Pounding the Pavement

by Jennifer van der Kwast

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Mom. Do you know anyone named Dr. Cohen?”

  “Nope. Let me check with Dad … Steven!” She shrieks directly into the phone. “Do we know a Dr. Cohen?!”

  A third phone line clicks open and enters the fray.

  “He’s Carl’s cousin. Remember? At the biomedical firm? He needs a new secretary? How could you have forgotten? Carl pulled so many strings to get you that interview!”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, assuming he’s talking to me. “That was a long time ago. It must have slipped my mind.”

  “What about getting health insurance? Did that slip your mind too?”

  “Dad! I can’t talk now! Dr. Cohen is expecting my résumé.” I hang up. On both parties.

  Any good interviewee will tell you that you don’t go in cold for an interview. Even the bare minimum of background information is absolutely essential.

  Once, in an interview for a job at a print magazine, I told my would-be employer that I was thrilled to be moving out of the field of online media. Using material I had rehearsed for hours the night before, I launched into a spiel about the emptiness and insignificance of online content—how the written word was always slave to the format. I said I was excited to finally pursue a job that was more intelligent and serious in nature. New media had always struck me as vastly unoriginal, and I was looking forward to working in an environment that would be both more structured and more creative. In fact, I had always felt stifled working for a website.

  My interviewer waited for me to take a breath. I sensed I had expressed myself quite sufficiently when she finally put down her legal pad and stood.

  “I think you’ve been misinformed,” she said. “This is our online division. We’re setting up an adjunct to our print magazine.”

  So, now I know. I’ve learned the hard way that you must cram for an interview the way you would for a final exam, for a class you’re failing, for the last credit you need in order to graduate.

  For my meeting with Dr. Cohen, the extent of my research is as follows:

  I access the official, Pharmateque corporate website. I read the company profile. I call my mother.

  “What’s a hedge fund?” I ask her.

  “I don’t know. Let me ask your father. Steven!” She shrieks, again, directly into the phone. I hear muddled words in the background. “Something about risk … risk management … huh?” She gives up. “Hold on. I’m putting him on.”

  “No, don’t—”

  “It’s like hedging bets,” says my father, his babbling now somewhat more comprehensible. “It’s a way for investors to pool their resources for investments that may seem risky. That way, if it pays off, it pays off big, but if it fails, you don’t lose too bad. You get it?”

  “Well, no. But thanks anyway.”

  We both abandon the conversation willingly before things get out of hand.

  chapter twelve

  You’ve been fooled again, haven’t you? Still looks like the same damn résumé. But, au contraire! This one has the distinction of being my “Financial Résumé.” Because I happen to be severely lacking in financial savoir faire—both professionally and in life—I’ve had to resort to a subtle trick. A trompe l’oeil, if you will. (Incidentally, my tendency to borrow so heavily from the French language is due, in part, to the fact that I’ve chosen to omit my skill as a fluent French speaker from the résumé at hand.)

  But while we’re on the subject of fancy words and phrases, let me try another one on you. How about ampersand, that funny little “&” symbol? If you’ll notice, I’ve used it quite liberally. Such a dependence on funny little symbols suggests, albeit falsely, that I am comfortable working with numbers and equations. To wit, my GPA, a 3.8, has now earned its own line. And my prowess at typing, a whopping 50 words per minute, is the first skill I’ve listed. I also toyed with adding my SAT score—1,510, if you really must know—but relying on the results of a test I took almost a decade ago seemed more of a liability than asset.

  In all honesty, I can dress up my résumé with a thousand numbers, accessorize it with a million little symbols—but I will never be analytically chic. Don’t believe me? Let the record show that there are several numbers I’ve neglected to include on my résumé, none of which have ever worked in my favor.

  Total Number of Years of Higher Education: 4

  Total Number of Years in the Workforce: 2

  Weekly Gainful Employment Check: $567.50

  Weekly Unemployment Check: $284.00

  Total Number of Minutes in Daytime Cellular Plan: 400

  Overage of Allotted Cell Phone Minutes: 82

  Total Number of Résumés Sent Out: 27

  Total Number of Job Prospects Therein: 0

  I had originally imagined the Pharmateque Capital Headquarters as a blinding white clinical facility equipped with oxygen masks and rows of pressurized radiation suits. It’s actually far worse than that. The office is located on the fifty-ninth floor of a midtown high-rise and has been fastidiously outfitted with marble floors, Brazilian rosewood furniture, and original artwork in gilded frames. I most certainly do not feel as though I belong here. I feel like an impostor in Amanda’s Banana Republic suit.

  While I wait for the busy Dr. Cohen to do me the dubious honor of pretending to interview me, I browse through the reading material in the lobby. Nothing really appeals to me. I select the Financial Times only because the pages are pink.

  Moments later, a dazzling ray of white light crisscrosses the unread headlines of the page on my lap. When my eyes adjust to the unexpected flare, I see an outstretched hand in front of me, an enormous diamond ring reflecting light from off the glossy walls.

  “Hi, Sarah. I’m Jeanie.”

  I shake the ring awkwardly, trying to deflect the beams away from my sensitive eyes. Jeanie’s cherubic young face comes into focus.

  “Dr. Cohen will see you now.” Her sparkling finger beckons me hither.

  I see now why Dr. Cohen might be in need of a new secretary.

  The good doctor is startled by Jeanie’s rap on his door. “Dr. Cohen?” Her tiny face disappears into his office. “Sarah is here to see you.”

  “Oh. Oh, right!” I hear him say. “Come on in.” The magnetic pull of Jeanie’s ring guides me into an office that seems to span the entire stretch of the city. A bank of wraparound windows makes it difficult to tell where the office ends and where Central Park begins.

  Jeanie motions for me to sit and pulls back a matching chair for herself. Across the desk, Dr. Cohen straightens his glasses.

  “Okay.” He looks first at Jeanie, then at me. “So, um … how do I know you?”

  I cast a glance at Jeanie. The geography of the office allows me to assume, perhaps incorrectly, that she’s on my side. Jeanie nods her head at me encouragingly.

  “Your cousin Carl is my father’s business partner?”

  “Right, right.” Dr. Cohen nods. “You … um … have a résumé?”

  I balk. I almost always bring an extra copy of my résumé just in case. Naturally, the one time it turns out I need it, I show up empty-handed.

  “You have her résumé,” Jeanie informs him, only a split second before I’m about to bolt and run. “It’s in your left-hand in-box.”

  “Really?” Dr. Cohen shuffles through a stack of paperwork. He produces the elusive document and scans it thoroughly, as though this were the first time he has ever laid eyes on it. “Where’d you go to school?” he asks eventually.

  “It should be on the bottom—”

  “It’s on the second page,” says Jeanie.

  Dr. Cohen gives me an admonishing look. It’s the same look my mother gives me when I stub my toe and instinctively start screaming obscenities. It’s the how-could-you look.

  “You know, your résumé should really be on one page,” he tells me.

  My eyes narrow at the mere suggestion. Like I don’t already know that. Like that isn’t the first, most sacred rule for jobseekers.


  I feign a gasp. My eyes widen in terror.

  “It isn’t on one page?” I ask, appalled. “It should be! It’s on one page on my computer. The margins must have shifted when I e-mailed it to Jeanie.” Thus I throw her the ball, letting her shoulder this terrible blame. After all, we’re teammates, right?

  “It’s entirely possible.” Jeanie waves her glittered hand dismissively. “My computer could have formatted it differently.”

  Dr. Cohen nods, appeased, and flips the page. I remain silent but smug, waiting for him to get a really good look at what school I went to. It won’t be long now before he starts apologizing, truly sorry for having questioned my highly reputable, if not outrageously overpriced, education.

  “Oh, okay. Brown. Phi Beta Kappa. Not bad.” He folds his hands over my résumé, not too terribly impressed. “So, what exactly are you looking to do?”

  “Well, I do have excellent communication and written skills. I’d be happy to put those to good use.”

  Dr. Cohen raises an eyebrow. “You know this is a finance firm, right?”

  “Well, yes,” I blush. “I know you deal with hedge funds and …” Don’t say it. Don’t say it. “… stuff.” There, I said it. “But I know I am more experienced working with written documents, letters, memos …” I trail off. Is it, in fact, possible that Dr. Cohen has never had to write a single memo in his life? Is there a language I don’t speak that communicates only in numbers, symbols, and double helixes?

  “Jeanie,” Dr. Cohen interrupts, bored with my litany of useless skills. “Do you know anyone in the office who might need a writer?”

  “Uh.” She stares down at her lovely, twinkling hand. I can feel her slipping away from me, our united front severed. “Not at the present time.”

  “I’ll tell you what.” Dr. Cohen puts my résumé back on top of his left-hand in-box and instantly forgets it ever existed. “How about if Jeanie gives you the names of our top headhunting agencies? We only use the very best. Would that help?”

  “Thanks.” I turn to Jeanie. “That would be great,” I tell her icily. Traitor.

  The doctor stands and extends his hand.

  “It was good to meet you.”

  “It was good to meet you, too.”

  The interview concludes with one effective pump of a hearty handshake.

  Fifty-nine floors later, I exit into the lobby and toss my list of the Very Best Headhunting Agencies into the trash can by the elevator. What good will it do me anyway? I know I will never be one of those pretty, bejeweled young corporate secretaries in sheer stockings who say things like, “It’s in your left-hand in-box, Dr. Cohen,” or “You mailed that out yesterday, Dr. Cohen,” or “Your glasses are on top of your head, Dr. Cohen.”

  Who needs it, right?

  On my way out through the rotating doors, I fish in my purse for my cell phone. I have no intention of calling my mother—I’m not ready to disappoint her just yet. Instead, I call Jake. Yes, I already have his work number programmed.

  “Well, that’s another job lost,” I say into my shoulder, balancing my phone awkwardly while I light a cigarette.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s no big deal.” I pause to summon up my best impression of a coo. “I want to see you tonight.”

  Jake sighs deeply into the phone.

  “That was a loaded sigh.”

  “I can’t tonight. I have to go back to Brooklyn.”

  “Why? To feed the cat? You fed him yesterday. How often does the damn thing need to eat?” Maybe it’s a little too early in the relationship to let on to the fact I am not a cat person. Perhaps later on I’ll blame my aversion to the vile creatures on allergies (which is only partly true).

  “No. It’s not that. She’s coming over. She wants to pick up the rest of her stuff.”

  She. He still can’t even bring himself to say her name.

  chapter thirteen

  “One more round?” I ask.

  Laurie glares at me from across the table. Her bag is gripped tightly on her lap, where it has been ever since she got here. I think her hand might be tucked into her purse, ready to toss out a tip at a moment’s notice.

  “I think you’ve had enough.”

  “Oh, come on. One more glass of water won’t kill you. You know you’re supposed to have eight a day.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  I flag down the bartender to order another round. This will be Laurie’s fifth glass of water. And, because I’ve managed to keep up with her shot for shot, this will be my fifth margarita.

  An hour later, I find myself teetering in the middle of my apartment, sensing that something—although I’m not quite sure what—is amiss. When I finally stop swaying, I realize the apartment is quiet. A little too quiet. It’s empty.

  Oh, such ecstasy! An entire evening all to myself! How long have I waited for this very moment? And what do I do now that it has finally arrived? I strip off my clothes—and crawl straight into bed.

  What, you thought I’d dance around naked? Bathe myself in champagne? Search for a Zalman King series on cable?

  Just knowing that no one, not a soul, can poach on my territory is enough for me. I tuck myself into my sheets and bask in the warm glow of my night-light and the ephemeral world of Die Dämmerung. Or The Twilight, rather. Granted, I find myself rereading each sentence twice before it makes sense, but within a few pages, I have drifted peacefully to a place that, right here and right now, exists only for me.

  The sudden ring of my telephone yanks me back down to the stiff coils of the mattress. I nearly bounce right off my bed.

  I grope for the alarm clock on my nightstand and check the time. It’s one o’clock. One o’clock in the morning is a downright terrifying time to receive a phone call. It’s emergency time, somebody-has-been-in-an-accident time. The reason Amanda isn’t home time?

  “Yes, hello!” I breathe fearfully into the phone.

  “Sarah?”

  “Jake? What’s wrong? You okay?”

  “Yeah. Well, no. It’s been a bad night.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “She just left. She took her stuff. It’s all gone.”

  “Oh. Oh, right.” The pounding in my chest begins to ease.

  “I want to come over.”

  “Here?”

  “Is that all right?”

  “How long will it take you?”

  “About an hour.”

  I look at my alarm clock again, even though I already know very well what time it is. I listen to the tick of the clock, the patter of my heart, and dig deep for a little nugget of self-control. It’s hard to come by. I’m still suffering the consequences of five cocktails.

  “It’s a little late,” I say quietly.

  “I know.”

  “Maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

  “Okay. I understand.”

  “But, how about tomorrow night?”

  “That would be great.”

  “All right. Well, good—”

  “Oh, hey, Sarah? Can you give me your e-mail address?”

  “My e-mail address?”

  “Yeah. There’s something I want to send you.”

  “Ummm, okay. You got a pen?” He pauses a moment to find one. I give him the address. “Good night, Jake.”

  I replace the phone in its cradle. Feeling strangely content, I nestle deeper into my pillows and flip the page of my manuscript.

  The first thing I do the next morning is leap out of bed to turn on my computer. Because it’s only 9:15 a.m., I don’t expect to find a whole batch of new e-mails. In fact, there is only one.

  It’s from Jake, subject heading: Hey, Sugar Bear. I click it a million times because it won’t open fast enough.

  Appallingly, there’s no text to the message. I feel utterly humiliated. How dare he get my hopes up like this, make my heart beat so ferociously I could easily lapse into a seizure right here on the Aeron, only to—

  Oh, wait. There�
�s an attachment. I open it slowly this time, lest I fall prey to another one of his not-so-funny practical jokes.

  Am I just a glutton for punishment? The sweet, warm gush of blood in my veins runs suddenly cold. I feel as though I’m inhaling razor-sharp icicles through my nostrils.

  He sent me a picture. Not a sample of his work, not something he felt brave or open enough to share with me. No, this is a picture of himself. And there he is, so smug and so shameless, in heated lip-lock with a knockout brunette. I’m supposed to get a kick out of this?

  I crack my knuckles and ready my response. “Hey, Scumbag”? “Hey, Shit for Brains”? A whole slew of choice phrases comes to mind, and it’s hard to pick just the right one. I glare at his self-satisfied grin for inspiration.

  “What the—” I grip the desk and peer in closer, because I have this weird feeling that the knockout brunette in the picture might—just might—be me.

  It is me! I recognize the dress. I recognize the dance floor of the wedding reception. But those amorous doe eyes and full, parted red lips—those are mine?

  Man, I don’t know what they were paying that wedding photographer, but it couldn’t have been nearly enough. I don’t know how to say this, not without sounding like an obnoxious, faux-sincere Best Actress award recipient—ah, to hell with it! I’m beautiful! Gorgeous and sexy and positively radiant!

  Maybe the girl in the picture isn’t really me after all. Certainly not the me I know. Not with that hazy glow on my face, not with that dreamy look in my eye. She’s a creature spawned by a split-second flash, with just the right lighting to cast harsh lines into shadows, just the right angle to gloss over the imperfections. By luck of a camera, she appears once. Then she vanishes forever.

  Or does she?

  I could spend all day staring at that picture, imagining who I could send it to, wondering if there were a way I could doctor it somehow and use it next to my byline when I become an award-winning newspaper columnist. I know these thoughts are no good, unhealthy even, poisonous daydreams that will, at best, turn me into a useless sap and, at worst, crush me when I must come to terms with life’s harsher realities. It is thus with heavy heart that I grab the Die Dämmerung manuscript and force myself to retreat to the living room.