Hard Feelings: A Novel

by Jason Starr

  I called Paula on her cell phone. It rang three times, then she answered.

  “Hi,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, hi,” she said, uncomfortably.

  “Did I get you at a bad time?”

  “No . . . I mean not really. I was just having lunch.”

  “I know,” I said. “I just called your office. Who are you having lunch with?”

  She hesitated then said, “Debbie.”

  Debbie was a friend of Paula’s from college with whom I’d thought Paula had fallen out of touch.

  “Really?” I said. “Did you call her or did she call you?”

  “I called her,” Paula said. “I should really go now.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Say hi to Debbie.”

  “I will. ’Bye.”

  Paula hung up. Even though I could picture the scene clearly—Doug sitting across from Paula, maybe holding her hand as she had an awkward conservation with me—I tried to stay calm, not jump to any conclusions.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon working on my résumé and calling headhunters. One was confident that she’d find me something soon, but warned that the job market for high-end salespeople was “tight right now” and that I might have to “humble myself” and start at a “much lower salary” than I was currently making.

  At 5:01, I left my office, feeling miserable. I went right across the street to a bar on Sixth Avenue. I weaved my way through the crowd of tourists from Kansas or wherever and found some room at the end of the bar. I ordered a Scotch and soda. The drink went too fast and it didn’t relax me enough, so I ordered another. This one went as quickly as the first, so I bought a third. When I put the empty glass back on the bar I realized I was buzzed, maybe even drunk, and that I’d probably be very drunk once the alcohol made its way into my bloodstream. I was angry at myself for falling back into a bad habit so easily, but I also realized how my problems at work didn’t seem nearly as important as they had about twenty minutes ago. Maybe if I had one more drink I’d feel even better. I waved the bartender over and ordered a refill. Number four went down as smoothly as the first three. I contemplated ordering a fifth, but I knew if I came home stumbling drunk it would lead to a big fight.

  I decided to take a different route home for a change, through Central Park. I didn’t realize how wrecked I was until I started bumping into people on Sixth Avenue.

  The park was a surreal blur of joggers, trees, horses and buggies, and bicyclists. I walked unsteadily uptown along the park’s East Drive. At one point I stumbled and a jogger, a young Asian woman, bumped into me and almost fell down.

  “Moron!” she yelled, looking back over her shoulder.

  Now I was extremely self-conscious. I knew how pathetic I must look—drunk, with my tie partially unwound and my hair a mess. I decided to rest for a while on a bench. I passed out quickly and woke up, groggy and disoriented. I checked my watch, surprised to see that it was 6:55. More than a half-hour had gone by in what seemed like an instant. I felt less drunk, but I was starting to experience hangover symptoms— a headache, dizziness, slight nausea. As I walked, I felt steadier and less disoriented. I was confident that by the time I got home Paula wouldn’t be able to tell I’d been drinking.

  I exited the park and headed east. I stopped at a deli on Madison and bought a medium-sized bottle of Evian. After chewing on a few Altoids, I took a sip of water, then I swished the liquid around in my mouth before swallowing. I drank the rest of the water in one long gulp, hoping to dilute the alcohol in my body, and then I continued home.

  When I reached my building, I still wasn’t sober, but I didn’t think I looked drunk. I planned to tell Paula I wasn’t feeling well and go right into the bedroom to lie down.

  “Richard.”

  I was in the lobby, heading toward the elevators, when I turned and saw Paula, coming from the mailbox area.

  She kissed me hello, then pulled back and stared at my face.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, as if I were confused. The muscles in my face were weak and I felt like I didn’t have complete control of my tongue.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “No,” I slurred. “I mean, I had a drink, yeah—with a client.”

  I could tell she didn’t believe me. A man arrived and the three of us got onto the same elevator. I hoped this “cooling-off period” would calm Paula down, but when we got off the elevator on the fifth floor she stage-whispered, “I can’t believe you’re drinking again.”

  “What?” I said, aware of how my entire face felt numb. “I told you I just had one. What’s the big deal?”

  She walked ahead of me, shaking her head, and opened the door to our apartment. Otis was barking and wagging his tail excitedly. Paula went directly to the bedroom and slammed the door. I was glad. I figured she’d stew alone for a while and then maybe I could convince her that she was getting upset at me for no reason.

  I undressed in my office and put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt that I found in a storage box of summer clothes. Then I went to the kitchen and took the restaurant menus out of the drawer and tried to decide what I was in the mood to eat for dinner.

  “This time you’re getting help.”

  Paula’s voice startled me. I hadn’t heard her leave the bedroom.

  Looking back down at the menu from a Japanese restaurant, I said, “I’m not going to talk to you when you’re acting crazy.”

  “I’m not going to go through this again.”

  “I told you—I had one drink with a client. I can have one fucking drink without you making a big deal about it.”

  “You’re starting again—with the lies, the denial . . .”

  I tried to step past her, to get to the phone, but she was blocking me.

  “It can’t just be all about work,” she said. “It must have to do with me.”

  “You want sushi?” I asked.

  She grabbed the receiver.

  “Let go,” I said.

  “You’re going to A.A.”

  “Let go!” I yanked harder and she released her grip.

  “I wish you could see yourself right now,” she said, her face turning pink. “It’s like you’re a different person. I don’t know who you are anymore.”

  “Oh, stop with your fucking melodrama. What do you want to eat?”

  She turned away.

  “I’m ordering sushi,” I said.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I’ll put yours in the fridge if you won’t eat it.”

  After I ordered the food, I walked away into the living room and sat down on the couch and turned on the TV. Most of the effects of the alcohol had worn off, but I still felt slightly dizzy, especially sitting down.

  A few minutes later Paula came into the living room and said, “It would make this much easier if you just admitted you have a problem.”

  “You’re the one with the problem.”

  “You keep everything to yourself. You think if you keep it a secret it doesn’t matter.”

  “Look who’s talking about secrets. Who were you really having lunch with today?”

  I was just trying to make a comeback, win a stupid point in an argument, but when I saw a flash of fear cross Paula’s face I knew I’d hit on something.

  “Why are you trying to change the subject?” she said.

  “It was just a question. Why can’t you answer it?”

  Now Paula was looking down guiltily.

  “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d make a big deal about it,” she said. “And now you’re going to make a big deal about it even though there’s nothing to make a big deal about.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She looked at me, absorbing my gaze for a few moments, then said confidently, “I had lunch with Doug today.”

  “So you lied to me,” I said.

  “I didn’t lie.”

  “You said you were having lunch with fucking Debbie.”

  “See?
I knew you were going to blow this way out of proportion. It was nothing—nothing at all. Doug called me up at work today and wanted to meet. It turns out his firm has been recommending a company that I’ve done some research on— he wanted to get together to talk about it. I’m sorry I lied to you on the phone, but I knew you’d get upset and I didn’t know what else to say. But that really was stupid of me and I’m sorry.”

  “So this was a business lunch?” I said.

  “Yeah. I guess it was.”

  “You guess?”

  “Come on, Richard, don’t—”

  “Did you fuck him?”

  “What?”

  “It was a simple question.” I said slowly, “Did . . . you . . . fuck . . . him?”

  “You’re sick.”

  She started to walk away. I stood in front of her, blocking her.

  “Get out of my way.”

  Trying to restrain myself, I took a long, deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment.

  “I want to trust you right now,” I said. “I really want to trust you.”

  “I don’t know how we started talking about this anyway,” she said. “This has nothing to do with me. This has to do with you and your drinking. You’re just trying to turn it into something else.”

  “You still didn’t answer my question.”

  “What question?”

  “Did you fuck him?”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “Did you fuck him?”

  “Stop it!”

  “Did you fuck him?”

  “Shut up!”

  I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.

  “Did you fuck him? Did you fuck him? Did you fuck him?!”

  “No!”

  She tried to get away, to leave the living room, but I grabbed her again. She was struggling, pushing with her hands to get free. She turned toward the hallway. I didn’t realize how close she was to the corner of the wall between the hallway and the living room. I also didn’t realize how hard I pushed her. She stumbled backward, turning to brace herself, and the side of her head banged hard against the corner. For a moment or two she stood still, stunned, then she broke free and ran down the hallway into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  7

  I PLEADED AT the bedroom door for Paula to let me in. I went on and on, telling her how sorry I was and how awful I felt, but she wouldn’t answer me.

  Finally, I gave up and went back into the living room and sat on the couch with my head in my hands. I couldn’t believe that I’d pushed her so hard.

  I put some ice in a towel and returned to the bedroom door. Paula still wouldn’t let me in so I told her I was leaving the ice outside in the hallway and I walked away. Moments later, the door opened and Paula snatched the ice, then the door slammed closed and I heard the lock turn.

  The sushi arrived. I didn’t have an appetite so I put it away in the fridge.

  I went back to the bedroom door and tried to convince Paula to let me inside.

  “I just want you to know I love you very very much and I swear to God I’ll never do anything like this again. You’re right—I have a problem and I’m going to get help. Please— don’t hold this against me. I’ll never hurt you again—I promise. You have to believe me. Come on, please open up so you can see how sorry I am.”

  She didn’t answer. I begged for a while longer, trying every possible approach, but nothing worked. Finally, I gave up and returned to the living room couch.

  At six-thirty the next morning the bedroom door was still locked. I knocked quietly a few times, but there was no response. Then I said, “If you’re awake, please let me in. You have to give me a chance to say I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t answer. I walked Otis and made coffee. After pacing the apartment several times I returned to the door.

  “Please,” I said. “Come on, this is getting ridiculous. Please—just open the door.”

  Again, she didn’t answer. It was past seven and I needed to get into the bedroom to get my clothes for work.

  For the next ten minutes or so, I knocked on the door, trying to get her attention, gradually getting angrier. I knew she was just doing this to punish me, that she was going to keep me locked out of the bedroom until I was late for work.

  At seven-thirty, I cursed and took a shower in the spare bathroom, washing my hair with soap. I had to leave for work by seven-forty at the latest because I had a nine o’clock appointment scheduled and I needed to stop by the office first to pick up some materials for my presentation. I banged on the door, demanding Paula to let me in.

  “This is bullshit,” I said. “I was wrong last night, okay, but you don’t have to be a child about it. I said I was sorry, I admitted I have a problem, and now we have to go on with our lives. So just open the fucking door!”

  I was so frustrated I half-considered breaking the door down, but I realized that would only make me seem crazier and more violent, and then it would be even harder to convince Paula to forgive me. Instead, I found an old, wrinkled suit in a bag of clothes Paula was planning to donate to a thrift shop and I ironed it quickly. It was still wrinkled, but it would have to do. I found a wrinkled shirt in the bottom of the closet, but I didn’t have time to iron it. It didn’t matter— I’d just keep the suit buttoned over it. As I was leaving the apartment I heard the shower running in the other bathroom. Obviously, Paula was planning to go to work today, but she wasn’t going to leave the bedroom until after I was gone.

  I took a cab across town. In my office, at my cubicle, I gathered the materials I needed for my meeting. Then I walked to Park and Forty-seventh to meet with the CFO of a small capital-management firm. As I gave my presentation, I was barely aware of what I was saying. I was too absorbed, thinking about Paula. I hoped she was okay and that she would eventually forgive me.

  The meeting ended with the understanding that I would fax over a quote on the small networking project by the end of the week. I looked so disheveled and I was acting so distracted that I didn’t see how I could have made a favorable impression.

  Riding down in the elevator, I called Paula at her office on my cell phone. Her assistant answered, but when she heard my voice she apologized and said that Paula was “in a meeting” and couldn’t come to the phone.

  “Just transfer me to her,” I said. “I was in an accident.”

  I thought I was convincing, but Paula was too smart and must have sensed the trick because her assistant returned and said, “I’m sorry, she won’t . . . I mean she can’t come to the phone right now. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “I’ll try back later,” I said.

  I went through the lobby of the building, out to the street. I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I was barely aware of the traffic and crowds. I went directly to Madison and Fifty-fourth and stood outside Michael Rudnick’s building.

  I didn’t care if I had to wait all day—I had to see Rudnick again and this time I was going to confront him. I had no idea what I’d say, but I knew I had to say something.

  It wasn’t ten o’clock yet and I knew I’d probably have to wait until noon or later to see him. I sat on the ledge in front of the building. After a while, I took off my jacket and loosened my tie. I kept a close watch on the revolving doors, ready to get up as soon as I saw him. Then I had an idea. I remembered the name of the firm where he worked—Rudnick, Eisman and Stevens—and I took out my cell phone. I got the phone number from information and dialed. A receptionist answered and I asked if Michael Rudnick was in the office today. Rather than answering me, she transferred my call and a deep voice said, “Michael Rudnick.”

  I’d expected his secretary to answer, so hearing Rudnick’s voice startled me. I held the phone up to my ear for a few more seconds, listening to him say “Michael Rudnick” in a louder, aggravated tone, then I hung up. I sat there for several more seconds, with the phone up to my ear, and then I realized that I was actually shaking. I put the phone away, angry at myself for being su
ch a wimp.

  I sat on the ledge for the next two hours. At noon, the lunch crowd started filing out of the building. If, for some reason, he decided not to go out for lunch today, I was planning to return to the building at four-thirty to catch him on his way home. If I missed him later, then I’d come back tomorrow and the next day, but eventually I was going to meet him face to face.

  Then I saw him leaving the building. He was walking between a man and a woman, smiling, heading right in my direction. Suddenly, I felt the same immobilizing fear as when I’d heard his voice on the phone. As he approached, he put on the dark sunglasses that he was wearing the day I saw him crossing Fifth Avenue. He passed by without noticing me.

  For a few moments, I couldn’t move, then I forced myself to snap out of it, to get a grip. I stood up and followed Rudnick and his friends down Madison Avenue, across Fifty-third Street.

  The sidewalk was crowded. The group turned left on Fiftyfirst and I followed, keeping about ten yards between us. In the middle of the block, they went into a Japanese restaurant. I stopped outside the door and watched a maitre d’ lead them to a table. I stood outside for a while, then I decided to go in. The maitre d’ was leading me toward the sushi bar when I noticed that the table next to Rudnick’s group was empty. I asked the maitre d’ if I could sit there instead.

  I sat in the seat closest to Rudnick. We were only a couple of feet apart, the backs of our chairs nearly touching. I realized that this was probably the closest I had been to him since the last time we were in his basement.

  The restaurant was noisy, but I overheard snippets of the conversation behind me. Several times, I heard Rudnick refer to “the closing,” so I assumed he was a real estate lawyer.

  I ordered two tuna rolls, one yellowtail roll, and two pieces of salmon. I remembered how I’d put the sushi I’d ordered last night away in the fridge and I realized that I hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.