Hard Feelings (9 page)

“What difference does it—”

“I want to know.”

“Schaefer-Riley.”

I knew it—one of Steve Fucking Ferguson’s clients. The son of a bitch had probably manipulated all of this. He’d found out that I needed Mark today so he created an “emergency” at Schaefer-Riley, knowing a current client would get preference over a prospective one.

“This is bullshit,” I said.

“Don’t talk to me about it,” she said, dismissing me. “If you have a problem, talk to Bob.”

I stormed down the corridor to Bob’s office. He was on the phone. He saw me standing there by his door and he looked over at me a few times, seeming annoyed. I didn’t care. If I didn’t get my way with this I was ready to quit, but
first
I was going to speak my mind.

Finally, Bob finished his call, “. . . All right, Joe. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me about this . . . ’Bye now.” Then he hung up and said in an aggravated tone, “Can I help you with something?”

“Sorry to bother you,” I said, “but it’s an emergency.”

“In the future, please don’t barge into my office while I’m talking on the phone—I think I’ve spoken to you about that.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’m having a problem with Recruiting.”

I explained the whole situation, then Bob said, “So what do you want me to do about it?”

“I was hoping you could talk to Steve,” I said, “to find out if his project can be rescheduled.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because Steve is our top salesman right now and I respect his judgment.”

“But, what I’m trying to explain, he doesn’t really need my consultant for his client this afternoon. He’s just doing this to screw me over because of what happened yesterday, and because he probably wants me out of here so he can take over my leads.”

“I’ve made my decision,” Bob said. “If there’s nothing else you have to discuss with me, I’m extremely busy today.”

I returned to my cubicle, ready to gather my things and quit. Then, gradually, my better sense returned. Quitting dramatically might give me some instant gratification, but I knew I’d regret it. It’s much harder to find a new job when you’re out of work, and I couldn’t afford to go through a long period of unemployment. I’d be much better off staying at Midtown Consulting for as long as I could bear it and start sending out résumés and putting out some feelers to headhunters.

I called Don Chaney and explained that we wouldn’t be able to fix his web-server problem today. Predictably, he was disappointed. I asked him if he would still consider us for the larger project and he said, “Maybe. We’ll see.”

I knew I would never hear from him again.

I surfed the Net awhile, trying to distract myself, then I called Paula. Her assistant said she was out to lunch with a friend and I said I’d try back later. I wondered what “friend” Paula could be having lunch with and I couldn’t help imagining that she was with Doug. Maybe Doug had called her again at work and invited her out. Paula, caught off-guard, could have agreed, or maybe she didn’t have to be coerced. I remembered how Doug had been hitting on her right in front of me in Stockbridge, and how Paula hadn’t exactly seemed uninterested. It made sense that Doug would try to hit on Paula again in New York, and Paula could’ve easily been attracted to a guy who was better-looking than me and who was much more successful.

I called Paula on her cell phone. It rang three times, then she answered.

“Hi,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, hi,” she said, uncomfortably.

“Did I get you at a bad time?”

“No . . . I mean not really. I was just having lunch.”

“I know,” I said. “I just called your office. Who are you having lunch with?”

She hesitated then said, “Debbie.”

Debbie was a friend of Paula’s from college with whom I’d thought Paula had fallen out of touch.

“Really?” I said. “Did you call her or did she call you?”

“I called her,” Paula said. “I should really go now.”

“Okay,” I said. “Say hi to Debbie.”

“I will. ’Bye.”

Paula hung up. Even though I could picture the scene clearly—Doug sitting across from Paula, maybe holding her hand as she had an awkward conservation with me—I tried to stay calm, not jump to any conclusions.

I spent the rest of the afternoon working on my résumé and calling headhunters. One was confident that she’d find me something soon, but warned that the job market for high-end salespeople was “tight right now” and that I might have to “humble myself” and start at a “much lower salary” than I was currently making.

At 5:01, I left my office, feeling miserable. I went right across the street to a bar on Sixth Avenue. I weaved my way through the crowd of tourists from Kansas or wherever and found some room at the end of the bar. I ordered a Scotch and soda. The drink went too fast and it didn’t relax me enough, so I ordered another. This one went as quickly as the first, so I bought a third. When I put the empty glass back on the bar I realized I was buzzed, maybe even drunk, and that I’d probably be very drunk once the alcohol made its way into my bloodstream. I was angry at myself for falling back into a bad habit so easily, but I also realized how my problems at work didn’t seem nearly as important as they had about twenty minutes ago. Maybe if I had one more drink I’d feel even better. I waved the bartender over and ordered a refill. Number four went down as smoothly as the first three. I contemplated ordering a fifth, but I knew if I came home stumbling drunk it would lead to a big fight.

I decided to take a different route home for a change, through Central Park. I didn’t realize how wrecked I was until I started bumping into people on Sixth Avenue.

The park was a surreal blur of joggers, trees, horses and buggies, and bicyclists. I walked unsteadily uptown along the park’s East Drive. At one point I stumbled and a jogger, a young Asian woman, bumped into me and almost fell down.

“Moron!” she yelled, looking back over her shoulder.

Now I was extremely self-conscious. I knew how pathetic I must look—drunk, with my tie partially unwound and my hair a mess. I decided to rest for a while on a bench. I passed out quickly and woke up, groggy and disoriented. I checked my watch, surprised to see that it was 6:55. More than a half-hour had gone by in what seemed like an instant. I felt less drunk, but I was starting to experience hangover symptoms— a headache, dizziness, slight nausea. As I walked, I felt steadier and less disoriented. I was confident that by the time I got home Paula wouldn’t be able to tell I’d been drinking.

I exited the park and headed east. I stopped at a deli on Madison and bought a medium-sized bottle of Evian. After chewing on a few Altoids, I took a sip of water, then I swished the liquid around in my mouth before swallowing. I drank the rest of the water in one long gulp, hoping to dilute the alcohol in my body, and then I continued home.

When I reached my building, I still wasn’t sober, but I didn’t think I looked drunk. I planned to tell Paula I wasn’t feeling well and go right into the bedroom to lie down.

“Richard.”

I was in the lobby, heading toward the elevators, when I turned and saw Paula, coming from the mailbox area.

She kissed me hello, then pulled back and stared at my face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, as if I were confused. The muscles in my face were weak and I felt like I didn’t have complete control of my tongue.

“Have you been drinking?”

“No,” I slurred. “I mean, I had a drink, yeah—with a client.”

I could tell she didn’t believe me. A man arrived and the three of us got onto the same elevator. I hoped this “cooling-off period” would calm Paula down, but when we got off the elevator on the fifth floor she stage-whispered, “I can’t believe you’re drinking again.”

“What?” I said, aware of how my entire face felt numb. “I told you I just had one. What’s the big deal?”

She walked ahead of me, shaking her head, and opened the door to our apartment. Otis was barking and wagging his tail excitedly. Paula went directly to the bedroom and slammed the door. I was glad. I figured she’d stew alone for a while and then maybe I could convince her that she was getting upset at me for no reason.

I undressed in my office and put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt that I found in a storage box of summer clothes. Then I went to the kitchen and took the restaurant menus out of the drawer and tried to decide what I was in the mood to eat for dinner.

“This time you’re getting help.”

Paula’s voice startled me. I hadn’t heard her leave the bedroom.

Looking back down at the menu from a Japanese restaurant, I said, “I’m not going to talk to you when you’re acting crazy.”

“I’m not going to go through this again.”

“I told you—I had one drink with a client. I can have one fucking drink without you making a big deal about it.”

“You’re starting again—with the lies, the denial . . .”

I tried to step past her, to get to the phone, but she was blocking me.

“It can’t just be all about work,” she said. “It must have to do with me.”

“You want sushi?” I asked.

She grabbed the receiver.

“Let go,” I said.

“You’re going to A.A.”

“Let
go
!” I yanked harder and she released her grip.

“I wish you could see yourself right now,” she said, her face turning pink. “It’s like you’re a different person. I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“Oh, stop with your fucking melodrama. What do you want to eat?”

She turned away.

“I’m ordering sushi,” I said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’ll put yours in the fridge if you won’t eat it.”

After I ordered the food, I walked away into the living room and sat down on the couch and turned on the TV. Most of the effects of the alcohol had worn off, but I still felt slightly dizzy, especially sitting down.

A few minutes later Paula came into the living room and said, “It would make this much easier if you just admitted you have a problem.”

“
You’re
the one with the problem.”

“You keep everything to yourself. You think if you keep it a secret it doesn’t matter.”

“Look who’s talking about secrets. Who were you really having lunch with today?”

I was just trying to make a comeback, win a stupid point in an argument, but when I saw a flash of fear cross Paula’s face I knew I’d hit on something.

“Why are you trying to change the subject?” she said.

“It was just a question. Why can’t you answer it?”

Now Paula was looking down guiltily.

“I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d make a big deal about it,” she said. “And now you’re
going
to make a big deal about it even though there’s nothing to make a big deal about.”

“What are you talking about?”

She looked at me, absorbing my gaze for a few moments, then said confidently, “I had lunch with Doug today.”

“So you lied to me,” I said.

“I didn’t lie.”

“You said you were having lunch with fucking Debbie.”

“See? I knew you were going to blow this way out of proportion. It was nothing—nothing at all. Doug called me up at work today and wanted to meet. It turns out his firm has been recommending a company that I’ve done some research on— he wanted to get together to talk about it. I’m sorry I lied to you on the phone, but I knew you’d get upset and I didn’t know what else to say. But that really was stupid of me and I’m sorry.”

“So this was a
business
lunch?” I said.

“Yeah. I guess it was.”

“You guess?”

“Come on, Richard, don’t—”

“Did you fuck him?”

“
What?
”

“It was a simple question.” I said slowly, “Did . . . you . . . fuck . . . him?”

“You’re sick.”

She started to walk away. I stood in front of her, blocking her.

“Get out of my way.”

Trying to restrain myself, I took a long, deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment.

“I want to trust you right now,” I said. “I really want to trust you.”

“I don’t know how we started talking about this anyway,” she said. “This has nothing to do with me. This has to do with you and your drinking. You’re just trying to turn it into something else.”

“You still didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

“Did you fuck him?”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Did you fuck him?”

“Stop it!”

“Did you fuck him?”

“Shut up!”

I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.

“Did you fuck him? Did you fuck him? Did you fuck him?!”

“No!”

She tried to get away, to leave the living room, but I grabbed her again. She was struggling, pushing with her hands to get free. She turned toward the hallway. I didn’t realize how close she was to the corner of the wall between the hallway and the living room. I also didn’t realize how hard I pushed her. She stumbled backward, turning to brace herself, and the side of her head banged hard against the corner. For a moment or two she stood still, stunned, then she broke free and ran down the hallway into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.