The Boys' Club

by Erica Katz

  Hey babe! Working late?

  “Should I invite Sam?” I asked Carmen.

  She frowned. “No boyfriends allowed!”

  Just finished! But got roped into work drinks. Kill me! See you soon!

  “You have a boyfriend?” Pink Shirt asked. I looked up from my phone and nodded, noting an almost imperceptible sideways glance between the three boys.

  They were rapidly losing interest. The problem with flirting to connect with men was that they assumed it meant I was available. But why did I even care? It wasn’t like they were clients.

  I took another, longer swig of my drink and slammed it down on the table.

  “So much for not drinking tonight!” Carmen threw an arm around my shoulder and leaned into me. I was already feeling the liquor, but I ordered another drink, and by the time I was halfway through my third, Carmen and I were leaning into one another, somehow remaining vertical. “You’re totally gonna be a partner,” she slurred, her shoulder pressing into mine. The boys had turned their attention to the basketball game on the television above us.

  “Nooooo.” I shook my head vehemently, thus concluding my opposing argument. I turned my head to the bar to see that Derrick hadn’t moved but was now chatting to the bartender. Jordan’s facial features had started drooping, and his drunk eyes were fixed on somebody across the bar, whom he winked at. I followed his gaze. Nancy. Nancy? When had they done any work together? She returned his look with an expression I couldn’t quite identify.

  I suddenly had to use the restroom, so I gently pushed Carmen’s weight off mine, making certain her hand was firmly on our bar table before drifting away. I wavered slightly on the waxed wood floor as I made my way through the room. There were fingers shoved into one ear canal while cell phone receivers blared into the other. There were iPads open on tables as people screamed into the air with little white buds in their ears. Suits. And knee-length pencil skirts. And the occasional too-short, too-tight, too-colorful, not-from-corporate-America dress. I passed the not-so-occasional date a male associate from Klasko had invited to happy hour; the three I saw glowed with the honor of having been invited. My colleagues who brought dates looked pleased that the firm was paying for the drinks they’d otherwise have had to buy. Knees were being slapped and bills being peeled out from silver money clips. Ferragamo ties with dogs. Ferragamo ties with flowers. Ferragamo ties with elephants. Debates over the best bespoke tailor from Hong Kong, and when he’d make his annual visit to NYC. The inevitable ragging on the guy whose suits were off-the-rack.

  I burst into the tiny ladies’ room and nearly slipped on the tiles, which were slick with what I hoped was sink water. I pulled up my skirt and collapsed onto the cracked toilet seat as the main door opened and I heard a few women enter.

  “I don’t even get her appeal.”

  My ears perked up, and I leaned farther over my knees and toward the stall door.

  “Me neither. But guys love her. She’s busted. She’s like a five in the real world but an eight in BigLaw. And she’s totally in love with Jordan, but he’d never touch her.”

  They must be talking about Nancy. I actually felt a little sorry for her.

  “It’s pathetic how she hangs out only with male attorneys. I don’t know how she lives with herself, sleeping her way to partner.” Nancy’s voice. If she was there, then who were they talking about?!

  “Uh, yes. And she thinks she’s so cool with the nickname Jaskel gave her.”

  I sat frozen on the seat, leaning my elbows on my shaking knees. I stared down at my black patent pumps and my pencil skirt and suddenly felt entirely too old and too accomplished to be intimidated or upset. I got up, tucked in my shirt again, and exited the stall to a view of gaping mouths and wide eyes.

  “Alex . . . we . . . ,” Nancy stammered.

  “Please, call me Skippy. Because I think it’s so sooooo fucking cool.” I washed my hands quickly and left them staring in my wake. I marched directly to Jordan’s high-top, where he stood with a few people I didn’t know, and glared at him.

  He hugged me, not picking up on my expression. “Look who made it!”

  I smiled tightly, wanting to unload to him, but I curbed the urge.

  “Darren, Sarah, Charles. Alex.” He motioned around the table, and I forgot their names immediately.

  “Are you doing M&A?” the girl asked.

  “Yeah. I really like it.”

  “Who are you working with now?”

  “Ugh! No work talk!” one of the associates said.

  “I’ve been here for three hours, so I’m due for some shop talk,” I said as lightly as I could manage, turning back to the girl. “Mostly with this one.” I chucked a thumb in Jordan’s direction.

  “I need a cigarette,” Jordan said. “Skippy?”

  “I’ll join you for some air,” I said.

  “You’re Skippy?” one of the guys asked, but I didn’t answer. I forced another smile and turned to follow Jordan out of the bar before I could see any looks they might be giving each other. I’m being paranoid, I thought. They are being completely normal.

  The winter chill hit my cheeks, and I realized my jacket was still warming a barstool inside, but my senses had been too numbed by alcohol to truly register the cold. I leaned against a brick wall next to the bar and shut my eyes for just a moment as Jordan lit his cigarette. I sensed him watching me, and opened them.

  He blew a cloud of smoke out of his mouth away from me as he shook his head. “You’re drunk, Skip.”

  The wail of a siren grew louder, and Jordan’s face strobed with the red flashing lights for a moment before all evidence of emergency faded up Madison Avenue and it was quiet again.

  “You are,” I retorted, not caring that I sounded childish.

  He looked at me. “I’m allowed to be drunk. My wife used the d-word yesterday.” He was almost whispering.

  I felt my jaw slacken and searched his eyes, hoping he was making a bad joke. He wasn’t.

  “Shit. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks.” His shoulders slumped.

  “Does Matt know?”

  “Of course he knows. Matt’s my first phone call.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  Jordan smirked. “It means that at some point or another, everybody wakes up in the driver’s seat of a crashed car, next to a dead hooker, with no recollection of how he got there. Hypothetically, of course,” he added. “You gotta have someone to call in that situation.” He dropped his cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. “Who would you call?”

  I stared back up at the night sky and opened my mouth to answer.

  “You’re an idiot if you say somebody you’re sleeping with. Or used to sleep with. Or want to,” he challenged. I closed my mouth and tried to think, my angst growing with each moment that my mental Rolodex came up blank.

  How was it possible that I didn’t have anybody to call? I could call my mom. Or my dad. Who was I kidding? No, I couldn’t. They’d never done anything wrong in their lives. My mother once wrote “It won’t happen again” with a smiley face in the memo line of the check paying a parking ticket. I should have a friend to call. Not Sam. I was sleeping with him. But also, he’d judge me. A friend. Carmen would be good to call. She could probably talk her way out of anything. But I didn’t really trust her.

  I watched Jordan for a moment as it dawned on me that I’d actually call him. He was composed, brilliant, and always available. But it seemed too weird to tell him that.

  “I think I’m just not the kind of person who would be in that situation,” I said, shrugging.

  “That’s your problem.” Jordan pointed at me with one eye closed, sharp-shooting in my direction with his index finger.

  “What is? That I’m a good person?” My voice came out at a higher pitch than I’d intended.

  “That you’re self-righteous.”

  My throat caught, and I looked at him. He wasn’t being cruel, or at least not intentionally so.

&n
bsp; “I wanna be on your call list,” I said, pouting.

  “You have to earn that spot, Skippy. But you’re getting there.” He sucked in the cold air. “You know, Carmen is really doing an amazing job on our deals since we got back from Miami. She’s really going for it.”

  I felt the vein on my temple filling, but I refused to exhibit the outward sign of jealousy he was probably trying to inspire. “Carmen’s great. She’s really smart,” I said, my tone even.

  “So, I heard you’re working for Peter a lot lately,” he said, changing the subject. “When you’re still junior, it’s good to work for different partners. But you should be careful there. You’ll have to choose a side eventually.”

  “What do you mean? Don’t you need to prove yourself to as many partners as possible?”

  “Not Peter and Matt. They never share senior associates. But you have a few years before you have to choose.”

  I stared at him. “Why don’t they?”

  “Honestly, they just don’t like each other. It goes way back. They were at Yale together for law school. I think Matt sort of resents the fact that he worked hard and was smart and Peter just . . . married a Fitch.”

  “Peter just what?”

  “His wife is a Fitch. As in Klasko & Fitch,” Jordan explained. “Didn’t you know?” I shook my head. “Well, Matt and I hope you join the light side with us. Carmen is working on a deal for me now that closes in three days. She’s good. But she’s not as good as you. Peter can have Carmen. We want you.”

  I knew I should have taken it as a compliment, but I couldn’t contain the rush of jealousy that she and Jordan were now working so closely. I suddenly felt the alcohol circle back on my brain and felt an urgent need to change the subject.

  “Do you get drunk linearly? I get drunk like this,” I said, sticking out my index finger and bouncing it up and down.

  He just smiled at me.

  “What the fuck is the word? Jesus. My brain isn’t . . . oscillating!” I yelled. Jordan let out a grunt of laughter. “You don’t get it!”

  “I get it, I get it,” he assured me. “I get drunk like this.” He stuck out his pointer finger and traced a steady horizontal line followed by a steep upward curve. “Not for seven drinks, and then it hits me all at once.”

  “Exponentially.” I suddenly found the word incredibly hilarious, doubling over laughing, then catching my breath as somberness overtook me. “I used to think people fell in love the way that you get drunk.” I swept my finger slowly through the cool night air before scooping it skyward. “Now I think they fall in love the way I do,” I continued, bouncing my finger. A pang of guilt that Sam was home alone and I’d left my phone inside the bar had started to nag at me.

  “Let’s go back in, Skip, and grab your stuff, okay?” Jordan said gently. “I’ll grab you a cab or an Uber.”

  Before I knew it, the word was out of my mouth. “Up!” I demanded.

  Jordan shook his head. “Let’s call it a night.”

  “But I need to get it together before I go home and talk to Sam!”

  “Just a tiny bit, Skip,” he said, relenting. “And only because I don’t feel like listening to you bitch and moan.” He backed up behind the bouncer at the door and pushed his back against the wall. I moved closer to him as he took a vial out of the breast pocket of his suit and spilled a small mound of powder onto the back of his hand.

  I dipped my head and put one finger to my nostril and snorted in with the other, then put my head back. As I did, I felt the tip of my nose tingle and then go completely numb. I felt the coke much more immediately and powerfully this time. A metallic sludge dripped down my throat and attacked the base of my tongue, but I swallowed it back down. A euphoric detachment spread over my body, and I understood in that moment how people could become addicted to this. My mind felt sober and clear and my body more responsive to my will.

  “Jesus, Skip.” He rolled his eyes, watching my demeanor change.

  “How many have you had?” I asked, trying to sound serious. “Drinks!” I clarified.

  “Six,” he said.

  “One more, then!” I announced.

  Jordan laughed and gestured for me to lead him back inside. “Carmen is hot, by the way,” he said into my back. I whipped around. “Just saying,” he laughed, holding up his palms.

  “You’re a pig,” I grumbled, leading the way into the bar.

  “I need a wet nap!” I whined loudly to no one in particular. Carmen nodded, chewing. Jordan laughed in slow motion, his arm around her shoulder, as I glared at them. I looked down at the chicken wings I didn’t remember ordering or consuming. There was another glass on the table in front of me, empty besides a few half-melted ice cubes. I pressed the home button on my phone, leaving unctuous orange residue on the screen, and closed one eye so I could read the time.

  One a.m. And seven texts from Sam. Fuck.

  I needed to call him. But I needed a wet nap first. I made my way to the bar and leaned over its shiny mahogany surface to get the bartender’s attention.

  “Well, well, well. Look who graced us with her presence.” I looked up to see Derrick grinning at me from a barstool.

  “Another drink, milady?” he offered. “Everybody’s been talking about Skippy from M&A tonight. You’re the toast of the town. First first-year ever to cop an invite to Miami. However did you manage that?”

  I ignored him.

  “Excuse me, please, I need a wet nap,” I said to the bartender, hearing the slur in my words.

  “What would Matt say if he saw you like this?” Derrick’s tone had turned almost hostile.

  “Sam,” I corrected him.

  “What?”

  “My girlfriend’s name is Sam, not Matt. Excuse me! Can I have a wet nap?” I yelled at the bartender, holding up my buffalo-stained fingertips.

  “Girlfriend? What would Matt say to THAT?” he laughed. I eyed the empty shot glasses lined up in front of him, counting six. I looked back at Derrick, realizing he must be drunker than I was.

  The bartender handed me a foil packet, which I tore open with my teeth after thanking him. I scrubbed my fingertips, watching the moist lemon-scented towelette turn sunburn orange, then stuffed it into one of the empty shot glasses.

  The meaning of Derrick’s question finally dawned on me. “Jaskel? Why would Matt care?”

  Derrick took a sip of his drink. “Because you’re fucking him.” My body stiffened. “Come on, don’t act like it’s not true. And here I thought we were friends! You should have told me!” He put his hand over his heart in feigned offense.

  I stared at Derrick, hoping he would crack a smile to let me know that he was joking, but he didn’t. My knees went rubbery as all the sideways glances in my direction throughout the evening formed a montage in my mind.

  “I’m not,” I whispered, shaking my head.

  “Are you okay? Shit, Alex. I was messing around. I’m an asshole. You look really pale. Al? Hello?” He squeezed my arm, but I shrugged away and then ran past him and into the bathroom, where I vomited fatty orange chicken skin and straight vodka into the sink. The spice of the buffalo sauce on its way up stung my raw nostrils and then my brain. I gagged and vomited again, then looked into the mirror at the auburn goop dripping down my chin. I ran the water in the other sink to clean up, leaving the first sink to bubble and belch as it slowly drained the vomit.

  “Ew. Get your shit together,” a woman said as she exited the stall, brushing past me and out into the bar.

  Please, God, let me not remember this in the morning.

  * * *

  When Sam’s alarm went off at six thirty, he let the beeping continue long after his eyes were open, probably just to annoy me. As I lay perfectly still with my eyes closed, refusing to play his game, last evening rushed in on me, and I felt tears spilling out of the corners of my closed eyes. He finally pounded the button on the top of his alarm with his fist and stumbled into the bathroom. My head wasn’t pounding with a hangover just yet,
but my brain was moving sluggishly—which meant I was probably still drunk. I tried desperately to fall back asleep, but the image of Derrick waiting for me outside the bathroom and putting me in a car poked at my mind. I couldn’t remember coming home or waving to our doorman or getting undressed, though. I smelled my hair and breathed into my palm. It smelled fine. At least I brushed my teeth. My heart began to race. I’m going to puke. I dismissed the option of running to the kitchen sink—we didn’t have a garbage disposal, and also, it was too pathetic to vomit in a sink twice in fewer than six hours. I took a small sip of water from the glass on my nightstand and a deep breath, hoping I could wait out Sam’s shower. He finally emerged in a towel and stared at me, as if he was struggling to choose his words.

  I spoke before he could. “I’m going to work from home today. So, if you get out early . . .” I trailed off, keeping my voice sweet.

  Sam’s arms dropped to his sides, the bathroom light illuminating his frame, and he grinned. “I thought you forgot!” He looked so touched, I thought he might cry.

  I was glad the room was dark enough to obscure my confusion. Forgot what? “You don’t have to,” he went on. “I have a really good feeling about this meeting. But that is seriously like . . . so . . . nice.”

  Meeting. Shit. The final investors meeting. That is today. I can’t believe I came home so late last night.

  “I have a good feeling too. But I’ll be here. And we can have dinner in or out, whatever you want. We can just hang out and be together.”

  “I really appreciate it,” Sam said, making his way to my bedside and bending low to kiss me goodbye. “Wish me luck,” he whispered, lips still so close to mine that I could smell his toothpaste.

  “Good luck! I love you!” I called after him, hearing a bit of desperation seasoning my tone.