Bicoastal Babe

by Cynthia Langston

  “What are you talking about?”

  I shove the money into his palm and grab my box. “Here. Thank you. Just go.”

  I slam the door, throw down the pizza, and lament the lurking complexity of everyday, simple transactions. This is why I’ve checked out of life. Because the right people won’t give you the time of day, and the wrong people won’t leave you alone.

  Actually, that’s not why I’ve checked out of life. I’ve checked out because I got laid off from my job a mere week after being dumped by Steve. After the fatal drive-by, I spent several days in a row getting slurring drunk on sloe gin fizzes, chain-smoking and crying myself into dehydration. Then I caught the flu (which turned into pneumonia), bruised two ribs coughing, and pulled a muscle in my back. It was a long couple of weeks. Which turned into a very long month. And now, here I am. Still here. Still in the same grungy flannel pajamas. Still alive.

  But life has improved. I’m feeling much better physically, and I’m no longer bothering my friends with the details of my sordid outlook and squalid lifestyle. In fact, I haven’t returned their calls in weeks. I’ve gone through all the Mallomars in the pantry, so my binge eating has slowed down to a crawl. The liquor store doesn’t deliver, so that’s out. And necessity has inspired creativity in me. I now look to my algorithms to explain my excessive sleep patterns, and use my own B.O. as an excuse not to go to the gym. Like I said, life has improved, and it’s only getting better. As long as everyone in the world continues to fuck off and leave me alone, I see brighter days ahead for me. At some point, before I turn forty, I may even leave the house.

  I put the pizza down and take a quick survey of my apartment. I’ve been hiding out so long in here that I’ve practically morphed into the building structure. The blinking light on my answering machine is relentless, reminding me of countless calls from family and friends that I haven’t picked up and haven’t returned. My hair has gone limp and stringy, and my skin is a pale shade of yellow from tobacco and lack of sunshine. I’ve put on at least five pounds, but who cares. That’s what oversize flannel pajamas are for. I’ve long run out of things to read, so my only connection to the outside world (besides the pizza guy) is the tormented lives of the freaks on the trailer-trash talk shows. I tape them. When I’m finished watching, I rewind and watch again. Those people have the only souls in the world more wretched and pathetic than my own.

  Before life decided to vomit me into a sidewalk gutter, my routine was very different. I used to rush home from the office late, slap on my workout clothes, and race out the door for my spinning class. Afterward, a quick shower, bowl of cereal, toss through the mail, a few return calls, and just enough time to finish the memos that were due the next morning. With great luck, I’d catch the last half of a Melrose Place rerun and get a hasty good-night call in to Steve. All that before surrendering to restless slumber, tossing and turning over the things I forgot to do, the errands I didn’t run, the moments I didn’t have time to enjoy. I was your typical suburban commuter, rushing here, rushing there, very busy, very important, and, truth be told, very put-upon by it all.

  In those days I’d close my eyes sometimes and wish I were a cat. Cats have no responsibilities, no worries, no pressures. The world is one big bed to stretch out on and wait to be fed treats and massaged. The image was so serene and blissful to me, I practically quivered with longing for it. I would think about it as I furiously scratched down notes in work meetings, tapped away at computer keys, and rotated old files in the cabinet to make room for new ones. It hummed in my ear as I rushed off the train in my DKNY suits and Adidas trainers, banging into commuters and shouting apologies over my shoulder. Whenever I was stressed-out (which was almost always), whenever I was exhausted (again, almost always), and whenever I needed the hope of a calmer, more satisfying existence, I could close my eyes and dream about the serenity of being a cat.

  And now I finally have my wish. I have morphed into the feline version of homosepias, the fattest, laziest creature ever to sprawl across the living room floor in a blanket of self-absorption and lethargy. I lie there all day, rising only to eat and use the litter box, and I’ve begun to view my new sprouting of body fur as something that makes me cuddly and exotic. I don’t have a care in the world. No responsibility, no worries, no pressures. Like I said, life is improving.

  And then the door buzzes. Oh, God, the pizza guy is back. What does he want from me? Can’t this moron take a hint? Does not a slammed door in the face communicate that the slammer wishes not for your prompt return?

  At first I ignore it. But he rings again. I can’t believe this.

  I schlub over to the monitor and press the talk button. “Leave me alone.”

  “Lindsey, it’s us.”

  It’s not the pizza guy. It’s even worse. It’s my friends.

  “Lindsey? Buzz us in.” My best friend Holly’s voice is comforting, but I sense that she’s not alone. Probably Danielle and Scott. I glance around my apartment and decide that there’s no way my friends can see me like this.

  Silence.

  “Lindsey! Buzz us in!”

  “Uh,” I stammer, scrambling for a good excuse, “I’m still pretty sick from the pneumonia. I don’t think you guys should be around me.”

  A long pause, then I can hear Holly being pushed away from the speaker. I was right. Scott takes over.

  “Lindsey, shut the fuck up and buzz us in already.” Scott always has a way of making you feel like you’re holding him up, even when he’s an unwanted guest at your house.

  I desperately want them to leave. Why are they doing this to me?

  My thoughts are interrupted by a head poking through the curtains on my window. I gasp in surprise. It is Holly, who has scaled the fire escape and is now climbing into my apartment. Without even looking at me, she marches over to the door and buzzes the other two in. A moment later, there they are: Holly, Scott, and Danielle, come to save me from myself.

  “You have got to be kidding me.” Danielle is looking around the apartment, scrunching her nose at the pizza boxes, overflowing ashtrays, piles of laundry, Mallomar wrappers, and dust bunnies. “Lindsey, this is foul.”

  Danielle, Holly, and I met in junior high school and have been close ever since. Holly is quiet and empathic, a born listener, always ready to lend a helpful ear and make you feel like everything’s going to turn out okay. Danielle is the loud one, forever offering up blunt, frank opinions that are usually correct, but that you don’t always want to hear. Scott is Danielle’s fiancé. He’s from Alabama, so he speaks with a deep Southern accent, and he’s the kind of guy who starts most of his sentences with, “I’m here to tell you,” or, “I’m going to tell you something.”

  After surveying the apartment, the three of them turn to me in disbelief. Holly looks like she’s about to cry. I hold up the new box from Mr. Pizza Guy.

  “Pepperoni-and-mushroom, anyone?”

  “Look,” Scott starts in. “Let me tell you something right now. Shit happens, Lindsey. There is no excuse for this.”

  “You look like death warmed over,” Danielle observes.

  “You look like death, and this apartment looks and smells like a waste dump site.”

  Holly comes over, puts a hand on my shoulder. “Honey, we came over here to help you.”

  I laugh. Bitter. “So that’s what this is, an intervention?”

  She smiles. “Of sorts. We miss you. We care about you, Lindsey. We can’t stand to see you this way.”

  Danielle is not so soft in her approach. “This is pathetic. You think you’re the first person to ever get laid off from a crappy job? The first woman to be dumped by a boyfriend? A little self-pity is normal, but this is just ridiculous.”

  “She’s right,” Scott agrees. “You need to get off your ass, clean this place up, and pull it together.”

  “And reintroduce yourself to the concept of ‘bathing,’ while you’re at it. It smells like a pig farm in here.”

  Holly reaches over and
pulls me into a hug. “They’re right, sweetie. You’ve gotta pull yourself out of this. We’ll do anything we can to help.”

  Hearing my friends speak out loud all the things I know are true suddenly breaks me down. The emotions I haven’t felt in a whole month suddenly come rushing to the surface, and I break into sobs, collapsing into Holly’s arms. She watches me cry, smoothing back my hair, while Danielle goes to make me a pot of tea and Scott starts to round up the garbage.

  A little later, after they’ve cleaned up the mess and thrown away the debris, I relax in a hot bubble bath, all cried out. Holly sits above me, lathering my hair with thick shampoo suds. Danielle and Scott come into the bathroom, and I’m glad to be hidden by all the bubbles.

  “Now that’s more like it.” Danielle smiles.

  “I’m so ashamed,” I mumble weakly. “I know how this must look.”

  Scott whistles. “And it don’t look good.” Danielle elbows him.

  “It’s just that it’s not like you, Linds. You’re such a strong person. How did this happen?” Holly is genuinely confused.

  “I don’t know. It seemed like it all came at once and I couldn’t deal. Everything in me just shut down.”

  “Rock bottom,” Danielle observes.

  “Nowhere to go but up,” Scott adds.

  The three of them look at each other with pointed eyes. I know that look. I’ve seen it before. Something must be up.

  “Okay, you guys. Spill it.”

  Danielle approaches cautiously and sits down on the toilet seat. “Listen, Lindsey. We know that you’ve been hurting, and that you’ve had a pretty tough month. But Scott’s right. There’s nowhere to go but up. So with that, we have some very exciting news for you.”

  I have to say, my barriers have been crushed, and I am now feeling grateful for the tough love and compassion of my friends. “What is it?”

  “My pedicurist’s husband works as a creative director at Gordon-Taylor, and I talked to him about you.”

  Gordon-Taylor Advertising. Chicago’s largest and most prestigious ad agency. Where every advertising professional would die to work. I’ve been trying to get them to consider me since the day I graduated college. I’ve sent them about a hundred resumes. And I’ve never heard a word.

  “I convinced him to make a couple calls, and guess what? They agreed to interview you!”

  I am skeptical. “How’d you do that?”

  “It doesn’t matter how I did it. What matters is that you have an interview on Thursday, and this is an opportunity of a lifetime!”

  “I’m telling you,” Scott puts in, “this is a great break.”

  “You’ve been dreaming about this forever,” Holly reminds me. “It’s your big chance, Lindsey. Aren’t you thrilled?”

  Good question. Am I thrilled? I can’t tell. I can’t feel much of anything.

  “Is it for media buying?” I ask.

  “Of course! And you’re the best media buyer there is. You’re going to knock them off their feet.”

  “I don’t know…” I’m hesitant. I’ve been out of touch with the world for so long that I can’t imagine bucking up for a job interview – much less at Gordon-Taylor. And the truth is, since the day I stopped working, I haven’t really missed it. At all. Buying blank media space for magazine and newspaper ads has never been my idea of a stimulating career. But I got so good at it – and so busy at it – that I kind of forgot about its lack of meaningful substance. And besides, it paid the bills.

  “Wow. That’s incredible.” But my voice betrays my words. I close my eyes and sink farther down into the tub.

  As Holly pours cups of warm water over my head to rinse my hair, I can hear her voice, outlining all the reasons that I should be ecstatic. I can also feel a slight vibration of annoyance coming from Danielle. I’m being pretty apathetic, considering all the work she’s put into giving me this opportunity, and I feel bad about that; I really do.

  They’re right. I know they’re right. It’s hard to remember what it feels like to have energy, to feel alive, to look forward to something. But my friends’ busting into my apartment has touched me, maybe even sparked a glimmer of inspiration that I forgot was possible. I can’t stay like this forever. I have to take my first step back toward the land of the living. And they’re staring at me, waiting for some indication that their efforts haven’t been completely hopeless. At this point, there’s really only one thing to say.

  I open my eyes and smile at my friends. “Will you help me pick out an outfit?”

  Chapter 3

  You’d think I was preparing for the Academy Awards. Holly and Danielle didn’t just help me pick out an outfit; they had scheduled a manicure and pedicure, haircut and highlights, dermabrasion facial, and a three-hour Bloomingdale’s shopping extravaganza, complete with one of the store’s personal shoppers.

  Not that getting through the day was easy. I started off feeling guilty, like a lazy slouch who doesn’t deserve such pampering. Then awkward, like an impostor who’s trying desperately to hide her incompetence behind a seventeen-dollar lipstick. Then I felt exhausted, because it takes a lot of energy to get gorgeous when you’ve spent an entire month undoing every semblance of attractiveness you’ve ever acquired.

  But as I glanced in the window on the way out of Bloomie’s, I saw the reflection of a girl who actually looked like she had it going on. Amazed, I stared at my bouncy blond blowout and new Armani pantsuit, and I realized that not only did I look like a new woman – I was starting to feel like one.

  And now, as I enter the lobby of Gordon-Taylor, I’m actually starting to detect a twinge of excitement. If Steve could see me now, I think. Then I quickly squash the idea. Who cares what Steve thinks? This is about me. I embrace this quick nip of confidence, which is quickly replaced by a flash of nervous terror as I approach the desk.

  The receptionist looks up, clicking her nails on the counter. “Name?”

  “Lindsey Miller.”

  “And the company you’re with?”

  “I’m… I’m here for an interview.” I glance at my notepad. “With Liz Gordon.”

  She checks her list as I lean forward and ask quietly, “Liz Gordon – is that as in, Gordon-Taylor Gordon?”

  She smiles. “It sure is.”

  I can’t believe it. At an agency of this size and magnitude, why would one of the owners take time to meet with little old me about a stupid media-buying job? Very odd.

  “Please have a seat.”

  There is nothing more nerve-racking than waiting in a lobby for a job interview. You’re wearing a suit, and you’ve got that “I’m here for an interview” look about you that seems to invite curious stares from everyone who walks by. And you’re nervous already, and probably have to go to the bathroom, but don’t want to leave in case they call for you.

  I open my notepad and stare at my resume. Every bullet point that seemed so perfect last night now appears to have been written by a drooling cave monkey. I don’t know why I even came. Liz Gordon is going to laugh in my face, berate me for wasting her time, and then make sure I never work in this town again. I feel sick.

  “Lindsey Miller?”

  I look up to see a young, fresh-faced woman with a clipboard, beckoning me to come forward. I jump up to shake her hand.

  “I’m Patricia, Liz Gordon’s assistant. Follow me.”

  Up fifteen floors on the elevator, Patricia eyes me up and down.

  “What are you interviewing for?” she asks.

  “Oh, it’s a media job. I’m actually surprised to be interviewing with Liz Gordon.”

  “It’s like that for everyone. She calls it the Passover. She’ll spend five minutes with you, then approve you or reject you. If you get approved, you’ll start the real round of interviews.”

  Oh, God. I have five minutes to make a great impression. Deep breath.

  The elevator opens into the biggest, most beautiful office space I’ve ever seen. All around, people bustle with positive, welcoming ener
gy. I feel happy just standing there.

  Patricia leads me down the hall to an enormous corner office overlooking Lake Michigan. “Here she is.”

  She knocks on the door and sticks her head in, then beckons me inside. Liz Gordon is standing by the window, on the phone. She’s tall and polished, very cosmopolitan. With a quick glance over, she motions me to sit down and waves Patricia out.

  “Whether or not they like the campaign is really not the point. If you want middle-aged married men to buy the product, you have to first remind them how dull and pathetic their lives are. That’s how you establish need and convince them they must have what we’re offering,” she commands into the phone. “I’m not changing the ads. Take it or leave it.”

  Liz hangs up the phone and sits down across from me at her desk. She opens a folder and pulls out my resume. She looks up at me and smiles. I smile back.

  “Lindsey Miller. Nice suit. Very hot.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “It’s great to meet you. Your agency is beautiful.”

  “It’s a lot more than that.” She smiles again. “You’ve got five minutes.” Looks at her watch. “So tell me. Why do you want to work at Gordon-Taylor?”

  Here we go. I’ll start with something complimentary. “Everyone wants to work here.”

  “Don’t be a sheep, Lindsey. If everyone wanted a hot poker in the eye, would you join them?”

  “Well,” I stammer, “I’d at least have to wonder if they knew something I didn’t.”

  She laughs and I relax a little.

  “So why media buying?”

  “I’ve always worked in media buying. That’s my specialty.”

  “Are you good at it?”

  “Yes, I am. Very good.”

  “I see.” Her eyes move up and down my resume. “Tell me what you don’t like about it.”

  “What I don’t like?” Is this a trick question?

  “That’s right. What you don’t like. You can’t be completely happy in your career. Nobody is. Especially people with boring jobs like media buying. So tell me what you don’t like.”