Читать книгу On The Verge - Ariella Papa - Страница 8

What you really want to know is what happened with Zeke. Well, so does Tabitha. Although I only met him on Thursday and spent all weekend with her partying, recovering and watching Valley of the Dolls, she wants to know if I disobeyed her dating mandates.

“Tab, what was the last thing you said to me on my way home yesterday?”

“First off, I’m Tabitha, not Tab. I’m neither calorie conscious nor from the eighties.” She loves that line. “Secondly, I know what I told you, but who knows, once you crossed state lines the Jersey girl in you may have come out and disobeyed.” Aggh, as always, the Bridge and Tunnel stigma rears its ugly head. If only I lived in Manhattan, I could squelch it once and for all.

“You said wait three days. I’m waiting more than three days. Above and beyond what is required. Although, I know he’s beyond those boyish games.”

“Why, because he wasn’t an ex frat boy? You don’t even know that. He just impressed you by knowing what chopsticks were. The fact that you took his number means he probably thinks you are a feminist, which you are, but as far as he’s concerned that means you like weird sex. The moment you call he is going to start polishing the cuffs and the dog collar, which is fine if you like that sort of thing, but you know you are strictly a first date missionary style ‘take me to a place I’ve never been before’ girl.”

“Do you ever take a breath?”

“Don’t have the time. Oh, shit!”

“What?”

“The Big C has the Prada suit on. She’s going to assert some power today.”

“I thought Prada meant she had her period and was retaining water.”

“That’s the black suit. Don’t call me today. And remember, wait till tomorrow to call the musician.”

“A&R guy…” I say as she hangs up on me.

Lorraine, my supervisor, is standing by my desk when I hang up. She hates the city, but is always asking me where the hot spots are. If only I was as cool in reality as Lorraine’s husband and dogs must think I am. Lorraine gives me data to input in the assignment grid. This is what I am paid eighteen fifty an hour to do. Other people stand over hot grills making French fries for a quarter of what I make. I type names into slots of stories that are being published over the next few months. Who is working on the bike of the month, what is the best bike seat, and, for fun, what books have significant cycling scenes in them. (Like any of our readers ever get off their bikes.)

Inputting this data is tearfully boring, and since I have a week until it is supposed to be in the system I put it off as long as possible. I can do it ridiculously quickly and it is my only real responsibility. The Internet only occupies so much of my time. I spend a lot of time staring at my screen saver, which is really just the standard stars that come with Windows. It was left behind from the last temp, whom I’m sure also spent a lot of her time staring at it. I know I could be using this time a lot better. I could be writing. I could be coming up with freelance articles and researching them (I have unlimited phone calls after all), I could be trying to contact other magazines to get a new job. But, for whatever reason, I spend a lot of time just sitting here. But, it’s all good—it’s New York.

For the past eighteen years, September has meant change. I looked forward to the fall because it meant new clothes, new classes, a new year. There is always that hope from kindergarten to my very last extra semester in college that something new and wonderful was going to happen. That anything bad that had happened in the past year was going to be magically wiped from the slate.

I’ve been working since February, when I finally graduated and moved home. Despite a couple of storms, it was a mild winter. Mild enough to keep me deluded into thinking that maybe this was all some big summer vacation that was eventually going to end in either another leg of my academic career or fame and fortune. There is no way this, the tedium that is my life as an assistant, could be (gulp!) my life.

As we reach the middle of September and I am still doing this nine-to-five rat race thing, there is no denying it—this is it. I couldn’t ignore the fall fashions and back to school sales. My sister, Monica, the perpetual student, returned to Massachusetts for her third master’s degree, this time in Women’s Studies. No doubt about it, I’m stuck here for a while, but I intend to work it.

The fact is I love New York. The image. The way my friends from school are envious of me only because I work for Prescott Nelson. The people I meet around my parents’ house (someday I will have my own place) are always sort of shocked that I commute to the big city. Granted, they’re from New Jersey—they’re impressed by garage door openers.

When I forget about all the good stuff, the thing that bugs me is the absolute stagnancy of the routine I’ve fallen into. The fringe benefits are cool, but each week means more of the same. No one else on the crowded elevators really seem to have these thoughts. I suppose it’s cool enough for them to be a part of this great publishing empire, even if they are just nothings. They, like my friends from school or the people in my hometown, are impressed by the name and the possibility of something that no one can quite identify.

But I try not to think about it that way.

One of my greatest sources of relief is Tabitha. She is one of the few friends I have at work. Best of all, she lives in the city and knows everything about what’s cool and what’s not. Tabitha and I met in the temp pool, on our very first day. I arrived, ready to start my career, ready for that lucky break. I was wearing what I like to call my Jackie-O suit; retro yet respectable.

Tabitha is a big girl from Texas. I know that oversimplifies her, and she would hate to be referred to that way. Robust, Rubenesque, statuesque—striking, these are the words Tabitha would use. Tabitha isn’t fat, well, maybe she is, but only by Calvin Klein standards. But it doesn’t seem to stop her and she has no intention of changing.

I find all kinds of men are attracted to Tabitha, despite her size. She mostly dates foreigners: Italian businessmen, Argentinean soccer players, and I think there was even Kuwaiti royalty. Foreigners are instantly drawn to her. She says they’re safe to date because “if they’re here, they can afford me.”

Everything about Tabitha is image. I have watched her spend a fortune on clothes. I have yet to figure out how she does it, she pays New York City rent and makes the same amount as I do.

“I just know what to prioritize.” She always says this at the occasional times when I can’t afford to go shopping with her. She always dodges the issue of finance. I wonder if she’s got a trust fund? Since she hates to shop alone, she usually tries to bribe me into going with the promise of presents. If I don’t go, she’s liable to buy anything she finds in my size that she thinks is cute. Tabitha is generous, but I think it’s more about the way she wants her friends to look. She wants to run in stylish circles, so everyone around her must be stylish. (Sadly, I don’t think I’ve ever lived up to the promise of my Jackie-O suit.)

The best part about Tabitha is the perks that come with her job. A lot of the fringies that enable our image making are courtesy of Tabitha’s job. The glamour gods were smiling down on her when she got her temp assignment. She is assistant to the editor-in-chief of, if you can believe it, NY By Night. Yes, we own that, too. That “we” being Prescott Nelson Inc. Uncle Pres, the founder of our great company, has got his hand in everything. NY By Night covers all the N.Y. happenings: film premieres, gallery openings, club life, celeb birthdays, charity functions, and the random publicity events that only people in the “biz” go to so that they can photograph, write and read about how much fun everyone is having being that much hipper then the rest of the population.

Tabitha’s boss is Diana Milana. Tabitha likes to call Diana the Big C (and you can imagine what the C stands for). The Big C is very well known in this industry. She told Tabitha, the first day she started, “I like to get things done.” But due to the Big C’s hectic schedule she has very little time to attend all the events she is supposed to as the head of the “pulse of the heart that never sleeps” or whatever NY By Night’s slogan is. So, when the Big C can’t get one of her equally pressed employees to attend these events, guess who winds up with several engagements in one evening? Sometimes, we travel for an entire night, staying for exactly an hour and fifteen minutes at each event. (Well, that happened twice.) Tabitha gets to expense all the cab receipts, and on nights when she meets the right immigrant, she sends me home in a company car. Thanks, Uncle Pres!

I would give anything for a job like Tabitha’s, but at least I still get to experience the perks. I don’t know how I would survive my parents’ house in Jersey without it. There are weekends when I basically live with Tabitha in her box of an apartment starting on Thursday. We usually get our nails done on Thursday at lunch to prepare for a night of craziness and bouncer schmoozing. We can barely function through Friday, catching a quick nap before we go out again. Then, everything becomes a blur up until Tabitha is sipping strong coffee and reading me the Styles section of the New York Times on Sunday afternoons. If we’re lucky, we make a brunch and have some hair of the dog that bit us. I stumble back to New Jersey and catch 60 Minutes with the ’rents and wonder how come it always seems like Sunday night and how I am going to get through the next four days.

Monday is a great day to make excuses. I could screw everything up on Monday and shrug it off with a “Monday Morning.” No one notices anything on Monday.

On this Monday, at least, I have another distraction—the napkin Zeke wrote his name and numbers on. He wrote Zeke in big bold letters, your standard male handwriting, slightly wobbly from alcohol intake, and then the numbers. The most interesting thing about the napkin is the way his sevens are crossed. My Italian grandmother used to cross her sevens like this. How Euro. I have the urge to call him tonight, but how desperate would that seem? On the other hand, would he be annoyed that I am playing the phone waiting game with him? I’m certain he is above those things, but alas, I cannot be.

But Tuesday, I have an actual dilemma: which number to call and when? If I call him at work, he may be busy promoting some amazing new artist and have to go abruptly, which will sour the whole experience. I also may not have a chance to give him my number, which will mean I have to gauge whether or not he was really busy or if he finds me physically repulsive and whether or not to call him back.

If I call him at home, I will get his answering machine. He might wonder why I’m calling him at home when it’s a weekday.

If I beep him, he might not recognize the foreign number and not call, forcing me to beep him again or call another of his numbers, which ruins everything, because again I seem desperate. Or, he might call every number he sees on his beeper because it could be a business beeper, in which case, I’m sort of forcing him to call me, which I don’t want to do.

But I definitely don’t want to talk to him, so I have to call a number where I think I’ll get a voice mail. I can try calling him during lunch—but what if he is too busy to take lunch and answers the phone? Of course, I could always hang up if someone answers, but what if he has caller ID and he calls me back and I have to answer and he thinks I’m in junior high? I think about calling Tabitha, but I would no doubt slip from adolescent to prepubescent levels.

Okay, I’ll call him at home. Now, what to say? I drop my voice an octave. (God, I wish I smoked and drank a fifth of vodka a day to get a sexy Kim Carnes voice. How can I project sexiness when I sound like your average unattached twenty something?)

Possible messages: “Hey, Zeke, it’s Eve, I have an urge for sushi and I was wondering if the offer still stands.” But, what if he doesn’t remember our supposed date? Does that sound sexual? Might he think I’m comparing his penis to raw fish?

Or: “Zeke, it’s Eve. I’ve been thinking about your chest hair, if you’ve been thinking about my chest, give me a call.” Maybe that’s a little much and besides, I want to be loved for my mind.

Or: “Zeke, Eve. We met on Thursday. Here’s my number. Give me a call.” The Thursday might sound too interested, like I’ve been thinking too much about that night in the bar. Like I’ve been x-ing off the days in my Filofax.

Or: “Hi, Zeke. It’s Eve. We met this weekend. Please give me a call.” Please? How bad is that? I might as well say, “My life depends on you calling. I haven’t been on a date in three months, let alone had sex, and I’m about to put out a personal ad under Anything Goes in the Voice just to have some human contact.”

Or: “Hey, Zeke, it’s Eve, from this weekend. Just calling to see how your weekend was. Call me when you get a chance.” Reasonably neutral. I write it down and dial. It rings three times and then the wretched voice mail…with a female voice. Hey, Heather and Zeke aren’t here right now, but our answering machine is. Beep.

I hang up. He lives with someone. How could he? Who is this Heather—and what kind of name is Heather?

“An overused one,” says Tabitha when I join her on a smoke break.

“All those promises, I was already practicing eating seductively with chopsticks.”

“Well,” says Tabitha, exhaling, “it might just be his roommate, a platonic friend.”

“C’mon ‘our answering machine’ implies togetherness. Items owned together is surely not a sign of platonia.”

“Platonia? Whatever. If they were together, he’d probably leave the message.”

“I told you he wasn’t like that. He was different, special. Now, he’s gone.”

“Tragic, really. Look, Eve, just call him at work. It will come up. Don’t mention the home phone call and pray he doesn’t have Caller ID.” She stubs out her cigarette and we start to walk in. “But whatever you do, give him your work number. You don’t want to specify area codes. You don’t want him to know you’re from Jersey.”

I wait another day, and finally I dial the number quickly before I can stop myself. Voice mail, voice mail, voice mail, my mantra.

“This is Zeke.” Shit.

“Zeke?’

“Yes.”

“Hi, it’s me, it’s Eve, from this weekend.”

“Oh, Eve. Hi, Eve. I was hoping you would call.” (Hoping? Did he actually hope? The cockles of my heart are warm, my stomach is turning, other parts are reveling in the possibility of finally getting some attention.)

“Well, I meant to call yesterday, but I had a hectic day. You know how it is.” I can hear Tabitha applauding me. My weekend was obviously too intense and already full, my job is taxing and challenging.

“Yeah, of course, this is one time I’m actually at my desk.” Inferiority alert! His job is actually taxing and challenging. “All weekend I had to check out these horrible new acts and get schmoozed by their wanna-be managers, who are totally clueless types from Long Island or Jersey or something.”

“Ick.”

“Exactly,” he laughs. A nice laugh, a warm, masculine laugh. Heather has to be his sister. When Zeke and I are each established in our careers and ready to make the plunge, I will make her a bridesmaid. “So, Eve, are we going to go out together or what?”

“Sure. I would love to.”

“How about tomorrow?” Tomorrow? Probably too short notice, but before I can put him on hold to consult Tabitha, his other line beeps so I agree and he says he’ll call me with details.

I arrive at the restaurant five minutes late. I am perfumed, I am blow-dried, I am waxed in all the right places. (“Just to be safe. Don’t let it make you a slut,” admonished Tabitha.)

The place is exactly what I envisioned—a trendy little East Village spot full of beautiful people. I’m trying not to be impressed but wait a minute, he isn’t at the bar. Curses! If he gets here later than me, he’ll think I got here early. Maybe he is sitting already. I ask the beautiful woman in the kimono if there is another room and she gestures toward the back into a traditional Japanese dining room where shoes are not allowed. Thank God I let them grate off the dead skin at the pedicure.

He waves me over from one of the low tables. His shirt brings out the green flecks in his eyes. There is an awkward moment as I slip my shoes off before entering the room.

“Hey,” I say, kneeling at the table.

“You look beautiful.” Wow! Am I going to blush?

“Well, thanks, you’re not so bad yourself.” He reaches across the table and touches my chin. I hadn’t expected the physical contact so soon, but I lean into it.

“I ordered for us, the first round, at least. Then, we’ll see what you want.”

“Great.” He pours me some sake. I drink it, it’s very warming. I pour some more. He smiles.

“I have a very high tolerance,” I say.

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, I was never very popular at frat parties.” He has a disconcerting habit of just staring at me smiling. I gulp some more sake. “What?”

“You are just breathtaking.”

“You’re embarrassing me, really. So tell me about your job.”

He starts to talk about the people his company represents and although he doesn’t tell a lot of stories that involve him, it’s interesting enough to entertain me. He gets a lot of CD promos and has two thousand CDs.

“I have a thirty-disk changer. It puts me to sleep.”

“Oh, is it just you in your apartment?”

“No, I have a roommate. A friend’s ex-girlfriend. What a bitch.” I have this aversion to hearing a man call a woman a “bitch.” It’s overused and I think very distasteful. Zeke seemed like a sensitive enough guy in my alcohol-affected impression, so I am about to give him my views on this in a nonthreatening manner, but the sushi arrives. It’s lovely and multicolored. I love sushi. Zeke pours us more sake and presses his hands together, pleased with his selection. There really isn’t anything sexier than a man who knows how to order.

“You start.” I get to it.

“So, Zeke, where are you from?” He chuckles a little.

“Well, I’ve basically lived all over California, Maryland… I live way over on West 12th.” That’s sort of hip, but, I bet he’s lying about where he’s from, I bet he’s from Long Island. As long as he doesn’t turn it around. “Where do you live? Where are you from? Tell me everything, Eve.”

“Oh, I’m crashing with a friend who lives on the Upper East Side. I know, awful. We’re looking for another apartment.” Time to deflect, I will not admit to living in Jersey. “Good thing you got two of everything. I love yellowtail.”

We eat for a while and I always feel less awkward when I’m stuffing my face. I am so into eating that I don’t realize he is staring at me again. I set my chopsticks down and wipe my mouth.

“Don’t stop. It’s nothing. I just like to watch you eat. It’s very erotic.”

“Maybe you should just concentrate on your dinner.”

“That would be like masturbation.” I practically spit my sake onto the remaining sushi. I cough. I might be choking, the waitress brings water and Zeke reaches over to thump me on the back. I regain my composure and take a deep breath. Is he for real?

“I didn’t mean to offend you. Really. I’m sorry. I can’t help who I am. I’m a very sexual person and I’m enjoying this very much. I want you to relax.”

“Oh, I’m relaxed.” The sake pitcher is empty. I nod for more, “Completely.”

When Zeke isn’t cataloging my every chew, he does a lot of talking about himself. Well, he does a lot of hinting about himself, he hints at things. A possible summer home, an expensive college education, a book he might want to write, friends who work in independent film. It sounds too good to be true. And also, (try not to wince) he has a tendency to refer to himself in the third person. Example: “Zeke thinks that every woman should be up on a pedestal.” Believe me I’m sparing you the really bad dialogue.

For whatever reason, I agree to go to Veniero’s with Zeke. By this point the sake is making me really loopy. We get shots of grappa “to help us digest.” I stop him before he can force me to lick the cannoli cream off his fingers.

“You know the thing is, Eve, a woman’s pleasure is more important to me than my own. Her pleasure,” he says, interlacing his fingers, “is worth more than her pain.”

“Well, Zeke, that’s a very admirable ideology.”

“Do you really think so, Eve?” I can tell he’s really pleased with himself. “It’s been a long time since I’ve indulged in satisfying my senses so completely. I’m having such a great time. I feel like growling. I feel so basic, like an animal.” He runs his fingers through my hair and growls. Yes! He actually growls! The old Italian men at the table next to us look over. Maybe they’ll rescue me. Does this actually work? Am I having a drunken hallucination? Is he really saying this?

“Let’s talk more about you, Eve. What are the things you like? I want to know you.”

“Oh, boy, Zeke. You know, I’m pretty complex, it might take a while.”

“I’ve got all night. We’ve got all night.” I need to get out of here. I want my own bed. I wish I had a car voucher.

“Maybe we can save that for next time, I’m burnt, all the excitement and, you know, I have a big day at work tomorrow. Deadlines and such. The crazy world of magazine publishing.” I can’t believe I got a bikini wax for this.

“Oh, Eve, sure, well, let me hail you a cab.” Luckily, there is a cab right there and I’m hoping to expedite this awful goodbye.

“What an extraordinary night. We’ll have to do this again.” I offer him my hand, but then he is passionately kissing me against the cab and it’s not a bad kiss.

Now, maybe it was the sake or the way he’s rotating his pelvis into mine in the middle of East Eleventh Street, but I’m not exactly proud of what happens next.

“Well?” asks Tabitha first thing in the morning over the phone. I am so hungover. The freshly squeezed six-dollar orange juice and toast isn’t doing a thing for my head.

“Well, let’s just say it’s a good thing the Gap is open at nine.”

“Oh, how scandalous and low down! Was it great? How big?”

“No, awful, well, not awful in the satisfying of mutual desires way, but awful in the how desperate I am and what lengths I will go to merely get laid.”

“So tell me everything—actually skip the sushi and start with the sex.” Sometimes Tabitha’s alliterations are on par with my own. I make a mental note.

“Well, made out the entire cab ride back to his place. The driver’s name was Numbi, very discreet, I would have liked to speak to him, but—”

“Eve. Please.”

“So we got back to his place—”

“Where?”

“Meat-packing district/West Village, pretty cool apartment. Roommate who he lovingly calls a ‘bitch’ away on business.”

“Convenient. Are there two bedrooms?”

“Yes. That was the first thing I checked.”

“Thatta girl. So then he took off your clothes?”

“No, then I had to pee. All the sake. Anyway, I do my thing.”

“Some stuff can be spared.”

“Right, and when I come out the lights are dim and he’s got what I assume is the thirty-disk changer going with some R&B ‘make love to your woman’ music and he’s lying on the couch in his Calvin Klein briefs, well, you know the boxer brief things, and Mr. Pokey is struggling to get free.”

“Wow! The bod?”

“Well, let’s just say he should have gotten the wax.”

“No!” She practically shrieks into the phone. “How bad?”

“Shoulder hair.”

“Mother of God.” She is really excited now. “You are lying!”

“This is a story I could not make up, and you should take it down a notch before the Big C talks to you about volume control.”

“Shit, you’re right. She just scowled at me—doesn’t do much for her crow’s feet. I’ll call you back in two. Must smooth this over. Don’t go away. I gotta hear the rest.”

She hangs up on me.

Two minutes turns into three hours and finally I get up to go to the bathroom. I run into the big boss, my boss, on the way back to my desk. Herb Reynolds, the man who handles all the editorial work for the magazine. He has the smug look of a man who has never had to work too hard for anything. A man who believes in the integrity of his writing and honestly believes his “work” (that is, detailing his struggles to find independence on the open road, just a man and his bike, the importance of physical activity for the American Spirit, et cetera) is somehow furthering American journalism. I find Herb a tad ridiculous and intimidating at the same time, but he’s a good contact to have.

If I even entertain the idea of him publishing my reformed biker doctor story (it sounds like a B-movie, doesn’t it?) or anything else, I’ll have to kiss his ass more than I do already. I am supposed to be his assistant, but he has a corner office on the other end of the floor. Our phones aren’t even connected. My only true contact with him is when I make his travel plans or when I need to get someone’s expense report signed.

“Hello, Eve,” he says with his usual pompous smile. “I was meaning to stop by.”

“You were?” Did someone finally tell him that he has an amazingly gifted writer whose talents are being virtually wasted in a thankless position? Finally, on the verge of my big break. A testament that a little sex puts the world in a whole new perspective.

“Yes, can you check my schedule and put together a meeting with Lacey Matthews?” He gives me her card.

“Oh,” I say, “and what is this about?”

“She’s a freelance writer. We’re going to see about her doing some work for us. Appeal to the lost female demographic.” (Well, it is called Bicycle Boy, after all.)

“Great,” I say as I consider ripping up her card. “I’ll call today.”

“Yes, when you have some downtime.” As if my job isn’t defined by downtime.

“Okay, great.”

Great is how I usually answer all requests. A hypothetical:

Person of dubious authority: “Eve, why don’t you count all of the paper clips in the entire department and then divide them into seven equal piles.”

Me: “Great. I’ll get right on it. That’ll be great.”

Sometimes, when I feel I’m being especially artificially cheery I run into the bathroom, stare into the mirror and alternate between smiling my fakest most “entry level” smile and making my face as ugly as it can possibly get. I rival anyone in the ugly face department. I have lots of ways to make myself look absolutely monstrous. You probably think that’s really weird and freakish, but believe me, it makes me feel a lot better about being so low on the corporate/creative food chain.

When I get back to my desk, my red light is blinking; a message from Tabitha. She is annoyed that I wasn’t there and insists we go to The Nook, our company cafeteria, so she can hear the rest of the story. I call her back and we plan to meet in twenty.

Of course she’s late. I have to wait at the designated meeting spot, just outside The Nook and fend off the advances of the lecherous security guard. He likes Tabitha better, but today my less womanly body will do. As he asks me if my husband (I made one up) knows how to make love to me, he gets a call on his impressive walkie-talkie. He scans the area and assures the other concerned party that it’s all clear out here.

“Except you of course,” he smiles, flashing his ugly teeth at me.

“Yeah, I’m a real danger.” I study my Employee ID intently, hoping he will stop talking to me.

“The big guy’s coming out.”

“The big guy?” Is he being dirty?

“You know,” he points up to the sky. Is the second coming happening here in The Nook? Then it clicks, it’s even better. Tabitha is going to be so jealous. Sure enough, within seconds, none other than The Prescott Nelson turns the corner with an assistant and a few beefy bodyguards. He is limping, which everyone knows is from the time, as a young man, he bravely saved three people in a mountain climbing expedition gone wrong. Other than that, he looks quite spry for a man over seventy.

Then, something amazing happens. It is so amazing it almost happens in slow motion. Our eyes meet and I smile and he smiles back and walks by and gets on his elevator up to the top floor. Almost immediately after his elevator door closes, Tabitha gets off an elevator coming down. I try to compose myself to protect her, but I can’t.

“Wow,” says Tabitha, “you’re really glowing from it.”

“It wasn’t that,” I say, “it was him.”

“Who?” I put my hand on her shoulder. She is going to take this really hard.

“Him.” I point up.

“Him?” She’s confused, but then realizes. I know because her lip starts to quiver.

Tabitha is on the verge of hysterics all throughout our tortellini salads. Apparently the real travesty is that she wore her Hermes scarf today and the great Prescott never got to see it. She keeps asking me the same questions.

“Are you sure he was smiling at you?”

“Our eyes met. If he was thirty years younger it could have been magical. Scratch that, it was magical anyway.”

“You know, it’s her fault, don’t you?”

“Is it?” I ask, knowing that the Big C is indeed the root of all evil.

“Yes, she had me printing out all this stuff for her ‘supposed’ power lunch. Now, it’s common knowledge that unless it’s on my SchedulePlus, it ain’t happening. I suspect an afternoon tryst at the Marriot. It’s DKNY today, a dead giveaway. But she has to have these documents and she keeps making changes and what the fuck? Is she going to read them while her whoever is going down on her?”

“Well, that’s probably how she got so far.”

“Anyway, I’m just happy for you, Eve, even though you aren’t as big a fan as I am and it’s hard for me to be so charitable.”

“Tabitha, you’re doing an admirable job.”

“Thank you.” She is quiet for a while. I wonder if she’s going to be okay about this. I really want to tell her the rest of my story, it’s so rare that I have something juicy to tell her. This and the Prescott thing are almost too much. When it rains it pours.

“So about the primate…” Now, that’s the Tabitha we love.

“Yes,” I say, leaning closer, it’s not exactly lunch room gossip. “Where was I?”

“The sex music on, he’s half naked and hairy.” She really does listen. I take a dramatic sip of my iced tea.

“Right, so I am sort of wobbling in, because, let’s face it, I’ve had too much sake and I know it. ‘Hi,’ I say, because I’m kind of surprised, you know, and it’s not too often you walk into a room and find a half-naked hairy guy.”

“Of course not,” Tabitha says, understanding, “but it’s dark?”

“Well, the lights are dim, so I stand there like an idiot, the room is sort of spinning, you know, and, Tab, I’m kind of in the mood, despite the hair, the body’s pretty good and he does know how to order sushi.” She nods, not minding the “Tab” because she is so intrigued.

“‘Do you want to sit down?’ He’s all Barry White like or maybe it’s the R&B, so I go over to the couch and sit on this little edge by his feet, he puts one in my lap and starts, well, touching me with it.” Tabitha looks slightly disturbed. “It was actually kind of nice. So I close my eyes to try to make everything stand still and next thing you know we sort of wind up on the floor. Hardwood.”

“Nice, but, uncomfortable.”

“Exactly. He pulls a blanket off the couch and puts it under me.”

“Very thoughtful.”

“So we’re kissing and he’s not a bad kisser. Except, I think he might have been kissing me to the rhythm of the music, although, all my impressions could be blamed on the sake—”

“Even the hair?”

“No, that was very—real. Next thing you know, some of my clothes are off—”

“Of course you had the decency to get your unsightly hairs removed.”

“Right. And the condom comes out—”

“Where does it come from?”

“Well, unfortunately it’s in another room.”

“At least he wasn’t too prepared.”

“Right, but I’m hoping that I don’t pass out while I’m waiting— I’m pretty drunk.”

“I can imagine.”

“Right. So he gets back and you know we continued from where we were—”

“How’s the hair playing into all this?”

“Not bad, it’s actually sort of something to hold on to.”

“In the absence of a headboard or say, a car seat.”

“Right. Well, sort of. And I must say, he’s a great kisser, great with his hands, not shy about the things that matter.” We smile and nod at each other knowingly.

“And the act?”

“Not exactly memorable.”

“Ick.”

“Exactly, and I’m kind of surprised when he’s done.”

“Because you’re not, um, satisfied?”

“Precisely. So he looks at me and says ‘That was beautiful.”’

“He did not?”

“He did. You have to understand, he’s been saying stuff like this all night.”

“Mother of God.”

“So I realize that means he’s done, and in spite of myself I say, ‘Oh’.”

“Just like that?” She giggles.

“Yes, and I feel sort of bad because even in the dark, I can see he’s crushed, but you know, we’ve come so far and all, it seems a shame not to actually get it right.”

“Of course, you were hoping to go on the journey with him.”

“Right. So, I tell him what he can do and he does it and he does it well, and it works and we conk out on the floor and it’s a little awkward in the morning, but not too bad because he had to rush out, because he was late and we were both sort of rushing around and I couldn’t find my bra. But, it was fine.”

“Did you kiss goodbye?”

“Um.” I have to think about this one. “I think so, probably just on the cheek, it was all so rushed.”

“How did you leave things?”

“Give me a call.”

“Do you want him to call?”

“I’m not sure.”

After giving it a lot of thought, I decide I don’t want him to call. I mean, I don’t need a dead-end relationship right now. At least I got my fix. It had been a long drought, but I just don’t know if I could stand to listen to him refer to himself all the time and watch me eat. Every time the phone rings, I take a moment to prepare my Zeke speech, but it’s never him.

“Eve Vitali.” I answer my phone a week later. This time it’s Roseanne, one of my best friends from college.

“Hey, Eve. What’s going on?”

“Not too much. Just hanging out. Dodging phone calls from some guy.” Roseanne will appreciate this, as she is known for having sketchy encounters with what I like to think is a lower-caliber guy. I give her the details.

“Oh, my God.” She is laughing over the hairy shoulders. “But at least he’s got a cool job. I’ve been meeting a bunch of convenience store workers up here.” Roseanne lives just outside of Hartford. She got a job in some random finance department right out of school. She’s been there for a year. She finished school in four years.

“So how’s work, Ro?”

“Well, it’s kind of boring.”

“What? Finance? I can’t believe it.”

“No, I’ve been giving some thought to what we talked about.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to remember. Roseanne has an even better tolerance than I have. She’s Irish. “What do you mean?”

“You know, about living together. Remember?”

“Well, I don’t really want to move to Hartford.”

“No, kookhead—” a classic Ro term of endearment “—I’m moving to New York.”

“Really? Do you have a job?”

“No, but I’m a woman in finance. I’ll get a job. Besides, I’ve got savings.”

“Rent is pretty expensive.” I’m not sure why I’m not thrilled about this. I don’t know why I’m being held to a drunk promise I can’t even remember. I love Ro, really I do, but she’s from some cheesy town in Connecticut and besides, finance.

“I know that I’m prepared, besides, aren’t you dying to move out? Isn’t this what you want?” She makes a good point, it is time to move out of Victor and Janet’s house.

“When were you thinking of moving down?”

“Two weeks.” I swallow my iced cappuccino. “I can look for a job and an apartment at the same time. We can move in by November first.” It’s almost October.

“It might take a while to get something.”

“C’mon, didn’t you tell me that night that it’s all about being ready to just jump off the cliff and decide that you’re ready on the way down?” Did I say that? “Well, I’m ready. I want to go to movie premieres, hobnob with celebrities, make the big bucks.”

“Ro, I think you need to be realistic.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I will be, but if I don’t do this now, I may never do it and I want to. It’s good for you, too, it’ll light a fire under your tail.” My tail? How can Roseanne expect to move to New York when she can’t even say the word ass?

“Well, okay.”

“So do you think I can stay with you for a couple of weeks?”

With that, it’s basically settled. Roseanne has made up her mind. She is moving down and I am moving out. I suppose I should see this as a good thing. Roseanne can be a lot of fun. She likes to party hard. While her taste in men can be a little, shall we say, juvenile, she’s a good person.

There would be definite advantages to moving out. Commuting was taking a lot out of me. Once I move to the city, everything will be different. As it is, I spend an hour on New Jersey Transit. I live in Oradell, quaint but sickeningly suburban. My parents have a four-bedroom, two-and-a-half bathroom house and three-car garage. My father owns a plumbing business and my mom is a part-time travel agent.

I wish I could hate my parents, but they aren’t all that bad. I mean they seem perfectly contented with their suburban life. Although my mom gets great deals on airfares all over the world, they usually take their vacations to Florida. Their biggest concern about my job is that I don’t get benefits. I wish I had a worse childhood, sometimes, I think my childhood was too average to ever have the type of life I would want. Plus, I’m from Jersey. The stigma is unbelievably harsh. When I move into the city I will never again admit my roots. I will be rootless. Rootless is cooler.

“How was work today?” My mother asks me this every day during dinner as she passes over whatever vegetable we’re having. One thing about my mother, she insists we eat together. Mom basically holds the family together with her chatter.

“It was okay.” Living at home after college is a lot like being in high school. Every day your parents think that some tiny item of your day will catapult them back to the happier days of their youth. What they don’t understand is that the actual events I could possibly share with them (which excludes drinking, boys and general debauchery) have become as mundane as theirs. It’s tough.

After dinner, I sit in the family room and watch my dad flip through the stations for a while. My mother asks me for help with the Bergen Record Crossword. It’s times like this when I know I need an apartment in the city. I finally go to bed when Leno comes on, but I can’t fall asleep. I guess what is concerning me is that I will lock myself into a situation with Ro and there will be no way out. I think I have a fear of commitment. In college, it took me a long time to declare journalism my major. I had to keep taking intro business classes to keep my parents happy. I skipped most of them and got passing grades, until it seemed to be apparent that I wasn’t going to be a stockbroker.

Another issue is that now my life was going to be scrutinized by the likes of Roseanne. What if it just didn’t measure up? Did I care about her reporting to the crew from college about my New York life? Of course, a finance job couldn’t possibly live up to the excitement that was my high-powered publishing job. Ridiculous as I knew it was, I could always manage to impress people with working for Prescott Nelson Inc.

The biggest thing would be breaking the news to Tabitha. She was weird about new people and I’m not sure what I had told her about Roseanne. I sometimes have a tendency to exaggerate stories when I think the parties involved will never meet. I’m sure I had done that with Roseanne. If they hung out would their impressions of each other in any way affect their impressions of me? But, I was getting ahead of myself. I probably never mentioned Roseanne, except in passing.

“You mean the one who gave the guy a blow job in the bathroom of some dive?” Even over the blaring ambient music, she’s a little loud. I’ve waited a week to tell her. We are at a party for some female poet who just published a book. An old friend of the Big C’s. I break the news to her after we are both nicely toasted. Some obnoxious looking guy smirks at Tab at the reference to oral sex. She glares at him. “What? Is that a term you’ve never heard? Anyway, is this Rhoda girl gonna really come down?”

“Roseanne. I forgot I told you that story. I think you’ll love her. She’s lots of fun.” Tabitha seems unconvinced, she puts some truffle pate on her plate. “Is the Big C coming?”

“Probably for about ten minutes. I know she’s got her yoga class and then she is getting her eyebrows shaped. She rolled her eyes when she got the invite. This food is awful.”

“She has always yearned for the bohemian lifestyle of a poet.”

“Yeah, I think it’s just the word poet that the Big C likes. I think this one’s sort of an academic flake.” She looks over at the guest of honor, who already seems a bit drunk. She is surrounded by a group of people who are trying very hard to look sincerely fascinated as she describes her plans for a book tour. “She really should have worn a bra with those droopy boobies. The Big C will be validated.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Let’s get another drink.” The bartender, Luis, is a really cute Spaniard who makes me a Kettel One gimlet. He likes Tabitha, so it’s pretty stiff.

“So,” says Tabitha, eyeing our new friend as she speaks. “What does Ronda do? Finance, right? Fascinating,” says Tabitha, just as the annoying guy squirms his way over to me. I feel him standing a little too close. I don’t even have time to give Tabitha the red flag when she’s all over it. She glares at this poor sod.

“Excuse me. Do you think she would ever want to talk to you?” I look at the guy sympathetically, he really is no match for her. “Okay, then.”

He cowers away, cursing under his breath. Luis is impressed by Tabitha, although he can’t really understand the harshness of her words. She smiles at him. They begin to talk, well, shout over the music. The best part is the broken English and sign language that goes along with their communication. I can see Tabitha mouthing the word “fabulous.” When he has to make someone else a drink, Tabitha bombards me with questions about where “Rowena” and I are going to live.

“I’m not sure.”

“Maybe you should live on Wall Street.” She never takes her eyes of Luis.

“Tabitha, stop being so testy and go play conquistador with your new friend.”

“He’s busy, serving.”

“Well, I guess he better get used to it.” She glares at me.

“This is the thanks I get?”

“What, for saving me from the evil swine? You know you enjoyed that more than anyone. C’mon, if you’re good I’ll go make the excuses for the Big C’s absence for you.”

“Well, I guess she really isn’t coming. It is two-thirty. She has an eight o’clock breakfast. She’s certainly not the spring chicken she used to be. It probably looks better for her not to show up. What a great image she cultivates.” Deep down Tabitha admires the Big C.

“But, she’s not as good a friend as you are.”

“All this flattery! I assume you want a car voucher?”

“Well, I’d hoped to stay with you, but I forgot Thursday is Matador Night.”

“Brilliant. Let’s do some kind of crazy Spanish shot and then you can put your spin on my dear employer’s absence. I guess this means no Krispy Kreme tonight.”

“Well, I’m sure you can get some special sweet treat.” We motion to Luis who gives us a double shot that looks a lot like a lemon drop. We clink our glasses and swallow down the tasty goodness.

“Tabitha,” I say, swaying a little. “We will always go dancing.”

“We rarely go dancing now.”

“Well, you know like from that movie about the people in Seattle when she meets the guy from Spain and thinks she’s going to marry him.”

“Whatever.” She looks around at the thinned-out crowd, the men who have been pretending to drink so they can schmooze, the love connections that have been made for the evening and then the classic Tabitha, “Oh the carnage!”

“Do you want to live with us?” Perhaps, that wasn’t the best way to phrase it. Tab would never admit to wanting to live with us.

“No.”

“Well, at least be happy. It will be fun, a new place to hang out.”

“I guess. I’ll have to.” She hands me the coveted voucher.

“It’s true what they say.”

“Which is?”

“You are a queen among women.” I kiss her cheek.

“Be gone!” She waves me away with a hand. “This party totally thinned out and I need to look ready before our little Latin friend makes other plans. Don’t incriminate me with Elizabeth.”

“Oh, right, that’s her name.”

“She uses lowercase, if you can imagine the obnoxiousness of it all.”

“I can’t. Enjoy.” I wave to Luis. He comes over, kisses me and calls me something in Spanish. I call my car, which should be here in fifteen. Enough time for me to pee and make Tabitha’s excuses for the Big C. Lucky for me, the poet elizabeth is on line for the bathroom. Two birds with one stone.

“You really shouldn’t have to wait on line, you’re the guest of honor.” (Now I know that seems like ass kissing, but I want to think that if anyone ever threw a party for me, I could avoid the whole bathroom line thing.) She laughs.

“I think I might pee on the floor.”

“Do you want a glass or something? I have a dance I like to do in these situations.”

“I’ll try to hold it. Are you an artist, too?”

“Yes,” I say, “I am a writer. I often freelance for Diana Milana’s magazine.” The great thing about these things is no one will remember specific facts the next day. “I know you two are old friends. She was really hoping to make it tonight, but we’ve got so much going on.”

“Oh, Diana, she’s great, isn’t she?”

“Oh, yes, great.” There’s that funny word again.

“She must be such a joy to work for.”

“She’s pretty intense,” I say, intending to be ambiguous. (It’s not easy to gauge if my intentions are actually coming across when I’ve had all this good vodka.) “What was she like in school?”

“We didn’t go to school together. We knew each other through her ex-husband. It’s a long story. Diana doesn’t have much education. She just worked her way up. Started as an assistant on the lowest level. Some rag magazine. Who knows what she did to get this far.” Talk about ambiguous.

The bathroom door opens and three people come out. I look at elizabeth and shrug. I extend my hand for her to go in. She puts her hand on my shoulders and puts her face a little too close to mine.

“We could go in together if you want.” As boozy as elizabeth is, I catch the sparkle in her eyes.

“Gee,” I say (this is the speech I reserve for women and men wearing tube socks), “I’m awfully flattered, but you know I’m sort of out of that stage. Thanks for asking.” Lesbian experimentation is so passé.

“Have a great night—” she smiles up at me “—and be sure to pick up the copy of my book.”

On the ride home, I chat with Dwight for a while. He’s a sweet old guy whose got no problem with speed. This I like in a driver. Dwight has it together. “The best part is at the end of the day, or the end of the night, it’s over, you know,” he says. “I never take it home with me. No baggage. I get my life.” Very interesting.

Another nice thing about Dwight is his obvious respect for the city. You know this about a driver by the way they handle the view right when you are about to go into the Lincoln Tunnel. There’s a dip right before you go under where you can see the city. At this late hour, the city really is beautiful. Dwight doesn’t talk incessantly over that view. He sees me staring at it from the rearview mirror and he seems to enjoy it, too.

“I know how you feel, kid, gets me every time, too. All that life going on.” Well said, Mr. Dwight. (Hang on! I’m not getting cheesy just because I crossed over to the Jersey side and I’m not too drunk. You check out a view of the city at 3:30 in the morning with just the right amount of free alcohol floating around in your system and I bet a tear or two trickles down your cheek.) Dwight knows all these shortcuts to get to my doorstep. I bid him farewell and climb up my stairs, trying not to make too much noise.

As I’m passing out, I think, for as long as it takes the room to stop spinning, about all the things people know about each other that they probably shouldn’t know. Tabitha knows the select portions of Roseanne with that guy in the bathroom and I know that the Big C doesn’t have an education. I wonder how much people know about me. Maybe I don’t have too many secrets. Maybe I should cultivate some.

Also, it’s reassuring to think that the Big C started out as an assistant and now she’s wearing fabulous clothes and skipping the coolest parties, just because she can. I have to remember to tell Tabitha all this stuff. She will love it.

Hungover again. The terrifyingly long ride into the city did not help my throbbing head. As it is, I’m a half hour late for work, but of course, I still get into work before everyone else. Perseverance is the only way to the top. Of course it would be a lot easier to get into work early and catch the proverbial worm if I only lived around the corner. More motivation to start looking for a pad.

First, I send an e-mail to everyone who works for the magazine. This is really against what our internal e-mail is supposed to be used for, but if people can send porno and the Top 10 Reasons Mondays Suck and all those wretched chain letters, I can use the system for myself.

Hi all,

I am going to need to leave the nest pretty soon and I would prefer not to be homeless. If anyone out there knows of the much coveted “available New York apartment” please let me know and save another soul from the streets. Thank you!

—Eve

I get a couple of sympathetic warnings about apartment perils and a few people e me names of their brokers. Marketing Adam e-mails his standard biblical reference.

Eve,

Just stay with me forever in our garden. I promise to put on some clothes.

—Adam

Since paper is old news, (I know, I know I work for a magazine. Shame on me! Whatever.) I check the Net for real estate. Even one-bedroom apartments are at least fifteen hundred plus the broker’s fee, which is fifteen percent. I have been the sympathetic shoulder to cry on for enough of these loony health nuts I work with to know a few things about finding apartments. First, I am supposed to locate a neighborhood and stick to it. Second, it helps to have a roommate to split the cost of incidentals. And finally, apartments are a lot cheaper in the outer boroughs. Now, I may have limited funds and I could probably get a palace in Brooklyn or Jersey City for the price of a closet in the city, but, I refuse to continue my stint as a Bridge and Tunnel person.

It’s Manhattan or bust.

I find a great apartment, right on University Place in the Village. The ad says perfect for students. Well, we were once students. The student thing implies that it’s cheap, but, it’s really $1550. It’s a converted one bedroom with a big living room. There’s an open house tomorrow. The best part is that the ad says it’s no fee. I call the number. It doesn’t hurt to jump on these things. It rings about eight times before a woman answers.

“Hi. My name is Eve Vitali, I’m a student at NYU and I was calling about the apartment on University Place. I was wondering if I could see the apartment a little early because I have class at that time.” Pretty crafty, huh?

“Sorry, honey, the apartment’s already taken.”

“But, the open house isn’t until tomorrow.”

“It’s amazing. Someone found out about the apartment and came by with three months’ rent in cash and offered another six more.”

“Wow, so you are definitely going to let them have it?”

“Well, of course, wouldn’t you?” No, I would give the apartment to me, because I really deserve the lack of hassle in my search for an apartment.

“I guess. Are there any other apartments available in that building?”

“Well,” says the lady who obviously thinks she has better things to do, “you would have to call the management company for that.”

She gives me the name of the management company. When I call them they tell me that I will have to send thirty dollars for myself and anyone who I would be living with so they can run a credit check. I also have to go to their offices on the ultra Lower East Side and fill out applications. If everything goes okay, I can get myself on a waiting list and maybe, just maybe, I will be able to afford one of their apartments. I tell the receptionist I will consider it.

The next place I call sounds too good to be true. I don’t know why I didn’t call there first. It is a two bedroom on Avenue A for $1450, also no fee. I call and it turns out to be one of those places that you have to pay $200 and they fax you this listing every day until you find an apartment. What a disappointment.

Since we at Prescott Nelson are so self-contained, we have some kind of special deal worked out with a real estate agency. It’s no great bargain, just a ten percent fee instead of the usual fifteen. When I call, the lovely real estate agent, Judy, doesn’t laugh when I tell her what we’re willing to spend. She is hopeful that the market may change. In, like, eighteen months. Maybe. I’m screwed.

“Well, Eve, this is New York,” says Tabitha, informatively. I am standing outside the dressing room in Lord and Taylor. She hasn’t been very helpful at all. She’s pretty cranky about the whole thing. It seems she and Luis are having trouble communicating. She’s hoping her lingerie purchases will help them understand each other better.

“Tabitha, no shit it’s New York, but you’d think I could find an apartment.”

“Don’t get testy, Eve.” Imagine her saying this to me. “People kill for apartments here. Literally. Maybe you should check the obits. How depressing.”

“Maybe I should break down and find a real estate agent.”

“Okay, so you’re gonna get an apartment you can’t afford, plus a fifteen percent fee.” She holds up a tiny black lace bra. “They make this shit for supermodels. Will you go try to find my size?”

Tabitha is really pissing me off with her attitude. She wants me to fail in my search for an apartment and here I am trying to get her a slut bra. Aren’t I always her sympathy blanket? It’s a thankless job. I start searching for Tabitha’s size. I even open up those little drawers beneath the hanging bras. The saleswoman hurries to help me.

After an eternity she comes back with the bra in red. Tabitha wanted black, but I take it back toward the dressing rooms. Tabitha is already on line and the cashier is wrapping a pretty large pile of lace. I notice the total is one hundred and twenty dollars.

“Hey—” I hold the red bra out to her “—they just had red, what did you get?”

“Red is too trashy, although it might have the matador and bull affect. No, I’m tired of catering to him.” She tosses the bra on the potpourri rack and takes her bag of unidentified goodies.

“So what’s that?”

“Just some undies.”

“Seems like a lot of undies.”

“You know I hate to do laundry. We better get back. Do you want to go to some advertising party Luis is working tonight? I know it sounds mundane, but I want someone to hang out with.” We walk along, ignoring the stares and whistles of the construction workers who have taken over Times Square. Tabitha stops to flip one off when he comments about her showing him what’s in the bag.

“I’ve got to cool it on the drinking during school nights and besides, tonight is Operation Leaving the Nest.”

“I hope Victor doesn’t have a stroke.”

“Tabitha, my father’s health is nothing to joke about. Besides, it’s Janet who has a tendency to overdramatize.” Tabitha thinks she’s got my parents pegged, but she rejects all invites to see for herself how the other half lives.

“Have you devised your tactics yet?”

“I’m just going to appeal to their sense of reason.”

“They’re not going to be able to handle it.”

“I know, but I’ve got to try. Have fun at the party.”

“Too bad we can’t switch places.”

“Yeah, like Freaky Friday, or all those weird eighties movies.” Tabitha nods disinterestedly and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“Yeah, Eve, exactly like that.”

We reach the office, and part to our respective elevator banks.

I have waited to tell my parents about Roseanne’s arrival until days before she actually arrives. I know you probably think that’s not a fair thing to do, but believe me, my parents work best under pressure. Theirs was a shotgun wedding.

I wait until after dinner. The only notable thing about dinner is the way my mom keeps fussing over me and mentioning how nice it is to have me home, because I’m never home and all that mother guilt babble that mothers love to dish out. They were just getting over my sister Monica being a perpetual student and now, this. I’m debating whether or not to give in to the tears caused by my mom’s ambitious attempt at Cajun cooking. Maybe it will work in my favor and they won’t be so heartbroken when I break the news. Janet is not the best cook and she’s certainly not shy with the spices.

I decide straightforward is the best approach for delivering my news. I’ve never been a very good actress. I can barely fake an orgasm. (Not that I condone that in any way.)

Mom is just stacking the dishes. She does this with a sense of urgency the moment she senses we’re done. She hasn’t made a single comment about Dad not finishing his whole piece of blackened chicken. This is a good sign. Dad takes out his first cigarette. His health problems are the real thing. He has only just quit smoking during meals; that is, while he eats. My mother is waiting for me to bring the dishes into the kitchen, so I seize my moment.

“Mom, Dad.” That’s how they always started stuff like this on The Brady Bunch. “Roseanne is going to be coming down for a while. Is it okay if she stays with us?”

“Of course, honey. We love Roseanne. How’s her job?” My mom likes Roseanne. She’s my mother’s example of how much happier someone is when they listen to their mother and finish school in four years—and she majored in business.

“Well, Mom—” I’m choosing my words carefully “—she’s actually not very happy with it. She’d like to be doing more.”

“She’s a smart kid,” says my father, puffing away.

“Is she coming down for the weekend?” My mom already suspects something.

“Well, she’s coming down this weekend. But I thought she might crash here for a while, because she is going to relocate to New York.” My parents look at each other. They have some kind of telepathic conversation. When my mom turns to look at me she is speaking for both of them. It’s amazing how they do that.

“Honey, we are very happy for you that your friend wants to move down. We know you miss college a lot and you’re a little lonely.” Are they talking about me? Do they have any idea what they’re saying? “But, you know, we are not a hostel. We had our share of that with Monica.”

When my sister got her first masters—in philosophy—she decided that she and seven of her closest friends were going to practice communal living out of my parents’ basement. It lasted two weeks, until one of her friends declared, after my mom made them French toast with store-bought syrup, that she couldn’t live “like a pauper” anymore. She ran hysterical from the house and had her family’s chauffeur pick her up at a 7-Eleven. He drove down from Connecticut. All those ideals shot away by the lack of Vermont maple syrup. It gave Monica something to think about.

“Mom.” I feel myself starting to get excited and I am not going to succumb, especially since I haven’t gotten anywhere near dropping the real bomb, yet. “Okay, Mom, you know Roseanne isn’t like any of Monica’s pseudo-intellectual, pseudo-hippie friends. She’s only going to be staying here until we find an apartment.” Shit. I shouldn’t have said “we.”

They don’t even bother to have their telepathic conversation this time. My mother mouths the word “we” and shakes her head. She is a lot easier to read than my dad. Her mouth turns into a nasty line and she gets a frown in the middle of her brows. My father is his stoic self, although his face tightens a bit.

“Why do you want to live in that dirty city? With those people, those dirty people?” I can’t imagine who these dirty people might be.

“Mom,” I say, as if she were my two-year-old, “I understand all of your concerns, but really, the only person I’m going to be living with is Roseanne. No dirty people.” Of course they don’t need to know about the ambiguous “dirty” encounters I might have.

“Why would you want to leave here? I can’t understand you or your sister. Your father and I give you everything. Everything. We would never charge you rent. We don’t beat you. I cook all your meals. Maybe I should have breast-fed.” I can see my mother slipping into hysteria so I turn to my father who is on his third cigarette.

“Everything, you get everything. It’s like a vacation for you two. It’s like…” He’s struggling here to think of a place. “It’s like the Rivieria.” Ick. I think I understand now why my father lets my mother do all the talking. She may be emotional, but she puts a much better spin on things.

“Dad!” I start to say that the closest he has ever been to the Rivieria is Epcot, but I have vowed to be calm. I look at both of them. Desperate situations call for desperate measures. I take their hands. In my mind I hear the triumphant score of a million made-for-TV movies. I take a deep breath and try to blink up a tear.

“You know, I love you guys, I do. You’ve given me everything. You are the best parents ever.” I make eye contact with both of them. Parents love this stuff. “Monica and I (well, not really me) have been draining money off you for years. Dad, you went out on your own at sixteen, don’t you always tell us that? Mom, it wasn’t easy for you with two screaming kids but you made ends meet, didn’t you? Now, I want to give you guys a break. I also want you to be proud of me. I want to support myself. It’s important for me. I promise I’ll get the safest best apartment I possibly can. I just need your love and support. And I need your help.”

Have I pushed it too far? Did I lay it on too thick? Have they seen through me? I look back and forth to each of them and then…my mother starts to cry. At first, I’m not sure if she’s crying because she’s genuinely moved by the whole thing or because I’ve just given her the biggest pile of bullshit she’s ever heard. I look to my father who seems really uncomfortable with all the emotion, fingering his pack of cigarettes and contemplating another smoke. My mother squeezes my hand and wipes a tear. What a scene!

“Honey, of course we will help you. I’m so proud of you.” She gets up to hug me. I hug my dad. What a happy family.

“I guess I’ll get the daybed out of the garage,” says my father, pushing his chair away from the table, poised for escape.

When my mom finishes gushing I head upstairs and call Roseanne to tell her we are all set.

I spend the rest of the night in the bathroom making ugly faces.