On the Verge (7 page)

“What?” This time I actually turn and look at him. Now, I have a very long desk that is sort of in the middle of a bunch
of offices and cubes, but the receptionist sits in the elevator lobby. “I am not a receptionist! I am a department assistant. Big difference!” Brian walks away with his head hanging. Good riddance. But this raises another more serious question, do I really seem like a receptionist? Image is everything. What if I give off a receptionist image? I call Tabitha.

“If you seem like a receptionist, I seem like a receptionist, and I am certainly not a receptionist.” Tabitha has the same desk that I do and sits in almost the exact same position.

“Do you think it’s the desk? Is that what makes us seem like receptionists?”

“Hey, Eve, don’t clump me into the reception pool. It’s this shitty intern who is ignorant of the ways of Prescott Nelson. Don’t let it bother you. That’s the problem with these interns—they waltz in here with these ideals and think they can run the company.”

“Well, Tabitha, so do we.”

“Well, we can.”

“But here is the question, is there any more dignity in being an assistant than a receptionist?”

“Ah, the conundrum,” says Tabitha as my other line beeps.

“Hold on.” Tabitha sighs as if by putting her on hold I have ruined her day. “Eve Vitali.”

“Eve, Zeke.” Wow!

“Zeke! Hold on, I’m on the other line.”

“Is this a bad time I could—”

“No, I’m just finishing. Hold on.” I click back to Tabitha, who is incidentally singing a Spice Girls’ song, although she stops quickly when she hears me. “Hey, Slutty Spice, that’s Zeke.”

“Return of the Ape Man.”

“Thanks for consoling me about the receptionist thing.” I click back to Zeke. “Hi.” I will be strong. He can’t just decide not to call me and get away with it.

“Oh, Eve,” he growls. I might weaken a little. (I know, I know, but remember, I have needs, too.) “God, I’ve missed you.”

“Really.”

“I had to go to L.A. to check out a band.” I reminisce about why I first liked him. Say ’bye, ’bye receptionist, my carriage awaits. I can get over the hair, I know I can.

“How was it?”

“Oh, you know L.A.” I don’t, but someday I’d like to. “It’s good to be home.”

“Yeah.”

“So, Eve, can I see you?”

I agree to meet Zeke for Jamaican food. I must admit that he has a knack for picking restaurants. Tabitha thinks this signifies a chronic dater, but she gave me her blessing, because I might as well keep on getting some after my long drought. Roseanne wasn’t thrilled about spending the night alone with my parents watching “Nick at Nite,” but she agreed to corroborate my working late story. This being the only reason my mother would accept for not being a proper host to Roseanne.

Anyway, Zeke has on a dizzying shirt. It has black and white swirls and I wonder if he thinks it will hasten my drunkenness. Again, I intend to stand firm.

“Eve.” He gets up and kisses me (yes, on the lips). It’s not one of those gushy kisses—it’s worse. It’s one of those “we have something that won’t be cheapened by saliva, so let me take your face in my hands as if it is an exquisite jewel and kiss you with just a hint of the passion that will hopefully not explode all over the dinner table” kiss. You know the ones? Anyway, it’s troubling.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. Everything,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s great to see you. You look beautiful.”

“Thanks.” Standing firm. Unsinkable. We sit down.

The waitress arrives and places Jamaican beer in front of both of us.

“I ordered for us,” he says, taking my hand. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Uh, no.” Well, I guess I don’t mind. What I mind is the way he is sniffing my hand.

“You smell good, Eve, real good.” I have to wonder if my life just got scripted by soap opera writers. I look around for a camera.

“Are you looking for someone?”

“No.”

“Good, because I just want us to focus on each other.”

“Well, I’m starved. Let’s check out the menu.” I break free from him. I feel him watching me, but I ignore it. I take a sip of my beer.

“Eve,” he says. I look at him. He looks intensely at me and smiles. “I can’t wait to taste you again.” Yes! He says that. I feel yucky. I have a serious uh-oh feeling.

“Okay.” Straight back to the menu. I get the jerk chicken.

When the food arrives Zeke is telling me about the book he is
writing. He is writing it from the perspective of a thirty-five-year-old, Korean-African-American single mother.

“But, it’s different, very stream of consciousness. Very…I don’t know, how do I say it…?” he pauses as if thinking. Something tells me he has given this very same explanation a hundred times. “…well, I like to think poetic.”

“That’s interesting, Zeke—” I take a bite of my chicken and chew almost as thoughtfully “—but I thought the idea was to write what you know.”

From Zeke’s expression, I assume no one has ever discussed this with him before.

“Eve, that’s so oppressive. Why should I let my writing be defined by limits, by archaic rules. I understand this woman, I feel I’ve gotten her. That’s what being an artist is. I feel a side of me opening up. It’s an amazing release. It transcends everything.”

“Does it?” We eat our meals for a while. The waitress brings more beer. I’m pacing myself. Zeke is really quiet. No amount of sexual eating will pull him out of it. He’s not even watching me. The silence is so awkward, I actually run my tongue over the chicken before I put it in my mouth. It does nothing. When he isn’t talking, I kind of enjoy looking at him, and what the hell, I’m horny. (Yeah, yeah, I know what I said.)

“So, what should we do now? Do you want to get a drink?”

“Eve, I think I am ready to get the check and call it a night.” What?

“What?”

“I just don’t think it’s going to work between us.” Really.

“Really?”

He takes my hand again, this time almost pityingly. “You just don’t seem to get my work.”

“The A&R stuff? What’s to get?”

“No, Eve, not my job. No, my writing, my art.”

“What, that book?”

“It’s a huge part of me, and it’s clear by your ignorance that you’ll never understand.” Is he being serious? “I cared for you, Eve, but I realize you will never support me and that is a big issue.” The big issue I think I am starting to realize is that I am not going to have sex this evening and who knows how long it will be again.

“Zeke, maybe you’re getting a little excited.”

“That’s just it, Eve! You don’t understand!” He actually slams his hand on the table when he says this. Several diners turn to
look at us. The waitress hurries over to see if she can get us the check.

“Yes, get the check.” I offer Zeke money, but he won’t take it. I was going to head to Tabitha’s, but in the absence of a good lay, I think I want nothing more than my own bed. Zeke gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and hops in a cab.

I ride home alone on the bus, because I missed the train. Again. This pathetic feeling is reason enough to move out.

My parents and Rosie are circled around the TV. I assure my mother I took a car home and Rosie seems a little too smug, knowing my date must have gone dreadfully wrong.

I go up to my room and feign sleep when Rosie comes in. She says my name, but I ignore her. Wasn’t I beautiful? Didn’t I taste delicious and eat sexily? What happened to all that? One blast of reality and Zeke is a goner.

We should have gone for Italian, I would have done wonders with spaghetti.

I don’t talk to Roseanne about Zeke for a few days. She’s got her own problems stressing about a job and searching for an apartment. I found this one on the Net and convinced her we should go after I got out of work. I’ve taken a new policy of “don’t ask, don’t tell.” If she gets a job she will undoubtedly tell me. Until then I will neither inquire about her search, nor offer constructive criticism about things like not wearing such a glossy lipstick or how much nicer her black pantsuit looks than the cotton-lycra skirt set.

The Realtor, Craig, gives us a little attitude about being late for our appointment. There was a subway delay. I give him attitude right back. Roseanne says nothing. I hope she isn’t this quiet and miserable on job interviews, but remember, I am beyond advice.

The apartment is not exactly near the subway, but I guess it’s still considered “in the vicinity.” Craig is very elusive about this apartment. Since Roseanne won’t talk (again), I have to be the spokeswoman. “So how is the place?”

“It’s great and so charming.” Okay, small—I gathered that from the ad. And I am sure the advertised EIK (that’s Eat In Kitchen, for you nonresidents) is minuscule. Craig chats up the apartment all the way there. He must feel guilty about the ridiculous fee that Realtors charge and somehow hopes to feel like he’s earning his money. Whatever.

We turn onto this nice block. I’m not jazzed about the Upper
East Side and the only reason I’m checking out this place is because I feel bad about making Rosie do all this work in her fragile state. Despite all the telltale signs from the ad that it would suck (EIK, charming, 1BR converted, prewar), I suggested we check it out so I could put in some effort.

We stop at a really nice brownstone. I am fighting that hopeful feeling but, I can’t help thinking that this could be it. I look to Rosie, who is staring at the cracks in the sidewalk. I didn’t want to do this alone. I take a deep breath.

“Okay,” says Craig, stopping in front of the building, beginning his hard sell. “Now, it will be painted before you move in.” Don’t get too far ahead of yourself there, buddy. But, wait, he is headed downstairs! Downstairs? No one said anything about a basement apartment.

He opens the door to one of the tiniest apartments I have ever seen. Maybe if Rosie and I were Siamese twins we might have an enjoyable life here, but we’d probably also have a book deal and do the talk show circuit and could afford to live somewhere else. One bedroom converted? Converted to what? Two tiny closets? Yes, you can eat in the kitchen. The kitchen, the living room and the “converted” bedrooms are one big room. If you plan on eating in the apartment, you will virtually always be in the kitchen.

“Feel free to look around,” says Craig encouragingly. There is nothing I need to look at; the entire apartment is right in my field of vision. Including the bathroom. Craig must read my mind. “They’re definitely going to put the bathroom door on before you move in.”

That’s reassuring. I look at Rosie. She is turning a color I’ve never quite seen before. “There is no way in hell I will ever live in this doody apartment.” Rosie starts out slowly, but I can see it getting worse. That’s pretty crass for her.

Craig looks shocked—as shocked as I am. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, this is ridiculous. How much are you charging for this place? Fourteen hundred? The worst part is some schmuck is actually going to pay.” I note her use of “schmuck.”

“Listen, miss, I don’t where you’re from, but this is New York.”

“This is garbage!” Wow! Craig can’t believe it, either. He sweeps his arm around the tiny apartment and up toward the barred window that is barely street level.

“Where in New York do you think you will get a view like this one?”

Rosie shakes her head and physically grabs me and pulls me out of the apartment. As we’re out the door she turns back towards him and shouts.

“Up your ass!” Those are the harshest I’ve ever heard from those lips. I am holding on to the wall of the brownstone, so I won’t fall over laughing. What balls! The well-dressed people walking by will probably have us arrested for loitering, but I can’t stop laughing. My stomach starts to hurt and I am about to cry from the hysteria. I look at Rosie, expecting the same, but she really is crying, sobbing and it takes me by surprise.

“Roseanne.” I touch her shoulder. “Are you okay?” She doesn’t speak for a while. She shakes her head and keeps trying to stop.

“I’ve gone through two thousand dollars in three weeks.”

“How?”

“Little things—drinks, food—I swear I’ve only bought like one skirt and it wasn’t that. Just little things. It wouldn’t be a big deal if I were working, but what if I go through my entire savings and still don’t have a job? We are going to have to put a deposit down on the apartment. What am I going to do?”

“You are going to get a job.”

“No one has called back for more than a second interview. I was even thinking of putting in a résumé at Prescott.”

“Well, you should. I believe sooner or later everyone works for Uncle Pres.”

“And I just roam around the streets of New York all day, which would be great if I were on vacation, but I feel guilty, like I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“I know.” But I don’t.

“And today, you know how it rained this morning? Well, I went to The Virgin Megastore and I was reading and I just sort of fell asleep. One of the employees woke me up and told me I wasn’t allowed to sleep there. Like I was freaking homeless or something.” Wow! What do you say to that? There’s really only one thing.

“Let’s get a drink.”

We wind up back in the Village in a dark little bar. There is nothing like drowning your sorrows in the creature. I foot the bill. It’s the least I can do. I opt not to call Tabitha, although she loves this place and she’ll kill me if she finds out we’re here without her. I attempt to console Roseanne. “We just have to keep a positive attitude.”

“I know, but, I can’t stand another dead interview and I can’t stand another ‘charming’ apartment. What the heck is prewar, anyway?”

“No idea. But, there’s a guy looking at you.” Okay, I’m lying, he’s not. But Roseanne is pretty in that All-American way, which really means Northern European. (I only know that because of my sister’s Social Politics master.) She also is an exercise junkie. Anyway, I know I shouldn’t have, but if she just makes eye contact with this guy, it might work wonders for her self-confidence. Besides, he looks real cheesy and Tabitha thinks that’s totally Rosie’s type. I tend to agree.

“He is not.” She checks him out quickly. This is called setting the bait, he definitely saw her. These meat market games are so freshman year, but times are tough. The girl needs love. Within minutes, said guy comes over to us with his fat friend. They buy us drinks.