Pounding the Pavement (18 page)

“I’m Jake.” He casts me a sideways glance.

Amanda looks him over. “I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” She yawns and stretches her arms over her head, exposing the soft, supple hollow below her rib cage. “Do you wanna drink? I think there might still be beer in the fridge.” She tosses her blonde locks. “You look like a beer drinker to me.”

Whether or not Jake knows it—whether or not Amanda knows it—this is definitely a test. And he better pass it.

“I’m good,” says Jake. I exhale with relief and grab his elbow, leading him to my bedroom.

“Good night, Amanda,” I say deliberately. I close my bedroom door behind me.

Jake turns his back and unloads the contents of his pockets onto my desk. He pulls out car keys from the front pocket, a cell phone from his back pocket. He fishes out a handful of change from yet another pocket. Then it’s assorted credit cards, more coins. No wonder boys don’t carry purses. How deep do those pockets go?

“So.” He stacks his quarters into a neat little pile. “Where’d you meet her?” he asks, jerking his head at the door.

Great. Amanda. My favorite topic of conversation. I kick off my shoes and sink down on the bed, waiting for Jake to join me. He opts for the Aeron instead.

“Oh, you know. We knew each other in high school. Vaguely. Then we bumped into each other one fateful day at Starbucks, summer after college. Found out we’d both be moving to the same city … and, well, one thing led to another—”

“Sounds romantic.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“How long you been living together, then?”

“I dunno. Three years?”

He whistles. “Wow!”

“What? You don’t like her?”

“I’m sorry. I know I judge people too quickly. Does that offend you?”

Offend me?

“No, no,” I say. “I’m the same the way. It’s just that, I mean, a lot of guys think she’s cute—”

“Seems to me
she’s
the one who thinks she’s so cute. But I can see how some guys would fall for that. Most men will believe anything a girl tells them.”

“But not guys like you?”

“Definitely not guys like me.”

He doesn’t like Amanda!

Right then and there, I decide to sleep with him.

Of course, it’s never that easy, and we don’t actually sleep together. Sure, I lean over to kiss him and he not only meets me halfway, he leaps out of the chair and onto my bed and crawls on top of me. We giggle and wiggle, and somehow or another, I end up on top of him, and in the process, we kick over the sheets and the pillows fall off the side of the bed.

But before the belt is unfastened, I stop. I roll away from him with false modesty and fling a troubled arm over my eyes.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“What?” Jake straightens. The look of panic in his eyes almost makes me want to laugh. I bite my tongue. “What’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” I sigh. “It’s not that.” I remove my arm from over my forehead and try to look troubled. “I just worry that this might be wrong for you. I mean, obviously you’ve had a pretty traumatic breakup, and well …” God, I hope I sound even remotely sincere. “I just don’t want you to feel like I’m rushing you into anything you might not be ready for.”

“Hey,” he says, brushing his lips lightly against my shoulder.

“Hey, look at me.” He tilts up my chin and kisses me on the nose. “I’m fine. Really.”

And so, I unfasten his belt. More kissing and groping ensues.

But before the bra is unhooked, he stops. He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. I clutch the sheets around my chest and sit up.

Now what did I do?

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He sighs. “I hate that you said that.”

“What? What did I say?”

“I hate that you think you’re pushing me. I don’t want you to be worried about this in any way. If you don’t think the time is right—I mean, for either of us—then maybe now’s not the time to do this.”

“No, no, no. I’m okay now.”

And so, more kissing, more groping. More hesitation and more indecision. By four o’clock in the morning, we’re both so exhausted, we decide to smoke one last cigarette and go to sleep.

I
wake up in the morning and blink until my sight starts to rack into focus. I can make out Jake’s form perched at the edge of the bed. Seconds later I can tell he’s fully dressed and cradling a phone receiver in the crook between his neck and his shoulder. And then the garbled words of his conversation gradually begin to make sense.

“I’m just running a little late … I had problems returning the rental car. It’s all taken care of now … I’m on my way.” He hangs up.

I stretch my bare arms skyward and yawn loudly.

“You leaving me?”

Jake turns. “I woke you up?”

“Nah, I was up anyway.”

He smiles and crawls toward me. “I’m not leaving just yet.” He runs his finger down the line of my arm. I shiver.

“You cold?” he asks.

“Yeah, a little,” I lie.

He pulls the sheets up to my chin and rubs my shoulders. “Better?”

“Much.”

He leans down to kiss me, a kiss without urgency, a kiss without the fury and panic of impending sex. Just a kiss.

I don’t know how long the kiss lasts. It falls into that strange span of time that is both endless and not long enough. We pull apart sadly and lick our lips. I reach for my discarded shirt on the floor.

“I’ll show you out.”

We linger in the foyer, still kissing. As far as I know, we’ve kissed our way over here. Jake reaches around his back and opens the front door. Reality walks in, tips his hat, and makes himself at home.

We pull apart for good. I’m afraid to ask when I’ll see him again. I’m afraid I’ll sound like too much of a girl.

“Listen,” Jake rubs my arms. “I can’t see you tonight.”

I swallow the lump forming in the back of my throat. “Okay.”

“I have to go back to Brooklyn. I need to feed my cat. But I’ll call you later.”

I nod. He kisses my forehead.

And then he’s gone.

I close the door on an empty hallway and feel myself slowly deflating. The entire stretch of an empty day looms before me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this alone.

Fortunately, though, like Snow White lost in the forest, I do find solace in the form of seven diminutive companions—Lysol, Pine-Sol, Windex, Tilex, Clorox, Pledge, and Swiffer. The plight of a lonely housewife is becoming all too real for me, and it makes me
slightly queasy. Or maybe I should stop inhaling toxic cleaning supplies.

True to his word, Jake calls me when he gets to the office just to say hello. His faraway, disconnected voice only serves to make me feel lonelier.

And then, on top of it all, I get an unexpected phone call only a few minutes later.

“Hello. May I speak to Sarah, please?”

“This is Sarah.”

“Sarah, this is Jeanie. I am calling from Dr. Cohen’s office?”

My heart sinks. Great. As if things weren’t bad enough, now someone is calling to tell me I’m dying. I should have known.

But then I remember—I no longer have health insurance. I haven’t seen a doctor in years. So, for the time being, at least I can rest assured that even if I were dying, no one would be calling to tell me so.

“Oh, hi, Jeanie!” I vamp. “Thanks for so much for calling.” But what for?

“Sure, Sarah. No problem. I would have called sooner, but Dr. Cohen has been very busy lately. He has an opening tomorrow afternoon, though, if you’d like to set up an interview.”

“Tomorrow is fine.” I think. I think real hard. “Where are you located again?”

“We’re on Sixth Avenue between Fifty-sixth and Fifty-seventh Streets?” Jeanie reminds me. I hate to tell her, but it doesn’t sound at all familiar to me. “Oh, and can you e-mail me a copy of your résumé?”

“Of course,” I say. She gives me her e-mail address and we hang up. For a moment, I stare off into space, waiting for my memory to trigger some inkling of recognition.

Dr. Cohen?

The phone still dangles in my hand. I stare at it for a moment. Finally, I suck up the nerve to dial the dreaded number.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mom. Do you know anyone named Dr. Cohen?”

“Nope. Let me check with Dad … Steven!” She shrieks directly into the phone. “Do we know a Dr. Cohen?!”

A third phone line clicks open and enters the fray.

“He’s Carl’s cousin. Remember? At the biomedical firm? He needs a new secretary? How could you have forgotten? Carl pulled so many strings to get you that interview!”

“I’m sorry,” I say, assuming he’s talking to me. “That was a long time ago. It must have slipped my mind.”

“What about getting health insurance? Did that slip your mind too?”

“Dad! I can’t talk now! Dr. Cohen is expecting my résumé.” I hang up. On both parties.

A
ny good interviewee will tell you that you don’t go in cold for an interview. Even the bare minimum of background information is absolutely essential.

Once, in an interview for a job at a print magazine, I told my would-be employer that I was thrilled to be moving out of the field of online media. Using material I had rehearsed for hours the night before, I launched into a spiel about the emptiness and insignificance of online content—how the written word was always slave to the format. I said I was excited to finally pursue a job that was more intelligent and serious in nature. New media had always struck me as vastly unoriginal, and I was looking forward to working in an environment that would be both more structured and more creative. In fact, I had always felt stifled working for a website.

My interviewer waited for me to take a breath. I sensed I had expressed myself quite sufficiently when she finally put down her legal pad and stood.

“I think you’ve been misinformed,” she said. “This
is
our online division. We’re setting up an adjunct to our print magazine.”

So, now I know. I’ve learned the hard way that you must cram for an interview the way you would for a final exam, for a class you’re failing, for the last credit you need in order to graduate.

For my meeting with Dr. Cohen, the extent of my research is as follows:

I access the official, Pharmateque corporate website. I read the company profile. I call my mother.

“What’s a hedge fund?” I ask her.

“I don’t know. Let me ask your father. Steven!” She shrieks, again,
directly
into the phone. I hear muddled words in the background. “Something about risk … risk management … huh?” She gives up. “Hold on. I’m putting him on.”

“No, don’t—”

“It’s like hedging bets,” says my father, his babbling now somewhat more comprehensible. “It’s a way for investors to pool their resources for investments that may seem risky. That way, if it pays off, it pays off big, but if it fails, you don’t lose too bad. You get it?”

“Well, no. But thanks anyway.”

We both abandon the conversation willingly before things get out of hand.

    You’ve been fooled again, haven’t you? Still looks like the same damn résumé. But,
au contraire!
This one has the distinction of being my “Financial Résumé.” Because I happen to be severely lacking in financial savoir faire—both professionally and in life—I’ve had to resort to a subtle trick. A trompe l’oeil, if you will. (Incidentally, my tendency to borrow so heavily from the French language is due, in part, to the fact that I’ve chosen to omit my skill as a fluent French speaker from the résumé at hand.)

But while we’re on the subject of fancy words and phrases, let me try another one on you. How about
ampersand
, that funny little “&” symbol? If you’ll notice, I’ve used it quite liberally. Such a dependence on funny little symbols suggests, albeit falsely, that I am comfortable working with numbers and equations. To wit, my GPA, a
3.8
, has now earned its own line. And my prowess at typing, a whopping
50
words per minute, is the first skill I’ve listed. I also toyed with adding my SAT score—1,510, if you really must know—but relying on the results of a test I took almost a decade ago seemed more of a liability than asset.

In all honesty, I can dress up my résumé with a thousand numbers, accessorize it with a million little symbols—but I will never be analytically chic. Don’t believe me? Let the record show that there
are several numbers I’ve neglected to include on my résumé, none of which have ever worked in my favor.