Pounding the Pavement

by Jennifer van der Kwast

I say nothing.

  “You know, if you don’t talk, that’s not going to work.”

  “I’m sorry. I just didn’t realize how tired I was until you called.”

  “Yeah, me too. One quick question before I let you go to sleep, though. Do I get to see you tomorrow?”

  “Well, I—”

  “No I take that back. It’s not a question. I want to see you tomorrow.”

  “I can’t tomorrow. I promised Amanda I’d hang out with her.”

  “Oh.” The twinge of disappointment in his voice is unmistakable.

  “Tell you what, though,” I offer quickly. “How about you pack yourself an overnight bag on Friday? Throw in enough socks to get you through a couple of days. And, oh, definitely some of those cute little boxer briefs you own—”

  “The red ones?”

  “Damn straight the red ones.”

  “Am I planning a weekend trip?”

  “How do you feel about Manhattan? I happen to own and operate a lovely little bed-and-breakfast on the Upper West Side. You’ll love it.”

  “Hmmm, I don’t know. I try not to travel during the height of tourist season.”

  “Oh, come on. There’s great shopping in the area, and you’d be just in time for all the summer sales. Plus, there are tons of fabulous restaurants, and we’re really close to all major transportation—”

  “Yeah, but how’s the service?”

  “Excellent. You’ll be treated like royalty.”

  “And if I want to extend my stay?”

  “The dates are totally flexible.”

  “Then, I guess it’s a deal.”

  “Super. I’ll see you on Friday.”

  “All right.” He stays quiet for a moment, letting all things left unsaid speak for themselves. “Good night, Sugar Bear.”

  “Good night, Jake.”

  $8.74. I have $8.74 in my bank account and that’s it. Am I even allowed to have as little as $8.74 and still call it an “account”?

  The worst part about $8.74 is that I can’t even withdraw it. I suppose I could cough up twelve dollars, deposit it in my account, and then retrieve the minimum twenty dollars from the ATM. But if I had a whole whopping twelve dollars on me, I wouldn’t need to drop by an ATM at all now, would I?

  Okay, let’s see—there’s got to be a way to work this out. Do I dare face a flesh-and-blood bank teller and ask her to close out my account? Good God, how mortifying! I’d prefer to just hold up the place instead. At least in jail, I’d be able to enjoy free room and board. Not to mention the fact most prisons come equipped with high-speed Internet and cable TV. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me.

  Then again, I’d have to get a gun. And although I have no idea what the going rate for firearms are these days, I’ve got a hunch they’d cost more than $8.74.

  “Wait a second!” I gasp out loud. The people waiting in line behind me groan and throw up their hands. A second is far too long to make them wait at all.

  I pay no heed. For despite the faulty wiring in my brain, a light-bulb has unexpectedly switched on.

  Princess! She still owes me over a hundred dollars for my book coverage. And didn’t she say she’d pay me in petty cash?

  I may not have enough money to hail a cab, but using nothing more than my own two feet—and a perilous bolt of adrenaline—I clear twenty city blocks faster than I ever have before.

  I push my way past the teeming hordes of Times Square tourists, trot impatiently through a revolving door, dash into the lobby, sail through the metal detectors unscathed and sign my name in the visitor’s log with a flourish. Just before the elevator lurches closed in front of me, I stick out my foot and let the doors bounce off my thigh. The people inside narrow their eyes and suck in their guts, providing just enough room to let me slink in. The elevator shoots up. I hold my breath.

  When the doors open up on the fifteenth floor, the tempest resurges and propels me down the hall. A polite receptionist points me toward Princess’s office. Her extended index finger is a cannon that fires me off once again. And when I finally hit my target, what should I see but a pretty, young girl seated primly at a small desk. I stop cold.

  “Who are you?” I demand.

  Her large brown eyes widen.

  “I’m Crystal,” she says, smiling hesitantly. “I’m new here.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m Gracie’s assistant.”

  “Sarah, doll, you didn’t really want this job.”

  “What are you talking about!” I fume. “I kept telling you, over and over again, that I wanted it.”

  “Oh, come on, doll, let’s face it.” Princess flings her arm casually over the back of her chair, flaunting the ample chest she acquired only a couple of years ago. “You’re overqualified. You would have been miserable here.”

  “No, I wouldn’t—”

  “Shhh!” Princess nods her head at her closed office door and gestures for me to keep my voice down. “Sarah, this isn’t exactly a growth position, if you know what I mean. I don’t even need an assistant.”

  “Then what is she—” I jerk my head at the same door—“doing here?”

  “Let me finish. I was telling you that I don’t need an assistant. What I really need is a secretary. Crystal’s young. Fresh out of college. And she’s hungry. She’ll do anything I tell her to.” She uncrosses her orange fake-tan legs and leans forward. “Now, I’m not proud of myself. But I’m also not going to apologize for my needs. I want to be able to ask someone to get me a cup of coffee. And I don’t want to feel guilty about it. You? Doll, if I asked you to make me coffee, you’d—well, you’d give me that look of yours.”

  “What look?” I seethe.

  “You know. That look. Like you’re so above it all. And I’m not saying you’re not, but …” She pauses. “Honestly, Sarah, I know I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know—but you make terrible coffee.”

  “That’s why you didn’t hire me? Because I make bad coffee?”

  “No. Not at all. I didn’t hire you because you’re too old to be making coffee. You deserve better, Sarah.” She places her hand against her inflated chest in a ridiculously phony gesture of concern. “I really, truly mean that.”

  Her hand drops. But that phony display of concern? No, that stays.

  “I sincerely hope you won’t let this ruin our relationship,” she continues, her voice oozing sugar. “You know how crazy I am about your coverage. You do excellent work, doll, you really, really do. In fact,” she lowers her voice confidentially. “There is a major book I just got my hands on. Definitely, no talk, no trade. The agent isn’t even going to officially submit it to film companies for another two weeks. He just happened to give it to me last night as a thank-you for—” She stops herself. “Well, let’s just say as a thank-you. Anyway, you’d be so perfect for it. I couldn’t trust anyone else.”

  With that, she leans back, permitting me a moment to fully absorb her rare confidence. And despite myself, I blush at the faint praise and prickle with a twinge of excitement.

  “Yeah?” I say, careful to remain guarded. “What’s the book about?”

  Princess groans and flutters her hand in the air. “The same thing they’re all about. ‘Boy Comes of Age,’ I suppose.”

  Uh-huh. Not to be confused with Girl Comes of Age. A different genre entirely.

  “It’s called Gideon,” she adds.

  I swallow a gasp and try to keep myself in check. But if my face has registered any of the shock tickling my spine, Princess doesn’t notice. She picks up her phone and dials an extension, drumming a French-manicured nail against her desk impatiently.

  “Crystal?” she barks into the receiver. “You remember that manuscript I made you hide in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet?” Princess swivels in her chair. With her back to me and her head bowed, she continues speaking in a hush. “I changed my mind. We’re going to let Sarah have it instead.”

  She hangs up the phone and spins back
to me. “So.” She smiles brightly. “Don’t I owe you some money?”

  She gives me two hundred dollars in an envelope. The manuscript she puts in a padded sealer, wraps in tissue paper, and stuffs in a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag. I hold out my hand to receive the package. Instead, Princess stares at the bag for a moment, thinking.

  “You’re headed uptown, right?”

  “Yes,” I say cautiously.

  “Excellent.” She reaches under her desk and pulls out yet another shopping bag. “Can you swing by Bloomingdale’s on your way? Sheila at the Lancôme counter gave me the Resolution night treatment for dry skin when she knows full well I only use the one for normal skin. If you tell her I sent you, she’ll know exactly what I am talking about.”

  I balk. “You’re serious? Bloomingdale’s is all the way on the East Side.”

  “Oh, Sarah.” She laughs. “You make it sound like it’s in a different borough. It’s only another couple of blocks.” She stuffs the smaller bag into the bigger one and hands it to me. “Thanks, doll, I appreciate it. I’ll have a messenger come by your place tomorrow.”

  Fuming, I snatch the bag from her hands. If any part of me had been even remotely flattered that Princess considered me more than just a personal assistant, that part knows better now.

  I march out to the hallway and wait for the elevator to arrive. When the doors open, a hefty man in a light suit cocks an eyebrow at me.

  “Going down?” he asks.

  “Uh-uh.” I shake my head. “Going up.”

  “Now, you sure you want to do this?”

  Normally, if Laurie is the one to voice any reservations at all, I should know I am encroaching on dangerous territory. But this time, my mind is made up.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay.” She stares uneasily at the manuscript pages on the copier tray. “I’m hitting copy.”

  “Fine.” I shrug. “Hit it.”

  She does as told. The machine sucks in the first page. The small, dark room soon becomes an orchestra of white light and electronic purrs. I turn my head because I cannot bear to look. Laurie smiles at me.

  “Must feel good to be bad.”

  “Sure,” I lie.

  chapter seventeen

  The following week, at 4 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, I can be found in front of my computer, wearing flannel pajama bottoms and my favorite Brown sweatshirt. My desk is lost under the remains of an Amazon rain forest—several trees at least which now serve as disorganized manuscript pages and hastily scribbled notes. To jab my finger even deeper into the wound of Earth’s imperiled ecology, I’ve also been using several Diet Coke cans as makeshift ashtrays.

  The first light of dawn forces its way through the slats of the window blinds. And still I push on, swallowing another swig of soda, inhaling another hit of nicotine, and trying to ignore my heavy eyelids.

  I haven’t pulled an all-nighter since college. There is something so wholeheartedly romantic about it. Like I am eighteen years old again, tired but determined, beaten but not even close to broken, welcoming the new day like it belongs to only me.

  Of course, I do not force myself to stay up all night by choice. The official submission date for Gideon is only three days away and Princess has insisted I turn in my coverage no later than 9 a.m. this very morning. I finish up my synopsis by 6 a.m. But by then, I am too tired to think clearly. I’ve already entertained an hour’s worth of daylight. I’m entitled to a quick nap. I set my alarm for 7:30 and slide under the sheets. Not even a minute later, I dream of comments that include such inspired observations as “well-crafted,” and “ingenious use of structure.”

  By 8 a.m. I consider myself refreshed enough to type up the rest of my coverage. I sit down at my computer and turn off the screen saver. Much to my disbelief, I see I’ve received a new e-mail. And even more startling, it has been sent from Variety.com.

  A FRIEND THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE INTERESTED IN THIS ARTICLE.

  YOUR FRIEND’S MESSAGE: CHECK IT OUT! MY NAME IS IN THE LAST PARAGRAPH!

  I click it open.

  And then a bloodcurdling scream lodges in the back of my throat.

  The Gideon acquisition makes the front page. It beat out the new developments in the Academy screener ban scandal and the official announcement that an esteemed New York independent film company has declared bankruptcy. Above the text, there is a picture of Laurie’s boss, dazzling the camera with a buffoon-like grin. I read his generic statement with openmouthed horror—although I’ll admit to feeling a momentary stab of pride when he says he thought the book was well-crafted and employed an ingenious use of structure.

  When I reach the final paragraph, my stomach lurches. I had been warned in advance, and yet I still wasn’t prepared. Not for Laurie’s full name and title. In bold.

  I am too shaken to move. I debate sending my coverage to Princess anyway, but in the end I decide I don’t even want her to associate my name with that book. I turn off the computer and fire up a cigarette.

  I tell myself that if I don’t hear from Princess by noon, I’ll be in the clear. There is no logical connection between me and Laurie. Laurie could have gotten that book anywhere. She knew all about it well before it came to Princess’s attention. I can prove it—although I’d better not. No, there is no reason—absolutely no reason at all—for Princess to even fathom that I was the one who handed over that cursed manuscript.

  I just have to wait until noon.

  The phone rings at 10:30 a.m. I light one cigarette off another and let the machine pick up the call.

  “Sarah, it’s Gracie. It is extremely urgent that you give me a call as soon as possible. I will be in the office all day.” The machine clicks off abruptly.

  I hack on the cigarette fumes and crush out the filter with revulsion.

  Her second call comes in at 1:15 p.m.

  “Sarah!” She hisses on my machine. “I cannot stress how terribly important it is for you to call me back. I am stepping out of the office now for lunch. Call me on my cell. 917–755—”

  I switch off the machine. In a sudden fit of furious energy, I toss off my bathrobe and slip into yesterday’s workout wear, shove my keys in my pocket, and head out the door.

  I return two hours later, a dripping, soppy mess of frizzy hair and aching muscles. I hobble painfully over to my answering machine. The panic button blinks a fierce glowing red.

  There is one new message.

  I grimace and hit play.

  “Fine, Sarah.” Her voice is ice cold. “This is the last message I will leave you. Frankly, I don’t care if we ever speak again. However,

  I would like to warn you. You might want to consider leaving my name off your résumé. If people start calling me for recommendations, you may not be pleased with what I have to say.”

  Click.

  During the many months of my unemployment, I’ve been lazy at times. I’ve been despondent. I’ve been bitter. But never before have I truly dedicated myself to a long stretch of good, solid self-loathing. As it turns out, I’m quite good at it. I can mope and kick myself for days on end. There’s nothing to it. I lie in bed for the most part. When that gets old, I get up and lie on the sofa in the living room. And if recent incidents have ceased to make me cringe and shudder, I have a backlog of plenty of other painful memories I can call upon to do the trick. Like the time I poured out my heart to Andy Finklestein in the fifth grade by secretly slipping a mix tape into his schoolbag. He returned it a day later, snidely remarking that he’d had a bad reaction to Bon Jovi’s “Bad Medicine.” For weeks after, boys would come up to me in the hallway, singing “Let’s play doctor, baby cure my disease.” (And maybe that explains my current repulsion for music.)

  So steeped am I in my nirvana-like state of self-pity not even the most tempting of wordly pleasures can rouse me from my trance.

  “How about we all go out for dinner? Sushi, maybe?” Jake suggests.

  I shake my head. “Not hungry.”

  “Wanna go to a b
ar? Have a couple of martinis?” Amanda prompts. “It’s on me.”

  “Blah.”

  “This is impossible!” Amanda turns to Jake and rubs her temples.

  “She’s been like this for two days. All she does is watch reality television.”

  “I see it’s done wonders for her vocabulary.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Blah,” I repeat, with more feeling this time.

  “What is it, honey?” Amanda reaches for my hand and strokes it gently. “Isn’t there anything you want to do?”

  “How about we rent a movie?” Jake asks.

  “No, I don’t wanna—” I stop my head in mid-shake. “Movie?”

  Oh, it sounded like a good idea at the time. But as we make our way to the video store, the weight of our impending decision clings heavily upon my shoulders and throttles my neck. I’ve always hated making decisions. I have a knack, in fact, for making particularly bad decisions. And the one that still awaits us is destined to be tough.

  For some time now, Jake has been angling fervently for the Kieslowski trilogy that was finally released as a Special Edition DVD. But Amanda hates the “readers,” and even though she claims to speak French fluently, I know she’ll need her glasses for the subtitles. And she really hates to wear her glasses in front of boys.

  No, Amanda will probably be reduced to tears if I don’t at least consider letting her rent the new Reese Witherspoon flick. Although I have a sneaking suspicion that Jake might be a huge Reese fan, I doubt he’s ready to admit that just yet.

  Woody Allen is always a safe standby, of course. But he’s not as safe as he used to be. I’d suggest some of his earlier films, but Amanda still hasn’t recovered from the shock that Manhattan was shot in black and white. I remember her turning to me, her eyes wide and her mouth agape, when she said, “Just how old is Diane Keaton, anyway?”

  Then there’s Jake, Mr. Saw It, Hated It, Saw It, Own It. Is there any middle ground for people like that?

  “Who’s Guy Richie?” Amanda asks, studying the back of a DVD case in her hands.

  “Madonna’s husband.”

  “Eeck!” She makes a face and returns the box to its rightful place on the shelf. She trails a finger down the row and stops, quite predictably, when she sees Adam Sandler’s goofy grin on display.