On the Verge

by Ariella Papa

  “Starving artist? More like poor low-level functionaries. I beeped that fix-it guy Frank today. Twice. He never called me back. Can you please call Yakimoto?”

  When I agree, Roseanne rolls over and goes to sleep. I can’t help but feel used.

  It’s very hard to get a hold of Yakimoto in the morning. First one of her kids, who seems unimpressed when I mention that I am the Little Nell lady, gives me the number to a restaurant. Some guy who doesn’t speak English answers, and after a lot of confusion, which is exacerbated by the fact that I don’t want to talk too loud, I get her.

  “Hi, Mrs. Yakimoto. It’s Eve. Listen, our heat isn’t working. I would call my dad, but we don’t have keys to the basement. Roseanne beeped Frank yesterday, but he never called back. Do you think you can call him?”

  “I will give you his number at his shop. You girls should just try calling him again. Be really as cute and nice as you can be. You can do it.”

  “Well, okay. So, what’s this restaurant you’re at?” Every time I call Mrs. Yakimoto, I try to be as friendly and interested in her as possible. I think she likes me.

  “Well, I opened a restaurant. It’s a theme restaurant close to the mall out here. It’s a lot of work and very expensive. You should get a man to take you here.”

  “Well, you’re quite the entrepreneur, Mrs. Yakimoto.” I can tell she’s thrilled. It never hurts to butter up the landlady.

  I call Roseanne back and give her the news. We have decided that I will always deal with Yakimoto and she will always call Frank (I think it has a lot to do with her being cuter and nicer). I also share with her Yakimoto’s advice for getting optimum results from Frank.

  “So, basically she wants us to prostitute ourselves to get the heat fixed. Heat, which we are, by law, entitled to. Heat, for which we pay.”

  “They’re making you file, huh?”

  “Yes. Oh, my God! I think it’s sexist. The office assistant is out and I am the lowest on the totem pole. There is nothing I hate more than filing. My suit is filthy, at least they could have told me this is what I’d be doing.” Roseanne is never happy when she has to file.

  “What are you doing tonight? Tabitha’s friend Nicole got us tickets to an indie flick and the reception.”

  “I’ll be too busy showering the dust off and freezing in the apartment.”

  “Well, don’t suffer in silence.”

  “I’ll try not to. See you later.”

  I jump at the phone when it rings the next day. It’s only my sister warning me not to be suckered into the consumerist holiday. As usual I patiently explain to her that I am not the enemy, I do not encompass the evils of corporate America, nor, despite appearances, am I “the man.” She informs me that she loves Chuck. I remind her of how greeting card that word is. (I’m not exactly in the best of moods. Last night, even though Tabitha assured me that the film swept Sundance, it sucked. The after party wasn’t so bad. We got drunk on vodka drinks because Stoli was the sponsor and I watched Tabitha dance into the night with the director’s grandfather.)

  “Boy, Eve, you’re bitter about men. That Todd guy looked so cute.”

  “Monica, Todd is in fucking India, for all I know. We are just friends. We were never seeing each other. I don’t know where you got your info.”

  “Well, I read the Eve Vitali fan letter, of course.” Sometimes, I have got to give my sister credit, she may be Ms. Social Redistribution or whatever, but she can be a real smart-ass. I toy with the idea of telling her about Rob, but I can’t just tell my sister about a guy without her bugging me about my sex life and defining for me (again) power issues between men and women. She would go nuts with the power issues between Rob and me. My sister tells me how she wants to scrap this whole Women’s Studies thing, “how practical is it?” and maybe go to some holistic medical school out west with Chuck.

  “Okay, Monica, my suggestion, which you probably won’t accept, is that you wait to tell our parents this new plan.” I can hear Monica stirring with this, I know she is ready to unleash the fires of the underappreciated older child, but lucky for me my other line beeps. “Oh, Monica, I’ll have to call you back, I need to take this call.” I switch over before she can tell me how I always take our parents’ side.

  “Eve, this is Isabelle Chambers. I’m sorry, I haven’t been able to return any of your calls. We’ve been busy going over candidates for a lot of positions.”

  “I understand.” I’m searching for the acceptance or rejection tone in her voice, but it’s level and flat.

  “So, we decided to go with someone with a little more publication experience.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks.” Why am I thanking her? She does not deserve my thanks. I don’t want to believe it’s got anything to do with Rob.

  “You’re welcome, Eve. I thought you were great and I’ll definitely keep you in mind for anything else that comes up.”

  “Please do. Thanks a lot.” When I hang up, I realize that I’m not ever going to have another job. My destiny is to be an assistant at this desk.

  “Stop being ridiculous, what about our magazine?” Tabitha must believe I really will be an assistant forever, because she would never bring up the magazine otherwise. “Honestly, Eve, I’ve been thinking about it. It isn’t a bad idea. We should start looking into it. I wonder if we could put it out ourselves or if we need a backer. I mean, I’m sure we need a backer, because we don’t have enough capital, but you never know.”

  “What about your father?” I don’t know why I’m asking her this, she never talks about her father or her family, but she always gets money from somewhere, so maybe it’s her dad. I know it’s a sexist assumption, but maybe Tabitha will open up a little more.

  “Yeah, I can probably get money from somewhere, I’m not sure if I have as much as we would need, but we can talk about it. More importantly, Vlad is dissing me on Valentine’s Day for some wrestling match. I’m not sure about this one, of course, it might be Cold War child anxiety.”

  “Remember that episode of Silver Spoons where he met Andropov? Terrifying.”

  “Right. So, are you flying solo?”

  “The King is dead. Actually, just pissed at me and I don’t even know what city he’s in. Planless for V-Day and it’s a Friday. So it’s even more disgusting.”

  “Shall we have a girls night out? You get Roseanne, I’ll get Adrian.”

  “Adrian? What about Anthony?”

  “Too much drama. They’re done, just in time for the holiday. C’mon, we’ll go to that cheap soul food place in the East Village.”

  “Fine, but can it just be a real girls night out?”

  “Oh, right, the fight. You know, you can’t fight forever.”

  “I don’t know, we probably can fight forever. And we’ll still be pissy on Friday. Besides that place is really small—we’re never getting reservations.”

  “Okay, no Adrian. I’ll call for reservations now.” Sometimes, there’s no talking to Tabitha. She’s thriving on the hustle-bustle. At least I won’t have to see Adrian.

  I keep hoping that Rob will come back in time for V-Day. I have the urge to be wrapped up in his loving arms. For some reason I think this out loud to Tabitha and she makes vomiting noises.

  Valentine’s Day. Roseanne and I arrive first at our Valentine’s Day fete, and, sure enough, the waiter is a doll. When we thank him for seating us he says, “My pleasure.” Roseanne is smitten with him, so she orders wine right away. We’re mostly through the bottle by the time Tabitha shows up. Tabitha immediately flags the waiter over for more wine.

  There aren’t too many lovey-dovey couples to remind us of our solitude. There’s one couple in the corner, so we put Tabitha in the seat facing them, because she’s had sex most recently, so as Roseanne says, “She can deal.”

  The food is delicious. We make a silent pact to get the waiter over as often as possible so we can gawk at him and hear him say, “My pleasure.” Roseanne asks him if he has a Valentine and the rest of us try to expl
ain her, which makes Mr. Sexy Waiter giggle and Roseanne gets belligerent.

  “Where are you from?” she asks the waiter.

  “Texas.” Roseanne and I get excited because now we have a reason to keep him here. I wish I knew something about Texas, but I just want to look at him. We tell him Tabitha is from Texas. He asks Tabitha where she’s from and she looks annoyed.

  “Can we get another bottle of wine?”

  “My pleasure.” Tabitha turns to us, repeating, “My pleasure.”

  “Tabitha, you guys were paisan, you should have talked to him.”

  “I know, but who wants to talk about Texas?”

  “Not you, obviously,” Roseanne says. “You were acting like you’d never even heard of it.”

  “Well, I was overcome by his hotness.” I didn’t think that happened to Tabitha, I’ve never seen her seem so nervous. “Besides, I’ve blocked out Texas, it was a traumatic time.”

  “Why?” Roseanne thinks she’s the only one who hasn’t heard about Tabitha’s family.

  “Just childhood, I don’t know.” Tabitha picks at her mashed potatoes and doesn’t say anything. I know Roseanne isn’t satisfied with that, but I shake my head at her.

  After dinner we decide to go to a bar around the corner. It usually has shitty live bands. The bar is loud and shaking, it’s a country band. We all get drinks. Roseanne hasn’t quite let the Lone Star State go, because she keeps trying to sing along to the music and saying, “It’s your music, Tabitha, the music of your past. If you don’t like it, kiss my—” but of course she doesn’t finish. She’s pretty entertaining for the two of us, who somehow aren’t quite as drunk yet. Roseanne meanders through the crowd.

  After a time, Tabitha looks over my head toward the bar. “Is that who I think it is, talking to Roseanne?”

  I turn to look. “Zeke.” Of course he has to be looking my way that very minute, and our eyes meet. We both look away. It’s stupid. Of all days, today.

  “You have to save her, Eve.” Sadly, Roseanne looks like she’s enjoying talking to him. It hurts me more than it will hurt her, knowing the bad luck she’s had lately. “You can do it, Eve, you’re the woman. Besides, it’ll be good for him to see what he missed out on. You’re doing it tonight, Mommy.” I walk up to Zeke and Roseanne.

  “Hey, Zeke.” He does a poor job of feigning surprise.

  “Oh, hi, uh, Eve.” He needs to stop pretending he can’t remember my name.

  “Hey, you know my roommate?” Roseanne asks. “Oh, my gosh, oh, my gosh, I know who this is. Oh, wow!” Exactly what I didn’t want—like I’ve been pining for him all this time.

  “Roseanne, Tabitha needs to talk to you right away about macramé.”

  “Really,” Roseanne says, truly shocked. I watch her stumble away.

  “So, what’s up?” I turn my attention back to Zeke. I can tell his wanna-be friends are intrigued. He is plainly enjoying this.

  “You know, just catching some tunes.” Eww, he may be cute, but was he always this much cheese? “My friend’s the drummer in this band.”

  “Exciting.” I think that was a little too sarcastic. “So what have you been up to?”

  “Just writing, you know, everything else is useless.”

  “Yeah, the book, right.” I’m waiting for him to ask me about myself because, you know, that’s what people do. I should set an example. “Are you still working in A&R?”

  “Oh, no, that was taking too much out of me. I’m somewhere else. It’s just a day job, finance. I get to write all day and that’s what I need to be an artist.”

  “An artist, huh?” He shakes his head at me, like he’s remembering my ignorance and pities me for being this way. But, I’ve got him all figured out, he was just temping for some A&R place, creating himself, like I do. I can’t fault him for that, but I can for actually believing he’s an artist.

  “My art is what defines me.” I laugh, because, c’mon, has he listened to himself sound so obnoxious?

  “Well, have you sold anything, Zeke?”

  “Eve, it isn’t about money, you just don’t get it.”

  “Whatever, Zeke, I’m doing okay, thanks for asking. Have fun with your art.” I walk away. When I get back to the table I recount the story, for some reason, I guess alcohol, we start talking about the suffix “ist.” We name all the professions we know that end in “ist” thrilling each other with words like “anesthesiologist” and “linguist” which no one is sure about (hey, sometimes, these things are funny).

  “I don’t care, maybe I’m dense,” I say, cracking them both up, “but, I don’t think anyone can be an artist unless they are somehow getting paid or recognition or something other than a pat on the back from their own hand. Otherwise, everyone would be an artist. Do you think I’m being too critical? Adrian thinks I’m too critical.” I’m beginning to feel bitterness and an alcohol flood coming on.

  “Mother of God.” Tabitha puffs her cigarette.

  “A criticist,” says Roseanne, giggling uncontrollably.

  “Eve, it’s New York. Everyone thinks they’re an artist, you almost have to be.”

  “So is that an excuse?” I’m talking to Tabitha because Roseanne is too busy saying “criticist, criticist” over and over. “I don’t think you can consider yourself something unless you get paid. Well, if I had a job like a bartender and I painted on the side, I would say I was a bartender and I painted. Not a painter.”

  “A paintist,” says Roseanne.

  “Right,” I say. “I think all these artists need to get a dose of reality and realize that they aren’t artists, they actually suck. And some might wonder who am I to say these things, because I may want to be a writer, but I haven’t written in a million years. But I admit it and I don’t know who I am. Hopefully more than an assistant, although I guess my own definition has come back to bite me in the ass. So what am I?”

  “Mother of God. Look, enough of this heavy conversation, I’m going to go to Krispy Kreme. I need something I can count on.”

  “But, Tabitha,” says Roseanne, finally serious, “what are we?” Tabitha looks at us and puts her hands on our arms. She leans into the table and we do the same.

  “All right, I’ll tell you, but I swear, I’m going to Krispy Kreme after that. We,” she shouts, “are fabulists.”

  Herb asks me to see about ordering lunch for a meeting on Monday. Right away, I start to imagine my conversation with a laughing Jennifer Hoya, but Herb assures me that we already have a meeting space available. He suggests I order lunch for a larger number than I usually have, because the folks from Yoga for Life are going to be with us. That’s kind of strange. The man wants me to work miracles, but of course I tell him I can do it. I get an e-mail from some random YFL assistant.

  Please clear your schedules for a very important meeting about our magazine. Today at noon in the MESS HALL on 43. I apologize for the short notice. Lunch will be served.

  I guess I should have been tipped off when Herb was wearing a suit instead of his usual khakis, but I wasn’t. I’ve been trying to pay less attention to him. My first clue that something’s wrong is that Rob King is cc’ed. As far as I know he’s still in Jackson-fuckingville, probably forcing some woman to call him “Papa Bear.” Maybe it’s going to be a public outing of our relationship. Maybe he’s gathering everyone together, so he can declare his love for me, in front of everyone. More likely it has to do with the list I almost saw, but didn’t. For some reason, everyone keeps coming up to me throughout the morning and asking me what the meeting is about. Lacey Matthews is the most obnoxious one.

  “Well, aren’t you friends with Rob King?” She’s proud of herself, like she’s busted me.

  “Don’t you aspire to be friends with Herb? Ask him.” That sends her away. I’m all set to tell Jim that I don’t know anything about the meeting when he comes up to me, but all he wants is to see if he can expense a meatball sandwich from the Italian deli. I tell him that he should be grateful he gets his lunch paid f
or and if he doesn’t like the “prissy pants” food that we have, he can look elsewhere for lunch. I don’t mind being rude anymore, it’s kind of fun.

  There is a sense of urgency in the meeting room, demonstrated by the slight restraint people use in getting their food. The Bicycle Boy staff and the Yoga for Life staff look at each other suspiciously. People are whispering to each other about people they know who were recently canned. The women from Angry Beavers got very angry and apparently threatened some huge lawsuit at Prescott himself if any changes took place.

  The Yoga for Life assistant is a very pregnant woman named Elise. She and I shrug at each other. When we are opening up more of the food, she whispers in my ear, “I could give a rat’s ass about what they say, my maternity leave starts next week.”

  “I could just give,” I say. It makes me wish I had a baby or some other excuse for being so disinterested. Herb comes in with Rob. I haven’t seen him since he was standing at his door with my lipstick smeared on his face. He looks good. Our eyes meet and he sort of nods at me. I want him, I can’t help it. I take a bite of my pita.

  Jarvis Mitchell, who’s in charge of all the sports division magazines, comes in with a woman I don’t recognize—it isn’t his assistant. His presence means it’s serious. You can feel the collective concern. Everyone falls quiet.

  Jarvis is a guy with longish graying hair and a beard. He is a thinker, everyone says, like so many other men in power at Prescott, he likes to imagine procedures that he thinks would work and then implement them without really considering the people they affect. He is usually very removed from the situations and people he makes policy for.

  “Hi, everyone. First of all, I want to say that despite a lot of rumors, no one is losing their jobs. You’re all doing great work, circulation is up tenfold, our advertisers are happy. The sweepstakes we did in Yoga for Life gave us a much better handle on our readers and although it’s a new magazine, we are quite pleased with how its doing. In fact, I can assure all of you that it’s been noted all the way up to the top of Prescott Nelson. Let’s give Yoga for Life a round of applause.” Everyone starts clapping. If I were them, and it were my career on the line, I would be a lot more careful with how I tossed out my applause. I notice that the woman who came in with Jarvis is clapping most enthusiastically. I think he is setting them up for the big shock. I look over at Rob. He is staring down at his papers, but looks up and catches me. He knows what’s really going on.