The Washingtonienne (2 page)
I
awoke at six o’clock the next morning, naked and tangled in the Carlyle’s Frette sheets, hungover and disoriented.
Where am I?
Shit.
What time is it?
Shit!
I dressed myself quickly and hurried toward the Seventy-seventh Street subway station on Lexington Avenue. I had “conveniently” left my cell phone at home, so Mike wouldn’t be able to contact me while I was out with Kevin. But now I couldn’t call Mike or anybody else in time to set things straight.
Set things straight? I mean, lie my ass off about where I had been all night.
I got on the Downtown 6, immediately felt nauseated from the movement of the train, and vomited on the seat next to me. Fortunately, the car was empty and nobody saw, or some
stunad
surely would have pulled the emergency brake.
That would make the perfect excuse
, I realized. I would tell Mike that I was a “sick passenger” (which was the truth), and that I had slept it off on an MTA cot somewhere.
When I arrived at Mike’s building, I was very relieved to see that my possessions had not been thrown out the window. I imagined homeless people wrapping themselves in my Diane von Furstenberg dresses and zipping into my Juicy Couture sweatsuits.
I could smell cigarettes through the door to the apartment as I searched for my keys. If Mike had been up all night smoking, that was a very bad sign. (He had supposedly quit when we started dating because he loved me so much.)
“Why does it stink in here?” I asked as I walked in, as if
I
deserved an explanation.
He ignored my question. “Where have you been all night?” he wanted to know.
I went into my sick passenger story, but he stopped me.
“Jackie, please stop lying to me. I called the police and filed a missing persons report. They checked with the MTA.”
I was horrified that my one-nighter with Kevin now had an official police record.
“
A missing persons report?
Don’t I have to be dead for three days before you can do that?”
“I didn’t know where you were!” Mike shouted back. “I thought you were dead!”
“Don’t you think you were overreacting?”
“
Overreacting?
I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me where you slept last night?”
But it was just too awful. I couldn’t say a single word, and I didn’t need to anyway: He already knew. The police had checked our phone records and called Kevin’s room at the Carlyle. Kevin must have freaked out because he turned snitch and told them the whole story.
“How could you do this to me?” Mike asked, fighting back tears.
I never felt worse about anything in my life than making Mike cry. But part of me wanted to tell him that if he had married me sooner, all of this could have been avoided.
Despite what I did with Kevin, I really did love Mike. At least, I loved the
idea
of him: He was the nice, normal guy who wanted to settle down and take care of me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to console him.
I walked over to him, expecting to kiss and make up.
“Don’t touch me!” he yelled, backing away as if I were a succubus.
The adorable girl he had fallen in love with was dead in his eyes. I knew that he could never look at me the same way again. It was over.
He slammed the door behind him as he left the apartment.
Stunned, I sat down and stroked the big diamond on my left ring finger. We were still engaged, right? We had the kind of relationship that could withstand this sort of thing, didn’t we?
Mike called about ten minutes later.
“I think you should move out,” he told me.
I could not believe what I was hearing.
“I’m going to my brother’s house for the weekend,” he went on. “I want you out of the apartment by the time I get back. You have two days. I think that’s plenty of time.”
Then he hung up.
I sat down and placed my hand on my chest to make sure my heart was still beating. I forced myself to take a deep breath, since I hadn’t been breathing the whole time I’d been on the phone. I had no money, no job, no place to live, and the love of my life was throwing me out on my ass. My world was destroyed, but there was no time for cracking up: I had to make a new life for myself in the next forty-eight hours.
Desperate, I picked up my cell phone and dialed the first number listed in my phonebook.
“Where will I go? What will I do?” I cried to my college friend April. She lived in Washington, where she worked for some senator who was running for president.
“You should move to DC!” she suggested excitedly. “You could stay with me! Tom left to work on the campaign, so he’s not around. Jackie, it would be so much fun!”
Tom was April’s semiserious boyfriend who worked in her office. They didn’t officially live together, but I guess she was lonely without him, or else she wouldn’t have been asking me to move in with her.
I turned it over in my mind. I had no job, no money, no apartment, no boyfriend, and Twilo was closed. I had no reason to stay in New York anymore.
“What would I do for a job there?” I asked her. “Right now my resume is shit.”
“You can get a job on the Hill,” she told me. “They’re always hiring, just like McDonald’s.”
Without anything better to do, I accepted April’s offer. I FedEx-ed all my possessions (four boxes of clothes and shoes) to her apartment in Capitol Hill that same day, and took the Acela to DC that night.
I tried calling my parents while I was on the train. There was no answer, so I left a very brief and glib message:
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. This is Jacqueline. I’m leaving New York, and I’m on my way to Washington. The marriage is off. Now you don’t have to pay for the wedding!”
I had really blown it in New York, hadn’t I? Maybe these things happened for a reason. Suppose that I was
meant
to move to Washington. Perhaps it was my destiny.
All I knew was that I would never let this happen to me again. The next time anybody said “I love you” to me, I would laugh in their stupid face.
And I knew that I was damn lucky to have a friend like April, a fun single girl who knew Washington, and could help me get a job on Capitol Hill.
T
hat was the plan, even though I didn’t know shit about government or politics. I had taken a few poli-sci courses in college, but I had forgotten all of that stuff when I left Syracuse. I had more important things to think about, like finding the perfect pair of hot pants to wear rollerskating at the Roxy. Politics was for dull people with nothing fabulous going on in their lives, who woke up early on Sunday mornings to watch
Meet the Press.
But if I was going to make a new life for myself in DC, I would have to take this opportunity to learn something new. I was eager to make a fresh start after my miserable failure in New York. This time, I wasn’t going to squander my future on marriage proposals: I was going to have a career doing something important, and what was more important than our nation’s government?
Plus there’s a prestige to working on Capitol Hill that I found highly attractive. I mean, even if I ended up hating my job, wouldn’t it look great on my resume?
April suggested that I take an internship in her office while I looked for a paid position on the Hill. Then I could slap a senator’s name on my resume, use the office computers to write my cover letters, and start “networking” for jobs. She had referred me to Gloria, the intern coordinator in her office. Despite April’s strong recommendation (and the fact that I was more than qualified for a lowly unpaid internship), Gloria insisted that I come in for an interview before granting me entrée into the hallowed halls of Congress.
“WHAT SORTS OF THINGS
should I say on my interview?” I asked April as I unpacked the clothes and shoes I had sent to her apartment.
“Oh, the usual job interview BS,” she told me, examining each item as I pulled it out of its box. “Where’s the other one?” she asked, holding up a single yellow Christian Louboutin pump.
I could see exactly where it was in my mind’s eye: under Mike’s bed back in New York.
“It’s gone,” I said, taking the shoe and shoving it into a garbage bag.
“You have nice clothes, Jackie,” April said, admiring a red Miu Miu dress from about three or four seasons ago.
“Sample sales,” I explained.
Then it occurred to me that sample sales would be a thing of the past from now on. Yet another thing I loved that I had left behind in New York. Where would I get all my clothes from now on? The mall?
“Can I borrow this tonight?” April asked, holding the red dress up against her body. She looked good in red, with her olive skin and long dark hair. I almost wanted to say no, so she wouldn’t steal my thunder.
“You can wear that if you want to,” I told her, “but I’m not sure if I should go out tonight. I have that interview tomorrow.”
“But we have to go out!” April argued. “It’s your first night in Washington. We have to celebrate. And don’t worry about that interview. Gloria is very nice.” She smiled. “Plus you’ll get to meet Dan, my office crush.”
“April!” I scolded her. “What about Tom?”
“Tom isn’t here,” she said dismissively. “He’s in New Hampshire for the primary, probably fucking the volunteers to stay warm. You know how those campaign chicks are.”
I didn’t, but I agreed that April should keep her options open. You never know what the other person in your relationship could be doing behind your back.
“I guess I always assume the worst about people,” April explained. “Besides, Tom ran away from me to work on the campaign. He’s obviously not that serious about me anyway.”
“Maybe he thinks your senator will win,” I offered. “He’s probably doing it just to suck up to your chief of staff, so that he’ll get a cushy job in the White House.”
“Oh, please! Everybody knows that the senator isn’t going to win New Hampshire. This is just Tom’s way of sabotaging our relationship, the way you did when you cheated on Mike.”
“
Excuse me?
” I balked. “For your information, I loved Mike very much. I intended to spend the rest of my life with him! He’s the one who wanted to end it, not me.”
“Then why did you fuck Kevin, of all people? You
hated
Kevin after he dumped you in college, remember?”
“That had nothing to do with Mike. It was just a mistake.”
“A mistake? Get real, Jackie. You weren’t ready to get married.”
“I wasn’t? I sure felt like I was ready. I mean, Mike was the perfect guy, and I gave him some of the best years of my life. But even if I
wasn’t
ready for marriage, how bad could it have possibly been?”
“Duh, Jackie! Haven’t you ever read
Madame Bovary
?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “I only read the Cliffs Notes.”
“You’re lucky that this happened while you’re still young and hot enough to get this shit out of your system,” April explained. “We have the rest of our lives to get married and sit at home anyway. We need to have some fun in the meantime. Let’s go out tonight and make out with strangers!”
April wasn’t kidding. She put my Miu Miu dress on over a red G-string and matching push-up bra. I finished unpacking and folded up the cardboard boxes I had used to ship my wardrobe from New York to Washington. I would need them again when I packed up again and moved into my own apartment, as soon as I could afford one. I slid the boxes under the sofa bed that I would be sleeping on in the meantime. I hoped that everything would fall into place soon: the job, the apartment, and the strangers whom I had yet to make my boyfriends.
A
pril and I met up with Laura, a staff assistant in her office. Getting sloppy drunk and hooking up with strange boys was probably not the best way to make a first impression on a future coworker, but I knew that I could keep myself under control: If I learned anything at Syracuse, it was functional alcoholism. And besides, April assured me that Laura was “cool.”
She was a pretty, anorexia-thin blonde who fit in perfectly with the girls at Smith Point: cable-knit Ralph Lauren sweater, pearls, and a Longchamps bag. She wasn’t inbred-looking enough to be a genuine New England WASP, so I assumed she was probably from the South somewhere.
“We’re the best-looking girls here,” she declared as we joined her just inside the door.
The three of us
did
look good together. I could see us going out on a regular basis, making the scene, keeping DC beautiful.
“That’s not saying much!” April snorted. “The girls here are
nothing.
”
I looked around. Most of the girls here had puffy-looking bodies, with silver Tiffany hearts dangling from their wrists. They clutched bottles of Miller Lite beer and sang along to “Stronger” by Britney Spears.
These girls made their Black Label sweaters look like Polo Sport. Girls drinking
beer
? Out of
bottles
? And what self-respecting woman over the age of sixteen wore those junky silver bracelets? When I
did
wear the Tiffany heart charm bracelet, it was gold, fuck you very much. (A gift Mike had bought me for Valentine’s Day one year.)
I excused myself to the bar, ignoring the boys in Abercrombie & Fitch trying to talk to me as I passed by.
If your fiancé ever throws you out of his condo, I highly recommend relocating to our nation’s capital. The boys here were so
friendly,
it was almost sad, like nobody ever taught them how to be cool. Like I said, Washington was full of nerds.
But I wouldn’t give the date-rapers at Smith Point the time of day, let alone the time of
night
. I had fucked enough of these types back in college. I was a woman now, and I wasn’t going back to some GW dorm to make out on a twin-sized bed.
“Ugh, let’s get out of here.” I returned without ordering anything. “This place is a dump. And I think we’re too old. Everybody here is, like, twelve.”
“Sit down!” April ordered, pulling a stool over from the bar. “This place is supposed to be fabulous. Laura comes here all the time.”
“Sorry this place isn’t as cool as any of the bars in
New York,
” Laura said dryly.
This girl already hated me. I wasn’t sure if I liked her much, either, but she was April’s friend and my future coworker, so I had to make an effort to ingratiate myself.
I bought the next round of drinks.
“Girls like us should never have to buy our own drinks,” Laura sniffed. “Let’s put out
the vibe.
”
Laura crossed her legs, tossed her hair, and made eye contact with the only guy in the bar who was wearing a suit. I thought she looked ridiculous, but it seemed to work: He immediately ditched the porcine young lady he was talking to and began his approach toward us.
“Ooh, a young attorney,” April surmised. “Good work, L.”
“You can have him,” Laura offered, “but make sure he buys drinks for all three of us.”
“But it’s
Sunday,
” I reminded them. “I don’t trust guys who wear suits on the weekend.”
“Jackie, don’t be such a bitch,” April said, straightening her posture and sticking her chest out.
Laura pulled the bait and switch: She introduced the suit wearer to April and immediately excused herself to the ladies’ room, taking me with her.
We returned to the table a few minutes later so as not to miss out on the drink order.
The boy sitting at our table was attractive, but not devastatingly so. You could take him or leave him, really.
“What do you do?” I asked him first thing.
“I’m in grad school,” he replied.
“Grad school? So do you have to wear a suit to class or something?”
“No, I’m just wearing it for fun.”
“
For fun?
” Laura repeated. “You wear a suit
for fun
?”
We all gave each other a look that said,
WTF?
“So are you buying us drinks or what?” April finally asked.
“Uh, I don’t know.”
The question seemed to make him uncomfortable.
“I think you should buy us drinks,” Laura said, ganging up on him.
“Why should I?” he dared to ask.
Again,
WTF?
April invited this loser to sit with us, the prettiest girls in Smith Point, and we deserved free drinks for wasting our time.
“
Excuse me?
” Laura was outraged. “Because you’re sitting with us, that’s why! Somebody else could be sitting here, buying us drinks right now! I think you should leave.”
He left the table in his finery, cursing us.
“You guys, we are
so
mean!” I giggled.
“Whatever,” Laura sniffed. “Who does that guy think he is, coming here in a suit?”
She grabbed my Malibu and pineapple cocktail, in need of emergency refreshment.
“I wasn’t too rude, was I?” she asked.
“Absolutely not!” I reassured her. “Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind, Laura. You did that guy a
favor
.”
“You taught him a very valuable lesson,” April agreed. “If you want girls to be nice to you, buy them drinks. Or go back to your dorm room alone!”
We looked around for some other guys to talk to.
“Slim pickings,” I observed as a boy wearing a puka shell necklace walked by.
“I miss my boyfriend,” April groaned.
“Me too,” I sighed.
“Let’s get out of here,” Laura finally said in disgust.
She left the bar in a cab, swearing off Georgetown bars forever (“for real this time!”), but April wasn’t ready to turn in yet.
“Just one more drink! I’ll buy,” she offered, which is all I needed to hear, but all of the bars on M Street looked empty.
“What the fuck? It’s only ten o’clock,” I complained.
“It’s Sunday,” April explained.
“So? It’s still early. Where are all the people?”
“They’re probably already in bed.”
“In bed by ten? Incredible.”
We reached the end of M Street.
“We’re all out of bars!” April wailed.
“No, we aren’t.” I turned toward a large brick building that looked more like a public school than a luxury hotel. “We’re right in front of the Four Seasons. Let’s just go in here.”
“Isn’t this where hookers go?” April asked.
“Don’t worry, we are obviously
not
hookers.”
The truth is, the Four Seasons
was
a favorite spot for women seeking rich men in Washington. I wasn’t sure if they were hookers, husband-hunters, or just regular hos, but they came to the Four Seasons to be
picked up
all the same. Since April and I were obviously none of the above, I felt perfectly comfortable walking into the Garden Terrace Lounge unescorted.
“May I help you?” the pretty hostess asked, looking at us suspiciously.
She was the only woman in sight, and the lounge was full of single men.
“We’re just going to the bar, thanks,” I said, trying my best not to sound like a hooker. (Whatever that meant.)
“This is, like, the best place to meet guys!” April whispered. “Look at all of them, sitting by themselves!”
The Four Seasons on a Sunday night. Who knew?
“But where are all the prostitutes?” April asked. “I wanted to see what they look like.”
“Maybe they don’t work on Sundays,” I guessed.
We sat at the bar, and within minutes, we had company: a venture capitalist on April’s right, and a government agency chief of staff on my left.
The chief of staff looked like Kenneth Branagh. He said hello and told me that his name was Fred.
“My name is Jacqueline,” I said, giving him significant and meaningful eye contact. (Maybe this guy could get me a job somewhere?)
Fred promptly bought me a drink, which automatically granted him permission to keep talking to me.
“So what do you do?” he asked.
“I’m new in town,” I explained. “I’ll be interning on the Hill until I find a real job.”
“Oh, you’re an
intern
.”
The way that Fred said the word
intern
suggested a sexualized definition of the word, like it was synonymous with blow jobs or something.
He bought me a second glass of bourbon before I could finish the first. I was back on the Poverty Diet, so I was drinking on an empty stomach. I started feeling very relaxed and friendly (read: drunk), as we continued making small talk.
“So where did you go to school?” he asked me.
“I went to Syracuse. And you?”
“I went to school in New Jersey.”
“Jersey? You went to Rutgers?”
“Ah, no, actually. Princeton.”
“Oh, yes, Princeton! Right.” (So embarrassing.)
I looked over at April. She was already sharing a plate of caviar with the venture capitalist.
“I love your dress,” I overheard him say.
That was
my
dress she was wearing. Jealous!
I turned back to Fred.
“So, where do you work again?” I asked, batting my eyelashes, crossing my legs toward him.
He looked at me, picking up on what I was putting out there.
“Why don’t I show you?” he suggested. “Would you like to see my office? We could go there right now.”
“Your office? Why would I want to see your office?” I asked coyly.
I could guess why Fred would want to take me to an empty office in the middle of the night, and I supposed that I was down for whatever “Oval Office” wish fulfillment he had in mind.
He told me that his office had a great view of the Mall.
“I’d love to see it,” I said and followed him through the lobby as the hotel staff watched us leave.
Oh, the things they must have seen working there. Every one of them could probably quit their jobs with all of the blackmail material they had. But I didn’t care if anybody saw me leaving the bar with a stranger. It was nobody’s business but our own, right?
