Pounding the Pavement (8 page)

“Right. So what’s your good news?”

She smiles coyly and polishes off the last sip of her first martini.

“I just got promoted.”

I wait for the bartender to return with our drinks before I respond.

“Great.” I hold up my glass to toast her. “Then I guess these are on you.” Which they would have been anyway.

I think it would be nice to have the last word. But I never do. Amanda would never let me.

“Oh, by the way,” she says, taking a moment to sip her new martini. “Thanks for not hanging around the another night when Ryan was over. We really appreciated the privacy.”

You tell me. Is it really so wrong of me to hate her the way I do?

    Today’s T-shirt celebrates the tenth annual “Greek Winter Olympics” at Dartmouth College. It features a cartoon character, head under the snow, skis up in the air. His brazen hand reaches up from under the snow bank, still proudly holding a flask of whiskey. I don’t know, for some reason it feels appropriate.

I skip the candy bar for breakfast this morning. As part of Amanda’s new promotion, she’s been assigned to the account of a small-town Wisconsin danish bakery. It will be her job to initiate a new mail-order service to expand their product to a broader, national market. The fruits of her labors, packed into neat little squares of puff pastry, have already reached as far as our very own kitchen—and they probably will go no further. Standing in front of the refrigerator, keeping the door propped open with my elbow, I shove my face with three samples in no time flat. I don’t feel even the slightest bit guilty for having helped myself to more than half my share (had I even been offered a share). I know for a fact Amanda would rather experiment with a crimped hairdo than tempt fate by mixing carbohydrates with a glucose filling.

I step away from the fridge and lick my fingers. Then somehow managing to avoid smearing sticky raspberry residue all over the
kitchen counter, I fix myself a cup of quasi-instant coffee. I also pour myself a large glass of water and a smaller glass of orange juice. With all three cups balanced on everything but the top of my head, I stagger back to my bedroom and turn on my computer.

The cup of coffee has me revving up in the junk-and-spam-clotted, forgotten storage space of my e-mail inbox. The glass of water has me searching in vain for a spot in the online postings lot. But the glass of orange juice—that’s where I hit cruising speed.

I’ve found it! The Perfect Job. It practically leaps right off the screen and cuddles in my lap, nuzzling my leg like a puppy Saint Bernard pining for snowfall.

I suppose my résumé could do with some minor tweaking. I change my last job title from “Content Development Assistant” to “Editorial Assistant,” and that takes care of that.

Then I go on to blow every rule in the book.

I know, from my vast experience, that a cover letter is best when kept simple. Short, direct, and to the point. But desperate times do call for desperate measures.

Hence, I won’t even bother to share this particular letter with you. After all, it’s none of your business. This letter is personal, it’s private—a matter between myself and
Aspen Quarterly
alone. An unrelated party might deem it wordy and excessive, whereas I find it eloquent and assured. Aggressive, you say? I’d call it passionate. How else am I going to make it plainly clear I am an APPLICANT SERIOUS ABOUT RELOCATING?

I spell-check the letter. Not a flaw. I reread it. Brilliant! But maybe I should cut it down from two pages to one?

No, no, no. The letter flows, it sings, it has charm. Editing, pasting, cutting? It’ll only rob the words of their magic.

I hold my breath and close my eyes. I hit send.

When my breathing returns to normal, I peer out of one eye to squint at my computer screen. The e-mail has vanished. Yet its spell on me remains.

The grating trill of the intercom tears me from my trance-like state almost immediately. Begrudgingly, I shuffle over to my front door.

“Hello?”

“Messenger!”

“Yeah, come on up.” I buzz him in.

The messenger takes his time trudging up the staircase. When he finally arrives at my apartment, I am already lingering in the doorway with my arms crossed. He balks.

“Sorry. I woke you up?”

“Huh?” I glance down at myself. I’m still wearing the college T-shirt and my Victoria’s Secret boxer shorts. What, I am supposed to get all dressed up to meet the messenger? “No, I’ve been up,” I snip, more embarrassed than angry. I make a mental note to trade in the boxers for gym shorts by noon.

The messenger hands me a manila envelope. It’s much lighter than I expected. Still, I feel that familiar tingle of excitement—you know, the excitement that comes with having to open something, anything! Uncorking a bottle of champagne, peeling security strips off a new DVD, squeezing the pus out of an explosive pimple. I don’t even wait for the messenger to leave before I rip into my new Jiffy sealer like it’s a chocolate truffle with a rich, hazelnut center.

Miami Beach Murder?
Of all the manuscripts stacked high on Princess’s desk, this is what she sends me? Some breezy detective novel or, worse, a teen sex romp with a twist? I toss the manuscript with disgust on the coffee table to worry about later. I’ve got more important matters to attend to anyway.

I
spend the rest of the afternoon exhaustively researching each and every Aspen real estate ad I can find on the Internet. I foresee no problem whatsoever with sticking Amanda with my share of the rent for the remainder of the year. She could probably afford it too, what with her lousy promotion and all. Maybe her new boyfriend could move in with her. When the lease is up, they can get married and buy a place in Connecticut and raise a family. God bless them!

It doesn’t take me long to find my dream home. A condo I couldn’t afford even if the asking salary for an associate editor were twice what I would expect from a similar position in New York.

Still, I let my imagination run wild and treat myself to the luxury spoils I have been unfairly denied for too long. My very own washing machine? A fireplace? A backyard?

A backyard! I could have a dog!

I click out of my real estate websites and ready my computer to launch a brand-new search for my new best friend.

I
don’t get up from in front of my computer until 6 p.m. And then, it’s only because my doorbell rings again.

I buzz the intercom without answering, because for a split second I assume it is Amanda stumbling home drunk, claiming she can’t find her keys. It occurs to me only an instant later that even though 6 p.m. is plenty late enough for someone like me to have turned one sip into five glasses, your regular working stiff doesn’t start sampling the vintages until after dark.

The knock at the door is firm, and troublingly so. Nothing at all like Amanda’s wishy-washy tap-tap. I keep the safety chain fastened and peer suspiciously through the crack of my door.

My darling little cell phone winks back at me. And behind it, the dark hallway brightens with the glint of Jake’s mischievously charming smile.

“Hey,” he says. “Forget something at the office yesterday?”

I slam the door shut. Before I unfasten the chain, I take a futile moment to brush back my hair and smooth out the bags under my eyes. Damn, damn. Of all the times for Mr. Right to come a-knocking!

I can hear Jake talking to me from the other side the door. “You left the office in such a hurry yesterday, you forgot to fill out your time sheet. I filled it out this morning for you, and your address was on it, so—”

I remove the chain and open the door, displaying myself in glorious full view. Jake’s jaw drops.

“Jesus. You all right?”

The questioning look in his eyes makes it plainly clear I have not successfully hidden my tears. The gay, flimsy party mask peels off my face. The dam holding back the watershed springs a leak. I burst.

Jake staggers back a step, afraid to drown in the puddle I’ve just become. “Whoa. What’s the matter?”

“Come in, come in,” I choke between sobs.

I lead Jake through the living room and past the kitchen without offering him so much as a danish. Rather, I take him directly into my bedroom and gesture frantically at my computer.

“Look!”

Jake leans on my desk and squints at the desktop photo of a wire-haired terrier with a wet, pink tongue and forgiving eyes. He looks back at me, uncomprehending.

“I don’t get it. The puppy made you cry?”

“He’s abandoned.”

“He is?” Jake turns back to the computer and skims the print below the picture. I slump down into the Aeron and hug my arms to keep my shoulders from racking.

“Oh, hey, no. It’s okay.” Jake jabs a finger at the screen. “It says here he was already adopted.”

“Keep reading,” I sniff.

He peers in closer. After a moment his shoulders sag.

“You finish?” I ask.

He stays quiet. Finally, he shakes his head. “I can’t read anymore.”

I feel the well bubbling inside me again. “You get to the part where they brought him back?”

“Yeah.”

“And the part about the cigarette burns? And the broken legs? And the fact that he had been kicked in the stomach so hard, he couldn’t even urinate?”

Jake shudders and clicks the picture closed. Unfortunately, there are still similar pictures, of similar victims, all lined up in a neat little row on my computer. A chain of furry snouts held high and proud for the camera.

“What the—” Jake straightens and cocks his head at me. “How long have you been doing this?”

“All day.” I scoot forward in my chair. “Here, let me show you the litter of puppies they found at the abandoned warehouse—”

“No.” He holds up his hand, barring me from the desk. “I think you’ve had enough.”

He fixes me with such stern, blazing eyes I stop at once. For a moment, neither of us says a word. His expression softens, and he studies me with a sad smile. I hope he isn’t checking me out. This really isn’t the best time for it. I look away to pat down my swollen eyes and wipe the tip of my snotty nose with the back of my hand.

Jake clears his throat. “When was the last time you got out of your apartment?”

“Ummm, I don’t remember. Yesterday?”

He nods. He was expecting as much. “You know, I passed the Loew’s theater on my way over here. That new Robert De Niro movie is playing. I was thinking of going to check it out. Maybe you wanna come with me?”

I bite my lip. I am afraid any second now I may start crying again. “You feeling sorry for me?”

“A little. But I could also use the company.”

“Good enough.” I grab my keys from off my desk. “What time does it start?”

“Seven-fifteen.”

“Great, we can get there early.” I walk out of my bedroom and start looking for my bag. I find it on the kitchen counter beside the microwave.

Jake follows me toward the front door. He hesitates when I open it for him, staring at me uneasily. “Umm …”

“What?”

“You, uh, want to get changed or take a shower or something before we go?”

I look down at myself. I’m still wearing the T-shirt and boxer shorts.

“Oh, right.” I drop my bag to the floor. “Just give me a minute.”

W
hen the movie lets out, I get on the escalator first and Jake steps on behind me.

“What did you think?”

“It was all right,” I say over my shoulder.

Jake squeezes past me and turns around. I’ve noticed he insists on facing me dead-on when he talks to me. It’s not disconcerting. It’s sweet. And when he stands on the step below me, looking up at me with an impish grin, he reminds me of the four-year-old nephew I don’t have and never thought I wanted. He’s adorable in a way that makes me want to show him my thumb and say, “Look, I got your nose!”

“You hated it, didn’t you?” he says.

“Hate
is kind of a strong word—”

“But still not strong enough, huh?”

“No, I guess not. I’m sorry.” I shake my head sadly. “I can’t lie. I thought it was terrible.”

“Don’t apologize. I hated it, too.”