by Ariella Papa
“Yeah, take care.” And we hang up. No definite plans made. No nothing. That’s the way it is now. It has been a month since we last slept together and now we are just getting off the phone like two acquaintances. I don’t know when this is going to get easier.
Today turned out to be another wash. I barely got started on the segment I was working on and the people who were composing our score had gone slapstick instead of zany. Now we had to wait another week at least for music. Nobody listened. Instead of meetings, I spent the day on the phone.
It’s now five o’clock, and it looks like it’s going to be another late night if I hope to accomplish anything. Friday of all nights. I’m to meet the girls for dinner and drinks. My computer dings and I open an e-mail about a meeting in our large theater at five-thirty. Does it ever stop? The meeting is to be global, which means that the entire company, including the L.A. office, is going to attend. My phone rings again—Janice.
“Is it true? Have we been bought?”
“I don’t know. This e-mail is so cryptic.”
“I bet Jen knows.”
“You think?”
“Well, I know she’s not going to tell me.” That is my cue. I go out to their workstations. Janice and John are already standing up and peeking out over their cubes at Jen, who is whispering on the phone.
“I got to go,” she says when she sees me. I am relieved to see that she makes personal calls at work, although maybe this signifies how serious this meeting is going to be. “What’s up, Rebecca?”
“You tell us,” John says. It must sort of suck for Jen to be related to a big shot like Hackett. Everyone kind of resents you, no matter how well you do your job.
“Do you know anything about what we’re meeting about?” I ask. Jen looks a little nervous. That’s the other sucky thing. No one really wants to give you any dirt, but they expect it from you.
“The meeting’s in fifteen minutes,” she says, gesturing toward her computer.
“So, that means you know,” Janice says.
“Okay, if you can’t tell us you can’t tell us.” I look at Janice. I want to know, too. Bad. But I have to be the good cop. “We’ll find out soon.”
We all head to the meeting together. Most of our floor seems empty. Jen doesn’t say a word throughout our odyssey to the elevator banks. When we get to the theater (which is like a small stadium), it is packed. They hand us chocolate chip cookies as we go in. Janice, John and I look at one another. Only John says what we are all thinking.
“This means it’s bad,” he says, holding up the cookie. “I’m getting another one.”
Hackett is up on stage with the rest of the honchos, including Kristina Amos. She is the VP of the whole shebang and the head of the New York office. She’s one of those women who always looks put together. She is at least fifty. But we love the sight of her. We love to dish about her.
“Hello, everyone,” Amos says after a little microphone feedback. “We’re going to keep this short because we know it’s the end of the day.”
“Not for us,” Janice says.
“We hope everyone’s enjoying their cookies.” Now they expect us to be grateful that they are leading us to slaughter. She starts talking the typical shit they talk at these meetings and I can tell it isn’t going to be quick. If it is good news, they wouldn’t have waited until the end of the day. Of course, they are trying to act like it is. Amos blabs about how hard everyone has been working, how ad sales are doing as well as they can in this economy, blah, blah, blah…
“Of course we know that often the best way to get revenue up is to partner with someone who already has capital and whose brand initiatives are parallel to your own.”
“Do you think she really means parallel?” Janice whispers to me. “Don’t you think that would be bad?”
I shake my head. Amos is still working up the benefits of having what she is calling an industry giant.
“I hope the industry giant is Prescott Nelson Inc.,” John whispers. “They’re getting into TV, and have you ever been to the Nook, their cafeteria? It’s great.”
“So, we’ve decided—and I think you’ll all agree that it was the wisest decision—” as if we had any kind of choice “—to align ourselves with Indiana Mutual. You can rest assured that this move will be beneficial to everyone’s future and fiscally responsible for the brand. Have a good night.”
That was it. They got off the stage. They didn’t take questions. They didn’t say who was going to get fired or what the hell they were thinking. They just announced the merger and ran. Nobody in the audience moved. We were all in shock. I took a deep breath and looked at my team. Janice shook her head, John was picking and eating the cookie crumbs off his pants, and Jen looked like she was going to cry.
“Did I hear what I think I heard?” someone in front of me asks. “You mean to tell me that we are a television company and we just got bought by a bank?”
3
32 Flavors
I was late to meet the girls, as usual. And it didn’t help that the directions Beth left on my voice mail didn’t make any sense to me. I wandered my way around the West Village, which can be the most confusing place on earth and finally found the restaurant they were at, Poor Man.
“She made it in under an hour, this time,” Beth says. “That’s quite an improvement, isn’t it, ladies?”
All my friends were convinced that Esme was based on them. Kathy knew Esme was her because of the glasses. She never fell for the “men don’t make passes at women with glasses” bullshit and more than once convinced me to spend far too much money in Selima. Selima is the funkiest eyeglasses shop in the city. One look behind their glass cases and I was hooked. Beth thought it was her because she was sure that Esme was Portuguese like her and Tommy. And of course, Lauryn was certain that Esme’s detective skills were derivative of her discoveries of Jordan’s money troubles and infidelities.
The girls are already sloshed. They’ve been filling up on bread and booze. Kathy is dressed up the most. Her nights away from the fiancé are becoming more of an event, and she is more put together than she used to be. Beth looks like a hip, cold New Yorker, and Lauryn seems to be working some New Age thing with an Indian-print shirt and no makeup.
“I’m sorry. We got bought today—I mean, Explore! did.” I sit down and order a gimlet from the waiter.
“By who?” Lauryn asks. I tell them the whole story and explain how I had to stay at work late, not working but rehashing with my co-workers, except Jen, who left as soon as she could. I tell them all the theories people had, and Kathy gives me some anecdotes about corporate takeovers that depress me. The waiter comes over, his presence admonishing me for being late and not looking at the menu.
“You guys order, I’ll be last.” I like menus. I like to travel around the city and look in restaurant windows to see what they offer and decide what I would get if I ever went there. I like to be prepared. Lately, I’m always rushing to order something, so my friends could be a little less mad at me for always being late. I’m doing that now, trying to hurry up and figure out what to get.
I had, of course, read the review of Poor Man online at Zagats and Citysearch. I also saw the write-up a week and a half ago in the Times’s “Dining In/Dining Out.” I had done some research, but looking at a complete menu was a different story.
“And for you?” the waiter asks. My time is up. This restaurant is supposed to celebrate the food of the poor in various countries yet with an “upscale twist.” That twist is apparently the price.
“I’ll take…” I am still scanning the menu, desperate. Fuck! I need more time. “Um…”
“Oh, boy,” Kathy says, giggling.
“I’m thinking about…” What do I want?
“Here we go,” Beth says, sounding bitter.
“Okay, I think I’ll have…” Wait! Should I get a starter? Of course I should. But, what?
“She does this all the time,” Lauryn explains to the waiter. She might h
ave been flirting.
“Okay, I just have a question,” I say. They all groan. “No, seriously. I want to ask you, sir. What do you recommend? The puttanesca or the mutton pie?”
“The mutton pie.”
“Really.” I look back at the menu. I’m still not sure.
“Rebecca!” they shout.
“Okay, okay. I’ll get the dandelion salad and the mutton pie.” I hope I am making the right decision. I hate commitment.
“Good choice,” the waiter comments. He reaches for my menu and it takes me a second to let go. Lauryn orders another round.
“You’re ridiculous,” Beth says to me when he’s gone.
“So, okay,” Kathy leans into the table, gesturing us all to do so. “How hot is the waiter?”
Ever since Kathy got engaged she feels she has to prove she is still one of us. She constantly punctuates our outings with cries of “girls’ night out!” and she is always checking out guys. She is more obvious than Beth, who is the single one. No wait, so are Lauryn and I. I keep forgetting that we are also unattached. I’m still not used to it. When will I be? Kathy talks tough, but when we are out and any of these men approaches us, she holds up her giant ring and sings, “I’m taken, I’m taken.”
“He’s okay,” Beth says.
“Not really my type,” Lauryn adds. The next round arrives and we get another look at our waiter.
“He’s cute,” I tell Kathy, and wink. She winks back through her glasses.
“So are you ladies ready for Sunday?” She claps her hands. Our starters come just as she does this, so we are momentarily rescued from indulging in wedding talk. But Kathy is tenacious and goes right back to it after we each have a few bites.
“So you guys have to remember to bring your strapless bras to the store on Sunday.” After six excruciating trips to bridal shops around the city and two in Connecticut with Kathy’s pregnant, domineering sister, we have narrowed it down to five bridesmaid looks. Kathy swore she would make a decision this Sunday.
“You got it,” Beth says, curtly. Something has definitely made its home in her ass. Kathy looks hurt. She sees us so rarely and hardly ever in nonwedding-related occasions. She needs to feel she is still a respected part of the group. Of course she is, but she is very sensitive about it.
“It’ll be fine,” Lauryn says, sensing this. She smiles at Kathy. It is the most positive thing she has ever said about the wedding. Kathy had the luck to get engaged just as Lauryn left Jordan.
I take a piece of the rustic bread and mop up my dressing. I know Kathy is concerned about my belly, but I don’t care. I was voting for the strapless empire-waist dress. I might soon be answering to a bank teller. Bread might be my only joy. I ask the waiter for more when he clears our starters. Lauryn orders another round.
“So, do you still have that date this weekend?” Kathy asks me. I put my piece of bread back on the dish.
“Oh,” I say, remembering what day it is. “I guess I do. I mean, he said he would call when he got back from Napa.”
“Yeah, I told them. I forgot to tell you,” Lauryn says. “He left you a message.”
“Lauryn said he sounded sexy,” Kathy says.
“He is. I can’t believe he called.”
“How did you meet this guy again?” Beth asks, nonplussed. She’s from southeastern Massachusetts and she’s taking this cold New Yorker act a little bit too seriously.
“I met him at jury duty.” I had spent twenty grueling days as a Supreme Court juror for New York State. (Okay seventeen days. I had two excused absences and one religious—ha!—observance.) I was juror number three, he was juror number nine. His name was Seamus and we had done a lot of flirting before the end of our session. From what I remember, he has nice teeth and had some job relating to food. It sounded too good to be true.
“What are you guys going to do?” Kathy asks. I look at Lauryn.
“He just said he hoped you were still on, he didn’t say for what.”
“I know for what,” Kathy says, and does an awkward little shake at the table. She is beginning to remind me of the way I felt about my mom when I was a teenager. Is that what happens when you get engaged?
“She’s not even sure he’s straight,” Beth says. I’m about to fling my leftover bread at her, but our food comes.
We stuff ourselves for a while on mediocre food. (At least my meal was mediocre.) The pie dough and lamb fat would have been delicious if someone had bothered to warm it up. It was greasy, and since this place has been contrived by someone who had no idea what poor people are like, I only had thin paper napkins to wipe off my face.
Kathy’s French peasant sausage dish was just plain bad, but she acted like she didn’t notice. Beth’s perogies were good, but twice the price they would be in the East Village. Lauryn’s jerk goat was the best. We opt out of dessert.
When the check comes, it’s outrageous. As usual, we doubled the price of our meals with our bar tab. I knew then why they called this place Poor Man. Lauryn wobbles a little when she stands up. I grab her arm.
“Thanks, I think it’s the antibiotics I’m on.” I look over at Beth. She doesn’t meet my eye. “I think I might pass on another bar, guys.”
“I’m definitely going to pass,” Beth says. “I’m meeting up with this guy from work.”
“Rebecca?” Kathy says.
“Um, maybe I should go back with Lauryn.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Lauryn says. She looks a little flushed.
“Do you want to sleep over?” I ask Kathy.
“How nice, a slumber party,” Beth says. She pushes her chair out. “I’ll see you guys on Sunday. Have fun on your date, Rebecca.”
I’m certain she didn’t mean it. She leaves the restaurant. I sort of shrug at Kathy.
“No, thanks, Rebecca. I told Ron I wouldn’t stay out too late.” I picture her going back and cuddling with him, and feel a pang of jealousy. My night of intimacy will be checking on Lauryn at regular intervals.
We share a cab. Kathy drops us at our apartment near the Flatiron Building and continues on to Grand Central Station.
“Are you okay, Lauryn?” I ask from outside the bathroom. There are some bad sounds coming from in there.
“I’m fine, Re. Just need to wash up and have some water. Have a good night.” My bladder is set to burst, but I don’t think I want to go in there. I hold it, and go to my empty bed. I’ve had just enough to drink to pass out and not think about being in bed alone.
The phone is ringing. It is Saturday and someone is calling at ten o’clock. I am not one of those people who seize the day. Not on the weekend. Who the hell is calling? If it’s a telemarketer, she’s going to get a piece of my mind.
“Hello,” I say to the devil on the phone.
“Is that Rebecca?” The voice is vaguely recognizable. Male. Strange.
“Yes.”
“It’s Seamus. Hello. Did I wake you?”
“No.” I sit up in bed. “Not at all. I’ve been up for…hours.”
“Oh, yeah. It’s a great day, isn’t it? It’s really spring.”
“Yes, great.” I like the sound of his voice.
“So are we still on for today?”
“Absolutely.” Uh-oh. That might have been a little too I-haven’t-had-a-date-in-three-years eager. I clear my throat. “Yes, if you’re free.”
“Yep. I was thinking of a few ideas. I just had my run, but I was thinking since it’s so lovely out we could meet up and bike around Manhattan and then maybe head over the bridge and go to Grimaldi’s.”
Pizza good. Exercise bad. Is he serious? Does he realize it is Saturday? I may be getting desperate, yes, but not that desperate. I don’t even own a bike.
“Or we could go to Esca for dinner,” he says. Sweat or fish? The choice seems obvious. I’m not even sure I understand the question. I’m too tired to be thinking about this. I have to just be honest with him. I don’t want to start a relationship based on dishonesty.
&nbs
p; “I’ve been having trouble with my…” I don’t even know what parts are in a bicycle. Gear? Seat? In one of Lauryn’s manic moments a telemarketer had preyed upon her. She had a mini breakdown and because he was so kind to her, she agreed to subscribe to magazines like Field & Stream and Bicycle Boy. If only I had read them, instead of ridiculing her when the mailbox was stuffed. “…tire. And I have a lot of work to do.”
“Oh, yeah, your TV series. How’s that going?” He remembers. How sweet. He is wonderful and I am a low-down, lying ho.
“It’s terrific. Actually, it’s been really busy. I have a lot of work to do today, unfortunately. I’ll have to take a rain check on that bike ride.” Let’s get through an evening together first, bud, then we’ll see where we go from there.
“That’s too bad. I took the liberty of making reservations at Esca.” Bless this man. He might just see me sweat before he could say fresh sardine.
“Cool.” We make plans to meet at the restaurant. Kathy would tell me never to meet at a restaurant, to always be picked up, but I didn’t necessarily want to land a guy like Kathy’s fiancé, Ron.
I finally go to the bathroom, then go back to bed for another two hours of blissful sleep. It is my Saturday. I earned it.
When I finally wake up, Lauryn has bagels and coffee. She’s feeling better. I ask her what medicine she was taking to make her have such a bad reaction to alcohol. I am expecting her to tell me something about allergy medicine. I’m wrong.
“Well, Rebecca, my doctor prescribed some antidepressants.” I can’t believe it. She’s being honest, coming clean. She is just admitting it. “I don’t know if you realized, but I’ve been feeling a little, well, bummed about the whole Jordan thing, and my therapist thought I should see someone who could help me with medication.”
“Oh. Well, how come you never told me?”
“I don’t know. I guess I was worried you guys would all be worried about me. Maybe I didn’t want you all to talk.”