Pounding the Pavement (14 page)

That’s what it’s all about.

J
ake and I have both been so pleased with our latest movie selection we have absolutely nothing to say to each other when we leave the theater. Instead, we light up our cigarettes and smoke quietly, as if to speak would be to fully dissolve the lingering cloud of movie magic—to disintegrate the halo of the projector still scorched on our retinas, to deafen the hum of the closing song still teasing our eardrums.

“Such a lost art, huh?” says Jake, snuffing out his cigarette. And with it, the last glimmer of our star-studded haze.

“What? Musicals?”

“No. Making good movies.”

I sadly nod my concurrence.

“Did you want to get dinner?”

“Nah, I’m not really hungry.” I mash my cigarette under my heel. “But you know what I could really go for? A big, fruity margarita.”

Jake beams. “I know just the place.”

He takes me to a Mexican restaurant around the corner that is more Tijuana than Cancun. The menu is somber, without the unnecessary distractions of tacos wearing sombreros or a cowboy riding a jalapeño. And the choices are standard:
pollo, carne
, or
cerveza
. Our request for margaritas is considered such an extravagance, the bartender hoots and rolls up his sleeves, preparing the concoction with unparalleled flair.

Approximately two margaritas and a bowl of chips later, Jake
suggests another round and I pretend to turn the idea over in my head for a bit before I finally agree. He signals the bartender with the universal sign for
“dos.”

“All right,” Jake says, as soon as our glasses are refilled. “I gotta question for ya.”

“Shoot.”

“Best movie ending ever?”

My first instinct is, of course, to say
The Graduate
. But it’s such an obvious choice. I rattle my brain to come up with something more impressive.

“Oh, okay, I got it!” I take a hearty sip of the margarita. “You see
The Italian Job?”

“Original or remake?”

I roll my eyes. “Original.”

“Yeah?”

“At the end, when Michael Caine says, ‘Hang on lads, I’ve got a great idea’? That’s perfect! All movies should end that way.”

“Not bad,” Jake nods appreciatively.

“And you?”

“Well, I know everyone says the same thing.” He shrugs. “But I gotta go with
The Graduate.”

“Sucker.”

“Okay, well, what about best movie opening?”

“That’s too easy.
Hudsucker Proxy
. When Waring Hudsucker steps up on the conference table and takes a running leap out of the window. Yours?”

“Hands down,
Wild at Heart
. When Nic Cage bashes that guy’s head in? You know, when I went to see that movie in the theater, they were offering full refunds to anyone who walked out within the first ten minutes.”

“No shit. Did they do it?”

“Walk out? Hell, yeah. As soon as the guy’s brains were on the floor, the theater was totally empty.”

“Some people,” I shake my head scornfully. “They wouldn’t know genius if it … if it …”

“Bashed their brains out?”

“Exactly.”

“Tell me about it.” He polishes off his drink. “One last round?”

“Sure.”

Four margaritas and no dinner is never a good idea. It occurs to me, as I slurp down the last sip, that I might be sucking on the very straw that disabled the proverbial camel. I don’t realize just how drunk I am until the bill arrives and I make a mad dash for my purse.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jake says, fishing for his wallet.

“No, no, I insist.” I zip open my purse and accidentally spill its entire contents onto the floor. “Shit!”

Jake giggles. “You need help?”

“I got it!” I shriek, fumbling on the floor, trying to reel in a tube of lipstick before it rolls out of range. I manage to clumsily restuff my bag only after Jake has settled the tab.

“Here,” he offers me his hand. I grab onto the cuffs of his sleeves and let him hoist me up.

There are three steps that lead down from the bar to the street. Were I left to my own devices, I would happily get on my knees and climb down. Jake, however, keeps a firm grip on my elbow and leads me to the bottom, one step at a time. When we reach the street, he tries to steady me.

“You got it?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” I straighten, wobble slightly, then find my balance. I grin with supreme confidence. “All good.”

He studies me curiously. “You know, you’ve got great teeth.”

“ ’Scuse me?”

“I’m sorry. My grandfather was a dentist. I tend to notice these things. You had braces?”

“Four years,” I say proudly.

“Wow.” He whistles. “They did a hell of a job.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean it. You’ve got a beautiful smile.” The edges of his grin dip unexpectedly. He leans in. Closer, then closer still. His face soon becomes a blur. My powers of observation being anything but keen, I have no idea he is going in for a kiss until his lips are upon mine. And I didn’t even purse.

His mouth is warm. And surprisingly soft. To look at him, he seems like such a manly man, so strong and so tough, I half-expected his lips would feel like concrete and kissing him would be a lot like slurping ice cream off cement. Instead, it is more like sucking a milkshake out of a curly straw. I want to consume every last drop of him.

We pull apart finally for desperate gulps of air. I rub my temples, trying to thwart off a bad case of brain freeze.

“Look,” says Jake, carefully taking my hands in his. “There’s a question I want to ask you and I hope it doesn’t, you know, freak you out.”

“Don’t tell me.” I squint to keep his head from floating. “You want to start seeing movies with me exclusively? Sorry, but I’m not ready for that kind of a commitment.”

“I want to know what you’re doing this weekend.”

“Does the new James Bond open? ’Cause if it does, I can’t go with you. I already promised it to my friend Laurie. And, as a general rule, I don’t movie cheat.”

“Be serious for a moment, okay?”

“Okay.”

“A friend of mine is getting married this weekend in Boston. I wanted to know if you’d come to the wedding with me.”

“Yes!”

I should have paused. I should have taken a moment, at the very least, to consider the implications, to understand this isn’t just an invitation to enjoy a well-deserved, getaway vacation. It’s an invitation to spend an entire weekend—and maybe even a hotel room!—with an incredibly appealing man.

I shouldn’t have sounded so eager.

Jake arches an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. I love weddings!” I’ve been to two in my life. I was the flower girl for both.

“Huh.” He slowly releases my wrists. “Great. ’Cause, see, my ex-girlfriend was supposed to come with me. And, well, I hadn’t really given it much thought since we broke up. But, I think I put her down for the filet mignon. Do you like filet mignon?”

“Who doesn’t like filet mignon?”

“Vegetarians.”

Right.

He drops my hands. “Let’s see if we can hail a cab.” He steps onto the curb with two fingers outstretched.

A taxi pulls up at once. Jake holds open the door for me and I leap in excitedly, scurrying to the far end of the seat.

He hovers in the frame of the open door. I look up at him expectantly. This time, I’m pursing.

He heaves a deep sigh. “Good night, Sarah.” He leans in and pecks me affectionately on the lips. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

He steps away and closes the cab door behind him.

    Am I in love with Jake? I’m certainly in love with him this week. I love Jake because for the first time in six months, I’m busy. So exuberantly busy! I’ve returned to my daily gym schedule. And two days ago, Amanda handed me over a gift certificate she received last Christmas for a cut and a coloring at a new downtown hair salon (she’s a fierce devotee to Bumble & Bumble and wouldn’t dream of having her tresses sullied by unknown hands). And because unemployment allows for both the means and the motive for plenty of bargain-hunting, I find a fantastic Diane von Furstenberg dress off the rack at Century 21 for a steal. When I describe it over the phone to my mother (low-cut, clingy, almost sheer), she thinks it sounds perfect.

Even Laurie manages to sneak in a long lunch to accompany me to the nail salon for a quick manicure and pedicure. This is at her request, not mine. At my finest hour, I’m still a fidgety, neurotic mess with no nails left to speak of. I will have chewed off all my new nail polish before I even return home.

I’m also a little wary of having people touch my feet. Laurie, on the other hand, lifts up her foot obligingly from the basin beneath her. Her pedicurist attacks it with a loofah. Unfazed, Laurie flips through a magazine, probably hoping to see her picture under the
fashion “Do” column. And fearing she might be featured in the “Don’t.” Either relieved or disappointed to find her photo in neither (I really can’t tell), she tosses the magazine aside and picks up another.

“You want
Lucky
or
Vogue?”
she asks me.

“Neither. I don’t read magazines anymore.”

“Who said anything about reading? I said
Lucky
or
Vogue.”

I shake my head. “Can’t do it. Magazines just make me want to buy stuff I can’t afford. I’d rather not know what’s out there. I’d rather have no taste, no class, and keep myself just above the poverty line.”

“Take
Lucky
then. They’ve got specials in the back.”

“Special deals on crap I don’t even need? That’s even worse. Then I feel obliged to buy it. Uh-uh. Hand me the Post.”

Laurie blinks. “I’m sorry. Did you just ask for the
New York Post?”

“Yup.”

“What, you gonna do the crossword?”

“Better. The blind items.”

“Ah,” she grins. “A girl after my own heart.”

She grabs the paper and generously folds it over to Page Six before handing it to me. “Hey, you ever figure out who the crack-smoking actress on Ludlow Street was?”

“I have my suspicions,” I say coyly as I scan the print. Laurie doesn’t press the issue any further. She flips open her magazine, which somehow prompts a new tangent.

“I can’t believe you’re missing the wrap party this weekend.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks, but I’d probably skip it anyway. I’m getting a little too old to keep crashing your wrap parties.”

She looks up at me scornfully. “Old?”

“You know what I mean. I’m losing my air of mystery. By now,
everybody recognizes me, and they know full well I had nothing to do with the film—”

“But, you did all the painting that day!”

“I would still feel like I’m intruding.”

“You’re nuts.” She flips the page. “If we didn’t want intruders, we’d bring a keg to the set and call it a night. The whole
point
of a wrap party is to have an excuse to invite pretty girls. I bring you, I’m actually doing everyone a favor.”

I snort in response. If anyone really considers me a Pretty Girl, it’s only because I meet the bare minimum requirements. I’m not grossly overweight, I have manageable hair and no major facial distortions. Even my breasts are just large enough to require a bra—but unless it’s padded, I don’t really see the point.

I’m a Pretty Girl when people talk in volumes. If ninety-nine scantily clad women are gyrating their hips on a dance floor, in the dark cellar of a nightclub, under pulsating lights, and I decided to join them—then, yes, you could safely say there were one hundred pretty girls on the dance floor. I am also a Pretty Girl by proximity. If I happen to stand close enough to Laurie, there’s a good chance some of her sex appeal may rub off on me. If it’s Amanda, I might even be able to adopt some semblance of her haughty glamor. But that’s about it.

“Besides,” Laurie continues, ripping a page out of the magazine and palming it in her jean jacket. “Andy Dick might be there.”

“Oh, no, Laurie, please don’t make out with Andy Dick. I’m not capable of helping you through a psychological ordeal of that magnitude.”

“Eww!” She shudders. “I’m not going to make out with Andy Dick!”

“Thank God.”

“I have my eye on Roald.”

“No!” I swat at her magazine, demanding her full attention. She doesn’t give it to me. “The cameraman?”

“He’s not the cameraman. He’s the
director of photography.”

“The German?”

“He’s Flemish.”

“But he’s insane!”

“He’s an
artist.”

“Does he even speak English?”

“Just barely.” She folds the magazine over and studies the starlets on red carpets. “I think he’s really sexy.”

“Is it the accent? Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for something that obvious.”

“It’s not the accent. It’s the integrity. It’s the artistic vision. It’s the—” She cuts herself off and frowns, holding up the magazine to show me Jennifer Lopez’s latest fashion mishap. I glance at it briefly, with no particular interest.

“It’s what?” I persist.

“Hmmm?” She continues to sift through the pictures. “Oh, you know. DP’s are just such bad boys. I can’t help it. I just find that irresistible.”

“Well, as long as you know what you’re doing.”