On the Verge (28 page)

After dinner we decide to go to a bar around the corner. It usually has shitty live bands. The bar is loud and shaking, it’s a country band. We all get drinks. Roseanne hasn’t quite let the Lone Star State go, because she keeps trying to sing along to the music and saying, “It’s your music, Tabitha, the music of your past. If you don’t like it, kiss my—” but of course she doesn’t finish. She’s pretty entertaining for the two of us, who somehow aren’t quite as drunk yet. Roseanne meanders through the crowd.

After a time, Tabitha looks over my head toward the bar. “Is that who I think it is, talking to Roseanne?”

I turn to look. “Zeke.” Of course he has to be looking my way that very minute, and our eyes meet. We both look away. It’s stupid. Of all days, today.

“You have to save her, Eve.” Sadly, Roseanne looks like she’s enjoying talking to him. It hurts me more than it will hurt her, knowing the bad luck she’s had lately. “You can do it, Eve, you’re the woman. Besides, it’ll be good for him to see what he missed out on. You’re doing it tonight, Mommy.” I walk up to Zeke and Roseanne.

“Hey, Zeke.” He does a poor job of feigning surprise.

“Oh, hi, uh, Eve.” He needs to stop pretending he can’t remember my name.

“Hey, you know my roommate?” Roseanne asks. “Oh, my
gosh, oh, my gosh, I know who this is. Oh, wow!” Exactly what I didn’t want—like I’ve been pining for him all this time.

“Roseanne, Tabitha needs to talk to you right away about macramé.”

“Really,” Roseanne says, truly shocked. I watch her stumble away.

“So, what’s up?” I turn my attention back to Zeke. I can tell his wanna-be friends are intrigued. He is plainly enjoying this.

“You know, just catching some tunes.” Eww, he may be cute, but was he always this much cheese? “My friend’s the drummer in this band.”

“Exciting.” I think that was a little too sarcastic. “So what have you been up to?”

“Just writing, you know, everything else is useless.”

“Yeah, the book, right.” I’m waiting for him to ask me about myself because, you know, that’s what people do. I should set an example. “Are you still working in A&R?”

“Oh, no, that was taking too much out of me. I’m somewhere else. It’s just a day job, finance. I get to write all day and that’s what I need to be an artist.”

“An artist, huh?” He shakes his head at me, like he’s remembering my ignorance and pities me for being this way. But, I’ve got him all figured out, he was just temping for some A&R place, creating himself, like I do. I can’t fault him for that, but I can for actually
believing
he’s an artist.

“My art is what defines me.” I laugh, because, c’mon, has he listened to himself sound so obnoxious?

“Well, have you sold anything, Zeke?”

“Eve, it isn’t about money, you just don’t get it.”

“Whatever, Zeke, I’m doing okay, thanks for asking. Have fun with your art.” I walk away. When I get back to the table I recount the story, for some reason, I guess alcohol, we start talking about the suffix “ist.” We name all the professions we know that end in “ist” thrilling each other with words like “anesthesiologist” and “linguist” which no one is sure about (hey, sometimes, these things are funny).

“I don’t care, maybe I’m dense,” I say, cracking them both up, “but, I don’t think anyone can be an artist unless they are somehow getting paid or recognition or something other than a pat on the back from their own hand. Otherwise, everyone would be an artist. Do you think I’m being too critical? Adrian thinks I’m too
critical.” I’m beginning to feel bitterness and an alcohol flood coming on.

“Mother of God.” Tabitha puffs her cigarette.

“A criticist,” says Roseanne, giggling uncontrollably.

“Eve, it’s New York. Everyone thinks they’re an artist, you almost have to be.”

“So is that an excuse?” I’m talking to Tabitha because Roseanne is too busy saying “criticist, criticist” over and over. “I don’t think you can consider yourself something unless you get paid. Well, if I had a job like a bartender and I painted on the side, I would say I was a bartender and I painted. Not a painter.”

“A paintist,” says Roseanne.

“Right,” I say. “I think all these artists need to get a dose of reality and realize that they aren’t artists, they actually suck. And some might wonder who am I to say these things, because I may want to be a writer, but I haven’t written in a million years. But I admit it and I don’t know who I am. Hopefully more than an assistant, although I guess my own definition has come back to bite me in the ass. So what am I?”

“Mother of God. Look, enough of this heavy conversation, I’m going to go to Krispy Kreme. I need something I can count on.”

“But, Tabitha,” says Roseanne, finally serious, “what are we?” Tabitha looks at us and puts her hands on our arms. She leans into the table and we do the same.

“All right, I’ll tell you, but I swear, I’m going to Krispy Kreme after that. We,” she shouts, “are fabulists.”

Herb asks me to see about ordering lunch for a meeting on Monday. Right away, I start to imagine my conversation with a laughing Jennifer Hoya, but Herb assures me that we already have a meeting space available. He suggests I order lunch for a larger number than I usually have, because the folks from
Yoga for Life
are going to be with us. That’s kind of strange. The man wants me to work miracles, but of course I tell him I can do it. I get an e-mail from some random YFL assistant.

I guess I should have been tipped off when Herb was wearing a suit instead of his usual khakis, but I wasn’t. I’ve been trying to
pay less attention to him. My first clue that something’s wrong is that Rob King is cc’ed. As far as I know he’s still in Jackson-fuckingville, probably forcing some woman to call him “Papa Bear.” Maybe it’s going to be a public outing of our relationship. Maybe he’s gathering everyone together, so he can declare his love for me, in front of everyone. More likely it has to do with the list I almost saw, but didn’t. For some reason, everyone keeps coming up to me throughout the morning and asking me what the meeting is about. Lacey Matthews is the most obnoxious one.

“Well, aren’t you friends with Rob King?” She’s proud of herself, like she’s busted me.

“Don’t you aspire to be friends with Herb? Ask him.” That sends her away. I’m all set to tell Jim that I don’t know anything about the meeting when he comes up to me, but all he wants is to see if he can expense a meatball sandwich from the Italian deli. I tell him that he should be grateful he gets his lunch paid for and if he doesn’t like the “prissy pants” food that we have, he can look elsewhere for lunch. I don’t mind being rude anymore, it’s kind of fun.

There is a sense of urgency in the meeting room, demonstrated by the slight restraint people use in getting their food. The
Bicycle Boy
staff and the
Yoga for Life
staff look at each other suspiciously. People are whispering to each other about people they know who were recently canned. The women from
Angry Beavers
got very angry and apparently threatened some huge lawsuit at Prescott himself if any changes took place.

The
Yoga for Life
assistant is a very pregnant woman named Elise. She and I shrug at each other. When we are opening up more of the food, she whispers in my ear, “I could give a rat’s ass about what they say, my maternity leave starts next week.”

“I could just give,” I say. It makes me wish I had a baby or some other excuse for being so disinterested. Herb comes in with Rob. I haven’t seen him since he was standing at his door with my lipstick smeared on his face. He looks good. Our eyes meet and he sort of nods at me. I want him, I can’t help it. I take a bite of my pita.

Jarvis Mitchell, who’s in charge of all the sports division magazines, comes in with a woman I don’t recognize—it isn’t his assistant. His presence means it’s serious. You can feel the collective concern. Everyone falls quiet.

Jarvis is a guy with longish graying hair and a beard. He is a thinker, everyone says, like so many other men in power at Pres
cott, he likes to imagine procedures that he thinks would work and then implement them without really considering the people they affect. He is usually very removed from the situations and people he makes policy for.

“Hi, everyone. First of all, I want to say that despite a lot of rumors, no one is losing their jobs. You’re all doing great work, circulation is up tenfold, our advertisers are happy. The sweepstakes we did in
Yoga for Life
gave us a much better handle on our readers and although it’s a new magazine, we are quite pleased with how its doing. In fact, I can assure all of you that it’s been noted all the way up to the top of Prescott Nelson. Let’s give
Yoga for Life
a round of applause.” Everyone starts clapping. If I were them, and it were my career on the line, I would be a lot more careful with how I tossed out my applause. I notice that the woman who came in with Jarvis is clapping most enthusiastically. I think he is setting them up for the big shock. I look over at Rob. He is staring down at his papers, but looks up and catches me. He knows what’s really going on.

“Of course a blueprint for success was set up by
Bicycle Boy.
If you want to talk about a magazine with a huge circulation and a great look, with critical acclaim for presenting information that is intelligent and thought-provoking, it’s
Bicycle Boy.
We manage to get the information out there and that’s got a lot to do with Herb, who commandeers the magazine in such an original way. We’ve definitely gone for an edgier feel and started including a lot more issues pertaining to women into the magazine. With some publications, changes like this cause readers to be confused for a while. In this case it hasn’t hurt our circulation at all. In fact our demographic has opened up quite a bit.

“I know a lot of people in this room have been feeling anxious about these changes. It’s never easy to see something you take pride in going through such a big change. But, it’s a lot like a cocooning process.” Oh, no, I smell acid flashback. Am I going to be subjected to boring analogies? I look over at Rob, he’s transfixed until he catches my eye. I quickly look away and try to emulate his look. Why am I such an asshole?

“A lot of women who were reading us initially are even more thrilled to discover that now we’re talking to them. We haven’t suffered a bit for the changes. That truly is a victory.” The woman with Jarvis Mitchell starts clapping immediately. (Who is she?) She is outdone in enthusiasm by Lacey Matthews, who believes
that she is single-handedly responsible for attracting those women readers.

“Also, I think, it’s important for us to start thinking globally. The sales of our international
Bicycle Boy
branches are down, this may be because they don’t have as fearless or talented a leader abroad as we do here.” Jarvis takes a moment to look over at Herb, who eats it up. I’m going to get sick, but no matter what I won’t look at Rob again.

“What we’ve got planned is very exciting. Before I get to it, I’d like to introduce Mabel to everyone. Mabel Karavassian, meet our group.” I hate when people give the impression that we are like one huge collective or one big happy family. “Mabel is here to help us understand some of the changes we’ll be going through.” No one is too keen on the word “changes” and I wish Jarvis would get to it. I’ve got to call Tabitha.

“Hi, everyone,” says Mabel, looking at each and every one of us before she continues. Then her face breaks in to a smile. “We’ve got a lot to discuss before the end of today. We’ve been doing a lot of thinking throughout the company to try and centralize everything that’s going on. I know a lot of these changes are going to seem…” she pauses for a long time as if she hasn’t already thought this all out in her head “…strange, but I can tell you with a lot of honesty and integrity—” more looking around “—that it’s a very positive step.”

“What we’re going to do is visionary,” says Jarvis, taking back the focus. It’s like they went to some kind of meeting school. “We’re going to start a new magazine.”

Jarvis lets that sink in a moment. It’s kind of like one of those courtroom dramas where everybody starts buzzing because they disagree with the verdict. Everybody is all excited and starts talking. Except, no one is talking to me and of course I have to sneak a peak at Rob, who’s staring at me. I feel like an even bigger loser for not having any friends to buzz to.

“We expect lots of questions and concerns. We hope this new magazine will be a hybrid of the spirit of the magazine we’ve already got. We have no intention of taking either of the magazines out of circulation; in fact, we know the magazines will evolve as this new one does. We have decided to call the magazine
Breathe.
We want it to be that intrinsic.” What the hell is he talking about?

“We expect a transition period, but I am confident that you will be pleased with the eventual result. By year end, we should all be quite adjusted.” Year end? That’s ten months away. There is no
way it’s going to take that long. Jarvis looks over at Mabel, who smiles at him. “Mabel, thank you.”

Mabel puts a chart on the projector. Jarvis steps up immediately to prevent any misconceptions. The chart is pretty dramatic. A lot of people’s names are on it in different places than one might think. In addition to everyone’s current jobs, there are new responsibilities. It appears that some of the
Yoga for Life
people will have more senior roles than
Bicycle Boy
’s staff.

“In reality, we’ve just put a lot of the creative names in slots that we think would be ideal. Some of you have been stuck in a creative rut for a while and we hoped this would breathe some new life into our jobs. We are just trying to set the groundwork up for you. We plan on meeting with you several times over the next few weeks to iron out the processes. Now I think we should open it up for questions.”