Читать книгу Slightly Suburban - Wendy Markham, Wendy Markham - Страница 6

It’s all about the timing.

And I keep getting it wrong.

Take tonight: Friday night. Well past nine o’clock.

I’m finally ready to leave my eighth-floor office (with a partial if-you-stand-on-the-sill-and-stretch view of the Empire State Building) at Blaire Barnett Advertising.

All day, I told anyone who would listen—which, as it turns out, was apparently only myself, Inner Tracey—that when six o’clock rolled around, I was outta here.

(Yes, six. Leaving at five is about as acceptable in the industry-that-never-sleeps as wearing tan nylon Leggs with reinforced toes.)

So when 5:55 rolled around, there I was, about to bolt from my just-cleaned-off desk.

But I decided to hold off a minute so that I could pull out a compact and put on some of the new lipstick I dashed into Sephora to buy en route from a Client meeting this morning.

Yes, Client meeting. As opposed to client meeting. At Blair Barnett, Client always starts with a capital C. Given that logic, my business cards should read tracey spadolini candell.

Anyway, my timing was off. I took too long with the lipstick. As I was loafing around putting it on and thinking happy TGIF thoughts, Crosby Courts—whose personal theme song should be “Tubular Bells”—stuck her sleek dark haircut into my doorway.

“Hot date?” she asked.

“Yup. With my husband.” Jack—who also works at Blaire Barnett, down in the Media Department—was taking me to see Black and White, that controversial indie drama that caused the big splash at Sundance in January.

Was being the key word here.

No, it didn’t happen.

Yes, we’d already bought the tickets at the big Regal Multiplex off Union Square and had managed to snag dinner reservations afterward at Mesob, the buzzy new Ethiopian place on Lafayette. We were planning to head over to Bleeker for drinks and music after that. Big night out on the town.

But here in the cutthroat world of New York City advertising, personal plans are insignificant. You can be getting married in five minutes and your boss will hang up from an urgent Client phone call, turn to you standing there all white lace and promises, and say, “I hate to tell you this, but…”

Which is exactly what Crosby, copywriter on the Abate Laxatives account and my supervisor since I became junior copywriter last year, said as she watched me slick on a gorgeous layer of raspberry-hued lusciousness. “I hate to tell you this, but…”

What I wouldn’t give to have a dollar for every time I’ve heard that exact phrase from her. If I’d had any idea that this coveted Creative Department position was going to be way more demanding and far less fun than the lowly one I left behind in the stuffy Account Management Department, I wouldn’t have lobbied so hard for a copywriting position in the first place.

So now, three-plus hours after I was supposed to meet Jack for our hot date, he’s presumably enjoying injera, tibs and wat at Mesob with his friend Mitch, who willingly ditched plans with his latest girlfriend to go in my place.

No surprise there. These days, Mitch is a fixture in our lives. Much ado about that later. For now, suffice to say that one of my favorite vintage SNL skits—“The Thing That Wouldn’t Leave”—is now playing itself out almost nightly in my living room, starring Mitch in the title role. And it’s not the least bit amusing in real life.

Anyway, when I spoke to Jack between the movie and the restaurant reservation, he told me to meet him and Mitch downtown for drinks whenever I finish resolving the Client crisis here. I don’t really feel like going now, though—especially with the perennial third wheel on board for the duration of the evening. I’d just as soon head home, take a long, hot shower and fall asleep in front of a good bad movie.

But Jack is counting on me so off I go, this time sans lipstick. The luscious raspberry wore off hours ago, along with that TGIF glow.

Before the elevator, I make a pit stop in the ladies’ room, where I find Lane Washburn, who works in the bullpen, emerging from a stall. She’s just changed out of her size zero business suit, and it drapes about the same from its wire hanger as the sparkly, clingy black size zero cocktail dress does from her protruding collarbones. Really, I mean that in the most loving way.

How do I know she’s a size zero?

Because the last time I checked, Saks wasn’t selling negative sizes. If they were, I’d peg her for a –2.

“Ooh, you’re all fancy! Where are you going, Lane?”

“Out for drinks with my boyfriend.” She leans into the mirror to put on bright red lipstick. “How about you? No plans for tonight?”

“Going out for drinks with my husband,” I return, and see her give me the once-over.

In that? she’s thinking, not in the most loving way.

I am thus obligated to lie, “I was going to run home and change first, but I got hung up on some Client stuff. Now I’m three hours late.”

Instant sympathetic understanding in her big blue eyes. “That stinks. So now you have to go like that?”

Um, I really was always going to go like this. Is it that bad?

I look down at my brown heeled pumps, topaz Ann Taylor pencil skirt that’s rumpled across my thighs, white blouse and the chestnut cashmere cardigan sweater that I used to love because Jack gave it to me for Christmas and said it’s the exact shade of my hair and eyes.

I’m sure I’ll probably love it again when I pull it out of my closet wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic next fall. But by March, I’m always sick of my heavy winter clothes—even cashmere—and anxious to start shedding them for pastel sleeveless silk and cotton pieces. Which is still a long way off.

Anyway, I look fine for drinks with Jack and Mitch.

Still, I open another button on my blouse to make the outfit less prim. Which exposes most of my right boob. Oops.

Buttoning up again, I tell Lane, “That’s the thing about living in the city. It’s not like you can just run home before you go someplace after work.”

“Where do you live?”

“Upper East Side. How about you?”

“East Fifty-fourth at Second Avenue.”

Ah, practically around the corner. If I lived that close, I’d run home to change.

I watch Lane put her lipstick into a black cosmetics bag, then zip that, along with her clothes, into a matching black garment bag hanging on a stall door. Wow, she’s organized.

I guess I could have had the foresight to bring a nice dressy outfit to work, like she did.

However, I was too bleary-eyed and stressed this morning from getting less than five hours’ sleep after being stuck at the office till midnight last night.

You know, since I moved into the Creative Department, my life is not my own. It’s really starting to make me wonder…

Okay, it’s not starting to make me wonder.

It’s continuing to make me wonder:

Is this how I really want to spend my life? (Or at least, the career portion of my life, which lately seems to encompass everything else anyway.)

At which point, I wonder, do I finish wondering and start deciding…and doing?

Something else to wonder: if I did bring makeup and a change of clothes to work, would I have to carry them in a quart-size Ziploc and a Handle-Tie Hefty?

The answer to that, at least, is clear: absolutely. The beautiful matching luggage set Jack and I bought for our Tahitian honeymoon was lost a few months ago by the airline somewhere between New York and Buffalo when we flew up to spend Christmas with my family.

Lane, who probably spent Christmas skiing in Switzerland, tosses her auburn hair. “Well, have fun tonight, Tracey! See you Monday!”

She swings out of the ladies’ room in her fabulous, sexy little number.

The number being 0, you’ll recall. In lieu of –2.

I look at myself in the full-length mirror next to the hand dryer.

I’m usually a 6 or 8, though I’m a 4 at Ann Taylor, which is my favorite place to shop. Did I mention I’m a size 4 there?

If there’s anything I’ve learned these last few years, it’s that everything is relative.

Because, you know, back in my size 12–14 days, I would have been envious of someone like size 6–8 me.

You know, this is utterly exhausting. Am I ever going to be satisfied with who I am?

I keep thinking maybe I would be…if I lived somewhere else. But here in If You Can Make It There, You’ll Make It Anywhere, the competition is fierce. Everywhere you turn, someone is more attractive, more successful, more respected, thinner, happier, just plain old better. And everyone is richer.

Here in Manhattan, Status Quo is a curse. There is tremendous pressure to achieve greatness—on a personal, professional, spiritual and, yes, global level.

I’m telling you, all this striving can really exhaust a girl.

Lifting the sweater, I tuck the blouse in more tightly and twist the waistband of the skirt, which has shifted slightly so that the side seams aren’t lined up with my hips. It’s a little big on me, even without my trusty Spanx, which I opted not to put on this morning.

The silver lining in having to work these long hours is that I rarely have time to overeat anymore—and sometimes, to eat at all. Not only have I managed to keep off the fifty pounds I lost over six years ago, but I actually weigh a few pounds less than I did on my wedding day.

So why am I not satisfied?

With my weight?

With my job?

With my life?

With my outfit?

I make a face at the mirror. I might be pleasantly unplump these days, but I’m unpleasantly uncomfortable.

In general, yes. And mostly, right now, in these clothes. Too much bulk caused by too many layers. I wish I could change into something more fun and sexy. I wish I could be someone more fun and sexy.

But you’re not, grouses Inner Tracey. You’re an overworked married woman who’s closing in on thirty.

Does that mean I have to look frumpy on a Friday night?

Yes, because changing would mean going all the way uptown, then all the way down, which, depending on the time of day and various acts of man, God, Mother Nature or the Metropolitan Transit Authority, could take hours.

Forget it.

See what I mean about living here? You can strive all you want, but even the most mundane things are extra challenging.

You know, I haven’t felt this bummed about life since The O.C. was canceled.

My long camel-colored coat—also cashmere, a steal at Saks last April—feels cumbersome as I plod down the corridor toward the elevator. Ho-hum. I look like every other corporate drone in the city.

Plus, my leather shoulder bag, bulging with work I need to go over this weekend, weighs a ton. Lugging it back and forth to the office, I’ve accumulated all kinds of extra junk in there—loose change, wrappers, magazines, papers—the kind of stuff you’d toss into the ashtray or backseat of your car if you had one. But a car is a liability here in New York, so I wind up carrying all of this around town on my back, which—no surprise—has been killing me lately.

Here’s a brainstorm: Maybe I should start wheeling a little wire cart, like those wizened old widows who live in the boroughs. Instead of groceries or laundry, mine will be filled with PowerPoint presentations and endless notes from endless meetings.

For a split second, it sounds like a great idea. Maybe I’ll start a new trend! Maybe I can design a sleek little black cart, patent it, quit my job—key point—and become a rich and successful entrepreneur, marketing chic carts to Manhattan’s upwardly mobile young women.

Mental Note: or maybe you’re just losing your mind.

Yeah. That’s probably it.

“Night, Tracey,” Ryan Cunningham, an assistant art director, says as I pass him in the hallway.

“Night. Have a good weekend.”

“I’ll be spending it here,” he says, striding on past. “Same as usual.”

Having endured my own share of seven-day workweeks, I shake my head in empathy, glad it isn’t me this time.

You know, lately I really miss the good old days in account management. Not that I knew that they were good old days at the time—or that I’d even want to go back there, because it’s not the same.

There used to be four of us who shared a big cubicle space on the account floor—along with countless margarita happy hours, office dirt, diet tips, recipes, advice—you name it.

But Brenda quit two years ago when her husband, Paulie, got promoted to sergeant on the NYPD. Now she’s a stay-at-home mom in Staten Island with two kids and a third on the way.

Not long after that, Yvonne retired to Florida with her husband, Thor. I still can’t quite picture Yvonne, with her tall raspberry-colored hair and tall kick-ass kick-line body (she was a Radio City Rockette back in the fifties), and Thor (her much younger Scandinavian not-just-a-green-card-marriage-after-all husband) hanging around some retirement community.

But Yvonne has reclaimed her showgirl past and is entertaining the “geri’s,” as she calls them, with a torch-song act at the residents’ club.

Of our original foursome, only my friend Latisha still works at Blaire Barnett. She’s an executive secretary for one of the management reps. We try to get together as often as we can, but when we do manage, it’s kind of lonely with just the two of us.

Anyway, I’m usually too busy with Client demands to go for drinks or lunch, and Latisha’s got her hands full with a husband, Derek, and two kids. Her son, Bernie, is in preschool—and wait-listed at every decent grammar school, so it’s nail-biting time. Her oldest, Keera, has a learning disability and Latisha’s trying to get her through junior year with stellar grades so she’ll have a prayer for an Ivy League college, which she has her heart set on.

See what I mean?

Back in my hometown, Brookside, New York, no one ever worried about getting into an Ivy League school. You were lucky if you got a higher education at all. I went to a state college. A lot of my classmates went to community college, joined the military or just started working.

Now they all think I’m this huge success merely because I moved to Manhattan, have a business card and once rode an elevator with Donald Trump, who was at Blair Barnett for a meeting. Do I have to mention I wasn’t even at the meeting?

That didn’t matter to anyone back home.

Seriously, when my mother introduced me to the new church organist at midnight mass at Most Precious Mother, the organist exclaimed, “You’re the one who rode the elevator with Donald Trump! It’s so, so nice to meet you!”

See what I mean?

Here at Blaire Barnett, the eighth-floor reception area is dimly lit and buttoned up, as you would expect at this hour, and as I wait for the down elevator, there’s no sign of The Donald.

I can see fellow Creatives bustling up and down the halls.

A handful of others scurry out of an up elevator that, frustratingly, doesn’t change direction on my floor. They’re clutching cups of coffee and take-out bags, obviously here for the duration.

They all work on the agency’s new spacetrippin.com account, which is just what it sounds like: a company that arranges dream vacations into outer space. Laugh if you want—we in the Creative Department have certainly gotten some good mileage out of it—but it’s a legitimate new business, started by a venture capitalist who has millions to spend on start-up advertising.

“I really hope you’ve got an umbrella, Tracey,” one of the spacetrippin.com guys tells me as they head back to their offices. “It’s nasty out there.”

Uh-oh. I really hope I’ve got an umbrella, too. On a good hair day, my straight brown hair doesn’t exactly incite photoshoot offers from the agency’s Lavish Locks Shampoo account group.

This isn’t a good hair day. Douse me with rain and mist, and a bad hair day goes catastrophic.

I dig through my bag and come across everything else one can possibly need in the course of daily urban travels: Band-Aids, gum, tampons, car-service vouchers, low-fat granola bars, a book, sunglasses and a Metrocard—which I shove into my coat pocket for easier access, along with my iPod.

There are also plenty of things no one could possibly ever need, anywhere: a dried-out pink Sharpie, a limp Splenda packet spattered with coffee stains, an expired 20%-off Borders coupon and a couple of loose, bleached-out Tic Tacs.

But no umbrella. The little fold-up one I usually carry is in the pocket of my jacket at home, I remember. I took it along when I ran out in the rain to get milk the other night, and I never put it back.

Well, maybe the rain will let up by the time I get downstairs. It’s taking long enough.

I wait impatiently, thinking about my father and brother who work at a steel plant back in Brookside, near Buffalo. When they’re done with work, they punch out, walk out the door, get into their cars and drive maybe three-tenths of a mile at most to their houses. I bet they could do their commute door to door in sixty seconds or less, no exaggeration. Who says there are no perks to being a steelworker in a fading, blue-collar, Great Lakes town?

Come on, Tracey. You don’t want to be a steelworker. And you don’t want to move back to Brookside.

No, but I wonder if I really want to be a junior copywriter at Blaire Barnett Advertising in Manhattan, either.

Maybe I want…

Maybe I don’t know what I want.

Other than to get the hell out of this building before Crosby Courts reappears and summons me back to her lair.

I stick my iPod earbuds into my ears and turn it on. Some good, loud music will be an appropriate way to kick off the weekend, right?

Right—except the charge is depleted.

And let me tell you, there is nothing worse than riding the subway without an iPod. It’s the only way to tune out the chaos of the city.

I’m contemplating taking the stairs when at last a down elevator arrives. Naturally, it’s already filled to overflowing with office workers impatient to launch their own overdue weekends.

I wedge myself in and ignore the grumbles from behind me as the doors slide shut two inches from the tip of my nose. Something—it had damn well better be someone’s umbrella—is poking into my butt.

Outside, Lexington Avenue is still engulfed in an icy March downpour. Getting a cab would be akin to landing that Lavish Locks print ad: It ain’t gonna happen.

Blaire Barnett offers a car service to employees who work past ten. Do I dare go back upstairs to wait it out?

I check my watch. It would be about twenty minutes…

But no, I do not dare. On any night at 10:00 p.m., there’s a car-service backup. Friday nights are worse. Plus, it’s raining. That’s at least another hour delay.

Anyway, Crosby is still up there. If she sees me, she’ll need me to tweak a line on the copy I just rewrote for the hundredth time, and twenty minutes will turn into tomorrow morning.

So off I splash to the number six subway a few blocks away. I duck under scaffolding and awnings at every opportunity, but there’s no way around it: I’m drenched.

As I hover in the doorway of a bank on the corner waiting for the light to change, I call Jack from my cell.

“Hey, where are you?” he asks, and has the nerve to sound boozy and jovial.

“I was headed for the subway, but now I’m thinking I might just go home. By the time I get down there—”

“No, don’t go home. I miss you. It’s Friday night.”

Aw…he’s so sweet. He misses me.

And it is Friday night…

“Come on, Tracey!” I hear a voice saying in the background. “We’re having fun! Get your keister down here.”

Oh, yeah. I momentarily forgot about Mitch, aka pain in said keister.

“I don’t know,” I tell Jack, “I’m really wiped out, and it’s pouring, and I’d have to take the subway—”

“It’ll take ten minutes, Trace.”

So will going home.

But it’s Friday night and I miss my husband. I sigh and tell Jack I’ll be there.

As I head toward the subway entrance, I reach into my pocket for my Metrocard.

It’s gone. Seriously. I pull out the linings of both pockets to make sure it isn’t crumpled in with a dry used tissue or something. Nope.

I must have dropped it. Or maybe someone pickpocketed me in the elevator.

It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened—although never in my office building. A few months ago, when I was caught up in a herd of commuters at Grand Central Station, some kid stole a twenty I had tucked into my pocket. I felt myself being jostled, realized what was happening, and shouted, “Thief! Thief!” as the kid took off.

A National Guardsman was right nearby—post 9-11, they patrol all the major transportation hubs wearing camouflage, which always strikes me as slightly ridiculous. The camouflage, I mean. Are they trying to blend into the background? They’d be better off wearing cashmere overcoats with plaid Burberry scarves and polished wingtips.

The National Guard did not come to my rescue when I was robbed. Apparently, Homeland Security is only interested in apprehending potential terrorists, not pickpockets. Understandable, I guess.

I haven’t run into any yet—terrorists, I mean—but that doesn’t mean I’m not always on the lookout. Don’t think the prospect of suicide bombers doesn’t cross my mind every single time I walk down the steps into the subway.

Like right now.

As always, I warily scan the crowd to make sure no one appears to be packing an explosive vest. You can never be sure.

If you see something, say something—that’s my motto.

Well, not just my motto. It’s actually the Metropolitan Transit Authority’s motto, but I’m down with it.

I spot a couple of candidates who look as if they might be up to something, but they’re probably just your garden-variety street thugs. There’s a woman who’s acting furtive and seems to have something strapped across her front, but then she turns around and I see that it’s a baby. Close call.

At the automated ticket machine, I feed a couple of soggy dollar bills into a slot that keeps spitting them back out again. After many frustrating tries, I wind up waiting on a seemingly endless line at the booth.

Finally, new Metrocard in hand, I’m through the turnstile, where I almost head to the uptown stairs out of habit. Home is a mere forty-three blocks and five stops up the line, I think wistfully. Jack is about the same distance in the opposite direction.

Should I just forget about meeting him? I so wish Mitch weren’t there. I so wish Mitch weren’t everywhere. Lately, he’s camped out on our new (custom-upholstered, a Christmas present to each other) couch night after night, watching sports with Jack.

Hey, if I go home now, I’ll have the couch—and remote—all to myself. I have to admit, E! True Hollywood Story sounds better than anything else right now.

But Jack is counting on me. And who knows? Maybe Mitch will take a hint and leave when I get there.

No, he won’t. He loves us. Even me. Jack is always telling me that. “He loves you, Tracey. He thinks you’re great.”

I’m so great and he loves me so much that a few months ago, Mitch decided to move into a studio apartment right around the corner from us. Thank God there were no openings in our building. He checked.

Don’t get me wrong—he’s a terrific guy. He and Jack have been friends since college and he was best man at our wedding. It’s just that my weekdays (and nights) have become so challenging that when I’m not at work, I want my husband—and our apartment, and our couch, and our remote—to myself.

I guess I should probably stop being so nice to Mitch whenever he’s over, so he won’t want to hang around. Or I should get Jack to tell him we need more time to ourselves. Or I should tell him myself.

Yeah. Or we could just move far, far away.

I trudge down the stairs leading to the southbound number six track, where I sense something is amiss.

My first clue: the platform is a squirming sea of humanity wearing a collective pissed-off expression, and the loudspeaker is squawking. The announcement is unintelligible, but it’s not as if they can possibly be saying, “Attention, subway riders, everything is running like clockwork tonight and we’ll have you where you’re going in no time. Have a great weekend!”

Hopefully it’s just a temporary delay.

I wearily force my way into the crowd, steering clear of the edge of the platform because really, the last thing I need right now is to fall onto the tracks and get hit by a train. Although, I wouldn’t really be surprised. If I lived to be surprised.

“Excuse me, what’s going on?” I ask the nearest bystander, who, if she were any nearer, would be huddled inside my coat with me.

She explains the situation, either in a language I don’t understand—meaning, something other than English or Italian—or with a major speech impediment, poor thing.

I smile and nod, pretending to get it.

Meanwhile, I eavesdrop on the guy whose elbow is pressed into my rib cage mere inches from my right breast. He’s saying something into his cell phone about a derailment down near Fourteenth Street.

Derailment?

Forget it. There’s no way in hell—which is pretty much where I am right now—that I’ll ever make it down to the Village.

I have no other choice but to squirm my way back to the stairs as—wouldn’t you know it—an uptown train comes and goes without me on the opposite track.

When at last I make it up the stairs and am heading toward the other side, I hear another train roaring into the northbound track below. Already? They usually don’t come this close together.

I break into a run, shouting, “Someone hold the doors!”

Nobody does, dammit.

I reach the platform just as they’re dinging closed, and this guy standing on the other side of the glass—some lame guy in a wet trench coat who could have held the doors, because I can tell by his expression that he heard me—offers a helpless shrug.

I dare to glare, hoping belatedly that he doesn’t have a gun, and watch the train trundle off toward my distant neighborhood without me.

Oh, well. Another one will be along in a few minutes, right?

Wrong. So, so wrong.

Twenty minutes later, this platform is nearly as crowded as the other side, and someone near me has terrible gas. I keep trying to move away, but the stink keeps moving, too. By process of elimination I’ve isolated it to three possible people: a guy with a goatee and backpack, an old lady, or an attractive businesswoman who’s about my age and may be trying too hard to appear nonchalant.

I’ve also just been treated to an a cappella rendition of Billy Squiers’s “Stroke Me,” sung by some dirty old man whose fly is down—making it less serenade than suggestion. When I refuse to throw some change into the hat he passes, he tells me to %@#$ Off, with an accompanying hand gesture.

By the time the next train comes hurtling into the station—so packed that the only way to get on is to literally shove past people crammed by the doors, who shove right back—I am wondering, once again, why I live in New York City.

I mean, seriously…what am I doing here?

Yes, my husband is here. And my job. And my friends. And all my stuff.

But…why?

These days, unless one is supremely wealthy—and we’re not—the quality of life in the city seems pretty dismal. Traffic, poverty, crowds, the smell…I can’t imagine it’s that much worse in Calcutta.

Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration. They have monsoon season in Calcutta, right? And a lot of curry. I’m not crazy about curry.

But there’s a lot of curry in New York, too. And this might not be a monsoon, but as I splash back out into the deluge, I decide it’s worse. Whatever’s falling out of the sky has now frozen into sleet, or hail, and it’s pelting my face and head.

Remembering that there’s probably nothing to eat at home, I detour two blocks to the deli. I pick up a loaf of whole-grain bread, a half pound of turkey breast, lettuce, an apple, a diet raspberry Snapple and a couple of rolls of toilet paper because we’re almost out.

“Twenty-seven fifty-eight,” says the clerk.

I blink, look down at the counter and shove aside a big fruit basket that’s sitting there in shrink-wrap. “Oh, this isn’t mine,” I tell her.

“I know.”

Then why did you add it to my bill? And would it kill you to crack a smile?

Wait a minute. The fruit basket alone would have to be at least fifty bucks.

“How much was it?” I ask again, gesturing at my stuff, because I thought she said—

“Twenty-seven fifty-eight.”

Jeez. Can this measly little pile of groceries possibly cost that much?

Yes, it can, and Unsmiling Cashier is waiting for her money.

I open my wallet again, wondering why I’m surprised. I mean, after all these years of living in Manhattan, I know things are superexpensive. Yet every so often, I still find myself caught off guard at cash registers.

All that’s left in my wallet are two ones and a wad of receipts.

With a sigh, I pull out my American Express card. As Unsmiling Cashier runs it through the machine, a quick mental calculation tells me that in my hometown, this would run me ten bucks, maybe twelve. Tops.

Back out in the monsoon, I make my way to the doorman building that seemed like such a luxury when I first moved here from my dumpy little studio in the East Village.

As luck would have it, Jimmy, my favorite doorman—who actually flew up to Brookside for our wedding a few years ago—isn’t on duty tonight. He always cheers me up.

Unlike Gecko. He’s on duty tonight and always has the opposite effect. He’s the ultimate pessimist. I swear, you could win the lottery and he’d immediately list every past lottery winner who ever went on to get divorced, go bankrupt or commit suicide. He’s just that kind of guy.

“What a crappy night, huh?” he comments as he opens the door and I blow in on a gust of frozen precipitation.

“Yes,” I say.

“I mean literally.”

Uh-oh.

I know what he means by that.

“The M.C. has struck again,” Gecko informs me.

“Where?” I hold my breath.

“Third floor.”

I sign in relief. That’s six floors away from ours.

The Mad Crapper has been terrorizing our building for over a month now. He never strikes in the same place at the same time, so he’s been impossible to catch. Some tenants want to band together and organize a twenty-four-hour surveillance team with mandatory participation.

I really hope it doesn’t come to that. Because really, the last thing I want to do after a long, exhausting day at work is lurk in a shadowy corridor waiting for some stealthy figure to come along, squat and deposit a steaming pile of fresh crap before my very eyes.

Anyway, who’s to say the Mad Crapper isn’t living right here among us?

Sharing much T.M.I. about the latest strike, Gecko follows me to the mailroom, where I retrieve a stack of bills and catalogs from our box, along with an envelope addressed to Resident.

Uh-oh. Is this from the Citizens Vigilante Group?

No, thank God.

Even better.

“Building’s being fumigated again on Monday,” Gecko informs me as I open the envelope and skim the super’s note telling me just that.

“Again? Why?”

“Roaches,” says the perennial bearer of bad news. “Seventh floor’s infested.”

Infested. Now there’s a word that can’t possibly have a positive connotation under any circumstances.

“Uh-oh,” I say, making a face.

“Uh-oh is right. They’re probably crawling around in your place, too. Keep an eye out when you turn on the light.”

“Believe me, I will.”

It’s not like I’ve never seen a roach. Just about every apartment in New York has them at some point or another. But I freak out every time one scuttles past.

Going back to the Crapper’s latest M.O.—the culprit apparently signed his most recent offering with a fecal flourish—Gecko follows me toward the elevator.

“Have a good night,” he calls after me as I step in.

“You, too.”

“I doubt that,” he replies dourly as the doors slide closed.

For once, I’m right there with him.

On our floor, I make my way to apartment 9K, the tiny Ikea-furnished one-bedroom where we’ve been living for—is it almost five years now?

Five years. No wonder.

After unlocking three dead bolts, I step inside and promptly crash into a chair.

Not because somebody left it practically in front of the door, but because that’s where it belongs. There’s just no other place to put it.

I drop my barbell—I mean, bag—on it.

Ah, relief.

Rubbing my aching shoulder with one hand I turn on a lamp with the other, and check to see if roaches are scurrying into the corners.

No. But they’re probably there, tucked away into the cracks, watching me.

Just to be sure none has invaded our space, I give the apartment a good once-over. That takes all of four or five seconds, because there’s not much to it. Two boxy rooms—living room and bedroom—plus a galley kitchenette and bathroom.

Maybe the place would seem more spacious if we got rid of some of this clutter, I think, trying to be optimistic.

Like what, though? Our toothbrushes? The television set?

A booming sound overhead makes me jump, until I remember that a family of circus freaks moved in upstairs last month.

Seeing them in the elevator, you’d think they were a perfectly respectable Upper East Side family of four: Dad in suit with briefcase, Mom in yoga pants pushing designer stroller, one older kid who’s invariably plugged into something handheld with earphones, one younger kid placidly rolling along in said designer stroller.

The second they get home sweet home, though? Sideshow, full swing. Our ceiling shakes so violently you’d swear there are elephants, giants and fat ladies stomping around up there. Jo-Jo-the-dog-faced-boy scampers to and fro in an endless game of fetch, and there must be at least a couple of klutzy Wallendas who regularly fall off their trapeze onto the uncarpeted floor.

I’m betting a full-time live-in decorator is there as well, because furniture is rearranged as regularly as most of us pee. And I think there’s a resident carpenter, too—that, or a serial killer, because I hear what sounds like a hammer and a buzz saw at all hours. (Jack claims it’s just high heels and a blow-dryer, but he has a high noise tolerance. I could be standing right over him, talking to him, and he doesn’t hear me. I swear, it happens all the time.)

Oh, and I don’t know what happens to Older Kids’ ubiquitous earphones when he crosses the threshold of his bedroom—which has to be right above ours—but he’s not using them there. Our room vibrates day and night with the audio from his television and iPod speakers and arcadelike video-game system.

Valentine’s Day was a nightmare. To celebrate the third anniversary of Jack’s popping the question—yes, I’m big on commemorating relationship milestones—I staged this whole cozy scene for when he got home from work. There I was, waiting in our bed with lingerie, candles, champagne, chocolate fondue and Norah Jones (her new CD, I mean, not Norah herself—we’re not into threesomes).

About five minutes into our romantic evening, our room filled with deafening screams—not mine, and not pleasure. Then came the squealing car-chase tires, cursing and gunfire. Talk about a mood wrecker. Obviously, the kid was tuning in to some cable movie or a PlayStation game that wasn’t rated E for Everyone.

If you ask me, our upstairs neighbors should be censoring their kid’s audio-video habits.

That, or we should get the hell out of Dodge.

You know what? I really think it’s time.

Because, suddenly, I can’t take it anymore.

The circus freaks, the cramped quarters, roaches and pesticides, Mitch, the prices, the subway, Gecko, the Mad Crapper, my job, Crosby, the elevators, the lugging and hauling, the bodily contact with strangers.

When Jack and I first got engaged, I remember, I wanted to move.

But he said—and I quote: “one major life change per year is my quota.”

Ever since, there’s been at least one major life change per year. First we were newlyweds, then he got promoted at work, then I got promoted at work…

Worst of all, in the midst of the job shuffling, my father-in-law died suddenly.

Jack’s had a somewhat contentious relationship with his father for most of his life, and his parents’ divorce after more than thirty years of marriage didn’t help matters. As the only son, with two older sisters and two younger, Jack has always been his mother’s favorite—and his father’s least favorite.

Jack Candell Senior was a high-powered ad exec on Madison Avenue for years, and he pretty much pushed his son into the industry when what Jack really wanted to do was go to culinary school.

I think—no, I know—Jack Senior was hoping his son would become a wealthy, high-profile account-management guy, like he was. Instead, Jack found his way into the Media Department, where he’s great at what he does, but hasn’t become the big shot Jack Senior wanted him to become, and probably never will.

Over the years, Jack and I maintained regular contact with his father—mostly at my urging. My family is tight-knit and it just doesn’t feel right to me to shut out a parent. I’m the one who made sure we stopped to see Jack’s dad when we were up in Westchester, and I’m the one who invited him—and the woman who was his fiancée at the time, soon to become his wife—to the surprise thirtieth birthday dinner I threw for Jack.

Did they come?

No. But his father did write out a big check and stick it into a card with his apologies for being busy elsewhere that night. The card was one of those generic ones you get in a box of cards, not even a “special son” or “thirtieth birthday” one.

Jack was hurt when he found out I had extended an invite and his father turned it down, and his mother, Wilma, was livid.

“He’s a bastard,” she told me privately. “I don’t like to badmouth him to my kids. But he always has been a bastard, and he will be to his dying day.”

Which, sadly, wasn’t all that far off.

Not long after the party, we got one of those chilling early-morning phone calls: Jack’s sister Jeannie, with the news that their father had suffered a fatal heart attack.

Jack’s since had a hard time dealing with all that was left unreconciled—or at least, in his perception—between him and his dad.

He’s thanked me, many times, for trying to bridge the gap, for what it was worth.

Anyway, time is helping to heal.

And I think a fresh start is in order.

We’re a couple of months into this calendar year, and so far, there’s been nary a major life change in the Candell household.

Yet.