by Ariella Papa
“Oh, Diana, she’s great, isn’t she?”
“Oh, yes, great.” There’s that funny word again.
“She must be such a joy to work for.”
“She’s pretty intense,” I say, intending to be ambiguous. (It’s not easy to gauge if my intentions are actually coming across when I’ve had all this good vodka.) “What was she like in school?”
“We didn’t go to school together. We knew each other through her ex-husband. It’s a long story. Diana doesn’t have much education. She just worked her way up. Started as an assistant on the lowest level. Some rag magazine. Who knows what she did to get this far.” Talk about ambiguous.
The bathroom door opens and three people come out. I look at elizabeth and shrug. I extend my hand for her to go in. She puts her hand on my shoulders and puts her face a little too close to mine.
“We could go in together if you want.” As boozy as elizabeth is, I catch the sparkle in her eyes.
“Gee,” I say (this is the speech I reserve for women and men wearing tube socks), “I’m awfully flattered, but you know I’m sort of out of that stage. Thanks for asking.” Lesbian experimentation is so passé.
“Have a great night—” she smiles up at me “—and be sure to pick up the copy of my book.”
On the ride home, I chat with Dwight for a while. He’s a sweet old guy whose got no problem with speed. This I like in a driver. Dwight has it together. “The best part is at the end of the day, or the end of the night, it’s over, you know,” he says. “I never take it home with me. No baggage. I get my life.” Very interesting.
Another nice thing about Dwight is his obvious respect for the city. You know this about a driver by the way they handle the view right when you are about to go into the Lincoln Tunnel. There’s a dip right before you go under where you can see the city. At this late hour, the city really is beautiful. Dwight doesn’t talk incessantly over that view. He sees me staring at it from the rearview mirror and he seems to enjoy it, too.
“I know how you feel, kid, gets me every time, too. All that life going on.” Well said, Mr. Dwight. (Hang on! I’m not getting cheesy just because I crossed over to the Jersey side and I’m not too drunk. You check out a view of the city at 3:30 in the morning with just the right amount of free alcohol floating around in your system and I bet a tear or two trickles down your cheek.) Dwight knows all these shortcuts to get to my doorstep. I bid him farewell and climb up my stairs, trying not to make too much noise.
As I’m passing out, I think, for as long as it takes the room to stop spinning, about all the things people know about each other that they probably shouldn’t know. Tabitha knows the select portions of Roseanne with that guy in the bathroom and I know that the Big C doesn’t have an education. I wonder how much people know about me. Maybe I don’t have too many secrets. Maybe I should cultivate some.
Also, it’s reassuring to think that the Big C started out as an assistant and now she’s wearing fabulous clothes and skipping the coolest parties, just because she can. I have to remember to tell Tabitha all this stuff. She will love it.
Hungover again. The terrifyingly long ride into the city did not help my throbbing head. As it is, I’m a half hour late for work, but of course, I still get into work before everyone else. Perseverance is the only way to the top. Of course it would be a lot easier to get into work early and catch the proverbial worm if I only lived around the corner. More motivation to start looking for a pad.
First, I send an e-mail to everyone who works for the magazine. This is really against what our internal e-mail is supposed to be used for, but if people can send porno and the Top 10 Reasons Mondays Suck and all those wretched chain letters, I can use the system for myself.
Hi all,
I am going to need to leave the nest pretty soon and I would prefer not to be homeless. If anyone out there knows of the much coveted “available New York apartment” please let me know and save another soul from the streets. Thank you!
—Eve
I get a couple of sympathetic warnings about apartment perils and a few people e me names of their brokers. Marketing Adam e-mails his standard biblical reference.
Eve,
Just stay with me forever in our garden. I promise to put on some clothes.
—Adam
Since paper is old news, (I know, I know I work for a magazine. Shame on me! Whatever.) I check the Net for real estate. Even one-bedroom apartments are at least fifteen hundred plus the broker’s fee, which is fifteen percent. I have been the sympathetic shoulder to cry on for enough of these loony health nuts I work with to know a few things about finding apartments. First, I am supposed to locate a neighborhood and stick to it. Second, it helps to have a roommate to split the cost of incidentals. And finally, apartments are a lot cheaper in the outer boroughs. Now, I may have limited funds and I could probably get a palace in Brooklyn or Jersey City for the price of a closet in the city, but, I refuse to continue my stint as a Bridge and Tunnel person.
It’s Manhattan or bust.
I find a great apartment, right on University Place in the Village. The ad says perfect for students. Well, we were once students. The student thing implies that it’s cheap, but, it’s really $1550. It’s a converted one bedroom with a big living room. There’s an open house tomorrow. The best part is that the ad says it’s no fee. I call the number. It doesn’t hurt to jump on these things. It rings about eight times before a woman answers.
“Hi. My name is Eve Vitali, I’m a student at NYU and I was calling about the apartment on University Place. I was wondering if I could see the apartment a little early because I have class at that time.” Pretty crafty, huh?
“Sorry, honey, the apartment’s already taken.”
“But, the open house isn’t until tomorrow.”
“It’s amazing. Someone found out about the apartment and came by with three months’ rent in cash and offered another six more.”
“Wow, so you are definitely going to let them have it?”
“Well, of course, wouldn’t you?” No, I would give the apartment to me, because I really deserve the lack of hassle in my search for an apartment.
“I guess. Are there any other apartments available in that building?”
“Well,” says the lady who obviously thinks she has better things to do, “you would have to call the management company for that.”
She gives me the name of the management company. When I call them they tell me that I will have to send thirty dollars for myself and anyone who I would be living with so they can run a credit check. I also have to go to their offices on the ultra Lower East Side and fill out applications. If everything goes okay, I can get myself on a waiting list and maybe, just maybe, I will be able to afford one of their apartments. I tell the receptionist I will consider it.
The next place I call sounds too good to be true. I don’t know why I didn’t call there first. It is a two bedroom on Avenue A for $1450, also no fee. I call and it turns out to be one of those places that you have to pay $200 and they fax you this listing every day until you find an apartment. What a disappointment.
Since we at Prescott Nelson are so self-contained, we have some kind of special deal worked out with a real estate agency. It’s no great bargain, just a ten percent fee instead of the usual fifteen. When I call, the lovely real estate agent, Judy, doesn’t laugh when I tell her what we’re willing to spend. She is hopeful that the market may change. In, like, eighteen months. Maybe. I’m screwed.
“Well, Eve, this is New York,” says Tabitha, informatively. I am standing outside the dressing room in Lord and Taylor. She hasn’t been very helpful at all. She’s pretty cranky about the whole thing. It seems she and Luis are having trouble communicating. She’s hoping her lingerie purchases will help them understand each other better.
“Tabitha, no shit it’s New York, but you’d think I could find an apartment.”
“Don’t get testy, Eve.” Imagine her saying this to me. “People kil
l for apartments here. Literally. Maybe you should check the obits. How depressing.”
“Maybe I should break down and find a real estate agent.”
“Okay, so you’re gonna get an apartment you can’t afford, plus a fifteen percent fee.” She holds up a tiny black lace bra. “They make this shit for supermodels. Will you go try to find my size?”
Tabitha is really pissing me off with her attitude. She wants me to fail in my search for an apartment and here I am trying to get her a slut bra. Aren’t I always her sympathy blanket? It’s a thankless job. I start searching for Tabitha’s size. I even open up those little drawers beneath the hanging bras. The saleswoman hurries to help me.
After an eternity she comes back with the bra in red. Tabitha wanted black, but I take it back toward the dressing rooms. Tabitha is already on line and the cashier is wrapping a pretty large pile of lace. I notice the total is one hundred and twenty dollars.
“Hey—” I hold the red bra out to her “—they just had red, what did you get?”
“Red is too trashy, although it might have the matador and bull affect. No, I’m tired of catering to him.” She tosses the bra on the potpourri rack and takes her bag of unidentified goodies.
“So what’s that?”
“Just some undies.”
“Seems like a lot of undies.”
“You know I hate to do laundry. We better get back. Do you want to go to some advertising party Luis is working tonight? I know it sounds mundane, but I want someone to hang out with.” We walk along, ignoring the stares and whistles of the construction workers who have taken over Times Square. Tabitha stops to flip one off when he comments about her showing him what’s in the bag.
“I’ve got to cool it on the drinking during school nights and besides, tonight is Operation Leaving the Nest.”
“I hope Victor doesn’t have a stroke.”
“Tabitha, my father’s health is nothing to joke about. Besides, it’s Janet who has a tendency to overdramatize.” Tabitha thinks she’s got my parents pegged, but she rejects all invites to see for herself how the other half lives.
“Have you devised your tactics yet?”
“I’m just going to appeal to their sense of reason.”
“They’re not going to be able to handle it.”
“I know, but I’ve got to try. Have fun at the party.”
“Too bad we can’t switch places.”
“Yeah, like Freaky Friday, or all those weird eighties movies.” Tabitha nods disinterestedly and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“Yeah, Eve, exactly like that.”
We reach the office, and part to our respective elevator banks.
I have waited to tell my parents about Roseanne’s arrival until days before she actually arrives. I know you probably think that’s not a fair thing to do, but believe me, my parents work best under pressure. Theirs was a shotgun wedding.
I wait until after dinner. The only notable thing about dinner is the way my mom keeps fussing over me and mentioning how nice it is to have me home, because I’m never home and all that mother guilt babble that mothers love to dish out. They were just getting over my sister Monica being a perpetual student and now, this. I’m debating whether or not to give in to the tears caused by my mom’s ambitious attempt at Cajun cooking. Maybe it will work in my favor and they won’t be so heartbroken when I break the news. Janet is not the best cook and she’s certainly not shy with the spices.
I decide straightforward is the best approach for delivering my news. I’ve never been a very good actress. I can barely fake an orgasm. (Not that I condone that in any way.)
Mom is just stacking the dishes. She does this with a sense of urgency the moment she senses we’re done. She hasn’t made a single comment about Dad not finishing his whole piece of blackened chicken. This is a good sign. Dad takes out his first cigarette. His health problems are the real thing. He has only just quit smoking during meals; that is, while he eats. My mother is waiting for me to bring the dishes into the kitchen, so I seize my moment.
“Mom, Dad.” That’s how they always started stuff like this on The Brady Bunch. “Roseanne is going to be coming down for a while. Is it okay if she stays with us?”
“Of course, honey. We love Roseanne. How’s her job?” My mom likes Roseanne. She’s my mother’s example of how much happier someone is when they listen to their mother and finish school in four years—and she majored in business.
“Well, Mom—” I’m choosing my words carefully “—she’s actually not very happy with it. She’d like to be doing more.”
“She’s a smart kid,” says my father, puffing away.
“Is she coming down for the weekend?” My mom already suspects something.
“Well, she’s coming down this weekend. But I thought she might crash here for a while, because she is going to relocate to New York.” My parents look at each other. They have some kind of telepathic conversation. When my mom turns to look at me she is speaking for both of them. It’s amazing how they do that.
“Honey, we are very happy for you that your friend wants to move down. We know you miss college a lot and you’re a little lonely.” Are they talking about me? Do they have any idea what they’re saying? “But, you know, we are not a hostel. We had our share of that with Monica.”
When my sister got her first masters—in philosophy—she decided that she and seven of her closest friends were going to practice communal living out of my parents’ basement. It lasted two weeks, until one of her friends declared, after my mom made them French toast with store-bought syrup, that she couldn’t live “like a pauper” anymore. She ran hysterical from the house and had her family’s chauffeur pick her up at a 7-Eleven. He drove down from Connecticut. All those ideals shot away by the lack of Vermont maple syrup. It gave Monica something to think about.
“Mom.” I feel myself starting to get excited and I am not going to succumb, especially since I haven’t gotten anywhere near dropping the real bomb, yet. “Okay, Mom, you know Roseanne isn’t like any of Monica’s pseudo-intellectual, pseudo-hippie friends. She’s only going to be staying here until we find an apartment.” Shit. I shouldn’t have said “we.”
They don’t even bother to have their telepathic conversation this time. My mother mouths the word “we” and shakes her head. She is a lot easier to read than my dad. Her mouth turns into a nasty line and she gets a frown in the middle of her brows. My father is his stoic self, although his face tightens a bit.
“Why do you want to live in that dirty city? With those people, those dirty people?” I can’t imagine who these dirty people might be.
“Mom,” I say, as if she were my two-year-old, “I understand all of your concerns, but really, the only person I’m going to be living with is Roseanne. No dirty people.” Of course they don’t need to know about the ambiguous “dirty” encounters I might have.
“Why would you want to leave here? I can’t understand you or your sister. Your father and I give you everything. Everything. We would never charge you rent. We don’t beat you. I cook all your meals. Maybe I should have breast-fed.” I can see my mother slipping into hysteria so I turn to my father who is on his third cigarette.
“Everything, you get everything. It’s like a vacation for you two. It’s like…” He’s struggling here to think of a place. “It’s like the Rivieria.” Ick. I think I understand now why my father lets my mother do all the talking. She may be emotional, but she puts a much better spin on things.
“Dad!” I start to say that the closest he has ever been to the Rivieria is Epcot, but I have vowed to be calm. I look at both of them. Desperate situations call for desperate measures. I take their hands. In my mind I hear the triumphant score of a million made-for-TV movies. I take a deep breath and try to blink up a tear.
“You know, I love you guys, I do. You’ve given me everything. You are the best parents ever.” I make eye contact with both of them. Parents love this stuff. “Monica and I (well, not really
me) have been draining money off you for years. Dad, you went out on your own at sixteen, don’t you always tell us that? Mom, it wasn’t easy for you with two screaming kids but you made ends meet, didn’t you? Now, I want to give you guys a break. I also want you to be proud of me. I want to support myself. It’s important for me. I promise I’ll get the safest best apartment I possibly can. I just need your love and support. And I need your help.”
Have I pushed it too far? Did I lay it on too thick? Have they seen through me? I look back and forth to each of them and then…my mother starts to cry. At first, I’m not sure if she’s crying because she’s genuinely moved by the whole thing or because I’ve just given her the biggest pile of bullshit she’s ever heard. I look to my father who seems really uncomfortable with all the emotion, fingering his pack of cigarettes and contemplating another smoke. My mother squeezes my hand and wipes a tear. What a scene!
“Honey, of course we will help you. I’m so proud of you.” She gets up to hug me. I hug my dad. What a happy family.
“I guess I’ll get the daybed out of the garage,” says my father, pushing his chair away from the table, poised for escape.
When my mom finishes gushing I head upstairs and call Roseanne to tell her we are all set.
I spend the rest of the night in the bathroom making ugly faces.
October
To be fair to my parents, I spend all of Friday cleaning the house in anticipation of Roseanne’s arrival. Tabitha was really annoyed that I didn’t go to this chi-chi West Village gallery opening with her. She also didn’t appreciate it when I said I’d offer her a twenty for every straight guy she encountered. She got off the phone all huffy.