Etiquette for the End of the World

by Jeanne Martinet

  “Harriet, it’s just that … you know I adore Walter, he is one of my very favorite writers, but … I just lost my column. Don’t you understand? I have rent to pay … martinis to buy.” It had been Harriet who had introduced Tess to Bombay martinis—up with a twist—on her twenty-third birthday, telling her, “Drink one martini a day for the rest of your life and you’ll know you’ve done it right.”

  Harriet pursed her lips and gave Tess a sympathetic but stern gaze. “Tess, I don’t want to see you working on some horrible piece of shit just for money. You’re feeling desperate, I know that, but you can’t act on desperation. I will keep my ears open for lucrative editorial work, but … . You’re a well-known columnist. You’ll get an offer from another newspaper, or a magazine. You will! Just listen to me. Why don’t you call up my friend Anne Henry? She knows everyone. Don’t panic, Tess!”

  “Okay, okay,” said Tess, meekly. There was no sense in contradicting Harriet about anything. But Tess knew; she might be able to sell an article here and there, but column opportunities were almost non-existent these days, unless you wanted to work for peanuts—or peanut shells, rather—on the internet. As for Anne Henry, Tess did not dare try to explain to her former boss that the ninety-five-year-old, retired magazine publisher, if she could even be reached, no longer knew anyone worth knowing.

  “Anyway, Tess, why don’t you ask that fucking brother of yours to give you what belongs to you. You should make him.” Here we go. Tess had been expecting this. Harriet was like a mother lion, and no one ever crossed one of her cubs and lived to tell of it. “Why don’t you do something about that situation, Tess? He still goes to some kind of church, doesn’t he? Why don’t you tell him he will burn in hell!” Harriet’s eyes had the battle gleam in them they always got when she talked about organized religion.

  “I can’t … He’s really not that … I just don’t feel like … ,” Tess protested, uncomfortably, but Harriet suddenly pivoted away from the desk. “Let’s order fattening food for dinner!” she said brightly, “I think that’s what we need.”

  Harriet rolled out to get take-out menus from the other room. Tess thought for a second. Then she bent over and reached into the trash, and retrieved the letter her mentor had crumpled and thrown away.

  “Dear Ms. Schulberg,” it began, “We need help on the writing of a most important book. It is, quite simply, a guide for preparing for the end of the world … .” She quickly stuffed the letter into her purse. Harriet might have decided it was from a cocksucker, but cocksuckers sometimes had money.

  Chapter Two

  Tess examined herself in the antique mirror, grateful for the soft lighting in her apartment. The day before, she had inadvertently caught a horrifying glimpse of her figure in the brightly sunlit, full-length mirror affixed to the outside wall of the dry cleaners on her block. She had looked like a swollen version of herself. (Was it possible that she was beginning to acquire a second chin?) Maybe it was just her state of mind these days—or maybe it was the mirror. She knew some clothing stores had mirrors that made you look skinnier, so why couldn’t there be mirrors that made you look fatter? Thankfully, this morning she looked more like herself. She had succeeded in styling her wavy brown hair more or less the way her haircutter did, with just the right sweep in the front. Her fail-safe Dolce & Gabbana teal summer pantsuit—purchased a couple years back when she still had money for nice clothes—flattered her curves, even if she was a few pounds heavier. When she added the 1930s Bakelite necklace, her favorite accessory, it was like signing her name to the outfit. And today she needed every confidence booster in her arsenal.

  She could not believe she was taking this meeting with these crazies. She supposed she could always try to get an article out of it later; she could call it “Cracking Up in the Crackpots’ Crib” or “Desperate Times, Desperate Manuscripts.” But what magazine would she pitch it to? Psychology Today? The Journal for Emotional Disorders? O No Magazine? Tess sat down in the kitchen with her coffee, pulled the letter out of her bag, and read it once again:

  Dear Ms. Schulberg,

  We need help on the writing of a most important book. It is, quite simply, a guide to preparing for the end of the world. Though many people remain in denial, there exists convincing evidence that the Earth as we know it will be destroyed in the not-so-distant future.

  We are coming to you because you are highly respected in publishing circles, as a publisher and editor, and also because you were the co-writer of the social guidebook Hold Your Head High with Your Foot in Your Mouth, published by Random House in 1993. Obviously that book dealt with a much lighter topic, but we feel that in the days to come we are going to need a similar interpersonal guide for people, a handbook that will lay down a new foundation for the future behavior of man- and womankind.

  Okay, that’s good: “womankind” showed they were probably not fundamentalists, at any rate. But the whole idea that they wanted a post-apocalyptic self-help book was pretty far out there. And why would they care about Harriet’s odd little book, published seventeen years ago?

  Would you be willing to meet with our group? We are sure you will find it worth your while.

  The letter was signed “W.O.O.S.H., New York Chapter,” with a phone number. (Woosh? Was that supposed to be the sound of the world ending?)

  When Tess had called the number and said she was replying on Harriet Schulberg’s behalf, a soft-spoken man—after putting her on hold for a few minutes—had requested that Ms. Schulberg come to a meeting on September 15 at ten a.m., giving an address on the northern edge of Chelsea. Tess had agreed that Harriet would be there. Only of course she would not. Tess herself was taking the meeting. Crazies or not, Tess needed a job.

  ***

  “Okay,” Tess told Ginny, “I’m here at the corner of Dyer Avenue and Thirty-First Street. This is so weird. I didn’t even know there was a Dyer Avenue.” Tess tended to be critical of people on the street who were always on their cell phones, but this was one time she was grateful to be able to talk while walking.

  “That funky street near Tenth Avenue?” Ginny said. “That’s just one long on-ramp to the Lincoln Tunnel. Though not a bad location for a survivalist group’s headquarters.” Ginny was Tess’s oldest friend in New York. Tess had met her when they were both editorial assistants at Penguin, where they had cubicles next to each other. Now she worked at Brown Hill Press, as the senior editor in charge of New Age titles. A native New Yorker and cynical by nature, Ginny secretly despised most New Age books, but she had inherited a New Age project early in her career (To Ch’i or Not to Ch’i), which had surprised everybody by becoming a huge best seller. This had led to her big promotion—as well as to her getting more or less permanently stuck in the genre.

  “It is kind of funky,” Tess said, scanning the industrial-looking intersection—huge parking lot, warehouse, construction site—as she rounded the corner onto 31st. Here at least she could see there were new brick buildings, with galleries and two or three storefronts. “I guess this means I must really be in dire straits, right?”

  “Don’t make jokes like that when you are in there,” Ginny said sternly.

  “I won’t, don’t worry,” laughed Tess.

  After a few more steps she found she had arrived at the address, 434 West 31 Street. All she could see of the place was a large glass window completely filled with plants, next to a red metal door.

  “Okay, I’m about to go in. If you don’t hear from me in four hours, call the police, or better yet, call Homeland Security.”

  On the other end of the phone, Ginny laughed. So did Tess, but she had to admit to herself that she was scared. It was entirely possible that she was about to take a meeting with a bunch of real nut-jobs, the kind who ended up having stand-offs in Waco, the kind with firearms and gas masks stashed under their houses. Not to mention that these particular nut-jobs were expecting somebody else.

  “What are you wearing?” asked Ginny.

  “The teal suit,”
said Tess.

  “Excellent. You know you look like a movie star in that. Though maybe you should have dressed in fatigues for this interview. Did you bring pepper spray?”

  Tess put her face up to the window and squinted, trying to see through the greenery. “Does anybody actually know anyone who carries pepper spray?”

  “No, but it always sounds like such a good idea.”

  “The truth is,” said Tess, glancing at her watch to make sure she was not late, “I’m more afraid of what Harriet is going to do to me if she finds out, than I am of these WOOSH people. Okay, call you later, Gin.” Thank god for Ginny. Tess would not have gotten through the last year without her. Other friends had fallen by the wayside as Tess had become more depressed, but no matter how busy she was, Ginny always had time to talk when Tess needed her. If she was in a meeting, it would rarely take her more than an hour to call Tess back. This had been especially true since Matt left.

  Tess put her phone away and stepped back from the window. She noticed a small poster displayed in the lower left corner of the glass—no words, just a graphic. It looked like a tree with two outstretched hands emerging from the top. No. Not a tree. A mushroom cloud. Of course, what else? Tess took a steadying breath and turned to the door, where she could now see there was a small brass plate with thinly etched letters on it:

  W.O.O.S.H.

  The Way Through

  The way through? What—the way through the door?

  There was no buzzer; Tess pushed the door open. Once inside, she was pleasantly surprised to find herself in a sunny, welcoming reception area (the sunlight coming from an unobstructed side window) complete with an expensive-looking modern sofa and chairs and a low wooden coffee table with neat piles of pamphlets and flyers on it. A young, bleached-blond male receptionist sat behind a tall desk. He was focused intently on his computer monitor. Tess saw that the plants lining the front window were hydroponic, their stems and stalks gently suspended by some kind of slender wires or strings, the tendrils of roots hanging down through holes in water-filled containers. There was some fluty Enya-like music playing softly through invisible speakers. A small stone water sculpture bubbled soothingly in one corner, adding to the California spa feeling. Any minute a masseuse would appear, thought Tess.

  She gave Harriet’s name to the receptionist who, with a boyish smile, informed Tess that “they” were waiting for her in the conference room. He led the way through a small hallway. Resisting a fleeting impulse to turn and run back out the door, Tess followed him.

  The room was such a contrast to the reception area that it made Tess blink when she entered. There were no windows, just cold fluorescent lighting and black Aeron chairs around a large faux-wood table; in fact, it looked like every other office conference room she had ever seen, except that the table was round instead of the traditional oval—and except for the walls. The walls were completely covered with maps. There must have been hundreds of them—in color, in black and white, and in all different sizes. She felt a chill shoot through her. So many maps, with hardly any empty wall space in between. A sure sign of the paranoid personality—she had seen enough thrillers to know that.

  Five people—two men and three women—sat around the table, leaving two empty chairs. At once a dark-haired man in an elegant silver-gray suit rose and came toward her.

  “I trust you had no trouble finding us?” Tess thought she detected a slight teasing note in his voice, like someone who is enjoying an inside joke. He took her right hand and enclosed it firmly in both of his. His hands were cool. She looked up at him and opened her mouth to say hello, but no sound came out. Maybe that was because her throat, along with everything else in her body, had just blown a fuse.

  He was shockingly handsome; his eyes were large and a soft dark brown—velvety pools you could get drawn into and never care if you found your way back out again. They were framed by thick, perfectly arched brows. In fact everything about his face was in absolute perfect proportion. He resembled George Clooney so much that it made her wonder for a second if he were actually related to the actor. He had a swarthy complexion; it looked as though he would have to shave three times a day. Tess stood still, waiting for her breath to come back. She noticed gray at his temples, and a few streaks in his thick wavy hair—he was probably in his early fifties. His shirt was so crisp and white it seemed to vibrate next to his dark, muscular neck. The dimple in his chin made you want to put your finger there.

  As though he could read her thoughts, he grinned broadly, as if to say, “Yes, I know I’m good-looking, but I can’t help it, can I?” revealing (big surprise) flawless white teeth, and Tess felt herself grinning back and blushing like an idiot. She had expected paramilitary types, bug-eyed mental patients, or at the very least, earnest hippies. What she had not expected was this gorgeous specimen of exquisite maleness.

  “I’m Peter Barrett,” he said, his voice slightly gravelly, still holding her hand, and still smiling and gazing into her eyes. Was he trying to hypnotize her or something? “I’m the head of Donor Relations. Welcome to our little war room, Ms. Schulberg.”

  Tess managed to utter, “Thank you,” and Peter Barrett finally released her. Tess took the empty seat closest to her, trying to get her heart to slow back to normal. Maybe this really was some kind of cult, she thought, with a twitch of fear in her stomach—like the ones where everyone has to marry each other. And this stunning Mr. Barrett was the bait for new female recruits.

  A pasty man to her immediate left nodded at her. He was about thirty, with thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Tess nodded back and smiled politely at him, but he did not make eye contact. There was something definitely off about this one. He reminded her of a frightened mouse, a mouse suddenly aware of its being observed by a human. She could swear he was almost quivering. Clutching an open iPad in front of him on the table, he mumbled that his name was Alfred Hassenbach and that he was the “East Coast media manager.” He spoke so rapidly and softly it was hard to understand him. What a contrast to Peter Barrett. Total opposites on the man-Richter scale.

  Just then the door opened and a petite woman entered. She had a ponytail down to her waist and looked Native American. Tess stood up as the woman approached her. Around her slender neck was a very large medallion, hanging down almost as far as her ponytail did. Tess could see that the medallion, which was intricately designed in silver and moss green gemstones, had some kind of markings or hieroglyphics on it. The woman smiled warmly, her manner (thank god) both confident and business-like.

  “Ms. Schulberg, I’m Dakota Flores, the coordinator of our New York chapter.” The handshake was firm but the voice was girlish, with a slight lisp. She had the kind of gentle, wanting-to-help look Tess had always felt nurses and kindergarten teachers should have. Tess was relieved that she seemed to be the one in charge. (On the other hand, Tess reminded herself, Dakota Flores could not be all that normal—just look what she was in charge of.)

  Reseating herself, Tess knew she was going to have to set the record straight before another moment went by. She had impersonated someone else long enough; she felt like a criminal. She only hoped they wouldn’t throw her out on her ear. She took a very deep breath. “First of all, I have to tell you all right away,” she said in the most self-assured tone she could muster, “I’m afraid I am not Harriet Schulberg. Harriet is over eighty.” (Forgive me, Harriet.) “She is very ill and regrets that she could not be here today. However, I’m Tess Eliot and I have been Ms. Schulberg’s close associate and protégée for many years, and it is to be sincerely hoped that … I mean, I sincerely hope that I would be more than able to suit your requirements sufficiently.” Dear god, why was she talking like this? She sounded like an insurance commercial. She did always tend to get overly formal when she felt out of her element. And this meeting certainly qualified.

  The silence that followed seemed to last an eternity.

  “Aha,” said Alfred Hassenbach, without expression. He started tapping somethi
ng into his iPad (was he Googling her?) and muttered something under his breath Tess could not make out. It sounded like “We have pears to heat up now.” Tess decided the best thing to do was smile as if everything was as it should be.

  “Oh, well, I see,” said Dakota, frowning slightly.

  After a few seconds one of the other women spoke up. She was very tall and square shaped, and even had a matching, square-shaped haircut. “Well, then,” she said with a stiff, fake smile. “Do you have a CV?” This woman, unlike the others, gave off a strong military vibe, as though she were waiting to be saluted.

  Tess slid a résumé forward, mentioning in what she hoped was the casual tone of someone merely offering pertinent information that her “Tess Knows Best” column had been read by 300,000 people a week for the last four years, and explaining that she herself had done much of the actual writing for How to Hold Your Head High With Your Foot in Your Mouth while she was working for Harriet at Simon and Schuster. These were at best gross exaggerations; just because the newspaper’s circulation was 300,000 did not mean that many people read her column, and while Tess had come up with some of the chapter titles and subheads for Harriet’s book, that had been about it. But the square woman nodded, and passed the résumé to Dakota. Then, to Tess’s relief and pleasure, Peter Barrett said, “‘Tess Knows Best’ is a brilliant column. I can’t believe you are that Tess Eliot!”