by Jackie Rose
“Don’t be ridiculous, Evelyn. This was major surgery. It’s not something to be entered into lightly. Now I don’t want to discuss it anymore.”
Well if that’s how she was going to be about it… “Okay, back to me then,” I said, wishing immediately that I hadn’t. Pruscilla pulled out a red folder marked EVELYN and glared at me.
“I’m going to cut to the chase here, Evelyn. I’m putting you on three-month probation.”
Probation? Was that good?
“I asked Thelma to keep an eye on you while I was gone.” She opened up the folder and began to read. “Left before 5:30, eighteen times. Arrived after 8:30, twenty-three times. Days absent from work, five. Should I go on?”
The room began to spin wildly. I could feel my face flush red with anger, and more than a little shame. How could I have been so stupid?
“Thelma was spying on me?” That evil bitch. To think that I defended her.
“Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
“It’s impossible, Pruscilla. Her office is across the floor. She can’t even see if I’m at my desk from where she is. And…and…frankly, this is an invasion of my privacy!” I suppose it wasn’t the best thing to say under the circumstances, but I was on the spot.
“You figured just because I was gone, you could do whatever you please? When the cat’s away, so to speak? Well, Ms. Mays, that’s not the way things work around here.”
I sensed that she wasn’t going to fall for a civil liberties defense. “I missed a lot of work, I know, but I’ve been getting really bad cramps and—”
“Please, just stop. Your abysmal attendance is the highlight of this report,” she said, waving the red folder in my face. “You’ve done nothing, absolutely nothing, that you were supposed to do. We had a quarterly report due two weeks ago. Thelma told me she had to work up all the numbers herself. That’s your job. But it won’t be for long if you don’t smarten up. Three months, Evelyn, three months. If I don’t see a complete and total turnaround, you’re gone. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” I managed to whisper through the tears.
I almost wished she’d just fired me on the spot. It would have been better than staying on in that hellhole and suffering the humiliation that was sure to come. Why does this crap always happen to me? I guess I deserved it this time, but still—why do I always get caught no matter what? For just once in my life, I’d love to actually get away with something.
Bruce, of course, was completely unsympathetic to my professional angst. So I decided, after much thought on the subway ride home, that if Kendra White can’t appreciate the subtleties of what I have to offer the company—and especially if I get canned in three months—then maybe I would be better off somewhere else anyway. Karl Marx had it dead right when he said he wouldn’t want to belong to any club that would have him as a member. He knew that sometimes, even the worst clubs, like the Communist party, can often overlook the genius in their midst. And I know where he’s coming from because Kendra White is probably a lot like the Communist party was back in those days, only with more women and better money.
Bruce says that’s not exactly what Marx meant, that he was putting himself down or making fun of exclusive clubs for accepting lame people or something, and that it was Groucho Marx and not Karl Marx who said it, besides. But I think that proves my point even more, because there’s always a kernel of truth in humor.
In keeping with my new enlightened outlook on things, I felt that the most sensible course of action would be to buckle down at work and hopefully climb my way back up the few rungs I’d dropped on the proverbial corporate ladder. However, at the same time, just in case things didn’t work out, I would also learn a new trade, something that would allow me to work independently and make a lot more money. Kendra White, whoever the hell she was, could kiss my size fourteen ass. I knew I was meant for bigger and better things than the third floor of that sweatshop anyway (Cosmopolitan, September: “Live Up To Your Professional Potential!”).
But Bruce wasn’t so sure. As if agreeing with Pruscilla regarding my work habits weren’t bad enough, he said that a change of career now would be too stressful for me, what with the wedding coming up. Whatever happened to unconditional love and support?
“Just put in some overtime for the next few months and see what happens,” Bruce said wearily as we waited for a table at the SoHo Grill on Friday night. “Impress the hell out of them.”
“I’ll have a Double Jack,” I said to the bartender. “And he’ll have a Shirley Temple.”
Bruce just looked at me. A few months ago, he would have laughed at something like that.
“What I really need is a new job. No—a new career. Something less stressful, where I don’t have to worry about people standing over my shoulder watching everything that I do. Where I can be rewarded for my hard work, instead of making some faceless board of directors rich.”
“I see,” said Bruce. “Did you have something in particular in mind?”
“Ideally, I’d want to do something that lets me use my education, like you. You have a Master’s degree in education. And that’s what you do—you educate. It makes sense. I mean, what’s the point of having a degree if I never get to use it?”
“So, you’re going to be a…philosopher?”
“Don’t be smart.”
“Enlighten me, then. And, um, I think that drink is meant to be sipped.”
“Well,” I snorted, slamming the rest of it back. “So sorry to have offended your hard-coreness.”
“Not at all. Please continue.”
“Thank you. I’ve been doing a bit of research, and I’ve come up with three. Three things I could do that I would be good at and nobody else. With nobody there to give me shit.” I knew I was slurring, despite the fact that I was thinking quite clearly.
“Shoot.”
“One: Jewelry maker.”
“Ah, yes. The ultimate philosopher’s day job, which begs the timeless question—how can we know if a bead is ever truly a bead, and not just the illusion of beadery?”
Ignoring Bruce is sometimes the only way to get through an entire conversation. “Two: Advertising executive in charge of my own entire advertising company.”
“I had no idea you were interested in advertising.”
“You know, in the ’80s, huge advertising agencies were tripping over each other to recruit philosophy majors to sit around tables and come up with things for their ad campaigns, really smart and clever things, and they paid them, like, $250,000 a year,” I informed him.
“I think that’s a myth former philosophy majors tell each other as they serve espressos to twenty-year-old dot-com millionaires.”
“Barkeep? Another drink, please. But none for my friend here. He’s obviously had enough. And thirdly, for my final career move, I would like to be a…what do you call it?…oh YES—an orintholodist!”
“You mean an ornithologist?”
“Thassit.”
Bruce thought carefully for a moment. “While working with birds certainly would be a hoot, I’m not sure New York City is the best place for it, Evie, what with all the paltry poultry here.” A blonde with Elvis Costello glasses sitting beside Bruce snickered. She’d obviously been trying to get his attention since we sat down.
“Birds?”
“Ornithologists work with birds.”
“No, NO! They don’t! I mean, I want to fix kids’ teeth. I love kids.”
“Shhhh. You’re wasted, Evie,” Bruce laughed.
Elvis laughed, too, and said, “I think you better take her home. That’s one fowl chick.”
“For your information,” I snapped, leaning past Bruce to get right in her face, “I’m actually quite fly.”
All of a sudden, the prospect of being a dentist didn’t make as much sense as it had earlier. Rather, it evoked a stream of unpleasant memories of being at the dentist, or, more specifically, of the ginormous retainer Mom made me wear for three years, which she had to w
ork overtime to pay for since she was fighting with Claire at the time and…well, at least I made it to the bathroom on time. Bruce was more amused than annoyed, I think, even though we had to skip dinner. But he got lucky later, so what did he care? If given the choice, all men would rather have sex than eat—it’s a well-known fact.
Bruce later admitted he was wrong for letting me drink so much at such a vulnerable point in my life. And while I admit that I may have been a little out of control lately, the man had been sullen and difficult since Thanksgiving. We’d both been getting on each other’s nerves a lot, and our Friday night dates certainly weren’t as much fun as they used to be. I think it was all the forced togetherness. It’s like scheduling sex—a good idea in theory, but when it comes right down to it, if you need your Daytimer to get laid, chances are you probably have better things to do with your time anyway.
With Christmas just around the corner, we decided that we should spend the holiday apart—him with his family and me with mine. Which was fine with me. The only thing worse than having to endure another Christmas listening to Mom and Claire debate the pros and cons of dating in widowhood would be watching the Fulbright sisters push uneaten pieces of Bertie’s allegedly fabulous stuffed goose around their plates. Not that I could blame them—who the hell actually makes a Christmas goose, anyway?
7
To cheer myself up after a week of bickering with Bruce, kissing Pruscilla’s ass, avoiding Thelma like the plague and not going to the gym even one single solitary time, I guilted Morgan into joining me on a very special shopping trip. Although Mom and I had shared a few special moments in Sternfeld’s that day, when it comes to buying the most fabulous dress I’ll ever wear, I felt my interests would be best served if I had someone there I could completely trust, and that’s Morgan. She hates shopping, but she agreed to suffer through it after some very tricky negotiations.
I thought it best not to give her any time to get out of it, so I ambushed her with the invitation on Friday night.
“But I don’t know anything about fashion, Evie. Don’t make me come.”
True, she doesn’t have an eye for it like I do, but she still wears an awful lot of Michael Kors and Donna Karan for someone who feigns fashion ignorance.
“That doesn’t matter. I still trust you to tell me what looks good and what doesn’t. I know you’ll at least be honest. That’s what I need.”
“No.”
“But it’s your right to be there for me in every way,” I told her.
“My right? Please! You mean my duty,” she complained.
“But that’s part of being maid of honor,” I pleaded.
“Maid my ass. What a ludicrous concept. I am so not a maid,” she said, delighted by the irony. “I’m about as far from a maid as a girl can be, wouldn’t you say? And if you throw honor in, well then you can absolutely forget it.” She really thinks of herself as quite the slut.
“Well, you’re honorable, for the most part. I suppose we could call you a matron of honor, if you prefer, but I think that implies that you’re married, not just that your maidenhood is a distant memory. Or how about, ‘Trollop of Ill Repute’?”
She mulled this over.
“Come with me, or I’ll tell everybody you didn’t lose your virginity until college.”
“Shut up!” she shrieked. “You know I get extra points because he was my professor.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’d ruin my reputation over this?”
“Yes I would.”
“Okay, I’ll come. But on one condition—I get to wear black and not that horrid beige you’ve chosen for the bridesmaids. It would wash me out completely.”
No color could possibly look bad on Morgan, and she knows it. She just wants to be different—the thought of blending in with a sea of frilly bridesmaids probably appals her. To be fair, I did choose that color with my wicked sisters-in-law-to-be in mind. You see, champagne serves the dual purpose of fitting in with my fabulously elegant white-on-white wedding (Martha Stewart Weddings, Winter: “Perfect Pale Palettes: From White to Cream and Everywhere in Between”) and looking less than spectacular on all of Bruce’s ash-faced sisters. It’s horribly cruel, I know, but Annie, Kimby and Nicole will look great, and that’s all that matters.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a wedding, not a funeral.” I hope.
“I think it might make a nice statement. Weren’t you the one that told me black and white are really going to be in this spring?”
“Yes, but that’s for purses and prints, Morgan, not weddings, for God’s sake.” Actually, the idea was starting to grow on me.
“Oh well. I’ve got laundry to do tomorrow anyway,” she said.
“Fine, then, wear black. Be a scene stealer,” I said. “But I think it’s only fair that I get to help you choose your dress.” I couldn’t trust her not to show up in something Cher might have worn to the Academy Awards.
“Deal,” she said. “What time will you pick me up?”
“Be downstairs at three. I’ll be in a cab.”
“Isn’t that a bit late?”
“3:00 a.m., Morgan. There’s going to be a long line.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ll see.”
She hung up on me, but I knew she’d be there.
Thankfully, there would be only one place to go in my quest for the ultimate gown. Before Pruscilla blocked my Internet access, I came across some very interesting information regarding a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for the young and fashion-forward bride-to-be—the Vera Wang sale. In case you’ve been living under a rock for the past ten years, Vera Wang is the top name in bridal fashion. No self-respecting starlet or socialite would walk down the aisle in anything else, unless they were trying to make some sort of peculiar anti-Wang statement. You know, the type who would get married barefoot on the beach like Cindy Crawford or who would prefer to wear a hemp gown or something lame like that.
But once a year, in a New York City hotel whose name is kept quiet until the last possible minute, there’s a gigantic Vera Wang blowout sale and all her dresses are marked down seventy or eighty percent. People come from all over the country and start lining up in the middle of the night to get first crack at the best gowns.
Sure enough, there was already a line when we got there, stretching halfway down the hall. Most of the girls had brought their mothers. Some strategy—these slow-witted, middle-aged mommies would be no match for us. Morgan was still a little drunk and obviously hadn’t been to sleep, which was a good thing. I wanted her bitchy and on edge, in case she had to fight someone for a dress.
“Keep your eye out for anything you think would look good on me,” I said as I eyed the crowd.
Morgan just yawned.
“I think we’ve got a good spot, here. The ones at the front of the line will either overshoot the good stuff or be trampled underfoot. There’s one chick up there, though, she looks wily. She brought her own full-length mirror. Smart. Very smart. And her mother’s wearing running shoes. Keep your eye on her, Morgan. And take a look at these….”
I handed her a stack of ads I’d ripped out of magazines. “I’ve already memorized them, and you’d do well to do the same. If you see any of these—and I mean any of these—grab ’em. I don’t care if you have to rip a dress out of someone’s cold, dead hand. Just do it. Grab ’em all and we’ll sort them out later.”
“You’re demented, you know that?”
“I’m determined.” Okay, and maybe just a touch sick. But this was my one and only chance to be able afford the dress of my dreams. Besides, there was no harm in it, was there? And it was all in good fun.
“Yes, I can see that.”
“It’s almost four now, and the doors don’t open till eight. There’s lots of time to familiarize yourself with the dresses.”
But she just slumped down against the wall and closed her eyes.
By 8:00 a.m., I’d had four cups of coffee a
nd almost missed the doors opening because I was stuck waiting in line at the bathroom. Morgan waved to me from the crowd and I fought my way forward just in time to make it in with the first group. We would have exactly one hour before they kicked us out and let the next group in.
Inside the room, rows and rows of dresses wrapped in plastic hung neatly on portable silver racks. But not for long. It was like watching an army of ants devour an entire picnic in fast forward. Plastic was flying every which way. Girls were stripping down to their underwear and frantically pulling dresses over their heads while friends or mothers looked on approvingly. Our strategy was to divide and conquer. Grab whatever looks good, and narrow down the field later.
I ran through the aisles wildly pulling out dresses and pushing plastic aside. There were so many to go through. But none of them seemed right. All I could find were rejects—last year’s models, some were damaged, a few weren’t even close to white. A wave of terror swelled up within my chest. The clock was ticking. I saw the girl from line jumping up and down in joy, holding a stunning gown to her chest, while her mother supported the mirror with one hand and wiped tears away with the other. Dammit! Where was mine? Where was my dress? I was starting to sweat. People were pushing me from every which way. It had already been almost forty-five minutes—all the good ones were sure to be gone! The room began to get dark. I looked up. The chandelier swayed like it was about to come crashing down onto my head….
I crawled out from the fray, sat down on the floor next to a security guard and put my head in my hands, trying to catch my breath. It was no use. My dream dress, it seemed, was exactly that—a dream. Worse than that, it was a cruel hoax, a false ideal concocted by misogynist male capitalists in order to coax impoverished young brides-to-be into maxing out their credit cards for a gown they’ll wear for six hours, then leave to rot for two or three decades, only to be passed over by their ungrateful daughters in favor of what ultimately amounts to nothing more than yet another overpriced white tablecloth.