This Could Hurt

by Jillian Medoff

  In March of 1997, Rob and Evan quit their jobs, combined Rob’s meager savings with money from Evan’s trust fund, and kicked off Guy Friday, Inc. The pitch: Lifestyle Management for Men of Means. The plan: Hit up their network, especially the cash-rich overworked bankers and lawyers. In theory, Rob and Evan would act as lifestyle curators for busy executives, offering customized advice on everything from business dinners to upscale decor. In reality, they ran errands for Evan’s former lacrosse teammates. They picked up dry cleaning, dropped off keys, stood on line at the DMV. Rob, who wasn’t cut out for manual labor, never stopped bitching; Evan, who eschewed schedules, missed critical meetings. They bickered as a matter of course. “I’ve got a kid,” Rob said, not just once. “I’ve got bills. You can’t flake out.” Evan didn’t appreciate Rob using his daughter to guilt him; Rob didn’t appreciate Evan’s cavalier attitude. Their mutual frustration polluted the air. Minor slipups provoked volcanic reactions. By the one-year mark, they couldn’t stand to be in the same room together. It was over; they both felt it. So they went to Murphy’s, their favorite bar, talked man-to-man, and elected to put on their wheels and book. (In college there was a kid, a Rollerblader, who said “Guess I’ll put on my wheels and book” every time he left the room. Rob and Evan mocked him mercilessly, but the expression endured.)

  So it was meaningful, Rob decided, to be seeing Evan today, the very day he lost the very job he started when Guy Friday went south. Equally meaningful: a decade back, all their man-to-mans had taken place at Murphy’s, the same place he sat in now, nursing a beer.

  The door swung open. Rob turned, but it wasn’t Evan. He started to call Maddy then stopped, not ready for the “I’ve Been Let Go” speech and its sidebar discussion: “Now What?”

  Now what?

  Twenty minutes later, Rob ordered another beer. Evan was chronically late, and Rob recalled how twitchy this always made him. As he debated leaving, a well-built man glided into the bar. This time it was Evan: same thatch of sandy hair, same proud, athletic strut. He wore a tight T-shirt that showcased his massive arms and broad shoulders. His hair was thinner in front, his jowls fuller; his hooded eyes, once sleepy and suggestive, now narrowed slits under loose skin. But the crooked smile was vintage Evan, that blinding flash still his greatest asset.

  “Hey man.” The bartender greeted Evan with a raised glass.

  Evan held up a hand. “Danny.” Spotting Rob, he called out, “Bobby Hirsch! Back in a few.” Then he pivoted on his heel to answer his phone. Both men had once carried first-generation clunkers, and seeing Evan’s sleek new device reminded Rob that a lot of time had passed.

  Too much time, he thought, as the minutes ticked by. This was stupid.

  Finally Evan meandered over and slid onto a stool. He ordered a beer, checked Rob’s glass, ordered a second, then swiveled around. The two men were finally face-to-face.

  “So.” Evan’s smile was warm, generous. Rob felt himself yielding. “Where were we?”

  WE’RE DOING OKAY, Rob thought. It’s only been, what? Twenty minutes? Already Evan had leaned over and said, “It’s good to see you, Bobby. Wish we hadn’t waited so long.”

  They kept the conversation easy, though not light. Rob talked about his mom dying, his dad’s lonely life. “Damn,” Evan said, shaking his head over Elaine. “I’m sorry. Your mom was tremendous.” They sat quietly, remembering. Evan told Rob about his ex-wife, Gretl, whom he’d married four years before and then divorced six months later. She was young and stunning but—he couldn’t believe he was admitting this—a total mystery. “I was so sure I knew everything about women, but living with her was nothing like dating her. She was impossible.” He flashed his famous smile. “Maybe the problem was me.” Then he laughed loudly, unconvinced. Rob didn’t ask for details; nor did Evan offer any. Apparently they both saw a need for boundaries.

  Evan described his girlfriend, Lux, also young, stunning, and a mother with two young sons. She was immersed in the snack-and-juice-box routine; he found this endearing. “Ever think I’d fall in love with a mom?”

  “Sure,” Rob replied. He studied a woman who was leaning over the bar. Her grin, quick and cunning, reminded him of Lucy’s. “Anyone can fall in love with anyone.”

  Shaking his head, Evan marveled at his own good fortune. “I am head over heels.”

  To which Rob, feeling drunk, said, “We should go out—you, me, Maddy, and Lux.”

  Evan gulped his drink. Rob watched his Adam’s apple bulge as he swallowed. “Yep. We should. Hey, how’s Allie? She’s, what? Fourteen?”

  “Thirteen. Our younger daughter, Jessie, is nine.”

  “Two kids! Look at you, big stud.” Rob’s father had said the same thing: Look at you!

  They kept talking about people they knew, guys from Dartmouth who made it big, others who flamed out. After they downed another round of beers (Rob’s fourth) and two shots of tequila each, Evan told Rob that his father, Victor, was going blind. “Macular degeneration.”

  Victor Graham was a painter who’d palled around with Jackson Pollock in the 1950s—well known in certain circles, legendary in others. Victor’s wild, colorful abstracts fetched high prices, though nowhere near those of his more famous friend’s. “I’ve kept up with your father’s career. But didn’t hear about his eyes. Christ, Evan, I’m so sorry.”

  Hunched over, Evan peered into his glass. “I appreciate that. If I seem unresponsive—unreturned calls, canceled plans—it’s because I’m preoccupied with him. It’s not an excuse; well, maybe it is an excuse. But it’s also the truth.”

  “No, no. I understand.” Though the news about Victor was awful, Rob did feel some relief that Evan hadn’t kept blowing him off for no reason. “It’s also hard to go backward, to see people . . .” He wasn’t sure how to finish. “Can I ask you something? About our business.” He hesitated. “Do you think it was . . . uh . . . foolish to give it up?” He couldn’t bring himself to say “cowardly,” which is how he’d felt at the time; that he quit just when it started to get difficult.

  “Hell, no. You had a wife and kid. You needed a steady income. Honestly, I can’t recall how we split—only that we handled it badly. So for the record, I’m sorry if I was an asshole.”

  This was a relief, too, that Evan didn’t hold him responsible. Rob nodded. “Yeah, me too.” He was drunk en route to blasted, and Evan was telling a long, complicated joke that had no punch line, but Rob was already laughing. He was feeling so good that when he remembered he’d lost his job (rather, was in the process of losing his job), the idea wasn’t so troubling. I’ll just find another one. What’s the big deal?

  “I’m glad I contacted you,” he told Evan, hoping this fit into the flow of their conversation. “It’s great to be hanging out again . . . like this . . . here . . . together.”

  “My dad is an ox,” Evan was saying. “He’ll live forever. Two more shots, Danny.”

  Rob’s BlackBerry rang; he ignored it. It was only five, but felt much later inside the dark bar. Checking his phone, he saw that Lucy and Leo had both called. It pained Rob to be leaving Lucy, though they’d barely spent any time together in the last two months—she was working on a project for Rutherford she couldn’t talk about, too busy even for a brief constitutional. She’d completely withdrawn, and the abruptness of it stung Rob more than he cared to admit. Impulsively he sent her a text. I miss you xo.

  Her reply was quick, as if she was sitting there, waiting. Miss you too. Where R u?

  “I should hit the road,” he told Evan, sucking back a third shot. It was almost dinnertime; he still had to give Maddy the news. Evan hadn’t asked why Rob was free on a Thursday afternoon. Should Rob tell him he was out of work? Hey, he could say, let’s resurrect Guy Friday. Chuckling, he pictured Evan’s reaction. “Wish I could stay; it was great to catch up.”

  “MoMA is having a Victor Graham retrospective,” Evan said in a beery non sequitur. “Come to the opening, he’d love to see you.” Evan gave Rob the date, whic
h Rob keyed, clumsily, into his BlackBerry.

  Rob stood up. “Maddy’s waiting.” His phone jangled. It was Lucy, another text, this one more urgent. Where are you muthafucka? Call me!

  “No way, Bobby Hirsch. You can’t leave this bar yet; we’re just getting started.” This time Evan yanked on his sleeve so hard, Rob lost his balance. Luckily, he caught the lip of the bar before smacking his face, but the force of Evan’s grip stunned him. It reminded him of their roughhousing, which he’d always hated, despite playing along. Evan was bigger and stronger; afterward, Rob would be bruised all over and sore for days.

  “Stay,” Evan commanded, sounding drunker than he had only five minutes before. “Sit with me, drink with me. Oh, shit. You won’t believe who I ran into—Daisy Fordham. You were so hot for her. Tell me, Bobby, please: what did you see in that girl?”

  “Daisy Fordham, wow.” Rob hadn’t thought about Daisy in forever. She was a bottom-heavy rich girl with curly hair, whom Rob had worshipped from afar. Not even a kiss passed between them. Evan had slept with Daisy twice, but swore this was before Rob mentioned her.

  “You loved Daisy,” Evan said, which made Rob cringe.

  “It was a crush.”

  “Come on, Bobby. Don’t sweat it. I’m glad you’re happy; your life with Maddy sounds fantastic.” Saying this, Evan sounded sincere. But then, rolling a shot glass between his palms, he added, “I should confess . . . I fucked her.”

  Rob’s mind reeled. “Maddy?” Evan fucked his wife? When?

  Watching him scramble, Evan cracked up. “Of course not, you dope.” He slapped Rob’s cheek. “Daisy. I fucked Daisy Fordham.”

  Rob’s cheek burned. He hated when Evan did this, wound him up just to see him squirm. Evan hadn’t forgotten he’d told Rob about sleeping with Daisy—Christ, he needled Rob about it for years. Evan wanted Rob to think he’d fucked Maddy. He wanted to watch Rob break, even for just a split second, to remind him who was the alpha. “You knew I liked Daisy,” Rob said with sudden clarity, “but you slept with her anyway.” A long-buried piece of history, yet he couldn’t believe how fresh it was, how raw he felt.

  “Don’t be like that.” Yawning, Evan held up two fingers. “Another round, please.”

  Rob knew it didn’t matter—of course it didn’t. Still, he couldn’t shake it off. He dug for his wallet. “Not for me, thanks. Gotta go. But Victor’s opening is in my phone, so we’re set.”

  “Great; I’ll call you.” Evan stood up, caught Rob in a hug, squeezed him tight. “You’re still a pussy, Bobby,” he whispered. “But I miss you.”

  Rob inhaled Evan’s soapy smell, the slightest tang of perspiration. You were my best friend, he thought, wanting to say something to this effect. Instead, he said, “Do that. Call me.”

  They wouldn’t talk again, Rob knew. Evan was the same; maybe he was too. Either way, the rest was different. Besides, Rob had to turn in his BlackBerry, so even if Evan did call, the device would belong to someone else, with any trace of the prior owner stripped clean.

  18

  In the morning, Rob had a banging headache and queasy stomach. He was never, ever drinking again. He sat in his kitchen, unsure of his next move. In theory, he should eat breakfast and head to the office. He should meet Rosa so she could finish firing him. He should use his last days at Ellery to organize his network, work the phones, and face the next twenty-odd years of his career. If nothing else, he should address the looming question: Now what?

  But Rob didn’t place much stock in theoretical pursuits. He was a practical guy who preferred known-knowns, which was why he continued to sit on his ass, suited up in his brown-mouse uniform as per usual, eating Fiber One twigs and trying to appear gainfully employed.

  “I’m leaving in five minutes,” Maddy called out.

  “Right behind you,” he replied with forced cheer. “Don’t wait for me.”

  He had three texts and a voice mail from Lucy, two voice mails from Rosa, and two from Leo, all asking where he was, why hadn’t he called, and in Rosa’s case, what the hell he was thinking. “You can’t just walk out! We have legal issues to discuss, such as”—her voice dropped—“your money.” She seemed afraid he was gone for good, despite knowing full well that no one forfeits severance. At stake was four months’ salary, including unused vacation time (ever kind-hearted, Rosa had written off the days he lost taking care of Allie); but to get all this, he had to give them two more weeks of work. “You’re acting like a child, Robert,” she added.

  Rob scraped the last few twigs with his spoon. Maddy stood by the door, buttoning her coat. Yesterday, it had been freezing out; today there was rain. Early spring in New York was always a kaleidoscope of weather conditions that changed without rhyme or reason. Luckily, his wife had a coat for all of them: jackets, blazers, ponchos, slickers, parkas—you name it, she owned it. Today she wore a lightweight coat—a duster, she called it, a word Rob had never associated with outerwear. This year, like all years, he wore his puffy coat until T-shirt season, which Maddy said was nuts. Just buy a windbreaker or leather jacket, she told him. But Rob was adamant. Why muddy the waters with so many choices? One coat or no coat was how he rolled.

  “Rob? Are you okay?”

  He’d been staring into his cereal bowl, probably for too long, though who could say? Time was elastic, painstakingly slow at one turn, accelerated the next. Rob found himself losing long stretches he couldn’t recall, but his heart was constantly revving up, like an engine in overdrive. “You know what the saddest thing in the world is, Maddy?”

  “Poverty? Homelessness? Child abuse?” She picked up the garbage. “I’ll take this on my way out. Rob, I really have to go.”

  “An empty bowl.” He held it up, orphan-style. “All gone.”

  Maddy tucked her keys in her bag. “So what’s the deal? You going to work or not?”

  “Of course! Why wouldn’t I?” Last night after leaving Evan, Rob had roamed the streets alone, heady with the feeling of release. What he needed, he decided, was an adventure. Without a job, he could take off. The world beyond Brooklyn felt untamed and ripe for exploration. But after a few blocks, he had to pee and his neck burned where his bag dug into his skin, so he decided to go exploring tomorrow. Besides, he missed his kids. Once home, he straightened up enough to kiss them hello and good night, told Maddy he was too tired to talk, and then fell into a drunken sleep. He dreamed about Lucy straddling him, with her blouse unbuttoned and tits spilling out. She encouraged Rob to rub his face between them, which he did, gladly, until she pushed him away. “Not you, idiot—Evan.” But when he tongued her nipples, he could tell she enjoyed it, which was intoxicating while it was happening but he woke up feeling horrified. And perverted. With a hard-on. What the fuck? He couldn’t bear to look at Maddy, so he averted his eyes every time she came near him. Rob assumed they’d have a heart-to-heart over cereal, but bombarded with visions of Lucy’s tits, he couldn’t bring himself to raise the issue, any issue. “I don’t feel like rushing,” he said.

  “So don’t rush, Rob. Oh! My wallet’s in my other bag.” Exit Maddy, stage right.

  Rob was still twitchy, and his head was flooded with worries, not just over rent, but also braces, college, weddings, heart stents, IRA taxes, burial costs. Turned out his casual, laissez-faire attitude hid fears upon fears that were multiplying faster than he could catalog them. Rob’s anxiety was so palpable he didn’t have the mental bandwidth to wallow in his bad feelings about seeing Evan, though disappointment nagged like an unfinished project. As Rob ran through his family’s outstanding payables, he spiraled to that dark place where he was bent over, begging his wealthier sister for help.

  Enter Maddy, stage right. “What should we do about the Honda?”

  Oh, and a new car. Their ancient Civic was barely running. Maddy had found a 2001 Volvo on Craigslist, but it was five grand minus the trade-in. Last night, Evan mentioned that his girlfriend, Lux, drove a BMW, a detail that needled Rob. He hated driving—he didn’t care
about cars—so why did he give a shit about Lux’s BMW?

  “I like the Volvo,” Maddy pressed, “and we have to move fast. Should we buy it?”

  Her question was why Rob couldn’t talk about his job. While he wouldn’t mind his wife’s sympathy, telling her would open the floodgates, and he’d be deluged with a hundred more questions just like it—keep HBO? the Times delivery? dinners out?—not that his response should be in doubt. Across the board, the answer was no. No car, no way, not now. I’m going down, Maddy! Mayday! Mayday! SOS!

  “Rob? The car?”

  “I’m thinking.” Rising from his seat, he grabbed the Fiber One box.

  “What are you doing?” Maddy asked. “Rob, it’s after nine!”

  She kept saying his name, Rob, Rob, Rob, like he was her naughty son, Rob, Rob, Rob, and he snapped, “What does it look I’m doing?” and then caught himself. “Sorry.” His voice was calm. “I’m having more cereal, Maddy. I haven’t taken a shit in two days.” He refilled his OBER mug, rubbing the phantom R and T. The O and second R were coming off too. Then, as if the thought had just struck, he said, “I like the Volvo, Maddy. It handles well and will last forever. We should buy it.” This, he said with finality. “I wonder, though—it’s a lousy deal for a nine-year-old car.” He sipped his coffee. “You know what? Let’s hold off for now. We’ll find something better.”

  “You sure?”

  With one hand on the door, the other holding the trash, Maddy was all set to go, but Rob put down his bowl and approached her. As he stared into the brackish ocean of his wife’s eyes, he sent her a message: I got fired, Maddy. Who’s gonna hire me, with my so-so résumé and cheap shoes? Now what, Maddy? Now what?

  “Yes, Maddy,” he said quietly. “I’m sure. We’ll find a better car.”

  She nodded, and he suspected she was sending him her own messages: What is wrong with you? Put your bowl away, wipe down the sink, and get to work. But all she said was, “Call me later.” When she walked out, the door slammed behind her.