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On The Verge
Ariella Papa


Twenty-three-year-old Jersey girl Eve Vitali is on the verge of something…whether it be a relationship, the fabulous life that she reads about in the Styles section of the New York Times or a nervous breakdown. Despite her Jackie O. suit, Eve works as an unappreciated assistant for–of all things–a bicycle magazine. Everyone keeps telling her that she's got her foot in the door, but the rest of her is surfing the Net and schlepping around with Tabitha, an Amazonian sex goddess. Between glam parties, obligatory visits home and myriad men, Eve is realizing that it takes a lot of work to get beyond the verge and on to the next big thing….It seems everyone has advice on how to get there:Eve (on keeping her "foot in the door"): "Develop artificial cheeriness. Answer all requests with 'great.'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.'"Tabitha (prefers foreign men, gets entree to the coolest parties, buys lots of underwear): "Remove unsightly hairs before all dates."Roseanne (Eve's roommate who works in–gasp!–finance): "Whatever you do, don't be predictable."







To Megan and Mikie for every-day inspiration and constant support




ARIELLA PAPA


lives and works in the great, courageous city of New York. She has been writing since she was three. When she isn’t writing prose or screenplays, she works as a television writer and producer. She’d like to give a shout out to all the assistants out there who’d rather be doing something else. On the Verge is her debut novel.




On the Verge

Ariella Papa







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Although they did not realize it, many people helped me to write this book. I would like to thank all of my friends, family and co-workers. I would especially like to thank the following people for the little extras that influenced me so much.

Grazie to Anne Marie for calendars and cheese. Thanks to Becky, Beth and Jimmy for Big Chill nights of debauchery and a world tour to come. To Cav for access to his mom’s potatoes. To Cheryl for the outfit and resonance. To Colleen for apartment searching. To Corby for Portuguese men. To Dolvie for his funny little songs. To Erica for Christmas party memories. To Josh for cinematic toasts. To Kristy for the womb to the Lodge and beyond. To Maclin for remembering everything and a night in 1986. To my editor, Margaret Marbury, for holding my hand through this crazy, amazing process. To Matt Wood for translating legalese in a not-so-quiet bar.

Thanks to the Papa family and the Botte/Leislle family. To Ratha (snooky!) for being a constant source of cheer and kindness. To Rick for L.A. To Riz for Otis Spunkmeyer cookies. To Romolo for Italy. To Snappy Cohen for never wanting to sit upstairs. To Travis for not being like anyone in this book. To Zoe for mayonnaise and sanity.

Most of all I would like to thank my father, Rocco Papa, for his unconditional love and for the best chicken cutlets in the world.




Contents


Prologue

September

October

November

December

January

February

March

April

May

Epilogue




Prologue


Sometimes I think I should have just had my nervous breakdown and gotten it over with. In high school, okay, maybe it would have been a little dramatic, but in college? I know I could have done it then. Lots of people did. I could have created a small but forgivable scandal. Nothing bad ever really happens to girls who take “time off.” It’s cool. I could have gone from gossip for a week to a point of reference for depressed women in future semesters. I kept waiting for the right time to give in to my depression, but I was too busy holding everyone’s hair as they puked up cafeteria pesto and Natty Lite.

I plan to talk to my bosses about doing a little writing for the magazine. Mind you Bicycle Boy is hardly what I had in mind when I spent those four and a half years not breaking down in college, but it’s a start, right? Something for my portfolio. Something my mom could boast about to her cronies who couldn’t care less, “Yeah, a journalism degree and she just did an exposé on helmet straps.”

A few months back I wrote a totally fabricated piece on a man who fell off his bike as a child and refused to ride. In the story, my character, the narrator, had become a surgeon, only to feel something was missing. He had no release after extracting all those hearts, until he returned to his first love—cycling. The fresh air calmed him, he shed pounds and reconnected with the outdoorsman he yearned to be. I wrote it from a thirty-two-year-old guy’s perspective and it was complete bullshit, but I was appealing to the demographic. I mentioned it to my bosses and they said we could talk after that month’s deadline. We never did.

Unfortunately one of our major advertisers, a water bottle manufacturer, is under investigation. Seems some guy in Dearcreek, Montana—no doubt one of our readers—got very sick after a twelve-mile trek. He claims the water tasted funny and some scientists are thinking this brand may not be the most hygienic. Luckily, it hasn’t been publicized, but you can well imagine it isn’t the best time to broach anything with the big men.

I comfort myself with the knowledge that the interns think I’m cool. They respect my power because I provide the supplies and order lunch. If they’re nice to me it’s a plethora of Post-it notes and maybe even a slight fat content in the bland vegetarian lunches I am forced to order. Also, one of the interns is exactly a year and three months my senior. She would kill for my job.

I have been working as an assistant for this magazine for almost seven months. I was temping for the large magazine conglomerate that owns this and many others, Prescott Nelson Inc.—I’m sure you know it. Right here in the crossroads of the world, Times Square. Although I harassed the human resources department to let me work for their feminist magazine, Angry Beavers, they assured me Bicycle Boy was a great place to be. I sucked it up, because I noticed a cosmetic ad or two slipping into the back pages of Angry Beavers. This allowed me to create the line, “Well, I wanted to work for Angry Beavers but I question their agenda. Fabian Nail Products has some shady investors that smell right wing to me.” This usually got the desired nod of understanding to the slackers or barflies I was explaining myself to. I was anything but a sellout.

The barfly I happened to be explaining myself to on the night the water bottle scandal erupted (well I guess “scandal” might be a tad exaggerated, but this is New York and I am all about image) was not just your average white shirt and khaki accountant that dressed down for a night of fun. This guy told me he had perhaps one of the coolest jobs in the city—he was an A&R guy, or at least reported directly to one. He alluded to a lot of things as he plied me with vodka collins (my drink of choice; I had switched from gin and tonics three months ago—too college).

I noticed, as he was explaining the hype over a new trip-hop artist who only pretended to be British, that he had chest hair curling out from his black T-shirt. I found it strangely attractive, a sign that I was indeed maturing. His name was Zeke and we were just beginning to do the drunken lean-in when Tabitha, whose place I was crashing at, staggered over to us and slurred her desire to leave. It was with great reluctance that I agreed.

I knew it would be uncool to do any kind of deed with him so early in our relationship (listen to me naming our children) but I must admit my plan to take over the city wasn’t quite going as expected. This might be largely in part to my lack of a power partner. I needed the kind of man who could help me, support me, be my date to all the too urban charity functions and who secretly aspired to be a filmmaker. I wanted a guy I could feel comfortable referring to in my essay in a trendy online magazine. A guy who, like me, was on the verge.

My head was spinning in the back of the cab. Tabitha was slumped over on my shoulder snoring softly (alliterations are my forte). I wondered if I would have to carry her up the six flights of stairs to her apartment. Maybe she’d do a nap by the toilet and I could snag the bed. I shirked any pleasantries with Yaleek, our driver, who was competently zipping along, and thought of Zeke’s promises. He had said we should go out sometime for sushi, sake and cannoli. I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t dare hide my delight. This was the life I wanted to be living. Who knew that this midtown watering hole could prove to be so fruitful? In a daring temptress of a move I had taken his number and not offered mine. I was golden, this was the start of it. I was taking Tabitha’s bed. There was no stopping me. I was going to be running the magazine soon enough.




September


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.




October


To be fair to my parents, I spend all of Friday cleaning the house in anticipation of Roseanne’s arrival. Tabitha was really annoyed that I didn’t go to this chi-chi West Village gallery opening with her. She also didn’t appreciate it when I said I’d offer her a twenty for every straight guy she encountered. She got off the phone all huffy.

Rosie got to my place around eleven on Saturday morning with her rented Ryder truck. Sometimes I forget how blond she is. She looks like a cross between Reese Witherspoon and a country and western singer. She had a little too much lipstick on for the hour, but I wasn’t going to be catty. She noticed my hair right away. I was pleased.

“Eve, you cut your hair. You look so…”

“Urban?”

“Well, I guess.” I could barely hide my delight. My dad and I helped Roseanne move her stuff in. Four hours later, my mom insisted we come in for risotto. She was trying to outdo herself for Roseanne.

I think I’ve forgotten to mention what an amazing cook Roseanne is. I guess this tidbit is not as sensational as the blow job in the bathroom. When we were in college she would make elaborate meals in our toaster oven. When we moved out of the dorms, she would organize dinners and throw themed cocktail parties. She used to craft little place cards for everyone and make pastries. We’d tease her about having her own brand of linens to sell to a major department store. My mom loves to pump her for little cooking tips.

“You know, Roseanne, my risotto never comes out the way it tastes in the restaurants.”

“Well, Mrs. Vitali, I think it’s delicious. It’s all in the stirring. You have to stir constantly.”

“I know, I did, but it still tastes blah.” Aggh, my ever descriptive mother.

“Well,” says Rosie, obviously scanning the recipe file of her mind. “For a cheese risotto like this one, you might want to throw in a few golden raisins just for a little sweetness.” Who would think of that? Golden raisins? Only Roseanne.

“Would that be good? I mean I’m sure you know best.” My mother is practically drooling over the happy homemaker Rosie has the potential to be.

“Just a few would do the trick. Remember risotto really is just sexy Rice-a-Roni, so play with it.” My father clears his throat. The last time “sex” was spoken at the dinner table was when Monica was getting her master’s in Social Thought and dating that guy who said he was an anarchist. It wasn’t pretty. My father excuses himself and makes his way to the garage to look at the lawn mower.

“Thanks, for all your help today, Mr. Vitali,” Rosie says sweet as pie. My dad nods and heads out to the garage.

I had made plans to go into the city and hit a downtown bar with Tab, you know give Rosie a little taste of the city, but by the time Rosie and I get finished organizing my (now, our) room, we are ready to collapse. Tabitha is not happy.

“Again?”

“Tabitha, we’re tired.”

“Isn’t she a marathon runner or something?” God! I’ve really said too much.

“Not exactly. I’m really tired. Call Adrian.”

“I can’t deal with another night of the unbridled lust of a bunch of gay men.”

“Luis?”

“That’s an in-person story. I don’t see how you can stand to spend an entire weekend out there in dump land.”

“Okay, we’ll meet you for brunch tomorrow. Okay?”

“I wouldn’t want to pull you away from the hairspray.”

“Tabitha!”

“Fine, fine. Let’s go to the place on Spring with the nice mimosas. Around one. Will that be enough beauty sleep for you?”

“I’m going now.” When I get off the phone, Rosie is painting her nails red. This is definitely going to be culture shock.

What an understatement. The next day, we arrive at the place and order mimosas. Tabitha is late as usual. Rosie is taking it all in.

“Wow, it’s amazing.”

“Yes, they do a lot of photo shoots here. It’s a real beautiful people crowd.” Everyone is kind of giving Roseanne a dirty look because she is not wearing black.

“Is your friend Tabitha like that?”

“Yeah, she’s very glam.” Rosie nods, mulling this over.

“She sounds a little snobby to me.” I will never learn to keep my mouth shut.

“No, she’s great. She’s not like anyone we went to school with.”

“Can we go to FAO Schwartz?” I pretend I don’t hear her.

Forty-five minutes pass and Tabitha still hasn’t arrived. She isn’t trying very hard to make a good impression on someone she’s hopefully going to be spending a lot of time with. Rosie checks her watch, but we keep ordering more mimosas. “Doesn’t this girl know about the half hour rule?”

“I know, Ro, but it takes a while to get down from the Upper East Side.”

“She might have accounted for it when she left the house.” Not a good sign. But, before I can defend Tabitha’s honor, Herself shows up. She’s a vision in brown this morning—and where did she get that leather jacket?

“Sorry, I’m late.” This to me and an extended hand to Rosie. “Tabitha.” They shake hands and eye each other. Does it really have to be this strenuous? Can’t we all just get along?

“Was it a rough night?”

“You could say that.” She hasn’t yet removed her sunglasses. “I went out with Ahmed.”

“What about Luis?” She looks from me to Rosie and back to me.

“I just can’t date people in the service industry. You should have seen the restaurant he suggested we go to.”

“I’m sure it was hideous.” This isn’t doing much for her image. The waiter comes over, but Tabitha, still undecided, waves him off as she “needs a minute.” I try not to see Rosie roll her eyes. I sigh.

“C’mon, Tabitha, I’m starved.” I am really trying to keep it together.

“You could have ordered.”

I grip my mimosa glass. “We didn’t. We waited.”

“Fine,” says Tabitha. She closes her menu and takes out a cigarette. Rosie absently waves some smoke away. The waiter takes our order. Tabitha smirks when Rosie orders an egg white omelet with grilled vegetables.

“The omelets are great,” I say, making an attempt.

“Of course you never get egg whites. Wanna cigarette?” Rosie excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

“Is she going to puke?” I hope I didn’t tell Tabitha about Roseanne’s former eating disorder.

“Tabitha, what’s your problem?”

“What problem?” I shake my head. The waiter pours us more mimosas. These drinks are never stiff enough, but usually I’m still slightly toasted from the night before. I snag one of her cigarettes and smoke fiendishly.

“And that outfit,” she rolls her eyes, “high fashion.”

“Tabitha. Maturity. Come on.”

“Fine, I’ll play with your little friend.” When Rosie returns, Tabitha stubs out her cigarette and removes her glasses. If you were a student of Tabitha body language like I am, you would think this was a good sign. We’ll see.

“So, what field are you interested in?”

“Finance. I was a finance major and I worked for a small consulting firm in Hartford.”

“Do you have any leads?” Our food arrives and the waiter mistakenly puts Roseanne’s food in front of Tabitha. “No, this is not for me.”

“Well, I’ve written some letters and I have two interviews set up for this week. I’m also in contact with an agency.”

“Those agencies are such a pain.” Tabitha shoves a huge forkful of eggs Benedict in her mouth. I think she is flaunting her appetite, if you can believe it. “It’s pretty admirable of you to just hop on down without a job or any hope of one.” (Is this a compliment?)

“I figured it was the only way to get motivated.” Tabitha asks the waiter for more bread.

“You know.” She pauses to get our attention before she speaks again. “I do have a friend at Deutsche Bank. Remember Johann?” I nod, remembering the awful fashion sense.

“Is he still talking to you?”

“I stopped talking to him. Danke.” Rosie smiles at that. “Anyway, see how your other interviews go and if nothing comes, give me a call and I’ll call Herr Johann. If you want.” Is she being helpful?

“Thanks.” Rosie is genuinely grateful, but of course this happy moment of togetherness can’t last. “I can’t wait till we find a place and then we can join a gym.”

“What fun,” Tabitha outdoes herself on the sarcasm and excuses herself to powder her nose. I stare down at my Belgian waffles.

“Is she always this…way?” Rosie asks.

“I know, I know, I know. She just takes some getting used to. She doesn’t mean to be abrasive. Really.”

Tabitha returns at the same time the bill arrives. Rosie reaches for it but Tabitha grabs her hand.

“Hey, I got it.” We protest, but it’s really hard to change Tabitha’s mind, also, she who pays has the power. I am starting to breathe a sigh of relief that this all seems to be going smoothly and we are just about to embark on Phase 2: shopping. Then Roseanne sees one of the actors from some series on the WB. It isn’t pretty; she starts to hyperventilate. At first we aren’t sure what’s going on. Rosie extends her hand as this quasicelebrity walks by. She turns red and starts saying over and over “star, star, star, star.” We quickly lead her out of the restaurant to calm her down. Tabitha smokes and shakes her head. I think it’s going to be a long, tough period of adjustment.

Rosie and I don’t get back until 7:30 just in time to catch the end of 60 Minutes with the ’rents. Luckily my mom has saved us her leftovers of Thai Chicken Satay. Rosie refrains from making any suggestions, perhaps she feels it’s hopeless. And again another Sunday night in a life full of Sunday nights.



The woman I presume is Lacey Matthews shows up at work as I’m on the phone with Roseanne reading her a list of apartment possibilities. She’s been searching for apartments and jobs nonstop. No luck, but it’s still too early to worry. Besides we’ve been having fun. Lacey has to be in her thirties, but she’s got the young chic going. If there was a juniors department of the designers she likes, she’d shop there, but instead she’s wearing Betsey Johnson. She has this huge bag and it’s moving. I get a flash of Zeke, but that’s dirty.

“Call me back, Ro, after you see the two-bedroom on Columbus.” I hang up and smile at Lacey and eye the bag. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Lacey Matthews.” It doesn’t take much more for me to decide that I don’t like her. Just the way she pauses after she says her name, to let it sink in, annoys me. I’m usually a lot friendlier but I forgo the “greats” because I know I’m being sized up. One of those funny woman things.

“You have an appointment with Herb, don’t you?”

“Yes.” She smiles, she definitely has had dental work.

“What’s in the bag?” The lost maternal instinct comes out. Lacey, who moments ago was all hard-core New York, gets one of those stupid high-pitched voices reserved for babies and kittens.

“Oooh, its just Maxie. Maxie! Maxie?” I peer into the bag. A puppy all right, not exactly my type. This one acts too much like a cat. Lacey continues with her excited voice. “He’s so little, too young to leave at home with his siblings.”

“Your kids?” I ask, already knowing the answer will make her look down at her belly. All those crunches and the trainer? No, abs as flat as a board. She is reassured. I am just a naive little assistant who doesn’t understand what kids would do to all her ab work.

“No kids, not yet.” Yes, of course, she is still hoping to meet the right breeder. That hope will kill her. You need hips for the mothering thing. She has body sculpted hers off. Besides, New York is not exactly a place for the unattached. Luckily, I’ve got age on my side. Nope, poor Lacey is lucky if she gets one of her homosexual friends to donate some sperm. But, I digress.

Herb has a nasty habit of wandering off and not telling me where he is going. Since I am supposed to keep his schedule I wind up looking like a big ass when people ask me where he is. Tabitha has a homing device on the Big C, but I have no idea where Herb is until he comes back—usually all sweaty and smelly, having just taken an eight-mile jaunt around the city “to get my blood flowing.” Apparently deodorant inhibits his creativity somehow.

I kind of wish he was returning from a bike ride right now, because I think I would enjoy watching Lacey pretend Herb’s creative man scent didn’t bother her. Instead, Lacey is sitting in his office listening to his stupid sitar music while I track him down.

Herb is two floors down talking with Jarvis Mitchell, one of the big guys. Jarvis handles all the sporty type magazines Uncle Pres owns. He gives me this weird look when he sees me as if he is surprised that he would have someone like me who has to keep track of him.

“Sorry to interrupt.” I always say that when I interrupt him and I wait for him to accept it like most people would, but he never does. “Lacey Matthews is in your office.”

“Lacey?” It is obviously too much for Herb to keep all of his expanding creativity in his head along with the name of the person he asked me to call.

“Mike Greaney’s friend,” Jarvis Mitchell reminds him. So that’s how Lacey gets to write for us. Mike Greaney is another big guy.

“Oh, right,” says our fearless leader. “I guess I better go be an interrogator.” Now, I stand awkwardly as Jarvis and Herb say their goodbyes. I’m not sure if it would be rude to leave, so I wait. I say goodbye to Jarvis as Herb is walking out, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. Herb and I walk up the stairs (he wouldn’t dream of taking the elevator).

“So I left Lacey in your office with—” I imitate Lacey’s long pause “—Max.” I’m setting this up to wow him with a witty comment about dogs now that I know Lacey isn’t a friend of his.

“Oh,” says Herb so that I know he isn’t paying attention to me at all. When we get to his office Lacey is all smiles and I leave them to their introductions and their cooing over Max. Whatever.

When I get back to my desk, there are three messages waiting for me. The first: “What’s up, it’s me.” (Tabitha) “Guess who is going to be reviewed in the Times this weekend? If you guessed your lost love elizabeth, you are right. Aggh, what could have been, had you only had one more drink.”

I delete that one, sending it to the message graveyard, never to be heard from again. The second: “Eve, hey, it’s Zeke. I know I haven’t talked to you in a while. I was out of the city but I’m back now. Wanted to take you out for some tapas.” (Yes, he says it with the correct Spanish accent just like a newscaster.) “Give me a call.”

I forward it to Tabitha’s voice mail. Finally: “Eve, where are you? I am so sick of sitting in Bryant Park between interviews and telephone calls. I talked to a Realtor about that place in the alphabet section.” (City, she means, this is a girl who loves Rent.) “It sounds really good. She gave me the name of a bar to meet at, it’s called Bar on A and it’s on Avenue A. Ooh, I guess that’s easy. Can you try to meet us there at 6:30?” My other line beeps. It’s Tabitha.

“Want to meet me and Adrian for dinner in Chelsea tonight?”

“I can’t, I have to meet Rosie to see an apartment in Alphabet City.”

“Oh, how Bohemian.” Tabitha knows Ro likes Rent. It’s come out in the past two weeks that among other things Roseanne thinks the soundtrack to Rent is really “real.” I would have liked to keep that quiet for a while; Tabitha still hasn’t gotten over the celebrity sighting.

“What time are you going to be there?”

“Probably not till eight.”

“We’ll try to meet you there.”

“Don’t forget to give her Valium in case Regis Philbin walks down the street.”

“Let me ask you this, Tabitha, what happens to Adrian if he leaves Chelsea? Is there some kind of electromagnetic field that electrocutes him?”

“Meow! Remember that Mexican place on Eighth.”

“How could I forget the twenty-dollar margaritas?”

“You are going to be no fun until this whole apartment thing is settled, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and I appreciate you being so supportive.”

“Mother of God. So will I see you later or what?”

“If you can behave yourself.”

“I’ll certainly try.”

“Great,” I say and hang up.

I meet Roseanne at the bar. She looks a little red. It must be all the sun she’s getting pounding the pavement. She’s been here since 4:15. It’s quarter of seven.

“Are you drunk?”

“No.” Okay. That’s reassuring.

“How was the interview?”

“I’m not going to get it.”

“How do you know?”

“No chemistry.”

“Where is the Realtor?”

“She is talking to someone at the table over there. We were waiting for you. The bartender bought me a drink.” I order a gin and tonic. Rosie gets me back to my bad college habits.

“Do you want to meet Tabitha and Adrian for dinner after this? Mexican.”

“I guess.”

“We don’t have to.”

“I’m concerned about money. I have a feeling it’s going to take me a while to find a job. Also, I haven’t seen an apartment for under $1600. That doesn’t even include all the stuff we’ll have to get or the darned Realtor’s fee.”

“Well, I know you’ve had a lot of time to think about this, but honestly, you’ve only been looking for two weeks. That’s eleven business days. No one could get a job that quick.”

The Realtor interrupts us, a woman named Kate who has a really husky voice. She can’t stop raving about the area—she lives here, it’s changing, it’s safe enough to raise her daughter. She talks so much in the short walk over that I feel dizzy when we get into the apartment. Maybe it’s the walk up four stories. The moment we get into the apartment, Roseanne leans against the wall in the kitchen and refuses to look at anything else. I think she may be a little drunk.

“Why is the shower in the kitchen?” Roseanne asks.

As I walk around the apartment (which is really just three tiny rooms) I hear Kate explaining the charm of washing your naked body in the kitchen. There is only one closet and the door opens into the disgusting, showerless bathroom. Kate assures me that the bathroom will be cleaned and they will actually put in a sink before we move in. I could barely fit my double bed in here. The wood floors are nice though, maybe I could sleep on them.

“So what do you think?” Kate asks. Roseanne is peculiarly quiet. I ask again how much it costs.

“Only $1300.” I add in the $1000 broker’s fee, and we owe Kate $2300. I look at Roseanne, wishing we had my parents’ telepathic gift. Her face is unreadable. I know there is no way I want to move into this apartment, but does Rosie? I wait for her to speak, but she doesn’t.

“It’s a great apartment,” I lie, “but, we need to think about it.”

“Do you want to leave a deposit? We are also going to have to do a credit check and make sure we have a guarantor because you are so young.”

“I think we should talk about it first and maybe give you a call tomorrow.”

“Fine.” Kate seems a little disapproving. “I just want to advise you that apartments like this don’t last long in New York.”

I thank Kate and Roseanne manages a smile and we are back on the streets. I don’t say a word for a while, giving Ro the chance to mull it over. We cut through Tompkins Square Park and ignore the drug pushers.

Roseanne says nothing, but looks like she is in pain. I try to make casual conversation. “So, um, what did you think of the palace?”

“I would sooner cut off my right arm than take a shower in the kitchen.” Well, that settles that. The idea of being alone in my house with Roseanne repulses me, so I offer to buy her dinner.

We meet Adrian and Tabitha at the Mexican place on Eighth Avenue. It overlooks the street at all the beautiful boys walking by. The worst thing about Chelsea is that feeling of being in the best bakery in the world and having your mouth wired shut. There are no men as attractively unattainable as the ones in Chelsea. They dress well, have cuddly dogs, and probably awesome jobs and money in the bank, but you don’t stand a chance unless you have a penis.

Adrian lives in Chelsea. He’s one of those mouth-watering boys, but I know him so I’ve gotten used to it. He also works for Prescott, and has a job he actually enjoys. He works for Little Nell, the kids magazine based on a Saturday cartoon character with that annoying theme song. I guess it embarrasses him a little, but he’s a graphic artist, which is cool no matter how you look at it. He and Tabitha go way back to the days when they temped for MTV.

As soon as we order, I take Tabitha into the bathroom and give her the lowdown; Roseanne’s going nuts from all these dead-end interviews and ridiculous apartments. I am having trouble being positive. Tabitha seems focused on applying her MAC lipstick.

“Are you listening to me Tabitha? She’s getting really upset. I purposely walked by the Life Café, you know, the place in Rent, and she said nothing.”

“You mean she didn’t hyperventilate again.”

“Oh, Tab!” I say, just to be a bitch, but she doesn’t take my bait. She is too busy studying her eyes. She did them up from a picture in a book by this great makeup artist that she loves.

“What do you think, too much kohl?”

“Well, not if you are going for that Cleopatra look in blue.”

“I wish he would let me know where he gets his liquid eye-liner.”

“Who?”

“Kevin.” The makeup artist, of course. “It’s sweet though, you know he isn’t selling out to anyone, he’s tight-lipped about who he gets his cosmetics from. No exclusive contract, not yet anyway. How admirable.” Whatever.

Back at the table Adrian and Roseanne are laughing loudly. There is an empty margarita glass next to Roseanne. I told you she could suck it down. Anyway, I have to hand it to Adrian, he’s definitely taking some of the edge off. Thank God.

“I mean, I wasn’t raised to live in a place like that,” Roseanne says. She quiets down when I sit. “Imagine showering in the kitchen.”

“Imagine,” Tabitha says. I think she’s pissy because Adrian and Rosie are getting along. Adrian is a god to Tabitha. Rosie ignores Tabitha and we actually have a great dinner. Of course Rosie and I get drunk and when the bill comes I’m not psyched about paying for Rosie’s portion and it hurts me to turn her down when she offers to pay, but I keep my word.

While Rosie is in the bathroom, Adrian suggests we go to this gay dance club. “Adrian, the last thing I’m going to do is go to another meat market with you. If I want to see that kind of hormonal display I’ll go to the Upper East Side and get lucky with a frat boy.”

“Listen to Miss Thing,” says Adrian, laughing. He looks at Tabitha. “And you?”

“Well, I’m certainly not ready to go home to the ’burbs.” She smirks at us.

“Meow,” Adrian and I purr together.

“Your friend Rosie is nice, we should try to hook her up with a job.” What a sweetheart Adrian is. Let that be a lesson to Herself. Tabitha rolls her eyes.

“What’s next?” asks Rosie, back at the table. I know she’s tanked.

“Next is a whirlwind of an evening on the bus. I can’t be hungover again. You can sleep late.”

“You could always stay over, Rosie,” Adrian offers, and I feel Tabitha kick me under the table. She would absolutely die.

“Well, thanks, Adrian,” says Rosie softly, “but I don’t want Eve to go back by herself.”

“Of course you don’t,” adds Tabitha definitively. She could just give me a car voucher, but I’ve got no legitimate cause to ask for one.

We take a cab to Port Authority and catch the bus home. I plan on sleeping the whole way home. Rosie wants to talk about Chelsea.

“I think we should live there, Eve. All those guys, I mean, I know they aren’t your type, but they all seem so built and cute—and did you notice all the dogs? That’s the kind of guy for me.” She must be kidding, but she isn’t. It only gets worse.

“And Adrian, what’s his story? He’s so cute and nice. He’s a designer for Prescott Nelson, well, of course you know that, but how cool is that? Why didn’t you ever tell me about him? Did you like him? I kind of wanted to hang out, but I didn’t know. Are he and Tabitha together?”

The worst part is, she’s serious. I mean, Adrian isn’t flaming and he doesn’t really fit what people would stereotype as gay, but isn’t it obvious? Does one need to be singing the show tunes to be clear about their sexuality?

The trip turns into a harsh education for Rosie. I thought it might upset her more, but she actually takes it well. She laughs with me for the first time since she started looking for a job.

Need I remind you again that it’s only been eleven business days?



Tuesday morning is our staff meeting. I am mildly hungover. The staff acts like these meetings are the greatest things since the Times Square Shuttle. How much fun can you make articles about cycling? You get a real feel for what exercise geeks these writers are—they sometimes read questions that are sent in to the “Dear Biker” column and laugh about the ignorance of readers. Today is a special treat, we are watching a promotional video for some biking company that wants us to cover their newest brand.

Everyone is on the edge of their seats, mesmerized by the amazing angles the cameraman got on the bikes. Everyone except Lorraine and me. Since Herb has seen all the footage, he manages to be even more smug than usual, like he created the bikes or something.

I do a lot of eye rolling at Lorraine and she shakes her head. She leads the business aspect of the meeting; who is supposed to be doing what assignment, what kind of budgets the writers have and gives us feedback from different departments, lines of business as they are called. Herb does a lot of interrupting during Lorraine’s part. It amazes me that he does it with such ease. He makes the stupidest jokes and people will laugh. How does someone get the confidence to do that? Is it just by being the boss? If I ever tried that I think everyone would look at me as if I had eight heads and maybe I would get a good human resources “talking to.”

The meeting concludes with people reading select excerpts of their articles. There is a separate meeting called the Feed Meet, to get feedback before the articles are published, but this is reading the articles after they are already in the magazine. If we really cared we could just grab a copy of this month’s issue, but Herb insists that certain writers should read their articles during our staff meeting. There is no escape, not even in the fresh-squeezed orange juice and bran muffins. After the “special” writer finishes, we all have to applaud.

After the meeting I bring the carnage of the picked-over breakfast by my desk. This means that all day long, I’ll have all of them coming by looking at the leftovers as if there might be some new healthy snack that just appears. They also make goofy jokes about how the food is breaking down and are inspired to talk about how many miles and at what speed they have to bike in order to burn off a certain number of calories. Then it always deteriorates to fiber jokes and bathroom humor. Like I said, exercise geeks.

“Do you need any help?” Brian, the new semester slave, asks me after the meeting. I’m in the midst of e-mailing Tabitha.

“No, I’m fine for now.” Brian lives for these meetings. The bad thing about interns is they remind you of how little you have to do, and thus, how little you can pass onto them. Brian is going to be with us all semester, which means that I have him to look forward to until Christmas. “Why don’t you check out some of our old issues?” Brian is one of those interns who thinks if he asks enough questions and kisses enough ass, he’ll get a job here. When Brian isn’t slaving away or kissing ass, he is harassing me. He seems to think that part of the so-called learning experience is being involved in every aspect of the office.

“Hey, Brian. This—” I cover up my monitor “—is personal. It’s not some important job secret that is being kept from you.”

“Oh, okay.” He goes back to sit at his makeshift desk. I guess I should feel bad for the guy. At least I get paid.

He comes back fifteen minutes later under the pretense of getting a different issue. This time I’m on the Net trying to find Roseanne a recipe for gumbo. This is getting annoying. I quickly switch my computer back to the desktop and pretend to find it amazing. He decides to address me anyway.

“You know, I’m thinking of trying to write an article.” Mother of God.

“Great, Brian.” I don’t take my eyes off the screen, but I’m surprised how annoyed I am that Brian thinks it’s that simple.

“Did you ever think about trying to write?”

“Bikes don’t really interest me.”

“But still, it’s a great opportunity you have here.” I think they must brainwash them at the intern orientation. “I mean, you don’t want to be a receptionist all your life.”

“What?” This time I actually turn and look at him. Now, I have a very long desk that is sort of in the middle of a bunch of offices and cubes, but the receptionist sits in the elevator lobby. “I am not a receptionist! I am a department assistant. Big difference!” Brian walks away with his head hanging. Good riddance. But this raises another more serious question, do I really seem like a receptionist? Image is everything. What if I give off a receptionist image? I call Tabitha.

“If you seem like a receptionist, I seem like a receptionist, and I am certainly not a receptionist.” Tabitha has the same desk that I do and sits in almost the exact same position.

“Do you think it’s the desk? Is that what makes us seem like receptionists?”

“Hey, Eve, don’t clump me into the reception pool. It’s this shitty intern who is ignorant of the ways of Prescott Nelson. Don’t let it bother you. That’s the problem with these interns—they waltz in here with these ideals and think they can run the company.”

“Well, Tabitha, so do we.”

“Well, we can.”

“But here is the question, is there any more dignity in being an assistant than a receptionist?”

“Ah, the conundrum,” says Tabitha as my other line beeps.

“Hold on.” Tabitha sighs as if by putting her on hold I have ruined her day. “Eve Vitali.”

“Eve, Zeke.” Wow!

“Zeke! Hold on, I’m on the other line.”

“Is this a bad time I could—”

“No, I’m just finishing. Hold on.” I click back to Tabitha, who is incidentally singing a Spice Girls’ song, although she stops quickly when she hears me. “Hey, Slutty Spice, that’s Zeke.”

“Return of the Ape Man.”

“Thanks for consoling me about the receptionist thing.” I click back to Zeke. “Hi.” I will be strong. He can’t just decide not to call me and get away with it.

“Oh, Eve,” he growls. I might weaken a little. (I know, I know, but remember, I have needs, too.) “God, I’ve missed you.”

“Really.”

“I had to go to L.A. to check out a band.” I reminisce about why I first liked him. Say ’bye, ’bye receptionist, my carriage awaits. I can get over the hair, I know I can.

“How was it?”

“Oh, you know L.A.” I don’t, but someday I’d like to. “It’s good to be home.”

“Yeah.”

“So, Eve, can I see you?”

I agree to meet Zeke for Jamaican food. I must admit that he has a knack for picking restaurants. Tabitha thinks this signifies a chronic dater, but she gave me her blessing, because I might as well keep on getting some after my long drought. Roseanne wasn’t thrilled about spending the night alone with my parents watching “Nick at Nite,” but she agreed to corroborate my working late story. This being the only reason my mother would accept for not being a proper host to Roseanne.

Anyway, Zeke has on a dizzying shirt. It has black and white swirls and I wonder if he thinks it will hasten my drunkenness. Again, I intend to stand firm.

“Eve.” He gets up and kisses me (yes, on the lips). It’s not one of those gushy kisses—it’s worse. It’s one of those “we have something that won’t be cheapened by saliva, so let me take your face in my hands as if it is an exquisite jewel and kiss you with just a hint of the passion that will hopefully not explode all over the dinner table” kiss. You know the ones? Anyway, it’s troubling.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. Everything,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s great to see you. You look beautiful.”

“Thanks.” Standing firm. Unsinkable. We sit down.

The waitress arrives and places Jamaican beer in front of both of us.

“I ordered for us,” he says, taking my hand. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Uh, no.” Well, I guess I don’t mind. What I mind is the way he is sniffing my hand.

“You smell good, Eve, real good.” I have to wonder if my life just got scripted by soap opera writers. I look around for a camera.

“Are you looking for someone?”

“No.”

“Good, because I just want us to focus on each other.”

“Well, I’m starved. Let’s check out the menu.” I break free from him. I feel him watching me, but I ignore it. I take a sip of my beer.

“Eve,” he says. I look at him. He looks intensely at me and smiles. “I can’t wait to taste you again.” Yes! He says that. I feel yucky. I have a serious uh-oh feeling.

“Okay.” Straight back to the menu. I get the jerk chicken.

When the food arrives Zeke is telling me about the book he is writing. He is writing it from the perspective of a thirty-five-year-old, Korean-African-American single mother.

“But, it’s different, very stream of consciousness. Very…I don’t know, how do I say it…?” he pauses as if thinking. Something tells me he has given this very same explanation a hundred times. “…well, I like to think poetic.”

“That’s interesting, Zeke—” I take a bite of my chicken and chew almost as thoughtfully “—but I thought the idea was to write what you know.”

From Zeke’s expression, I assume no one has ever discussed this with him before.

“Eve, that’s so oppressive. Why should I let my writing be defined by limits, by archaic rules. I understand this woman, I feel I’ve gotten her. That’s what being an artist is. I feel a side of me opening up. It’s an amazing release. It transcends everything.”

“Does it?” We eat our meals for a while. The waitress brings more beer. I’m pacing myself. Zeke is really quiet. No amount of sexual eating will pull him out of it. He’s not even watching me. The silence is so awkward, I actually run my tongue over the chicken before I put it in my mouth. It does nothing. When he isn’t talking, I kind of enjoy looking at him, and what the hell, I’m horny. (Yeah, yeah, I know what I said.)

“So, what should we do now? Do you want to get a drink?”

“Eve, I think I am ready to get the check and call it a night.” What?

“What?”

“I just don’t think it’s going to work between us.” Really.

“Really?”

He takes my hand again, this time almost pityingly. “You just don’t seem to get my work.”

“The A&R stuff? What’s to get?”

“No, Eve, not my job. No, my writing, my art.”

“What, that book?”

“It’s a huge part of me, and it’s clear by your ignorance that you’ll never understand.” Is he being serious? “I cared for you, Eve, but I realize you will never support me and that is a big issue.” The big issue I think I am starting to realize is that I am not going to have sex this evening and who knows how long it will be again.

“Zeke, maybe you’re getting a little excited.”

“That’s just it, Eve! You don’t understand!” He actually slams his hand on the table when he says this. Several diners turn to look at us. The waitress hurries over to see if she can get us the check.

“Yes, get the check.” I offer Zeke money, but he won’t take it. I was going to head to Tabitha’s, but in the absence of a good lay, I think I want nothing more than my own bed. Zeke gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and hops in a cab.

I ride home alone on the bus, because I missed the train. Again. This pathetic feeling is reason enough to move out.

My parents and Rosie are circled around the TV. I assure my mother I took a car home and Rosie seems a little too smug, knowing my date must have gone dreadfully wrong.

I go up to my room and feign sleep when Rosie comes in. She says my name, but I ignore her. Wasn’t I beautiful? Didn’t I taste delicious and eat sexily? What happened to all that? One blast of reality and Zeke is a goner.

We should have gone for Italian, I would have done wonders with spaghetti.



I don’t talk to Roseanne about Zeke for a few days. She’s got her own problems stressing about a job and searching for an apartment. I found this one on the Net and convinced her we should go after I got out of work. I’ve taken a new policy of “don’t ask, don’t tell.” If she gets a job she will undoubtedly tell me. Until then I will neither inquire about her search, nor offer constructive criticism about things like not wearing such a glossy lipstick or how much nicer her black pantsuit looks than the cotton-lycra skirt set.

The Realtor, Craig, gives us a little attitude about being late for our appointment. There was a subway delay. I give him attitude right back. Roseanne says nothing. I hope she isn’t this quiet and miserable on job interviews, but remember, I am beyond advice.

The apartment is not exactly near the subway, but I guess it’s still considered “in the vicinity.” Craig is very elusive about this apartment. Since Roseanne won’t talk (again), I have to be the spokeswoman. “So how is the place?”

“It’s great and so charming.” Okay, small—I gathered that from the ad. And I am sure the advertised EIK (that’s Eat In Kitchen, for you nonresidents) is minuscule. Craig chats up the apartment all the way there. He must feel guilty about the ridiculous fee that Realtors charge and somehow hopes to feel like he’s earning his money. Whatever.

We turn onto this nice block. I’m not jazzed about the Upper East Side and the only reason I’m checking out this place is because I feel bad about making Rosie do all this work in her fragile state. Despite all the telltale signs from the ad that it would suck (EIK, charming, 1BR converted, prewar), I suggested we check it out so I could put in some effort.

We stop at a really nice brownstone. I am fighting that hopeful feeling but, I can’t help thinking that this could be it. I look to Rosie, who is staring at the cracks in the sidewalk. I didn’t want to do this alone. I take a deep breath.

“Okay,” says Craig, stopping in front of the building, beginning his hard sell. “Now, it will be painted before you move in.” Don’t get too far ahead of yourself there, buddy. But, wait, he is headed downstairs! Downstairs? No one said anything about a basement apartment.

He opens the door to one of the tiniest apartments I have ever seen. Maybe if Rosie and I were Siamese twins we might have an enjoyable life here, but we’d probably also have a book deal and do the talk show circuit and could afford to live somewhere else. One bedroom converted? Converted to what? Two tiny closets? Yes, you can eat in the kitchen. The kitchen, the living room and the “converted” bedrooms are one big room. If you plan on eating in the apartment, you will virtually always be in the kitchen.

“Feel free to look around,” says Craig encouragingly. There is nothing I need to look at; the entire apartment is right in my field of vision. Including the bathroom. Craig must read my mind. “They’re definitely going to put the bathroom door on before you move in.”

That’s reassuring. I look at Rosie. She is turning a color I’ve never quite seen before. “There is no way in hell I will ever live in this doody apartment.” Rosie starts out slowly, but I can see it getting worse. That’s pretty crass for her.

Craig looks shocked—as shocked as I am. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, this is ridiculous. How much are you charging for this place? Fourteen hundred? The worst part is some schmuck is actually going to pay.” I note her use of “schmuck.”

“Listen, miss, I don’t where you’re from, but this is New York.”

“This is garbage!” Wow! Craig can’t believe it, either. He sweeps his arm around the tiny apartment and up toward the barred window that is barely street level.

“Where in New York do you think you will get a view like this one?”

Rosie shakes her head and physically grabs me and pulls me out of the apartment. As we’re out the door she turns back towards him and shouts.

“Up your ass!” Those are the harshest I’ve ever heard from those lips. I am holding on to the wall of the brownstone, so I won’t fall over laughing. What balls! The well-dressed people walking by will probably have us arrested for loitering, but I can’t stop laughing. My stomach starts to hurt and I am about to cry from the hysteria. I look at Rosie, expecting the same, but she really is crying, sobbing and it takes me by surprise.

“Roseanne.” I touch her shoulder. “Are you okay?” She doesn’t speak for a while. She shakes her head and keeps trying to stop.

“I’ve gone through two thousand dollars in three weeks.”

“How?”

“Little things—drinks, food—I swear I’ve only bought like one skirt and it wasn’t that. Just little things. It wouldn’t be a big deal if I were working, but what if I go through my entire savings and still don’t have a job? We are going to have to put a deposit down on the apartment. What am I going to do?”

“You are going to get a job.”

“No one has called back for more than a second interview. I was even thinking of putting in a résumé at Prescott.”

“Well, you should. I believe sooner or later everyone works for Uncle Pres.”

“And I just roam around the streets of New York all day, which would be great if I were on vacation, but I feel guilty, like I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“I know.” But I don’t.

“And today, you know how it rained this morning? Well, I went to The Virgin Megastore and I was reading and I just sort of fell asleep. One of the employees woke me up and told me I wasn’t allowed to sleep there. Like I was freaking homeless or something.” Wow! What do you say to that? There’s really only one thing.

“Let’s get a drink.”

We wind up back in the Village in a dark little bar. There is nothing like drowning your sorrows in the creature. I foot the bill. It’s the least I can do. I opt not to call Tabitha, although she loves this place and she’ll kill me if she finds out we’re here without her. I attempt to console Roseanne. “We just have to keep a positive attitude.”

“I know, but, I can’t stand another dead interview and I can’t stand another �charming’ apartment. What the heck is prewar, anyway?”

“No idea. But, there’s a guy looking at you.” Okay, I’m lying, he’s not. But Roseanne is pretty in that All-American way, which really means Northern European. (I only know that because of my sister’s Social Politics master.) She also is an exercise junkie. Anyway, I know I shouldn’t have, but if she just makes eye contact with this guy, it might work wonders for her self-confidence. Besides, he looks real cheesy and Tabitha thinks that’s totally Rosie’s type. I tend to agree.

“He is not.” She checks him out quickly. This is called setting the bait, he definitely saw her. These meat market games are so freshman year, but times are tough. The girl needs love. Within minutes, said guy comes over to us with his fat friend. They buy us drinks.

Roseanne and I play good cop/bad cop for a while getting Brad’s (of course) employment history out. It figures he works in advertising. Rosie is into it. I can imagine Tabitha smirking as we are in the process of picking up the cheesiest men in the bar. That is, Rosie is. I am not interested in Paul, the fat friend.

“So you work for a publishing company,” Paul asks, smiling at me with bad teeth.

“Yeah.”

“You girls got an apartment here in the city?”

“No, we are visiting from Tulsa, and we’ll be leaving tomorrow.” Roseanne shoots me a look. It’s amazing that she can hear me so clearly with her back to me yet she needs to lean so close to Brad’s lips to understand him. I correct myself, for her sake. For the sake of love, if you will.

Anyway, we imbibe quite a bit. So much so that at one point I must mistakenly give Paul the go ahead to kiss me (maybe it’s just the example set by face sucking Roseanne and Brad), but I quickly put a stop to that.

Roseanne walks away with a business card and a date for next Thursday night (props to her). Luckily, it’s the night I’m going to the Fashion Awards with Tabitha. Once again we are back on the bus, but this time we get to pass out. I wake up just in time for our stop and note that Rosie has a smile on her face as she sleeps. It warms the cockles of my cold heart.



“I found it!” Roseanne says when I pick up the phone. Herb happens to be standing near my desk, talking to one of the writers.

“What’s that?” I try to sound professional.

“The most wonderful apartment!” Let me just say that ever since her date prospect, she’s been a little happier, but finding the perfect apartment is nothing to joke about. I feel my heart start to beat. This could be the new beginning.

“Where?”

“Chelsea. Right on 7th Avenue. It’s amazing. The landlady’s cousin showed it to me. She says they’re making their decision tomorrow. Eve, there were like thirty other people there.”

“How much?”

“Only fourteen. Only? Gosh, I never thought I would say that. Shit, I’m becoming a New Yorker. Eve, I am serious, we have to get this apartment. Have to. Call the landlady and schmooze her. You’re good at that.” Really?

“Okay, give me the number.” She gives it to me. Her name is Mrs. Yakimoto. “How many bedrooms?”

“Well it’s just one bedroom with this alcove and a sleep loft. The bedroom and the loft aren’t that big, but the living room and everything else is huge. It’s unbelievable, it’s amazing. Eve, I haven’t seen an apartment this nice. Oh, shit.” Roseanne is getting real accustomed to this cursing thing. She is loving her new New Yorkness. It’s actually rubbing off on me and I find myself wanting this apartment sight unseen.

I hang up the phone. I smile up at Herb, who just sort of stares at me, like I am somehow representative of a generation of young women that he would never want to attempt to understand.

“Searching for an apartment,” I say.

“I hear it’s tough these days.” I smile and nod, hoping he will go away so I can make personal phone calls.

“Can you send this out for me, Eve?” He hands me a big puffy envelope full of stuff. Now as I said, Herb is a very self-sufficient man, but little things like “sending stuff out” are beyond him. This man has published books and had honorary and real degrees from all over but can’t figure out the Prescott Nelson mail system. Basically, our mail system entails just dropping it in a bin for someone else to come and take care of postage. It’s wonderful. My mother gives me care packages to send to my sister all the time. No one questions anything. All it takes is a Bicycle Boy or Prescott Nelson label. Since Herb has already written out the address, all I have to do is put the package in the mail bin next to my desk. It’s easy enough, and the nice thing is it makes both Herb and I feel like I am earning my title as “assistant.”

I take the package from him. I ooze efficiency. “Great. I’ll do it right away.”

I call Mrs. Yakimoto. She lives on Long Island. Her son answers the phone. He can’t be more than six. He screams for his mother to get the phone. She answers and speaks in slightly accented English.

“Mrs. Yakimoto, my name is Eve Vitali. My roommate Roseanne looked at the apartment today.”

“Yes, I think my cousin mentioned her. There have been so many calls today.” Mrs. Yakimoto sounds a little stressed. I can hear her kids in the background.

“Well, we are really interested in the apartment and we are really hoping to get it.”

“I know, but I wasn’t expecting to rent to two people and you haven’t even see the apartment yet. I never expected to even have this apartment to rent. My cousin decided to get married and now she wants to move uptown. She said she would handle it, but I still have to talk to all these people. Do you believe people are offering me six months’ rent?”

“Yes, I do. It’s really tough to get an apartment in the city.” I hear one of Mrs. Yakimoto’s children bawling and she yells at them in another language and gets back on the phone with me.

“Are those your kids?”

“Yes, I have four.”

“Well, Mrs. Yakimoto, I’m sure the last thing you want to do is worry about all of this. I just want to tell you how great my roommate Roseanne thinks the apartment is and how much we would really love it.”

“Well, I have to talk to my husband about this. You girls seem very nice, but it’s a lot to decide. I will call you back tomorrow.”

“Okay, but Mrs. Yakimoto, we are really interested in the apartment. We’ll be great tenants. Really.”

When we get off the phone, I get an idea. I call Adrian.

“I was wondering if you had any extra Little Nell toys lying around.”

“We’ve got tons. Come down and get some. I could use a visit.”

It’s always nice to visit Adrian, because he notices things that most men wouldn’t. Today he said my lipstick was glam and very New York. He’s so cute. I can understand why Rosie had her little crush on him.

Not only did he give me a bunch of Little Nells, he gave me all kinds of cartoon T-shirts and some promotional toys from Little Nell’s advertisers. I look up Mrs. Yakimoto’s address on the Net and FedEx all the stuff to her with a note telling her (again) how much we’d like to live in the place and hoping her kids enjoy the stuff.

I can tell Tabitha is impressed with my cunning and maybe a tad jealous that I will live in a much cooler area plus be closer to Adrian and Krispy Kreme donuts. I neglect to tell her about my night out at the bar and the guy Roseanne kind of picked up. I am too tired to go out tonight, but I promise to go out tomorrow night, Friday, to kick off what might be one of the last warm weekends of the year.

She bugs me again about what I am going to wear to the Fashion Awards next Tuesday. Again, I say the same black Bebe sweater and some skirt I got in Soho for really cheap. I can tell Tabitha isn’t all that excited about it. All we are doing is seat filling. She finds the whole thing a tad beneath her. She wishes we had actual tickets instead of having to hop around from seat to seat whenever someone vacates. She is also dying to find a post event invite, but the Big C only got one.

“Eve, you’re a real peach today.”

“I’m just worrying about the apartment thing.”

“I’d worry, too, especially if only Roseanne has seen it. You’re giving her an awful lot of responsibility, don’t you think?”

“Well, I trust her, Tabitha.”

“What are you gonna do if she can’t get a job?”

“She’s been looking for three weeks. Only three weeks. She’ll get one.”

“As what? An aerobics instructor?” I don’t say anything for a full twenty seconds. I count it on my phone’s time display.

“Look, Tabitha, just give me a call tomorrow when you decide what you want to do this weekend.”

“Maybe try to scout out some more pseudo celebrities. Roseanne will like that. I hear there’s a bar where old cast members from the Real World are put out to pasture.”

“Whatever.” I hang up. That’s something I never do to Tabitha. I just can’t take the excess drama.

My parents are delighted about the apartment possibility. Well, I’m exaggerating, my mom dabs her eyes a little and congratulates us in her typical martyrish way and my dad makes some comment about Chinese people. I remind him that Mrs. Yakimoto is most likely Japanese, but it doesn’t seem to register. Thankfully my sister Monica isn’t around to start a political correctness war with them.

Roseanne describes the entire apartment to me. The things she keeps raving about are the hardwood floors and all the space. It’s unbelievable that it’s so cheap. There are only two other tenants in the apartment building. One above us, one below. We have the entire floor. It sounds too good to be true.

And we definitely need to get out of Jersey.

I call Mrs. Yakimoto first thing in the morning. A different kid answers this time, this one is probably nine. I ask to speak to Mrs. Yakimoto and he starts screaming.

“It’s the lady, the toy lady!” Mrs. Yakimoto comes to the phone.

“Eve?” She sounds weary.

“Hi. Mrs. Yakimoto.”

“Thank you for the stuff. The kids love it. They told me to give the apartment to the toy lady.”

“Well you should,” I say, pleased.

“Well, Eve, to be honest, my husband isn’t thrilled about the idea of giving it to two girls. What if something breaks? We’re just not sure about girls.” We’re women, thank you. I will get this apartment one way or another even if I have to sue her for sexual discrimination.

“Well, Mrs. Yakimoto, we’re very self-sufficient women. Actually, my father owns a plumbing business. He’s really handy. So, really, we’ll never ask for anything.”

“But, you’re so young, and how do we know you can pay the rent? We have a lot of other interested people.”

“I know, but we love the apartment. It’s our dream. We will be the best tenants ever. Really.” Mrs. Yakimoto laughs. “We will definitely be able to pay the rent.”

“What about Roseanne, she doesn’t have a job?” Damn!

“Yes she does.” Shit.

“Really?” Fuck.

“Yes, actually she got a job working here, working for…” Help! Help! “A different magazine, she just found out last night.” Mrs. Yakimoto is silent for a long time.

“Well. I would like to see a copy of your last pay stub and I need something from Roseanne. Can she get a letter from her employer?” That Mrs. Yakimoto is sharp, depressingly sharp.

“Of course, I’ll send it right over.”

“You can fax it to my husband’s office.” The awful Mr. Yakimoto once again standing in the way of all that is rightfully ours.

Shit! Shit! Shit! I call Roseanne. She has just returned from a grueling run that she starts to tell me about. I cut her off right away to tell her the news.

“What are we going to do?” She sounds like she’s on the verge of tears. Why must I always be the pillar? I don’t have time to start wondering why; instead I come up with a brilliant plan. “Roseanne, I’ll call you back.” Immediately I call Tabitha.

“What’s up?” she says, obviously still a little miffed from yesterday. “Wanna have a cigarette?”

After a lot of begging and pleading and many allusions to how much more I like Tabitha than anyone else in the world (i.e. Roseanne). I get her to agree to be Roseanne’s boss. An idea that I’m sure would be dangerous were it a reality. The letter I type on NY By Night stationery reads like this:

To whom it may concern,

Roseanne Sullivan has been hired as an editorial assistant for NY By Night magazine as of November 1. Her expected salary is $38,000 for this year after which she will renegotiate her contract. Call me with any questions.

Sincerely,

Tabitha Milton

Vice President, Creative Development, NY By Night

It is a vision. I call Roseanne to let her know what her new job is and remind her to be very very nice to Tabitha the next time she sees her. Sure enough, within an hour of getting the fax, Mrs. Yakimoto has called Lorraine, my reference, and left a message on Tabitha’s (fortunately) unincriminating voice mail.

Although she is pretending to be huffy about it, Tabitha likes the idea of all of this. She calls me and then conferences with Mrs. Yakimoto. I keep my phone on mute so I can hear. Mrs. Yakimoto answers for a change. Tabitha is all professional. “Mrs. Yakimoto, this is Tabitha Milton. You left me a message?”

“Yes, I wanted to know about Roseanne Sullivan.”

“Oh, right, she’s our new hire. I wrote up a letter…” Tabitha is doing her Big C frazzled impression.

“Yes, is she going to make $38,000?”

“Yes, and probably a bonus that she doesn’t know about.” Wow, we never discussed that, what an actress!

“Really? Do you know Eve Vitali?”

“I know of her, but she works at a different magazine. I think she’s a writer, too.” Tabitha will be preparing her Oscar speech after this.

“They’re so young, how did they get these great jobs?” Good question.

“Just talented I guess. Is that all your questions?”

“Yes, thank you.” Mrs. Yakimoto is as impressed with us as I am. We all hang up. I call Tabitha right back. She sees my number and answers on the first ring.

“You owe me so big.”

“Tabitha that was great. I’ll buy you a drink tonight—ten drinks, whatever. I’ll never stop repaying you.”

“True enough,” says Tabitha. “But hopefully there will be men buying me drinks, thank you.”

“There will be. You are the coolest. I am gushing.”

“Now let’s hope she gives you the damn apartment.”

“She has to. She just has to.”

“Okay, I’m going to leave you alone with your emotions. Come to my place after work and we’ll head downtown.”

“Okay! Um…”

“Speak!”

“Roseanne?”

“Whatever. She can come, I guess. Just tell her to go easy on the perfume or better yet, change it.”

This means Tabitha is warming up to Roseanne. It’s only a matter of time.

Roseanne is just as excited about the conversation. I don’t think she can quite believe that Tabitha would do that or that Tabitha wants her to come out tonight (so, I exaggerated a little, I’m giddy).

I call Mrs. Yakimoto before I leave for the day. She tells me that her conversation went well with Roseanne’s future employer, but she still hasn’t made a decision. She is going away for the weekend with her family and she will let me know on Monday if we can have the apartment. Apparently it is down to one other guy and us.

“Well, Mrs. Yakimoto, I hope you make the right choice. We really hope to get the apartment.”

“Believe me, I know. You are definitely persistent.”

“Thanks,” I say, not sure if it’s really a compliment, “and have a great weekend.”



The bar we go to is, of course, dark and trendy. Tabitha and Roseanne seem to have resigned themselves to each other a little more. Baby steps, that’s really all I ask. Roseanne was super gracious and Tabitha waved it off with a hand, like an old pro who commits fraud all the time.

Tabitha situated us in the perfect spot, as usual, on low couches in the back, very close to the VIP room. She sits there in her new outfit and puffs away on her Dunhills. She always winds up getting a light from men at the bar. She dismissively thanks them and continues being aloof and attractive. I am wearing one of Tabitha’s sweaters over the black pants I wore to work. Roseanne, who notes daily how she is becoming more and more of a New Yorker, has put on some sexy black dress that I’ve never seen. She’s going minimalist on the makeup today (honestly she doesn’t need all the foundation) and she looks good—starstruck, but good.

I bum one of Tabitha’s cigarettes and Roseanne shakes her head. Hey, I’m a social smoker and it looks so cool.

“Can we go back there?” says Roseanne, motioning to the VIP room. Tabitha and I shrug at each other.

“We have to assess the situation.” Translation: a few more drinks before we try to schmooze the bouncer.

“Interesting,” says Tabitha, looking over my head, “but don’t look now.”

“Who?” I say as Roseanne whips her head around, irking Tabitha incredibly. I cringe.

“One of the fashion show designers. We profiled him. He’s French, Jaques something. Shit.” Tabitha hates when she can’t remember these important factoids.

He walks by, and it’s classic Tabitha. She exhales a puff just as Jaques something or other passes. It goes right in his face. He looks down at Tabitha, who smiles up at him coquettishly and shrugs. Then, he’s off to the VIP room.

“Wow!” Roseanne says, and Tabitha just smiles. The next few minutes are sort of a waiting game. There is no sense talking to Tabitha because she knows that soon she will have the prize.

Sure enough, someone brings us a round of drinks and tells us we have an invite to the VIP room. Total class, I think. It’s major points with Tabitha and me if a guy who is interested in one of us gets the other a drink for the hell of it.

“Well, should we go back?” Roseanne is all anxious to get the fun under way.

“Not yet.” I smile at Tabitha. She’s sweating the Frenchman out. She drinks slower than the rest of us. We tap our nails waiting for her. She makes us get up and hit the bathroom where she reapplies makeup for what seems like forever. Finally our entrance. Tabitha casually gestures to the Frenchman and the super-slick bouncer lets us in.

I scout the place. The only celebs are the Frenchman and some guy who looks recognizable from an independent flick or two. The rest are suits, probably industry people, and their nondescript model girlfriends. Among all the skin and bones that call themselves women, Tabitha stands out. She has mastered the art of getting attention. We go up to the bar and order our drinks. Tabitha keeps her back to Jaques the whole time. He makes his way over to us. I think it might be nice to score this exchange with some music and sell it to the Discovery Channel.

“Is dees your fwend?” he asks me, because I am the only one looking at him. I nod. He screams over the music. “Tell your fwend I like zees eyes.”

“He likes your eyes,” I say to Tabitha.

“No, no, no, no.” He shakes his hands at me. Then he makes a circular motion with his arms. “Dee size, dee size.”

I don’t translate. Jaques turns to go back to his table, where he is sitting with other artsy French types. Tabitha smiles and follows him. Roseanne looks at me, confused. It’s the last we see of Tabitha for a while although we keep giving her “you go, girl” looks whenever we can catch her eye.

Roseanne starts talking to some long-haired guy who is a guitarist on tour with some woman who has just released a single. He says her name, but neither one of us has ever heard of her. He points over at an attractive Asian woman.

“Oh, yeah, I saw her picture in the Virgin Megastore.” Roseanne is all over knowing this obscure person.

“She spends a lot of time in Virgin.” I tell this guy whose name is Q (hey, he’s a musician).

“Yeah, it’s a cool waste of time. Shit, the rest of my band is leaving. Gotta run, too.” He shakes my hand and winks at Roseanne. When he’s gone Rosie looks pissed.

“He was so cute, I wish he asked for my number. And you? I can’t believe you told him all I do is hang out in Virgin. He is lost forever.”

“Can you really take a guy named Q seriously?” I say.

“Yes.” She’s miffed. She usually doesn’t go for these long-haired types. I look over at Tabitha who is smiling drunkenly as Jaques strokes her hair and whispers in her ear. I also see the Asian singer that Q (the horror!) works for.

“If you are that into him, why don’t you just give that woman your number?”

“You don’t think that would be—” she searches for a word “—too much?”

“No.”

“What should I say?”

“Here’s my number. Give it to your guitarist. Tell him to call me. I think your new single is great.”

“You always know the perfect thing to say.” She kisses me. I feel like Tabitha. She scribbles her number and bounds off, leaving me to stand with my proverbial dork in my hand, sort of wishing at least the bartender would ask me for my number, so I could refuse. He doesn’t. I can no longer feel my nose. Tabitha comes to my side.

“Bored?”

“A little.” She pulls out the car voucher.

“Not too many more of these. You’ll have to start taking cabs once you move to the city. Drunk?”

“Completely. How is Jaques?”

“Incohesive,” she says, but I know what she means.

“It’s kind of hard to hear anyway with all this Portishead playing.”

“Guess what? You have a ticket to the Fashion Awards after party. Well, we both do, but I also have an October hookup.”

“Awesome.” I hug her like she just won the peace prize.

“You know, Eve, I was so impressed with your little scheme today. Fabulous! You guys are definitely going to get the apartment.” We hug again, boozy floozies.

“It will be great, really we’ll have so much fun.” She nods almost tearfully. All this emotion makes perfect sense after six Kettel One and grapefruits. Roseanne comes back over to us and I swear that she and Tabitha might hug, but I’m just drunk and it doesn’t happen.



“So what are you wearing to the Fashion Awards?” Tabitha calls me first thing Monday morning. I am just about to call Mrs. Yakimoto.

“Tabitha, c’mon, didn’t we clear this outfit up last week?” She sighs.

“Yes, but I had trouble sleeping last night and I thought it over. I have a dress for you. It’s a BCBG, very stretchy, so it should fit you.” Not be too big, she means. “We have tix to the post party.” She’s been saying this for days.

“Are we going to hang out with a bunch of production assistants and talent people?”

“Well, aren’t you Ms. Savvy about these glam events. This is the Talent party. Jaques would never have me mixing with the techies. This dress is much better for this kind of event.”

“All right, I’ll borrow it.” End of conversation.

“Hi, Eve,” says Mrs. Yakimoto, not sounding very enthusiastic when I finally reach her.

“Did you have a nice weekend?”

“Yes, look Eve, I don’t think we can give you apartment.”

I am crushed, I have never wanted anything more than this apartment.

“Why not?”

“Well, I spoke to my husband and we really didn’t want to rent it to two people. What if you get into a fight? Who pays the rent?”

“Mrs. Yakimoto.” I take a deep breath. “Roseanne and I have lived together for almost four years. We are very good friends and we never fight, but if we did fight we would resolve it very quickly and not let it ruin our time in the apartment. We wouldn’t move out. Do you want me to call Mr. Yakimoto?”

“No. No. Eve, you seem very nice and I wanted to give it to you, but my husband thinks I will regret it.”

“You won’t, Mrs. Yakimoto, believe me, you won’t.” Slowly, I think I will lose every shred of dignity I possess solely to get an apartment that I have yet to see. “I think the fact that I haven’t even seen the apartment and I am fighting this hard based on what Roseanne says is a testament to how much I trust her.” Mrs. Yakimoto doesn’t say anything for a while. It’s creepy. Finally, I can no longer stand it.

“C’mon, Mrs. Yakimoto, don’t let Mr. Yakimoto tell you what to do. You’re the one that holds the family together. I know you are sick of this apartment thing. Has Mr. Yakimoto handled any of it? No, it’s been all you. So, c’mon, Mrs. Yakimoto, trust your instinct. Let us have the apartment.”

“Well,” she breathes again, “my kids would be happy.”

“They know—” I am triumphant! “—they know.”

“Oh, I guess.”

“Really?” I can’t believe it. Yakimoto might be toying with me.

“Why not?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Yakimoto, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Just don’t make me regret it.”

I want to do a little dance, but at the same time, I’m in shock. I never thought we would find an apartment this quick. I can’t believe it. I call Roseanne, who is in the middle of an elaborate calisthenics routine, and she screams when I tell her. I wish I were away from this office, so I could celebrate. I still haven’t seen the apartment myself and I certainly hope I won’t regret it.

Thursday, Tabitha and I are putting our dresses (well, Tabitha’s dresses) on in the bathroom stalls on my floor. (She didn’t want the Big C to see her before the event.) I had been trying to hide my hands from Tabitha all day, but she finally saw them and had a hissy fit at my chipped nail polish. She ran right downstairs and over to the Duane Reade and bought nail polish remover.

She’s starting to calm down now, but I’m still reluctant to complain about anything. Putting stockings on in a stall has to be the most difficult thing ever. I suffer in silence. I have no idea how the dress Tabitha gave me ever fit her. It feels painted on. “Tabitha, I don’t know about this.”

“Let me see.” I step out of the bathroom, sort of smiling at the other women who are there for a reason. I hear a couple say “Wow.” Tabitha opens her door a crack and peeks out.

“Looks pretty good. Except lose the bra.”

“I don’t want droopy booby.”

“Eve, just take it off. You’ve got good boobs. Pull it down a little to show them off.” I do as she says and stare at myself in the mirror, clutching my breasts. I’m not so sure about this.

Tabitha fully emerges from her stall. She is wearing some shiny gray dress that’s almost sheer. She puts her hair up and reapplies her makeup. I compare our reflections in the mirror. Tabitha may be a lot bigger but she fills her space up well, while I think I’m sort of grasping for a “look.”

“You look fab, you’re really doing it, Mommy,” Tabitha says catching my eye in the mirror. She turns toward me her lip pencil poised. “I just want to redefine. Your lips are really your best attribute, Eve—well your lips and those perky boobs. We should go.”

I bounce all the way down 7th Avenue.

The Fashion Awards are kind of a snooze. I mean it’s cool to hobnob, but when there is no alcohol involved and the dialogue is this poor, it’s kind of a letdown. The nice thing is wherever I look there’s celebrities, but you really can’t want to interact with them without seeming like the biggest star-struck loser. It’s only fun to look at them for so long.

Being a seat filler is solely for the purpose of making an event appear to the viewing audience as if it is the most populated happening in history. Most of these award shows are attended by industry people, and if they manage to lure celebrities, the celebrities only want to stay for a little while. They are kind of like us, they just want to get to the party.

I know I get on TV a couple of times. That will make my mom happy.

The party is at some club I’ve never heard of. My presence doesn’t stop Jaques and Tabitha from being overly affectionate with each other. Just as I was afraid of, this party is more for production people. There are some low-level celebs and models, but no one to really freak out about. I am here to keep Tabitha company while Jaques schmoozes with the producers to insure that he will be styling the awards next year. We have the bartender make us something extra special, which turns out to be Absolut Currant and cranberry juice. We have three. Suddenly Tabitha starts quasi-hyperventilating. In fact (and she would hate for me to point this out), she looks a lot like Roseanne did at the fateful brunch.

“What? What? What?” I say, while motioning to the bartender for more.

“It’s him, it’s him.” I look around. Who could it be? “It’s Kevin. C’mon.” She pulls me with her, practically spilling my new drink. It’s Kevin, the stylist whose book is her bible.

We hover close to Kevin, who is talking to some TV actress. It’s hard for him to ignore us because Tabitha is breathing down his neck. He smiles at us.

“Hi,” says Tabitha—whom I have never seen like this—“I think you are great. I love your book. You are truly an artist. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Tabitha.”

Kevin extends his hand, very humbly. “I’m Kevin.” Wow! Then, he turns to me and smiles warmly. He takes my hand.

“Eve,” I say, wishing Kevin could be my best friend.

“Nice eyebrows.”

“Thanks,” I say, but not being enough of a fan to gush I feel kind of stupid. Tabitha drags me away, although I know it’s difficult for her to remain calm.

“Isn’t he amazing? So nice. Introducing himself like we didn’t know who he is.” We sigh and have another drink to celebrate the glowing goodness of Kevin.

Eventually, Tabitha has to hang out with Jaques and I wind up talking to some production assistant who tells me that his name is Moose. Moose talks to me as if I am about five. Even though he has opted to wear sunglasses inside, I can still pretty much tell that he is staring at my breasts.

“Have you ever been here before, Eve?”

“No, have you?”

“No.” He enunciates every word like he’s my preschool teacher. Maybe he’s really stoned or just used to talking to four-year-olds. He is so repulsive, but I’m bored and I’m kind of enjoying just toying with him. I guess correctly that he is from Staten Island and I think he thinks I want to go home with him.

“You know it smells there. Do you know where the bathroom is?”

“No,” he tells my chest. “I said I was never here before. Why would I lie to you?”

“I don’t know,” I say, adding, “Moose.” And then he just stares, blatantly stares, at my boobs. I look around for Tab, but she is cuddling with Jaques. She is to blame for my lack of bra. But wait! No matter what, I don’t deserve this. Why should I be gawked at or talked to like a child, by the likes of Moose? I’ve had enough.

“So, Moose—” I crouch down to crotch level and speak to his fly “—are you having fun?” I’m not quite sure Moose gets it. He would most likely swear I was seconds away from giving him a blow job. Tabitha must think the same, because she and Jaques rush over and decide to send me home in Jaques’s car. They are going to go to some party for a designer that will certainly be more star-studded. I protest that I want to go too, but Tabitha will not listen. I wave goodbye to the dickhead Moose, who is still trying to guess my tits’ address. I only hope Kevin didn’t see my display.

At work the next day, I don’t hear from Tabitha until she calls at noon (when she finally rolls in) thinking I am going to be a wreck, but, it is she who is moving slowly. I ask her about the rest of her night. Despite the presence of several “fabulous celebs,” she is really most excited about the Kevin meeting and his kind compliments. Of course, she has to take some credit.

“Remember when I told you how to shape them better?”

“Yes, Tabitha, I owe it all to you.”

“Well, it really all goes back to Kevin. I mean, I got the idea out of his book. But, you know I can’t help feeling a bit envious. First you meet Prescott and now this. Two of my personal heroes you manage to charm.”

“I didn’t exactly meet Prescott, or charm anyone. It’s really thanks to you that I know who both of them are.”

“Well, I guess you’re right.” Everyone feels a lot better now.

I was so undrunk last night that I had a long talk with Roseanne when I got home. She had waited up for me after her short-lived disaster date. Apparently her breasts also were in the spotlight. She had just sat down for a nice dinner with Brad (okay so the tipoff should have been when he took her to a midtown tourist trap) when, feeling a little hot, she slipped off her blazer.

“Wow,” he gasped. “What a set of jugs.” Needless to say, Roseanne considered getting a doggie bag for her dinner and bailing, but she stuck it out through Brad’s leerings and boring descriptions of his ad accounts, specifically a tartar control toothpaste and how they made the tartar look especially gross.

“Yuck,” I said.

“Worse, when I got back, I wanted to go for a run, but your mom was up and she forced me to discuss portobello mushrooms.”

“How bizarre. Poor you.”

Just as we were falling asleep, we realized that we only had four more days until we moved in and became true New Yorkers.



I have to deposit the check Roseanne gave me. She handed it over a little nervously; apparently she’s down to her last three hundred dollars after I cash it. We have to send in our first month’s rent and deposit. Somewhere along the line Mrs. Yakimoto raised the rent to fifteen hundred and in all the excitement, I agreed. I am keeping this from Roseanne until she gets a job. Not fun.

I head to the bank at lunch and hand the bank teller my money and the deposit slip. She’s a really attractive British woman. I wonder why she’s working in a bank.

“Eve Vitali?” She looks up at me, questioning.

“Yes, what?”

“That’s your name.” I nod. She smiles at me, a perfect tartar-controlled smile.

“Well, that’s a grand name—a telly name. I’m charmed by it. Absolutely.” Wow! I love British people.

I walk back to the office. It’s cool out, really perfect weather, and I just feel like everything is working. Ever have one of those days when you just feel perfect, unsinkable, nothing can touch you, because it’s just going to roll right off? It’s all going to fall into place finally. The apartment, my job, everything. I wanted the apartment and I got it. Didn’t Kevin say I had nice eyebrows? I feel like I’m floating. A telly name? Imagine that. Thanks, Mom and Dad, you’ve made me destined for greatness, just by choosing the perfect name.

When I get back to the office Lorraine looks at me strangely. I am so cheery, so far from being fake. I am a strong woman, I can do anything.

“Um.” She looks so uncomfortable. “Lacey Matthews got the job.”

“How wonderful,” I say. Not great, wonderful, and I mean it. We walk together to my desk. Good for Lacey Matthews. Nice name, not a telly name, but I wish her all the success in the world.

Lorraine still seems uncomfortable, she should just relax. She’s awkwardly holding a stack of napkins. “Herb took her out to lunch.” Lorraine takes my arm firmly before I get to my desk. “She brought Max in. You know, the dog?” She looks down and I follow her gaze.

For the rest of the afternoon, me, my perfectly shaped eyebrows and telly name mop up the floor and try to ignore the disinfectant smell mixed with the dog piss.




November


I race up the stairs the moment we get the key, early Saturday morning. Roseanne follows behind me (she can usually run faster, but she is giving me the lead). We both kind of take a deep breath before I open the door.

I was expecting a palace, but what I find is just a really nice average-size apartment. Anywhere else it would be worth less than half of what we are paying. Here in New York, it’s a place I want to call home. The floors are amazing. Roseanne, seeing that I don’t hate it, starts pointing out more features. I follow behind her, looking at the windows, the bathtub, the brand-new stove.

“So?” she asks.

“Wow!” I grab her arm. “Good job.”

“Dusty,” says my mother, before sneezing.

“Where should I put these?” asks Phil, one of my dad’s buddies, holding up a box of my clothes. My dad says nothing.

The room I get is pretty big. It’s a washed-out dingy white, which eventually we will have to change. The closets are huge. Rosie’s cranny, as we call it henceforth, is a smaller alcove next to the kitchen with a sleep loft above the kitchen. In the alcove, she has space for a desk and maybe a bureau. It’s actually kind of cute.

I’m really happy that my dad’s friend Phil is helping out, even though we see a lot of his butt crack. My dad is still on hyperspeed, he’s rushing up the stairs with everything, but thanks to Phil, there is a lot less for him to take. My mom cleans the whole time. She brought her super-duper vacuum and vows to buy us a small vacuum so we can be “on the ball about cleaning.” The thing about my mom is she keeps giving me these hugs and saying “my little girl” like I’m getting married or something. My father stands on the fire escape, which we will henceforth call either the balcony or the veranda, and smokes.

The whole process takes about two and a half hours. Phil goes to the store and gets a bunch of sandwiches and some beer. Then, we sit around on the hardwood floors eating. I look at my dad to make sure he is not going to have a heart attack, but he is happily gnawing away at his pastrami and swiss with mayo.

“So,” asks my mother as she leaves, “are you coming home for Thanksgiving?”

“Mom! I’m not living in Alaska! Of course I will, it’s only an hour train ride.”

“Okay, honey! Remember you can always come home.”

“Okay, Ma, okay.” As my father leads her out, I hear her start questioning whether or not the lock is safe.

Rosie and I work steadily for a while. We put up shelves, hang a few posters, unpack clothes, arrange the bathroom. By the time we get the apartment closer to the way we want and make a list of the things we need, it’s almost nine o’clock.

We stand out on the veranda and look out over 7th Avenue. If we turn to the right we can see all the way up to the lights of Times Square. “Tired?”

“A little—” Rosie leans against the stairs “—but I wouldn’t mind a drink.”

We don’t even bother to shower. We (I) invite Tabitha, who agrees to go out with us, but informs us that she is “not in the mood to excess.” Adrian declines because he has a date.

Tabitha arrives with puffy eyes. She refuses to talk about Jaques. He left for Paris a few days ago. She surveys the place. “Not bad. This is a loft.”

“Thanks, we knew that,” Rosie says, getting up to finish putting on her makeup. You’d think in their times of need they could be nice to each other. Wrong.

“How do you plan to fill your days?” Tabitha yells toward the closed door.

“C’mon on, now,” I plead with her. Tabitha looks like she might start crying again at any minute. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I’ve got a tennis lesson.”

“Tennis?”

“Yeah, I need something to fill my time away from Jaques. The circles I want to run in are full of people who play tennis. I would encourage you to look into it.”

“No thanks, I like to be sedentary.”

“Even with Ms. Jazzercise, here?” Ms. Jazzercise herself opens the door to the bathroom and emerges with an obvious foundation line. There is no way she needs to wear this much makeup. Maybe I should buy the Kevin book and leave it open to a page that talks about minimalism. I look at Tabitha and shake my head.

“Okay let’s go, ladies.” I clap my hands together like my mother.

Tabitha wants us to go to this lounge all the way over by the river.

“C’mon, there’s so many other places. Both of us are a little weary. We just want to sit and drink and not have to worry about anyone looking at our breasts.” Roseanne nods in agreement, probably too scared to say anything.

“Why not?” Tabitha is confused.

“Tabitha, at least think of Jaques. We don’t want a meat market.”

We wind up at Peter McManus. It’s an Irish pub with a kickass jukebox. This is the type of place that I would think Tabitha would hate, but she gets up and puts at least two dollars in the jukebox. She keeps telling us we are going to love her selections. When each song ends we pause and look to Tabitha for a word on whether the new one is one of her choices. It’s always a good one, but never one of the ones she picked.

We drink a lot while waiting for her songs to come on.

While Rosie is in the bathroom, I ask Tabitha if she’ll call Johann, the German banker.

“Eve, what about my feelings? I’m just getting over one European.”

“Tabitha, you don’t have to date him, just give him a call.”

“You never tire of testing me. Oh, God.” She gets up. “Shit, shit. This is it. My song.” I leap up, too. It’s “Suspicious Minds” by the King himself. We start dancing and dancing and when Roseanne comes out she starts dancing, too. Some of the regulars look over at us and laugh. They sing along, but it’s just kind of us, fucking up the words, making up dance moves. It’s a good drunk.




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