On the Verge

by Ariella Papa

  “Yep, from around the neighborhood. Uh-huh.” I think about sticking a “great” in for good measure. If I weren’t getting loopy this would be a lot easier. “Well, have a great night you guys.”

  Did I just call Herb and Lacey “you guys”? I can’t believe they saw my dancing debacle (which moments ago I thought was cool). I also cannot believe Rob King is a “fan.” Wow! I have to get a drink and find the girls. I get half of my plan accomplished when I feel something cold on my back.

  It’s Rob King’s drink attached to Rob King. He looks like a twenty-something club kid who somehow got to swim with the big fish. I can feel my face flush and I know I am all teeth.

  “I heard you’re a big fan.” Thanks to alcohol I can be this brash.

  “I had to think of something to find out your last name, Ms. Vitali. By the way, I’m glad you took my advice about the red, but I miss the hat.”

  “That was, I don’t know—elevator shenanigans.”

  “Oh, really.” He smiles. I am going to die. I just have to keep being cool. “I’m also a big fan of elevator shenanigans. You know, you’re quite the dancer.”

  “You saw that? It was kind of embarrassing. I don’t really know how.”

  “Coulda fooled me. Want to get some sushi?” This is seriously a bad idea. I am not ready to run in these sushi-eating circles. Doesn’t this guy date models? I can see Roseanne, Tabitha, Adrian and Anthony gesturing about us from across the room. I don’t even know Anthony, but already, he’s involved in the scandal.

  “Okay.” I am awful. I am drunk. It’s going to be a slow burn.

  “Let’s go downstairs.” Oh, sure, away from the big guys.

  “What’s wrong with here?” As soon as I say it I know I sound like a child trying to prove something.

  “Whatever you want. There are comfy couches downstairs.” Uncle Pres is paying this guy the big bucks to say “comfy”?

  I agree to go downstairs and he hands me a big plate by the sushi bar. He starts piling pieces of sushi up on my dish. I thank him after each piece and he ignores me, until he has about twenty-five pieces.

  “My pleasure,” he says, and gives me a seductive look. Now, I’m in trouble. I have totally lost the girls and I know (I knew!) I am going to do something regrettable.

  “You’re not going to feed me, are you?” I ask him as we sit on one of the couches. These couches are off to the side behind some gauzy lounge curtains. Apparently, we have reached the designated hook-up area. The couches are already full of smooching couples. I try not to recognize anyone.

  “Not unless you want me to.”

  Some truck is blocking me as I try to pick up five hundred pounds of sushi with a forklift. I decide to back up, because Prescott is waiting. When I take a look at myself in the rearview mirror, I notice I have a red bra on my head and Tabitha and Prescott are in the back seat. Both of them are wearing Tabitha’s underwear.

  “You better hurry up,” says Tabitha.

  “I’m trying!” I scream, but immediately feel bad about losing my cool.

  “Why don’t you answer the phone?” says Prescott.

  “What?” I ask, trying to keep a menial attitude. “Oh, yeah!”

  I wake up and answer the phone next to the bed. Where the hell am I? Why am I naked? Why does my head hurt like this?

  “Hello?” I mumble, disoriented.

  “Good morning, Ms. Vitali.” I sit up in bed. Oooh, my head, my stomach. Shit! I start to get flashes of last night.

  “Rob?”

  “Were you expecting Prescott Nelson?”

  “Well, actually, I was dreaming. Where are you? Where am I?”

  “At work. At home.”

  “Not my home. What time is it?”

  “My home. 10:30.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Well put. Don’t worry, everyone will be in late today.”

  “Everyone but you. Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I tried, but I had a meeting at 10:00. I kept getting my machine. How do you feel?”

  “Shitty.”

  “I’ll have some breakfast delivered.”

  “No, I have to get to work. I’m late. Totally. This is bad.”

  “I’ll call you in fifteen.”

  “No, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I’m getting up.”

  “I’ll call you later,” I hear him say as I hang up. Shit. I am going to die. Okay, I will give myself one minute and then, if I can, I will get out of bed. Just then I remember holding on to him tightly as we walked into his building, a doorman building. I look around the room, it’s nice. The bed is big. I am wearing my bra and underwear. Oh, no, I think I pulled off my dress seductively while trying to get Rob to Latin dance with me. He was protesting, then he was helping me with my dress, but not dancing. Oh, my god, I am a slut. I am like a bad B movie on the USA channel. I have to get out of here. While I am washing my face in the huge bathroom with the sunken tub (I have no memories of the sunken tub, thank God) I remember putting the sushi plate aside at the party and (oh God, I’m cringing) kissing Rob. I keep getting images of these passionate kisses. What have I done? The bathroom is spinning. I spend two minutes on the toilet trying to compose myself. I hunt around in Rob’s well-stocked fridge until I find (bingo!) orange juice. My dress is on the floor of a different bedroom. I assume this is Rob’s room—it looks out onto the water. Where the hell am I? I should call him back.

  No, I won’t call him. I’ll ask the doorman. Oh, shit, the doorman was smirking at me. I remember him holding open the elevator door as Rob practically carried me in.

  “Do you want me to get something for the young lady?”

  “No, don’t worry, she does this all the time—” Rob smiled at me “—she isn’t supposed to drink with her medicine.” I thought that was the funniest thing….

  No, I am not going to ask the doorman. I am going to go out on the street and start walking. I just need to sit for a second. I’m going to fall asleep, no, okay I have to get out of here. The phone’s ringing and I ignore it.

  I dash past the doorman. I feel like a high-class call girl in my red-beaded dress. Where the hell am I now? In the Cab of Shame.

  “You are on West End and 86th Street, ma’am. You going to a party?”

  “No, I just came from one.”

  It takes fifteen minutes to get to my apartment and costs thirteen dollars. We had to go through Times Square and I thought about sinking down in the back seat when we passed the Prescott Nelson building. At about 60th Street, I started worrying that we would get into an accident in front of the building, and I would have to get out onto the street in all my beaded glory. That reminded me of kissing Rob King on the couches. He was rubbing his hands all over my dress and he kept muttering how he didn’t want to touch me because all my beads were coming off. He must have gotten over it, because there’s definitely some bare spots.

  I will not let myself fall asleep, although my bed looks so inviting. (Did Rob King tuck me in last night?) Then I hear something from the living room. Oh, my God. Someone broke into my apartment. They’ve probably been staking us out for weeks and didn’t expect to find anyone home.

  I decide to fight—if they’ve been watching the place, they won’t expect me to be home and therefore are unarmed (that’s logical, right?). There’s nothing in my room that would be a suitable weapon, my heels will have to do. Shit! They are in bad shape someone must’ve spilled beer and (ugh!) puke—probably my own. I’ll just have to get the right shot. I get into my best Miami Vice gun stance and spring!!!

  I bump straight into Rosie and we both scream.

  “What the heck are you doing here, Eve? I mean, thank goodness, you’re okay, you should’ve called, but what are you doing?”

  “I could say the same to you. It’s almost eleven.”

  “I called in sick. Last I saw you were headed downstairs with that guy Tabitha says is your ticket to the good life. What happened with him?” I explain to her that I’m not sure what happene
d with Rob and I’m just glad she’s not a vicious killer, but I have to get to work.

  “Roseanne, do you think anyone noticed us going downstairs?”

  “I doubt it. Tab and I just noticed because we weren’t hooking up. Did you know she is going to Paris for New Year’s?” It seems Roseanne and Tabitha are suddenly best friends. I change into my comfiest (there’s that funny word again) jeans and hit the subway.

  I get to work at 11:20. It’s like a ghost town. No one but Brian, the intern, is around. Does he ever stop kissing ass?

  “Rough night, Eve?” He is all smirk.

  “Brian, do you see anyone else in here?”

  “Everyone’s sleeping off their bad behavior.” Is he trying to tell me something? I ignore him. I start to check my messages. “I saw you with some guy last night.”

  “That’s funny, Brian, because I thought I saw you with some guy last night.”

  “I wasn’t. I—”

  “In fact I was standing next to Herb, you know my boss, and I said, ‘Isn’t that Brian, our intern, flailing away with some guy from the photography department?’ He seemed to think it was.” Brian leaves me alone after that. Anyway, my messages.

  “Eve, it’s Tabitha. It’s three o’clock in the morning and you were a very bad girl tonight. Just reminding you to call me the moment you get in.” She manages not to sound too drunk. Delete.

  “Eve, it’s Lorraine. My dog is sick and I figured no one will be around, so I’m taking the day. You have my home number if anything major comes up.” Delete.

  “Eve, it’s Tabitha. I just got up, it’s ten o’clock, I’m headed into work. I checked my messages at work and you have yet to call. I am starting to worry. You’re never late.” Obsessed. Delete.

  “Eve, it’s Mom. Where were you two last night? I called your apartment several times. I hope you aren’t going out on school nights. I hope you are planning on coming home this weekend for your sister. Are you sick? You know you don’t even have insurance. This isn’t good, Eve. Call me so I can stop worrying.” Where does my mother get these stories? She of all people should know I went to the party. Delete.

  “Ms. Vitali. I’m thinking of sending out a search party for you. You haven’t picked up and I’m having a real hard time locating your home number. I think you were planning on going to work. Hope you are not pulling those elevator shenanigans again. Know how you love those. Call me when you get in, 3364.” I listen to that one again. He sounds too intimate, we must’ve slept together. I save the number.

  “Eve, it’s Monica. Mom is so neurotic, she is forcing me to call you. I told her you went to that party last night. She wants you to call when you get in. She wants you to come home, but I think I’d rather crash with you guys this weekend. I can’t bear to be with them any more than necessary. Call me.” I don’t think I can bear to be with Monica any more than necessary. Delete.

  “Eve, it’s me again. Where are you? I’m on my cell in the cab on the way over. This cab is making me nauseous. The cabbie’s name has absolutely no vowels in it. What do you think of that? Have you talked to Rob yet?” Tabitha is out of control. One to go.

  “Eve, it’s Roseanne. Some guy, Rob King, oh, boy, I think that’s the guy you hooked up with. Anyway, he just called here. He says to give him a call. I played dumb. I thought it was your boss. Sorry.” How did he get my number? My phone beeps. I hope it’s not him!

  “Eve, why haven’t you called me?” Tabitha needs psychiatric care. I spend the next hour trying to answer her questions in a low enough voice so eavesdropping Brian won’t hear. We analyze everything I can remember about the evening, but Tabitha isn’t really satisfied with my fragmented memory. She’s in a pissy mood because the Big C was ready and waiting for her at eight and Lady Tabitha strolled in around noon. We stay on the phone until about 12:30. Most of my department (the people who decided to show) come in about one. Everyone is grumpy and whispering—they might as well have stayed home. It’s amazing how few people can actually hold their liquor. I manage to be cheery and polite, despite the fact that there is no way I’m getting out of my chair. Lacey is noticeably out for the entire day (that can’t be good for her image). I see Rob’s number come up a couple of times on my Caller ID, but I don’t answer, and he never leaves a message. Every time I realize that there isn’t going to be a message, I regret not picking it up. I keep telling myself that if he calls back, I’ll pick up. Then when he does, I don’t.

  At 4:30, people start sneaking off. I wait until quarter after five and then book it out of there. I have managed to avoid Rob King all day (well for the five hours I’ve been at work). I have yet to eat any solid food. As if she read my mind, Roseanne has a big vat of cream of wheat waiting. We have two servings each, feel sick and pass out on the couch watching some poor victim woman movie on Lifetime. Quite a Friday.

  I must never drink again.

  My sister shows up at around eleven on Saturday morning. She has decided to crash “for a few days.” The sight of her overnight bag makes me a little queasy. I guess I’m not yet over my hangover.

  It’s not that I don’t love my sister—I do. When we were little she wasn’t one of those competitive older sisters that ruined my self-image, nor was she excessively mean to me. My sister was always sort of an oddball in school. She was a little too old for her age and a little too smart. She was going to demonstrations when most people were just going to football games. Even in high school, I tried to avoid the cheesy people (which is hard to do in Jersey) but not be too much of a geek. My sister was always getting nominated for “Most Original” and she is. I think I disappointed her a little because I never followed in her radical footsteps. In college, she declared herself a socialist. She named her kittens Sacco and Vanzetti. My father developed an ulcer.

  For everything my sister is, she is also kind of a baby. I guess I tend to think of myself as more of an expert on the real world because I’ve held a full-time job for almost a year and my sister has always been at school or volunteering in some impoverished part of the world. She is good-hearted, if a little disillusioned. Sometimes it’s hard to be patient with her. I know, I’m awful. She is flustered when she comes through the door, because she had trouble finding her way over from Penn Station (ten blocks!).

  Roseanne comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish-towel. She smiles at Monica, whom she’s only met a few times. “How was your trip?”

  “Hard. It was hard for me to leave Chuck.” All of the sudden I get a quick flash that this entire visit is going to consist of Monica looking wistful and trying to engage me in conversations about Chuck.

  “That’s too bad,” says Roseanne, who has suddenly turned into Ms. Compassionate.

  “Wanna check out the rest of the apartment?” The last thing I want to do is talk about some over-the-hill folk singer all weekend. Monica plops her bag down and walks around. I can’t read her expression.

  “Wow! It’s not so bad. I mean it’s decent-size.”

  “Well, it’s actually really big by New York standards.”

  “And cheap,” Roseanne adds.

  “No, honey, it’s great.” I hate it when she calls me honey. Monica is only five years older than me. I am vowing not to lose patience with her. I watch her staring out the window onto 7th Avenue. “It must get really loud though.”

  “Not bad,” I lie. “It’s a great apartment.”

  “Can you go out on this?” She means the fire escape.

  “Well, we won’t go out now, it’s too cold, but we like to call it our veranda.”

  “Or balcony.” Monica nods and stares out the window. I can tell she is thinking of Chuck. Whatever.

  “So, Monica, what do you want to do today? Shopping? Want to go see the tree and shop?”

  “Sure, that’s fun. I’m never in New York. I’ll feel like a tourist.”

  “Well, we’ll see enough of those today. Let’s eat first. Roseanne made breakfast.”

  “Yeah, I made honey walnut p
ancakes and fresh fruit toppings.”

  “Oh, that sounds good, but I’ll just have fruit salad.”

  “Oh, I can make something else. Eggs?” Poor Roseanne.

  “No, that’s okay, I’m vegan.” What?

  “What?” I can’t believe she’s such a freak. “Why, Monica?”

  “Well, Chuck is. I just think it’s a better way to be. It’s almost hypocritical of me to feel as I do about global ecology and then munch on animal products.”

  “Vegetarian?” Roseanne asks, confused.

  “No, vegan,” I tell her, “no animal products of any kind—milk, cheese, eggs, honey. Nothing that comes from an animal.”

  “Humans should not be drinking cow’s milk, Eve.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. I just think that’s a little drastic.” Then it occurs to me. “What are you going to do Christmas Eve?” We have like seven different fish dishes on Christmas Eve.

  “I’ll just eat the pasta.”

  “Mom is going to flip. Dad is going to lose it. Aunt Sadie will take it as a personal insult if you don’t eat her calamari salad. This could be a huge issue.”

  “Monica, here’s your fruit. I have plenty.” Roseanne is always chipper. Damn her!

  “Thanks.” Roseanne gives me a motherly look so I won’t start a fight with Monica. When did I let Roseanne become my Jiminy Cricket?

  We sit and eat. I ask for seconds on the pancakes. I only manage to get half a delicious pancake down because I’m stuffed and I’m probably only trying to eat to rub it in Monica’s face. Monica chats away about Chuck (I can’t handle it.) She assures me that I am going to love him—but that’s what she said about the Marxist and about the religious freak she met while volunteering in Appalachia; in fact, that’s what she says every time there’s a new guy in her life. I’m trying to be patient.

  Once we get out, it’s hard to believe how crowded the city is. There are tourists everywhere, all walking at a snail’s pace. It’s so frustrating. Roseanne doesn’t care; she eats up Fifth Avenue. I actually kind of get a warm feeling when we look at the tree in Rockefeller Center. It’s Christmas, after all, and even with the crowds, there’s something magical about it.