L.A. Woman (9 page)

She could’ve gotten into the music, maybe, but the bodies on the floor were crowding closer. Martika and Taylor were close dancing, to Sarah’s surprise…
really
close dancing. And nobody else seemed to notice. The other dancers were either all over each other, like Martika and Taylor, or else aggressively asexual, dancing like it was some sort of pagan ritual. Sarah, who was doing just above the high school version of a two-step and narrowly avoiding getting mauled doing it, was now distinctly uncomfortable. When Martika signaled for a drink, Sarah followed her with relief.

“So what do you think?”

Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Martika sighed. At least, it looked like she sighed. She did the little bosom bounce and shoulder heave thing. “Sarah, aren’t you going to even let yourself try to have fun?”

Sarah looked down at her drink. “I am trying to have fun,” she answered, then repeated it since Martika couldn’t hear her.

“Not from what I can see. You’re free! You aren’t dating that Neanderthal dickhead anymore!” She studied Sarah appraisingly. “Believe me,
he’s
probably more than fucking aware of it, Sarah.”

Sarah’s chin jutted up. “What do you mean?”

“Sarah, do you honestly think he’s saving himself for you?”

Sarah’s eyes widened. She hadn’t thought about that.

Sarah approached the dance floor with a vengeance. She closed her eyes, trying to feel the music, rather than just be deafened by it. She moved with an aggressive sensuality…all hips, boobs, everything. Martika was right. She wasn’t saving anything for that…that Neanderthal dickhead! If he was out haunting some sports bar or something, hanging out with the boys at the office, then she could sure as hell have a good time in what Benjamin would definitely call a den of iniquity. And who cared!

She noticed a man, fairly close, staring at her. He was attractive, in a Children-of-the-Night sort of way…long dark hair, waxy-pinkish skin.
At least his eyes are the right color,
she thought, trying not to be too obvious. She glanced away, continuing her sensuous dance, and when she looked back he was still staring at her.

No, more than staring at her.
He was headed her way.

Play it cool, play it cool, she thought, continuing her dance. She wasn’t sure how she felt about this. It’s not like she had to sleep with him or anything, she reasoned. Just dance with him. There wasn’t any harm in that. She noticed she was slowly moving away from him, and then stopped, continuing to dance in place, letting him approach her.

He said something to her. She stopped dancing. “What?” she mouthed. She figured mouthing was probably sexier than yelling. Not that she had to have sex with him, she reminded herself. She wasn’t Martika, after all!

He frowned, and repeated it. Forget sexy. “What?” she yelled.

He leaned close to her ear. “I said, you’ve stepped on my girlfriend’s foot twice now. Could you please fucking watch it?”

She pulled back, eyes wide. “Oh, my God.”

He motioned to a woman with long jet-black hair with two streaks of silver, á la Frankenstein’s bride. She was favoring one foot and glaring at Sarah like a curse.

“Sorry! Sorry,” she mouthed, making the apologetic hand movements, like Moses calming the waters. The woman nodded curtly.

Sarah quickly retreated to the bar. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. She stood there, looking for Martika. Martika wasn’t far behind.

“What did that guy say to you?” Martika was in mother hen mode, glaring at the guy from the side of the bar. “Did he frighten you? I’ll kick his ass!”

“Martika, I have to go home.”

Martika stared at her, aghast. “Home? It’s only midnight! You’ve been here an hour!”

“I know, but…” Sarah didn’t know how to explain. “I just…I have to get up early in the morning.”

Martika stared at her suspiciously. “And do what?”

“I have to go to a temp agency,” Sarah said reasonably. “The rent isn’t going to pay itself, you know.”

“You can go to a temp agency on Monday, and you know it.”

“Martika,
please.
”

Martika stared at her for a minute longer, then let out a lusty, unmistakable sigh. “Let me go tell Taylor. You are going to owe me
so
big time!”

T
he desk in Judith’s home office was heavy, expensive mahogany that she and David had searched for for months, right after he got hired at MacManus. As it turned out, David got tired of lugging the heavy case files and background from the office to home, and wound up camping out there as often as not. Judith brought work home occasionally, but she now had a competent staff and had her job so well in hand that all she had to do when she came home was go online. She had taken several classes that way, and it was easier than leaving the house and going to the UCLA extension courses she had taken last year. Now, she was still searching for something else to sign up for. In the meantime, she had what she supposed
Newsweek
would label a “cybercommunity” of sorts. The computer hummed happily and her fingers flew across the keyboard, each stroke sounding like rapid machine gun fire.

She was glad for their high-speed connection as she signed on to her favorite discussion group, “Busy People,” a group ostensibly started for professionals looking for ways to make their lives more time efficient, but one that had turned into a combination venting hall and coffee klatsch. She typed in a greeting, and got a chorus of replies.

Feyn: Hi, Judith 23!

Isabella749: Hello Judith.

Roger: ’Lo, Judith. :)

Ms. sexy exec: Hi there@!

Ms. sexy exec: Whoops! LOL.

She glanced over the few lines of discussion that she’d stepped in on—Feyn was ranting about something, as usual. Roger’s lines were blue and short. Isabella was talking about being at home with her child. The rather ridiculously named “Ms. sexy” was trying to hit on Feyn (whom Judith doubted was even male) and Roger. Feyn was too busy ranting—Roger flirted lightly.

“Not real full tonight,” Judith typed.

Feyn: No. But it’s only Tuesday.

Roger: How are you doing, Judith?

Judith pondered that. Actually, she’d been doing all right—she’d finally gotten back to her meditation, and had managed to get the last set of ad comps out for that big push for Becky Weisel’s client, as well as bring David’s car into the shop and squeeze in (no pun intended) an Ob-Gyn appointment. Her life was a well-oiled machine, if she said so herself.

“Not so good,” she wound up answering.

Isabella749: Why not?

Feyn: I’m telling you, cyber communities are replacing face-to-face contact, and I’m happy for that.

Roger: Are you okay, Judith?

Ms. sexy exec: Roger—what are you wearing?

Judith read over the responses. Feyn and Sexy were too wrapped up in their own conversations, which was fine. “I had a friend ask me a weird question. She wanted to know if I was happy.”

Isabella749: And you don’t feel you are?

Feyn: I have all kinds of people tell me that I’m just a geek for having so many online friends.

Roger: What did you tell her?

Ms. sexy exec: I’ve been thinking of trying out online dating. What do you think, Roger, Feyn?

“That’s just the thing,” Judith answered. “I said I was, but I had to think about it. I hadn’t thought about it.” She hit Send, then rapidly typed another question. “Are you happy?”

Roger: Generally, I’d say I’m happy. I mean, bad things happen, but it’s just a matter of how you respond to them.

Isabella 749: I used to have periods of unhappiness, but then I found Paxsel. It’s wonderful stuff…evens you right out. Are you on anything, medication?

Feyn: I’m very happy! I just don’t see why so many people think that a face-to-face social life is the only kind of social life you can have!

Ms. sexy exec: What? Who’s unhappy?

Judith sighed.
And pandemonium reigned.

“Isabella—no, I’m not on medication. Roger—I agree with you, it’s all about choices. Feyn—I agree, cybersocial life is just as good. Sexy—nobody’s unhappy.”

Isabella749: If you’re not on medication, I’d recommend it. It’s really good, not that heavy, sleepy feeling like the stuff they used to prescribe in the ’80s.

Feyn: I mean, you guys are my closest friends. Well, not all of you.

Ms. sexy exec: This is boring. I’m going to another chat room.//wave

Judith was sorry she brought the subject up at all.

Her computer made a tingling bell noise, and she saw an Instant Message window pop up. It was from Roger.

Roger: Hi there. Sorry if this is getting uncomfortable. Are you okay?

“I’m fine,” she typed back. She liked Roger, what little she’d seen of him. He was a doctor in Atlanta, and had an active social life. He was the one that recommended Filofax over the system she’d been using, now that she remembered it.

Roger: Really? Work going okay? I hear ad agencies are slave drivers.

She rubbed at her eyes. “Well, it’s been tough. I mean, my job’s going great, but I’m catching a little flak from a friend…got her a job, and then she quit. Rather spectacularly. People are casting a few aspersions.”

Roger: {{{Hugs}}} That’s bad. Sorry.

She smiled. “It’s not that bad.”

She was now ignoring the chat going on in the “Busy People” Room completely. A few other people she knew had entered, and were involved in a huge debate over whether or not Feyn should go on medication or at least rehab for his online tendencies and basic insecurity. They were also going into the pros and cons of various antidepressants and talking about how long they’d been in therapy. As her family didn’t
do
therapy, she doubted she’d have much to contribute to the conversation.

Roger: So what happened?

“One of our Account Supervisors ran her pretty ragged, granted, but that was no excuse to quit the way she did. Besides, everybody works those hours, when necessary.”

Roger: Even you?

“Especially me,” she typed.

Roger: I just get the feeling you’re more stressed than you’re letting on. Otherwise her question wouldn’t have shocked you quite so much.

She felt herself freeze at the comment. She wasn’t the type to let her feelings project—not like some of her co-workers, who wore their frenzied expressions like badges of honor.
Yes, I really am so incredibly busy and important that I’m just this side of insane,
their faces seem to say. Not Judith. She preferred cool, competent, composed.

“Why do you say that?” she typed, instead of her usual oh-it’s-nothing response. Roger usually had interesting posts and observations—maybe he’d have an insight she hadn’t thought of.

Roger: The way you word things. Tight, controlled.

Judith smiled. “That was the idea.”

Roger: Those sort of people usually have all sorts of private demons that they’re keeping a lid on.

“I do not!” Judith said out loud, starting to type it, then backspaced. “Interesting theory,” she sent instead.

Roger: Well, I like private demons. They’re more interesting than the facade protecting it. I get the feeling you’re an interesting person, Judith.

Judith read the message a couple of times, gauging his tone. She’d seen him flirt with others, nothing serious, and usually at their instigation. Was this flirting? It had been so long, she couldn’t tell if she should be worried or just amused.

“You’re running a line on me, aren’t you?” she typed.

Roger: LOL! Is it working? :)

Judith laughed, then glanced behind her, as if David had suddenly come into the house invisibly and was frowning with disapproval over her shoulder. “Well, that’s very flattering, but then my husband would hardly approve.”

Roger: I’m in Atlanta and you’re in L.A. Somehow the idea of a clandestine affair between us seems…moot?

Judith frowned. He was right, of course. She was being ridiculous. He was three thousand miles away. Even if he were flirting with her, what difference did it make?

Roger: Judith? Sorry. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s just the Internet. I figure, if I don’t have to talk to people, it almost doesn’t exist. Really sorry. Friends?

Suddenly, Judith felt foolish. “Of course. Seduce away…somehow, I’ll find the strength to resist.”

Roger: LOL!

Judith smiled, feeling better than she had in a long, long time.

Sarah sat at the desk at her temp assignment. It was a naked cubicle, with a standard issue desktop computer, a phone with a hands-free headphone set flanking it, and an ancient calculator with that ticker-tape thingy attached to it. She glanced over her brand-new organizer, the one Judith had nudged her toward, going over her mission statement until her new “boss” came to tell her the details of the job. She couldn’t help but feel like the new kid at school, as people either looked at her curiously or ignored her completely.

It doesn’t matter what they think. I am going to do this job to the best of my ability.
Sarah smiled, making a little notation on the “daily” page.

Short term goal: get hired, full-time, permanent. She had always wanted to try working for a marketing department, and this was apparently an affluent one. She could work out a career plan from there. That was on her list of long-term goals:
develop a career plan.

Under relationships, she had
regroup and decide on qualities of potential mate.

She liked this system, she decided as she shut the organizer and zipped it closed. It gave her a sense of direction.

She tucked the organizer into her small, ergonomically correct knapsack, along with her lunch. It seemed a little more casual than a briefcase, granted, but somehow she doubted professionalism was at a high premium here. She was dressed more formally than most of the staff, who wore that brand of “office casual” that consisted of khakis for both sexes and polo shirts. She wasn’t entirely sure what most of these people did, but unlike the agency, they didn’t seem to be in very much of a hurry about it.

The office itself was like any other office she’d been in: the people sitting like ice cubes in trays of cubicles. Their cubicles sported pictures and cartoons, all the personal touches that made three walls a home of sorts. The amount of crap collected usually signified how long a person had been there. Sarah glanced at the cubicle across from hers. She was surprised that the woman in the vibrant tiger-stripe tank top and gold colored slacks could fit in the overstuffed monstrosity. Every square inch was covered with something, either pinned to a wall or sitting on a shelf. The woman had to have been there for years.

“Sarah?”

Sarah snapped her gaze up, feeling guilty for cube-peeping. “Yes?”

“Great. It’s good that you’re on time. I’m Ms. Peccorino.” The woman held out her hand, and Sarah stood up and shook it. “My! Don’t you look nice!”

Sarah self-consciously straightened her navy-blue skirt and white blouse. She’d slung the matching jacket over the back of her chair. It was just a Ross special, but she felt like she might as well have been wearing a prom dress in this casual atmosphere. “Thank you.”

“So few people here know how to dress appropriately for the office.” Ms. Peccorino shot a quick glance over her shoulder at Ms. Tiger Stripe before turning back to Sarah. Sarah noticed
that the woman in question flipped Ms. Peccorino off. Sarah kept her eyes riveted on Ms. Peccorino, or Janice, after that, terrified that she might burst out laughing and have to explain it. Janice herself was dressed in a pink Chanel-wannabe suit with black trim. Her blond hair and dark eyebrows suggested that her coloring had nothing to do with nature, and everything to do with Miss Clairol.

“I’m sorry—they didn’t mention much at the temp agency, except that I needed to know Excel and PowerPoint,” Sarah said, glad that her voice was steady.

“Oh, certainly. We’ve got plenty of projects here that need lots of help,” Ms. Peccorino said, as if she were looking to Sarah to save her from drowning. “I’ll show you your first one.”

Sarah followed the woman through the maze of dun-colored cubicles, over to a bank of filing cabinets. Janice gestured to a stack of cardboard banker boxes, sitting three high and three across.

“We’ll need all of these ad comps and direct mail pieces filed here,” Ms. Peccorino said, with a voice of woe. “I’m afraid there’s a lot of them. This could take you a while.”

Sarah stared at the boxes. They were really long boxes. There had to be a couple hundred files there.

“And we need you to weed through all these files, as well. Anything older than a year needs to be archived.” With that, Janice approached a cabinet, and reached for its handle.

The drawer exploded open. File folders were crammed in so tight that she couldn’t see how the dumb thing stayed shut.

“Are all the drawers like that?” Sarah said involuntarily, aghast.

“I’m afraid so.”

“And when was the last time these files were archived?”

Janice looked embarrassed. “Well…we haven’t really had the time before, or the budget for a temp…”

In other words, Sarah thought, a sinking feeling in her stomach,
never.

Sarah spent the whole day weeding through old files, getting paper cuts and cursing silently. Good thing I know all these computer skills, she thought to herself as she filled and labeled the tenth box that day. They’re
so
coming in handy.

She glanced at her watch. It was twelve-thirty.
Is that all?
She felt like she’d been filing for the better part of a week.

“Wow. That’s a lot of boxes.”

She glanced up. A good-looking guy with black hair and really tanned skin was smiling down at her from where she sat on a rolling office chair. She squelched the desire to stand up. “Yup. Lot of boxes,” she agreed inanely.
And one cute fella.

For an inexplicable moment, she felt guilty—like she was cheating on Jam. She glanced down at the boxes.