Hard Feelings (10 page)

7

I PLEADED AT the bedroom door for Paula to let me in. I went on and on, telling her how sorry I was and how awful I felt, but she wouldn’t answer me.

Finally, I gave up and went back into the living room and sat on the couch with my head in my hands. I couldn’t believe that I’d pushed her so hard.

I put some ice in a towel and returned to the bedroom door. Paula still wouldn’t let me in so I told her I was leaving the ice outside in the hallway and I walked away. Moments later, the door opened and Paula snatched the ice, then the door slammed closed and I heard the lock turn.

The sushi arrived. I didn’t have an appetite so I put it away in the fridge.

I went back to the bedroom door and tried to convince Paula to let me inside.

“I just want you to know I love you very very much and I swear to God I’ll never do anything like this again. You’re right—I have a problem and I’m going to get help. Please— don’t hold this against me. I’ll never hurt you again—I promise. You have to believe me. Come on, please open up so you can see how sorry I am.”

She didn’t answer. I begged for a while longer, trying every possible approach, but nothing worked. Finally, I gave up and returned to the living room couch.

At six-thirty the next morning the bedroom door was still locked. I knocked quietly a few times, but there was no response. Then I said, “If you’re awake, please let me in. You have to give me a chance to say I’m sorry.”

She didn’t answer. I walked Otis and made coffee. After pacing the apartment several times I returned to the door.

“Please,” I said. “Come on, this is getting ridiculous. Please—just open the door.”

Again, she didn’t answer. It was past seven and I needed to get into the bedroom to get my clothes for work.

For the next ten minutes or so, I knocked on the door, trying to get her attention, gradually getting angrier. I knew she was just doing this to punish me, that she was going to keep me locked out of the bedroom until I was late for work.

At seven-thirty, I cursed and took a shower in the spare bathroom, washing my hair with soap. I had to leave for work by seven-forty at the latest because I had a nine o’clock appointment scheduled and I needed to stop by the office first to pick up some materials for my presentation. I banged on the door, demanding Paula to let me in.

“This is bullshit,” I said. “I was wrong last night, okay, but you don’t have to be a child about it. I said I was sorry, I admitted I have a problem, and now we have to go on with our lives. So just open the fucking door!”

I was so frustrated I half-considered breaking the door down, but I realized that would only make me seem crazier and more violent, and then it would be even harder to convince Paula to forgive me. Instead, I found an old, wrinkled suit in a bag of clothes Paula was planning to donate to a thrift shop and I ironed it quickly. It was still wrinkled, but it would have to do. I found a wrinkled shirt in the bottom of the closet, but I didn’t have time to iron it. It didn’t matter— I’d just keep the suit buttoned over it. As I was leaving the apartment I heard the shower running in the other bathroom. Obviously, Paula was planning to go to work today, but she wasn’t going to leave the bedroom until
after
I was gone.

I took a cab across town. In my office, at my cubicle, I gathered the materials I needed for my meeting. Then I walked to Park and Forty-seventh to meet with the CFO of a small capital-management firm. As I gave my presentation, I was barely aware of what I was saying. I was too absorbed, thinking about Paula. I hoped she was okay and that she would eventually forgive me.

The meeting ended with the understanding that I would fax over a quote on the small networking project by the end of the week. I looked so disheveled and I was acting so distracted that I didn’t see how I could have made a favorable impression.

Riding down in the elevator, I called Paula at her office on my cell phone. Her assistant answered, but when she heard my voice she apologized and said that Paula was “in a meeting” and couldn’t come to the phone.

“Just transfer me to her,” I said. “I was in an accident.”

I thought I was convincing, but Paula was too smart and must have sensed the trick because her assistant returned and said, “I’m sorry, she won’t . . . I mean she
can’t
come to the phone right now. Would you like to leave a message?”

“I’ll try back later,” I said.

I went through the lobby of the building, out to the street. I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I was barely aware of the traffic and crowds. I went directly to Madison and Fifty-fourth and stood outside Michael Rudnick’s building.

I didn’t care if I had to wait all day—I had to see Rudnick again and this time I was going to confront him. I had no idea what I’d say, but I knew I had to say
something
.

It wasn’t ten o’clock yet and I knew I’d probably have to wait until noon or later to see him. I sat on the ledge in front of the building. After a while, I took off my jacket and loosened my tie. I kept a close watch on the revolving doors, ready to get up as soon as I saw him. Then I had an idea. I remembered the name of the firm where he worked—Rudnick, Eisman and Stevens—and I took out my cell phone. I got the phone number from information and dialed. A receptionist answered and I asked if Michael Rudnick was in the office today. Rather than answering me, she transferred my call and a deep voice said, “Michael Rudnick.”

I’d expected his secretary to answer, so hearing Rudnick’s voice startled me. I held the phone up to my ear for a few more seconds, listening to him say “Michael Rudnick” in a louder, aggravated tone, then I hung up. I sat there for several more seconds, with the phone up to my ear, and then I realized that I was actually shaking. I put the phone away, angry at myself for being such a wimp.

I sat on the ledge for the next two hours. At noon, the lunch crowd started filing out of the building. If, for some reason, he decided not to go out for lunch today, I was planning to return to the building at four-thirty to catch him on his way home. If I missed him later, then I’d come back tomorrow and the next day, but eventually I was going to meet him face to face.

Then I saw him leaving the building. He was walking between a man and a woman, smiling, heading right in my direction. Suddenly, I felt the same immobilizing fear as when I’d heard his voice on the phone. As he approached, he put on the dark sunglasses that he was wearing the day I saw him crossing Fifth Avenue. He passed by without noticing me.

For a few moments, I couldn’t move, then I forced myself to snap out of it, to get a grip. I stood up and followed Rudnick and his friends down Madison Avenue, across Fifty-third Street.

The sidewalk was crowded. The group turned left on Fiftyfirst and I followed, keeping about ten yards between us. In the middle of the block, they went into a Japanese restaurant. I stopped outside the door and watched a maitre d’ lead them to a table. I stood outside for a while, then I decided to go in. The maitre d’ was leading me toward the sushi bar when I noticed that the table next to Rudnick’s group was empty. I asked the maitre d’ if I could sit there instead.

I sat in the seat closest to Rudnick. We were only a couple of feet apart, the backs of our chairs nearly touching. I realized that this was probably the closest I had been to him since the last time we were in his basement.

The restaurant was noisy, but I overheard snippets of the conversation behind me. Several times, I heard Rudnick refer to “the closing,” so I assumed he was a real estate lawyer.

I ordered two tuna rolls, one yellowtail roll, and two pieces of salmon. I remembered how I’d put the sushi I’d ordered last night away in the fridge and I realized that I hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.

I listened to the conversation behind me—now they were talking about the New York real estate market and I occasionally heard the name Trump. At one point, Rudnick started laughing loudly and it sickened me to hear him enjoying himself. I wondered what his friends at the table would say if they knew the truth. One thing for sure—Rudnick sure as hell wouldn’t be laughing.

My food arrived. I devoured the sushi, barely tasting it, as I continued to eavesdrop on the boring conversation behind me. They must have remained at the table for a half-hour after they finished eating, talking about different real estate projects. Finally, Rudnick’s deep voice boomed to the waiter several tables away, “Check, please!”

When the waiter looked over I said, “Mine, too.”

Rudnick gave the waiter a credit card and I paid in cash. The waiter returned with my change and Rudnick’s receipt. When I heard stirring behind me, I stood up as well. For a moment, Rudnick turned in my direction and his gaze swept past me.

Leaving the restaurant, I was trailing Rudnick so closely that I could smell his cologne. It was a different cologne than the one he wore as a teenager, but the odor was just as imposing. I imagined reaching out and tapping him on the back and saying, Remember me, asshole?

I followed Rudnick and his friends back uptown on Madison Avenue, figuring they would go back into the building together. This meant I’d have to wait for another time to approach Rudnick—maybe later today or tomorrow. Then the group stopped at the corner of Fifty-fourth Street and they shook hands. I stopped and pretended to window-shop at some store, watching Rudnick’s reflection in the glass. He walked away, alone, toward the entrance to his office building.

Suddenly, I had my chance to say something to him. As he continued up the block, I blurted out, “Hey, Michael Rudnick!”

Rudnick stopped and turned around, looking right at me. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses and he had a slightly confused expression. I probably looked vaguely familiar, but he hadn’t put the whole picture together yet. Maybe he thought I was an old client or someone he knew from law school or college.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” I said.

“Sorry,” he said, squinting at me. “What’s your name?”

“Richard,” I said. “Or you probably remember me as Richie—Richie Segal.”

At first, Rudnick’s expression didn’t change. Then I saw a flash of recognition cross his face. It was so fast if I wasn’t looking for it I probably would have missed it, but in that moment I knew he remembered everything. It was great seeing the terror in his eyes as he wondered what I wanted from him. Then his mock-confused expression returned.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Where did we meet?”

I couldn’t believe the arrogance of this asshole.

“I can’t believe you don’t remember me,” I said. “You grew up in the house across the street from me.”

He continued to stare at me, dumbfounded. He was chasing me around the Ping-Pong table, chanting, “You’re gonna feel it! You’re gonna feel it!” then he said, like it suddenly clicked, “Right, Richie Segal. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? How did you recognize me?”

“I never forget a face,” I said.

We stared at each other for a few awkward seconds then I looked down, noticing that he was wearing a thick gold wedding band. Rudnick said, “Well,
you’ve
definitely changed a lot. The last time I saw you you were what, ten years old?”

“You moved when I was twelve,” I said.

“Oh—okay.” He was looking away, distracted. I could tell he was uncomfortable and wanted the conversation to end. He looked at his watch and said, “Well, it was really terrific running into you again, but I’m running late for a meeting and I have to go. See you around.”

He walked away and went into the building without looking back.

8

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? I was looking all over for you.”

I had just entered the bathroom, where Bob Goldstein was washing his hands.

“I had a sales meeting,” I said.

“I looked at your calendar. Your meeting was at nine this morning, wasn’t it?”

“It ran late and then we went to lunch. It went good, though.”

“Did you close him?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

“And what happened with your client from yesterday—the one with the one-day project?”

“He was upset we couldn’t do it, but I’m not sure it’s dead completely. I’ll have to give him another call this afternoon.”

“How about your other prospects? Anything hot in the cooker?”

“I have a few solid leads.”

“Great. Let’s hope this is your break-out week.”

Bob wiped his hands with a paper towel and left the bathroom. I went to use the urinal. While I was washing up at the sink, Steve Ferguson came out of one of the stalls. He had been in there the entire time, eavesdropping on my conversation with Bob. He left the bathroom without looking at me.

I went back to my cubicle and logged on to my computer. Compared to dealing with Michael Rudnick, my problems at work suddenly seemed petty and inconsequential. I didn’t really care anymore whether I closed a sale or if I was fired immediately. I’d had many jobs in the past and I’d have many jobs in the future. It really wasn’t a big deal.

I called Paula at work—again her assistant answered and again she refused to put my call through—then I started to search the Internet to see if I could find any more information about Michael Rudnick.

I found six Michael Rudnicks. One had written a book on cystic fibrosis, one was a member of the swim team at the University of California, Davis, one was looking for interactive backgammon partners, one had won a handball tournament in Miami, one was an unemployed math teacher, and one co-owned a used-car dealership in Dayton.