Up & Out Page 6

  Finally, Lauryn checks her cell and there is a message from Beth saying she isn’t feeling well and can’t make it. It was calculated. What the hell was her problem?

  “I can’t believe she would do this. How could she? Now we have to come back,” Kathy says, on the verge of tears. Lauryn and I exchange looks. We are not doing another bridesmaid day. We have to draw the line.

  “Look, Kathy. She can’t help being sick.” What she could help was playing cell phone games. “She said we should just pick whatever dress we like and she’ll go with it.”

  “But then, we’ll never know how it looks on her.” Kathy is usually so confident in her style and decisions, but when it comes to the wedding, she is a wreck. I can’t take it anymore. I have tried on every dress in every color. I’ve had more seamstresses see my tits than I choose to remember. I am not leaving this store without a decision. I will boycott the wedding if necessary.

  “Listen, Kathy.” I decide to be calm. “We know how all these dresses look on her in various colors and styles. I really don’t think we should wait any longer.”

  “Yeah,” Lauryn says. She’s going to work with me. “We don’t want to get to a point where we wait too long and the dresses can’t be ready for the wedding.”

  Nice job, Lauryn. She’s playing on Kathy’s constant fears.

  “Exactly,” I say. “Let’s just get this one.”

  Kathy finally agrees to get the red dress with spaghetti straps and a low-back empire waist. I know Beth was against thin straps, but that is her problem. She likes red the best, so she will have to deal. Besides, Kathy’s sister, Dina, was going to pick out thin jackets or wraps for us to wear in the church.

  “Crisis averted,” Lauryn whispers while Kathy harasses the salespeople about when the dresses will be done.

  “I just couldn’t, Lauryn,” I say. “I could not.”

  “I know. Just think, we’ll only have to come here a minimum of two more times for fittings.”

  “Yippee.”

  I have no idea how I’m going to get through the rest of this wedding planning, let alone the wedding itself.

  Since we are already in Queens, I figure it’s only natural to take advantage of some of the indigenous cuisine.

  “Are either of you guys in the mood for some Greek in Astoria or Indian in Jackson Heights?”

  “Actually, I’m supposed to be having dinner with Ron tonight. I promised I’d make him lasagna.” As if she didn’t see him every night. I think about trying to rally her with a “girls’ night,” but I’m sure she is anxious to gush to him about the color of the dresses. I doubt Ron can really keep up her level of enthusiasm.

  “How about you, Lauryn?”

  But, no, Lauryn has decided to spend her Sunday night at Barnes & Noble to do some research on her bird stuff. Our cable is out, so I’m destined for a night of reheated leftovers and lying on the couch with Esme scripts.

  At home, I’m lonely. I realize we never got to finish our conversation on the train. Back in the day, we used to spend Sundays together rehashing the weekend, no matter what we did. Sometimes we met up late Saturday night and got dirty sandwiches from a bodega and crashed at whoever’s house.

  None of us cared about work. None of us had serious issues. There was no drama. We didn’t hope to get each other’s voice mail. We wanted to talk. We didn’t even have cell phones.

  Tomorrow, I have to go in and deal with everyone else’s shit about the takeover. Who knows if I’ll even have a job? I can’t call Tommy. I’m scared to call Seamus. I laid enough shit on him last night and then ran out with no shoes on. He must think I’m the biggest freak. Fuck!

  I am going to bed early. That’s how I’ll forget it all. I remember the vibrator the girls bought me as a joke when I moved out of Tommy’s place. It’s nine-thirty. The bookstore closes at eleven. No, I shouldn’t. I’ll feel even lonelier. If only the X-Files was still on. I am going to call Tommy. Damn it, I’m not even drunk. There is no good reason to call him. It would be an obvious booty call. I pick up the phone. I dial the first few numbers. I can’t. I won’t.

  But we used to have such great Sundays. We were both closet X-Files geeks. We had a routine: sex, bong hits and X-Files. We would watch the new episode and then one classic from Tommy’s DVD collection. Afterward, I’d make us ice-cream sundaes. That was the perfect Sunday. Now I’m reduced to the hot-pink wonder wand and leftover pasta. With any luck, I’ll find some NyQuil in the bathroom cabinet. I suck.

  Whenever I feel this low, I comfort myself with something Tommy said on one of those nights. It’s become bittersweet, but at this point, I’ll try anything. We watched the X-Files— the one about the androgynous guy who is a sexual dynamo. He seems to be part of a religious cult, but then it turns out they’re all aliens and they leave the planet. Oh, the X-Files had some knockout writing in the early days. Anyway, in my special little memory we were eating our ice cream.

  “So,” I said. “What if I were from another planet?”

  “You are from another planet.”

  “No, Tommy, seriously.”

  “Oh, are you being serious now?” He leaned over and kissed me with cold lips. I didn’t budge. “Okay, what if you were from another planet?”

  “What would you do?” He shrugged. “Come on, you feed me weed—this is what you get!”

  “Okay, okay. I’d be like, ‘Cool, my girlfriend’s an alien.’ What could I do?”

  “What if I wanted you to come back with me?”

  “To your planet?” I nodded. “Is it safe for Earthlings?”

  “If you’re with me.”

  “If you really were an alien and you really wanted me to come back to your planet, then I would. That’s good enough for me.”

  “Even if there was no ice cream?” He shrugged. “Or no X-Files? Or no weed?”

  “There would be you. I’d think, ‘This girl is cool, top-notch. She’s an alien, but as long as I can survive on the planet and she’s not already betrothed to a Klingon, what more do I need?’”

  That was a very good night. And even though we aren’t together anymore, it’s nice to think that at some point in my life there was someone who would have come to my planet, just for me. I know I’m getting past my prime. I have blown my shot with Tommy…and now Seamus.

  I get up and go to my bureau. I dig deep into the bottom of my underwear drawer and find it. It practically glows. I turn it on and shut my bedroom door. I pray Lauryn stays at the bookstore until eleven. I’ll hear her come in. I hope.

  I just want to feel something good. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  5

  Shitloads of Money

  I get to work at nine-thirty. There are signs all over our floor redirecting us to the theater. Didn’t we already go through this Friday afternoon?

  We aren’t allowed into the theater, but in the lobby of the theater they have set up breakfast stations. Now, it isn’t the usual cold bagels and quasi-molding cream cheese. Somebody actually went to some trouble. There are French pastries, giant doughnuts and bagels in all flavors. Wait a minute! Do I see lox? I do. If they are trying to buy me, it’s beginning to work. The only thing that could have sealed the deal was an omelet station. And maybe some bacon or French toast. Okay, it could always be better, but this was a start.

  I look around for my teammates or anyone I know, but seeing mostly the type of people that came in early (and therefore not the people who work on creating the programs), I go to work on fixing the most amazing bagel with lox and cream cheese ever. There are even fresh lemons to squeeze on top. I smell decent coffee brewing. Of course, I have to get a doughnut. How will I balance it all?

  “Rebecca.” It is Janice and John, making their way to me. I have the coffee, but I will have to sacrifice the doughnut. I hope there will be pastries left over when we get out of whatever harm is going to befall us.

  “Hi, guys.” I try to avoid looking at the quiche that someone is just putting out. “You g
uys are here early.”

  “We decided it would be a good idea to get in early today,” John says.

  “Yeah, funny how we both came to that conclusion and ran into each other on the subway,” Janice says, obviously correcting him. If only they keep talking, I’ll be able to eat my way around the table. If the powers that be are going to do a mass termination, at least they could offer Tupperware.

  “Well, it was smart you guys got here early—you know what they say about banker’s hours.” If anyone dares to leave at six, we accuse them of keeping banker’s hours, a set day that has an end. I take a quick, desperate bite of my bagel masterpiece.

  “How can you even eat at a time like this?” Janice asks. I thought she knew me better by now. The truth is I can always eat. Luckily, John comes to my defense, so I get another bite in.

  “We might as well take advantage while we can, hon.” I pretend not to hear the “hon” and bite the overhanging salmon off my bagel.

  “I’m thinking Zabar’s,” I say to John, who is getting the evil eye from Janice for the term of endearment. “Have either of you seen Jen?”

  They shake their heads. At that very moment the doors to the theater open. John curses.

  “Now I won’t have time for breakfast.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him stare at the other half of my bagel. Now, I’ll do a lot for my team, but there is no way I am sharing smoked salmon of this quality—Zabar’s smoked salmon—with him. To be sure, I lick a little of the cream cheese off that half.

  “We can save you a seat, John,” Janice says. I nod.

  “Do you guys want anything?” Janice, the iron-willed, shakes her head.

  “Maybe just one of those baby brioches,” I say. “If you don’t mind.”

  We herd in with the rest. The big screen is down. Now we are going to be watching movies?

  “How long do you think this is going to last?” Janice asks.

  “I don’t know, but I have deadlines.” A graphic for Indiana Mutual came up on the screen. John returns and hands me a big brioche.

  “Sorry, Rebecca, this is all they had left.” He winks at me. There is the usual sound of feedback. This time, instead of being as horrified as we usually are, everyone gets quiet. A middle-aged man with a beer belly and a nice suit is standing at the podium.

  “Hello, everyone, my name is Cobb Michaels.” Did he say Cobb? “I am the president of Indiana Mutual Worldwide. We are so excited about this partnership and thought it would be great if we all took a day to get to know the company we’re all going to be working for.” A day? A whole day? I look at Janice and John and they shrug.

  For the next three hours, we watch tape after poorly produced tape of propaganda about the diverse and profitable ventures that fall under the Indiana Mutual umbrella. Their motto is something dumb, as in, “Saving for you.” I can’t believe this is really necessary.

  “The graphics are horrible,” Janice whispers.

  “Quiet, infidels,” John says, smiling. I swear they are going to kiss. I’m not sure if I have more of a problem with being brainwashed or being seated next to the top-secret-but-not-really couple.

  Various heads of various departments come up to the podium to introduce themselves and discuss how much they love working for Indiana Mutual. I wonder if they realize that Explore! is an entertainment company. That we wear jeans and read Entertainment Weekly. I wonder whose awful idea this is.

  “Hey, guys,” I hear someone whisper behind us. Don Beckford. “I got pulled out of a production shoot for this.”

  Now there is another snooze at the podium—a woman. She is talking about what a great fit our brands will be.

  “We’ve got a really fantastic afternoon planned for you after lunch, and to give you a little idea, take a look at this. I think you’ll recognize the client.”

  The lights go dim. It starts as a commercial in a bank. When the bank teller calls “next” she has trouble seeing the customer. Then we all see the customer and my mouth drops open. I turn to look at Janice and John and they are also in shock. My eyes must be deceiving me, I can’t, I just can’t believe this is happening. The red onions I lovingly placed on my bagel start to repeat on me. It is Esme, with a different voice, poorly animated, asking a teller to open a banking account. It is a strange thirty seconds. During the spot, I think time is standing still, and afterward I can’t believe it has really happened. My only proof of what I might have seen is the way Janice reaches out her hand to squeeze my shoulder. My tongue feels thick. My Esme is being prostituted to promote a bank. What?

  “They must have stolen the animation test we did when she goes to get ice cream.” I appreciate that Janice has tried to crack how they did it. It is very Esme of her to play detective. But my real concern is why? And how often will it happen?

  “They’ve got an awful voice-over, that’s for sure,” John says. “Rebecca, are you all right?”

  I don’t know what to say. The lights come up and the media guru who benignly ruined my creation comes back to the podium.

  “Okay, everyone, enjoy your lunch, but save your energy, we’ve got a big afternoon ahead of us.” That is our cue to leave the theater. I can’t move.

  “Rebecca, come on, let’s get lunch,” John says.

  “Hey, Becky, great job—way to get in with the big guys.” Don Beckford again. I finally speak.

  “If you think I had anything to do with that travesty, you’re mistaken.” I don’t mean to sound so snotty. It is one thing to lose a little control of Esme, but this is beyond that. She is hawking savings accounts. Is nothing sacred?

  “Why not?” Don Beckford asks. “I can only dream they’d like the Gopher that much.”

  “I wish they would, too. Let the Gopher open a bank account.” I say this really loud, I am sure of it, but I am pissed. I don’t want Esme to be overexposed. I don’t want people to make decisions about her without me.

  “Lunch, Rebecca, let’s get lunch,” Janice says, leading me out of the theater. “Calm down.”

  “How can I?”

  “It was just a mock-up, they would never air that.”

  “Maybe not that one, but how do you even think they got the animation?” I look at her and John.

  “We have no idea, but you need to relax.”

  Our lunch is a far cry from breakfast. It is all a sick joke. We get soggy sandwiches and an apple. I don’t say a word the entire time. I’m certain that Janice and John would have preferred to eat alone, but they are stuck with me.

  After lunch, I try to get up to my office, to check e-mail, voice mail and scream, but there are human resources reps at the doors. We are a captive audience. They say things that they’ve obviously been trained to say, like “This is a day of transitioning. It’s important to have this time.”

  Where the hell is Hackett? Where is Jen? We go back into the auditorium after being ushered to the bathrooms in shifts. The stage dims and then the lights come up and some guy is singing a song that sounds familiar. There are dancers.

  “What is this?” John asks.

  “It’s that song from the early seventies. I think it was a one-hit wonder,” the woman in front of us says. “I forget what it’s called. I think I’ve seen the guy selling memorabilia on QVC.”

  “Are we supposed to be impressed by this?” John asks. The guy onstage is a cheeseball. I doubt there is even a “Where Are They Now?” segment about him on VH1. I can’t believe it. I feel gassy from the soggy turkey sandwich.

  The rest of the afternoon is something I never want to think about again. It was like someone’s idea of a pep rally. It made no sense. We were expected to do call and response. There were people—cheerleaders—who came onstage and encouraged us to answer their cries of “Indy” with “MU.” They kept saying, “I can’t hear you!” You could tell they tried to get a real diverse group, but no one seemed to have any sense of rhythm. This was abundantly clear because they insisted on blasting a lame version of hip-hop.

  There were
some traitors who were getting into the call and response. I had to believe that it was all for show. I had to believe that they were so desperate to save their jobs that they would resort to screaming “MU!” like a cow whose udders were getting pulled too hard.

  For their enthusiasm, they received bank teller dolls or sparkly calculators that were hurled at them by the rhythmless dancers. Needless to say, no one threw anything back to my row. I had been duped. No response was my response.

  We got released at five-thirty. Again, banker’s hours. They encourage us to go home and think of all we can bring to the company. Balloons come down from the ceiling. I imagine how much money this day cost. I am going to be sick.

  On the way out of the theater, I notice they put the leftover breakfast pastries back in the lobby. There is something shiny over the top of some of them. I feel nauseous in the elevator up to my floor.

  Hackett’s office door is closed. I go back to my office but I come out every ten minutes to check on Hackett so I can give him a piece of my mind, despite the warnings I got from both Janice and John. It doesn’t take long to realize he is gone for the day.

  “People in his position lose out big when these things happen,” John says, suddenly a sage. Claire Wylini walked around the floor saying “hey, you” in her ditzy way, as if it was any other day and we hadn’t just been bought by a bank.

  I have no new e-mails, which is unheard of. I can understand the lack of business-related messages, but none of my friends has even bothered to send me a dumb jpeg or a chain. It was like I’d fallen off the face of the earth or got caught in a time warp. I have two voice mails, both from the brother-and-sister Sousa team. The first was from Beth.

  “Rebecca, call me. Sorry about yesterday. I just couldn’t take another day of bridesmaid torture. I know, I know I’m an awful friend. How pissed is Kathy?” I certainly wasn’t absolving her, not after the way she had been acting. It was between her and Kathy, but it sounded like she didn’t even have a good excuse. Of course it sucks, but it’s all part of the bridesmaid job, no one liked it, you just went along. I listen to the message from Tommy.