Lauren didn’t say anything, and it didn’t matter. Isabel a already knew the answer. She hadn’t noticed how much she hated her job when she was with Ben. He distracted her from the misery of list sel ing. And now, it just glared in her face.
“I wil probably end up running the fucking company,” Isabel a said. “I wil probably be the best list compiler and maker in the whole world. And I’l have Ben to thank for it.”
“That should be your acceptance speech,” Lauren said.
Mary cal ed her, out of breath. “My brother’s friend Andrew works at Cave Publishing, and he said that they need a new assistant. I have the e-mail of the woman who’s doing the interviews, so e-mail her right now. Okay? Are you ready? I’l read it to you now.”
“An assistant?” Isabel a asked. At the list company, she had her own assistant.
“Isabel a,” Mary said, with warning in her voice.
“What?”
“Just take the e-mail and send her your résumé. You have to start somewhere, okay?”
“Okay.”
Isabel a sweated through the entire interview. Her upper lip had never been so wet, and she was sure she wouldn’t get the job. She assured the woman that she wouldn’t mind starting over as an assistant, that she wouldn’t mind a pay cut, and that she was eager to learn.
The woman took notes as Isabel a talked. “I real y want to make a change,” Isabel a said. “I’m not chal enged at my current job, and I’ve always wanted to get into publishing.” Isabel a hoped she sounded desperate enough, but not pathetic.
She got the job and was offered a salary that was about half of what she was making. “So, I’l eat macaroni and cheese a lot,” she said, trying to convince herself. Her parents told her they would help her out at the beginning. Isabel a wished she could say, “No thanks, I’l make it work!” but her new salary barely covered her rent, so she just said, “Thanks. Hopeful y it won’t be too long.”
At her old job, people had treated Isabel a like she was a savant. “So organized!” they would crow when they walked by her office. “So efficient!”
they would cry when she doled out tasks. Now she sat in a cubicle that was covered in paper. “I don’t even know what to do with most of it,” Isabel a admitted to Mary. “They keep handing me stuff, and I literal y don’t know what to do with it.”
“You’l get the hang of it,” Mary said. “Give yourself a break. It’s only been a few weeks.”
At night in her apartment, Isabel a talked out loud more often. “I’m tired,” she said to the TV. “It’s exhausting having no idea what you’re doing al day,” she told the rug. “I think I’m just going to order Chinese,” she confessed to the coffee table, while lying on the couch.
“Maybe you should get a dog,” Lauren suggested. “Or a cat.”
“Lauren, if you ever tel me to get a cat again, we are not friends anymore. Okay?”
“Touchy, touchy,” Lauren said. Then she considered it and said, “That’s fair.”
“I met a guy,” Lauren told her. “He’s great.” Isabel a immediately hoped that it wouldn’t work out, and then felt awful about that. Lauren was her friend, but she didn’t want to be the last single one standing.
“Come out with us tonight,” Lauren said. “He’s going to bring some friends. What do you say?”
“Yes,” Isabel a said.
Isabel a walked into the bar, and Lauren rushed up to her. “So, none of his friends could make it. Sorry! But I want you to meet him.” She grabbed Isabel a’s hand and pul ed her over to the table. “This is Brian,” she said, and Isabel a was relieved. He looked like Bert from Sesame Street—no, he looked like Bert with pockmarked skin. Isabel a smiled. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
Isabel a sat and drank her vodka soda, while Lauren and Bert held each other in long hugs. “How’s the new job?” Lauren asked, with her face in Bert’s shoulder.
“Great,” Isabel a said. “Everything I hoped.”
Isabel a’s new boss was cal ed Snowy. She had a skunk stripe in her hair and was frighteningly skinny. Sometimes when she walked down the hal , Isabel a was sure her legs were going to pop right off, like a Barbie dol ’s. Snowy was only ten years older than Isabel a, and a star in the publishing world. When Isabel a started, Snowy told her that she wanted to be a mentor, not a boss. “I want to help you learn, to help you become a star here.”
Snowy had two assistants, and Isabel a was hired to be the second one. The first assistant was a twenty-two-year-old named Cate, with shiny brown hair and an amazing wardrobe. The day Isabel a started, Cate took her to lunch at a fancy French place and used Snowy’s credit card. “I used to be the second assistant, but the first girl left because she said Snowy was impossible to work for,” Cate told her.
“Is she?” Isabel a asked.
Cate shrugged. “I mean, yeah, she’s a nightmare. But don’t worry. Just do your job and try not to get upset when she yel s.”
“Okay,” Isabel a said. They went back upstairs and Cate showed Isabel a how to do Snowy’s expenses.
That night, when Mary asked Isabel a how work was, she said, “Today, I got career advice from a twenty-two-year-old.”
“It’l get better,” Mary said.
“God, I hope so.”
About three times a day, Snowy dropped a pile of little scrap papers and Post-its on Isabel a’s desk. They had handwritten notes on them, most of which made no sense. “Here,” Snowy would say as she gave them to her, “file these.” Isabel a, unsure of what to do with the notes, typed them up and kept the originals in a file folder, in case Snowy ever asked for them. One time, Isabel a found a Kleenex in the pile of papers. “What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked Cate.
Cate just wrinkled her nose and said, “Gross.”
One morning, Snowy dropped a manuscript on Isabel a’s desk. “Why don’t you read this and get back to me?” Isabel a held it with both hands on the subway home, afraid that she was going to lose it. She stayed up most of the night, reading it and writing out notes. Everything she wrote sounded stupid. The main character is too one-dimensional, she wrote. Then she crossed it out. The main character does not have enough depth, she wrote instead. “At one point in my life, I was smart,” she thought.
In the morning, Isabel a’s head and eyes hurt. When she went into Snowy’s office to drop off the manuscript, she thought she was going to wet herself. She felt homesick for the list company, just for a second, and then handed her notes to Snowy. When Snowy handed them back to her later, Isabel a could see that she’d crossed out almost every note Isabel a had written. No, she’d written in mean red pen. Not clear enough.
“You’l get the hang of it,” she told Isabel a. Isabel a went to the handicapped bathroom and cried for ten minutes. Then she got up, splashed her face with water, and went back to her desk. Cate smiled at her sadly.
Cave Publishing was closed the last week of August, and Isabel a decided to go home. Her mom had suggested it, and Isabel a almost wept with relief when she did. She was tired of getting Snowy coffee. She was tired of having Snowy tel her that she was doing her job wrong. She was tired of the name Snowy.
“That would be great, Mom,” Isabel a said. She was looking forward to having someone cook for her. She could stay in sweatpants al day if she wanted.
“Oh, that wil be fun!” her mom said. “Plus, you can help out with Connor. I’m sure he’l love to see you.”
Isabel a’s nephew Connor was spending most of the summer at her parents’ house. He had been asked to leave camp after he screamed at a counselor for changing the schedule. Apparently, the Guppies were supposed to have free swim after crafts, and the unassuming teenager had tried to mix it up and take them to archery instead. Connor flipped out and charged the counselor, head-butting him and screaming, “You idiot
asshole!” The head of the camp thought that Connor showed signs of “unusual aggression,” and that it would be better if he didn’t come back to camp. With no backup ch
ild-care plan for Connor, Joseph had asked his parents for help.
“I didn’t know you could get kicked out of camp,” Isabel a said to her mother.
“I didn’t know either,” her mom said. “But it would be great if you were here to spend some time with him. He’s a little difficult these days.”
Every morning at eight-thirty, Isabel a’s brother dropped Connor off. Joseph was balding at a rapid rate. He looked old and tired to Isabel a. He was probably upset, but he appeared formal and detached; that’s how he always was. “Good morning, Isabel a,” he would say. Then he would bend down to talk to Connor, who scowled and remained silent.
Connor had been tested for every behavioral abnormality under the sun and had been diagnosed with some frightening acronyms. Now they were working with a therapist to “overcome his chal enges.” He was odd. Isabel a couldn’t deny that. But she’d always had a fondness for Connor.
He was her oldest nephew and always told her she was his favorite aunt. He always chose to sit next to her. He was sensitive. (Plus, his mother had run off with a man she’d met on the Internet, leaving Connor and his sister with their dad. You had to cut the kid some slack.) Last Thanksgiving, Connor made up a game. He would draw a box, then draw three objects. “Okay,” he’d say. “You’re locked in a room with a gun, a bomb, and a phone. What do you do?” No one else but Isabel a would play the game.
“What would you do, Auntie Iz?” Connor asked.
“I would use the phone to cal outside,” Isabel a said. “I would warn them to get away, then I would blow a hole in the wal with the bomb and have the gun just in case anyone dangerous was out there.”
Connor looked pleased with her answer, and said quickly, “Okay, good one.” He nodded his head four times. Then he started drawing another room with three new objects.
Al week, Isabel a tried to keep Connor occupied. She took him swimming, she took him to play tennis. They went to see a movie, and went to check out books at the library. But on the last day Isabel a was there, they ran out of things to do. They sat in the playroom, staring at each other.
“Do you want to play a game, Auntie Iz?” Connor asked. Isabel a didn’t, but she said yes.
“Okay, so here’s the game. It’s cal ed Deaf or Blind. So first, you tel me if you would rather be deaf or blind.”
“Blind,” Isabel a said. Connor looked annoyed. He was holding earplugs he’d found in her dad’s room.
“You should choose deaf,” he said. “It’s better.”
“But I want to make sure I can stil hear music. I’m going to choose blind.”
Connor shook his head like he couldn’t believe she was making this choice. “Okay,” he said, “hold on.” He went over to the dress-up chest and rummaged around for a while, until he found a bandanna that had once been part of a cowboy costume.
“You know,” he said, “it’s a lot scarier to be blind.” Isabel a nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’ve never picked blind before. It seems scary.”
“I think I’l be okay,” Isabel a said.
“Are you scared?” he asked.
“Just a little bit, but not too much.” Connor looked at her with admiration.
He stood behind her and wrapped the bandanna around her eyes and then tightened it. Isabel a saw the blackness, and then, as he pul ed it tighter, bursts of light started to explode. “You can’t see, right? Auntie Iz, you can’t see anything, right?” Isabel a shook her head no.
“Okay,” he said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to go in another room and you have to count to a hundred and then come find me. You can cal my name three times. Wait, no, only two times. If you cal my name three times, then you lose points, okay? And I’l answer you so that you can try to hear where I am.”
“Got it,” Isabel a said.
“Okay. This is hard, though, Auntie Iz. You have to listen with your insides. You can listen in a way that you didn’t before. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Connor walked out of the room and then Isabel a heard him stop. “But Auntie Iz? If you get scared or fal down, you can take it off, okay? That’s okay.” Isabel a nodded. She felt Connor touch her eyes softly. “You real y can’t see, right? Okay, here we go.”
Isabel a heard him run out of the room and shout, “Okay, go!” She was counting to one hundred in her head, and then she heard him say, “Auntie Iz, you have to count out loud!” So she started over. “One, two, three, four,” she said, and then she heard him scream, “Slower!” so she slowed down.
She heard a door slam downstairs and then voices. Her mother was talking to Connor. Isabel a could tel that he was frustrated that she was interrupting the game. Then she heard her brother’s voice. They were talking to Connor like he was younger than he real y was, and Isabel a felt bad for him. She hadn’t noticed how their voices changed when they talked to him. She heard them ask him about where she was.
“No,” she heard him say. “No, you can’t get Auntie Iz now. She can’t come in here yet. She’s blind,” and Isabel a was struck by how he said that last word. He said it like he was proud of her for choosing the blindness, like he was amazed that she would choose not to see.
She could hear Connor’s voice start to rise. His pitch got higher and his volume louder as he said, “No, you said three-thirty and it’s only three o’clock. I’m not ready. I’m not finished.” Isabel a knew that he was shaking his head as he said this, tightening his arms and shaking them back and forth with quick, little movements. She had seen him work his way into a fit a number of times in the past week, but now she just listened.
“I’m not done, I’m not ready!” he said. “Izzy is stil blind, and I didn’t know you were coming yet. I’m not done! I’m not done!”
Isabel a listened to him as he shrieked so high and loud that she knew the neighbors could hear. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go!” he yel ed. She listened to her mother and brother try to quiet him down, try to plead with him to settle himself. But he didn’t. Connor screamed with al of his might. He fought against it with everything he had. Al he wanted was to know what to expect. His world didn’t look like he’d thought it would, and she understood. How could he keep calm if he couldn’t see? Isabel a lay on the floor of the playroom upstairs and listened. She heard the screams and she knew exactly how he felt. He was right—she could hear it on her insides.
T he bartender at McHale’s was sleazy in an attractive way. This annoyed Lauren. She couldn’t make sense of it. She was disgusted with Preston, yet stil happy whenever he threw a lime at her from behind the bar. “He’s gross,” she tried to explain to her friends. “He has dirty blond hair that he slicks back behind his ears with little curls at the end. It always looks greasy. His eyes are a filmy blue, like he’s thinking pervy things. And he has this big scar on his chin that I just always want to touch.”
“So he’s dirty sexy,” her friend Shannon said.
“Yes!” Lauren said. “But why?”
“Dirty sexy can’t real y be explained,” Shannon said. “It’s kind of like ugly sexy. Only you feel worse about it because you think you should be above the sleaze.”
Lauren felt better for the explanation, but it stil unsettled her to be around him. “I wil not sleep with him,” she told herself. Two weeks after she started working there, she stayed with Preston to have a drink after work and found herself having sex with him in the walk-in fridge. One second she was drinking a vodka soda, and the next thing she knew there was a bin of lettuce shaking above her head. She couldn’t serve a salad for weeks without feeling trashy.
“So much for that,” she said to Shannon. Shannon just shrugged.
Lauren was sure that Preston was not the right guy for her. But stil , she found herself in his bed. She lay behind him and sucked his blond curls when he was sleeping. She knew it couldn’t end wel .
Lauren was almost out of money when she decided to be a waitress. She had been looking for PR jobs in New York for a month and hadn’t
even gotten an interview. So she started applying at bars in SoHo and gastropubs in the West Vil age. (She figured if she was going to be a waitress, she would like to do it in a place where she might see famous people.) But none of those places wanted her. It turned out that being a waitress in New York was more competitive than being in PR. Aspiring models and actresses flooded every restaurant, elbowing one another with bony arms to win the right to serve food. Lauren didn’t have a chance.
A friend suggested that she apply at McHale’s, an old-fashioned restaurant in Midtown with a wood-paneled dining room and a meatloaf special on Wednesdays. McHale’s was the kind of place that made people nostalgic for a time when businessmen drank at lunch and people ate pot roast on Sundays. It had a bar with red leather stools and a mean vodka gimlet. They offered Lauren a job the day she walked in and she took it.
And just like that, Lauren was a waitress. It was only temporary, of course. It was just an in-between job, something to make money while she was looking for her next move. She could tel that it made the customers happy when she told them this. They were more comfortable once they knew that Lauren had plans. She was just too pretty, too charming to simply be a waitress.
Lauren figured she would work at the restaurant for three months, maybe six months max. But a year went by and she was stil there. She stopped sending résumés out to PR firms. She couldn’t even remember what she thought she had wanted to be.
At the very least, Preston was a distraction from the detour her career had taken. He wasn’t a big talker, and Lauren found herself fil ing up the silence when they were together. That was how she came to tel him the story of the ham.
In her high school biology class, Lauren dissected a pig. Each pair of students got their very own formaldehyde-soaked piglet to cut up. As they sliced and dismembered the little porkers, the teacher told them different facts about the pig’s stomachs and reproductive organs. He walked over to Lauren’s pig and pointed to the rump. “This is where ham comes from,” he told her. Lauren looked up. “Ham comes from pigs?” she asked.
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