This Could Hurt

by Jillian Medoff

  This had concerned Rob. Like me? he’d wondered. Am I not insightful enough? He knew he had a tendency to miss nuance. But was this an everyman thing, or a Rob thing?

  “Hey Allie,” he said now, licking his chocolate cone. “If you ever want to talk about anything . . . your friends, boys, your life . . . I’m here, you know.”

  Her vanilla cone was dripping; Rob handed her a napkin. “I know, Dad; but I’m okay,” she said, a reply for which (despite everything) he felt relieved.

  LATE THAT NIGHT, he and Maddy were in bed, naked. In general, their sex life hadn’t suffered since Rob lost his job. But now he couldn’t get hard. This had never happened to him. Well, except for last fall (when he was also preoccupied with Lucy), which made it twice in less than a year. Christ, he felt shitty about himself.

  Lying beside him, Maddy patted his hand. “You’re going through a lot, Robby—looking for a new job, worrying about me and the kids, missing your friends—”

  “I see Leo all the time.”

  “I meant Lucy. Have you heard from her?”

  “Not since May.” Rob felt a pang. “I called her about JPMorgan, but that’s it.”

  “Well, that sucks.” Sitting up, Maddy switched on the light. “You were friends for ten years!”

  Rob thought about their kiss. “Lucy and I were work friends, not life friends.”

  “Leo was your work friend, and now he’s your life friend.” Maddy shook her head. “You got laid off, not Lucy. In fact, she got promoted! Calling you is the decent thing to do. You know what? Fuck her. You have Leo. You’ll get another job. You’ll make more friends.”

  It touched Rob to see Maddy so protective. “You’re right, I do miss her, and it is shitty she didn’t call. But . . .” He closed his eyes. “Leo told me she was working in secret with Rutherford to reorganize our department; that, basically, she orchestrated my layoff.”

  “Rob! That’s awful. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I only just found out.” Rob rolled onto his back. “I also don’t want to believe it. God, I feel so stupid.” He stared at the ceiling. “Maddy, do you think I’m unperceptive?”

  “Because you didn’t know Lucy was a snake? God, no. I found her self-absorbed and ambitious, but it never occurred to me that she could be so deceitful. It’s unconscionable.”

  “No, it’s business, and I was barely hanging on. I’m not defending her, but I was in a hole and couldn’t dig myself out. Anyway, I don’t just mean Lucy. I feel like I’m constantly missing things about people—Allie and Jessie, for instance, like I’m oblivious to their complexities; I don’t see beneath the surface. I feel like you know them better than I do. Even Leo understands them in ways I don’t. And I worry that this is because I lack insight.”

  “I understand the girls because I am a girl. Leo is extra empathic, which is why he’s such a good friend. We live on different frequencies; it’s not only about insight.” She paused. “I’m really sorry about Lucy. That’s just shitty.”

  “Very shitty.” Leaning over Maddy, Rob shut off her light. “You should go to sleep. You have to get up early. I love you a lot, and feel lucky to be married to you.”

  “I love you, too,” she replied. They kissed good night and drifted off. “I wish I had a job,” Rob said eventually, but Maddy was already sleeping.

  TWO DAYS LATER, on Saturday, Rob and Leo went to see the movie Inception. Maddy had taken the kids to the beach, and Thomas had a shift at the diner, so it was just the two of them.

  “Rosa’s lawyer called,” Rob told Leo as they inched toward the box office. “He asked me to come to his office, something about her will. He was very cryptic.” They paid for tickets, then went to the concession stand, where he ordered popcorn. “One with butter, one without—actually, no butter on either—and two Diet Cokes.” He turned to Leo. “I’ve lost seven pounds already. My new suit is already a little baggy.”

  “Are you seriously telling me about your weight?” Leo said. “Please stop . . . Anyway, the lawyer called me, too. He wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone, either. I’m seeing him Wednesday. Why don’t you see him the same day? We’ll go out for lunch after.”

  “Can’t Wednesday. My interview with JPMorgan’s at noon.”

  They made their way into the packed theater. Rob found seats, but when he sat down, Leo gave him a funny look. “Move your bag.” Leo waved at the empty seat between them, where Rob had tossed his backpack. “Someone will have to sit there.”

  Rob was puzzled. Why did Leo care? “If someone comes, I’ll move my bag.”

  When the lights dimmed, Leo was still annoyed. No one tried to claim the empty seat, but for the next two hours, Rob could feel him fidgeting; he also kept sighing loudly, as if making sure Rob knew he was pissed off. Soon Rob was pissed off, too. Leo was distracting him, which made it hard to follow the movie. True, Inception had a lot of freaky shit going on, so he probably would’ve missed most of it anyway, but still. Why didn’t Leo just admit something was bothering him? How was sulking being an Authentic Person?

  “Everything okay?” Rob whispered at one point.

  “Everything’s fine, Rob.”

  Clearly everything was not fine, but this wasn’t Rob’s fault. He had been overly solicitous of Leo all afternoon. Being an Authentic and/or Perceptive Person, frankly, was fucking exhausting. By the time the movie ended, Rob was miserable.

  “Do you want to grab dinner?” he asked, trying to act chirpy but sounding false.

  “I’ll pass.” Leo averted his eyes. “I have a lot to do tonight.”

  “Leo, did I offend—”

  Leo blew up. “Yes, Rob! You did.”

  “I don’t mean to sound stupid, but I’m drawing a blank here.”

  This made Leo angrier. “Your backpack? The extra seat?”

  Rob shrugged.

  “You never sit next to me! The last time you didn’t, I was like ‘Okay, the theater is empty,’ but this time the place was packed. So the only reason you’d force me to sit two seats away is so people won’t think we’re a gay couple. It’s exactly like the time we met Thomas!”

  “Leo, that is not true.” Was it true? Rob didn’t think so; he and Evan had always left a seat in the middle. If someone asked to sit down, they moved over. Until this moment, Rob had never given it a second thought. But was Leo right? Was he a homophobe? “Leo, I promise I didn’t put a seat between us because I’m afraid what people will think. I always put my bag on the seat, which we can both agree is rude, but not a hate crime.”

  “You always put your bag on the seat? Even when you’re with Maddy—or Jessie and Allie?” Leo shook his head. “I can’t see it, Rob. Sorry.”

  “I think you’re”—Rob was about to say “overreacting,” but that never went well. And it was true he always sat next to Maddy and the kids. But if it was just Evan or another guy, they usually left a seat in the middle. “Leo, I’m totally fine with you being gay—”

  “Well, good for you, Rob. Aren’t you evolved!”

  “Don’t be nasty, Leo. I’m not making excuses. I know I’m a caveman when it comes to gay men—gay people, gay whatever, individuals. But I haven’t spent much time thinking about the issue. I didn’t have gay friends—not because I rejected the idea, because I traveled in different circles. Regardless, my best friend is gay, so I have to rethink my behavior. You’ve had decades to consider every aspect of your gayness. I’ve had a few months.”

  “I feel like that’s just an excuse, Rob.”

  “Well, it’s not. What about respecting my Authentic Self? I’m trying to be honest, but you’re not giving me a chance. When we were growing up, being gay was forbidden. I never hugged my male friends. We used words like ‘retard,’ ‘spaz,’ and ‘faggot.’ They were an integral part of my vocabulary—a reflexive part—like ‘idiot,’ ‘fool,’ ‘doofus,’ ‘nerd,’ and ‘geek.’ ‘Retard’ and ‘fag’ were no more insulting than ‘geek’ and ‘doofus’; they were all equally insulting, but also
words I used all the time. I understand now that these words are offensive, I also get why. Leo, let me repeat. I understand that ‘faggot’ is an offensive word. But I have to train myself to think and act differently. I never thought an extra seat means I’m homophobic, but maybe it does. Maybe I have all kinds of deep-rooted prejudices. I’m not evolved, but I’m evolving. I know ‘midget’ is offensive—they’re ‘little people’—but I only just learned that ‘Eskimo’ is too. The proper term is ‘Inuit.’ I’m college educated, I read the paper, I’m in HR! But Leo, I’m willing to change. It just might take awhile, and I might not get everything right. I am doing my best, though.”

  “Okay,” Leo said, calmer now. “I understand what you’re saying.”

  “Your friendship is important to me.” Embarrassed, Rob studied his hands. “When I was first laid off—Christ, Leo, you saved me, mostly from myself. You’ve helped me be a better father, maybe a better husband, definitely a better man. But it would also be nice if you gave me the benefit of the doubt. You can’t keep looking for ways I’m insulting you, because I’m not; I’m just a stupid schmuck. There’s no malice behind what I say or do; and frankly, I think I’ve proven this, several times.”

  Leo’s face reddened. “You brought Thomas to the hospital. If you hadn’t, we might not be together.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Rob glanced at his watch. He was hungry. He wanted to sit in air conditioning and eat a side of beef. He wanted to be with his family. “Why don’t you come for dinner? Maddy and the kids will be there.”

  Leo’s “sure” was automatic. Then he paused. “How could you not know about the Inuit? I love you, Rob; I do, but sometimes you’re an idiot.”

  29

  When people learned Rob was an in-house recruiter, they often asked for job-hunting tips. Regardless of their age, gender, income, or industry, he’d always said the same thing: it was all about connections. Over time, Rob’s advice changed. Now it was 2010, and there was an Internet with supersonic search engines. Networking alone wasn’t enough. These days, it was a numbers game: cast the widest net to get the most bites. So when Rob left Ellery, he started fishing. He called people he hadn’t seen in ten, fifteen, twenty years. Then he hit the web. He posted his résumé on Monster and fifty similar sites, joined LinkedIn and Facebook (ugh). Filled out online applications for jobs that likely didn’t exist. Chased after twenty-four-year-old hiring managers, who surely shredded his résumé as soon as they hung up. He called his sister, Larissa, who was warm, gracious, and thrilled to help. “I’ll do whatever I can, Rob.” She invited his family to her home in Woodstock so all the cousins could hang out. “I miss you,” she said, which made him realize he missed her too. Why had he doubted her? What the hell was his problem?

  Encouraged, Rob widened his circle. He dipped his toe in the PTA(!). Joined the Neighborhood Watch. He engaged anyone, everyone. One day he spied his former colleague Gus “Cappy” Cuomo schlepping through the streets, wearing sloppy cargo shorts and a frayed boonie hat. Rob’s first instinct was to flee, but instead he trotted up to Cappy and tapped his shoulder. His ex-coworker turned, Rob stared into Cappy’s eyes, and there it was: the burned-out zombie gaze of the unemployed. So he extended his hand, told Cappy the latest, and invited him for a drink. “I’m in touch with people,” he said. “Call me.” Though Cappy gave him a nod, Rob could see the guy was clearly on the ropes, waiting—hoping—for the final wallop. “Call me, Gus, or I’ll call you. I’m serious. I will follow up.” For all he knew, six months from now, he would be Gus. Anyone could. Falling off the grid is an incremental process. First shaving goes, then suits then ties then Dockers then soft sweats then pants with seams. Nothing is unusual when the scale is small; you accept the unacceptable bit by bit, you unwind and unwind until you’re unwound, and then one day you’re broken.

  So with all this activity, all this goodwill, when Sally Rakoff contacted him, Rob was feeling confident. He’d put in the hours, made the calls, reached out to people he barely remembered who barely remembered him. He’d endured humiliation, rejection, and abject stupidity that bordered on spitefulness (“You graduated in 1988? Before computers?”). But it was worth it. JPMorgan Chase had an actual position in an actual department. “Overseeing corporate training and development,” Sally had said on the phone. “HR material—discrimination classes, conflict of interest—and some subject matter. Our classes are mostly online, but a few are in person. You’ll have your own staff, three full-time and a paid summer intern.”

  “My own staff?” Rob didn’t mean to sound surprised.

  “Yes,” Sally said. “Is that a problem?”

  That Rob found Sally Rakoff terse and full of herself was inconsequential. (When he mentioned Lucy, Sally was cold to the point of brittle. “I don’t remember much about Lucy,” she said dismissively. “We worked together ages ago.”) But Sally was only his first hurdle, a phone screening. His next hurdle—today!—was an in-person interview with Tessa Phillips, the team lead; if that went well, another in-person meeting with the unit head. Sally had called Tessa “a real pro,” which Rob saw as a positive sign. Plus, the money was right, the benefits decent. The stars, it appeared, were finally aligned.

  That morning Rob got up at eight, shaved, showered, donned his new suit, and strutted into the kitchen like the cock of the walk. The kids had already left for camp, but Maddy had a doctor’s appointment in the neighborhood, so she was working from home. She didn’t have to say a word; when she looked up, he saw it in her face.

  “Wow!” Maddy exclaimed. “You look great!” to which Rob responded by voguing for the invisible paparazzi. She clapped with enthusiasm. “But isn’t the interview at noon?”

  “I have to run a few errands first.” Rob poured himself Fiber One and coffee, then joined Maddy at the table. “I want to head in early; feel like a real commuter.” He traced the letters of his OBER mug, which he’d soon have to call his BE mug.

  Before leaving the house, Rob grabbed his new trench coat. It was double-breasted with wide lapels and cool secret spy pockets. Wearing it, Rob felt like James Bond, that is, if James Bond was an unemployed Jew living in an overpriced walk-up with a wife and two kids.

  “Why are you wearing that coat?” Maddy asked. “It’s ninety degrees out.”

  “Rain,” Rob replied, squinting up.

  SO AGAIN, MADDY was right. Rob didn’t need the coat, which he was forced to tote around town like a body bag. The sun, high and hot overhead, baked his scalp, so he spent most of the morning hunkered down in Starbucks. Along with the heat, the crowded trains, crowded sidewalks, and crowded crowds conspired to dampen his spirits, but he drank water and read over his notes. His phone rang. It was Leo. “Rob . . . you won’t believe . . . Rosa . . . made me . . .”

  “What?” Rob shouted, but when Leo repeated himself, he still couldn’t understand, so he stepped outside, into the wall of heat. “Start again; take it slow.”

  “I just met with Rosa’s lawyer! She made me the executor of her will. Apparently, Nando tried to push her to change it, but she refused. She stood up to that asshole!” Leo started to cry.

  “What’s wrong?” Were these happy tears or sad tears?

  “I miss her, I miss Rosa. But I’m proud she took on Nando; it must’ve been so hard.”

  “I’m sure it was—Leo, I don’t mean to cut you off, but I’m standing on the street, and I have to prepare for my interview.”

  Leo’s next sentence came out in a rush. “Rob, Rosa left you twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Ha ha. Funny. I have to go. It’s ten thousand degrees out; I’m sweating my balls off.”

  “Really, Rob. Rosa left you money in her will. Twenty grand.”

  “Why would she leave me money?” Despite the heat, Rob was shaking. Twenty thousand dollars? Jesus Christ. He imagined Maddy’s smile when he told her the news. “That makes no sense.”

  “She said you and Maddy should put the money toward an apartment.”

 
“My own apartment?” Now Rob was the one crying. “Are you serious?” Happy tears, definitely. What a world, he thought. What a world.

  AN HOUR LATER, Rob’s good luck had turned. As he sat across from Tessa Phillips, VP of professional development, his suit was again drenched, only this time it was flop sweat. The most important interview of his career, and Rob was choking.

  “So Rob, what do you bring to JPMorgan Chase?” Tessa asked.

  Rob wasn’t prepared, not for this. Tessa was thirty-one, with silky blond hair that fell to her shoulders. Her crimson lipstick was tasteful but sexy as hell, as were the black glasses she put on to read. She wore a navy suit, crisp blouse, and shiny high heels with red soles. She was warm, professional, generous of spirit, and seemed interested in what Rob had to say. (“No,” she told him. “I didn’t cross paths with Lucy, though I’ve heard great things about her.”) But he was off his game. All she wanted was breezy conversation, and Rob had prepared for a dissertation defense. He’d studied corporate training psychology and tactical applications. He could spout statistics, run scenarios, and devise creative solutions. Thanks to Kenny Verville, he had anecdotal background on the bank, as well as street gossip; thanks to Facebook’s lack of security controls, he knew more about Tessa Phillips than he probably should. Rob was primed for battle—ready to stroll in, open his spy coat, whip out his guns, and shoot up the room.

  “Rob?”

  “Oh, sorry. What was your question?”

  Tessa blinked, her eyes glazed over. The interview, Rob knew, was done.

  “What do you bring to JPMorgan?” Her welcoming lilt was replaced with a dial tone.

  “I have years of experience working in the training arena, a solid record of success, and a strong work ethic.” Rob hated himself for this answer, which sounded like he’d memorized his résumé. He hated his cheap suit and sunburned head. He hated his raincoat, which hung off his chair like the shorn pelt of a bear. Mostly, he hated that at forty-four fucking years old (tomorrow!), he was being forced to go through this fucking exercise in order to feed his fucking family. Where was the justice? Where the fuck was the justice?