"When did Ana leave for LA?" asked Malcolm.
"Couple of days ago."
"That's cool," said Malcolm. "I didn't talk to her. She excited? Is it a good spot?"
"I guess. I don't know. We didn't really talk about it that much."
"Oh, okay," Malcolm said, leaving it alone.
There was silence at the table. Joe looked around. "We didn't really talk that much before she left." More silence, which made Joe keep talking, even though he knew that he should shut up. "We were actually kind of fighting."
"You were in the doghouse the other night too," said Chick.
Joe nodded wearily. "Yes, I remember. Thank you."
"Dibs on Ana if they get divorced," blurted Chick. Everyone looked at him in disbelief. He shrugged back at them all. "What? I'm just kidding. Besides, he's not even married."
Finally, Joe shook his head and laughed. It was sometimes all you could do with Chick. "I don't know whether to slug you or to tell Ana and have her do it."
Malcolm turned to Chick. "You'd be better off with Joe slugging you. I've seen Ana go off on someone."
"It was a joke. She's a great girl, that's all. You don't know how lucky you have it, dude. Funny. Nice. Hot."
"A surprising order of importance," said Todd.
"I know," said Chick. "I didn't even mention her rack. Plus, she can cook."
Joe remembered the time when he and Ana had Chick over for dinner. A simple chicken and wild rice with a salad (a meal that Joe had mostly prepared), but Chick raved about everything for weeks. He was basically a standard helpless male in the kitchen, totally accustomed to fast food, canned goods, Doritos, and frozen pizza.
"I know," said Joe. "Plus, she pays most of the bills. She is great. She's a great woman."
Chick shrugged again. "Fuck it. Go ahead and slug me. I'm still calling dibs on her."
Joe socked Chick in the arm. Joe was surprised when it kind of hurt his knuckles. Chick worked out a lot.
"That's all you got?" said Chick, half laughing. "I got a four-year-old niece who can hit harder than that."
Malcolm turned to Joe. "What's up? You want to talk about it?"
Chick looked pained. "What is this, sensitivity training? We're men. We should be bottling up our feelings."
"Shut up, Chick."
"Fine," he said, flaring his fingers in the air, an angry variant of jazz hands. "Let's all be pussies then and talk."
Joe wasn't sure he wanted to talk about it, yet he kind of did. Why can't I talk about this with my friends? "Well, we'd been arguing anyway, then things kind of came to a head the other day." No one said anything. They were waiting for him to continue. "I really don't think this was the problem, per se. But maybe it was a symptom."
Another long pause.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" said Chick, finally.
Joe turned to him. "You remember that episode of Seinfeld where George gets caught by his mother?"
Chick's eyes lit up, he nodded excitedly. "Yeah! That's a great one."
"Oh jeez," said Todd, the first to understand. "Hoo boy."
Then the table let out a collective pained groan, a labored oof, as if they had all been simultaneously punched in the solar plexus.
"O monstrous folly," said Todd.
"Yeah," said Joe, grimacing.
"Not good," said Malcolm.
"Yeah, let's just say it hasn't helped things much." Joe turned to Chick again. "You were right. This was a bad idea."
Chick pointed his index finger at him accusingly. "I told you. Feelings. They're nothing but trouble." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.
Malcolm set his beer down and turned back to Joe. "Is that the only reason Ana's pissed at you?"
"Um, I don't know, I think maybe she's getting tired of supporting me. Or maybe I'm just getting tired of being supported. Of her being my safety net."
"And you're taking it out on her?"
"Sounds like you're more taking it out on Lil' Joe," said Chick.
Everyone turned to him, as if to say: We're trying to be serious here.
Chick lifted his hands from the table, palms up in exasperation. "What? It's always the penis that suffers in these domestic squabbles. Unfair if you ask me."
There were a few reluctant chuckles around the table, but mostly they just stared at Chick.
"Fine. Everyone wants to talk seriously?" he said. "Let's talk serious." Chick turned to Joe, pointing his index finger at him again. "Of course she's tired of supporting you. Why wouldn't she be?" He paused for a second, as if deciding whether or not to say what he was going to say. "No offense, man, but you're a deadbeat. Women dig security. It's hot to them. Security to a woman is like big tits are to a man."
The table laughed. Chick frowned and held his hands up as if to quell the noise.
"So how about this: why don't you get a real fucking job? Maybe you'd both feel better about you. I know you're pursuing your literary dreams and shit, but it isn't working. Writing about all your cool obscure bullshit. Maybe you should try something that actually pays for a living. Get an effing job."
This was a surprise from Chick, who didn't usually say things like this. Joe wasn't sure if it was the persona or not who was talking, but whoever it was, he didn't like it so much.
"Easy for you to say," Joe countered timidly. "You're successful."
Chick tapped his chest with his fingertips. "Don't make this about me, fucko. I never once said I was successful. I write about talking lemurs and robot rebellions and buddy movies with high-octane action. They don't even get made." He shook his fist at some unknown nemesis. "I don't consider myself successful. But at least I make some bank being unsuccessful. Dude, you need to step up. Pull your weight. Be a fucking man."
Joe stared down at his beer, face burning. Everyone was looking at Chick, slightly stunned.
Chick shrugged, elbows pinned to his sides, palms up. "What? You all wanted to talk. We talked."
The rest of the table remained silent. Joe didn't hear anyone disagreeing with Chick. He was glad for the jukebox, which was playing "Rag and Bone" by the White Stripes. (Another successful Detroiter mocking him.) Then the song ended and no new song followed. Everyone was just sitting there, taking long, quiet gulps of beer. The din of the bar only seemed to accentuate the fact that no one at their table was saying anything. All the fun had been somehow sucked out of the room, thanks to Joe. Shouldn't they all have been laughing, sharing in communal manly empathy? What happened?
"This round's on me," said Joe, standing up and gathering glasses. Even though he knew he couldn't really afford it and it probably wouldn't help.
10
Carpe Per Diem
In Los Angeles, Ana was having dinner with Adrienne and Bruce Kellner. They had finished their location scout early, had gone back to the hotel to change, then met back at the lobby. Joan the producer had begged off dinner, opting instead for room service and a Skype visit with her husband and kids.
The three of them were at Chaya Downtown. Normally when she and Adrienne went out of town, they had to be careful not to exceed their ever-shrinking per diems, lest their expense reports get bounced back to them by the bean counters. This led to a number of delicious but decidedly low-budget meals at Armenian chicken joints. This was not the case when dining with a creative director. Through rounds of slingchi martinis and saketinis and basil gimlets, Bruce proceeded to order enough for about six dinners—all of it pan-seared, free-range, dry-aged, line-caught, small-batch, locally sourced, and expensive as hell. At first, Ana couldn't stop herself from tabulating their bill in her head, but after the third round of cocktails and appetizers, she gave up. Bruce ordered Châteauneuf-du-Pape with dinner. It was insanely yummy and obscenely pricey, the kind of wine she'd never order or even buy at the store. Bruce was being his charming self and Adrienne was eyeing him with suspicious longing. It was fun, but there was something else going on that left Ana feeling vaguely uneasy. She knew that it wouldn't
be long, especially after all the drinks, before Adrienne was saying exactly what was on her mind.
Sure enough, just after the first onslaught of entrées, Adrienne took a long sip of the blood-dark wine and fixed her eyes on Bruce. She put the glass down. "So what are you doing here, Bruce? Do people back at the agency think we need watching over or something? Ana and I have both been doing this for a long time, you know."
Ana nervously fidgeted with the strap on the one dress she had brought with her to LA, a candy-striped, retroish frock with a pleated waist that almost fit in at the restaurant, but not quite. "Not that we're not happy to have you," added Ana, as palliative to the edge in Adrienne's voice.
Bruce laughed self-consciously, and Ana watched the creases deepen around his eyes. Judging from the immaculately groomed salt-and-pepper hair, he was well into his forties, but he wore his age proudly and didn't try to hide it with hair plugs or fake tans or by dressing like a twentysomething creative. (She knew one CD who dyed his soul patch. So sad.) It also looked like Bruce worked out regularly.
"Come on, Bruce," said Adrienne, jabbing him with her index finger (a gesture that seemed aggressively male). "What's up? Are we getting shitcanned?" Adrienne was smiling, but Ana wished she hadn't brought that up.
Bruce took a breath and regarded them both. Ana was surprised at how the energy at the table changed so abruptly and how nervous she got. Bruce thoughtfully poked a piece of salmon sashimi on his plate with his chopsticks and let the tension build. Then he put down the chopsticks, looked up at Adrienne, and nodded somberly.
"Yes, Adrienne," he said, pushing the palms of his hands together. "This is how the agency lets people go. We fly them out to Los Angeles for a fabulous dinner with cocktails at an expensive restaurant." He shrugged. "It's just nicer this way. It's like a delicious severance package. Plus, you're three thousand miles from the office, so it really cuts down on the workplace violence."
Adrienne narrowed her eyes at him. "Ha ha."
Bruce frowned. "Come on, you two. Don't be ridiculous." He finished his saketini and set the glass on the table. There was a beat of silence before he smiled. "Although Adrienne is right. There is something going on."
Adrienne's eyebrows raised, then she shot a glance at Ana as if to say, See? I know what I'm talking about.
Bruce rubbed his palms together, then placed his hands on the table as if to get down to business. "Here's the deal: We're starting a new division at the agency that will be completely devoted to marketing to women. We thought you two would be perfect to head it up."
"Are you fucking kidding?" said Adrienne, glancing over at Ana.
"Nope. You guys were the obvious choice. You've been doing some great work that's strong and smart, but with a decidedly feminine point of view. Which is exactly what we want for this division. I don't need an answer right now, but—"
"We're in," blurted Adrienne.
Bruce looked a little surprised. "You don't have to answer now. It's going to be a lot of work, just so you know."
"We're in," repeated Adrienne.
Ana glared at her, half wanting her to shut up, half wanting to join in. Do we have to decide this right now?
Adrienne turned to Ana, eyes expectant. "Well, aren't we?"
Ana dropped her head and raised her hands in submission. "Of course we are."
"Excellent," said Bruce, beaming. "Who wants champagne?"
* * *
Two hours later, they were all up in Bruce's massive suite at the Standard. Both Adrienne and Bruce had been lobbying for a nightcap, ever since they'd left the restaurant. It seemed like a bad idea to Ana, considering she was already pretty drunk. All she wanted to do was go to her room and settle dizzily into bed, but she went along to be a good sport. Besides, she was worried about Adrienne, who seemed much drunker than her. Despite their promotion (and a big raise, they later found out), sleeping with the boss would still be inadvisable.
Ana poked around the suite while Bruce was in the other room raiding the minibar. She couldn't believe how these guys lived. Of course, it wasn't like her room was horrible, far from it, but it was a broom closet compared to this museum of modern design. Ana looked over at Adrienne, who seemed to be dozing briefly, legs just slightly akimbo. She was glad that her friend had opted for jeans and not one of her shorter skirts that evening.
She put her hand on Adrienne's knee. "Hey, are you okay? It would actually be all right if we didn't drink any more tonight."
"What's the difference?" said Adrienne, surprisingly articulate for someone who was unconscious a moment earlier. "We're already going to feel like shit tomorrow."
"We could cut our losses. We do have a prepro meeting tomorrow."
"Fuck it. I feel like celebrating," Adrienne slurred. Suddenly she was drunk again and smiling at Ana. "Hey, lady." Adrienne got this way sometimes when she was in her cups, all lovey-dovey and best-friendy.
"What, Ade?"
Adrienne held out her hand for Ana to shake. "I'm proud of us."
"Me too."
Ana leaned forward to shake her hand, at which point Adrienne fell toward her to give her a big hug. "Sooo proud."
Just then, Bruce walked in with two fistfuls of tiny bottles to find Adrienne lurched forward in Ana's arms.
His eyes widened in an exaggerated way. "Okay, am I missing something here? Are you guys more of a team than we all figured?"
Ana chuckled uncomfortably as Adrienne became a dead weight. Time to be a good sport. "Yeah, well, heh-heh. 'Women-to-Women' is more than just a marketing phrase to us."
Bruce looked like he was trying not to laugh as he twisted the tops off of two tiny bottles of cognac. "Or is she just hammered?"
Adrienne now seemed to be sleeping in her arms. "Hammered," confirmed Ana. "I think this girl needs to get to bed."
Bruce poured a cognac into a thick-bottomed glass and held it up. "Aw, come on. Stay for one. Please. Then you can go. I know I'm never going to get to sleep. My sleep patterns are all messed up. I'm out here so much."
Ana nodded and a few of Adrienne's hairs stuck to her lips. "You must be perpetually jet-lagged."
"Yeah, I'm used to it though. Um, do you want some help there?"
"Yes please."
He got up and pulled off his suit coat. "Oh jeez, I can hear the voice of human resources in my head right now, telling me not to do this. That's a verrry bad idea, Mr. Kellner," he intoned in a high-pitched matronly voice.
Ana smiled at the way Bruce made Sue Smithick, their human resources supervisor, sound like Julia Child.
Bruce reached toward her to place one arm around Adrienne's shoulders, the other behind her knees. Then he gently carried her back to her chair.
Ana, happy to be relieved of Adrienne, also raised her voice to a clucky soprano: "Ms. Urbanek, could you please show me on the doll where Mr. Kellner touched Ms. Kaminski?"
Bruce leaned back in his chair and laughed. Ana felt pleased having amused him. Just then she understood what all those women liked about him. In addition to being good-looking and powerful, he was nice. Then just as quickly, she thought better of it. Most creative directors certainly knew how to be nice, but they also knew how to use people. Bruce was no different.
"Well, it'll be our secret," she said.
"Thanks."
"Unless you don't automatically approve our work, then things could get messy."
Bruce scooted his chair closer to her and put his hand on her wrist. "I think you're great, Ana. I just want to tell you that."
"Excuse me?"
"I just think you're great. That's all."
Ana felt a kind of atmospheric shift in the room. "You mean my work?"
"Well, sure, yes. I think your work is excellent. That's why you and Adrienne are getting this opportunity. You're both super-hard workers and you both continue to have consistently good ideas. You two have really been an asset to the agency." He paused. "But I also mean, I just think you're great."
"Oh." She had no id
ea of what to say.
"I like the way you carry yourself, the way you don't take any shit from the guys at work."
"You do? I think you're confusing me with Adrienne. She's the muscle. I'm the one that cowers in the background."
Bruce watched her ardently. She could see flecks of amber in his pupils.
"I like how in meetings you'll say something really funny and everyone in the room will laugh except you. You'll just sit there, looking almost uncomfortable at being funny. It's very fetching."
Ana exhaled loudly through her nose. She wondered if she was blushing. "Are you sure we're talking about me?"
"I'm sure."
He patted her wrist once and smiled. She could smell him, a combination of something spicy and expensive, but with an edge of something else more human, a delicate muskiness. She wanted him to move away, but not quite yet.
"Bruce?"
"Yeah?"
She wasn't sure what she was going to say, then she said, "I think I'm going to get Adrienne to her room."
He bit the edge of his lip, let go of her wrist, then turned and grabbed one of the glasses and held it out to her. "You didn't even have any of your drink."
"I really don't need any more. You take it. It'll help you to sleep."
She stood up, veering a little too close to his face. Then Bruce stood as well, still holding the drink. Ana couldn't tell if he looked mad or disappointed.
Finally, he smiled. "Okay. If you have to go." He took a sip of the cognac. She could smell the liquor mingling with his scent.
"I do."
"Then you should go. I'll see you two tomorrow." He nodded toward Adrienne. "Think she can get to her room okay?"
The Narcissism of Small Differences Page 7