Etiquette for the End of the World

by Jeanne Martinet

  “These are perfect. Thanks, Tessica,” said Ginny, putting them into her purse. “Let’s go back outside. We missed the whole last row of tables.”

  “Ginny, do you mind if we bail on shopping and just go have lunch now?”

  “Bail? Usually I have to drag you out of here kicking and screaming. I mean, it’s fine with me—I have about fifty thousand manuscripts to read today, and lord knows, Bill will kill me if I come home with any more tablecloths or tchotchkes. But what’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t know, maybe it’s because I’m so broke.”

  “That’s never stopped you before from looking, and coveting,” Ginny laughed.

  The hot air blew into their faces as they left the indoor area. “I just don’t feel like it today … . I guess it’s the heat.”

  They headed in the general direction of the schoolyard exit, picking their way slowly through the thick crowd.

  “Ginny, what do you think would happen if all these people suddenly thought the world was going to end? Wouldn’t everyone stop buying? … I guess there would be a run on certain things, like—besides the food in the green-market area, of course—people would buy hand-held tools, maybe the raincoats … and those quilts … . Hey, actually you know what? All those tablecloths you own might very well come in handy.”

  “Bill will be so happy to hear that,” Ginny said with a smile.

  “Really, you could use them for blankets, make them into bandages, ponchos … .”

  “If I didn’t know about your doomsday book, that kind of talk would alarm me, Tess. So how is it going? Did you ever find out why WOOSH doesn’t have a web site?”

  “Oh, they have one.” Tess shook her head. “I can’t believe I could not find it before the meeting. In my defense, it doesn’t come up when you put in WOOSH—it’s actually ‘WorldSolsticeHarbinger.Org.’ But there’s not much on it. It’s like one of those CIA web sites, just a front page. Like a locked door with the blinds pulled down … . There is a prompt for a password, so I assume there are areas of it I just can’t get to. And a couple of the people I met did seem pretty paranoid … . Hey, don’t look at me that way, Gin. It’s a paid writing job. Do you want to be buying my lunch forever?”

  “It’s a paid job if you actually get paid,” said Ginny, stopping to paw through a box filled with aprons and napkins. “Otherwise it’s a crazy hobby. You haven’t seen any money from them yet, have you?”

  “I told you, I have to write the fifty pages first.”

  “I don’t know, Tess. I mean, they sound like a cult, and I just think, after all you’ve been through, it’s like you’ve been thrown in the river and you’re climbing onto the back of a crocodile, just because it’s the only thing that looks like land.”

  “It’s not like that. I mean, I know I’ve been talking about how weird it all is, and of course it is—I mean the whole idea is completely insane—but I really think most of the people at WOOSH are well-meaning. Like, for instance, the brochure they gave me? It has a photo of a car they’ve invented for when there is no more gas and no electricity. It’s this cool-looking foot-pedal car. Supposedly they have designed it so a little pedaling goes a long way. It actually sounds like a good idea, just on its own.”

  “So what? Why not just use a bike with a basket?”

  “I guess because it’s enclosed—maybe it’s safer? And it can carry a group of people. WOOSH is very big on the group idea. The rest of the material in the brochure is kind of doublespeak—not too many specifics, lots of hype. But they don’t seem to give workshops or anything; they really seem more like Greenpeace on steroids than anything like Scientology or the Landmark Forum people.”

  “They still sound like a cult.”

  “What’s the definition of a cult? They’re not asking me to give up my family and friends, or my poker game.”

  “Not yet, they’re not.”

  Tess laughed. “Some of the people are kind of odd, but I think they’re just misguided do-gooders.”

  “Ever hear of Jonestown? I believe they thought they were doing good.”

  Tess rolled her eyes. Jonestown was a cheap shot. “Oh, come on!”

  “Tess, I was not going to tell you this, because for some reason my author swore me to secrecy—speaking of paranoia—but, remember Lila Tulane, from Georgia? She wrote that really strange but interesting afterlife book we published last fall called What If the End is Just the Beginning and the Middle? She is very big on the 2012 movement. She knows all of the dot-orgs there are, and she told me that WOOSH had been a very small fringe group—until about ten years ago. Now she says suddenly they are everywhere; they seem to be riding the wave of the whole 2012 zeitgeist. The group’s been gaining momentum, suddenly getting publicity. But from what Lila told me, the head of WOOSH—what’s his name?”

  “Wayne Orbus.”

  “Okay, well apparently he has had some trouble with the British government, they tried to arrest him for something but his lawyers got him out of it. And she heard he was thrown out of Oxford University.”

  “Hmm. The web site just says ‘educated at Oxford.’ Whatever. Sounds like several VPs I knew when I worked at Samson-Gold—in trouble with the law, thrown out of an Ivy League school. Who cares? Besides, I don’t think he comes over here very much. On the other hand, there is this one man in the group … .”

  Ginny looked closely at Tess, who found herself blushing. She even let out a tiny giggle.

  “Man? What man?” asked Ginny suspiciously.

  “He’s the head of Donor Relations.”

  “Donor Relations? Does he have relations with the donors?”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. He may be the most good-looking man I have ever seen in the flesh. I am actually meeting with him tomorrow.” Tess smiled.

  Ginny lifted an eyebrow. “Aha! I thought I detected some life in your libido when we talked on the phone. Now I understand why you’re so big on this WOOSH.”

  “No, I’m not saying I’m interested in him. It’s just he is abnormally handsome and charming. You know I’m not attracted to super-handsome men … at least not usually,” Tess said, with a faraway look in her eye.

  “Right,” said Ginny sarcastically, “unless they are super-handsome and psycho, like that Irish mafia guy you dated, or that crazy drummer-anarchist, Lou Sexty.”

  “That was a long time ago, Ginny.”

  “Tess, you cannot even consider this man. The man is in a—okay, maybe not a cult, but a weirdo group who thinks the world is blowing up or whatever next year.”

  “I know, I know! Don’t worry!”

  “I’m just saying, you don’t want to go from a boring cheater to a sexy cult leader.”

  “Ginny, I have no intention of—” Tess put her arm around her friend’s shoulder. Then she suddenly took it back off. “Wait, boring cheater?”

  “I’m sorry Tess. But Matt just was never in your league. It was like you always had to try so hard, when you were with him. I’ll tell you something I never told you before: Bill used to dread those evenings—he totally loves you, but Matt just drove him crazy. I thought he was going to lose it that one night Matt wouldn’t stop going on about his mandoline. I mean, it’s just a grater!”

  “I know, I know,” said Tess, shaking her head slightly in a self-disgusted way. “Sometimes when I think back … I think when I met Matt, I thought that was me growing up. I thought, Oh, this is what an adult relationship is supposed to look like—going to upscale kitchen stores, wine-tasting vacations, movies with other couples, and that expensive department-store diamond locket he gave me. Never mind that he didn’t get my sense of humor, and that, actually, he didn’t even have a sense of humor, last time any of us tried to look … . Don’t laugh, it’s not funny. Okay, I guess it is funny … .”

  They stood for a moment beside the organic tomato booth. The sweet fresh tomatoey smell wafted over them. In her mind’s eye Tess could see her mother carrying the huge blue-and-white Willow platter of sli
ced tomatoes out to the back-porch table at the beach. How she wished she could transport back to one of those childhood summers … . Tess turned to Ginny. “Toward the end,” she said, “a part of me was aware it was never going to be right with Matt … . But, fucking hell! Couldn’t he have been a little more original? Why doesn’t anyone’s boyfriend ever dump them for an older woman? Now that would have been refreshing. ‘Stop the presses! Man leaves longtime girlfriend for unattractive older woman with no money.’” But Tess still felt a clutch of pain in her stomach whenever she thought of Matt and Sarah.

  “Matt always was a follow-the-herd type of male” said Ginny. “And you are just not the follow-the-herd type, Tess Eliot … . I know you might not want to hear this, but maybe you can be more you, without him.”

  “Oh great. Just what the world needs. More me.”

  Ginny gave her a patient look. “You’ve just had a really bad summer.”

  “More like a bad decade.”

  “Listen, you obviously need to do this job, and you should, if they really pay you.” Ginny led the way past a glut of people and through the exit onto Columbus. “But, I swear to god, if you ever call me up and tell me you no longer want to go vintage shopping with me, Bill and I are going to kidnap you and have you deprogrammed.”

  Tess cocked her head as if pretending to mull this over. “I don’t know, Ginny … . When the world ends next year, no one is going to need antique earrings or cookie jars.” She grinned.

  “Like hell. The world will always need cookie jars.”

  ***

  This is bad, Tess thought, sitting at the small, rickety aluminum table in the back corner of the Scrub-a-Dub-Pub. She should not be having this meeting with Peter at her very own neighborhood hangout. It was almost like inviting him into her home. She should have chosen a more upscale, neutral-territory restaurant in Midtown. But when Peter had called asking her to suggest a place for their meeting, Tess had suffered a brain freeze and not been able to think of anyplace else. This had become her default location, apparently.

  Richie was suddenly standing in front of her. He looked taller when he wasn’t behind the bar. He had on a baby-blue Hawaiian shirt that exactly matched his eyes. He was thick around the waist, but not flabby; when Tess had first met him, she thought he was the first person she knew who perfectly fit the description of “burly.”

  “What are you doing sitting over here?” he asked.

  “Believe it or not, I am meeting a client.”

  “A client? Tess!” His whole face lit up. “That’s great! Isn’t it? What’s the job?”

  “Oh, nothing special,” she said, rolling the salt shaker idly between her thumb and fingers, “Just a how-to book for surviving the Apocalypse, that’s all.”

  “God,” said Richie, with a painful grimace. “Who’s the client?”

  “WOOSH.” Tess sat the shaker down and reached inside her briefcase on the chair beside her to check for her few paltry manuscript pages (which she prayed Peter would not ask her for).

  “‘Woosh’? What do you mean? Are you trying to tell me it’s a secret?”

  Tess giggled. “WOOSH is the name of the organization. They want me to help them prepare people for the end of the world.”

  Richie looked uneasy. Tess laughed again. “No, I haven’t gone off the deep end … . It’s okay. Really. It’s just a writing job. And before you ask, yes, I am going to make sure I get paid before the world ends. But listen, Richie, this guy I am meeting makes me a little … nervous. I don’t know that much about this group. Will you kind of, keep an eye on us, and if I go like this”—Tess roughed up the back of her hair and then raised her arm over her head as if she were stretching—“will you come over and ask us if we need anything?”

  “Absolument, ma belle chérie,” answered Richie, placing his hand over his chest and bowing. Tess felt herself relax a little. Maybe coming here wasn’t so crazy after all. Richie always made everything seem less scary. He smiled, and taking his hand off his chest, pointed at the top of her head. “But you might want to fix your hair again before he comes.”

  When he arrived, it was like someone turned the lights up. At first Tess thought the bar looked dingier in contrast to the dazzling figure of Peter Barrett, but that impression passed, and then it was just the opposite: Everything in the Scrub-a-Dub-Pub suddenly looked better, with Peter standing just inside the doorway, searching for her. He spotted her and headed over.

  He was wearing a crisp beige linen suit and a white shirt with no tie, with an unbuttoned collar. “Hi there, Tess-Knows-Best Eliot,” he called to her in an easy manner as he approached. Tess stood up, and saw his eyes quickly sweep up and down her form-fitting black turtleneck and black slacks. She caught her breath.

  Inwardly she shook herself. This was not a date! Get a grip, Tess. Don’t blow this job. You need the money. Plus this guy could be Charlie Manson. Or Charlie Manson’s handsome brother anyway. She quickly stuck out her hand, grabbed his, and shook it firmly.

  “I hope you don’t mind this place,” Tess apologized.

  “Not at all,” he assured her. “I love it. I should have brought my laundry. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Tess was about to explain that it was not a real Laundromat when she realized he was teasing her. He gave her his powerhouse smile.

  Richie came over to take their order. He raised an eyebrow ever so slightly when Tess ordered a seltzer. Peter quickly scanned the drink menu and ordered a Static Cling (lime juice and vodka over ice, with a lime twist rubbed vigorously around the rim).

  “So, how are you faring on the book?” he said to her, when Richie had gone.

  “Great!” (Oh, good: she was not too flustered to lie.) “But I am still kind of searching for the right tone. It’s … challenging to find the right balance between humor and … well, you know … the end of the world!” She laughed nervously and, thank heaven, he laughed too.

  “Of course!” he said. “Not to mention that it will most likely be your last project, so that adds some pressure.” He flashed his straight white teeth at her.

  “Yes, well … ” Tess blinked. It was important not to seem completely disbelieving. “I do hope I can… that is, the book will be … be of some help to people,” she finished weakly.

  Peter burst out laughing. Richie and a couple of people at the bar turned to look.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, putting a hand on top of hers. “It’s just … you should see your face.”

  Tess was confused. Bearings totally lost.

  “Let me explain,” said Peter. He kept his hand on hers, which made Tess nervous, but not unhappy. “I’m not one of them. That is, I was hired as an independent contractor, for fund-raising. I don’t believe the world is going to come to an end any more than you do.”

  “Oh” was all that Tess could manage for the moment.

  “And … I hope you will be happy when I tell you I convinced Dakota that I should be your official liaison. It was going to be Alfred.” Tess shuddered, and Peter laughed again, taking his hand back to his side of the table.

  “You’re right. That guy is so strange he could give the willies the willies,” he said. “He never lets go of that iPad, and you can’t make out most of what he says. I don’t know where Dakota ever found him. You know, we have a dinner meeting every month on the twenty-first, at the ‘21’ Club—because of the solstices—clever, right? … I think they mean it to be a perk for the volunteer members. But Alfred Hassenbach actually showed up one time with a whole bundle of WOOSH pamphlets hidden in his backpack like hand grenades.” Tess smiled. She felt she could listen to Peter’s smoky “just rolled out of bed” voice forever. “He wanted to whip them out and distribute them to the patrons—you know, all the heads of companies and rich tourists having drinks there. Obviously the maître d’ wouldn’t let him. I think even Dakota, as open-minded as she is, was embarrassed.”

  “Wow,” said Tess. “Is he … somehow valuable? I mean, what does he do? Media som
ething?”

  “His title is Media Manager.” Tess tried hard to focus, but even the way Peter said ‘Media Manager’ seemed to somehow reek of sexual innuendo. “I’ve been told in real life he’s a projectionist at a movie theater, but he devotes all his spare time to the cause. They’re all volunteers; I’m the only one who gets paid, besides Dakota, as far as I know. Except now there’s you.” Peter’s eyes were so big and beautiful, they were like tractor beams. (Beam me up, Scotty.) “I’m so glad to finally have somebody to talk about WOOSH with who’s not delusional. You’re not, are you?” His piercing look and wide, seductive smile stopped her brain in its tracks and she could only smile back and shake her head inanely.

  When Richie brought the drinks, Peter thanked him and then quipped, “No starch in these, right?” Richie smiled politely and gave him a sharp once-over that Tess had never seen from Richie before. Hmm. Could he be interested in her hunky new client? Then again, why shouldn’t he be? Peter was like a million-dollar advertisement for the male species.

  “Well, so why are you doing this, if you don’t mind my asking?” said Tess.

  “Ah. Good question. Well, it’s a long and sad story. I’ll give you the ‘log line,’ as they say in my neck of the woods: Man from moneyed family in L.A. gets fleeced in divorce, then loses more in financial crash of 2008. Subsequently manages to land surprisingly lucrative if somewhat ridiculous job with harmless cult.” He took a sip of his drink and twinkled at her over the rim.

  Tess smiled. This man was definitely a fringe benefit. Right in the middle of the biggest desert in her life, she felt as if she had come across a wonderful, unexpected oasis.

  She began to relax. He was a kindred spirit. Still, she reminded herself that he was (kind of) her employer, and she did not want him to know that she felt completely lost. She certainly did not want to let on that she was as far behind as she was on the pages.

  “So, Peter, what kind of humor do you think they want for this book? Like … anecdotes? Puns? Or just … you know, wit?”