Pounding the Pavement (16 page)

“Yeah, okay.” I reach under my seat and pull out a massive black tome—weighted down even more so by its threat to expose all my inadequacies.

I take the CD from Jake’s outstretched hand and quickly find an empty slot in the album for it.

“See anything in there that looks good to you?”

Crap, crap, crap.

“Ummm,” I flip through the sleeves, dismayed to discover I don’t recognize the name of a single band. “Anything you like is fine with me.”

“I like them all. They’re
my
CDs. What do you like?”

“Uh, mostly I like sound tracks,” I say, hoping that will at least buy me some time.

“Sound tracks, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Okay.” He thinks for a moment. “Which sound tracks?”

Oh, goddamn him!

“Hmm … I really liked
High Fidelity.”

Jake nods appreciatively. “All right. Put in the Beta Band. It’s on the first page.”

I pick out the disc and slip it into the player. Within seconds, the speakers begin to purr a rather catchy song. I cock my head to the side, listening intently.

Jake watches me out of the corner of his eye and grins. “It’s ‘Dry the Rain.’ ”

“Huh?”

“You know. When John Cusack is at the record store and he says, ‘I will now sell five copies of the Beta Band?’ This is the song he plays.”

“Oh, yeah!” I lean back in my seat, letting the music warm me over and take me back. And I fondly recall just how much I love Jack Black in those goofy sidekick roles.

I am disappointed when the CD ends.

“What next?” I ask Jake eagerly.

“How do you feel about
The Royal Tenenbaums?”

“Loved it.”

“Great. Put in Nick Drake.”

I do as requested. And I am thrilled that I recognize the first song immediately.

“Hey, this is from that car commercial!”

Jake sears me with a reproachful glare. My heart stops. Only when he cracks a devilish grin do I realize he’s teasing me. I breathe a little easier.

T
he wedding ceremony is perfect in the way all ceremonies should be. It’s short. Minimal hymns, a brief, funny anecdote by way of the
priest, only one reference to a “holy union,” and a slight rough patch as the groom stutters his way through a set of generic vows. The service concludes with cheers from the audience—not because we’ve borne witness to such a moving tribute to love everlasting, but because it is now officially time to get rip-roaring drunk.

We all file out to the reception area where two options present themselves. Long line for the restroom or long line for the bar. Jake and I skip both and duck outside behind the church for a cigarette break.

It doesn’t take long for our fellow smokers to join us. Like most social pariahs, smokers are drawn to one another—either psychically or chemically, one can only guess. Without even a glance, or a secret handshake, or any verbal exchange, we tend to seek each other out, meet at clandestine headquarters staked just outside the doors that bar our entrance, and we huddle together, as if by campfire, letting our burning filters warm our hands and our hearts.

The first of our comrades to find us is the best man, a tall, wiry surfer or skateboarder type with shoulder-length brown hair slicked back with goop for the occasion. Hot on his heals trails the token fat bridesmaid.

“Yay! More smokers!” she squeals. “I thought we’d be the only ones.”

“Yeah, we’re a dying breed,” Jake quips.

“If I ever get married, I’m going to insist on smoking and nonsmoking sections at my reception,” she giggles.

“Jake!” The best man slaps him on the back. Jake responds the same. “Long time no see. How’ve you been, man? I got that last e-mail you sent. Pretty sweet.”

Jake looks confused. “What e-mail?”

“You know, with the girl? And that butterfly tattoo? Ouch. That’s gotta be painful, putting it … down there.”

“Eww!” the bridesmaid gasps.

Jake smiles at me and shakes his head. “He’s joking.”

“Or am I?” The best man winks at me. “Hey, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Oh, sorry,” says Jake. “Skeeter, this is Sarah. Sarah, this is Skeeter.”

“And I’m Rachel!” says the bridesmaid, fumbling to light her cigarette.

“Sarah.” Skeeter takes my hand and plants an exaggerated kiss on my wrist. “So you must be the girl we’ve all heard so much about.”

My heart flutters. I look up at Jake in awe. He
talks
about me?

“Ah, no,” says Jake. “She couldn’t make it.”

All of our jaws drop simultaneously.

“I mean, we broke up,” he corrects himself quickly. “A couple of weeks ago. This is Sarah. She’s a friend.”

We all remain silent. The door behind us swings open and the wedding photographer, with a guilty cigarette clenched between his teeth, stands in the portal. Because his hands are otherwise occupied, he thrusts up his head by way of a greeting.

“I wondered where you guys were hiding.”

Skeeter leans in to offer him a light. To shield the flame with his hands, the photographer sets down his camera and tripod. Jake peers over to admire it.

“That medium format?” he asks.

“Yeah. Hasselblad.” He sizes Jake up out of the corner of his eye. “You a photographer, too?”

“I dabble.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right!” Skeeter snaps his fingers. “You wanted to make movies or something, right? How’s that been going for ya?”

Jake shrugs. “Just waiting for the big break. Right now, I’m still at the same ad company, shooting commercials.”

“Which company?” asks Rachel.

“Stellar Productions?”

“Sure, I know Stellar. I’m in advertising too. J. Walter Thompson.”

Alarm bells start ringing in my ears. Well-honed instinct tells me this is the part of the conversation I’d best steer clear of. I make a big display of noticing my cigarette has petered out and look for an appropriate place to dispose of it. I tiptoe to the bushes.

“And what about you?” I hear Jake ask Skeeter. “You were at Toyota the last time we spoke, right?”

“Honda,” Skeeter corrects.

“No kidding? You’ve got that new hybrid coming out now, don’t you?”

“A couple of them. And, oh man, let me just tell you.
Fifty-two
miles to the gallon.”

Jake whistles. “Nice.”

Thinking it’s safe to return, I step out from behind my fortress of bushes. Unfortunately, the question I had been so keen to avoid still awaits me.

“And what do you do?” Rachel asks me pleasantly, dropping her cigarette to the ground and tapping it out daintily with her blue dyeable shoe.

“Um,” I cast a sideways look at Jake. He nods at me encouragingly.

“I’m unemployed.”

Now, maybe I just imagined it, but I could have sworn I heard a gasp. And I’m sure I saw Skeeter and Rachel exchange a look of panic.

“Shit,” Skeeter says, grimacing with compassion. “That sucks.”

“Fucking economy,” the photographer adds helpfully.

Rachel shakes her head. “The market is still so terrible these
days. I feel like everyone I know has lost their job.” She sighs. “I guess some of us just got lucky.”

The door behind us lurches and we all swivel gleefully to welcome another diversion. Under the awning, an oafish usher wipes the sweat from his brow and smears it on his tuxedo lapel.

“You guys,” he gasps. “They’re doing the speeches.”

“All right.” Skeeter smooths down his greasy, lubricated head. “It’s showtime.”

I
hardly fare any better once indoors. As luck would have it, we’ve been seated at a table next to Lindsay and Colin, both investment bankers. They, too, hail from New York, but from where they’re perched, in penthouse suites with rooftop gardens and wraparound terraces, it’s an entirely different city. They couldn’t be more foreign to us if they were tourists sporting Panama hats and slathered in multiple coats of white sunblock.

Across the table are Phil, the lawyer, and his girlfriend, Maribella, an Italian sculptor from Italy. They met on the Internet through a dating service. She doesn’t speak a word of English. I wish I had thought of such a clever excuse. Instead, I manage to avoid actively participating in the conversation at hand by repeatedly flagging down the waiter to refill my wineglass.

The couple to our right introduces themselves next, but I don’t catch their names. I am numb with dread, realizing it’s only a matter of time before the circle completes itself. Jake and I are the only ones at the table yet to entertain our viewers with the
TV Guide
episode recap of our lives:

Heartbroken boy with a great eye for photography invites lonely, unemployed girl to a friend’s wedding in hopes of staving off her suicidal tendencies
.

“Excuse me,” I say quietly and to no one in particular. I stand and carefully skulk away from the table.

A sudden hush falls over the trees when I step outside. It is as though I’ve interrupted them in the middle of their catty gossip—the elm having just snootily remarked how terribly unclassy it is for girls to forgo pantyhose on even a sultry summer night. The shrubs perhaps wondering why slips are no longer so popular.

I light up my cigarette. The leaves shake their heads and mutter, “Tsk, tsk.”

“I can’t believe you abandoned me like that!”

I turn. Jake emerges from the shadows, holding two flutes of champagne. The tapering pink light from the entrance dances in the bubbles.

“What abandoned? You looked like you were having a fine time with that Italian artist.”

“Maribella? You kidding me? She’s got no sense of humor. Didn’t laugh at a single one of my jokes.”

I look at him cock-eyed. “She doesn’t speak English.”

“So? I was talking very loudly.” He holds out one of the flutes. I take it from him. “You’re having a terrible time, aren’t you?”

“No, not at all.” I take a small sip. “I just forgot how hard this would be.”

“Is it because you don’t have a job?”

“Let’s put it this way. The last party I went to was a pink-slip party. I just feel like I had more in common with that crowd.”

“Look, I don’t know why you’re letting this get to you. You’ve seen how impressed people are when I tell them what I do, and you know my job is crap—”

“That’s different.”

“Let me finish. All I’m saying is, those people in there bragging about their wonderful jobs? They’re
lying
. Because you don’t know
any better. I don’t know any better either. But I can tell you one thing.
Nobody
likes their job. And that’s a fact.”

“So, what am I supposed to do? Go back in there and start lying, too? Pretend I have a job?”

“Why not?

“Because I can’t imagine anything more pathetic.” I stamp out my cigarette effectively.

“Fine. Then don’t talk about it all. You don’t have to.” He spreads out his hands. “I just came out here to tell you there’s nothing to worry about anymore. The band is playing now.” He pauses. “And I wanted to know if you’d dance with me.”

I fold my arms over my chest.

“Can
you dance?” I ask.

“Ha! Please.” He offers me his elbow. “Don’t insult me.”

We catch the tail end of the opening number—the timeless crowd-pleaser, “Twist and Shout.” To continue the rocking tempo, the band transitions into a passionate rendition of “Tutti Frutti.”

Jake leaps onto the dance floor and executes a flawless spin, the unbuttoned flaps of his suit jacket fanning out behind him. He halts himself with a nimble toe and holds out his hand.

“Come on!”

I grab his wrist. Off we go.

He’s a remarkable dancer, much to my relief. Graceful, limber—and most importantly, he displays an excellent sense of rhythm. Now, see, I can chassé, jeté, and pas de bourrée with the best of them, mind you, but I am also the first to admit my timing is a bit shaky. Ask me to fling alternate kicks to the beat of “New York, New York” and I’ve got a fifty-fifty shot at getting it right. The odds drop sharply, though, as soon as a boy grabs my waist, when he reaches around and places a firm hand on my back. That’s when anxiety sets in and my ear for the music goes stone-deaf. If I’m lucky, I’ll just spend the rest
of the song playing catch up with the beat. If I’m unlucky, I’ll hit the ground and take my partner with me.

With Jake, I find myself dancing to a different tune. When he twirls me around, I feel like I’m sailing on linoleum, flying with champagne wings. And when he lifts me up from a playful dip, I’m so overcome with giddiness, I reach up and plant a quick peck on his lips.

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wow.” He touches his lips selfconsciously. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I’m not going to apologize,” I say coyly, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I’ve wanted to do that all evening.”

“Yeah?” He grins mischievously. “Know what I’ve been wanting to do?” He slides his hands from my waist down to my rear and squeezes hard. Just as I’m about to gasp, he plunges his tongue deep into my mouth. The kiss is so electric, I see a blinding flash of white light.

I blink my eyes a few times to regain my sight. The wedding photographer, not three feet away from us, lowers his camera and clucks his tongue.

“That’s it,” he says. “That’s the money shot right there.” He shrugs good-naturedly and struts off.

“Hey, hold on!” Jake calls after him, letting go of my waist. Just as I feared, I nearly drop to the floor.

The photographer turns and waits. Jake dips into his jacket pocket and retrieves his wallet.

“What are the chances I could ask you to send me a copy of that picture directly? If I give you my e-mail address?” He holds out his business card. “I’ll pay you for it.”

The photographer takes the business card but waves away the cash.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says.

There is a discernible shimmy in Jake’s step when he returns. By the time he reaches me, he’s already in full swing. Grinning from ear to ear, he takes me by the hand and twirls me around. And when I stop spinning, he’s ready to scoot seamlessly into a shuffle.

“You’re so good!” I say.

“My mom was a dancer in the Miami City Ballet. She made me take dance classes when I was little.”