Pounding the Pavement (25 page)

Of course, I do not force myself to stay up all night by choice. The official submission date for
Gideon
is only three days away and Princess has insisted I turn in my coverage no later than 9 a.m. this very morning. I finish up my synopsis by 6 a.m. But by then, I am too tired to think clearly. I’ve already entertained an hour’s worth of
daylight. I’m entitled to a quick nap. I set my alarm for 7:30 and slide under the sheets. Not even a minute later, I dream of comments that include such inspired observations as “well-crafted,” and “ingenious use of structure.”

By 8 a.m. I consider myself refreshed enough to type up the rest of my coverage. I sit down at my computer and turn off the screen saver. Much to my disbelief, I see I’ve received a new e-mail. And even more startling, it has been sent from Variety.com.

I click it open.

And then a bloodcurdling scream lodges in the back of my throat.

The
Gideon
acquisition makes the front page. It beat out the new developments in the Academy screener ban scandal
and
the official announcement that an esteemed New York independent film company has declared bankruptcy. Above the text, there is a picture of Laurie’s boss, dazzling the camera with a buffoon-like grin. I read his generic statement with openmouthed horror—although I’ll admit to feeling a momentary stab of pride when he says he thought the book was well-crafted and employed an ingenious use of structure.

When I reach the final paragraph, my stomach lurches. I had been warned in advance, and yet I still wasn’t prepared. Not for Laurie’s full name and title. In bold.

I am too shaken to move. I debate sending my coverage to Princess anyway, but in the end I decide I don’t even want her to
associate
my name with that book. I turn off the computer and fire up a cigarette.

I tell myself that if I don’t hear from Princess by noon, I’ll be in the clear. There is no logical connection between me and Laurie. Laurie could have gotten that book anywhere. She knew all about it well before it came to Princess’s attention. I can prove it—although I’d better not. No, there is no reason—absolutely no reason at all—for Princess to even fathom that I was the one who handed over that cursed manuscript.

I just have to wait until noon.

The phone rings at 10:30 a.m. I light one cigarette off another and let the machine pick up the call.

“Sarah, it’s Gracie. It is extremely urgent that you give me a call as soon as possible. I will be in the office all day.” The machine clicks off abruptly.

I hack on the cigarette fumes and crush out the filter with revulsion.

Her second call comes in at 1:15 p.m.

“Sarah!” She hisses on my machine. “I cannot stress how terribly important it is for you to call me back. I am stepping out of the office now for lunch. Call me on my cell. 917–755—”

I switch off the machine. In a sudden fit of furious energy, I toss off my bathrobe and slip into yesterday’s workout wear, shove my keys in my pocket, and head out the door.

I return two hours later, a dripping, soppy mess of frizzy hair and aching muscles. I hobble painfully over to my answering machine. The panic button blinks a fierce glowing red.

There is one new message.

I grimace and hit play.

“Fine, Sarah.” Her voice is ice cold. “This is the last message I will leave you. Frankly, I don’t care if we ever speak again. However,

I would like to warn you. You might want to consider leaving my name off your résumé. If people start calling me for recommendations, you may not be pleased with what I have to say.”

Click.

D
uring the many months of my unemployment, I’ve been lazy at times. I’ve been despondent. I’ve been bitter. But never before have I truly dedicated myself to a long stretch of good, solid self-loathing. As it turns out, I’m quite good at it. I can mope and kick myself for days on end. There’s nothing to it. I lie in bed for the most part. When that gets old, I get up and lie on the sofa in the living room. And if recent incidents have ceased to make me cringe and shudder, I have a backlog of plenty of other painful memories I can call upon to do the trick. Like the time I poured out my heart to Andy Finklestein in the fifth grade by secretly slipping a mix tape into his schoolbag. He returned it a day later, snidely remarking that he’d had a bad reaction to Bon Jovi’s “Bad Medicine.” For weeks after, boys would come up to me in the hallway, singing “Let’s play doctor, baby cure my disease.” (And maybe
that
explains my current repulsion for music.)

So steeped am I in my nirvana-like state of self-pity not even the most tempting of wordly pleasures can rouse me from my trance.

“How about we all go out for dinner? Sushi, maybe?” Jake suggests.

I shake my head. “Not hungry.”

“Wanna go to a bar? Have a couple of martinis?” Amanda prompts. “It’s on me.”

“Blah.”

“This is impossible!” Amanda turns to Jake and rubs her temples.

“She’s been like this for two days. All she does is watch reality television.”

“I see it’s done wonders for her vocabulary.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Blah,” I repeat, with more feeling this time.

“What is it, honey?” Amanda reaches for my hand and strokes it gently. “Isn’t there anything you want to do?”

“How about we rent a movie?” Jake asks.

“No, I don’t wanna—” I stop my head in mid-shake. “Movie?”

O
h, it sounded like a good idea at the time. But as we make our way to the video store, the weight of our impending decision clings heavily upon my shoulders and throttles my neck. I’ve always hated making decisions. I have a knack, in fact, for making particularly bad decisions. And the one that still awaits us is destined to be tough.

For some time now, Jake has been angling fervently for the Kieslowski trilogy that was finally released as a Special Edition DVD. But Amanda hates the “readers,” and even though she claims to speak French fluently, I know she’ll need her glasses for the subtitles. And she really hates to wear her glasses in front of boys.

No, Amanda will probably be reduced to tears if I don’t at least
consider
letting her rent the new Reese Witherspoon flick. Although I have a sneaking suspicion that Jake might be a huge Reese fan, I doubt he’s ready to admit that just yet.

Woody Allen is always a safe standby, of course. But he’s not as safe as he used to be. I’d suggest some of his earlier films, but Amanda still hasn’t recovered from the shock that
Manhattan
was shot in black and white. I remember her turning to me, her eyes wide and her mouth agape, when she said, “Just how old
is
Diane Keaton, anyway?”

Then there’s Jake, Mr. Saw It, Hated It, Saw It, Own It. Is there any middle ground for people like that?

“Who’s Guy Richie?” Amanda asks, studying the back of a DVD case in her hands.

“Madonna’s husband.”

“Eeck!” She makes a face and returns the box to its rightful place on the shelf. She trails a finger down the row and stops, quite predictably, when she sees Adam Sandler’s goofy grin on display.

“Oh, I love him!”

“Great!” I grab the DVD and make a mad dash across the store toward the Classics section.

“Okay,” I tell Jake, still panting. “How do you feel about watching Adam Sandler take a stab at serious drama? I heard he was surprisingly good in this.”

“Oh, yeah!” Jake jabs his finger at the box. “He was awesome! I saw that in the theater. You guys should definitely watch that some time. You’ll love it.”

“Right.” I lower the DVD. “Thanks.”

“Hey, what about this?” He hands me the case for
How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying
. “Robert Morse is really funny. He’s like an early Jim Carrey.”

“I’ll give it a shot.” And I’m off again, hurdling the displays on my way back to the New Releases.

“Amanda,” I gasp for air. “Remember how much you liked
Moulin Rouge?”

“Oh, yeah. Nicole Kidman was fabulous in that!”

“Okay, well, then how about we get a musical? And I mean a
real
musical.” I hand her the box. She studies it, her nose pinched.

“Sarah, this was made in 1967. We weren’t even born then!” She holds the offensive video case away from her with two fingers. “Tell Jake I’m okay with classics. But they can’t be older than 1980.”

“Right.” I take the movie from her, tuck it under my arm, and charge.

Yellow flag! Illegal cell phone on the field. I flip it open.

“Yeah?”

“Sarah?”

“Yes.”

“It’s David Morton.”

“David …?”

“David Morton? From Ponderosa High School?”

I come to a screeching halt. “Oh, David.” My stomach churns the sudden, excruciating recollections. David Morton’s thick tongue plunging down my ear canal, his sweaty fingers painfully pinching and twisting the flesh on my thighs. His rough hands sneaking up under my bra no matter how many times or how hard I try swatting them away.

“Been a while, huh?”

I cast a glance at my surroundings. I’m in the Horror section. Safe. I crouch down low and whisper into my mouthpiece.

“Yeah. Wow. This is really unexpected. How did you get this—”

“I called your house and talked to your mom for a pretty long time. She gave me your number.”

“Great.” It doesn’t sound as sarcastic as I mean it.

“So, I hear you’re in New York.”

“That’s right.”

“Yeah? And what have you been up to?”

“Well, I …” Am seeing someone? Have a boyfriend? Am finally having good sex? “Haven’t really been up to much at all. You?”

“Well, that’s the funny thing. I’m in New York too tonight.”

Oh God. “You are?”

“Last-minute business trip. And, see, I’m just here for the one
night and I was wondering if, maybe if you weren’t busy, we could grab a drink?”

“Oh, gee, David, I’m sorry. I’d love to, but—”

“No, it’s okay. Don’t apologize. I thought you might already have plans. Just wanted to check.”

“I appreciate—”

“Hey, your mom says you’re living with Amanda Reubens. For real?”

“Actually, I—”

“Any idea what she’s up to tonight?”

“No,” I snap. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Yeah. That figures. Tell her I say hi, okay?”

“Sure, will do.” Fat chance.

“And if you’re ever in Denver, give me a ring. I’d love to catch up.”

“Sounds super. I really got to go now, David.”

“Okay. Talk soon.”

“Bye.”

I hang up my phone not a moment too soon.

“There she is!” I hear Amanda say. I grab a movie from off the shelf and pray it isn’t
Caligula
. When I turn, I find Amanda hovering directly above me. Jake’s head pops up over her shoulder.

“What are you doing in the Horror section?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I mumble. “I thought it might be fun to watch a scary movie.”

“But we already made a decision,” Amanda pouts. Jake holds up a DVD case.

Tootsie
. Now why didn’t I think of that before?

I cock an eyebrow at Amanda. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

“I’ve never seen it before.” She shrugs. “I heard it was funny.”

“Great.” I stand up and brush off the knees of my jeans. “Then let’s do it.”

We leave the rental store just as the sun begins its descent. The windows in the sky draw their pink curtains and the streetlights slip on fuzzy, little orange hats. The air is crisp, crackling with electricity. And I am suddenly overcome with the urge to skip.

Skipping, I daresay, is a tragically neglected art. It is the perfect combination of both gleeful abandonment and utter lunacy—or are they the same? At any rate, it is just the sort of public display of hedonism people should partake in more often. Think how much happier we’d all be if we decided,
Never mind the subway! I think I’ll skip to work this morning instead!

I cannot convince either Amanda or Jake to join me in this bunny-hop parade. All the same. If you don’t feel the urge to skip, it really can’t be forced upon you. And so I forge ahead, leaving it up to them to keep up the pace.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Jake asks warily.

“Never mind me!” I pant between hops. “Just a little bout of Manny-D.”

“What’s Manny-D?” Amanda asks.

“Manic—” Hop. “Depression.”

“Oh God,” she mutters. “Only you would have a cute little nickname for your psychological disorders.”

With one resounding last hop, I land squarely in front of our building. Then I straighten and go rigid.

Huddled in the corner of my front step, and furtively smoking a cigarette, is one of the saddest and most forlorn creatures I’ve ever seen. And when she lifts up her head and peers through her bangs with red-rimmed eyes, I gasp.

“Laurie?”

With trembling fingers, she tucks her hair behind her ears.

“I …” Her voice catches. She starts again. “I need to talk to you.”

I turn to Amanda. She quickly fishes for her set of keys.

“We’ll see you upstairs.” She and Jake carefully sidestep the despondent heap on the front step and disappear into the building.

“What’s the matter?” I ask finally, crouching down beside her.

Laurie’s lip quivers. “I got fired.”

“Oh.” I pause. “Is that all?”

“No, Sarah, I’m serious. I’m not going back.” She blinks furiously, holding back a flood of tears. “He called me fat.”

“He did not!”

“Yeah, he did.” Again, her voice cracks. She takes a moment to clear her throat. “This morning he got so angry he threw his cell phone out the window. So I get on the elevator
immediately
and I run downstairs, and I pick up all the million fucking pieces. And then he’s screaming at me to put it all back together. And by some fucking miracle I get it to work.” She coughs to hide the threat of another sob. “But, by then, he finds out he missed an important phone call from some director in London. So he throws the phone again, this time at
me
, and he says he never would have missed the call if I had just moved my fat ass faster.”