Pounding the Pavement

by Jennifer van der Kwast

  “I was wondering how you like your coffee,” I say from her doorway.

  “Oh,” Marianne tosses her New York Times on her desk. “You don’t have to get me coffee.”

  “I just made a fresh pot. I was going to get a cup for myself. You sure you don’t want any?”

  “Hmmm.” She sits at her desk and crosses her legs. “Black with Splenda is fine.”

  I scurry out of her office and jot down on my legal pad, “Black with Splenda.”

  When I return, I am balancing two generously filled WCA coffee mugs. I carefully hand one over to her.

  “Mmm, this is very good,” she says, licking her lips.

  I realize I am holding my breath. I exhale deeply through my nostrils.

  “Here,” Marianne nods at a stack of papers on the edge of her desk. “Can you run off two copies of that script for me?”

  “Certainly.”

  The halls of WCA have been filled with new life within the past ten minutes. The ubiquitous hum in the office has now swelled into a great big yawn. It is the sound a car makes in the middle of winter, when you pump the accelerator and wait for the engine to turn over. It is a murmur about to become a roar. The quickening pace of high-heeled shoes clicking against the tile. The trill of a telephone growing more and more insistent.

  There is nothing sinister about these cream-colored walls or white laminate desks. If anything, they are warmly inviting and, in their faintly lemon-scented freshness, terribly exciting. Yet, walking down this strange tunnel brings forth a torrent of so many conflicting and overpowering memories. I recall the terror of my first day of preschool, the curiosity of my introduction to high school, the thrill of my first taste of freedom at college. And if I were as young as I was then (as young, even, as I claim to be on my résumé), maybe I’d feel a little more spirited, a little more adventurous. I’d grab the reins, thrust my foot in the stirrup, swing my hat above my head, and yell, “Giddyup!” But I’ve been bucked off this steed before. And I still have the bruises to prove it. So, this time, I will proceed with caution.

  I round the corner of the hallway. A mass of impeccably dressed and neatly coiffed assistants is hovering on the other side of the pantry. They are all waiting in line for the copy machine.

  “Oh, no!” I groan.

  A young, dark-haired woman in front of me turns and uses her index finger to push her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “The machine is broken,” she informs me. “Sam Larson just called down to Tech Support. They said it would take about thirty minutes to get up here.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  She shrugs and her glasses slide down her nose again. “Paper jam, I guess.”

  I heave a sigh and push my way through the line.

  “Excuse me,” I mutter to the line of pissy assistants.

  “It’s broken!” shouts an anonymous male voice. I ignore him and put my script down on top of the printer so I can roll up my sleeves. The sleeves, actually, of the Ralph Lauren suit I’ve borrowed from Amanda. A good reason to be particularly mindful of leaky ink cartridges.

  I raise a few flaps of the copy machine, open a few trays, and eventually find the offending sheet of paper coiled around the “Warning: Hot!” cylinder. I use my fingertips to gingerly pry away the page.

  I close the lid, and the machine sighs, flashing a ray of yellow light across the glass.

  “I am just going to test it,” I say over my shoulder at the hoard of wide-eyed, gaping assistants. No one dares challenge me. I slide in my script and hit “Copy.” With cheerful compliance, the machine spits out the pristine copies.

  “It works!” someone cries.

  A chorus of hurrahs, shrieks of delight! I wouldn’t be surprised if the assistants hoisted me onto their shoulders and paraded me out to the lobby. I’m an all-around success, an instant victor, lauded by a dozen new friends.

  So why do I still feel so sick to my stomach?

  I remove my new copies, and the original, from the machine and walk past the sea of outstretched hands. I shake a few, forget every name, and perhaps even fail to give my own. For months, I’ve grown accustomed to being a nobody. I’ve learned to live with defeat, grown complacent with failure. It isn’t easy to step into this office, to wear these clothes, and pretend to be one of the Happily Employed. Maybe I’m skeptical, perhaps a bit wary, but it just doesn’t feel right.

  For the rest of the morning, I hide behind my computer screen, tucked into the cavern of my cubicle. I pay no attention to anything that doesn’t appear directly on the computer screen in front of me and listen to nothing but the voices that come through the headset of my phone. And in such a deliberate fog of focus, I find myself performing superiorly.

  The rapid succession of phone calls doesn’t fluster me in the least. I take an hour (two at the most) to create a Filemaker Pro database to serve as a log sheet for both incoming and outgoing calls. Most of the callers I recognize from either my New York or LA staff books. When I hear an unfamiliar name, I am meticulous about taking down the proper spelling and make sure to repeat the phone numbers back my callers.

  I hang up line one, answer line two. “Hello, this is Marianne Langold’s office, who may I say is calling?”

  “This is Peter Owens.” Bingo! LA Head of Literary Affairs.

  “Hello, Mr. Owens. Please hold for a moment.” While speaking to him, I pull up my Instant Messenger window and type to Marianne, “Peter Owens, Line 2.” I put him on hold and wait.

  A message returns. “Thx.” The flashing light on line two clicks open. Line one begins to ring again.

  “Marianne Langold’s office, who may I say is calling?”

  “Yes, hello. This is Gil. Do you know if Marianne has copies of the new Ainsley script?”

  I happen to know for a fact she does. I made those very copies myself earlier this morning. But whether Gil—Gil Meadows, in the film production department upstairs, I assume—should be made aware of this fact is unknown to me.

  “If you hold on a minute, I’ll find out for you,” I say sweetly. I type to Marianne, “Gil Meadows, wants Ainsley script.”

  The message returns, “Come in.” I remove my headset and walk into Marianne’s office, just as she switches over from line two to line one.

  “Gil?” She smiles at me as she barks into her speakerphone. “I’ve got the script right here on my desk. I’m sending my assistant up with it right now.” She hangs up.

  “This is for Gil Meadows on the eighth floor,” she says, handing me the script. “Room 815. Super nice guy. If he’s not too busy, you should take a moment to introduce yourself, let him know who you are. We work together pretty often.”

  “Of course.”

  Upstairs, the door to room 815 is closed. So I sidle up to the assistant seated outside his office.

  “Excuse me? I’m Sarah, from Marianne Langold’s office? I have the Ainsley script for Mr. Meadows?”

  She fixes me with a stern look and jabs a finger at the mouthpiece of her headset, indicating she’s on a call. She waves me toward the office and mimes a knock. Hesitantly, I tap on the door.

  “Come in!”

  I nudge the door open just enough to allow a slither of light to fall upon a man behind a large, mahogany executive desk. He raises his pencil-thin, silvered eyebrows.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I have the Ainsley script you asked for?”

  “Ah, yes,” he beckons me in. I scurry quickly to his desk. “So you must be Marianne’s new assistant.”

  “Yes. Hi. I’m—”

  “Sarah Pelletier!” says a female voice from the couch at the other end of the room. I swivel. Then I leap right out of my skin.

  Her little blonde bun is cocked to the side. Her teeth are bared, but where I expect to see blood-tipped fangs instead I see nothing but a pleasant smile. Which is even scarier.

  “Sarah, doll, I had no idea you worked here!”

  For a split second time stops. Sound all but disappears.
I find myself trying to remember where the hell I put my voice.

  “Hi, Gracie,” I say, although the words sound distant.

  “Well, how about that?” Gil snorts, faintly amused. “You two know each other?”

  I brace myself for the ax to fall.

  Gracie’s grin broadens. “We sure do! Small world, isn’t it? How’ve you been, Sarah?”

  “I … I …”

  “Been working here long?”

  “Uh, no. Today’s my first day.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful! Congratulations.”

  “Um, thanks.” I shift uneasily from foot to foot.

  “Ah, Sarah?” I wheel around toward Gil. “I’m sorry to do this, but Gracie and I have a lot to cover, and I’ve got a meeting in half—”

  “Right, sorry,” I say quickly, hustling out of the door.

  “Bye, doll!” Gracie waves jovially to me.

  I close the door behind me and wait a while for the throbbing in my chest to ease.

  “Sorry about that,” Gil’s assistant removes her headset and sighs. “Goddamn conference calls go on for hours.” She stares at me quizzically. “You feeling all right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You sure? You look a little pale.”

  I straighten, feeling my heartbeat return to normal and my wheezing subside.

  “I’m fine,” I say. And the shocking thing is, I really believe it.

  Gil’s assistant extends her hand.

  “I’m Sarah, by the way.”

  I chuckle. “Me, too.”

  “Another Sarah? Whaddya know.”

  I shrug and drop her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. But I think Marianne is waiting for me—”

  “Go ahead. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around soon.”

  I wave good-bye and tear down the hall.

  Marianne is waiting at my desk when I return.

  “Perfect timing!” she says, holding out a sheet of paper. “Can you fax this for me? It needs a cover sheet. It’s going to Peter Owens at the LA office.”

  “You got it.”

  I take a seat and pull up the Fax Template on my computer to begin composing a cover sheet. Seconds later, a high-pitched trill echoes in my earpiece. I hit line one to answer the call.

  “Marianne Langold’s office, who may I say is calling?”

  “This the Union Square Café. We’re calling to confirm Ms. Langold’s dinner reservations for tonight?”

  “Hold on just one moment.” I pull up her calendar. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the other line flashing. “Yes, at eight-thirty.”

  “We look forward to seeing her.”

  I hang up and answer the second call.

  “Marianne Langold’s office?”

  “Yes, hi. This is Marianne’s husband, Michael. Is Marianne busy right now?”

  “Oh, hi, Michael. No, I don’t think so. Let me put you right through.” I patch him in, the way Marianne specifically asked me to for family members.

  I type up the rest of the fax cover sheet and send it off. Then I dial the LA office. “Peter Owens’s office, please,” I say briskly. The receptionist puts me right through. His assistant Julie answers immediately.

  “Peter Owens’s office, who may I say is calling?”

  “Hi, Julie. It’s Sarah from Marianne Langold’s office. Just wanted to let you know I sent the fax Peter was waiting for.”

  “Excellent! I’ll get it to him right way.” Line two begins flashing. I click over.

  “Marianne Langold’s office, who may I say is calling?”

  “Sarah, this is Catherine in Human Resources. May I see you in my office, please?”

  “Sure,” I yank off my headset and stand.

  My knees feel weak. I have to put my palm down on the desk to steady myself. A sick, overwhelming sense of dread washes over me.

  Catherine stands before me, her palm stiff and open. Meekly, I hang my shameful head and remove the security key card from its noose around my neck. I hand it to her without meeting her eye.

  “Thank you,” she says and sits down at her desk.

  “Do I get a chance to explain?” I ask, my voice faltering. I force myself to look up at her.

  “Frankly, no. I’m not interested. We both know you lied on your résumé. Here at WCA, we don’t tolerate that sort of misrepresentation. It’s a firm rule.”

  I make the effort to raise my chin and act defiant. But my resolve is waning. “I think I have a right to defend myself.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. You don’t.”

  There is a rap at her door. A man in a uniform leans in. “Catherine, you called for me?”

  “Yes, Roger.” She fixes me with a pointed stare. “Sarah, please don’t make this any harder than it has to be. Roger will escort you out of the building. I will explain the situation to Ms. Langold.” With that, she picks up her phone and angles herself away from me. I lower my chin, bite my lip, and try my damnedest not to burst into tears as the security guard leads me out of her office.

  Roger follows me onto the elevator and keeps his eyes averted. To avoid looking at him, too, I stare unblinking at the floor numbers above the doors as they light up, silently counting down my descent.

  I linger outside the WCA building and cover my face with my hands, my shoulders racked with sobs. Across the street, a group of German tourists snaps photographs of the skyscrapers. A street vendor on the corner loudly hawks his hot dogs, pretzels, and overpriced cans of soda. A homeless man stops in front of me and watches me cry. He soon decides I’m not worth the bother and continues on.

  I loiter by the entrance because I’m not ready to go anywhere else. And there I stay until I’ve smoked every cigarette in my pack except for the last. My fingers tremble when I hold the filter to my lips.

  Fired.

  I’ve been fired.

  Sentenced to death by a witch trial before I even cast my first spell. Blackballed by HUAC before I even produced a script with Communist undertones. My career is over. And it had never really begun.

  Well, stick that on your résumé and smoke it.

  I light up the last cigarette, crumble up the pack into a tight wad in my fist, and throw it into the trash can standing beside me. With a sweaty palm, I reach into my bag for my cell phone. I don’t really want to talk to anyone. Not Jake, not Laurie, and certainly not Amanda.

  I call my mother. She answers immediately.

  “Mom?”

  “Sarah? What’s the matter, sweetie-pie?”

  “Mom, I was fired.” My voice cracks, suddenly rattled again with heaving sobs.

  “There, there,” my mother soothes. Already I can imagine myself cradled in her arms, rocked gently back and forth, her face a blur, but her voice—that sweet, supple pacifier—held close to my ear. “Baby,” she calls me. “Baby, everything is going to be all right …”

  chapter twenty

  I come home to my apartment and lean my back against the door, letting it sway closed behind me. It feels good to be alone, to let the silence in the room wash over me. I lift my chin and feel the sting where dried tears once streaked my cheeks. It’s over now. Forgotten. I make my way toward the bedroom.

  I stop when I hear muffled whimpers. Mine? No, they couldn’t be. They’re coming from behind the closed door to Amanda’s bedroom.

  Oh, of course! Of all the days to fall victim to a major crisis, natually she would have to pick today. The nerve of her!

  You know what? It’s not my problem. I don’t want to go in. I don’t have to go in. I’m shouldering enough as it is. I’m at full crisis capacity, I tell you. I’d be no good to anyone in the state I’m in.

  Begrudgingly, I shuffle over to her room and knock on her door. “Hey, you okay?”

  “No!” she sniffs.

  “You want me to come in?”

  “No!”

  “All right.” Don’t have to tell me twice.

  “Wait!” Damn. I hear her blow her nose. “It’s okay. It’s open.”


  Damn, and damn again. I open the door and peer inside. Amanda is propped up on the pillows of her bed, wearing her silk pajamas. Her hair is in a ponytail. Amanda’s hair is never in a ponytail. She looks like she’s four years old.

  “Ryan hasn’t been returning my phone calls.” She reaches for a tissue on the nightstand. “He won’t talk to me at the office either. I haven’t spoken to him in a week.”

  “He’s probably busy.”

  Her eyes start to water. “I saw him leave today. He walked out with the new receptionist.”

  “The receptionist? That was supposed to be my job.” Amanda gives me a hard look. I shake my head at my own insensitivity and take a seat on the edge of her bed. “Right. Sorry. This is about you.”

  A single tear trails down her face. She doesn’t use the tissue, though. She balls it up in her tiny little fist. “It’s not fair. Why does this have to happen to me?”

  “Oh, Amanda. It happens to everyone. It sucks, I know, but we all go through it.”

  “Not you.”

  “Of course, me! You don’t think I understand rejection?”

  “No,” Amanda shakes her head vehemently. “You don’t. You’re so happy with Jake.”

  I suck in my breath. “Who said I was happy with Jake?”

  “You don’t have to say it. It’s obvious.” She starts shredding her tissue into thin, even strips. And all the comforting words I can think to say to her get lodged in a lump in my throat.

  Amanda looks up at me, blinking away the tears. “What time is it?”

  I look at my watch. “Six-ish?”

  “Shit.” She runs a hand through her hair, her large, glazed eyes staring off into space. She sighs and heaves herself reluctantly off the bed. I watch wordlessly as she slips into the bathroom, the door halfheartedly swinging closed behind her.

  Only two hours later, Amanda emerges from her bedroom wearing her best face. And her favorite American Apparel fitted tee and her most flattering pair of Seven jeans. Her hair has been tucked into a buttoned-down golf cap. She takes a seat next me on the living room sofa and fastens a large silver hoop to her ear.

  “A couple friends from work are meeting me downtown at the Tribeca Grand if you wanna come,” she offers.