On the Verge Read online

  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.