This Could Hurt

by Jillian Medoff

  Alone—finally!—Rob stretched out on the couch and turned on the TV.

  DURING ROB’S YEARS of recruiting, candidates of every stripe passed through his door. Most were run-of-the-mill: freshly minted graduates, ambitious middle managers, no-nonsense senior leaders. Others less so: the war hero with an oozing eye wound, the white-collar felon, the former call girl. Still others broke his heart: the eighty-year-old with no savings, the cancer patient desperate for medical benefits. Regardless of their circumstances, they all sat on the other side of Rob’s desk, necks scrubbed (or not), suits pressed (or not), nails trimmed (or not), eyes hopeful: Please pick me. Pick me. Please.

  Starting out, Rob perceived his job as more of a curiosity than an actual fact. Bursting with youth, smug with lucky breaks, he looked at the human tragedy on parade with a cynical eye. Feeling no commonality with his interviewees, he silently mocked their ill-fitted shirts and bloodstained trousers. Sprayed-on hair and Magic-Markered stilettos. Snake tattoos peeking out of frayed cuffs. Hems patched with duct tape and staples. Pools of sweat. Runny noses. Sneezes and burps. Hiccups and coughs. Misspelled names (their own) on thank-you notes. Once, a female candidate farted. It was innocuous—one brief toot, low and sonorous—but something struck Rob in that off-kilter way, and when his laughter rose up, he couldn’t hold back. Jangly with hysteria, he fled the room—still laughing, apologizing. The woman was ideal on paper, references, experience, education all checked out. But in the end, Rob turned her down. It was too much, the thought of passing her in the halls, and him with the way he behaved.

  But as he got older, after he had a wife and kids, after his one-shot business tanked and he returned to the nine-to-five grind, Rob realized he was locked into this HR track for, well, for the rest of his working days. His sneers turned to sympathy, then empathy, and by the time he hit his mid-thirties, the candidates had become his lost lambs and he their shepherd. Each soul before him was a father’s son, a mother’s daughter; and despite the desk that separated them, Rob and his applicants were muddling through together—this moment, this profession, this life. When revenue was high, it was fun to offer jobs, help people follow their bliss. But the economy turned as it does, then turned again; soon, there were too few spots to go around. No, he told most of the people he met. I can’t pick you. I’m sorry but . . .

  the CEO wants to promote from within

  there’s no longer a budget for that position

  we’ll keep your résumé on file, and let you know if something opens up.

  The one thing he couldn’t say—for legal reasons—was the truth: You don’t fit in here.

  From time to time, Rob tried to inhabit his younger, callous self, but he was now in his forties and far too entrenched. So he went the other way, reveling in his small victories, taking pride in his new hires, inviting Cappy Cuomo over for dinner. But it wasn’t enough, and Rob couldn’t escape. He’d lie awake, ruminating about the people he’d rejected, his own pathetic fate, and the rounds and rounds of layoffs he was expected to orchestrate. Then one night Maddy asked him, “Rob, do you think you might be in the wrong job? Temperamentally, I mean?”

  Actually no, Maddy, he hadn’t. Because if he was in the wrong job, if he truly had been motoring down the wrong road for the past twenty years, then his whole life was wrong. And then what did he have? Then what, Maddy? He wasn’t trained to do anything else. When he fell into HR, he was too young to know better; now he was too old to start over. Robert Samuel Hirsch was an ocean liner cruising across the water at thirty thousand knots; to change course at this point would take an act of God. You’ve seen Titanic, Maddy, at least three times, probably more—that’s what could happen.

  So here it is, the truth, the whole truth, so help me God: I, Robert Hirsch, hate my job. Rejecting people every day has eaten out my gut, and since I’m predisposed to laziness, I’ve stopped pushing. I’ve shrugged my shoulders, dropped the ball, let someone else bear the load. As time goes by, fewer people know I once cared; they see only lethargy, apathy, a marked lack of concern. As a result, opinions are formed, options discussed; final papers drawn up, back-burnered, then drawn up again. Meanwhile, my patience has thinned. Just last month, I interviewed a stay-at-home mom named Martha (“I go by Marty”) for an analyst position, who tried to convince me that twelve years of packing lunches and holding bake sales translates to tangible, employable skills. “Being a mom is the hardest job in the world,” she said, to which I was dying to reply, Compared to what? Pediatric neurosurgery? Coal mining? Firefighting? Don’t do that, lady. Don’t give yourself credit for opting out.

  I had visions of Marty romping through the playground while my beloved wife raced from Jessie’s school to the gallery and then back home, where she tutored Allie on Jeffersonian politics and sold a painting worth half a million dollars over the phone. I compared Marty to my sister, a defense attorney who represents the indigent in class action suits while raising three kids. I compared Marty to all the working mothers at Ellery, who choose to juggle work and family while childless supervisors like Rosa forbid them from telecommuting. I wanted to put Marty in her place, to ask a question like “What’s the GDP of Laos?” just to see her squirm. But this interview took place last month, when I was safely ensconced in my ergonomic chair on the correct side of the desk, when I still had the luxury of passing judgment on stay-at-home moms with delusions of grandeur. Last month was last month and today is today, and today I am a middle-aged loser about to go on the dole. Today I’m a mope, so today I have compassion. Today I understand how much energy it requires for stay-at-home Marty to shower and dress, to put on her wobbly heels and sit across from a jackass who holds all the power (a jackass, by the way, who can’t locate Laos on a map, much less recite its GDP). So if Marty needs to give herself props, to position herself beside surgeons and firefighters, who am I to argue? Who am I, anyway? The hardest job in the world is defined by whoever performs it, and today I have to face my hardest job, which is to hoist myself off the couch, don my puffy coat, and travel into the city so I can get fired.

  TWO HOURS LATER Rob’s BlackBerry rang, rousing him from his half-awake, half-dreaming state. The ringing stopped and then started again. Although addled, he decided to answer, figuring it must be his assistant following up on all the assignments he’d dumped in her lap over the past few months. “Hey, Courtney,” he said, feigning coherence. “What’s up?”

  “Where are you?” It was Lucy, another accusatory wife, this one with higher voltage, deeper penetration. “Are you coming in?”

  Did she know he’d been fired? Rob couldn’t tell. He felt guilty, so everyone sounded suspicious or critical. “Of course I’m coming in. Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

  “Because it’s after eleven. Where are you?”

  Rob looked at the TV. The View was on. He’d never watched it before, but it seemed imperative that he do so now. The volume was muted, so the hosts (hostesses?) spoke in silence. What grand gestures! Such passion! What are they discussing? Politics? Race relations? He un-muted, but kept it quiet so Lucy couldn’t hear. Gwyneth Paltrow. Goop. Goop? Was that English? Maybe French? “I’m out on the street,” he said. “Walking around.”

  Her voice softened. “Are you okay?”

  She knew; she had to. “Let’s meet at Associated,” Rob said. “I need to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  Maybe she didn’t. “I’ll tell you when I see you. Let’s say two.”

  She agreed, and they hung up. Rob considered calling Rosa. Instead, he fell back asleep.

  AT TWO O’CLOCK, he entered the supermarket. Once again, Maddy had been right about his attire. Rob was drenched in sweat. He took off his puffy coat and knotted the sleeves around his waist; it hung down like a skirt. He looked ridiculous, like a ten-year-old on the playground, but so what? He was ridiculous. Lucy was in the fruit section, studying the apples. Spotting him, she whirled around, her movements loose and floppy, as if she’d lost control ov
er them. “This produce is gross.” She held up a bruised apple. “Look! It’s mangled, neglected, and lonely.”

  “It’s a piece of fruit, Lucy, not a stray puppy.”

  Lucy stepped toward him. (Remembering his dream, Rob stepped back.) “Playing hooky?” She polished the apple on her sleeve, pretended to take a bite. “Forbidden fruit, get it?”

  Still hung over, he eyed the apple. His stomach was roiling. “Don’t feel like working.”

  When she nodded, Rob realized she had no idea about his layoff. Not to tell her felt weird, and it would feel weirder when he eventually did. On the other hand, he hadn’t finished with Rosa, so he wasn’t officially off the books. Besides, Lucy didn’t need to know all his private business. He was married to Maddy; they were happy together. They had two children. How many times did he have to repeat this?

  “You sure you’re okay, Rob? You don’t seem like yourself.” Funny, but Lucy didn’t seem like herself either; she kept looking around, as if she were nervous.

  “I’m fine.” He took her arm. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s stroll.”

  They talked as they walked; or rather, Lucy talked and Rob tried to listen. Lucy spoke fast as a rule, and when she was wired, like now, she spewed words so fast he could barely keep up.

  “I want to explain why I haven’t been around for the past few months,” she said.

  “I thought you were working on a project for Rutherford.”

  “I am; I also started seeing someone. He’s nice and age-appropriate, which is a pleasant change on both counts.” Lucy was wearing high heels (and lipstick, Rob noted), so she was his same height, and they moved through the aisles in tandem, step for step, thigh for thigh. When they reached the pasta section, they sauntered, as if along the promenade, man and mistress, GI and geisha, hooker and john. Why was he thinking this way? Because it was midday and they were AWOL? Because his sporadic boner felt more than friendly? Lucy’s dark hair was down; it swept over her eyes, which seemed bigger and bluer. Her face, made up, was lovely.

  “His intelligence is impressive because it’s unexpected, given his . . . uh . . . work situation.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “My boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend? Since when?” Rob didn’t mean to sound harsh, but he was annoyed Lucy had a boyfriend and he was only first hearing about it—jealous too, if he were being honest. “Who is he?”

  “It’s a funny story. You know him. Well, you don’t know him, but you’ve seen him. His name is Manny Flores. He’s head of Sanchez Security.” She looked up expectantly, but Rob shook his head. “He’s one of the security guards,” she clarified, glancing away.

  “Of your building?” Rob had never been to her apartment.

  “Our building—the Ellery building.” She held out the apple. He shook his head, but she handed it to him anyway. Come to think of it, Leo had mentioned Lucy and a security guard. He relaxed; no way was she serious about this guy. “It’s great you’re dating, Luce.”

  “He’s very thoughtful, which is a quality I never cared about, but having experienced it, I can’t imagine ever dating an asshole again.”

  “What’s so great about being thoughtful? Lots of people are thoughtful.” Rob lifted his chin. I’m thoughtful, he reminded himself.

  “Most people consider it a virtue.” Lucy shrugged. “Call me crazy.”

  “I mean, is he smart? Does he . . . I don’t know . . . stimulate you?” He shouldn’t have used that word. “Hungry?” Rob held out the apple. See? That was thoughtful. But Lucy was walking ahead of him, in the cereal aisle. Behind her, Rob studied the slope of her back, the curve of her ass. What would she do if he lifted her coat and ground against her? Would she ask him to stop? Or arch her body, swivel her hips, flash her perfect tits? When he caught up to her, she was mid-sentence.

  “. . . then there’s my therapist, Dr. Ahmet.”

  Rob’s cock ached. Thankfully, his coat was still wrapped around his waist; the sleeves covered his groin. “You’re still going to that guy? The Aesop’s-fables nut? I thought you quit.”

  “I’m working through some issues; these things take time.”

  “And it has nothing to do with your fear that he won’t like you if you leave?”

  When Lucy laughed, their eyes met, sparking an electric current that made Rob’s whole body hum. He was a live wire, so fucking horny he couldn’t see straight. Suddenly he had to tell her. “Lucy, I got fired. Laid off. Whatever—I’m out of a job. Well, I will be . . .”

  She lowered her eyes. “I know, Rob. Leo told me. It’s why we keep calling you. I—”

  “Leo knows?” Rob was horrified. “Does everyone know?”

  “Of course not. Please, calm down. I’ll help you. You have a great résumé; plus you’re a recruiter—you know every trick. You’ll find something quickly, I’m sure of it.”

  Rob was done talking about this. “What were you saying? About therapy?”

  “It’s not important—really, it’s not. Let’s talk about you. Rob, are you okay? God, I feel so guilty about . . . about everything. I’m so, so sorry, Rob. Whatever you need—”

  “Why do you feel guilty? It’s not about you. It’s my problem and I’m fine.” Her “so, so sorry” pissed him off. “Finish your fucking story, Luce. Can’t we just have a conversation?”

  “Okay, okay. So I had a revelation about Manny—about men in general. A while ago, Dr. Ahmet said, ‘The blind bat sees the sky only when the barn burns down.’ The gist, basically, has to do with silver linings, and appreciating beauty in the wake of catastrophe.”

  He loved her, he did, but why couldn’t she speak like a normal person? “Lucy,” Rob said wearily and not for the first time, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Silver linings in tragedy. Conversely, in every celebration, there’s a touch of sadness. Manny is wonderful, but I’m not in love with him. That was my revelation: I don’t want to settle, I want to be head-over-heels crazy about someone, and I want that someone to be like, ten times more successful than I am. See? It’s stupid and shallow; I’m stupid and shallow.”

  Well, that last bit rules me out, Rob thought resentfully. “Who you love is not stupid, Luce. You’re very special, you deserve to be happy.” By this point, they were standing so close he could feel her breathing. His need to touch her was crippling him.

  “That’s nice of you to say, Rob.” She studied her hands. “So at the same time I realized Manny wasn’t my head-over-heels-guy, Rosa was reading me the riot act. ‘You can’t be my number two until you get over Rob.’ I tried to explain that I didn’t love you, but Rosa kept insisting I did. Then, during another session with Dr. Ahmet, I had this major epiphany. I was like, Oh my God, the barn is on fire, and look! There’s the moon.”

  Rob had lost the thread of the story.

  “It’s a metaphor . . . a figure of, whatever, of speech . . .” She was fumbling, which was odd, to watch Lucy grasping for words. “Rob, I want to tell you something.” She rose to her fullest height. “But you have to promise it won’t ruin our friendship.”

  “Ruin our friendship?” This was getting stressful. “Over what?”

  Covering her mouth, Lucy spoke through her fingers. “My epiphany was that I loved you, that I was in love with you. Did you have any idea? Of course you did. Rosa says it’s obvious.”

  Rosa? Rob went cold. “What about Evan? You said you loved him.”

  “Not love, a crush, a fantasy. But this ‘crush’ was just a way to be closer to you.” Her voice was soft. “I don’t know Evan; I know you, Rob. I got confused. I loved you all along—rather, I did—but now I’m clear; I worked it all out.” She exhaled. “Oh God, that was so hard. But I’m fine; everything is fine. It’s such a relief to tell you!”

  Now Rob was confused. “It’s not a relief to me.” On the contrary, he felt like shit. “Here’s how I see it: First you tell me you want to date my best friend, then you blow me off for two month
s, then you tell me you have a new boyfriend, then you tell me, ‘Oh, forget him and forget Evan. I loved you, Rob; I loved you the whole time.’ Only now you’re saying you don’t.”

  Lucy’s eyes were shining. “I know, it sounds awful. I’m so sorry, Rob. I’ve been a lousy friend. Will you forgive me?” She paused. “I’ll understand if you can’t.”

  “Of course I can forgive you. But why didn’t you tell me how you felt two months ago, instead of cutting me out of your whole fucking life?”

  “It wasn’t just you, Rob. There were other things going on, too.” Lucy shook her head; a tear fell. “But I was afraid if I told you, you’d resent me. I also needed space to figure it out—which I did. But I wouldn’t have been able to if we were still on top of each other.”

  Lucy was fucking with him, Rob could feel it. She never spoke idly; she didn’t pick the phrase “on top of each other” at random. She wanted him to envision her naked and straddling him. Rob stepped toward her. “How could I resent you, Luce? You’re my best friend.” He was hard as a rock. “Besides, you’ll always be in love with me.” It was a joke, a bad one, but he didn’t get how she could love him one minute and then not love him the next. He took another step.

  Lucy took two steps back. “Timing is everything, right?” Her laugh was hollow. “Let’s chalk it up to a missed opportunity.” She sounded miserable. “We should go to the office.”

  He knew this, but didn’t move. “I’m gonna miss you, Lucy; I’m gonna miss you a lot.”

  “Seriously, Rob. Let’s go.” Lucy started to turn away, but when she pivoted on her heel, she lost her balance and pitched forward. What could Rob do? He couldn’t let her fall. He had to catch her. He had no choice in the matter, no choice but to fold her into his arms and press his mouth against hers, no choice but to surrender to the moment and watch it unfold.

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Rob was on the corner of Eighteenth, across the street from the office. He was on the phone with Leo, who was inside the building, nine flights up.