Pounding the Pavement

by Jennifer van der Kwast

  And the keys Jake left for me on the dresser. Did these once belong to her, too? I shove them into my pocket and head out the door, fishing for them only when I need to lock up behind me.

  That bloody apartment—by daylight, a rather intrusive examination of all of Jake’s most savage, open wounds—may be all well and good behind me. But now there’s the rest of Brooklyn to contend with. Bright, sunny Brooklyn with blue skies and scattered clouds so long and thin they stretch like arms in an open embrace. I shield my eyes and curse the fact I’ve forgotten my sunglasses.

  The only sign of traffic is a bus that lurches down a nearby avenue. No taxis, of course not, that would be asking too much. I stop a man loading crates into a restaurant and he mimes directions to the nearest subway.

  “Gracias,” I tell him.

  The further I stray from the apartment, the less it continues to haunt me. So there’s a coffee table missing from the living room. So there’s an abandoned kitty litter box in the corner. Big deal. But the wineglasses—just thinking about those evil vessels makes me cringe. Because somewhere in the deep recesses of my fragile ego, I think I just might be their plastic cup replacement. Cheap, functional, and disposable.

  Now, where the hell is that subway?

  Luckily, like Manhattan, it turns out Brooklyn has a grid system of its own. So, even though I don’t know where I’m going exactly, at least I know I’ve made progress. I’ve gone from Fifteenth Street to Eleventh on a particularly quaint little avenue lined with boutique clothing shops and home accessory stores. If you want to bring a subway to a major hub of activity, my guess is this would be the place to do it.

  I pass a deli, which is another good sign. After that, a newsstand, even better. Then I stop dead in my tracks. In the window of the Park Slope Animal Clinic, a yellow flyer presses its cheek against the glass and whimpers plaintively.

  His name is Sleeve. He is a beautiful pit bull and Labrador mix with a goofy grin. His coat is all white except for one little black leg. It is as if someone tried darning him a black sweater and gave up only after the first few stitches.

  “ADOPT ME!” the flyer begs. My throat constricts and a dull pain in my chest starts throbbing. Then I peer in closer to read the fine print.

  “Volunteers welcome! Come in and say hi!”

  Need I say more?

  Okay, so not that I have a thing for Julie Andrews or anything, but the rest of my day is a page right out of the Sound of Music libretto—starring me as the impetuous nun Maria, of course. I’ve embraced the role so completely that soon I find myself twirling gleefully on the greens of Prospect Park, with my head tilted upward and my arms outstretched. I’ve even assumed the massive undertaking of teaching my charge how to sing.

  “Doe!” I command.

  “Doe!” he responds.

  “A deer! A female deer!” Ray, a drop of golden sun.

  “Me!” I shout.

  “Woof!” he agrees.

  “A name I call myself!” I toss him a branch and watch him gallop after it. Far—a long, long way to run.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed a good frolic. Years, even, since I thought to turn a cartwheel. I wish someone had clued me in on the secret of Brooklyn’s existence before. Who needs the recycled air of a stuffy office environment when outside there are flowers to smell and rumps to be sniffed? I think Sleeve and I can concur—there is nothing like the tree-filtered light of a blazing afternoon sun to burn the abandonment blues right off our sweaty backs. I’ll bet the most rewarding job at the most reputable company couldn’t grant me half the satisfaction I feel today.

  A warm patch of grass and a dog’s head in my lap. Reading a book and dozing off for a nap. A phone in my pocket that never once rings.

  These are a few of my favorite things.

  I return Sleeve by sunset and leave the clinic smelling distinctively like dog. Which doesn’t bother me so much, but it might not be a prospect so enticing to my fellow subway travelers. An unfamiliar jangling in my pocket reminds me, however, that an inviting shower is a mere five blocks and a twist and a shove away. And a climb up three flights, another twist and a shove—well, you get my drift.

  I don’t emerge from the shower until well after my fingers are pruned and my toes are pickled. The bathroom heaves a deep, steamy sigh of relief. And then, just as soon as the aloe-scented cloud kisses the mirror, it is sucked right back out of the room as if through a vacuum.

  The door has opened. Jake stands motionless with a guilty hand still on the knob.

  I’m sure his mind is a flurry of witticisms, charming apologies, a gracious word or two. But the only one he can think to voice is a rather panicked, “Oops!”

  Modesty being my first instinct, I grab a towel from the rack— and shriek.

  The door slams shut, concluding the shrill pierce of my scream. I clutch the towel securely around my body and wait. A moment of incredibly awkward silence ensues.

  “Jake?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s okay. You can come in if you want.”

  The door reopens a smidgen. He pokes in his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t—”

  “No, I’m sorry. I went to the park today and I came back to take a shower. I didn’t realize you’d be home this early and—”

  “It’s all right.” He pushes the door open a little wider. “I just wasn’t expecting you. I mean, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted you to be here. I didn’t think you would be, but I was hoping …” his voice trails off.

  I smile at him. A brilliant, dazzling white smile. But I doubt he even notices it. Because, at the same time, I also let my towel drop to the floor.

  Sleeve pounces a pile of leaves and looks up at me, wagging his tail beseechingly.

  “Good boy, Sleeve,” I assure him from my perch under a nearby tree. He rests on his haunches, eyes wide and earnest. I grab a twig by my knee and toss it to him.

  “Go get it, boy!” He races beneath its floating arc.

  Sleeve and I have become fast friends over the course of the past couple of days. I like him because he doesn’t judge me and I hope I offer him the same. I don’t care that he comes from a broken home or that he’s suffered from poor upbringing. In return, he is willing to overlook the fact that my clothes are wrinkled and that my English major in college is a bit ineffectual.

  Sleeve trots back with the twig between his teeth and drops it in front of me. Then he settles back and cocks his head sideways.

  I ignore the twig. I’ve got a better plan.

  “Hey, Sleeve. Where’s the—DUCK!”

  And he bolts off again, racing a couple of yards down toward the lake, where he plants his little mismatched feet in the water and peers down his snout, seeking out that elusive bird. Begrudgingly, I return my attention back to the final chapters of Die Dämmerung spread out beside me.

  It would be so easy to slip into a blissful lull, to enjoy the sunshine and the puppy love and to take the time to appreciate a good literary denouement. But my coverage for this book is long overdue, and I’d be a fool to believe Princess would be inclined to further extend her goodwill. Even if she had no designs on this material at all, she’d still be expecting no less than a prompt and thorough report on it.

  It is with much resentment that I then force myself to skim through the final few pages. Already the gist of my synopsis and impending comments begin to take shape in my head.

  A buzz in my pocket startles me. It takes me a while to realize my phone is ringing. Thank God. The damn thing hasn’t rung in ages. I was beginning to think no one cared. I mean, really—I’ve been in Brooklyn for almost a week. Don’t you think someone on the isle of Manhattan would have noticed I’ve gone missing?

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Hey, so you’re all set! I got you the interview. You still have the address, right?”

  “Ummm, I don’t think—”

  “Wall Street, remember? Are you wearing the suit?�
� Huh? “No.”

  “But you said you were going home to change!”

  “I did?”

  “They’re expecting you at Livingston, Gainor, and Price in half an hour!”

  Whoa whoa whoa. Who, What, and Where?

  “Mark?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mark Shapiro?”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “I can’t go to an interview in half an hour. I’m in Brooklyn.”

  “How is that possible? You just left my office fifteen minutes ago!”

  “No I didn’t. I haven’t talked to you in weeks.”

  He pauses for a moment. “This is Sarah Gill, right?”

  “Uh, no. This is Sarah”—come on, say it!—“Pell-tee-ay.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” He hangs up abruptly.

  I close my phone and lower it against my chin, thinking. It figures. The one time my headhunter has found me a job that sounds even remotely respectable, it wasn’t even for me. Maybe I should have just played it off—half an hour is plenty of time to get dressed and head out for an interview in Lower Manhattan. Or maybe I should call back Mr. Mark Shapiro and demand a little more loyalty on his part. After all, what could another Sarah possibly have that I don’t?

  My chin starts to vibrate. I check the caller ID on my phone and see Mark Shapiro has taken it upon himself to smooth things over. Well, damn right.

  “Sarah?”

  “Yes?

  “Sarah Pell-tee-ay?”

  “Yes, Mark, it’s me.”

  “You still interested in that property management job?”

  “That’s still available?”

  “Yeah. They just called. They loved your writing sample.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I can schedule a second round of interviews if you’re still interested.”

  I take a moment to think about it. But only a moment.

  “Mark, I told you. I’m not really interested in real estate. Has anything come up yet in publishing?”

  “Ummm. Not really. But I’ll let you know if I hear of anything.”

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”

  After we hang up, I stuff my phone back into my pocket, right where it belongs. Out of sight, out of mind. Sleeve yelps and a duck splays its feathers and darts across the water. Mission accomplished. The happy puppy trots back to me and nods his confirmation. It’s time to go home.

  We follow the wooded path back to civilization, past the corral where the first horseback-riding lesson of the season is in full swing. A beautiful brown mare hangs her long neck over the gate and fixes us with a big, watery eye. Sleeve balks and stops short. With his little black leg held in the air, he turns and tilts his head at me, wondering, perhaps, if I’ve ever seen a dog quite so big.

  We return to the clinic where a dumpy caretaker in an unflattering set of scrubs leads Sleeve back to his kennel. She’s worn the same name tag four days in a row, so I think it would be safe to assume her name is, in fact, Julia.

  “You been spending a lot of time with him lately.” She says this as if it were a bad thing.

  “Well, yes. I thought he’d enjoy it.”

  “Why don’t you just adopt him, then?”

  I feel my face go flush. How dare she! What kind of a person makes a volunteer feel guilty?

  “I … I can’t adopt him.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Her beady black eyes glint at me. “Why not?”

  “I don’t have the time to look after him.”

  “Seems to me you got plenty of time.”

  “I have a job.”

  “Oh?” She raises an eyebrow, not convinced. “You do?”

  “Well, no, not now. But I’ll have one soon.”

  Her eyebrow drops back into place. “Uh-huh,” she grunts, turning to hang the leash up on the wall. “I see.”

  I march sullenly out of the clinic and stomp my way back to Jake’s apartment, feeling slightly rattled and terribly resentful. For moments like these, there is only one cure. A little bit of shopping might be the very thing to cheer me up. So I stop in a liquor store on my way home.

  While I’m studying the overwhelming rows and columns of voluptuous bottles, a saleslady sidles up beside me.

  “Red or white?” she asks pleasantly.

  “I was thinking maybe red?”

  “You have a price range in mind?”

  “Well, I didn’t want anything too expensive.”

  She pauses to survey her options. “Have you tried the Coppola?”

  “Coppola? As in the filmmaker?” I ask.

  The woman smiles politely. “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Great, I’ll—” I stop myself suddenly. “Wait a second. Sofia or Francis Ford?”

  She selects the bottle from the shelf. “Francis Ford, of course.” She shows me the label to prove it.

  “I’ll take it.”

  She leads me to the counter to ring up my purchase. As I wait, I peer around the store nonchalantly. The window display out in front catches my eye.

  “How much for the wineglasses in the window?” I ask.

  The woman looks up and frowns at the display. “I think it’s twenty-eight dollars for a set of four.”

  I gulp. “Would it be all right if I just bought one?”

  She smiles kindly. “I don’t see why not.”

  The attack from the rabid animal clinic caretaker still has me unnerved the following day. So, I do what any evolved, mature adult would do. I take it out on the poor, defenseless animal and decide to forgo our afternoon jaunt in the park to stay home and wash the dishes instead.

  I’m in the process of lathering up the new wineglass with cleansing suds when I suddenly retract my hand as if scalded by the running hot water. The glass slips from my grip and shatters in the sink.

  What am I doing? Like hell I’m going to wash a man’s dishes just because I am unemployed! I turn off the faucet and sit down on the couch, leaving the shards of glass untouched in the sink. I twiddle my thumbs, pick at my split ends, and let my eyes wander about the apartment, taking note of the fact the hardwood floors are in desperate need of a Swiffer and the rug could use a good vacuum. But, no, damn it! I cross my arms over my chest.

  By three o’clock, I decide it’s okay to turn on the television. Of course, there’s nothing worth watching. I click it back off and toss the remote aside with disgust. I’ve got a full two hours left before Jake comes home. What could I possibly do with that much time all to myself—in a relative stranger’s apartment?

  And that’s when a terrible thought occurs to me.

  Up until this point, I’ve considered it a blessing that Jake has welcomed me so wholeheartedly into his home and allowed me to shape it into my own mini Brooklyn oasis. But now my gratitude has officially run its course. Mired in boredom, I’ve allowed myself to succumb to the one vice I’ve been desperately trying to keep at bay.

  I start snooping.

  Within minutes, I find exactly what I’ve been looking for. In the very back of Jake’s video cabinet, wedged behind his David Lynch collection, is a stack of VHS cassettes with handwritten labels. I pop in the first tape, which turns out to be a reel of generic commercials for soda brands. Eject. The second tape, labeled “Suggestive Service,” sounds infinitely more promising, but it is not as provocative as I had anticipated. It is a collection of corporate videos preaching the lost art of subtle sales tactics—suggestive service, if you will. Eject, eject. Finally, I stumble across a tape labeled “Jake’s Short: Untitled.” Fast-forward through the credits … and here we go.

  It’s a beautifully shot film, expertly crafted with an artist’s flair for obtuse angles and exquisite lighting. Not much by way of a story, but then again when do short films ever have a powerfully moving plot?

  The film is good—great, even—but that doesn’t surprise me. I had been expecting to be impressed with Jake’s talent. If anything, the film is disappointing because it just isn’t—what’s the word I’m looking for?—juicy en
ough. No wicked perversions, no deviancy, no dark fears laid bare. Not even a hint of misogyny or any other discrepancy I could possibly hold against him later.

  No, this simply will not do. If I really want to snoop, I’ve got to do this right. I put down the remote and duck into the bedroom.

  Believe me when I say no stone will be left unturned. There isn’t an inch of this apartment that is safe from my meddling hands. Not the sock drawers, the filing cabinets—even curiously labeled folders on his computer are fodder for my obsession.

  An hour later, I still come up empty-handed. I try to tell myself I should be thrilled. Jake is perfect. He has absolutely nothing to hide.

  I feel so defeated.

  And herein lies the problem with snooping. It would be bad enough to find some incriminating evidence that would expose Jake as anything less than ideal. But the fact that I haven’t found anything even remotely upsetting is far worse. Perhaps I haven’t tried hard enough.

  At four o’clock, I decide it’s okay to start smoking.

  I grab my pack of cigarettes off the kitchen counter. As an afterthought, I also grab the stack of Jake’s mail and take it with me to the futon. I light the cigarette, turn on the TV, and with halfhearted interest, I casually flip through his mound of bills.

  And there it is. Tucked in between the latest issue of Time Out New York and a pre-approved credit card application. It’s a J. Crew catalog. But it isn’t addressed to Jake. It’s addressed to her. To “She.”

  To Simone Anderson.

  Now, why does that name sound so familiar?

  Of course! I lunge for the remote and rewind the tape in the VCR. Holding my breath, I hit play.

  Her name appears almost instantly, earning its own title card under the caption “Writer.” And then it appears again, seconds later, the only name listed under the heading “Special Thanks.”