by Jason Starr
I laughed.
“So finally he gets off the phone and the rest of the meal we barely talk at all. I’m just checking my watch, hoping I’m home in time to do my laundry, then the check comes and he’s like, ‘So do you want to go back to my place and fool around?’ I look at him like, Are you out of your fucking mind? I mean, what was he expecting me to say? ‘Yeah, let’s go fool around—that sounds like a great idea. Why don’t you invite some of your hockey goons over too?’ So we get outside and I just get in a cab and tell the driver to drive away as fast as he can. I don’t know what I’m gonna say when he sees me today. Hopefully he’ll just blow me off.”
“If you want to go on another date we’ll pay for it,” I said.
“No thanks, Chuck,” Angie said, and then she glanced at her watch. “Well, I better get to work. I have to talk to this analyst, then write this story about some company I know nothing about.”
“What company?”
“Cornwell and Wallace. They’re a search firm specializing in accountants.”
“Fun.”
“I know, right? It sounds like some bad joke. What’s more boring than headhunting? Headhunting for accountants.”
Angie got up to leave.
“Stay,” I said.
She looked at me, noticing the strange desperation in my voice. I liked the distraction of having Angie to talk to. It made me feel safe, as though as long as I was with her nothing could possibly go wrong.
“I can’t,” she said. “My story’s due this afternoon and I haven’t even started it yet. But if you want to do lunch later, maybe around twelve-thirty . . .”
“Lunch sounds great,” I said.
“Cool,” she said, looking at me—I thought—flirtatiously. “See ya later.”
I continued reading through the edited version of my story, but I couldn’t concentrate, reading the same lines again and again. Every time I heard a noise behind me I felt a pang in my chest and I looked over my shoulder expecting to see police officers. I hoped it wouldn’t be a big production—six or seven officers, guns, handcuffs.
The tiny clock in the lower right-hand corner of my computer monitor seemed to take up the entire screen. When ten o’clock came I knew it wouldn’t be much longer. The body had to have been discovered by now. Charlotte had told the cops my name and where I worked, and they were probably in the building, getting on the elevator right now. Maybe they considered me a dangerous felon and had cordoned off the building. Dozens of cops—no, a whole SWAT team—could be on their way up to get me.
I was sweating through my shirt. I went to the bathroom to wash up, and then I used the urinal, wondering if it was the last leak I’d take as a free man.
Back at my desk, I skimmed the story on the screen, noticing more Britishisms and awkward sentences. I started to write an angry e-mail to Jeff; then I had a better idea. I forwarded my original version of the article to Jeff, without Peter’s edits. It was against the magazine’s protocol to bypass the associate editor, but at this point what did I have to lose?
At 10:42 the police still hadn’t arrived, and I decided that something must be holding them up. Maybe Charlotte wasn’t home when they went to question her and they were waiting outside her apartment. So I’d gotten a couple extra hours of freedom, but maybe it would’ve been better to have been put out of my misery.
Another excruciating few minutes went by, and then Jeff IM’d me, telling me he wanted to see me in his office.
“Take a seat,” he said when I arrived.
Jeff had turned forty last year, but he looked at least fifty. His hair had been totally gray since I’d known him, and he had a wrinkled, prematurely aged face, probably from years of alcohol abuse. Everyone at the magazine knew to stay away from him after two in the afternoon, when he was known to be irritable after his long martini lunches. Once, during my first year at the magazine, I’d made the mistake of asking him for some advice about a story while he was lit, and he blew up at me, screaming, “Get out of my motherfucking office!”
I sat down in the chair across from his desk when he said, “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I said. “Why?”
“You look exhausted.”
“Oh, I’m just trying to fight something off.”
“You mean you came into work sick? What’s wrong with you? I have kids at home, for Christ’s sake.”
“I don’t think I’m actually sick,” I said, wondering if he’d started drinking earlier than usual today. “I just have a scratchy throat.”
“Still,” Jeff said, shaking his head, and then he became distracted by his computer monitor and he swiveled in his chair to face it head-on. “So I was looking over your story on this, er . . . Byron Technologies. . . .”
“I was going to write you about that,” I said. “I sent you my original version because I don’t think it’s fair what Peter’s been doing. He doesn’t edit; he rewrites.”
“So this writing is entirely yours?” Jeff asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, I think it’s one of the best stories you’ve done since you’ve been here.”
“Really?”
“Love it,” Jeff said. “It’s angry, it’s biting, it takes a strong point of view—you know that’s what I always look for. I love this line when you say Wall Street needs to reserve a plot in the high-tech graveyard for Byron, and how the company has had more fumbles than a high school football team. That’s perfect.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said.
“The writing’s very straightforward,” Jeff said. “It has none of those awkward words and overly complicated sentences that your other articles have had.”
“Peter always adds that crap,” I said. “I mean if you check out some of the articles I wrote for the Journal—”
“Look,” Jeff said, ignoring me. “I know we’ve had our differences in the past, David, but the past is just that—the past. What I’m trying to say is, how about we put our differences behind us and move on with a clean slate?”
“Okay,” I said with no idea what he was getting at.
“Great,” he said. “So how’d you like to be my new associate editor?”
I thought he was joking. He’d never even hinted about a promotion before, and besides, associate editor was Peter’s position.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“Why would I kid about that?”
“What about Peter?”
“We’ve been getting too many complaints about him lately. We were all discussing it at the management meeting this morning, and we think it’s time to make a switch—at the very least to boost the morale at the magazine, which, if you haven’t noticed, has been pretty dismal lately. Peter doesn’t know about this yet, so this is between you and me. Gossip gets around this office faster than the flu, and I don’t want Peter to find out about it thirdhand. I just wanted to get a feel for whether you’re up for the job before I take the next step. So? Are you?”
I heard a siren on Broadway outside Jeff’s window—I wondered if it was the cops coming to get me.
“Sure,” I said.
“You sound noncommittal.”
“No, I’m very committal,” I said. “The job sounds great.”
“You sure you’re just feeling under the weather? Because I get the feeling you don’t want this job.”
“I want it,” I said.
“Great, then it’s yours.”
Jeff reached across to shake my hand, then yanked his back before it touched mine.
“Germs,” he said.
I stayed in Jeff’s office for the next half an hour or so, discussing the new job and my new responsibilities. My new salary would be fifty-two a year—a far cry from what I used to make at the Journal, but it was still a ten-grand-a-year raise. At another time in my life, even a couple of days ago, I would’ve been excited about the promotion, and would’ve started plotting to use it as a stepping-stone toward getting a job at Forbes or BusinessWeek. Now
, with my arrest looming, it was hard to really give a shit.
Surprisingly, twelve-thirty came and the police still hadn’t shown. Angie came by my cubicle, smiling—she’d reapplied her lipstick—and asked if I was ready for lunch.
“You betcha,” I said, in a better mood than I should’ve been in.
We went around the corner to the deli with the good salad bar on Fiftieth Street. Eating our combinations of California rolls and oily salads, I told Angie about my promotion.
“That’s unbelievable,” she said.
“It’s a secret,” I said, “so don’t tell anybody.”
“My lips are sealed.” She mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key. “It’s so funny—we were just talking about Peter.”
“I know.”
“It’s gonna be so great not having that loser editing my stories anymore.”
“You never know,” I said. “I might start inserting some indefatigablys myself.”
“As long you don’t put in any terriblys.”
We laughed and I impulsively reached over and held her hand, caressing it with my thumb. She looked at me intensely for a few seconds, then pulled her hand away.
“What about your girlfriend?”
“She’s not really my girlfriend.”
“But I thought you live together?” She looked confused.
“Yeah, but it’s ending,” I said. “Besides, it was never very serious to begin with. I know you’ve never met her, but she’s this young club girl. I mean, you should hear the way she talks. She has this upspeak, you know, making everything sound like a question, and she has this weird Southern accent. It’s hard to describe, but it’s really funny to listen to—trust me.”
I was smiling, trying to get Angie on my side, the way she was always on my side when we made fun of Peter or Jeff, but she remained very serious.
“I don’t get it,” she said. “If you don’t like her, why did you start dating her to begin with?”
I wished I’d kept my mouth shut.
“There are some good things about her, of course,” I said, trying to do damage control. “I mean, she’s fun to be with and I like a lot of other things about her, but we’re not really compatible.”
“So if you’re not compatible, why are you still living together?”
“Good question.” I was smiling, trying to make light of the situation. “Like I said, we’re in the process of breaking up. I mean, we’re going to be broken up very soon.”
“But you’re still together.”
“Kind of.”
She was squinting, looking confused, and I didn’t know why I’d opened my big mouth about any of this.
“I’ve been trying to get her to move out,” I said, “but it’s been kind of difficult.”
“Difficult how?”
“Well, I’ve asked her to move out, but she kind of has attachment issues, I guess. She had a difficult childhood, so maybe that has something to do with it, or maybe . . . Anyway, she just doesn’t get that it’s over. I mean, the other night, when we talked about it, she started throwing vases at me.”
“What do you mean, she threw vases at you?”
“She was drunk,” I said. “I mean, she was just out of it, that’s all, and she kind of lost her temper for a second and picked up some things from the mantel and threw them. It was nothing, really. . . . So how’s your salad?”
“Did she hit you with the vases?” Angie asked.
“No, of course not,” I said. “The hitting came later.”
I smiled, but she didn’t.
“Is that how you hurt your lip?”
“What? No.”
“It sounds like you’re in an abusive relationship.”
“Whoa, come on,” I said, “don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a little bit?”
“What if I told you my boyfriend was hitting me and throwing vases at me? Wouldn’t you say that was abusive?”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Why not?”
“Because it just isn’t,” I said, getting frustrated.
“Sorry, I guess it’s really none of my business,” Angie said as she speared a cherry tomato with her fork. “I just want you to know that, as an outsider looking in, it sounds like your girlfriend has some serious problems.”
“Look, I know she has problems,” I said. “Why do you think I’m breaking up with her?”
We continued eating in silence. After a few minutes I broke the ice and said, “So how’s your new article going?”
Our conversation was uncomfortable for a while, but then we settled down and things seemed more normal again.
At around one o’clock we headed back toward our office building. As we turned the corner onto Broadway, reality set in as I realized that Rebecca wasn’t my real problem. My real problem was lying against that garbage can in Alphabet City.
“What’s wrong?” Angie asked, concerned.
“Nothing,” I said. “Why?”
Back at the office I walked Angie to her cubicle. The way she said, “See ya later,” I could tell she was still upset about our conversation over lunch, and I felt frustrated too that there was suddenly so much awkwardness between us.
At my desk, I was more anxious than I had been in the morning. Time seemed to go by even slower as I waited to hear the commotion of the police arriving. But the hours crept by, and at five o’clock the police still hadn’t come. I had no idea what was going on. The body had to have been discovered by now. Maybe the police hadn’t had a chance to talk to Charlotte yet, or maybe she’d handled herself better than I’d expected. Maybe the plan was going to work out after all.
As I was getting ready to leave, Angie came by and asked if I wanted to walk out of the building with her. I told her to go ahead without me, that I had some last-minute stuff to take care of, and that I’d see her tomorrow. I wanted to leave with her—hell, I wanted to do more than that with her—but I realized that holding her hand had been a big mistake, and I didn’t want to lead her on more than I already had. If I lucked out and the police never bothered investigating Ricky’s death, and I finally got Rebecca to move out of my apartment, then I’d attempt to start a normal relationship with Angie. Until then, I’d try to keep some distance between us.
I walked home from work. Every time I saw a cop I crossed the street to avoid being seen, afraid that a description of me had been radioed around the city. I made it to my block, relieved that no cop cars were in front of my building.
In the hallway outside my apartment, I stopped when I heard the Police’s “Hole in My Life” playing inside. I was upset that Rebecca was home, that she hadn’t moved out today, but I was also confused. She never listened to my CDs and always made a big fuss whenever I played them.
I opened the door and went to the living room and saw Rebecca lounging on the couch, reading a copy of Vibe.
“Hi, honey,” she said in a domesticated, 1950s way. “How was your day?”
I stood there near the door, taking in the scene. Then Rebecca looked up at me again, smiling.
“What’s going on here?” I asked.
“Not much,” she said. “Just chillin’, listening to some Police. I decided you were right—I should start listening to other types of music—widen my horizons? That song ‘Roxanne’ is dope, yo.”
“Is this supposed to be funny?”
“Is what supposed to be funny?”
“Don’t you remember our conversation last night?”
“Yeah, I remember it. You told me that you’re in love with somebody else.”
“So if you know that, what’re you still doing here? Why don’t you move out? Go stay with a friend.”
“Because I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t believe I met someone else?”
“No, that I believe. I just don’t believe you’re in love with her. Maybe you had a fling with someone at your office, because you were mad at me, but I forgive you.” She resumed flipping page
s of the magazine. “Oh, sorry I didn’t cook tonight—I didn’t have any money. I have an idea—let’s go out to dinner. We can go downtown to this cool Spanish place in Soho Ray told me about, then we can swing by Key Club or Exit? Unless you wanna listen to some rock—I’m down for that too. Or maybe you just wanna go barhopping. When was the last time we got wasted?”
I was staring at her. Finally I said, “It’s not a fling. I met somebody else, I love her, and I want to be with her.”
I was just saying this to hammer a point home, to convince Rebecca to leave, but I wondered if I was talking about Angie.
“Pul-leeze,” Rebecca said, shaking her head and smiling. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”
“Why would I make it up?”
“Because you’re still mad at me and you’re trying to hurt me. Just stop it already.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. “I really did meet someone else— someone I’m very serious about. Her name’s Angie.”
Rebecca tossed away the magazine and got up from the couch. She came over to me, wrapped her arms around my back, and moved her mouth up toward mine, her lips parting slowly.
“You look so hot tonight,” she said. “How about we pop some E and go into the bedroom and get busy?”
She started kissing me. I pushed her away and said, “What the hell’re you doing?”
“Come on,” she said, reaching around and squeezing my ass.
As she leaned in again to kiss me, I pushed her away and said, “I’m serious. I’ll give you two days to pack up and move out. I think once you’re gone you’ll see how good this is for both of us.”
She looked at me as if she didn’t recognize me, and then started to smile.