Up & Out

by Ariella Papa

  “I got canned,” I tell Kathy. She gasps.

  “Oh, honey, are you okay? You kind of knew it, though. You were kind of prepared, right?”

  “Well, I guess so, but it still felt weird to have only an hour to clean out my stuff.”

  “I know,” she says. I think this is sort of par for the course in her industry. “Now you can be a lady who lunches for a while.”

  That does sound sort of intriguing, although in this town it takes money to lunch. Kathy is full of self-serving ideas.

  “Now you can be one of those people who go to Bryant Park at like three o’clock with a big blanket to stake out a good spot for the Monday-night movies.”

  “Great.”

  “Maybe you can even run some wedding errands for me!” Kathy sounds like she is getting ahead of herself.

  “Um, we’ll see about that.” I tell her about Seamus and she seems a little distracted. I think I hear her lightly tapping her computer keys in the background.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, honey.” I know that she is sorry for me, that is, because she thinks that at twenty-seven, we are bordering on being old maids. “Let’s try to get together next week, okay? I want to talk to you about the rehearsal dinner.”

  “Okay, sure.”

  “Did you call a lawyer? You should call a lawyer, just to make sure you can’t do something to the company you gave some of your best ideas to. You created Esme, for God’s sake!”

  I get Beth’s voice mail, which doesn’t surprise me.

  “Hey, it’s me. I’m just calling to give you the details about my layoff. I’m okay, but if you want to reach me, call me at home or on my cell.” I don’t mention anything about Seamus because I haven’t really told her anything about Seamus since I felt weird with the whole Tommy thing. I wish Tommy and my breakup could be a nonissue between Beth and me—in the same way that our dating didn’t matter to her.

  I call the lawyer, Kraig Hitchcock. He’s a friend of Don’s. I’ve never had to call a lawyer before. I’ve never gotten arrested or divorced. I’m starting to think I should have worked out some legal recourse when they decided to make Esme into a series, but I was just so excited about the fact that my idea was going to be a show. I was naive, and now I’m paying for it by not getting paid.

  I explain the whole story to the lawyer, who listens kindly and sighs at the appropriate times. I tell him I have until Friday to sign the severance agreement, which stipulates I can never sue.

  “It’s unfortunate that you didn’t consult an entertainment lawyer when this series of yours got picked up.”

  “I know.”

  “Basically, you believe you got fired because your new supervisor is an incompetent drama queen with a Napoleon complex…” He’s quick, but I guess I didn’t mention that she probably made a deal with the devil in the dark forest or wherever the hell she came from, but it seems pointless now.

  “Yeah, basically, yes.”

  “Unfortunately, Rebecca, I’m going to urge you to sign. Two months is fair. Unless you feel you were sexually harassed or discriminated against, there is not much you can do.”

  “Um, can I be discriminated against for being tall, efficient and hard-working?” He laughs.

  “Unfortunately, that isn’t how the law works in wrongful termination.” I notice he uses the word unfortunate or some form of it a lot. I think that’s a lawyer trick to make the situation more benign than it is.

  “So, I’m basically out of luck.”

  “I know your pride is hurt, but you’re in a better position than most. And you know what? You can still walk down the block to another kids’ network. You sound pretty young. I would advise you not to burn any bridges. You may wind up working with these people again at some point.”

  “No, thank you.” I immediately regret being so insolent. “Thanks for the advice.”

  “No problem.”

  “Can I send you a check or something?” I’m always awkward when it comes to money for things I don’t normally purchase. I wonder how many plates of tempura he bills an hour….

  “For a ten-minute conversation? For a friend of Don’s? No, that’s okay. But, listen, give me a call when you develop your next series. I can help you negotiate a better deal from the get-go.”

  “Thank you,” I say. I have a new respect for lawyers.

  When I hang up with him, I take a deep breath and exhale. I don’t want to think about how much I screwed myself by not working some kind of deal for the rights to Esme. How could I have been so stupid?

  Okay, I won’t think about it. My one recourse will be that I will not send my signed severance in until the very last day it has to be postmarked. This is a small victory, but it’s mine.

  Finally I call my parents in Pennsylvania. I have been dreading this because I know to them getting fired is devastating. In their world things like severance don’t matter. Firing means a ruined reputation and failure. This isn’t too far from the way I’m feeling, but I have to put on a brave face.

  As I suspect, my mother is home and my dad is at work. My dad and I don’t have much of a phone rapport, so I’m glad that I can tell my mother and she can break the news to my father and I’ll be spared the awkwardness of having to tell him myself.

  “Oh, sweetheart, that’s horrible. Was it because you were always so late?”

  “No, Mom, it was because we got taken over by a bank.” So this is a lie—but it’s sure to be more palatable to my mother. I made the mistake once of telling my mom that my day started at ten o’clock; I don’t think she ever believed me, but rather tried to justify my irresponsibility.

  “Remember when you worked at the bank, sweetie?”

  “Yes.” What was she getting at? I worked there in high school and the summer after my freshman year. I was a teller. The only benefits of that job were that I was able to make car payments and that I realized I didn’t want to ever do anything that involved money. Ever.

  “Well, maybe you should think about getting into a field like that. You know, one that’s more secure.”

  I count to ten before I speak again. I stare down at my painted toenails, remembering that the first pedicure my mother ever had was last summer when she came to visit me. She giggled the entire time.

  She is never going to change. She thinks of working in a bank as a “good job.” On the other hand, whatever she imagines I do is flaky—and therefore always cause for concern. I haven’t told her that I moved back in with Tommy.

  “Mother, I’m not going to change careers. And I don’t want you to worry or to make Dad worry. I’m going to be fine. I have two months’ severance. It’s as if I’m working but I’m not. Get it? I’ll be getting money, but I won’t have to work.” Saying this to her makes me feel slightly better about the whole thing. If I keep having to convince people that it isn’t so bad, I might be able to convince myself.

  “Okay, honey. So, when are you going to start looking for another job?” I haven’t developed a plan, but the one I come up with on the spot sounds pretty good.

  “I’m going to enjoy two weeks doing stuff that I never get to do, like errands and hanging out in the city. Then, I’m going to visit Lauryn in Martha’s Vineyard, then—”

  “Is she still separated from her husband?”

  “Actually, they’re divorced. It was final a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Oh.” Victory. I may be twenty-seven and washed-up career-wise, but I’m sure my mom is grateful that I haven’t gotten a divorce. I’ve got some things working on my side. “So what is happening with the apartment?”

  “Nothing, I’m still here.” More lies, but I think sometimes you have to lie to your parents to keep them calm.

  “Well, I tried calling your apartment and the line was disconnected.” Now I have Sherlock Mommy all of a sudden. Next thing I know, she’ll be telling me that Esme is based on her. Luckily, I am ready.

  “That’s because I figured I could save some money by just using my cell phone.
I get free nights and weekends and cheap long distance. In this day and age there’s little need for a land line.” I’ll confuse her by talking technology.

  “Oh, okay. Well, let us know if you need anything or if you want to visit at all now that you have time.”

  “Okay, I will. Bye, Mom.”

  “Take care, honey.”

  I love my parents and I miss them, but at times like this I’m glad I don’t live near home anymore. I think their concern would make me crazy.

  On Wednesday, I actually go out of the house and walk down to the Union Square farmer’s market. I usually go on the weekends when it’s packed, so it’s cool to get there when I can actually move around and sample cheese and bread. I get a bunch of chili peppers and decide to make Tommy some white bean chili when he gets home.

  Foolishly I touch my eyes after I cut up the chili. I am trying to flush my eyes out under the sink when my cell phone rings. For some reason I answer it even though my eye is stinging out of control.

  “Rebecca, it’s your father.” He is screaming into the phone.

  “Hey, Dad, what’s up?” I try to wipe my eye with the back of my hand.

  “Your mother told me to call you on this phone because you don’t have a real one.”

  “This is a real one.”

  “I heard you got fired.”

  “That’s right—um, laid off.” Why, why, why did I forget not to touch my eye?

  “Well, I just want you to know that if you need anything, your mother and I are here to help. We can help you with your phone bill, groceries, whatever.”

  “Well, thanks, Dad. I think I’ll be okay. Like I told Mom, I got a severance package.”

  “Yeah, okay. Your mother says hello. Let us know. We’re here. Bye.” I’m certain my dad is glad to be done with this conversation. My father, who has been in debt forever and who drives a twelve-year-old car, is offering me help. They took out a second loan on their house when I got into college, and now I can’t even hold down a job.

  “Have you been crying again?” Tommy asks when he comes home. He holds up a DVD. “I got Mad Max.”

  “No,” I lie, sniffling. “It’s just the chili.”

  I don’t go out on Thursday, just watch The View, cable and eat leftover chili. Veg-ing with TV and food is becoming a dangerous pattern.

  On Friday, I sign my severance package and put it in the mailbox. I consider spitting on the mailbox, but that wouldn’t be ladylike, now would it? I call for unemployment. I’ll have to call every week to collect about $415. That’s about twenty-five rock shrimp tempura dishes and almost a third of what I used to make every week.

  On Saturday Tommy and I go to the movies and it distracts me for a little while. Maybe I’ll spend the summer going to all the blockbusters….

  I can’t fall asleep Saturday wondering if Tommy and I should just get back together and what that would mean exactly because we already live together and have been hanging out nonstop. He hasn’t had any of his friends over lately and I’m not sure if that’s out of respect for me and my constantly changing mood or if maybe he is thinking that we should get back together, too.

  As far as I know, he hasn’t seen any other girls. Maybe I’ve ruined him for other women. Of course, I didn’t exactly tell him about Seamus, so maybe there are things I don’t know. But I did spend nights at Seamus’s apartment. Tommy hasn’t spent nights anywhere else. He is always around when I need him.

  Maybe, I’m just a needy person. I know I’m not in any condition to be making decisions about our relationship and I’m thankful that Tommy is a decent-enough guy that he doesn’t manipulate the situation to get fabulous and confusing sex for himself.

  I dream of Esme when I sleep. She doesn’t have glasses on and her eyes are red. She walks over to me and her sneakers fall off. I keep saying hi to her, but she doesn’t answer. John and Janice are behind her, shaking their heads, and Jen is hopping on one foot.

  When Esme gets to me, she throws a bunch of money at me. I wake up.

  What is she trying to tell me? That I shouldn’t have signed my severance agreement? That I should have initially gotten a better deal? What did I know? Back then, I would have paid to have my show on television. Maybe Esme thinks I only care about money.

  I created her and now she was confusing me.

  14

  These Days

  Restaurant Week comes to the city twice a year. I think of it like the first day of school. (Exciting, with an opportunity to wear some new clothes.) In theory, I am supposed to be able to go to many of the top restaurants in the city and pay a fraction of the price to sample the food and enjoy the ambience. It should be the best time of my life.

  I think it’s all a conspiracy.

  First of all, now that I’m unemployed, I can call to book a reservation often and immediately. At like nine o’clock on the day the listings come out I’m on the phone trying to procure lunch and dinner reservations that I can hand out to my friends like favors. They shouldn’t be booked so soon, but they are.

  Second of all, I wind up spending more money on lunches and dinners for a week than I ever would if I just went out for a couple of nice dinners during the week at regular prices. I realize I can’t blame Restaurant Week for this, rather my own lack of self-control.

  Third of all, many of the restaurants I want to go to for dinner only have lunch options.

  “Actually, we are booked for the whole week,” says the hostess at Felidia when I ask to book lunch there on Wednesday.

  “Sorry, I’m booked that night and to be quite honest for the whole week,” says the woman at One If by Land Two If by Sea. I know I shouldn’t even be trying to get a reservation at what is supposed to be the most romantic restaurant in the city without having a date, but the prospect of their beef Wellington makes me act a little crazy.

  “I can only get you into the dining room for lunch at two-thirty,” says the woman at Acquavit, trying to call my bluff.

  “What about the day before?”

  “All of my seats for two at lunch are at two-thirty.” Oh, right, because that is an obvious time for the Western world to eat lunch. I will not be defeated, though. I am determined to get into that place. My money is good and I plan on spending twenty bucks for a superb experience.

  “I’ll take it.” Now, if I could just find a date it would be perfect. I fear I will have to sacrifice my reservation because all of my friends have jobs.

  It’s pretty much the same sad story at the next few places I call. No reservations, dinner at eleven o’clock. I even wind up getting the fax number for one of the places. This city wants to thwart me.

  The only place I don’t call is Nobu. They only offer a Restaurant Week lunch and I’m still having flashbacks to my dinner there with Seamus. I hope he hasn’t spoiled it for me. I am going to have to go to exorcise my demons soon, but I swear I will never, under any circumstances, forgive Jewel Bako for being the place he took one of the myriad of his other girlfriends.

  I imagine the hostess at Nobu mocking me for trying to make a restaurant reservation at a time when it is certain to be packed. We are booked for the entire week and the entire week after that and, oh yeah, way into August. And you know what? Those people are willing to pay full price because they have actual paying jobs. And by the way, they also have boyfriends who don’t have handfuls of other girlfriends. Those people are good friends with Nobu. They call him “No.” And, by the way, I eat rock shrimp tempura whenever I want it and sometimes I even leave some on my plate, because I get to gorge on it all the time. Of course I don’t gorge because I’m a tall, thin, beautiful person—the only kind who is supposed to come to this place. Buh-bye.

  I don’t think I could handle it.

  My phone rings. I think about screening it, but quickly rule that out. Everyone knows I’m unemployed and what else would I be doing on this beautiful summer day but sitting in my apartment imagining that the hosts at the major restaurants are out to get me? I take a de
ep breath and answer the phone.

  “Hey, it’s Kathy. You’re home.” She did just call me.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you sitting on your couch?”

  “Um.” I look around for a camera. I think I might be getting paranoid-contact highs from Tommy. “Yeah.”

  “I am so jealous—I would give anything to get out of here. I hate work. You are so lucky.” It’s all about perspective.

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you check your e-mail?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Well, I sent you some ideas for the flower arrangements and I wanted to know what you think.”

  “For what?”

  “For the tables.” Oh, right. The wedding. How could I forget?

  “Okay, I’ll check it out.”

  “Are you okay? You sound down.” Because I’m not squealing with joy about the chance to decide between lilacs and Easter lilies?

  “No, no. I’m fine.”

  “Have you talked to Beth lately? She hasn’t returned my calls.”

  “Join the club.”

  “She’s getting just as bad as you were when you were working on your pilot.” I’m not sure what to say to that. Is she trying to remind me that I used to have a life? I suspect she regrets it from the little noise she makes in her throat. “So next week is Restaurant Week.”

  “Really?” Duh.

  “Yeah, and I know that money is tight right now and that you and Tommy really aren’t together or anything.” She is tripping all over her words and I feel bad for being bitter at her. “Anyway, Ron and I were thinking maybe you two would like to go out to dinner. Ron got reservations at some Italian place downtown.”

  “Thank you, Kathy.” She means well, even though she’ll probably force me to talk about seating arrangements all night.

  “Let me talk to Tommy. This feels suspiciously like the double dates we used to go on in the past.”

  “Well, you could bring someone else….”

  “I know, but Ron wants me to get back together with Tommy.”