by Zoe Fishman
Charlie remembered it all too well. They had broken up, and Neil had been sleeping on a friend’s couch. He had gone to collect his things one afternoon, thinking Charlie would be at work. Instead, he found her basically right where he had left her—curled in the fetal position on her couch with a blanket wrapped tightly around her. They had fought, again, and then, with a trash bag full of his belongings, he had taken off.
“Me, either,” replied Charlie. If he wanted to play dumb, she could understand that. She studied his face. She had no sexual response to his presence. Zero. It was an incredible realization. “What are you doing in Bushwick?” she asked.
“I live here now. Down the street actually.” He looked down, avoiding her eyes. “I’m, um, engaged,” he explained. “We moved here about a month ago.” Despite her joyful moment earlier at the realization that Neil no longer held any resonance for her, this stung. More than it should.
“Oh!” she replied, as convincingly as she could. “That’s great! Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Neil answered, obviously relieved by her goodwill. His reaction annoyed Charlie. Why would he think that she would be anything but happy for him? He might have changed his look, but his ego remained the same: monstrous.
“What brings you to these parts?” he asked, feigning a horrible Southern accent in a failed attempt to be cute.
“She lives here, too,” Mario interjected. “She owns the yoga studio upstairs.” Charlie looked at Mario, trying to communicate her appreciation with her eyes.
“Get out!” said Neil. “That’s awesome! And such a change for you.” He looked at Mario. “Charlie used to run Wall Street with her eyes closed.” It was all Charlie could do not to scratch Neil’s eyeballs out. Even though he was only including Mario in the conversation, there was an edge of condescension to his voice that she remembered all too well.
“Yeah,” she replied. Volunteering any more information about herself felt like a waste of time.
“You’re never going to believe this,” said Neil, naturally happy to turn the focus of the conversation back to him, “but I’m getting my MBA!”
Charlie practically choked on her tongue. The guy who gave her endless crap about her lifestyle for the entire two years that they dated was now replicating it for himself! The irony was outrageous. Charlie could not believe it.
“What!?” she practically shrieked. She wanted to add, You moronic poseur, you asshole blowhard! The same guy who pretended to shun all that was remotely materialistic; the same guy who rolled his eyes any time Charlie talked about a merger or expressed interest in going out to a restaurant that involved table service. . .this guy was pursuing a career in finance? His new image suddenly made complete sense.
“Yeah, I know, right?” he responded. “Big change.”
Charlie looked at him. The epiphany she had been waiting for was finally here—transforming her in this deli. Neil was an insecure guy with no sense of self. Whatever he was doing was a reflection of the latest trend. Living on the Lower East Side in his twenties, it was deemed cool to work at a restaurant, smoke weed, do yoga to fool chicks into thinking you had a sensitive side, and talk about philosophy. Now that he was in his thirties, it was time to move to Brooklyn, get engaged, and pursue an MBA. Neil did not possess a shred of authenticity in his entire body. He was a joke.
“I’ll say,” she said. “Listen, it was good to see you. I’ve got to run. See you around, I guess. Good luck with everything.”
“Uh, yeah, you too,” said Neil, perplexed, no doubt, by her sincere lack of interest.
“Bye, Mario,” she said. “Come up to the studio and let me know about your gig, okay?”
“You got it, Charlie.”
She left them both there—the old and the new—and gulped in the fresh air outside. She could feel spring coming. Already, the cold was less bitter and there was a hint of balmy warmth in the breeze. Very slight, but definitely there. Soon, winter would end and spring would begin—ushering in a whole new beginning.
So much had been healed for her in that brief exchange with Neil. The pain about the breakup, although finally on its way out, had been lingering at the fringes of her heart, despite her attraction to Mario. Now the broom of reality had swept it out.
She couldn’t believe that she had thought him to be the impetus for her life change. She had more spirituality and authenticity in her baby toe than he had in his entire family lineage. It was unreal.
For a long time she hadn’t been giving herself credit for changing her life so dramatically. She had been giving that credit to him! And why? Maybe it was easier to fall back on that when running the studio proved difficult. If she didn’t own her life path, then she didn’t have to take responsibility for it when it got messy or unpleasant. At the same time, when things were going really well, when her life brought her tremendous joy—whether from the practice of yoga itself or from realizing that she truly loved her coworkers or from breaking through a boundary with one of her students—she, in effect, was giving that credit to someone else. To Neil, of all people.
Charlie stopped short in the middle of the block. She closed her eyes and listened. A bird was chirping. The first she had heard in what felt like forever. Change was coming.
No, Charlie thought. Change is here.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Bess
Have a good night, Rob,” called Bess as he left the office.
“Don’t stay late!” he reprimanded over his shoulder.
Bess took in the silence of the now-empty office. She looked around, making sure that she was alone. She saw a light on in her boss’s corner office. She swore she had seen her leave for the night, but maybe she had returned, anxious to capitalize on the latest starlet’s unfortunate crotch-flashing incident.
Bess got up from her chair and strolled casually by, glancing to the side as nonchalantly as she could. If she was in there, Bess certainly didn’t want to attract any attention to herself. The last thing she wanted to do tonight was engage in bullshit banter about the spring fashion collections.
She glanced in to find Esme, the cleaning lady, dusting the window ledges. “Hey, Esme.”
“Hey, Bess,” she replied, turning the trash can upside down to empty its contents into her cart. Bess didn’t know how long Esme had been cleaning these offices, but she suspected since the dawn of time. She knew everyone. It was one of Bess’s goals to stay late and get drunk with Esme one night and pump her for insider information. The woman had to be a vault of blackmail-worthy gems.
Not tonight, though. Bess had important business to take care of. She returned to her desk. She watched Esme leave the office, dragging her cart behind her. She rattled down the hall and made a left. Moments later, Bess heard the telltale ding of the elevator opening. The coast was clear.
Bess gathered her notepad and pen and approached the office—now clean as a whistle thanks to Esme’s skilled expertise. She tiptoed to the chair. She felt like Velma in Scooby-Doo.
She settled herself on the ridged leather of a chair that she was sure cost more than three months of her rent. It was a lot more comfortable than the sad contraption she sat on. She spun around once for good measure, taking in the view as New York City went by in a blur of lights.
Facing forward, she opened her notepad to review her scribbles. She uncapped her pen. She cleared her throat. “Here goes nothing,” she whispered. As she dialed the number, her palms began to sweat. She remembered a former boyfriend that had been repulsed by her overactive sweat glands. He had called her lava hands. She had broken up with him shortly thereafter.
As the phone rang, Bess tried some yoga breathing. She inhaled as deeply as she could and then let it whoosh out in a rush. Mid-whoosh, Kathryn picked up.
“Hello, City Section,” she answered. Bess desperately tried to cover her whoosh with a cough.
“Hello!?” Kathryn barked.
“Oh, sorry!” said Bess. “I have a little bit of a cold. Kathryn, it’s
Bess.”
“Bess?” asked Kathryn, towing the line between pretending to know who Bess was and actually having no idea.
“Yeah, we met through Jason at one of his get-togethers? About six months ago or so?” Bess prayed that Kathryn had a decent memory. In truth, they had spoken for about four minutes, and that estimation was generous. “I work at Pulse? We talked about Britney Spears’s weave?”
Kathryn laughed. “God, I have that conversation way too often, sadly. Bess, I can’t say that I honestly remember you, but I’ll buy it. What’s up?”
“Well, I have a piece to pitch. I’m hoping it’s a natural fit for the City Section. Is this a bad time?”
“No, no, it’s fine. Go on,” encouraged Kathryn.
“So, it’s about a yoga studio in Bushwick,” Bess said.
“I like that. Bushwick is the new Prospect Heights, Prospect Heights is the new Carroll Gardens. . .”
Bess laughed. “Exactly. So, the article is about four, thirty-something, single women in a six-week Basics class. In a nutshell, ten years after college graduation, they’re all on a quest for balance in their lives. You know: work, passion, love, yoga, happiness. . .”
“Um, not to sound like a dick, but the City Section is not Marie Claire, Bess. All due respect to my sisters, but this sounds like every other women’s magazine puff piece I’ve read in the past six months.”
“No, I swear, it’s the women themselves that make this article special,” Bess explained. “Their quest for balance and self-actualization is new and fresh. My article does not define ‘having it all’ in any kind of stereotypical way. It’s about the individualistic nature of that goal set against the backdrop of today’s New York. The point is that ‘having it all’ for women today, especially urban women, is becoming more about being able to express and utilize different facets of ourselves. It means having the drive to fulfill ourselves creatively while supporting ourselves and hustling the way city life requires us to. These women are inspirational—this is the type of balance that all women strive for on some level—or at least, they should.”
Bess noticed that her heart was beating quickly as she talked. She was more passionate about this than even she had realized. She truly believed in it. It wasn’t about her byline anymore, it was about a piece that she thought might really make a positive impact on its unsuspecting reader—the same way Charlie, Sabine, and Naomi had made an impact on her.
“Shit, that sounds good. Girl power!” Kathryn yelled. “Hmmm. It might be tough to get this past my editor, who’s a man, thank you very much. I mean, I see the validity in your piece, but he might tell me to take a hike. . .. Can you promise me an emphasis on Bushwick and details about its revitalization?”
“Absolutely,” answered Bess. “I’ll weave it in like Britney’s hairdresser.”
“Ha! That’s a good one. You know what, we do have space. Let’s run it. Can you have it to me within the week? If I like the finished product, I’ll run it in next Saturday’s paper.”
It was all Bess could do not to scream. “Done.”
“All right, cool, I gotta run,” said Kathryn. “Just e-mail it to me as a Word doc by Wednesday afternoon, latest.”
“No problem,” said Bess. “Thanks a lot for the opportunity.”
“Not at all,” she answered. “Your idea sounds very relatable. I’m looking forward to reading it.”
“Thanks so much! Bye!” said Bess as she put the phone back in its cradle.
She took a few liberty spins in the fancy chair. She couldn’t believe it! Her article actually had a shot at running in The New York Times! She had been visualizing this moment for so long. She faced the window and took in the New York skyline. She had used her boss’s phone to make the call so that she could actually see New York supporting her; her own cubicle had no windows. The city never failed to impress her, even after being here for more than ten years. Its sheer immensity always made her agape with wonder—the same way it had made her feel the very first time she soared above it. I will really miss this place if I move to LA, she thought, staring out at the gigantic buildings with their randomly lit windows. New York was one of a kind. She circled back and got up from the chair. She wondered if it had always been her boss’s dream to end up as editor in chief of a vapid celebrity rag. She guessed not.
Sure, her boss was living a glamorous life that almost anyone would applaud and envy—wealthy, powerful, a mother of two with what appeared to be a loving husband—but maybe, in the back of her mind, she had a dream to be a pianist. . .or a painter. . .or even a kung fu master. Who knew? The possibilities were endless. By day she ran a magazine and took care of a family, but maybe late at night, or early in the morning, she made time for whatever it was that truly inspired her and made her feel whole: the juggling act of every woman was not to be trivialized.
Bess returned to her own desk, gathered her jacket, and switched off her computer. She had pitched to the New York freakin’ Times and it had worked. To say that she was psyched would be a tremendous understatement. She would buy a nice bottle of wine on the way home to celebrate and then call Dan immediately. She was so grateful to have him in her life. Without him, the article would have sputtered and died before she had even given it any gas.
On the street, she hurried to the subway, anxious to get home to call him. Speaking to him in transit always felt so rushed. She liked to be stationary when they spoke, so she could concentrate fully on him and not on the jerk riding her ass on the sidewalk.
Holy shit, she thought, I’m sweating! She unzipped her jacket and unwound her scarf, noticing similar looks on her fellow urbanites.
Spring was on its way! At last!
Chapter Thirty-Five
Naomi
Naomi sat in front of her computer, staring at her screen. She had finished the layout for the Prana website and really liked the way it was coming along. It was warm and inviting, just like the studio itself. The technology was fresh without feeling intimidating. She liked the rollover that led to Felicity’s hair products the best. She had fashioned a black-and-white illustration of a Buddha with an Afro, smiling broadly. Click on the Afro and voilà—you’re in hair heaven.
It was the copy that was eluding her. Naomi was many things, but a writer was not one of them. Although she didn’t usually provide copy for her clients, she really wanted to deliver the full package for Prana. She had perused other sites for inspiration, but it was futile. She put her head in her hands, thinking of the studio, the students. . .
Sabine! She had completely spaced on Sabine’s talents. She was perfect for this, and she was sure she would welcome the opportunity to flex her scribe muscles. She clicked into her e-mail and began to compose her plea. As she began, her buzzer shrieked.
What? she thought, stunned by the interruption. It was the middle of the afternoon. Who would be buzzing her? Maybe it was a Jehovah’s Witness. She continued typing, hoping that was the case. The buzzer shrieked again.
“Shit,” she mumbled, noting her pajama pants and coffee breath. She got up to find out who was bothering her. She pressed her intercom button. “Yes?” she asked.
“Um, Naomi?” a timid voice crackled.
“Shit!” Naomi said for the second time. It was Gene.
“Gene?” she asked, hoping that the UPS guy’s voice bore an uncanny resemblance to her ex’s.
“Yeah, hi! Can I come up?” Naomi so did not want him to invade her space at that moment, but she didn’t seem to have a choice in the matter. To deny him entrance would be bad manners. She pressed the button to open the door.
Once again, I am in my pajamas. It was a good thing she wasn’t attracted to him anymore. Any chance of seducing him looking like this was out of the question. She cringed as she heard him clomp up the stairs. She was sure he would reek of Paris—cigarettes, Côtes du Rhône, models, and hashish. She, on the other hand, reeked of Mommyhood—milk, Cheerios, and coffee. Intoxicating.
The knock on the door erased any
hope she had of brushing her teeth. She took a deep breath and opened the door. Gene stood outside it, the very picture of European sophistication: worn jeans, a perfectly softened cotton tee, a slim-fitting, buttery leather jacket, a patterned cashmere scarf, and a knit cap that cradled his pretty head. She wondered how many women he had slept with during fashion week and then immediately felt bad for Mini-Noah. She hoped Gene had made him some mini-blinders.
“Hi, Naomi.”
“Hey, Gene.” She opened the door farther to let him in. “How was Paris?” I hope it was fun. I might have multiple sclerosis. Can I get you some coffee?
“Oh, you know, the usual bullshit,” answered Gene, pulling the cap off his mess of dark curls—the very same curls that cupped Noah’s beautiful head. The kid had good genes, what could she say? “Fourteen-year-old models, near overdoses, champagne morning, noon, and night.”
“Sounds like torture.”
Gene laughed. “I know, ‘poor me,’ right? But I’m telling you, Naomi, the scene is getting tired. I don’t know if it’s me being older or what, but I’m pretty sure, finances allowing, that this is my last year.”
“Are you serious?” asked Naomi.
“Yeah, I think I am. Send out a news bulletin—Gene Hoff is officially an old man.”
“Wow, that’s really some news,” said Naomi. “Being old isn’t that bad, I promise. You can wear your pajamas all day and not give a shit.” Should I tell him? I know I have to. . .eventually, but it feels too soon. Why does he need to know? I know, I know. I need his help with Noah.
“I hope that’s not the only perk of adulthood,” Gene teased. “Because I distinctly remember that being a perk of adolescence as well.”
“You have a point. It’s not. I guess I just mean that there’s a comfort in accepting your age, you know?”
“I do know. I’m telling you, Naomi, the best part about Paris was this silly little cardboard guy.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a manila envelope. He shook it, and Mini-Noah came tumbling out onto the couch, intact and actually looking as good as he had when he left the country, all things considered. “Look, I made the little dude a cast!” He picked up Mini-Noah with his thumb and forefinger to show Naomi. Sure enough, a tiny white cast had been attached to his tiny cardboard arm.