witness them do something spectacular or out of character. Sometimes it's after a story they tell you. Sometimes it's seeing them walk away from someone or something and all you can do is watch them in awe, barely keeping your mouth from hitting the ground. For me, this was one of those moments. He wasn't stunningly gorgeous or hideously ugly, but there was something about him that caught my words and stole my breath in that moment.

  Despite the line behind me, the other workers in white aprons shouting out orders, and the extremely fast pace the rest of the world was taking, he stopped and smiled. Those eyes just lit up, transforming his whole face. Kate nudged me and I found my breath. “Definitely the meatball,” he said. “There's nothing here that compares with it.” His voice was deep and flirted with an accent.

  “All right,” I barely found the words and nodded my head.

  He leaned in and in a lower tone said, “It's my own recipe.” He winked and took the pencil out from behind his ear. “Mozzarella cheese?”

  I nodded, trying to keep my chin from dropping, and stepped aside.

  From that day on, I tried to eat there as often as I could, being the junior curator in the Roman Art department. About three weeks after my promotion, I worked through my lunch break and decided to stop by The Meat Up before taking three different trains home.

  When I walked in, the dinner rush was long gone and only a handful of people sat around eating their meals. I walked up to the counter, exhausted, wondering if I should have just skipped dinner and gone straight to bed.

  “Meatball with motz and red,” I said to the older man—who was known as Joe. He wore metal framed glasses that never stayed on the bridge of his nose and would slip them back up with the back of his hand.

  “You got it, hun,” he said. His thinning peppered hair was not neatly combed back as usual, probably a sign that it had been a busy day.

  I took my wax paper bundle to a table near the windows. Night fell over an hour ago, but the lights in the store lit up the sidewalk outside. Ah! It felt so good to sit after such a busy day. One bite and I was glad I chose food over sleep; it took everything in me not to moan as I chewed the first bite—honestly, it was that good.

  Busy devouring the sandwich, I almost didn't notice when he sat in the chair across from me. Every time I saw him, he was in jeans and a white t-shirt with a white (usually well-used) apron tied around his waist and today was no different. “I told you the meatball was the best,” he said draping the dishtowel in his hands over his leg.

  Caught off guard with a mouthful of food, I felt my face flush as I reached for a napkin. After a sip of soda, I fumbled a “Hi,” through my lips, embarrassed.

  “You're becoming a regular here, you know,” he said, leaning over his elbows which rested on the table.

  Wiping the marinara sauce off my hands with a napkin, I smiled. “Well, once you've had the meatball, you can't go back to any other sandwiches, as I'm sure you know.”

  He smiled and his eyes lit up. “So as our newly established regular, do we get to know your name or should we keep calling you 'Meatball Girl?'”

  I laughed. “While that does have a nice ring to it, you can call me Christie.” I extended my hand to him. “Christie Kelly.”

  “Antony Vanchello.” He said it as an Italian would, accenting certain syllables and exiting his mouth like notes to a classical song. “So, you don't have to keep referring to me as 'The Incredibly Adorable Meatball God.'”

  I blushed (was I really that transparent?) and tried to cover it with a laugh. “Good because it was getting exhausting,” I joked.

  His face lit up again. “I have to get back to work, but I look forward to greeting you by your name the next time you come in.” He stood up and pushed in his chair, then asked, “Unless you prefer 'Meatball Girl?'”

  I smiled, trying not to blush. “Christie works, thanks, 'Meatball God.'”

  “You forgot 'Incredible Adorable.'” He winked and walked away with a smile.

  During Thanksgiving that year, my new position didn't allow me to take an extended holiday to fly to Chicago for a turkey dinner. I was sitting around the apartment, half watching the parade, and yearning to get outside. Not long after, I bundled up and headed out the door, wandering aimlessly through the city.

  Near twilight I found myself outside The Meat Up. The sign on the front door announced they'd be closing in thirty minutes. It dawned on me that I could, after all, get my Thanksgiving turkey.

  Antony was behind the counter with a big smile. “Christie! Meatball as usual?” he asked, putting a slab of ham back in the display case.

  “Actually, I'm going to go for turkey today,” I said loosening the scarf from around my neck.

  “Look at you,” he exclaimed, jotting my order down. “A new look and a new sandwich.”

  Looking down, I realized I was in jeans and a jacket, not my usual dress clothes and peacoat for work. “It's a brave new world,” I replied, watching his arms as the moved the turkey back and forth on the meat slicer.

  “How's your Thanksgiving?” he asked, taking the slices of turkey to the prep counter.

  “It's okay.” I shrugged.

  “No plans with the family?” He began layering a variety of sides to the bread: stuffing, cranberries—and was that cream cheese?

  I shook my head. “They're in Chicago. I couldn't make it this year.” He placed the plate on the counter above the glass partition between us and looked up at me. “But I think I'm going to go ice skating in Bryant Park... and by skating I mean falling repeatedly.”

  He shifted his weight to his left leg. “It sounds like a good plan. Believe it or not, I've never been ice skating.”

  “Never?” I asked. I shouldn't talk as I've only been once—a victim of a Meadow adventure where we both clung to the rink wall, barely making a full lap, then decided beef sandwiches and milkshakes would be a better use of our time.

  “Nah,” he said, waving his hand like it wasn't a big deal. “But,” he added, as an after thought, “I've always wanted to.”

  “You should come with me!” It was out of my mouth before I realized what the words meant. What was I doing? It's Thanksgiving. He probably had plans and would let me down easy and then I'd never
show my face in here again. Good-bye Meatball Supreme!

  “Yeah?” He raised his eyebrows, studying me.

  Screw it, I thought and went for it. “Sure. It'll remind me of being with my sister if someone laughs when I hit the ice.”

  He laughed. His eyes lit up his face when he smiled. There was nothing like it. “Want me to wrap this for you?”

  Ten minutes later we were out the door as the chill in the air grew. I wrapped the crimson and cream scarf around my neck to keep warm.

  We started the trip in that awkward silence you're afraid to poke at, but the temptation outweighs the hesitation. “So,” I started. (Isn't that word the calling card for all awkward moments?) “No plans for Thanksgiving other than ice skating with a stranger?” I asked at we walked down the street.

  Antony's hands were buried deep in his pockets, but he didn't hunch his shoulders to battle the piercing breezes. His shoulders were relaxed as if he enjoyed how the cold air rustled through his dark hair. I didn't notice until then how long his hair was because he always kept it combed back, but now it started to fall out of place. We saw a cab for hire a few yards ahead and sprinted for it.

  After sliding into the back seat, Antony told the cabbie where to go then turned to me. “No, no plans for Thanksgiving, other than closing the deli. Thanks for getting me out of that one.” He nudged my shoulder playfully. “What about you? Your family being all the way in Chicago?”

  I sighed. “Yeah,” I watched as buildings shot by the window, “but I'll be there for Christmas, which isn't too far away.” I could already picture Meadow dancing to some poppy Christmas album while decorating the Christmas tree where we'd eat the popcorn rather than make garland out of it.