by Ariella Papa
I pull Tabitha into the kitchen. I’m starting to get the Paris story out of Tabitha—something about a size two model who was hanging out far too much for Tabitha’s liking when Roseanne comes over to us. “Guess what? I think I managed to get Pete to stay over.”
“Wow! What a feat! You guys will have to take my room, because Todd is long gone in the cranny.”
“I can’t even believe this party worked out. Are you guys drunk?”
“Completely,” I say, and Tabitha nods.
“Let’s toast the New Year.” Roseanne is getting sentimental. “You guys are great, really, I’m glad I’m ringing the New Year in with both of you. Whoever you’re with on the New Year is who you’ll be with for the rest of the year.”
“I’d heard it was whatever you were doing on New Year’s Eve.” Tabitha holds up her glass.
“Maybe it’s whatever you are thinking about.” I feel the sentimental wave catching me. “Maybe this year, we can think about doing something that makes us happy, something that will keep us living the fabulous life, but not as paupers. It’s all going to happen this year.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Me, too.” We clink glasses. Happy New Year.
January
When I get to the lobby of Prescott Nelson on my first day back after the holiday, the tree is gone. You’d think they would have kept it up until at least the Feast of the Three Kings, but no more holiday reverie for us—it’s time to get back to work. I know it’s some kind of sign from the gods, a challenge, if you will.
There’s an e-mail from a woman I’ve never heard of, Mabel Karavassian, called “Challenging Yourself For A New Year.” I can tell you one thing about Mabel; she loves quotations. She offers solutions to the “the blahs” and to feelings of “inadequacy.” She writes that the most important thing we can do this year is identify the challenges that lay ahead of us as best we can, the “knowns” versus the “unknowns.” This way, we will be able to best “attack” all of our “obstacles” this year. How can Prescott allow this? I call Tabitha.
“Eve, I knew you were going to be upset about the tree.”
“Well, I was, but I’m beyond that now. I am talking about this work propaganda cloaked in self-help rhetoric that was waiting for me on my e-mail this morning. How did Mabel Karavassian get a soapbox?”
“I don’t know, but I’m certain I deleted that e-mail. Straight into the Waste Box with ‘Johnny Q. Dork’s Promotion’ and ‘Please Join Me In Welcoming April Ann Unqualified Aboard,’ not to mention the ridiculous amount of chain e-mails and uninspired jokes that the assholes in my department think I am somehow interested in.”
“But this is different, Prescott is cc’ed on this and so is—”
“Eve, you can’t make ‘cc’ a verb. I can’t stand by and let you murder the English language—it’s bad enough that you say ‘I rush-messengered the document to her.”’
“Guess who else is cc’ed on this e-mail?”
“Prescott and the Prescott Nelson mascot.”
“Is there a mascot?” I ask.
“The water buffalo, of course.”
“You are out of control. No, Rob King. Maybe he’s the new mascot.”
“No way this woman in HR cc’ed Prescott and Rob. That’s huge. That sends a signal. Rob is in control. It’s a new year, and Eve has got a new man of power. Have you heard from his majesty yet?”
“No, I’m convinced it was a dream, a Russian dream. Maybe I’m the lost czarina.”
“You’re losing me. Anyway, you know what you can tell him if he doesn’t call?”
“What?”
“‘Get on the subway and take it straight to hell.”’ Tabitha cracks up and then hangs up. As if I never said anything even slightly funny before, my friends have held on to this little phrase. Adrian called me about five times yesterday to say only that. Todd said that’s what he was going to do as he and Pete left our apartment yesterday. As she went to bed, Roseanne shouted it from her cranny. Is this the best I have to offer?
“Happy New Year, Eve,” Herb says, sneaking up on me, startling me. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted you to call an impromptu meeting for our department, say around one, and order from the Health Deli. The agenda is to discuss our challenges for the year.”
“How original,” I joke, but Herb nods and walks away, again amazed at himself.
Welcome back everyone. Don’t worry about the effects of all those holiday cookies. There will be lunch today from the Health Deli at 1:00. The conference room to be determined. Thanks.
—Eve
I call the woman in charge of scheduling conference rooms throughout the building, Jennifer Hoya. Jen answers the phone with no amount of enthusiasm whatsoever. She must have the worst job in the world.
“Hi. My name is Eve Vitali and I work for Bicycle Boy. We’re going to be having a meeting today and I was wondering if the thirty-sixth floor conference room was available.” I hear Jen laughing. “Oh, is that booked already? Do you have anything available around there?” More laughter. “Okay, on that elevator bank?” Still laughing. “Hello?”
“Let me guess, honey, your boss just decided to call this meeting, because he can.”
“Well,” I say, “pretty much. Although, I don’t want that to be my official statement.”
“Right, well, your boss and every other director.”
“So is there any hope of getting a room?”
“Let me check.” She sighs and I can hear her ruffling through her book.
“Well, there’s a room on the twenty-seventh floor.” It’s kind of a hike, because it’s a different elevator bank and I can imagine all the writers grumbling, but I need a room.
“Yeah, that’ll be great.”
“Okay, how many are you?”
“Around thirty.”
Jen makes a disturbing sound. “In that case, forget it. The room barely holds fifteen. Unfortunately that and another eight person conference room is all we have.”
“Well, I need a room. What am I going to do?”
“I can’t help you. I’m sorry.” This is a woman who has no intention of facing the challenges that lie ahead.
“Listen, I really need a room. Can you call me if one makes itself available?”
“I sure will, but I’d think about maybe having it in your kitchen.”
“Thanks.” Having a meeting in the kitchen is like having it in the hall. Everyone gets annoyed because they have to stand and eat, and the few people who have seats seem to lord it over those who don’t. In the meantime, I call the Health Deli. I grab an old bill and start to repeat what was on that one. Unfortunately, this guy can’t speak English very well. It takes me forever to put in my order. It’s 11:15 when I get off the phone. I check my responses. Adam:
Hey there, I hope my activities on New Year’s Eve don’t get me kicked out of the garden.
I delete it.
From Maggie, one of the graphics people:
We just got back, I am busy catching up on work, and do you think we could get more notice about meetings like this?
I think there are some fundamental issues that Maggie doesn’t understand. I am merely the messenger and Maggie’s comments are falling on deaf ears. If she wanted results she could have hit “reply all” or “cc’ed” Herb, but she wimped out and just wrote back to me. Whatever. I overheard Herb saying we needed to “freshen up” the graphics. Her days are numbered.
And from Jim, one of the most anal people on the planet with one of the easiest jobs (he’s the head writer and I doubt he knows how to ride a bicycle).
Do we have to order from these ridiculous prissy pants places? Can we please just get a pizza or something? This isn’t food, it’s cardboard! Can we at least make sure one of the wraps doesn’t have onions?
I don’t e-mail Jim back. I dread opening the rest of my responses, but they’re simply people letting me know they’re coming and a few even say they love the Health Deli and I person
ally am great for ordering from there. (That’s right, Jim!) I call Jennifer back.
“Honey, you better tell him to have the meeting in his office. It’ll be good for him, he might get over some personal space issues.”
“His office isn’t close to big enough.”
“Well, this will teach him to plan ahead.”
“The only one who is going to look stupid is me if I have to send an e-mail canceling.”
“You are letting this happen to yourself. In this day of e-mail you should be happy you could be quasi-anonymous in your cancellation at the same time working on your blame acceptance issues.”
“I didn’t know I had those, Jennifer. Please give me a call if you find any rooms.”
“Don’t wait to the eleventh hour to cancel.” Jesus! I’ve decided to blame Jen if the meeting is canceled. I am almost beside myself and I get another shitty e-mail from Vickie in marketing, declining. Damn her and all her offspring! I call Tabitha.
“I’m having a shitty day.”
“In just two hours. Sorry to hear that.”
“And of course I got Jennifer Fucking Hoya analyzing me.”
“You know what you can tell her—”
“Tabitha! Please! I am going to have to cancel a meeting!”
“You are toucheee!”
“I want to go back home and lie under the Christmas tree and stare up through the lights.”
“And they say there’s nothing to do in Jersey.”
“How’s your day?”
“Okay, the Big C is out today, so I am running the ship. I’m canceling meetings, checking her e-mail, going through her invites.”
“What meetings?”
“She scheduled this stupid new year meeting for the department.”
“Tabitha, what are you doing with the conference room?”
“Sitting on it.”
“I can’t believe it! What about when I said I needed a conference room?”
“You never said it!”
“Well, I said I was talking to Jennifer Hoya!”
“‘Jennifer Fucking Hoya,’ you said. I don’t know. I thought there was actually more to why you were upset than canceling a meeting, but who am I to judge?”
“Well, why would you hold on to a conference room?”
“To do favors for unappreciative people like you.”
“Tabitha, you are the best! What conference room?”
“The forty-third floor. It’s got a river view.”
“You’re the best. I’m sorry I yelled.”
“That’s okay, Eve. Oh, Eve?”
“Yeah?”
“‘Get on the subway and take it straight to hell!”’ Again, she hangs up. I really hate when people get fixated on things.
I send another e-mail about the meeting conference room. I intend to personally sabotage the office supplies of anyone who complains about the conference room being on another elevator bank. Lucky for them, no one does.
I told Health Deli that my meeting was at 12:30, and it never fails they don’t get there until 1:05. Since I told them to come to my floor with the food and the meeting is all the way across the building, I have to walk throughout the building with the two delivery boys, leaving a trail of healthy wholesome goodness in my wake.
I know when I walk into the meeting that no one has been able to concentrate on a word Herb is saying, they’ve all been waiting for the food, thus for me. (Don’t think I don’t realize how pitiful it is to power trip on such ridiculousness.) I have the guys put the food on the tables where the lions are ready to pounce. I go outside to settle up the bill and forge Herb’s signature. As usual, the delivery guys try to get me to give them the tip in cash. I explain to them, as patiently as ever, that I don’t have the cash. Sometimes I think that perhaps their employers are cruelly keeping their tips from them and I am aiding the process, but they’re probably just scamming like everyone else in the city.
When I get back into the meeting most of the food has been ravaged. Luckily I manage to scrounge a salmon wrap, a few grilled veggies and some hummus. There isn’t a sound in the room, except for the chewing and swallowing. Jim is breathing deeply. In protest, he brought McDonald’s to the meeting. I am just glad that he paid for it himself.
“Now that everyone is ready,” says Herb, even though people are still eating, “again, I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday. I wanted us to talk about the work we have to do to get more recognition. A lot of the promotional work that our partners in marketing have been helping us with has put us on the map. For as young a magazine as we are, our popularity rate is phenomenal.”
After he says each sentence, Herb grins around the room. If he were a cartoon figure (which a lot of the time I think he is) the bubble coming out of his mouth would say, “This is tiring, I am tired of this, I should be sitting in my office writing, listening to my New Age music, practicing my breathing—in fact, maybe next time we could have this meeting on our bikes, a slow-paced, ten-mile trek downhill, anyone?” That would be a lot for a bubble. I feel myself zoning out of the meeting—it’s a good thing I can concentrate on grilled eggplant.
“It doesn’t mean we don’t have a lot of work left to do. As you know, there’s been talk of changing the format.” I hear a few gasps. Herb takes a deep breath, this is spin control. “This is still in the discussion stage and I can’t see changes like this happening anytime soon, but it’s something I think we should all keep in mind as we start the new year. We want to keep ourselves open to new possibilities and work toward strengthening our relations with our fellow Prescott Nelson magazines in the sports division. As far as assignments and work to be done for ourselves…” Blah, blah blah.
Here’s where (if you haven’t guessed) not even my grilled tomato can keep me tethered to this meeting. I wonder if any one else can tell I’m orbiting the room or if they’re lost in their own little dreamworlds. I keep trying to focus back on Herb and what he’s saying, but only certain words and phrases come through: “I hate to use words like synergy,” “the importance of our work,” “staying true to our brand.” I’m trying to follow clues from the rest of the people at the meeting. I laugh when they do, and when I see a couple of heads nodding, I work on looking positive. I am amazed at myself that I can give the impression of being so attentive without really paying attention. Of course, that’s how I got through a lot of those business classes in school. I check my watch, covertly. I only have this room for an hour and a half. We’re just past the hour mark. I start imagining Rob King’s shoulders. I really like his height. It’s so rare that you find a nice tall guy. I wonder if Rob King will like my poochie, if he ever sees my poochie. Shit! I think he’s already seen it. I am a whore. I wonder if I can get Rob King to make sure that our magazine stays “true to our brand” while I run it.
“Thank you, Eve,” Herb says in reality. What?
“Yeah, Eve.” People are really saying this. What happened to my internal monologue? Uh-oh! Did they hear about Rob’s chest, too?
“Eve always gets the best things.” Rob is a pretty tasty morsel.
“Whatever,” says Jim, eating his last fry. What’s going on? Everyone is getting up to leave. Oh, the meeting is over. They are thanking me for the food.
“Sure,” I say, starting to collect the trash, “no problem.”
I get the trash together as much as possible as everyone leaves. Lorraine helps me a little. I tell her not to worry about it. She grumbles about everyone. “I thought that meeting was never going to end.”
When I finish cleaning up the conference room, it’s back to my desk and hangman for the rest of the afternoon.
I’m not expecting to see Rob at the Feed Meet on Wednesday. He’s sitting there in his suit looking slightly out of place among the super casual writers. I consciously bring my bottom teeth to the top, so my mouth won’t hang open. Of course there are no seats at the conference table and I wind up sitting on the floor. Rob cranes his neck to see me as he is taking his jac
ket off, and when our eyes meet he winks. Wow! I look away. Brian, the intern, sits next to me.
“It’s the end of the semester, shouldn’t you be back at school or something?”
“Well, we don’t go back until February third. I was told I could get three credits if I came in every day of January in addition to the nine I got this semester for three days a week.”
“Don’t you think that’s prostituting yourself for credits?”
“Are you kidding? I would do it for free to get to go to meetings like this.” I think it’s Brian who is kidding himself about this meeting. I hate him and wish there was a seat at the conference table so I could escape his annoyingness.
“Hi, everybody, some of you may already know Rob King.” I wonder if that is directed at me and if Herb knows exactly how well I know Rob King. “He is joining us from corporate to see how we do things and understand our creative process.”
I can tell that the writers feel that this in an unnecessary invasion from an outsider. They see it as symbolic of some kind of change to come. They don’t want to be reminded of how much their “creativity” is dependent on a man like Rob King, a man in a suit. You can feel the tension—unless you’re Brian. He starts applauding for Rob. Everyone awkwardly joins in.
“Thanks,” says Rob, and I feel a little bad for him. “I’m totally interested in your creative process. This is a very successful magazine and I’m attending writer’s meetings at some of our top magazines to understand the process and hopefully take it back to our less successful ones.” They are warming up to him. I want to applaud him again.
The meeting proceeds. Instead of tuning out like I usually do, I finally have something to focus on, Rob King’s hands. I am even more involved with those perfect, masculine hands than I usually am with my daydreams. I can’t stop fantasizing about Rob and wish he would give me some idea that he was having trouble concentrating also. In the middle of the meeting he reaches his hand into the back waistband of his pants and just leaves it there. It’s such a cute pose for a man who supposedly has all this power. I wish we were alone on the conference table.