Say You're Sorry

by Sarah Shankman

  Earlier this morning, in the long line behind the security check, the sticky crowd had made nervous jokes about knives and guns and bombs, all the while sussing one another out with the quick once-over that is second nature to every New Yorker: assessing caste, class, tailoring, and degree of homicidal impulse in a millisecond. Then, after they’d received their guides to restaurants in neighboring Chinatown and Little Italy and had watched the video on the ins and outs of jury duty, they’d filed into Room 1517 and the sea of dark blue chairs.

  But inevitably, the stew of strangers had settled into the reality of their task.

  It was theirs to wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  They’d looked around, then, okay, damn it, with a collective sigh they’d opened their briefcases, backpacks, purses, and bags and unearthed newspapers, magazines, books they’d been meaning to read, find-a-word puzzles, needlework, the paperwork that had long been shoved aside. They’d clamped on Walkmen. Clare spotted two other people, both Wall Street types, bent over laptop computers. A young Hispanic woman in the last row, next to the windows, fiddled with the antenna of a tiny television. Here and there, a couple of people talked quietly. And fully a third of the room lurched and listed and snored and snuffled through mid-morning naps.

  Clare stared accusingly at her computer’s blank screen. Her brain was frozen. It was totally quiet in there. Except for a constant interior refrain. Nobody loves you. Never will again. That was the main melody.

  Then, winding in around it, a wailing glissando: Why is it my job to turn the tide of thirty-odd years of sappy story lines about soggy romance, all slow as molasses? Why do I have to make the shift from slow-rising yeast to Pop Tarts? Horse-and-buggy to the Concorde? Whalebone corsets to Madonna and her jet-nose tits?

  Because they said so, that’s why. Because they paid her the big bucks to swallow what “art” she might have once fancied herself possessed of, zip her lip, and deliver whatever crap they demanded. On time and in the flavor of the moment. No matter what her personal problems. Who gave a shit about them?

  The cursor on the small green screen before her blinked. Write, Clare. Suck it up. Get your ass in gear. Take a deep breath. Push some oxygen in and out. Get the old gray matter moving.

  Could she do that? Maybe.

  It wasn’t as if she didn’t know these characters. These silly people, most of whom she’d inherited from her predecessor, who had, incidentally, hanged herself in the bathroom of her East Hampton beach house one fine morning two summers earlier. Just down the lane from Martha Stewart’s house. Her death had made the six o’clock local news. Clare wondered, would her suicide play as well?

  But she digressed. Well, Christ, who wouldn’t? What the hell else was there to do with Dirk and Carol and Josh and Trish and Richard and Paula, the three main couples of Real Life? They were such stupid people with such stupid problems. Slow stupid problems. Problems that moved at the pace of a banana slug (or a soap) and were about as fascinating.

  No, actually, a banana slug was a hell of a lot more interesting than the ailing marriage of Trish, played by a busty brunette with the voice of a mosquito, and Josh, the simpering nephew of Arnie the producer, who couldn’t act his way out of a damp Kleenex.

  Clare couldn’t even think about Richard and Paula, her whiny preppie couple.

  So she’d have to start with Carol and Dirk—C for Clare and D for David, get it? Ms. Clare Meacham Herself and her erstwhile lover, Dr. David Teller. Yes, Carol and Dirk were loosely based on her own pathetic life.

  “Excuse me.”

  Clare jumped. It was the woman to her left. An attractive middle-aged black woman in a navy business suit, good pumps, substantial gold jewelry. “Do you have change for a dollar? I need to call my office.”

  Clare checked her wallet, handed the woman three quarters and two dimes. “I’ll have to owe you a nickel.”

  The woman’s smile was warm. “Nope, I owe you.” And she headed off to the phone room.

  She’d be a while. Clare had already checked it out: three machines vending poisonous substances, a water fountain, and more of those damned blue chairs in which to wait for the four phones. Four phones for nearly three hundred New Yorkers, and no cellulars allowed? You might as well have cut off their oxygen.

  Clare stared back at the blank screen. Okay. Dirk and Carol, step up, please, front and center. In Real Life, they’d weathered many problems, such as the time when Dirk, who was a plastic surgeon, had been called away to Wisconsin for two months to reconstruct the faces of an entire family of protected witnesses (as had David) and had strayed with a Scandinavian scrub nurse (which Clare had suspected). Then there’d been Carol’s automobile accident and the coma and the long while after she’d come out of it when she thought Dirk was an extraterrestrial.

  Now, lagging about six weeks behind Clare’s real life, Dirk had just leaned over a table in an Italian restaurant and told Carol he was calling off their engagement. Because, well, he was marrying someone else. Carol had burst into tears and bolted out of the restaurant. (As had Clare.) “What are you writing?”

  Again, Clare started. This time, her interrogator was to her left, a very short man sitting two chairs over. About her age, late thirties, he was nicely turned out in fine fawn-colored trousers, a T-shirt in chocolate, a handsome blue, brown, and beige jacket. Armani probably. His dark, clean profile reminded her of David.

  David. Clare’s stomach flip-flopped.

  Meanwhile, the gorgeous little babe was waiting.

  What was she writing?

  Nothing. Not a word. She was simply staring at her screen. Listening to the computer’s tiny hum, much quieter than the terror gnawing at her intestines. The hideous, bright yellow fear that she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t revamp Real Life. They’d fire her ass, she’d be a bag lady within a year. Reeking of urine. Scratching at herself. Begging for alms, from real people, with real jobs, like she used to be. And then, for sure, no one would ever love her again. She’d die all alone, her grave in a potter’s field dug by inmates from Rikers Island.

  “A script,” she finally said.

  “A screenplay?” The dapper little man slipped one chair closer.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  What did this guy want? This was New York, for Christ’s sake, where strangers might ask you where you bought your shoes—and how much you paid for them. But your business? They stayed out of it.

  He smiled brightly and extended a hand. “I’m Vinnie. I’m in the restaurant business, but I’m starting to write screenplays on the side. I figure, hey, everybody else is.”

  “I write for a soap.”

  Usually, when she said that, eyebrows rose. Wasn’t she prostituting herself? Why didn’t she write novels? Publish arty stories in little magazines? She’d done both. She wasn’t cut out for the life of the starving artist.

  But Vinnie said, “Cool.” Then he said, “Could I borrow a quarter till after lunch? I don’t have any change, and I need to make a phone call.”

  What did she look like, a bank? “I think I gave all my change to somebody else a few minutes ago,” she said. But then she dug in her purse and came up with a shiny new quarter that had been hiding in a corner.

  But before Vinnie could make his call, an officer of the court sauntered from behind the tall wide desk at the front of the room and began calling names from the summons slips he pulled at random from a bingolike contraption. They were to answer to their names, then follow him to a courtroom where they would be judged on their worthiness to judge another.

  Juan Reyes. Kashonda Smallwood. Gillian Holch. Duncan McKenzie III. Ellen Bradley. Yolanda Ramirez. Estelle Krim. Angela Wong. Jacqi Albano. Rita Sitnick. Vincent Gallo.

  “That’s me.” Vinnie waved at the clerk.

  Clare Meacham.

  Clare groaned and raised a hand. She couldn’t get stuck on a jury. Not now. Please, God.

  The woman Clare had given
change to reentered the room just as the last of the forty names was being called. Wilma Paris. “Oh, Lord,” she cried. “Wouldn’t you know? And my boss just said he’s going to kill me if I don’t get my butt back to the office.”

  *

  Behind the judge, huge letters spelled out “IN GOD WE TRUST.”

  Vinnie pointed at the words, whispered to Clare, “What about the atheists? They in deep do?” They were two of the twelve seated in the juror’s box, the remainder of their panel of forty spread across the spectators’ seats.

  Frowsy-haired Judge Rabinowitz frowned over her horn rims at Vinnie. Their instructions had been to listen up, no eating, no sleeping, no talking. The judge had just finished introducing the prosecution, the defense, and the defendant, and outlining the bare bones of the case.

  The defendant—a big handsome black kid, about twenty—was charged with attempting to hold up a Korean grocer. He’d purportedly used a gun: the plaintiff, a short but muscular man, had answered with a whirling baseball bat.

  This was the stuff of real life, thought Clare. This was material. How would it work? Dirk follows Carol out of the restaurant. She runs into the Korean store. They’re caught smack in the middle of the holdup. Carol grabs up a tray of hot sweet-and-sour pork from the steam table, heaves it at the robber…

  The judge had chosen to conduct the voir dire herself, questioning the twelve citizens in the box:

  Do any of you know me, the defendant, the plaintiff, either of the prosecution or the defense attorneys, or any of the witnesses I’ve just named?

  How?

  Do you know the area, Broadway between Bleecker and Third, where the incident took place?

  What is your knowledge of that site?

  Are you related to any law enforcement officers, and, if so, how?

  What is the nature of your employment?

  What magazines do you subscribe to?

  Have you ever been the victim of a street crime?

  Have you ever been the victim of a crime involving a gun?

  Wilma Paris, the advertising account exec to whom Clare had given change, had a brother who was a cop, and she said it was her belief that cops lied as much as anybody else.

  Vinnie Gallo said he himself, as a customer, had been held up at gunpoint in a Korean store. By a kid. With a gun. (Clare wasn’t sure she believed him.)

  Clare declared that she herself didn’t know anyone in the courtroom. She lived in the Village and had walked by the crime scene many times but wasn’t certain if she’d ever stopped in. She was not related to any police officers, nor did she know any personally. She was the head writer on Real Life. She subscribed to The New Yorker, New York, Saveur, Soap Digest, and Conde Nast Traveler. She had lived in Manhattan eighteen years and had never been the victim of any crime whatsoever.

  (Unless you counted having her heart run over and squashed flat by one Dr. David Teller, who was not a defendant here today.)

  At the end of the questioning, Clare was excused with no explanation, along with Vinnie and Wilma. Thank you. Good-bye.

  *

  Back in Room 1517, the chairs where Clare, Vinnie, and Wilma were sitting had been taken. Clare scanned the room. There was an empty bloc of seats back toward the windows, near the young Hispanic woman watching TV. She headed for them. She had to get to work.

  But Vinnie and Wilma were close on her heels.

  “I can’t believe they didn’t take you,” said Vinnie. “Me, that’s one thing, but you? You’re perfect, except for that part about living in Manhattan for years and never even having your purse snatched. That made you sound like a liar.”

  Wilma leaned across him, interrupting. “I want to ask you about Real Life. My mom is a huge fan. She’ll be so excited when I tell her I met you. You really make up all those stories?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Clare grimaced. When I can. When I don’t have writer’s block. When I’m not scared to death. Depressed. Sleep-deprived. On jury duty.

  “She’s writing right here.” Vinnie pointed at the computer in Clare’s hand.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” said Wilma. “I’m an account exec. Not a creative bone in my body.”

  “Mine, either,” said Clare.

  “Come on.” Vinnie laughed. “You’re just being modest.”

  “No, I’m not.” And then it just spilled out, the whole nine yards of her pathetic tale. How she was upset about her personal life and hadn’t been sleeping well. How she had only a week left to revamp Real Life, to make it hotter than O. J., bigger than real life. How she didn’t have a clue.

  “You can do it,” said Vinnie. “I know you can.”

  “I don’t think so.” Clare shook her head.

  Just then, an officer stood from behind the long desk. “Lunch break,” he announced. “Be back at two-thirty. Did anyone not get a list of restaurants in Chinatown and Little Italy?”

  The whole room stampeded for the door.

  Except Julia, the young Hispanic woman in the row behind them, who was plugged into the earphones of her little TV. “Jesus!” she screamed. “I can’t believe it! Shoot the fucker!”

  Mid-flight, people stopped and stared.

  “Shoot him! Don’t let him get away with that!”

  The officer started toward her.

  “Kill the son of a bitch!” Julia shouted.

  “Miss?” The clerk tapped her arm. “You’re going to have to quiet down. And you can’t use that kind of language in here.”

  “What?” Julia jumped and jerked out her earphones. “Was I loud? I’m sorry. But I get so excited at my program. That Dirk! He’s such a…” She caught herself. “…bad person. I can’t believe Carol lets him get away with that…stuff!”

  “Oh, Christ!” Clare slapped a hand to her mouth. “She’s talking about Real Life.”

  Vinnie grabbed both Clare and Wilma, then leaned over Julia. “Miss? You wanna go to lunch with us? My treat.”

  *

  Vinnie took them to a restaurant where he was obviously known, Luigi’s on Mulberry Street. Restaurants were the only thing that remained Italian about Little Italy. The old families had long since moved to Staten Island, and the real estate was being swallowed up by the Chinese. But that didn’t stop the tourists, especially the ones who imagined gangland hits over every plate of meatballs and spaghetti.

  The food at Luigi’s, old-fashioned red-sauce Italian, was good enough to please the most demanding mobster. Vinnie had ordered a giant antipasto platter for the table. “Have some more coppa,” he urged, pouring the Chianti. “And peppers. These mushrooms Luigi said he smuggled in from Italy last week. Finish them up. Then we’ll get down to work.”

  “Work?” asked Julia, her eyes big as she looked up from her plate. It was clear this meal was a special treat for her. She was very impressed by Luigi’s. Not to mention Vinnie.

  “Sure,” said Vinnie. “We’re going to write Clare’s story. Real Life is getting itself fixed right here. Right now. At this table.”

  Clare almost choked. Just as the food and the wine and the company were beginning to make her feel a little human, Vinnie had to bring that up.

  “You think we can’t?” Vinnie reared back in his chair. “’Cause we ain’t professional writers? I’m telling you, we can, and we will. We are the people. The people who know about real life. We are your friggin’ audience you don’t ever give no respect.”

  Clare raised her glass. “Hear, hear.”

  *

  “I don’t like the idea of using the stickup in the Korean store,” said Julia, sipping her coffee.

  “Why not?” Wilma asked.

  “The stickup is real,” insisted Clare.

  “It’d be more real if somebody got killed. In my neighborhood, every time there’s a stickup, somebody gets killed.”

  “So who do you pick to die?” Vinnie signaled for more grappa. “You got the black kid. You got the Korean. You got Carol and Dirk.”

  “Carol,” said Julia.


  Clare put down her glass. “Why Carol?”

  “’Cause she’s a wimp,” Julia said. “Take today’s show. Dirk tells her he’s marrying another woman, what does she do? She just leaves the table. Carol makes me sick.”

  “Oh, really?” said Clare, a little defensive. “What do you want her to do? Kill him, like you were saying back upstairs?” Clare pointed a thumb in the direction of 100 Centre Street and the courthouse. At least she thought it was in that direction. She was getting pretty loaded.

  “Yeah,” said Julia. “Kill him.”

  “How? When? Where?” asked Wilma.

  “How? Pick up a knife from the table and stab the sucker. When? As soon as he said he was dumping her for another chick. Where? In the gut.”

  Clare thought about that. How would that have gone down, the two of them in Bar Pitti having dinner when David had made his announcement? He had ordered the veal. There was a sharp knife at his place. It certainly would have been possible. Of course, she’d be in Rikers now. Or wherever it was they locked up female murderers. The Tombs, maybe, right next door to 100 Centre.

  “If she’d killed him in the restaurant,” said Wilma, “then they wouldn’t be in the Korean store together.”

  “Screw the Korean store,” said Julia.

  Clare said, “Look, folks, we can’t go back to the scene in the restaurant and do it differently. It aired today, remember? Then there are three more weeks of shows already in the can. That’s where we have to pick up.”

  “Okay, so what happened after Carol ran out of the restaurant?” asked Julia.

  Clare could tell from Julia’s tone that she was thinking, I bet not much. And she was right. “But it’s not my fault,” Clare insisted. “This was before they wanted the show to pick up speed. To be more like real life.”

  “Let’s hear it,” said Wilma.

  “Dirk’s ex-wife, Molly, who has always hoped that Dirk would come back to her, is shattered when she hears that Dirk is marrying yet another woman. She flips out and has to be institutionalized. She ends up in the hospital where David does most of his cosmetic surgery, and she rages in while he’s in the middle of doing somebody’s face. The patient, who is Richard of Richard and Paula, has been in a terrible skiing accident and ended up with no nose.”