“She’s not going to say that,” I say, while making a mental note to call Michelle with instructions not to say that. “She cares about you. She wants to support you.”
“Thanks a lot, Kerry. I think I’d rather be alone.” She flops down on the plush sofa and curls into the fetal position.
I feel like the worst friend in the world, but I can’t miss the chance to meet the ideal man intended for me by the spirit world. “Here,” I say. “Have another cigarette. I’ll open you a bottle of wine. You’ll feel better in no time.”
And that’s how I leave her: curled up on the couch, a bottle of chardonnay clutched in her hand, and a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table in front of her. It’s okay, I tell myself. Michelle will be there in a couple of hours. But I still feel awful—though, obviously not awful enough to keep me from the NAPI party tonight.
Chapter 8
By five thirty, Trevor and I have squeezed into the back of a cab with our friend Shelley, an account exec who is very negative and bitter and whom we find hilarious. In the front seat, barely visible because of the headrest, is Gavin.
“Gavin’s going to catch a ride with us,” Trevor had announced. I started to object and then noticed that Gavin was standing directly behind him. Of course, I could not see him as he is so minuscule.
“Great,” I muttered instead. It seemed Trevor was still trying to persuade Gavin to join the gay brotherhood.
We arrive at the Silver Unicorn, a seedily trendy club in Pioneer Square and show the thick-necked bouncer our tickets. Once inside, we climb the musty stairwell into the club and head directly to the bar. Unfortunately, we do not manage to lose Gavin in transit through the crowded club. He seems to be clinging to Trevor like a baby chimpanzee to its mother.
Ordering three crantinis and a Budweiser for Gavin (which causes Trevor to furrow his brow with concern), we park ourselves at a centrally located table and begin to scour the scene for my future husband. Trevor has taken the liberty of filling Shelley in on Ramona’s predictions. I was able to stop him—upon penalty of severe physical abuse—from telling Gavin. I could just hear Gavin in the next Prism meeting: “How do you think sales will do this fall, Kerry? Or shall we wait while you read your tea leaves?”
“So . . . any candidates?” Trevor whispers to me. I scan the crowd in the dim, nightclub lighting.
“Not yet, but it’s still early.”
We order another round as the president of NAPI steps up to a microphone positioned in the middle of the dance floor. “Test, test!” he says, the mic popping loudly with each consonant. The crowd settles, and he begins to expound on all the good works the organization is doing. “Stan Worobey, an art director in Portland, was recently hospitalized for exhaustion. The NAPI fund helped Stan and his wife get some help with household duties while he was incapacitated.”
Everyone claps uproariously. I lean over to Trevor. “I could use some help with household duties. My shower grout is disgusting. How do I get in on this?”
“It seems you have to be exhausted,” he whispers back.
“I am exhausted.”
“No, like Mariah Carey exhausted. I can give you some tips later.”
The president continues. “And the NAPI fund helped Brenda Johnstone, a production coordinator in Spokane, get a new motorized wheelchair.”
More applause. I join in enthusiastically. I find myself more supportive of using funds to pay for wheelchairs than housekeepers.
“I wonder if the NAPI fund would pay Dave’s legal bills if he ever gets arrested for being a serial killer?” I whisper to Trevor.
“I doubt it. But Ferris and Shannon would. They’d hire O. J.’s dream team to get him off. How could the agency possibly go on without his incredible creative expertise?”
“And if he didn’t get off, we’d have to have all the creative presentations during visiting hours at the McNeil Island Corrections Center.”
We are launching into uncontrollable giggles when we notice several people shooting us pointed looks. The NAPI president is still going on about all the emotionally disturbed advertising people the fund has provided nannies and housekeepers for. It is inappropriate for us to be laughing, which makes it even harder to stop.
Finally, he instructs us all to have a great time and leaves the stage. Phew! We collect ourselves enough to approach the buffet table set up at one end of the dance floor. As we load our plates with food, we continue our repartee. “Dave would be like Hannibal Lecter. . . . He’d have to give creative presentations with one of those goalie masks on so he didn’t bite anyone’s face off.”
I am in hysterics, barely able to stand up. I reach for the tongs to grab a spring roll when my hand collides with a larger, much hairier hand.
“Sorry,” I say, pulling back.
“No, I’m sorry. Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” I take the proffered tongs and look up at the owner of the hand. He is a nice-looking guy, tall with amused blue eyes and brown hair. On closer inspection, I would have to say his hair is actually sandyish. On first sight, one might call it brown, but I would have to say it is definitely on the sandy side. Could this be him?
“So . . .” I smile flirtatiously. “Are you in advertising?” I grab a spring roll and then pass the tongs to him.
“No.” He kind of laughs. “My buddy dragged me—sorry, brought me along.”
“I know what you mean. I don’t usually come to these work-related functions either.”
“No?”
“No! I hate them normally.”
“What’s different about this one?” His eyes are twinkling at me.
“Oh . . . umm . . . my friend really wanted me to come with him.”
Trevor pops his head around. “Hi. I’m Trevor. And you are?”
“Nick.”
“Ohhhh,” he says, his voice relaying grave disappointment. “Well, nice to meet you, Nick. This is my friend, Kerry. We’ve got to get back to our drinks.”
“In a second,” I growl at him. God. Does he really think I will walk away from a cute, sandyish-haired guy who might very well have a wonderful and caring soul and be in the visual arts, just because his name doesn’t start with D? Ramona can’t be infallible. “So, Nick . . .”
And in that moment, it happens. All the bad karma for ditching Sandra with a bottle of wine and a pack of cigarettes in her time of need, for giggling cruelly during the speech about all the suffering advertising people, it all comes back to make me pay. Gavin, who is scurrying after Trevor, passes by me just as I reach up to flick my hair in a sexy and attractive manner. My hand hits Gavin’s burgeoning plate (so much food for such a minute person) and knocks the end of it, sending it sailing from his grip. It flies from his hand, the contents arcing through the air, only to fall, in an edible hailstorm, on my right shoulder and breast.
“Gavin!” I screech at him.
“What?” He wails back. “You hit my plate!”
I am tempted to smash my plate on the edge of the buffet table and stab him in the jugular with a pointed shard. “God, look at this mess!”
It’s disgusting. Leave it to Gavin to be eating deviled eggs, hot wings, chicken satay with peanut sauce, and Caesar salad. Not only do I look gross, but I smell it, too!
“Watch out, people!” A waiter with a mop has approached. “Be careful. We don’t want anyone to slip in this huge mess of food. And there’s broken glass here, too! Watch your step, people! Don’t want anyone to get cut.”
Why is he yelling like that? The attention of everyone in the bar is now on our “accident.” And on me standing here with Caesar salad and deviled eggs dripping off my boob.
“Thanks a lot, Gavin,” I hiss as I storm to the rest room. I forgot to even acknowledge Nick. Good thing he is not “the one.”
I clean myself up as best I can with paper towels dampened in the sink, but there is no denying I will have to leave. Thanks to Gavin, I’ve been humiliated in front of the whole advertising community. Not to mention th
e fact that I will never meet the love of my life smelling like anchovies and eggs. Keeping a low profile, I scurry to the coat check near the exit.
Relief washes over me when I have covered my ruined blouse with my raincoat. I just hope this smell won’t be transferred to my coat. I will hurry home and throw the whole outfit into the washer.
I am in the refuge of the dim stairwell when I hear my name.
“Kerry!”
I turn, expecting to see Trevor, but no! It’s Dave! Creepy, serial-killer, creative-director Dave. Surely the universe is treating me rather harshly. I admit it wasn’t very kind of me to leave Sandra alone and to laugh through the speech about less fortunate ad people, but I don’t think I deserve to have my face bitten off.
“Dave . . .,” I say weakly. I glance nervously around. We are all alone on the secluded and darkened stairway. This is like a movie . . . a very scary movie where you just know that the character is going to get killed off because she wasn’t a very nice person in the beginning.
“Listen . . .” He comes up close to me. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
“Okay.” I swallow loudly. Maybe the anchovy smell will scare him away before he does anything painful to me. Like the way garlic works on vampires.
“It’s about the Prism campaign.”
I feel a glimmer of hope. Perhaps this is just a harmless work conversation in a spooky darkened stairwell?
“I want you to know that I respected you stating your opinion. You were wrong, but I still respect you standing up to me. Sometimes I think—” He takes a pull from the beer bottle in his hand. “—that people are afraid to tell me the truth. Everyone’s always agreeing with me and supporting my ideas.”
“That must suck.”
He looks at me. “It does, actually. That’s why it was so refreshing the other day . . . when you . . . you know . . . stood up to me.”
He is leaning in close to me, and I realize he’s very drunk. Otherwise he’d be repulsed by my smell.
“I think you’ve got a lot of spirit, Kerry,” he says as he leans in farther. “You’re really feisty and . . . beautiful. . . .”
God! What is he doing? He is leaning in toward me like he’s going to—oh, good God! He wants to kiss me.
“Look, Dave . . .” I step down another step. “I really have to get going. I’ve got Caesar salad all over my shirt and—”
“One little kiss, Kerry,” he whines.
“It would make things awkward at work,” I say.
“Nothing would change. I can keep my personal life separate from my professional life.”
“You’re already dating someone in the office!”
“Yeah, but it’s not working out. It’s over be—”
“Dave?” It is Tanya, all pierced and ominous, standing at the top of the stairs. “What’s going on here?”
“Nothing,” Dave slurs. “We were just talking about Prism.”
“Yeah. Thanks for that very helpful and useful comment. I must run and change out of these stinky clothes! À bientôt!”
I fly down the stairs and out into the night.
Chapter 9
I was mortified to come to work this morning after last night’s disaster, but since I’d spent yesterday afternoon at Sandra’s, I have a lot of work to catch up on. I would also look like the biggest baby in the universe if I didn’t show up just because I’d had a plate of appetizers tipped all over me. Besides, I must tell Trevor about what happened (or didn’t happen) with Dave.
“What do you mean, you can’t go for coffee?” I whisper angrily into the phone.
“Lunch okay?” Trevor says. “I’ve got a brain-dump session.” He practically hangs up on me.
I’m a bit annoyed with Trevor for not coming to my rescue last night, but I know what he’s like. He’s very gay (if there are degrees of gayness), in that the sight and smell of me covered with food would probably have turned his stomach and we’d have had an even bigger mess to deal with. And now I’m a bit annoyed that he can’t meet me for coffee. I’m absolutely bursting to tell someone about Dave coming on to me last night. I know! I’ll call Shelley.
“Good morning.”
Oh, shit. Sonja.
“Good morning.” I smile. “How are you?”
“Fine. I was looking for you yesterday afternoon.”
“You were? I was at Prism . . . meeting with Janet.”
“She called looking for you.”
Oh, this is just great. Now I will be fired! The way things are going, I don’t know why I’m surprised.
“Look . . .,” I say, gazing forlornly into Sonja’s face. I am hoping to force a return of the tender, Julie Andrews expression I’d glimpsed the other day. “I know I shouldn’t have lied, but a friend of mine was in crisis. I had to go to her.”
“Oh?” There is a hint of understanding there.
“She’s in an awful state. I was worried she might—” Pause for dramatic effect. “—harm herself.”
“Oh, God!” Sonja is suitably shocked. “What’s wrong?”
“Her boss’s wife is pregnant.”
“Uh . . . so?”
“Oh, sorry.” I laugh a little. “He’s also her lover . . . and her father figure and mentor.” I look at her then, nodding my head in an “obviously you can understand why I had to be there for her” way.
“Kerry, I’m sorry to hear that your friend is having some issues with her married lover, but I don’t consider that an adequate excuse to be lying about your whereabouts. Janet needed to talk to you.”
“She has my cell number,” I counter. “I was still available.”
“She told me she tried your cell several times and kept getting a busy signal.”
“That’s strange,” I say, feeling myself blush despite my best efforts. “I rarely use my cell for personal calls.”
Sonja prepares to leave. “I know this isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation, Kerry, but I strongly urge you to take care of any personal problems you have that may be affecting your work.”
“Yeeeesssss, Sonja,” I sigh heavily. Ooops, that came out a little more sardonic than I’d planned.
“Perhaps I should put it another way: You’re not irreplaceable. You’d better shape up, or you’ll be out of a job.”
Bitch! She’s just jealous of me and will always hold me back, just like Ramona said. Don’t let her get to you—breathe deeply, calmly. But I can feel the emotion welling up in my throat. Don’t start crying, don’t start crying. . . . God, what is wrong with me? I don’t even like this stupid job! I swivel in my chair and stare at the computer screen. There is nothing to be upset about. I will buckle down. . . . I will focus on the job at hand. . . . But what I need now is a distraction. I click on my e-mail inbox.
There are several work-related missives and one from my brother in Australia.
Name: Greg Spence
Subject: Hey Big Sis!!
I open it.
How r u? How’s Sam? Work? Have you seen mom lately? Are she and Darrel still pawing each other like horny teenagers? Have you heard from Dad? I got an email the other day. He said he wants us to come to London next Christmas.
Things in Sydney are so rad man! I’m talking, totally fucking insane! I can’t tell you how awesome my life is now! I get up around eleven, have a coffee on the beach, go for a surf, then hang out till my shift starts at three. Then I party all night with these great people: Aussies, Kiwis, Canadians, Americans, Germans, tons of Brits. I’m meeting so many rad dudes and gorgeous birds. I don’t think I’ll ever come home!!
Anyway sis . . . hope things are just as awesome back in Seattle at the ad agency.
Love your lil bro’,
Greg
I hit REPLY.
Dear Greg,
FUCK YEWWWWWWWWWWWWW you spoiled, self-absorbed little “wanker”!
Love your big sis,
Kerry
Of course I don’t really send it. If I did, he’d be on the phone to my
mom within seconds saying, “Mommy! Mommy! Kerry sent me an abusive e-mail! She was swearing and everything! What is going on in her life that is so terrible that she feels the need to take it out on me—her innocent, surfing, bartender brother?”
Anyway, time to deal with reality. I click on the e-mail from Janet at Prism.
Name: Janet Morrow
Subject: Back to School brochure
Hi Kerry,
I’ve tried to call you at the office and on your cell but it seems you are MIA. I’ve got some last-minute changes to the brochure that need to be incorporated. There is an error in the pricing of the multi-connection package and we can’t print the brochure without correcting it. I hope it has not gone to press, because we’re not paying for another run. Please call me at your earliest convenience.
J.
I call production first. “Hey, Dennis. What’s the status on the back-to-school brochure for Prism?”
“Just waiting for the ink to dry—then it can be scored and folded.”
I put my head down on my desk. “Great,” I moan into the receiver.
“What’s wrong?” Dennis senses my pain.
“There’s a mistake in the brochure. It’s going to have to be reprinted.”
“What!” He completely spazzes out. “Why wasn’t the mistake caught on the proofs? Who’s fault is this? Who’s going to pay for another print run?”
“Calm down!” I say, surprised by my forcefulness. “I’ll take care of it, okay?”
He simmers a bit. “Fine.”
“One more thing, Dennis . . . What time did the brochure go on the press last night?”
“The late shift. Around five.”
And that seals it. It is my fault. If I had been at work to take Janet’s call and make the changes she wanted, none of this would have happened. Instead, I was plying my distraught friend with wine and junk food in a half-assed attempt to make her feel better. The agency is going to have to pay for another run of brochures. That will not make them happy. On the bright side, perhaps now they won’t fire me. They’ll probably want to keep me on so they can garnishee my wages.
The Journal of Mortifying Moments Page 7