Pounding the Pavement (13 page)

L
aurie is waiting downstairs for me at 6 p.m. on the dot. She’s wearing a pretty sundress and killer dark sunglasses to match her killer dark combat boots. She drops her cigarette to the cement and crushes the life out of it with a steel-tipped toe.

“Petty cash,” she says, holding up an envelope. “Dinner’s on us. It’s an extra-special thank-you for today.”

“Can dinner come in a funny glass with an olive?”

“An olive, a maraschino cherry, a lemon wedge, you name it.” She slides the envelope into her purse. “Just pick the place.”

“Okay, but—”

“But what?”

I drop my eyes to the ground and my voice to a whisper. “See, I told Amanda I might hang out with her tonight …”

Laurie rolls her eyes. Make no mistake about it, there is no love lost between the two of them. Then again, Laurie is a little wary of anyone uninspired enough to do something as tedious as math for a living. But people like Amanda—those who work too hard during the day and play too hard at night—are an altogether different kind of beast. Laurie will never be able to understand such zealots. She sees them as the corporate vampires ready to drain the life out of her otherwise bohemian lifestyle.

“Fine.” She shifts the tension in her shoulders and sighs. “Tell her to meet up with us later.”

“Thanks,” I breathe with relief.

An hour later, Laurie and I are crammed onto a bar stool and a half in the dark, forgotten corner of a tiny West Village tavern. We chose this particular bar by default. The mad frenzy of the post-work cocktail hour is usually a standing-room-only affair, and it is a mighty tall order to ask for a firm, stiff plank on which to plant a sore, tired rear. Granted, for twelve dollars a martini you
could
buy yourself a throw cushion and cozy spot on a velvet chaise. But then you’d be forced to play coy with snooty bartenders and be graciously accepting of any group of pinstriped stockbrokers that sends a round of drinks your way. Laurie and I can do well without the cushions and trappings of such glamorous establishments. We’d much prefer to pack into the sardine tins that usually house the West Village staple of aspiring actors and screenwriters—people who don’t have the means to buy you a drink, and therefore lack the approach to join a conversation uninvited.

“Who paints the walls amber? What a
stupid
idea!” Laurie giggles into her vodka collins.

“Not like white was a stroke of genius either.”

“Oh, don’t even get me started! I felt like a police dispatcher as soon as I got off the phone with Gisele. ‘Mobilize all units to Janovic Plaza immediately!’ Then everyone was like, ‘What color should we get?’ And, I’m like, ‘I’ll tell you when you get there!’ ”

I doubt anyone at one of those pretentious lounges would find our conversation all that funny. Yet we double over in hysterics at the sheer absurdity of colors, film productions, and people in general who take themselves far too seriously. And the tortured writer beside us, who has been hunched over his journal and eavesdropping on our conversation all evening, allows a small smile—suggesting he understands us only far too well.

All of a sudden, Laurie freezes. Her face turns ashen, as white as the controversial apartment wall. She stares, transfixed, over my right shoulder.

“Oh. My. God.”

I turn my head to follow her gaze. Perched in the doorway, as always, and seemingly oblivious to the squalor she generally tends to avoid, Amanda seeks us out with a caterpillar smile and butterfly wave. But she’s committed a sin considered unforgivable among single women.

She brought a date.

“That’s Ryan,” I whisper quickly to Laurie as they make their approach. “He’s her boss. Be nice!” I’d have better luck telling my gin and tonic to be nonalcoholic.

Laurie clamps her mouth shut. I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t say another word for the rest of the evening.

“Hey, you guys!” Amanda hooks an arm around Laurie’s shoulder and air-kisses her cheek. It’s such a rare display of affection, so artfully staged, Laurie grimaces and shoots me a venomous glare. I
kick her stool to shake her free of the impulse to stick her finger down her throat and gag.

When Amanda makes her introductions, Laurie nods hello. When Ryan offers to buy us our next round of drinks, she smiles politely, because to refuse him would be too rude even for her. Ryan grows visibly uncomfortable under the heat of hostile eyes, so he turns to me to open up with the small talk.

“Amanda tells me you’re looking for a job.”

“That’s right.”

“Tough market out there.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You know, we’re looking to hire a receptionist at the company. If you’re interested you should give your résumé to Amanda. I’d be happy to put in a good word for you.”

Now I’m the one glaring. Amanda refuses to catch my eye.

“What happened to your old receptionist?” I ask.

Amanda tosses her hair and shrugs. “Turns out she was a top-ranked analyst in the investment banking class she took in the spring. She’s going to be replacing me.”

“We’re very good to our loyal employees,” Ryan confirms. “We offer a lot of growth potential.”

I shudder at the thought. “I’ll think about it,” I mumble.

Amanda pounds her palm against the top of the bar. We all flinch.

“Who wants to do shots?”

“I’m in,” says Ryan.

Laurie and I exchange uneasy glances. She stands abruptly.

“I’m going out for a cigarette,” she says pointedly.

“Yeah. I’ll join you.”

    Here’s my dilemma:

Jeans or a jean skirt?

Hair up or hair down?

Red lipstick or sheer lip gloss?

Push-up bra or no bra?

And if we’re just going to be in a dark movie theater, and if this isn’t even a date—definitely, not a date at all—does it even matter?

I
didn’t think I’d make it to the movie theater in time. A quick survey of my wardrobe led me to discover my very best jeans were dirty, so I had to run across to Urban Outfitters to buy the pair I’d been eyeing for weeks. I intended to wait for a sale, but, well, this is a special circumstance. They were worth every penny, anyway. I swear, my ass has never looked better.

While I was out, I also stopped by Sephora to try out sample lipsticks. The saleslady caught me as I was sneaking on a daring shade of come-hither red. I let her sucker me into buying an eyeliner in a grayish hue that she told me brings out the green flecks in my otherwise lifeless and unexciting brown eyes.

So you can see how the time adds up.

I run to the theater, nearly tripping over the hem of my jeans. Yes, the legs are a little long. That was intentional. I am trying to conceal the fact I am wearing old, terribly untrendy platform shoes that make me at least five inches taller.

Jake is waiting outside. When he sees me he flicks the butt of his cigarette into the street. A spray of tiny sparks dance on the curb before the filter disappears down the gutter.

“What number cigarette was that?” I ask, panting.

“Just the first.”

“I’m so sorry I’m late.”

“No problemo.” He pats the pockets of his corduroys. “I already have the tickets. I was worried there might be a line, and my movie experience just isn’t complete unless I get to watch trailers first.”

“I totally understand. I only show up for the trivia questions. Speaking of which, do you know who the only person named Oscar to win an Oscar is?”

“Oscar Hammerstein?”

I gape at him, absolutely flummoxed. He chuckles at me.

“Don’t look so impressed. That was one of the questions from last week. Before the De Niro movie?”

“Oh. Right.”

He holds the door open for me. “Shall we then?”

I toss an imaginary shawl over my shoulder and saunter on in.

I had almost forgotten how anxious movie theaters make me on Friday nights. Fortunately, as we discovered the week before, Jake and I both prefer the middle/back sections of the theater and we manage to find the perfect seats dead center in the fourth to last row. Then a middle-aged couple waltzes in and selects the seats directly in front of us. I go rigid.

“Do you want to move?” asks Jake.

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. How about one row back?”

“That’d be great.” We pick up our bags and make our transition. “Thanks.”

“Sure. People next to me were getting kinda chatty, anyway. I think they might be talkers.”

“Pfft.”
I shake my head. “Those are the worst kind.” The lights go dim. Jake snuggles back into the cushion of his chair, ready to enjoy the previews. I, on the other hand, remain upright—for fifteen minutes at least—peering at the door, scowling at the latecomers who have the nerve to intrude on the show so loudly after the curtain call. This doesn’t happen at the opera, I tell you. You miss the first seating, and you have to wait until intermission. Them’s the rules.

Even when the latecomers stop trickling in, we still don’t get to enjoy the movie in silence. We come to realize, all too quickly, there is a pair of hard-of-hearing senior citizens seated behind us.

“What did he say?” asks the man loudly. His wife tells him.

“Oh. Then what did she say?”

I crane my head around deliberately. A very obvious gesture that should be effective in and of itself. It isn’t. So, I take a deep breath and project a loud
“Shh!”

The man looks at me for a moment. Then he turns to his wife.

“What did she just say?”

The movie ends over two hours later. I step onto the escalator and turn around to face Jake.

“Bit of a letdown, huh?” he says.

“I am sooo glad you said that. I thought it was just me. I had such high expectations—”

“I know. I’ve been waiting for this movie all year—”

“I feel responsible. I totally build these things up. These movies couldn’t possibly compare to what I had in mind.”

We step off the first escalator and make our way around the corner to take the next flight down. I stop midstep.

“Wait a second!”

“What’s up?”

“Look!” I point to Tom Hanks’s cardboard face. “There’s a movie I have absolutely no illusions about whatsoever.”

“What are you talking about?” Jake scoffs. “Look at him. He’s wearing a hospital gown.
And
he’s in a wheelchair. That movie has Academy Award written all over it.”

“We should see it!”

“What, now?”

“It started five minutes ago.”

“Ooooh,” Jake is beginning to catch my drift. “No, we can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just … not right.”

“You can’t be serious. Paying ten dollars for a mediocre, vastly overrated film, that’s right to you?”

“I would feel guilty. I wouldn’t enjoy it.”

“You’re not going to enjoy it anyway. That’s the point.” I grab his sleeve and start pulling him away from the escalator. “It’s okay. It’s one of the perks of being unemployed. We’re actually allowed to sneak into movies.”

“But I’m not unemployed.”

“You can be my plus-one.” I feel his arm go slack, his resistance waning. He lets me lead him into the darkened theater.

As expected, the second movie sucks even more than the first. Plus, now it has been all of four hours without a smoke break. We push our way out of the theater and set the world ablaze.

“Two for the price of one and it still wasn’t worth it!”

“I know,” I exhale my plume of smoke. “They just don’t make movies like they used to.”

“You like old movies?”

“I think the art of cinema peaked with
The Graduate
and has been on a downward spiral ever since.” I pause before I take my next drag, wondering if perhaps I’ve just committed a major cinephile blunder. Does
The Graduate
actually qualify as an
old
movie? I’m not entirely sure.

“You know what I miss? The sagas, the melodramas. Give me Douglas Sirk any day,” I add. Just in case.

“You know, they’re having a Blake Edwards retrospective at the Film Forum this month.”

“I love Blake Edwards!” My ears are ringing. I think I may just have squealed like Rock Hudson discovering Doris Day’s mink stole. I make sure to drop my voice a couple of octaves when I speak again. “When are the films showing?”

“Victor/Victoria
is playing on Sunday.”

“We should go!”

“All right.” Jake grins. “It’s a date.”

D
o you know why Blake Edwards is a genius? I’ll tell you why. In fact, I can sum it up in one scene. Julie Andrews, a poor, starving cabaret singer, is staring through a diner window, watching a fat man eating a powdered doughnut. And, I mean, he is absolutely gorging on it, taking deep, juicy bites. Julie licks her lips, getting a little woozy. The camera cuts to a close-up of the gob of sugar on the fat man’s pudgy nose. Then we cut back to Julie—only now she’s gone. Yet, through the window we can see a group of men run toward the diner and stoop down. When they straighten back into
frame, they hoist a disoriented Julie back onto her feet and help her brush off her coat. Later, she returns to her apartment and tells her landlord she’ll sleep with him for a meatball. That’s it!