The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (16 page)

“Wait a minute, here,” says my father. “This isn’t like you. Your mother is right. Something is going on, and we want to know.” He pauses a second.
“Now.”

I turn and see Josh approach the revolving door. Even if I made up some crazy convoluted story about a surprise visit from my parents, before they even open their mouths there is no way Maddie and Sid will pass for a Protestant couple from Scranton. Especially to a guy who’s New York Jewish, born and bred.

“Look, I can’t go into it, but this, uh, this Josh, coming through the revolving door right now, is, uh, my boyfriend, and
just don’t let him know you’re my parents!
”

“
What?
What’s wrong with you, Aimee?” My mother is going to burst a blood vessel.

“
PLEASE.
I’m begging you. Do this for me. I’ll explain later.”

“Sorry about that,” says Josh, ignoring the couple behind me when he gives me a kiss on the cheek, before taking my hand.

My parents observe his proprieties. Regardless of our deal, they stand there waiting for an introduction as if, at the very least, they are acquaintances from the building. It is not forthcoming.

“No problem,” I say. “On second thought, why don’t you come up for a few minutes?”

“Cool,” Josh says, and walks across the lobby to the elevator.

My parents stand, huddled together, bewildered and lost. It is a tribute to me they don’t say anything, and I will have to thank them for that. When I catch Willie’s eye, he looks away, no idea what scene he is watching and not wanting any part of it.

“It’s almost here,” calls Josh as the numbers above the elevator flash down.

“Right behind you,” I call back, looking at my parents over at my shoulder, taking my left hand and shooing them out the door.

My mother shakes her head back and forth, as my father grabs her to push her into the partition, revolving both of them out of this mess. But before they get inside that door, another one opens.

“eMay, come on. It’s here.”

The elevator door opens, and out walks Tova. Still dressed up, she wears slippers, keys jangling in her hand. Away for the holiday at her son’s in Scarsdale, she must have just gotten home and has come downstairs to retrieve her mail.

“Well, hello.”

“Hi, Tova,” says Josh. “How are you?”

Upon hearing her name, my parents both quickly turn their heads.

“I am very well, Josh,” says Tova. “Thank you. We had a lovely Pes—”

“Tova.” Maddie scurries across the lobby. “I’m so glad to see you.” My mother approaches my neighbor; my father glares as he trails behind.

“Ah,” says Tova, delighted. “Aimee”—she turns to me—“you told!”

“Told
what
?” my parents ask in unison.

I run to Josh, push the elevator button, and just catch it. The doors that had closed instantly reopen. I take his hand and rush us inside.

“Yes, I told them about the leak,” I yell as the elevator doors close and whisk Josh and me up and away.

“What leak?” he asks, the elevator taking us higher and higher, elevating us over the problem below.

“New neighbors. Tova’s line. Water damage. She didn’t know who they were.”

And they didn’t know what I was pretending to be. But Tova, with them now in the lobby, is certainly filling them in.

If
at
F
irst
Y
ou
D
on’t
S
ucceed,
L
ie,
L
ie
A
gain

The Microsoft Outlook reminder has popped up on my computer screen constantly over the last hour. I click Dismiss All and, grabbing my notebook and KISS folder, dash down the hall to the Round Room. This corner conference room with the big round table is where we hold brainstorms. This morning Jay e-mailed the invitation to the PRWAP-NY KISS team for this meeting. He asked that I arrive a few minutes early to talk. I didn’t.

The room is already prepared, and, though late, so am I. Drinks and snacks (healthy and un) are in the center of the table. A small chest on the side is filled with squeeze toys, balls, whistles, magic markers, paper . . . in case anyone needs to let off steam, doodle, get inspired, or gets bored.

“Well, well,” says Jay. “Look what the wind just blew in.”

Krista doesn’t look up, reading her notebook and sipping from a bottle of VOSS sparkling water. Seated around the table are the two men on the team, Sean Borrelli and Todd Lonoff, Nancy Cheng, and a new assistant whose name I don’t yet know. Her first brainstorm, the AAE, just out of college, looks like a deer in headlights. I make a mental note to drop by her desk, later, and make her feel welcome. Tap, tap on the table. We’re about to begin.

“And what level is Gina?” asks Krista.

Oops, they have already begun.

“Same as you and Aimee.”

“Gina who?” I ask.

“Gina Jones-Levine,” offers Sean. “How’s that for a name?”

“A rose by any other would smell as sweet,” says Nancy.

“Or certainly a little less shiksa syndrome,” I say to Krista, who hardly looks at me, let alone laughs. Everyone else makes up for it.

“She’s from our L.A. office. We have so many overlapping events going on, everyone here’s booked. The client wants her on hand for backup support,” explains Jay. “Plus she’s good.”

“Good.”

“Good you feel that way. She might be taking over, Aimee,” says Jay.

The heat of what’s really going on suddenly registers. I feel my face turn red.

“As of now, the client is not happy with how you’re handling things. Your lack of any viable celebrities these last weeks and your insistence on pushing the unknown Laura Lou Bell.”

“Laura Bell Bundy,” I correct. “Even if she’s wrong, let’s get her name right.”

“She was fabulous in
Legally Blonde
and terrific in
Hairspray,
” says Todd, who saw each show three times.

“Who was she in
Hairspray
?” asks Sean.

“Why do they keep making musicals of movies?” Krista asks Todd like he knows.

“Would you like to go to the theater?” Nancy asks the new girl.

“So now you get her, Jay?” I ask, though I confess I still don’t. If he says yes, I still can’t come up with a concept to back her. My work has been slipping, I know. But let him table her; I’ve got a new plan. One, I believe, will make up for everything.

“Laura Lee is history, Aimee. Moving on. Who has an idea to save this launch?”

I wait it out as Jay rejects idea after idea, celeb after celeb. Grunting a unanimous no to all the affordable Broadway stars, the unaffordable celebrities, and all the venues that have nothing to do with New York, kisses, or copiers.

“There’s no theme. The reason KISS liked the contest in the first place was because there was a theme.” He turns to me. “Aimee. Dahling. You’ve not said a word. Tell me. Were you tardy, perchance, because you were working?”

I smirk. “You know me too well. But yes. So tell me what you think.” I open my notebook to refer to my notes. “Picture this. A New York City street. Roped off. Like one of those street fairs.

Booths of Ramy lipsticks, people collecting money for the kisses . . . a huge clothesline with KISS-branded clothespins to hang the kisses after they’ve been color-copied. In the middle of the street a little stage. In front of it a small platform with . . . the KISS copier.

“Music plays. It’s sexy and exciting, just like the celebrity judge. Because . . .” I pause. “How great will it be to have . . . Kim Cattrall?
Sex and the City
meets Kiss in the City: Where You KISS in Color!”

Everyone talks at once, loving the concept and firing out all the hard questions. Scribbling notes, I answer in order.

“Ramy is in. I’m working on a permit from the city, and many New York streets are within budget. Kim Cattrall is in.” I pause. “Well . . .” I have to tell the truth. “For
fifty
grand she is.”

“But I told you—”

“I know, Jay, but if Kim’s in,
People
is in, I spoke to them. And TV will come down. Especially since one of the prizes is a color copy of her lips.” I wait a sec before I continue. “Look, she’s totally cool. I’ve been crunching the numbers, and what we save with the street—no fancy venue and no big-deal event designer—makes up the difference for Kim. I’m not worried.” (Seriously, I’m not.) “Oh. No live music either. Our in-house audio will loop a music CD. I talked to Tony Z. Only songs with the word
kiss.
What else?”

“Maybe Hershey’s would partner?” asks Nancy.

“Check into it,” instructs Jay. “Well, well, Ms. A. I think you’ve got it covered.”

The room alive, everyone can’t wait to get back to work. Yes, it will make a great photo op . . . Kim’s fabulous legs crossed atop the copier; the winning couple leaning against it in a big embrace. In front of the fabulous signage against the fabulous backdrop of this fabulously romantic city.

“So Borrelli coordinates on the venue and permit with Nancy—schedule a meeting with Aimee to bring you up to speed. Todd, work with Allison to create media lists.” Jay looks at the new girl. “Make sure to target national and local—broadcast, radio, print, and online,” he says before taking the last swig of Diet Coke, signaling the meeting is officially over. They never last more than one can of soda.

“Krista, work up a production schedule.” Jay gets up from the table so his closing comments finish as he walks out the door. “E-mail a first draft by end of day Friday. Coordinate timing with Aimee.”

Then Jay looks at me. “You . . . get the fifty, get Kim, and get me a press release and media alert as soon as you confirm. Any questions, e-mail.” He stops at the door. “By the way. Who got you to Kim C.?”

“Who else? Glenn Rosenblum, Celebrity Access. You know . . .” I pause. “My best friend,” I say, disclosing our in-joke, feeling it’s part of the magic.

“Well, good work,” Jay says, and is gone.

“Praise the Lord,” I shout to Krista as soon as he’s out of earshot. “It just came to me, and all the pieces kind of came together. Can you believe it?”

“That was amazing, and I’m proud of you as a colleague.” She turns to throw out the remnants of a half-eaten apple. I realize she didn’t nosh on any of the junk, observing her waist or Passover.

“But to tell you the truth, Aimee, lately it’s hard to believe anything,” says Krista. “Especially if it comes out of your mouth,” she states, then leaves the room, leaving me in the dust.

Having stayed behind to compare notes, the others can’t help but look up when they hear this. You know, before they can pretend that they didn’t. But I don’t care and chase Krista down the hall, catching up to her by reception.

“I think you’re being a little unfair,” I say, cornering her near a table that holds all the daily newspapers, my peripheral vision catching a headline. By the looks of things, my approval rating is dropping faster than George W. Bush’s in the latest polls.

“Oh, you do, do you?” says Krista, more agitated than I’ve ever seen her. “Matt picked up when your mother called last night,” she says, pulling the black velveteen headband out of her blonde head before shaking out her hair and putting it back. “When I took the phone, he heard the whole conversation. I felt horrible for your mother.
Oy vey iz mir
your poor mother was a total wreck,” says Krista, sounding like a total neurotic, a worried Jew.

“Well, you didn’t have to let that happen,” I say when I open the main door to take us, and our fight, into the hall. “It’s all your fault she was upset,” I blame. If Krista wants to be Jewish so badly, she’ll need to learn about that.

“Oh really?”

“Yes,” I say. The blame in position, I now go for the guilt. “You could have told her I stopped to get you like . . . horseradish or something, and I was running late, and then you could have told Matt you just heard from me and, as it turns out, I wasn’t coming.”

“And when you never got to my house to call back your mother, then what?”

“Well . . . you could have said we were starting the seder and I would just call her when I got home. And then you could have left me messages on—”

“She called after it was over.”

“So then you have could have said—”

“Sorry, Aimee. I’m not that fast on my feet. Guess I’m just not as good at lies as you. But you’re living proof that practice makes perfect.”

At a momentary loss for words, we each burn. We catch our breaths and cool down. Backs to the elevator bank, we’re unaware the door of Layton Real Estate has opened and Andrew Zeman has joined us in the hall.

“So . . . uh, Matt knows?” I ask, tallying the ever-growing list. “Was he mad?”

“At you?”

“No. At
you.
For keeping my secret.”

Krista shifts her eyes and looks down. Ah. I see. She didn’t keep my secret. Well. I can’t say I blame her.

“When?”

“When we left China Grill.” Krista pauses. “Like over
two
months ago,
eMay.
”

“Really? I can’t believe I’ve been pretending to be a shiksa for over two months.”

Zeman’s laugh is so loud and so unexpected, we jump as if someone has just come upon us in a dark alley. “You’re pretending to be a shiksa!” He slaps his hand on his thigh, laughing so hard he practically wipes away a tear. “You’re scamming Bread Guy?”

I sadly nod.

“That is the coolest thing I ever heard. You sly devil, I thought something was up.” He waves his hand up and down, referencing my look.

“Anyway, now that it’s all out in the open, I have something to ask you.” I speak to Krista, ignoring Andrew, hoping he’ll go away. He doesn’t, but as Krista (who’s since met and disliked him) ignores him, too, I continue.

“This Sunday is Easter. I’m thinking we should celebrate. So what do I do? Go to church? Hey. Want to come? Then we can do a dinner. Yeah, I can make a ham. Since Matt knows, do you think he can be cool? What do you say, Kris? My place?”

“We can do it at mine,” says Andrew. “Selina wants to give our relationship a year before she takes on all the Jewish stuff, so we’re in for Easter.”

“This will be fun.” I look at Krista and smile.

“Three Jewish guys and their shiksas,” says Andrew.

“Sounds like a sitcom.”

“Gotta tell ya, A. You’re
much
better as a shiksa. And definitely sexier.”

“See,” I shout to Krista. “Now don’t you see?”

I don’t want to lose her friendship. I’m also desperate for her to see my point. She knows Andrew never dated me when there was a viable chance. It’s apparent, now, if he met eMay, he’d call her in a flash.

Can’t she see we are all sold as a package? And that part of hers will always be that she’s the woman who got serious about Judaism after she met Matt? Can’t she understand that’s part of what she sells; part of what Matt’s chosen to buy? True, her goods are real while mine are just—

“So . . .” Andrew now leans into me. Continuing sotto voce, he says, “The guy’s all hot for you, right? Bet it works like a charm. Huh, Kris?”

But she only spits out “Thou shalt not lie!” before flouncing back to the office.

“What’s her problem? Jeez,” says Andrew. “I hope she doesn’t turn into one of those uptight Jewish chicks.”

“Zeman.” No matter what side of the fence I’m on, this comment offends. “Shut up.”

“Huh?”

I storm after Krista, arriving at the door in time for it to slam in my face. If that’s not enough, when I swipe my card to get in, it won’t work. No one hears my banging, Tanisha apparently away from her desk. I stand alone in the hallway, waiting for someone to exit and let me in.

Now I have to get Office Services to check out the activation strip on the card. Maybe I’ll have to get a new photo and a whole new ID. I had to redo this one after the hair because the new guy in security didn’t take me for a match. And now it doesn’t work. Even my ID won’t recognize me anymore.