Pounding the Pavement

by Jennifer van der Kwast

  Amanda pounds her palm against the top of the bar. We all flinch.

  “Who wants to do shots?”

  “I’m in,” says Ryan.

  Laurie and I exchange uneasy glances. She stands abruptly.

  “I’m going out for a cigarette,” she says pointedly.

  “Yeah. I’ll join you.”

  chapter nine

  Here’s my dilemma:

  Jeans or a jean skirt?

  Hair up or hair down?

  Red lipstick or sheer lip gloss?

  Push-up bra or no bra?

  And if we’re just going to be in a dark movie theater, and if this isn’t even a date—definitely, not a date at all—does it even matter?

  I didn’t think I’d make it to the movie theater in time. A quick survey of my wardrobe led me to discover my very best jeans were dirty, so I had to run across to Urban Outfitters to buy the pair I’d been eyeing for weeks. I intended to wait for a sale, but, well, this is a special circumstance. They were worth every penny, anyway. I swear, my ass has never looked better.

  While I was out, I also stopped by Sephora to try out sample lipsticks. The saleslady caught me as I was sneaking on a daring shade of come-hither red. I let her sucker me into buying an eyeliner in a grayish hue that she told me brings out the green flecks in my otherwise lifeless and unexciting brown eyes.

  So you can see how the time adds up.

  I run to the theater, nearly tripping over the hem of my jeans. Yes, the legs are a little long. That was intentional. I am trying to conceal the fact I am wearing old, terribly untrendy platform shoes that make me at least five inches taller.

  Jake is waiting outside. When he sees me he flicks the butt of his cigarette into the street. A spray of tiny sparks dance on the curb before the filter disappears down the gutter.

  “What number cigarette was that?” I ask, panting.

  “Just the first.”

  “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

  “No problemo.” He pats the pockets of his corduroys. “I already have the tickets. I was worried there might be a line, and my movie experience just isn’t complete unless I get to watch trailers first.”

  “I totally understand. I only show up for the trivia questions. Speaking of which, do you know who the only person named Oscar to win an Oscar is?”

  “Oscar Hammerstein?”

  I gape at him, absolutely flummoxed. He chuckles at me.

  “Don’t look so impressed. That was one of the questions from last week. Before the De Niro movie?”

  “Oh. Right.”

  He holds the door open for me. “Shall we then?”

  I toss an imaginary shawl over my shoulder and saunter on in.

  I had almost forgotten how anxious movie theaters make me on Friday nights. Fortunately, as we discovered the week before, Jake and I both prefer the middle/back sections of the theater and we manage to find the perfect seats dead center in the fourth to last row. Then a middle-aged couple waltzes in and selects the seats directly in front of us. I go rigid.

  “Do you want to move?” asks Jake.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. How about one row back?”

  “That’d be great.” We pick up our bags and make our transition. “Thanks.”

  “Sure. People next to me were getting kinda chatty, anyway. I think they might be talkers.”

  “Pfft.” I shake my head. “Those are the worst kind.” The lights go dim. Jake snuggles back into the cushion of his chair, ready to enjoy the previews. I, on the other hand, remain upright—for fifteen minutes at least—peering at the door, scowling at the latecomers who have the nerve to intrude on the show so loudly after the curtain call. This doesn’t happen at the opera, I tell you. You miss the first seating, and you have to wait until intermission. Them’s the rules.

  Even when the latecomers stop trickling in, we still don’t get to enjoy the movie in silence. We come to realize, all too quickly, there is a pair of hard-of-hearing senior citizens seated behind us.

  “What did he say?” asks the man loudly. His wife tells him.

  “Oh. Then what did she say?”

  I crane my head around deliberately. A very obvious gesture that should be effective in and of itself. It isn’t. So, I take a deep breath and project a loud “Shh!”

  The man looks at me for a moment. Then he turns to his wife.

  “What did she just say?”

  The movie ends over two hours later. I step onto the escalator and turn around to face Jake.

  “Bit of a letdown, huh?” he says.

  “I am sooo glad you said that. I thought it was just me. I had such high expectations—”

  “I know. I’ve been waiting for this movie all year—”

  “I feel responsible. I totally build these things up. These movies couldn’t possibly compare to what I had in mind.”

  We step off the first escalator and make our way around the corner to take the next flight down. I stop midstep.

  “Wait a second!”

  “What’s up?”

  “Look!” I point to Tom Hanks’s cardboard face. “There’s a movie I have absolutely no illusions about whatsoever.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jake scoffs. “Look at him. He’s wearing a hospital gown. And he’s in a wheelchair. That movie has Academy Award written all over it.”

  “We should see it!”

  “What, now?”

  “It started five minutes ago.”

  “Ooooh,” Jake is beginning to catch my drift. “No, we can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just … not right.”

  “You can’t be serious. Paying ten dollars for a mediocre, vastly overrated film, that’s right to you?”

  “I would feel guilty. I wouldn’t enjoy it.”

  “You’re not going to enjoy it anyway. That’s the point.” I grab his sleeve and start pulling him away from the escalator. “It’s okay. It’s one of the perks of being unemployed. We’re actually allowed to sneak into movies.”

  “But I’m not unemployed.”

  “You can be my plus-one.” I feel his arm go slack, his resistance waning. He lets me lead him into the darkened theater.

  As expected, the second movie sucks even more than the first. Plus, now it has been all of four hours without a smoke break. We push our way out of the theater and set the world ablaze.

  “Two for the price of one and it still wasn’t worth it!”

  “I know,” I exhale my plume of smoke. “They just don’t make movies like they used to.”

  “You like old movies?”

  “I think the art of cinema peaked with The Graduate and has been on a downward spiral ever since.” I pause before I take my next drag, wondering if perhaps I’ve just committed a major cinephile blunder. Does The Graduate actually qualify as an old movie? I’m not entirely sure.

  “You know what I miss? The sagas, the melodramas. Give me Douglas Sirk any day,” I add. Just in case.

  “You know, they’re having a Blake Edwards retrospective at the Film Forum this month.”

  “I love Blake Edwards!” My ears are ringing. I think I may just have squealed like Rock Hudson discovering Doris Day’s mink stole. I make sure to drop my voice a couple of octaves when I speak again. “When are the films showing?”

  “Victor/Victoria is playing on Sunday.”

  “We should go!”

  “All right.” Jake grins. “It’s a date.”

  Do you know why Blake Edwards is a genius? I’ll tell you why. In fact, I can sum it up in one scene. Julie Andrews, a poor, starving cabaret singer, is staring through a diner window, watching a fat man eating a powdered doughnut. And, I mean, he is absolutely gorging on it, taking deep, juicy bites. Julie licks her lips, getting a little woozy. The camera cuts to a close-up of the gob of sugar on the fat man’s pudgy nose. Then we cut back to Julie—only now she’s gone. Yet, through the window we can see a group of men run toward the diner and s
toop down. When they straighten back into frame, they hoist a disoriented Julie back onto her feet and help her brush off her coat. Later, she returns to her apartment and tells her landlord she’ll sleep with him for a meatball. That’s it!

  That’s what it’s all about.

  Jake and I have both been so pleased with our latest movie selection we have absolutely nothing to say to each other when we leave the theater. Instead, we light up our cigarettes and smoke quietly, as if to speak would be to fully dissolve the lingering cloud of movie magic—to disintegrate the halo of the projector still scorched on our retinas, to deafen the hum of the closing song still teasing our eardrums.

  “Such a lost art, huh?” says Jake, snuffing out his cigarette. And with it, the last glimmer of our star-studded haze.

  “What? Musicals?”

  “No. Making good movies.”

  I sadly nod my concurrence.

  “Did you want to get dinner?”

  “Nah, I’m not really hungry.” I mash my cigarette under my heel. “But you know what I could really go for? A big, fruity margarita.”

  Jake beams. “I know just the place.”

  He takes me to a Mexican restaurant around the corner that is more Tijuana than Cancun. The menu is somber, without the unnecessary distractions of tacos wearing sombreros or a cowboy riding a jalapeño. And the choices are standard: pollo, carne, or cerveza. Our request for margaritas is considered such an extravagance, the bartender hoots and rolls up his sleeves, preparing the concoction with unparalleled flair.

  Approximately two margaritas and a bowl of chips later, Jake suggests another round and I pretend to turn the idea over in my head for a bit before I finally agree. He signals the bartender with the universal sign for “dos.”

  “All right,” Jake says, as soon as our glasses are refilled. “I gotta question for ya.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Best movie ending ever?”

  My first instinct is, of course, to say The Graduate. But it’s such an obvious choice. I rattle my brain to come up with something more impressive.

  “Oh, okay, I got it!” I take a hearty sip of the margarita. “You see The Italian Job?”

  “Original or remake?”

  I roll my eyes. “Original.”

  “Yeah?”

  “At the end, when Michael Caine says, ‘Hang on lads, I’ve got a great idea’? That’s perfect! All movies should end that way.”

  “Not bad,” Jake nods appreciatively.

  “And you?”

  “Well, I know everyone says the same thing.” He shrugs. “But I gotta go with The Graduate.”

  “Sucker.”

  “Okay, well, what about best movie opening?”

  “That’s too easy. Hudsucker Proxy. When Waring Hudsucker steps up on the conference table and takes a running leap out of the window. Yours?”

  “Hands down, Wild at Heart. When Nic Cage bashes that guy’s head in? You know, when I went to see that movie in the theater, they were offering full refunds to anyone who walked out within the first ten minutes.”

  “No shit. Did they do it?”

  “Walk out? Hell, yeah. As soon as the guy’s brains were on the floor, the theater was totally empty.”

  “Some people,” I shake my head scornfully. “They wouldn’t know genius if it … if it …”

  “Bashed their brains out?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Tell me about it.” He polishes off his drink. “One last round?”

  “Sure.”

  Four margaritas and no dinner is never a good idea. It occurs to me, as I slurp down the last sip, that I might be sucking on the very straw that disabled the proverbial camel. I don’t realize just how drunk I am until the bill arrives and I make a mad dash for my purse.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jake says, fishing for his wallet.

  “No, no, I insist.” I zip open my purse and accidentally spill its entire contents onto the floor. “Shit!”

  Jake giggles. “You need help?”

  “I got it!” I shriek, fumbling on the floor, trying to reel in a tube of lipstick before it rolls out of range. I manage to clumsily restuff my bag only after Jake has settled the tab.

  “Here,” he offers me his hand. I grab onto the cuffs of his sleeves and let him hoist me up.

  There are three steps that lead down from the bar to the street. Were I left to my own devices, I would happily get on my knees and climb down. Jake, however, keeps a firm grip on my elbow and leads me to the bottom, one step at a time. When we reach the street, he tries to steady me.

  “You got it?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.” I straighten, wobble slightly, then find my balance. I grin with supreme confidence. “All good.”

  He studies me curiously. “You know, you’ve got great teeth.”

  “ ’Scuse me?”

  “I’m sorry. My grandfather was a dentist. I tend to notice these things. You had braces?”

  “Four years,” I say proudly.

  “Wow.” He whistles. “They did a hell of a job.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No, I mean it. You’ve got a beautiful smile.” The edges of his grin dip unexpectedly. He leans in. Closer, then closer still. His face soon becomes a blur. My powers of observation being anything but keen, I have no idea he is going in for a kiss until his lips are upon mine. And I didn’t even purse.

  His mouth is warm. And surprisingly soft. To look at him, he seems like such a manly man, so strong and so tough, I half-expected his lips would feel like concrete and kissing him would be a lot like slurping ice cream off cement. Instead, it is more like sucking a milkshake out of a curly straw. I want to consume every last drop of him.

  We pull apart finally for desperate gulps of air. I rub my temples, trying to thwart off a bad case of brain freeze.

  “Look,” says Jake, carefully taking my hands in his. “There’s a question I want to ask you and I hope it doesn’t, you know, freak you out.”

  “Don’t tell me.” I squint to keep his head from floating. “You want to start seeing movies with me exclusively? Sorry, but I’m not ready for that kind of a commitment.”

  “I want to know what you’re doing this weekend.”

  “Does the new James Bond open? ’Cause if it does, I can’t go with you. I already promised it to my friend Laurie. And, as a general rule, I don’t movie cheat.”

  “Be serious for a moment, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “A friend of mine is getting married this weekend in Boston. I wanted to know if you’d come to the wedding with me.”

  “Yes!”

  I should have paused. I should have taken a moment, at the very least, to consider the implications, to understand this isn’t just an invitation to enjoy a well-deserved, getaway vacation. It’s an invitation to spend an entire weekend—and maybe even a hotel room!—with an incredibly appealing man.

  I shouldn’t have sounded so eager.

  Jake arches an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. I love weddings!” I’ve been to two in my life. I was the flower girl for both.

  “Huh.” He slowly releases my wrists. “Great. ’Cause, see, my ex-girlfriend was supposed to come with me. And, well, I hadn’t really given it much thought since we broke up. But, I think I put her down for the filet mignon. Do you like filet mignon?”

  “Who doesn’t like filet mignon?”

  “Vegetarians.”

  Right.

  He drops my hands. “Let’s see if we can hail a cab.” He steps onto the curb with two fingers outstretched.

  A taxi pulls up at once. Jake holds open the door for me and I leap in excitedly, scurrying to the far end of the seat.

  He hovers in the frame of the open door. I look up at him expectantly. This time, I’m pursing.

  He heaves a deep sigh. “Good night, Sarah.” He leans in and pecks me affectionately on the lips. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

  He steps away and closes the cab doo
r behind him.

  chapter ten

  Am I in love with Jake? I’m certainly in love with him this week. I love Jake because for the first time in six months, I’m busy. So exuberantly busy! I’ve returned to my daily gym schedule. And two days ago, Amanda handed me over a gift certificate she received last Christmas for a cut and a coloring at a new downtown hair salon (she’s a fierce devotee to Bumble & Bumble and wouldn’t dream of having her tresses sullied by unknown hands). And because unemployment allows for both the means and the motive for plenty of bargain-hunting, I find a fantastic Diane von Furstenberg dress off the rack at Century 21 for a steal. When I describe it over the phone to my mother (low-cut, clingy, almost sheer), she thinks it sounds perfect.

  Even Laurie manages to sneak in a long lunch to accompany me to the nail salon for a quick manicure and pedicure. This is at her request, not mine. At my finest hour, I’m still a fidgety, neurotic mess with no nails left to speak of. I will have chewed off all my new nail polish before I even return home.

  I’m also a little wary of having people touch my feet. Laurie, on the other hand, lifts up her foot obligingly from the basin beneath her. Her pedicurist attacks it with a loofah. Unfazed, Laurie flips through a magazine, probably hoping to see her picture under the fashion “Do” column. And fearing she might be featured in the “Don’t.” Either relieved or disappointed to find her photo in neither (I really can’t tell), she tosses the magazine aside and picks up another.

  “You want Lucky or Vogue?” she asks me.

  “Neither. I don’t read magazines anymore.”

  “Who said anything about reading? I said Lucky or Vogue.”

  I shake my head. “Can’t do it. Magazines just make me want to buy stuff I can’t afford. I’d rather not know what’s out there. I’d rather have no taste, no class, and keep myself just above the poverty line.”

  “Take Lucky then. They’ve got specials in the back.”

  “Special deals on crap I don’t even need? That’s even worse. Then I feel obliged to buy it. Uh-uh. Hand me the Post.”

  Laurie blinks. “I’m sorry. Did you just ask for the New York Post?”

  “Yup.”

  “What, you gonna do the crossword?”