by Ariella Papa
“So what do you think?” Kate asks. Roseanne is peculiarly quiet. I ask again how much it costs.
“Only $1300.” I add in the $1000 broker’s fee, and we owe Kate $2300. I look at Roseanne, wishing we had my parents’ telepathic gift. Her face is unreadable. I know there is no way I want to move into this apartment, but does Rosie? I wait for her to speak, but she doesn’t.
“It’s a great apartment,” I lie, “but, we need to think about it.”
“Do you want to leave a deposit? We are also going to have to do a credit check and make sure we have a guarantor because you are so young.”
“I think we should talk about it first and maybe give you a call tomorrow.”
“Fine.” Kate seems a little disapproving. “I just want to advise you that apartments like this don’t last long in New York.”
I thank Kate and Roseanne manages a smile and we are back on the streets. I don’t say a word for a while, giving Ro the chance to mull it over. We cut through Tompkins Square Park and ignore the drug pushers.
Roseanne says nothing, but looks like she is in pain. I try to make casual conversation. “So, um, what did you think of the palace?”
“I would sooner cut off my right arm than take a shower in the kitchen.” Well, that settles that. The idea of being alone in my house with Roseanne repulses me, so I offer to buy her dinner.
We meet Adrian and Tabitha at the Mexican place on Eighth Avenue. It overlooks the street at all the beautiful boys walking by. The worst thing about Chelsea is that feeling of being in the best bakery in the world and having your mouth wired shut. There are no men as attractively unattainable as the ones in Chelsea. They dress well, have cuddly dogs, and probably awesome jobs and money in the bank, but you don’t stand a chance unless you have a penis.
Adrian lives in Chelsea. He’s one of those mouth-watering boys, but I know him so I’ve gotten used to it. He also works for Prescott, and has a job he actually enjoys. He works for Little Nell, the kids magazine based on a Saturday cartoon character with that annoying theme song. I guess it embarrasses him a little, but he’s a graphic artist, which is cool no matter how you look at it. He and Tabitha go way back to the days when they temped for MTV.
As soon as we order, I take Tabitha into the bathroom and give her the lowdown; Roseanne’s going nuts from all these dead-end interviews and ridiculous apartments. I am having trouble being positive. Tabitha seems focused on applying her MAC lipstick.
“Are you listening to me Tabitha? She’s getting really upset. I purposely walked by the Life Café, you know, the place in Rent, and she said nothing.”
“You mean she didn’t hyperventilate again.”
“Oh, Tab!” I say, just to be a bitch, but she doesn’t take my bait. She is too busy studying her eyes. She did them up from a picture in a book by this great makeup artist that she loves.
“What do you think, too much kohl?”
“Well, not if you are going for that Cleopatra look in blue.”
“I wish he would let me know where he gets his liquid eye-liner.”
“Who?”
“Kevin.” The makeup artist, of course. “It’s sweet though, you know he isn’t selling out to anyone, he’s tight-lipped about who he gets his cosmetics from. No exclusive contract, not yet anyway. How admirable.” Whatever.
Back at the table Adrian and Roseanne are laughing loudly. There is an empty margarita glass next to Roseanne. I told you she could suck it down. Anyway, I have to hand it to Adrian, he’s definitely taking some of the edge off. Thank God.
“I mean, I wasn’t raised to live in a place like that,” Roseanne says. She quiets down when I sit. “Imagine showering in the kitchen.”
“Imagine,” Tabitha says. I think she’s pissy because Adrian and Rosie are getting along. Adrian is a god to Tabitha. Rosie ignores Tabitha and we actually have a great dinner. Of course Rosie and I get drunk and when the bill comes I’m not psyched about paying for Rosie’s portion and it hurts me to turn her down when she offers to pay, but I keep my word.
While Rosie is in the bathroom, Adrian suggests we go to this gay dance club. “Adrian, the last thing I’m going to do is go to another meat market with you. If I want to see that kind of hormonal display I’ll go to the Upper East Side and get lucky with a frat boy.”
“Listen to Miss Thing,” says Adrian, laughing. He looks at Tabitha. “And you?”
“Well, I’m certainly not ready to go home to the ’burbs.” She smirks at us.
“Meow,” Adrian and I purr together.
“Your friend Rosie is nice, we should try to hook her up with a job.” What a sweetheart Adrian is. Let that be a lesson to Herself. Tabitha rolls her eyes.
“What’s next?” asks Rosie, back at the table. I know she’s tanked.
“Next is a whirlwind of an evening on the bus. I can’t be hungover again. You can sleep late.”
“You could always stay over, Rosie,” Adrian offers, and I feel Tabitha kick me under the table. She would absolutely die.
“Well, thanks, Adrian,” says Rosie softly, “but I don’t want Eve to go back by herself.”
“Of course you don’t,” adds Tabitha definitively. She could just give me a car voucher, but I’ve got no legitimate cause to ask for one.
We take a cab to Port Authority and catch the bus home. I plan on sleeping the whole way home. Rosie wants to talk about Chelsea.
“I think we should live there, Eve. All those guys, I mean, I know they aren’t your type, but they all seem so built and cute—and did you notice all the dogs? That’s the kind of guy for me.” She must be kidding, but she isn’t. It only gets worse.
“And Adrian, what’s his story? He’s so cute and nice. He’s a designer for Prescott Nelson, well, of course you know that, but how cool is that? Why didn’t you ever tell me about him? Did you like him? I kind of wanted to hang out, but I didn’t know. Are he and Tabitha together?”
The worst part is, she’s serious. I mean, Adrian isn’t flaming and he doesn’t really fit what people would stereotype as gay, but isn’t it obvious? Does one need to be singing the show tunes to be clear about their sexuality?
The trip turns into a harsh education for Rosie. I thought it might upset her more, but she actually takes it well. She laughs with me for the first time since she started looking for a job.
Need I remind you again that it’s only been eleven business days?
Tuesday morning is our staff meeting. I am mildly hungover. The staff acts like these meetings are the greatest things since the Times Square Shuttle. How much fun can you make articles about cycling? You get a real feel for what exercise geeks these writers are—they sometimes read questions that are sent in to the “Dear Biker” column and laugh about the ignorance of readers. Today is a special treat, we are watching a promotional video for some biking company that wants us to cover their newest brand.
Everyone is on the edge of their seats, mesmerized by the amazing angles the cameraman got on the bikes. Everyone except Lorraine and me. Since Herb has seen all the footage, he manages to be even more smug than usual, like he created the bikes or something.
I do a lot of eye rolling at Lorraine and she shakes her head. She leads the business aspect of the meeting; who is supposed to be doing what assignment, what kind of budgets the writers have and gives us feedback from different departments, lines of business as they are called. Herb does a lot of interrupting during Lorraine’s part. It amazes me that he does it with such ease. He makes the stupidest jokes and people will laugh. How does someone get the confidence to do that? Is it just by being the boss? If I ever tried that I think everyone would look at me as if I had eight heads and maybe I would get a good human resources “talking to.”
The meeting concludes with people reading select excerpts of their articles. There is a separate meeting called the Feed Meet, to get feedback before the articles are published, but this is reading the articles after they are already in the magazine. If we really cared
we could just grab a copy of this month’s issue, but Herb insists that certain writers should read their articles during our staff meeting. There is no escape, not even in the fresh-squeezed orange juice and bran muffins. After the “special” writer finishes, we all have to applaud.
After the meeting I bring the carnage of the picked-over breakfast by my desk. This means that all day long, I’ll have all of them coming by looking at the leftovers as if there might be some new healthy snack that just appears. They also make goofy jokes about how the food is breaking down and are inspired to talk about how many miles and at what speed they have to bike in order to burn off a certain number of calories. Then it always deteriorates to fiber jokes and bathroom humor. Like I said, exercise geeks.
“Do you need any help?” Brian, the new semester slave, asks me after the meeting. I’m in the midst of e-mailing Tabitha.
“No, I’m fine for now.” Brian lives for these meetings. The bad thing about interns is they remind you of how little you have to do, and thus, how little you can pass onto them. Brian is going to be with us all semester, which means that I have him to look forward to until Christmas. “Why don’t you check out some of our old issues?” Brian is one of those interns who thinks if he asks enough questions and kisses enough ass, he’ll get a job here. When Brian isn’t slaving away or kissing ass, he is harassing me. He seems to think that part of the so-called learning experience is being involved in every aspect of the office.
“Hey, Brian. This—” I cover up my monitor “—is personal. It’s not some important job secret that is being kept from you.”
“Oh, okay.” He goes back to sit at his makeshift desk. I guess I should feel bad for the guy. At least I get paid.
He comes back fifteen minutes later under the pretense of getting a different issue. This time I’m on the Net trying to find Roseanne a recipe for gumbo. This is getting annoying. I quickly switch my computer back to the desktop and pretend to find it amazing. He decides to address me anyway.
“You know, I’m thinking of trying to write an article.” Mother of God.
“Great, Brian.” I don’t take my eyes off the screen, but I’m surprised how annoyed I am that Brian thinks it’s that simple.
“Did you ever think about trying to write?”
“Bikes don’t really interest me.”
“But still, it’s a great opportunity you have here.” I think they must brainwash them at the intern orientation. “I mean, you don’t want to be a receptionist all your life.”
“What?” This time I actually turn and look at him. Now, I have a very long desk that is sort of in the middle of a bunch of offices and cubes, but the receptionist sits in the elevator lobby. “I am not a receptionist! I am a department assistant. Big difference!” Brian walks away with his head hanging. Good riddance. But this raises another more serious question, do I really seem like a receptionist? Image is everything. What if I give off a receptionist image? I call Tabitha.
“If you seem like a receptionist, I seem like a receptionist, and I am certainly not a receptionist.” Tabitha has the same desk that I do and sits in almost the exact same position.
“Do you think it’s the desk? Is that what makes us seem like receptionists?”
“Hey, Eve, don’t clump me into the reception pool. It’s this shitty intern who is ignorant of the ways of Prescott Nelson. Don’t let it bother you. That’s the problem with these interns—they waltz in here with these ideals and think they can run the company.”
“Well, Tabitha, so do we.”
“Well, we can.”
“But here is the question, is there any more dignity in being an assistant than a receptionist?”
“Ah, the conundrum,” says Tabitha as my other line beeps.
“Hold on.” Tabitha sighs as if by putting her on hold I have ruined her day. “Eve Vitali.”
“Eve, Zeke.” Wow!
“Zeke! Hold on, I’m on the other line.”
“Is this a bad time I could—”
“No, I’m just finishing. Hold on.” I click back to Tabitha, who is incidentally singing a Spice Girls’ song, although she stops quickly when she hears me. “Hey, Slutty Spice, that’s Zeke.”
“Return of the Ape Man.”
“Thanks for consoling me about the receptionist thing.” I click back to Zeke. “Hi.” I will be strong. He can’t just decide not to call me and get away with it.
“Oh, Eve,” he growls. I might weaken a little. (I know, I know, but remember, I have needs, too.) “God, I’ve missed you.”
“Really.”
“I had to go to L.A. to check out a band.” I reminisce about why I first liked him. Say ’bye, ’bye receptionist, my carriage awaits. I can get over the hair, I know I can.
“How was it?”
“Oh, you know L.A.” I don’t, but someday I’d like to. “It’s good to be home.”
“Yeah.”
“So, Eve, can I see you?”
I agree to meet Zeke for Jamaican food. I must admit that he has a knack for picking restaurants. Tabitha thinks this signifies a chronic dater, but she gave me her blessing, because I might as well keep on getting some after my long drought. Roseanne wasn’t thrilled about spending the night alone with my parents watching “Nick at Nite,” but she agreed to corroborate my working late story. This being the only reason my mother would accept for not being a proper host to Roseanne.
Anyway, Zeke has on a dizzying shirt. It has black and white swirls and I wonder if he thinks it will hasten my drunkenness. Again, I intend to stand firm.
“Eve.” He gets up and kisses me (yes, on the lips). It’s not one of those gushy kisses—it’s worse. It’s one of those “we have something that won’t be cheapened by saliva, so let me take your face in my hands as if it is an exquisite jewel and kiss you with just a hint of the passion that will hopefully not explode all over the dinner table” kiss. You know the ones? Anyway, it’s troubling.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. Everything,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s great to see you. You look beautiful.”
“Thanks.” Standing firm. Unsinkable. We sit down.
The waitress arrives and places Jamaican beer in front of both of us.
“I ordered for us,” he says, taking my hand. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Uh, no.” Well, I guess I don’t mind. What I mind is the way he is sniffing my hand.
“You smell good, Eve, real good.” I have to wonder if my life just got scripted by soap opera writers. I look around for a camera.
“Are you looking for someone?”
“No.”
“Good, because I just want us to focus on each other.”
“Well, I’m starved. Let’s check out the menu.” I break free from him. I feel him watching me, but I ignore it. I take a sip of my beer.
“Eve,” he says. I look at him. He looks intensely at me and smiles. “I can’t wait to taste you again.” Yes! He says that. I feel yucky. I have a serious uh-oh feeling.
“Okay.” Straight back to the menu. I get the jerk chicken.
When the food arrives Zeke is telling me about the book he is writing. He is writing it from the perspective of a thirty-five-year-old, Korean-African-American single mother.
“But, it’s different, very stream of consciousness. Very…I don’t know, how do I say it…?” he pauses as if thinking. Something tells me he has given this very same explanation a hundred times. “…well, I like to think poetic.”
“That’s interesting, Zeke—” I take a bite of my chicken and chew almost as thoughtfully “—but I thought the idea was to write what you know.”
From Zeke’s expression, I assume no one has ever discussed this with him before.
“Eve, that’s so oppressive. Why should I let my writing be defined by limits, by archaic rules. I understand this woman, I feel I’ve gotten her. That’s what being an artist is. I feel a side of me opening up. It’s an amazing release. It transcends everything.�
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“Does it?” We eat our meals for a while. The waitress brings more beer. I’m pacing myself. Zeke is really quiet. No amount of sexual eating will pull him out of it. He’s not even watching me. The silence is so awkward, I actually run my tongue over the chicken before I put it in my mouth. It does nothing. When he isn’t talking, I kind of enjoy looking at him, and what the hell, I’m horny. (Yeah, yeah, I know what I said.)
“So, what should we do now? Do you want to get a drink?”
“Eve, I think I am ready to get the check and call it a night.” What?
“What?”
“I just don’t think it’s going to work between us.” Really.
“Really?”
He takes my hand again, this time almost pityingly. “You just don’t seem to get my work.”
“The A&R stuff? What’s to get?”
“No, Eve, not my job. No, my writing, my art.”
“What, that book?”
“It’s a huge part of me, and it’s clear by your ignorance that you’ll never understand.” Is he being serious? “I cared for you, Eve, but I realize you will never support me and that is a big issue.” The big issue I think I am starting to realize is that I am not going to have sex this evening and who knows how long it will be again.
“Zeke, maybe you’re getting a little excited.”
“That’s just it, Eve! You don’t understand!” He actually slams his hand on the table when he says this. Several diners turn to look at us. The waitress hurries over to see if she can get us the check.
“Yes, get the check.” I offer Zeke money, but he won’t take it. I was going to head to Tabitha’s, but in the absence of a good lay, I think I want nothing more than my own bed. Zeke gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and hops in a cab.
I ride home alone on the bus, because I missed the train. Again. This pathetic feeling is reason enough to move out.
My parents and Rosie are circled around the TV. I assure my mother I took a car home and Rosie seems a little too smug, knowing my date must have gone dreadfully wrong.
I go up to my room and feign sleep when Rosie comes in. She says my name, but I ignore her. Wasn’t I beautiful? Didn’t I taste delicious and eat sexily? What happened to all that? One blast of reality and Zeke is a goner.