Bitter Is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smart-Ass, Or, Why You Should Never Carry a Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office : A Memoir (21 page)

Brett asks, “Would you feel weird working a coordinator’s job in the department you used to run?”

“Probably, but I guarantee you it would be less uncomfortable than the conversations I’ve had with my student loan officer lately. Brett, you’re awesome. Thanks so much.” I lean over to hug him.

Fletch pops his head under the table. “Courtney, crisis averted. You can come out now.” He turns his attention to Brett. “Looks like you may finally be forgiven, vroom, vroom.”

“I
so
nailed it,” I tell Brett. We’re sitting in his corner office doing a postmortem on my interview with Julie. If nothing else, my cute outfit should guarantee me the job—I’m wearing a fitted taupe jacket with a swirly skirt and matching camisole with spectator slingbacks. Sure, add a flower-strewn hat, and I’d fit in perfectly at the Kentucky Derby, but since I’m not applying for VP, I figured a less traditional suit would be appropriate. “Seriously, it could not have gone better. After all, I created the product—the portfolio management tool was my baby. I decided on the level of interactivity, the features, even the colors on the interface. How could I
not
be the perfect person to write marketing copy about it?”

“How’d you explain your willingness to accept a lesser position?” Brett asks.

“I told Julie my life was different now. I’m married, I have dogs, I have a whole new set of responsibilities. I said I don’t want to spend sixty hours a week in the office.”

“Which, because I know you, is a lie.”

“I figured if talked up my work ethic too much, she’d worry I was bucking for her job.”

“When will she make a decision?”

“A couple of days. But she’s going to say yes, I’m sure of it.”

“Cool. By the way, have you, um, spoken with Courtney lately?”

“Of course, Brett. I talk to Court all the time. Was there something specific you’d like to know?” A bright pink flush spreads across Brett’s cheeks. “You’re blushing! You
like
her! Oh, that’s darling! I knew you guys would connect. You have so much in common like your triathlete competition things and predilection for Dave Matthews.
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It just so happens she asked me to give you her number.” I root around in my purse until I locate her digits. I place her business card in front of Brett.

“Thanks, Jen. I owe you.”

A phone number in exchange for the opportunity to earn fifty large? “Brett, I’m pretty sure we’re even.”

I’m finishing reading all the day’s new job postings when Fletch walks in. “Hey, sweetie, what’s up? You’re home
really
early.” Maisy and Loki bark and spin, delighted at their dad’s unexpected arrival. I am too because I’m dying for a little human interaction. I talk to those damn dogs all day long. Someday they’re going to start talking back, and I am simply not prepared for that.

Then I notice that Fletch is carrying a huge paper box full of personal effects.
Uh-oh.

“You want the good news or the bad news first?”

I take a deep breath. “Bad, please.”

“I was laid off.”

I gesture toward his box. “I figured. But you know what? It’s not your fault. I know how hard you worked, and I’m very proud of the job you did there. Are you OK?” I fight my way through the dogs to give Fletch a big hug. After seeing his employer on C-SPAN every day for the past month, we suspected this might happen.

“Actually, I am. They gave me a decent severance package, and I’ll still get my year-end bonus. Plus I’m eligible for unemployment insurance, so we’ll be OK for a little while.”

“That’s the good news?”

“Nope. When Clark told me my position was eliminated, he could barely keep from smiling. Miserable son of a bitch. While I’m packing up my stuff and commiserating with everyone else—Lisa, Bill, and Ernesto are also gone—the regional VP goes into Clark’s office and closes the door. Two minutes later we hear shouting and slamming. Apparently Clark got canned, too.”

“He didn’t know it was coming?”

“Completely blindsided him.”

“That’s hilarious.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t tell you the best part. Right before I walked out, I poked my head in his door and said, ‘I’ll save you a place in line at the unemployment office.’ Must have been the last straw because he lunged out of his chair and
took a swing at me
!”

“No way!”

“I kid you not. Ernesto called the police, and the whole team got to enjoy watching Clark being escorted out in handcuffs. Best day of work ever.” A malevolent grin plays across his face.

“You baited him.” I’m always secretly delighted when Fletch gets in touch with his inner evil streak.

“You bet I did. That man made me miserable for three years with his explosive rage. He was so much like my dad. As I never had the pleasure of seeing my father arrested, this was the next best thing. I should be upset about losing my job, but I feel great.”

The phone rings and I peer at the caller ID. “Fletch, hold that thought—it’s Midwest IR. I’m crossing my fingers that it’s an offer.” I take a deep breath before grabbing the phone. “Good afternoon. Jennifer speaking.”

“Hi, Jennifer. It’s Julie from Midwest IR. How are you?”

“Terrific, thanks! What’s up?” I’m trying to sound cool, but really I’m a basket case. I need this job now more than ever. After an entire YEAR off, I’m dying to get back to work. I’m even thrilled at the prospect of wearing panty hose again. Shoot, I’ll take public transportation if I need to. This way Fletch can be on
my
health insurance so he doesn’t have to worry about COBRA. Ooh, and I’ll start another 401(k) and begin to feel like a real adult again.
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So what if it’s a step down? With my work ethic, I’ll be back on top in no time. I predict a promotion in six months or less. After all, the other VPs loved me at Midwest IR. And when—

“I’m calling to say we’ve decided to go in a different direction.”

“I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?” The dogs are still yipping and whining, so I must have heard her wrong.

“We’ve decided not to extend an offer. But I really enjoyed our interview after hearing so many good things about you.”

“I don’t understand. I promise I wouldn’t be bored if that’s your concern. I know I worked on more advanced projects before, but—”

“You just don’t have the kind of experience we need in this department.”

“Cut the crap, Julie. I created the very product your department supports, so don’t tell me I’m not experienced. Level with me. When Corp. Com. laid me off, they never gave me a reason, and it’s driven me nuts for a whole year. Be honest. Was I overconfident? Arrogant? Whatever was wrong, please tell me so I can fix it before I interview anywhere else.”

Julie sighs and lowers her voice. “Jen, you did everything right and I really lobbied for your hire. But Ben won’t let me bring you back. He says you’re too unprofessional.”

Oh, that is
rich.
“Julie, do you know why I left Midwest IR in the first place? It’s not solely because I got a better offer. Ben threw a cup of coffee at me during a board meeting while screaming, ‘If you can’t give me the fucking answers I want, then fucking lie to me!’ But as I was not about to let that old bastard see me cry, I replied, ‘Come on, sir, you’re the president of this place—get it together.’ I should have thrown coffee back at him. Instead, I went home to change clothes and post my résumé.”

“I heard a rumor about that.” Ben’s unprofessional behavior is legendary. “I swear I didn’t know it was you. Things must really be tough out there if you were willing to come back here.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“God, I’m
so
sorry. Take care, and if you need a reference? Call me.”

Before I even hang up the phone, Fletch is by my side. “No luck?”

“What are we going to do? A minute ago I was elated because I thought that job was mine. Now I’m scared to death because no one in this household has an income. How are we going to pay for this place? How are we going to keep up with our bills? How am I ever going to get my hair colored again?” I begin to pace and wring my hands.

“You know what we should do right now?” Fletch asks.

“Pray? Cry? Move back to Indiana so I can work at Hardee’s, as my brother keeps helpfully suggesting?”

“No. We’re going to the Four Seasons.”

“Are you
insane
?”

“I say we celebrate the end of the dot-com era by going out with a bang. Our days of posing at their bar are over, so why not celebrate with a couple of $15 martinis?”

“You
are
insane.”

Brief silence.

“And I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

Four Seasons esss DELICIOUSSS Jack Frost marteeenneees pepperminty chocolaty…. 100 percent YUMMM! Pooor buthaaaaappppeee!! Fletchhhss is SCHMARTEST MOST HANDDSUM MAN ALIVE even wiscch his pancake butt. Mmmm…pancakes! Sommebuddy buuuy me pancakes? Pleeeeease?

Drunkety. Most, most exccccelent drunkety.
¹⁰⁹

“Jen, it’s a simple favor,” Fletch says.

“But I don’t want to,” I reply.

“Come on, it’ll be easy. And you’ll get to drive the Cadillac.”

“I can drive the Caddy anytime I want.”

“But you never have anywhere to go.”

“So? I can still use it to take the dogs to the park.”

“Last time you drove them it took a week to scrub all the mud off the seats. Admit it. There’s no good reason not to do this for Carol.”

“Then
you
do it.”

“Number one, she didn’t ask me. Number two, I have an interview that afternoon. And number three, she’s the only nonrelative you have who’s been able to stand you for more than a decade.”

God, I hate when he’s right.

A couple of days ago, Carol e-mailed to ask a favor. Her family’s coming up from Indianapolis this weekend. Carol and her small children are visiting friends and her husband, Pete, is running the Chicago marathon. As their time here is limited, Carol asked if I could go to the convention center and pick up Pete’s official race pack. Since I’ve got NOTHING going on right now, there’s no good reason I can’t do this simple task for my oldest friend…except that I don’t want to because according to Fletch I can be a trifle torpid and a bit selfish.
¹¹⁰

“Jen, think about it. How often does Carol ask you to do anything for her?”

“Almost never,” I concede.

“And how many times has she done something unpleasant for you?”

“Well…there was that time in high school when I insisted we see
Desperately Seeking Susan
in full-on Wannabe-like-Madonna gear.” Poor Carol. Warily she cast aside her Bonne Belle Dr Pepper Lip Smackers for heavy kohl eyeliner and her Topsiders for torn fish-nets. And when I yanked her out of her seat to dance in the aisle with me to “Get into the Groove,” she never once complained, even when I accidentally stabbed her with an oversized cross.
¹¹¹

“Is that it?”

“No. She also used to let me ride to our speech meets in the back of her car and do Queen Elizabeth waves.”

“And?”

“Once when I was a sophomore, she came up from IU, and we met these Alpha Sigs at a party. I got to make out with the cute one with the Flock of Seagulls haircut while she patiently listened to his roommate prattle on in painstaking detail about the musical genius of Jethro Tull.”
¹¹²

“Uh-huh. Anything else?”

“Um…she never judged me in my junior year when I thought it would be fun to live my life like a character in a Bret Easton Ellis novel.”
¹¹³

“Are you forgetting her wedding?”

Actually, I had. On Carol’s wedding day—the one time I should have shaken myself out of my perpetual narcissistic haze and paid her special attention—Carol had to come to my hotel room to hustle me down to the ceremony. I’d lost track of time while grooming myself and almost delayed the start of the wedding.

Looking back at our lives together, I realize in the Big Book of Favors, I’m woefully lacking credit. I’ve always taken more than I’ve given. I’m not sure I deserve a friend like Carol. Defeated, I admit, “OK, OK. You’ve got me. I’ll do it.”

4:46 p.m. from allaboutjen:
I’m in. Gimme the deets.

4:48 p.m. from carol_and_pete:
Thanks, you’re a life-saver! Any time tomorrow between 8-6 PM, go to McCormick Place (you know where that is, right?) to pick up Pete’s race information pack at the pre-marathon health and fitness fair. Among other things, the pack will contain the microchip Pete needs to wear so his time will be recorded. It’s crucial he has this before the race. You’ll have to have the chip activated and grab his t-shirt, but it shouldn’t be a big deal.

4:50 p.m. from allaboutjen:
I can’t believe anyone would voluntarily run 26 miles. Sometimes I sit on the couch cross-legged because I don’t feel like walking to the bathroom.

4:51 p.m. from carol_n_pete:
Yeah, I remember you peeing in the pool on more than one occasion, too. Gross. As for running, Pete turns 40 this year, so this may be a mid-life thing. It’s OK with me—marathon running beats him having an affair or buying a sports car we can’t afford.

4:52 p.m. from allaboutjen:
Word. See you this weekend.

The convention center is five miles round-trip from my apartment, which means the whole trip is less than half the distance Pete is running on Sunday. How bad can it be?
Trading Spaces
is on in an hour, and I figure it will take me fifteen minutes to get down there, ten to pick up the pack, and then fifteen more to get back…and bing! I’m home in time to see a shirtless Ty build a bookcase. I planned to leave earlier but I got sucked into a particularly sleazy episode of
Elimidate
.
¹¹⁴