On the Verge (11 page)

I vow to be happier at work. After all, is this not a dream place to be? Everyone keeps telling me that so I have to start believing them. I mean, as everyone also points out, I could be working in the service industry, making fries.

I smile at everyone in the elevator. They give me dirty looks; no one likes a good mood on Monday. I should respect that, but I will not be deflated. It’s Lacey Matthews’s first day. She’s waiting at my desk when I get in.

“Good morning, Eve. I don’t have a computer.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I called last week and they are going to try to bring it up today.”

Lacey leans closer and swallows in case I am not quite sure of how imperative this is. “But, I was hired to be a writer. In order for me to write, I need a computer.”

“Look, you over-aerobicized, dog-loving, talentless, nepotism-profiting floozy, I spent all last week cleaning up the smell of your dog’s piss. I had a lot more important things to do than to order your goddamn computer.”(Okay, I don’t say that, I’m just keeping you on your toes. How quickly you forget about my new positive attitude.)

“Okay, well, I’ll try to get it up here as soon as possible. They are just a little crazed right now.” I find it’s great to have a “they” to pass the buck to, no one ever investigates who the “they” are and what “their” story really is. It’s a benefit of being the middle man. It’s like when I worked in the drugstore all through high
school. People, especially the elderly, would think that whatever wasn’t sitting on the shelf was hiding out in “the back.” I was always pretending to check the magical back, but there was nothing but cleaning supplies and a big closet where we used to smoke pot. Sometimes, you just have to indulge people.

Lacey hands me a long list of supplies that I am to assume is equally as important to her ability to write. Apparently, she can only write with the most expensive pens in the catalog and only schedule with the hundred and fifty dollar calendar.

To be annoying and to waste Lacey’s valuable time, I send out an e-mail about anyone needing anything.

I immediately get about eighteen replies for Post-it notes. Adam responds,

I think Adam just may be my favorite person in the department. I also suspect he might be serious about thinking we have some kind of biblical destiny together, but I’ve been holding him at bay. It’s wrong to date people from work.

I have lunch with Tabitha and tell her about the rodent Lacey and the rat we might have in the apartment. I think she is about to offer me some very meaningful advice because she looks so contemplative as she chews her mesquite turkey wrap.

“Maybe I should move to Paris.” Forgetting about my own vermin problems momentarily, I spend the remainder of my lunch hour telling Tabitha about my own new attitude and how if she can make it here, she’ll make it anywhere.

“What’ll you have to look forward to in Paris except a bunch of snotty French people?” I have to act quickly if I want to talk some sense into her.

“Jaques is a snotty French person.” I have never seen her like this before.

“I can’t believe you are gonna let some man play you like this. Seriously, Tabitha, you are getting too wrapped up in Jaques. Didn’t you always tell me about your dream to live in New York, that you weren’t going to leave until you had made something of yourself? Until you had a mention in
Vanity Fair?
Come on now. Why the drama?”

“Because he hasn’t been returning my calls in a timely fashion. I wonder if he’s got another mademoiselle in Paris. I’ve been trying to find the file we had on him for that little story we did. We used some fucking freelancer and we don’t have any records. Damn.” It’s always easier to blame the random temp pool. Tabitha and I are perma-temps.

“Well, he is an artist.” I know this will get her.

“You know, you’re right. I shouldn’t be so selfish, his art was always more important. Better his art than some French floozy. I’ve just been so bored lately.”

“Tabitha, he left a week ago. I thought you had fun this weekend.”

“Fun in a base way. It didn’t push me along to my destined greatness. I can’t slip up and have too many lost weekends like that.”

“All weekends are lost, Tabitha, eventually.”

“I just need to do something fabulous soon. I should call Nicole.” Nicole is this absolutely horrid girl who works for some casting agency. She thinks Tabitha is a lot bigger deal at
NY By Night
than she really is. Even though Nicole has the worst personality ever, Tabitha tolerates her because she usually knows of even better parties than Tabitha.

I loathe Nicole, especially the way she gets calls on her cell phone in the middle of bars. She constantly talks about all her connections at Miramax and rich friends who are going to help her start her own film company. Tabitha buys it, too. I hate to think of Tabitha as holding on to anyone’s coattails, but she is. She thinks someday Nicole will be a power person and we’ll be able to milk her for something.

“Ooh,” she says, looking across The Nook. “I guess there are some reasons to stay in New York.” She’s referring to a dark-haired guy by the condiments, maybe a new intern. He’s really well dressed and really cute.

“He’s definitely decked out for an intern. Maybe that’s the secret.” I myself am wearing upscale Zara.

“Eve, that’s Robert King.” I shrug. “God, you’ve got to start reading the trades. Robert King is the guy they brought in to shake things up a bit to change the look of some of our magazines. He’s some kind of marketing guru.”

“What is he? Twelve?”

“No, probably thirty, making his mark young, if you will. A hint to us that we are approaching our prime and thus, close to being past it.”

“I am already way past my prime.”

“Oh, the carnage. Anyway, that Robert’s a cutie. He parties with the jet set. Dates models. Needs no sleep. The typical bio. But look at him, he’s having trouble with the catsup thingie. Who has trouble with that? Deep down you know he’s just a loser and here he is being ‘brought in’ to help our company, which is doing amazing.”

Whatever. I am just happy that Tabitha’s little talk has revitalized her. She intends to be one of the movers and shakers. She knows she can stay in New York now, because of the catsup thingie.

“Did you call Johann yet?”

“Yes, Ms. Broken Record, for your information, I did. I left a message. He was away from his desk. He might not call me back and if he does I’m only going to tell you once that I will
not
prostitute myself for your friend. Okay?”

“Fine. Just let me know what happens.”

“I will.”

“You know, Roseanne could be your friend, too. She is a lot nicer than Nicole.”

“That’s arbitrary, Nicole is more of a contact than a friend.”

“Whatever.”

“I’ve got to get back. I think the Big C is premenstrual.”

When I return from lunch, Lacey is at my desk once again. They still haven’t delivered her computer. “I am paralyzed without it! I am wasting the company’s money, by not having it. I am sitting there doing nothing.”

Welcome to my life. Doesn’t she have any phone calls to make? Should I suggest she look at some of the old issues? I try another approach. “Do you have a laptop?”

“Yes, of course, but I didn’t bring it. I didn’t know this was going to happen.”

“Well, I’m doing my best to get you the computer.” She looks at me like she doesn’t believe me. She is doing everything in her power to ruin my positive attitude.

“Well, I am going to go to lunch with Herb right now. Do you think it will be here when I get back?”

“That’s really not for me to say. We can only hope…and pray.” I smile. She shakes her head and goes off to her fabulous lunch.

I head down to the underbelly of Prescott Nelson with my list of supplies. Just below the lobby is a whole mess of rooms that no one but assistants seem to know about. There you will find the mailing room, the Express Mail guy, the messenger service, the supply room, the copy shop and the catering service. If I were to ever rise to the great heights at Prescott Nelson that Tabitha imagines for us, I think this knowledge would be a part of my success. Tabitha hates coming down here, but I am amazed that all of these people exist in even more thankless, yet tremendously more important jobs than I have.

It’s mostly guys down there, and they’re all so nice. I guess it’s because I’m nice to them, when so many people don’t even see them. It’s like a network, a secret society that I feel I could call on at any time. In my most bored moments (usually, just when I’ve messengered something) I imagine scenarios where the future of our magazine hinges on getting something mailed out, tracing a messengered package, or making thousands of copies with a five-minute turnaround. It is only my knowledge of the inner workings of Prescott Nelson that saves the day. A corporate superhero with my own league of justice. This is my aspiration.

Down in the supply room I hand my list over to Roger, the Caribbean guy with dreads who calls me “honey.” He gives me the few items he has, which are all the Post-its, some hanging folders, those giant desk calendars, three-ring binders, message books and some notebooks.

“You got all that, honey?” he asks, piling the stuff up in my hands. I reach up to steady the Post-its that are slipping off. “I could send a guy with a cart, this afternoon.”

“No, I’ll be fine, really. Actually, can I also get a pack of whatever pens you have around?” I want Lacey to have some form of writing utensil, so she doesn’t have to “waste the company’s money” anymore. I get a pack of the cheapest pens.

I walk slowly back to the elevators. I wish the elevator would just express it back to my floor, but of course, it stops at the lobby. A guy gets on. He smells good.

“Hey, whoa, need a hand with that?”

“No—” I peer over my supplies to his forehead “—I’m fine.”

Of course the elevator has to stop at every floor and no one gets in. “Does this happen a lot?” The good-smelling guy is trying to talk to me. If only I could see his face.

“Well, sometimes,” I say. He must be new. “Looks like we got the local.” Aggh, elevator humor. I can’t believe I’ve stooped so low.

“Yeah, right. Where can I get some Post-its?” A new temp. Has to be.

“You just go down to the supply room with your finance code and a list.” It’s my floor.

“Oh, here, let me help.” He gets out of the elevator, swipes his ID, and opens the door for me.

“Thanks.” That was really nice. I take a look at him as he is waiting to get on the elevator. It’s the first time I get a good look at him. We smile.

I opt not to call Tabitha and tell her that my sweet-smelling Good Samaritan was that Robert King guy, the catsup thingie incompetent. Not as big as Prescott or Kevin, but a marketing guru, nonetheless.

I have a message from my sister when I get to my desk.

“Hey, Eve. It’s Monica. I just talked to Mom. Why must that woman have so many issues? She places no value in anything we do. Could you call me please?” I delete her. My sister gives new meaning to the word drama.

I call my apartment and Roseanne is not there. I take it as a good sign. We haven’t figured out how to check our messages externally yet, so I have no clue to her whereabouts. If I wasn’t so bored, I wouldn’t be compelled to call my sister, but I am, so I do. At least this way, it’s on Prescott’s dime.

“Hello?” How does my sister manage to sound so frazzled in just one word?

“Hey, M.”

“Oh, my God. Is Mom losing her mind or what? Have you talked to her lately?”

“Yes, Monica, up until two days ago I lived with her.” It doesn’t occur to my sister to ask me anything about my move or my new apartment. She does tell me that my mom is a nervous wreck about my “unsafe” neighborhood. Then she launches into her own tirade about my mother not respecting her work at all. I start to absently play computer hangman, since conversations with
Monica usually only require sounds in the affirmative. Also, an occasional disgusted agreement like this…

“Can you believe them, Eve? Can you believe we hatched from such absolute weirdos?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Anyway, I’m in love.” (I don’t say, “again?”) “He is amazing, he’s a singer.”

“Not a student?”

“Eve, he’s forty-three.” It’s enough to make me give my poor hangman a leg.

“Isn’t that a little old?”

“Ageism is one of the most innocuous forms of discrimination.” My sister always says shit like that. I wish I had started a list of her phrases. “I wonder why our family has such a problem with it.”

“Maybe because he’s seven years younger than dad. It’s kind of an issue.”

“He also less than fifteen years older than me. What does that mean? Nothing.” She also likes to ask and answer her own questions. I think it comes from doing so many papers all these years. I try to reverse it.

“Monica, do you do this to give Dad a heart attack and make Mom go into a panic? I think so.”

“Eve, why do you let Mom brainwash you? I guess without me she’s quite formidable.”

“Monica, look, sleep with or ‘love’ whoever you want, but until you’ve got a ring on your finger or a bun in the oven, don’t tell them about it. Do you think Mom or Dad gives a shit about your love life? They want to forget we know the definition of sex.”

“Why do you choose to live a lie with them? It’s so they’ll think you are the good one. Not me. I live my life honestly. I have integrity. Besides, Chuck could be the one.”

“You are going to marry a forty-three-year-old singer? I don’t think so.” I can get used to talking like this.

“Yes, he is principled. He sings folk songs, from the sixties. Songs about change. He has quite a following around here. He has ideas and beliefs that are stronger than most of the guys my age. He’s an activist. We’ve lost that, Eve. Our society has moved away from those ideals to an empty one. Our generation has nothing. It’s an empty MTV generation.” Here we go. She won’t stop.