Bond Girl (15 page)

Billy pretended to stretch out his quads and his hamstrings. The group was pretty evenly split between those who thought he was insane enough to actually do it, and those who bet that he would puke by noon. Will poked my back with his notebook.

“You ready? You know if you mess this up, they'll probably burn you at the stake.”

The scary thing was, I sort of believed him.

As the opening bell rang on the floor of the Stock Exchange a few blocks away, Billy Marchetti ripped open a package of Twinkies.

One by one, he consumed the heavier items: the pretzels and most of the Hostess shelf. Random people passed by calling out “Mangia, baby!,” “You're an animal!,” and “I hope you took your Lipitor.” I diligently collected wrappers and marked time. Twinkies, 9:30; cupcakes, 9:35; Ho Hos, 9:38. When Cuban sandwiches arrived around noon, Billy started to get nauseated. According to my list, I couldn't blame him. He had worked his way through all the Hostess cakes, half the row of chips, and both bags of M&Ms. Seventeen items. He decided to take Chick up on his offer to use his office. I followed him. As he high-fived guys in the hallway with one hand, he unbuttoned his pants with the other. I piled the remaining items on the desk, sat down in a chair, and stared at Chick's fish tank, grateful to have something else to look at. It was clear that Billy had no intention of losing his focus by talking to me anyway. I still couldn't believe that this was my job.

Eventually, Billy began to have trouble breathing and started sweating profusely. I asked him if he was okay, and he nodded, emptying an entire bag of Fritos into his mouth and spewing Frito dust all over Chick's carpet. One of the rules was that he could drink as much water as he wanted, but nothing else, and empty bottles of Poland Spring littered the floor around the desk. The sweating worsened. Considering that his pants were also unbuttoned, it dawned on me that if someone saw us leaving this office who didn't know what exactly was going on, I would become the star of a very juicy trading floor rumor. I had a feeling that being half dressed in an office with a coworker was probably included in the handbook as grounds for dismissal. I really needed to read that thing.

Drew burst into the room.

“Chick told me to come back here and check on your progress.” He took one look at Billy—his shirt drenched with sweat, his pants open, his breathing labored—and started laughing hysterically.

“Dude, Marchetti, you're fucked. Look at yourself, you're lucky if you don't have a heart attack. I didn't realize we paid you so badly you're willing to put yourself through this for a measly $20,000. Do we have those electroshock paddles for when you keel over?” Drew pretended to hold two paddles in his hands and rubbed them together while shouting “Charging. Clear!” He then tensed his arms and pretended to shock Billy's chest. I laughed.

“I'm going to finish this, and when I do, I'm going to kick your ass, Drew. Alex, bounce him out of here. You're supposed to be my security guard.”

I nodded in Drew's direction. “Drew, sorry, but you have to leave. This office is reserved for private bingeing until four o'clock.”

“Actually that's what I'm here to tell you. You don't have until four. Chick wants you back on the floor for the last half hour so that everyone can see you through the finish line. You're going to be a legend if you pull this off. Of course, if you fail, you're going to have to move to Nebraska and become a bank teller.”

“Fuck off, Drew. I mean it!” Billy snapped.

“Wait.” I grabbed Drew's arm as he was about to leave the room. “Can you sit here for five minutes? I'm starving. All you have to do is make sure he doesn't throw up in Chick's office and hold any additional wrappers until I get back. Whatever you do, don't touch my list. You'll screw up my system.”

“You bet, I'll keep an eye on fat bastard here.”

“Thanks.”

“Wait!” Billy snapped through bites of a king-sized Almond Joy. “When you go to the coffee stand, tell Jashim you want to borrow a blender.”

“Why do you want a blender?”

“Just bring me the blender!”

“Okay. I'll ask.”

When I got to the coffee stand, I grabbed a diet Snapple and a bagel.

“Hello, Ms. Alex!” Jashim, the guy working at the counter greeted me with his usual enthusiasm. “What can I get you? Do you want a special milkshake?”

“No, thanks, Jashim, no milkshakes for me today. Just the Snapple, bagel, oh yeah, and a blender, please.”

“That will be $3.50,” he said. “Did you say you also need a blender, Ms. Alex? I don't think we sell those.”

“No, I just need to borrow one.”

Jashim shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever you need, Ms. Alex, I will give you.” He reached under the counter and produced a blender with the plug wrapped neatly around the base. I flashed Jashim a smile.

“Thanks. I'll take good care of it.”

“No problemo.”

When I got back to Chick's office, I found Drew leaning against the wall shaking his head in disbelief as Billy continued to eat. He had unbuttoned the top three buttons on his shirt. In addition, his plaid boxers were now exposed. It was starting to make me a little uncomfortable. We still had an hour to go, and if things continued this way, he'd be naked by the closing bell. I placed the blender on the floor next to the couch and took three wrappers from Drew. Billy had eaten the Almond Joy and two rolls of breath mints while I was gone, but his pace had slowed dramatically. My poor friend was toast.

We left the office and headed back to the desk at 3:30. According to my list, there was still a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup triple-pack, the Doritos, two rolls of mints, a bag of Oreos, the Butterfinger, and a package of Animal Crackers left. There was no way in hell Marchetti was going to be able to finish in thirty minutes. I wasn't sure why he needed the blender until about 3:50, when he plugged it in behind his desk. He threw the remaining candy bars, the mints, cookies, and chips into the blender with a bottle of water and I realized what he planned to do in order to win.

Oh he wouldn't . . .

He's seriously not going to . . .

Marchetti pressed a button and the machine began to whirl. He pureed the mixture until it was the texture of half-melted ice cream, partially liquid but with lumps of candy still large enough to chew. As the crowd gasped, cheered, and marveled, he chugged the entire thing finishing at exactly 3:59.

Then, he turned green.

As the group gathered around him congratulating him on his epic achievement, Chick collected the empty wrappers and bags from me and counted them off one by one against the list. When he was satisfied that every last item had been consumed, he jumped on the hoot again.

“Everyone who bet that our crazy Billy wouldn't be able to eat the vending machine during market hours is out cash. The judges have gone over the rules and regulations and everything is copacetic. The final tally on the pot is $28,000. Way to go, Billy!” He then held his iPod earphones up to the hoot and played Queen's “We Are the Champions” while the floor rewarded him with a thunderous standing ovation. I am sure Billy would have loved to hear it, but I don't think he did. He was too busy making a mad dash for the bathroom. Despite his best efforts, he failed. He threw up all over the carpet on the way to the men's room, and then needed help getting home to his apartment. But he had $28,000 in his pocket.

Just another day at the office.

B
y the end of May, the time had finally come for Liv and me to have our own places. After a year together in Murray Hill, our lease was up, and I finally had enough money to get my own apartment. I wanted to move downtown, so that I was closer to work. I couldn't stand commuting from Midtown to the financial district anymore. I never managed to get up on time to take the subway, and instead I ended up taking a cab to the office for twenty bucks a trip. It just wasn't worth it anymore to live above Fourteenth Street. I found a great apartment in the West Village that would probably bankrupt me and decided I would rather live in a cool apartment and be in debt up to my eyeballs than save money by living in another part of town. Liv decided to keep the Murray Hill place and was staying in our apartment by herself, and she was happy she could take down the fake wall, have a normal size living room, and move into the real bedroom. Liv thought I was crazy to pay what I was paying to live across the street from a firehouse, on one of the noisier streets in the city, but I didn't care. I was so tired most nights from work I could probably sleep through an earthquake. I was excited to be on my own, but I was definitely going to miss the companionship that a roommate provided. Liv always kept things interesting, and with the craziness at work, I was afraid I was never going to see her.

Our last night together in the apartment was fun and bittersweet. We ordered a pizza and cracked open a few beers while packing my belongings into cardboard boxes and stacking them against the wall for the movers who were coming in the morning.

“Right about now is when having a guy to help out would be very handy,” I said as I hefted another box.

“No shit! Why didn't you ask Work Will to come help?”

“Asking someone to pack your apartment assumes a level of intimacy that we are nowhere near attaining.”

“I don't get what you're doing then, since you don't seem to be getting any of the benefits of having a guy around. Actually, when I think about it, he's never actually around. After six months of seeing each other, shouldn't you have progressed past the weekly drink and random hook-up routine? I mean, what are you guys even doing? It's not like you can say you're dating. I haven't even met the guy, and you're lucky if he places an outgoing phone call. I don't get it. Don't you want more from a guy in your life? I would.”

“Like to kill mice and pack boxes?”

“Yes. And change lightbulbs. And take out the garbage. I need a guy if for no other reason than dealing with the garbage. I'm so over that.”

“Come on, Liv. Girl power!” I said with more enthusiasm than I felt. The truth was, I had told Will that I was moving and that Liv and I had to get everything packed in one night. I'd hoped he'd offer to come over and help. We'd been seeing each other—and calling it that was a stretch—for six months and he still hadn't met Liv or Annie, and truth be told, it bugged me. I was beginning to wonder if he was lazy, clueless, or just plain stupid. And then I figured that I would just go with stupid, because my experience told me that most guys were, and it was just easier to assume that was the reason rather than worry about the other explanations. He probably just didn't want to be in the way and figured I'd see him on Monday. I'm sure that was it. But the truth was, I was annoyed. Fuck girl power. My back hurt.

At 10:30 we took another beer break and collapsed on the floor in front of the TV because the couch was covered with packing materials. I heard my phone beep but couldn't tell where it was coming from, as I had lost it in the chaos that was now the living room. Liv pushed aside a roll of bubble wrap and held my phone up triumphantly.

“Found it!” she said, checking the display. “Whoa!” she said, shock clearly registering on her face. “Who the hell is Rick? Is that why you wanted to move? Are you seeing someone and not telling me? What happened to Work Will?”

Oh God. Not again
.

“You've got to be kidding me,” I moaned. “I'm going to have to change my phone number.”

“Wait, this isn't that sketchy client, is it?”

“Yup.”

“You have to put a stop to this, especially now that you'll be living alone. Did you tell Chick?”

“No!” I screamed. “I don't know what I'm supposed to do about it, other than
not
complain to Chick. So far I've taken the path of least resistance, just ignoring him as much as possible.”

“Bad idea. Guys love a challenge.”

“I know, or at least, now I do. All it's done is make him more persistent. It's becoming pretty clear that he's going to be a real problem.”

“I'll say. Listen to this.” Liv proceeded to read Rick's message out loud: ‘ “Staying in the city tonight, don't make me stay alone.' I don't see how that qualifies in any way as professional communication. I can't imagine Chick would be cool with one of his buddies harassing one of his employees. It would open the firm up to a lawsuit.”

She was probably right, and I had thought about it a few times, but after the mess with Tim Collins, there was no way I was going to complain about another guy, especially not one of Chick's top clients. I had dealt with sketchy guys before; I had faith in my ability to handle one married math geek with a wild imagination.

“Have you gone out alone with him?” she asked, skeptically.

“No!”

“Do you want to?”

“No!”

“Have you ever thought about it?”

“No! And I resent that, Liv, come on. I think I'm dating Will anyway.”

“Well, I think you need to kill this now before it grows into a beast that you can't control. You've already got your hands full with one amazingly screwed-up work relationship.”

“I have it under control.”

“What you
have
is a corporate stalker.”

“You're right. I'll take care of it. I promise.”

And I meant it, really, I did. I just had to figure out how.

“Will you do me a favor, please?” Liv asked.

“On our last night together, sure. What?”

“Call Will and ask him to help us stack boxes? I'm going to throw my back out.”

“No fucking way.”

“Alex, you're being ridiculous. You guys are friends with benefits, and even without the benefits, you're still friends. How big a deal is it to ask him to help?”