Pounding the Pavement

by Jennifer van der Kwast

  Before she opens the door, however, she leans in and whispers to me.

  “Now, I’m not really supposed to say this,” she begins. “I don’t get final approval on new hires. Human Resources likes to recommend the applicants themselves, check references, that sort of thing. Makes them feel necessary, I suppose. But the job is yours, as far as I’m concerned.” She extends her hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Sarah. You’ll be hearing from me soon.”

  I am so thrilled, I want to kiss her. So, I do. Twice, once on each cheek.

  “Comme on fait en France,” I explain.

  She beams.

  And I? Well, I’m overcome with a strange sensation I can’t quite place. Could it be victory?

  I yank out my cell phone and start dialing Laurie’s work number as soon as I step off the elevator on the ground floor.

  “You and I met as interns at the New York Film Fest,” I tell her.

  “I know that.”

  “But you’re a couple of years older than me. I just graduated this May.”

  “Ooookay.”

  “Laurie, please! You’re my only reference!”

  “Relax. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Just pick a restaurant,” Jake implores. “Any restaurant.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Somewhere nice,” he insists.

  I groan. “You know I hate picking restaurants.” I really, really do. New York City is like a diner with a daunting ten-page menu—one you know you’ll never read entirely. The first time the waiter drops by, you panic and stutter and finally ask that he return in another five minutes. But when he comes back, you still can’t quite decide between the chef salad, the tuna melt, or the chili with a side of fries. So you make someone else at your table order first and hopefully their selection will be appealing enough for you to just say, “I’ll have the same.”

  “What about Vietnamese?” Jake asks. “You liked Nam Phuong, didn’t you?”

  “That’s all the way downtown.”

  “How about Pastis?”

  “Too expensive.”

  “I told you. I don’t mind. I want to take you out.”

  “But we have to make reservations—”

  “I’ll call right now.”

  “No, no, no,” I shake my head adamantly. “They’ll still make us wait. I hate waiting for food. I’m hungry now.”

  “Wanna go to Serendipity? We can get that frozen hot chocolate you’re always talking about.”

  “Look, Jake. My feet are killing me. I just took off my shoes. Are you really going to make me put them right back on again?”

  He burrows his head in his hands. “So that’s it? You just want to order in?”

  “You mind?”

  “What? Chinese again?”

  “Mmmm. Perfect.” I stretch back on the sofa and prop my sore toes up on the coffee table. Jake sighs and heads into the kitchen to find the menu.

  “You sure about this?” he asks when he returns. “ ’Cause I’m happy to take you anywhere you want to go.”

  “I don’t get it! Why all the fuss?”

  “Because I want to do something special for you. I want to celebrate.”

  “Why? I didn’t get the job yet.”

  “So? She said it’s as good as yours.”

  “Still …” I trail off. There really isn’t a good reason for me to so stubbornly refuse Jake’s sweet offer. But celebrating this early on has a troubling fall of Troy element to it that I just can’t shake.

  “Chinese is exactly what I want tonight,” I say resolutely. “Order the House Special Chow Fun. And we’ll use the real plates.”

  “Fine,” he grumbles as he picks up the phone.

  The food arrives twenty minutes later and by then I’m ready to tear open the paper bag with my teeth and burrow in for my spring roll. Jake, however, shoos me out of the kitchen and makes me clear off the coffee table. He sets down two bamboo place mats.

  “Where’d you get those?”

  “They’re yours.” He eyes me curiously. “You don’t recognize them?”

  I shrug. “Must be Amanda’s.”

  He ducks back into the kitchen and returns with a saucer for the duck sauce. Then it’s two small plates for each individual spring roll, and after that, two larger plates for the noodles.

  “Sit down already, will you?” I plead.

  “No, this still isn’t right,” he says, chewing thoughtfully on his thumb knuckle.

  “It looks wonderful. Can we eat now?”

  “Hang on a sec.” Before I know it, he’s trotting into my bathroom. I dip my spring roll into the duck sauce and take a bite.

  “He we go!” He emerges proudly displaying two of my vanilla-scented votive candles.

  “What do you think?” He digs around in his pocket for matches.

  “Very nice,” I say with my mouth full, patting the sofa cushion beside me. He doesn’t sit until the candles are lit and appropriately positioned. I shove the duck sauce toward him. He doesn’t touch it.

  “You know, I got you something.”

  I swallow hard. “You did?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like what?”

  “A gift. More like a reward. For a job well done today.”

  My heart sinks. The whole night he’s been nothing but kind and considerate and loving, and here I am with duck sauce on my chin and a stray noodle stuck to my lap.

  “Oh, Jake,” I say softly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “But I wanted to.” He grins and hands me a small package wrapped in simple brown packing paper. I take it from him eagerly, then freeze at once.

  I don’t even have to unwrap the gift to know what it is. It’s a book. And the reason I know this is because there is a silver sticker on the crease, just underneath the ribbon. The name on the sticker, in elegant bold font, is “Regal Bookstore.”

  “Go ahead. Open it.”

  Wordlessly, I peel back the wrapping and try to keep my trembling fingers from betraying my rage. I flip the book over to the front cover. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

  “I noticed you finished those other two manuscripts,” he says. “You left one at my apartment. I figured you probably needed something new to read.”

  I put the book down on the table and look up at him, feeling my eyes burn. “Where did you get this?” I demand.

  “Huh?” My reaction has startled him. “Oh, just this little bookstore in my neighborhood. A couple of blocks away from where I live.”

  “Why did you go there?”

  “I thought it was obvious.” He shrugs. “I went there to buy you a book.”

  Subtle tactics are beyond me at this point. I start spewing the angry words before I have a chance to rethink them. “You sure this has nothing to do with your ex-girlfriend?”

  Jake blinks at me. “How did you know—” He stops himself, his eyes narrowing. “Have you been going through my stuff?”

  “I don’t think it matters right now.”

  “I think it does.”

  For a moment we say nothing, silently fuming, letting our heated glares do the fighting for us. Finally, Jake looks away, focusing his attention on the dancing flames of the candles. “For your information,” he says, “she wasn’t working today.”

  “And how would you have known that?”

  “I don’t think it matters right now.”

  I seethe through clenched teeth. “I think it does.”

  “Know what? I’ve told you a million times before. I’m not going to talk about this.” He rises stiffly and grabs his wallet, stuffing it angrily into his pocket.

  “Fine.” I remain seated. And even though there is a knot gnawing at my stomach, even though my throat feels parched, and my eyes are stinging and a wave of nausea is welling up inside me, I clench my fists and wait for the anguish to subside.

  “I’m leaving now,” he tells me coldly, probably waiting for me to stop him.

  “I think that’s a great idea.�
��

  chapter nineteen

  You could look at my day in one of two ways. You could say I’ve spent the entire morning waiting for the phone to ring. But that sounds pathetic. True, but pathetic. And so damn obvious. Of course I spend the morning waiting for the phone to ring. I am always waiting for the phone to ring. No matter what I’m doing, or how much I’m enjoying it, believe me—I will stop cold if I think I’ve heard ringing. Because there is always that chance, that thrill—the mystery! Answering that phone could change my life completely. You just never know.

  On the other hand, you could also say I’ve spent my entire morning smoking. Which is also true. And also pathetic. But at least it sounds more productive, as if I’ve accomplished something. The ashtray holds the proof that I have been hard at work for the last few hours burning the hell out of the last of my nicotine supply.

  In times of great desperation, bad habits fit most comfortably. And smoking is no exception. It’s a familiar cycle I can easily slip into. Inhale and exhale. My yin and yang. Like entertaining thoughts of calling Jake and then firmly deciding to wait for him to call me. Hating myself for overreacting. Then hating him for having the power to cause me so much grief. What is my chief complaint anyway? The only glaring mistake Jake ever committed was the fact that he had the gall to exist before I met him. He’s probably had torrid affairs, he’s probably fallen in love, and he’s probably even had his heart broken—all before I ever came into his life. It kills me! All I ever wanted was to believe that we were meant to be, that I conjured him up out of thin air expressly to be my soul mate. I’d like to think that I wouldn’t have handed over my heart to just anyone kind enough to take it. Or would I?

  If Jake is going to reduce me to this, if his admittedly minor transgressions can cause me so much distress—even unintentionally—than he damn well better earn the right. He better call me. He better apologize for being the only person in the world who could possibly make me feel this weak and vulnerable.

  Or should I just grow up and call him?

  By 3:30 p.m., I’ve run out of cigarettes. Grumpily, I slide on my sneakers, stuff my keys in my pocket, and head to my front door. I skid to a stop before I even reach the hallway.

  Could it be? Did I just hear—my phone ring?

  I alter my course and make a mad dash for the telephone.

  “Hello?”

  “Sarah?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Catherine at WCA Human Resources. I’ve got good news. Marianne Langold expects you to report for work starting tomorrow at nine a.m.” She lowers her voice. “Just between you and me, we don’t usually hire people so quickly. But Marianne gave you a fantastic recommendation. We’ll do your background check and call your references while you’re at the office. It’s just a formality really.”

  “Catherine, thank you! This makes my day!” I gush.

  “It’s my pleasure to welcome you onboard. I’ll need you to drop by the offices some time today to pick up your orientation manual and security key card. Is there any time you know you’ll be free?”

  “I can be there in twenty minutes,” I say.

  I’m actually there in fifteen.

  “That was quick,” says Catherine, greeting me in the lobby. She is a short, fleshy bohemian wearing a flowing dress. She pumps my hand heartily and the two large fish earrings that dangle below her short, cropped hair swim giddily above her shoulders.

  “Come into my office and we’ll fix you right up,” she says, leading me down the corridor.

  I hardly have time to get a good look at Catherine’s office. Within only seconds, she’s loaded me up to my forehead with a stack of manuals: Orientation kit. Employee manual. Procedural policies. New York staff book. Los Angeles staff book. Confidentiality agreement. Operations and Usage manual.

  “That comes with instructions and blank forms in the back,” she explains. “Messenger forms, fax templates, invoice sheets, time cards. They might seem overwhelming at first, but they’ll make sense soon. How are you with computers?”

  “I’m very good with computers,” I pipe in from behind the volumes of reading material in my arms.

  “Great. We might make you sit in during our afternoon training class tomorrow anyway. But definitely take our Computer Operations guide to look over just in case.” She tosses the book on top of the pile. “And then …” She pauses. “Hmm.”

  I peer around my cargo and find her frowning at me, holding a security key card attached to the end of a rope.

  “Ah! There you are.” She hangs the security card around my neck. “Welcome to WCA.”

  I smile back my gratitude and teeter out of her office.

  The manuals, when spread out on my bed, take up every square inch of space available. I myself have been relegated to the floor, a stack of Post-its beside me, a ballpoint pen in my hand, and a yellow highlighter between my teeth.

  I’ve got a long, long night ahead of me.

  I sign the confidentiality agreement and cast it aside, making room for the massive Procedural Policies manual. Sighing, I attach a Post-it to the top of page one, and write: Telephone. I begin reading the instructions and get my highlighter ready.

  The word “agent” does not need to be highlighted. “Agent” always appears on the page in bold capital letters. When answering THE AGENT’s phone, WCA requires assistants to say, “This is THE AGENT’s office, who may I say is calling?” It is improper etiquette to immediately put a caller on hold. The assistant must always take the caller’s name and phone number before notifying THE AGENT of the call. (In case you were wondering, no, the word “assistant” is never capitalized. Why would it be?)

  I flip the page and learn that, when entering THE AGENT’s office, the assistant must always have a pad of paper and pen in hand. No highlighter necessary for that bit of information either. That’s just common sense.

  In between the chapters titled “Proper Dress Code” and “Vacation Request Policies,” my phone rings. This time, it is no longer music to my ears. It is alarm bells, shrieking sirens. I bite down hard on the end of the highlighter and debate whether to answer it. No, rather, I dread answering it. Because I’ve been burdened with such vast amounts of new information, I’ve been able to stave off thoughts of Jake for most of the afternoon. The ringing of my telephone is an unexpected jolt of reality that I am not fully prepared to deal with. I chew thoughtfully on the cap of my pen. Reluctantly, I crawl toward the phone.

  “Hi, it’s me.” Not Jake. Laurie. I breathe an enormous sigh of relief.

  “Hi, you.”

  “What happened with the job?”

  “I got it.”

  “Really? Why didn’t you tell me!”

  “I’m sorry. There’s just so much I have to do to get ready.”

  “That’s silly. We should go out and celebrate.”

  “Laurie, I can’t.” Call me superstitious.

  “Oh, come on. I got you on the list for our movie premiere at the Ziegfeld. I want you to come with me. You know you want to.”

  “I really, really can’t. They gave me homework. Stacks and stacks of it. I’m going to have to spend all night sorting through this stuff.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m afraid I am.” I bite my lip. Because I really do want to go to a big-time movie premiere. Maybe I could even snag a seat next to the supporting cast, which, I’ve heard, includes Andy Richter. And I could wear that Diane von Furstenberg dress I bought for the wedding and might never have the occasion to wear again. And there’d be champagne, and photographers, and goodie bags chock full of airline-sized vodka bottles and stuffed animals.

  But what good will any of this do me in the long run? What is one bright, dazzling night when I’ve got a brilliant new career ahead of me?

  “You’re definitely not coming?” Laurie taunts me. “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Yeah,” I mumble. “I’m sure.”

  When Laurie and I hang up, I stick my pen back i
nto my mouth and think.

  I thought I would be relieved that it wasn’t Jake on the line. But, goddamnit, why hasn’t he called?

  I pick up the Operations and Usage manual, open it to the first page and try to focus, try again to cast out unwanted thoughts of Jake. For so long, my priorities have been tossed aside, spun in a washer, hung to dry on a clothesline, flapping in heavy gusts of wind. But now I’m reeling them in, ready to fold and sort. I no longer have any time for nonsense. I have a job, a good job, a job I might enjoy. Thoughts of boys—and certainly thoughts of boys with charming, gracious, and beautiful ex-girlfriends—would just be a colossal waste of my time and energy.

  In my manual, I highlight a sentence I haven’t even bothered to read and have no idea what it says. And by the end of the evening, three of the books on my bed are bleeding highlighter fluid. The yellow lines have leaked onto my hands and thighs, and there is even a streak across my forehead I can’t even begin to explain.

  At 8 a.m., well before the doors to the WCA building will open, I am seated across the street at a café, smoking my third cigarette of the morning. The WCA New York staff book is splayed open on my lap, stained with yellow ink and fresh spots of coffee. When I’m through memorizing the name, title, and extension of every agent working out of the East Coast office, I order a refill and pull out my LA staff book. I place a hand over the first page and close my eyes, probing my memory for the name of every West Coast agent.

  At 8:45, I slide my key card through the security doors and enter the silent offices. After a few minutes spent tiptoeing through the dark, softly humming corridors, I find the pantry. I pull out the can of Colombian roast from top shelf of the cupboard, rinse out the coffeepot in the sink, and start looking for instructions.

  Marianne Langold arrives promptly at 9 a.m.

  “Good morning, Sarah,” she chirps at me.

  “Good morning, Ms. Langold.” I rise from behind my cubicle.

  “Sarah, please. Call me Marianne. Whenever I hear ‘Ms. Langold’ I feel like a grammar school teacher.”

  She strides into her office and I hop up after her, holding a pad of paper in one hand, a pen in the other.