Pounding the Pavement (24 page)

I glance around the apartment and pretend not to notice it is in a rather violent state of disarray. “The place looks fine.”

“It’s a shithole.”

“Yeah, well …” My voice trails off. I’m not ready to launch into another petty squabble. The truth is, I’m spent. I’ve exhausted my entire reserve of pettiness for the day.

I can sense Amanda feels the same. She lowers her head and runs her foot down the line of the filthy rug. “You know,” she begins. “I’m really sorry about the other day—”

“Oh, please. Don’t worry about it. That was so long ago.”

“Yeah, okay.” She looks up. “Thanks.”

Great. We’ve agreed not to fight. Now we’re tapped out.

“So,” I grin broadly. “What you up to tonight?”

“Ugghh.” She removes her suit jacket. “It’s been a long day. I was seriously looking forward to hitting the sheets and just going to bed.”

“Oh.” I’m crestfallen.

“But I’m not busy tomorrow,” she says. “You wanna hang out?”

“Sure!” I bet she has no idea she’s made my day. “Maybe we could rent a movie?”

“I’d like that.” She smiles and heads to her room.

I climb into bed a few moments later feeling all different shades of happy—the yellow that brightens, the orange that warms, the pink that tickles. But night is soon to close in, washing away my temporary bliss with a dark, heavy gray. The smile slips from my lips and wilts. And my room grows heavy, bloated with the threat of another night of sleeplessness.

Damn Jake! I damn him when I kick my sheets and search desperately with my cold toes for his warm, bare leg. I damn him when vague sepia-toned dreams elude me and become, instead, the face of Simone. I damn him when the phone wails from the living room, because I want so very much for it to be him and I know it will be.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say.

“I just called you.”

“I know.”

“But I’m calling you again.”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t say this—”

“Say it.”

“I can’t sleep without you.” My heart soars. “I don’t ever want to sleep without you again.”

“Me too.”

“You in bed?”

“Yeah,” I draw the sheets up to my chin to prove it. “You?”

“Yeah. I wanted your voice to be the last thing I heard before I went to sleep.”

I say nothing.

“You know, if you don’t talk, that’s not going to work.”

“I’m sorry. I just didn’t realize how tired I was until you called.”

“Yeah, me too. One quick question before I let you go to sleep, though. Do I get to see you tomorrow?”

“Well, I—”

“No I take that back. It’s not a question. I want to see you tomorrow.”

“I can’t tomorrow. I promised Amanda I’d hang out with her.”

“Oh.” The twinge of disappointment in his voice is unmistakable.

“Tell you what, though,” I offer quickly. “How about you pack yourself an overnight bag on Friday? Throw in enough socks to get you through a couple of days. And, oh, definitely some of those cute little boxer briefs you own—”

“The red ones?”

“Damn straight the red ones.”

“Am I planning a weekend trip?”

“How do you feel about Manhattan? I happen to own and operate a lovely little bed-and-breakfast on the Upper West Side. You’ll love it.”

“Hmmm, I don’t know. I try not to travel during the height of tourist season.”

“Oh, come on. There’s great shopping in the area, and you’d be just in time for all the summer sales. Plus, there are tons of fabulous restaurants, and we’re really close to all major transportation—”

“Yeah, but how’s the service?”

“Excellent. You’ll be treated like royalty.”

“And if I want to extend my stay?”

“The dates are totally flexible.”

“Then, I guess it’s a deal.”

“Super. I’ll see you on Friday.”

“All right.” He stays quiet for a moment, letting all things left unsaid speak for themselves. “Good night, Sugar Bear.”

“Good night, Jake.”

$
8.74. I have $8.74 in my bank account and that’s it. Am I even allowed to have as little as $8.74 and still call it an “account”?

The worst part about $8.74 is that I can’t even withdraw it. I suppose I
could
cough up twelve dollars, deposit it in my account, and then retrieve the minimum twenty dollars from the ATM. But if I had a whole whopping twelve dollars on me, I wouldn’t need to drop by an ATM at all now, would I?

Okay, let’s see—there’s
got
to be a way to work this out. Do I dare face a flesh-and-blood bank teller and ask her to close out my account? Good God, how mortifying! I’d prefer to just hold up the place instead. At least in jail, I’d be able to enjoy free room and board. Not to mention the fact most prisons come equipped with high-speed Internet and cable TV. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me.

Then again, I’d have to get a gun. And although I have no idea what the going rate for firearms are these days, I’ve got a hunch they’d cost more than $8.74.

“Wait a second!” I gasp out loud. The people waiting in line behind me groan and throw up their hands. A second is far too long to make them wait at all.

I pay no heed. For despite the faulty wiring in my brain, a light-bulb has unexpectedly switched on.

Princess! She still owes me over a hundred dollars for my book coverage. And didn’t she say she’d pay me in petty
cash?

I may not have enough money to hail a cab, but using nothing more than my own two feet—and a perilous bolt of adrenaline—I clear twenty city blocks faster than I ever have before.

I push my way past the teeming hordes of Times Square tourists, trot impatiently through a revolving door, dash into the lobby, sail through the metal detectors unscathed and sign my name in the visitor’s log with a flourish. Just before the elevator lurches closed in front of me, I stick out my foot and let the doors bounce off my thigh. The people inside narrow their eyes and suck in their guts, providing just enough room to let me slink in. The elevator shoots up. I hold my breath.

When the doors open up on the fifteenth floor, the tempest resurges and propels me down the hall. A polite receptionist points me toward Princess’s office. Her extended index finger is a cannon that fires me off once again. And when I finally hit my target, what should I see but a pretty, young girl seated primly at a small desk. I stop cold.

“Who are you?” I demand.

Her large brown eyes widen.

“I’m Crystal,” she says, smiling hesitantly. “I’m new here.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m Gracie’s assistant.”

“S
arah, doll, you didn’t really want this job.”

“What are you talking about!” I fume. “I kept telling you, over and over again, that I wanted it.”

“Oh, come on, doll, let’s face it.” Princess flings her arm casually over the back of her chair, flaunting the ample chest she acquired only a couple of years ago. “You’re overqualified. You would have been miserable here.”

“No, I wouldn’t—”

“Shhh!” Princess nods her head at her closed office door and gestures for me to keep my voice down. “Sarah, this isn’t exactly a growth position, if you know what I mean. I don’t even need an assistant.”

“Then what is
she
—” I jerk my head at the same door—“doing here?”

“Let me finish. I was telling you that I don’t need an assistant. What I really need is a secretary. Crystal’s young. Fresh out of college. And she’s hungry. She’ll do anything I tell her to.” She uncrosses her orange fake-tan legs and leans forward. “Now, I’m not proud of myself. But I’m also not going to apologize for my needs. I want to be able to ask someone to get me a cup of coffee. And I
don’t
want to feel guilty about it. You? Doll, if I asked you to make me coffee, you’d—well, you’d give me that look of yours.”

“What look?” I seethe.

“You know. That
look
. Like you’re so above it all. And I’m not saying you’re not, but …” She pauses. “Honestly, Sarah, I know I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know—but you make terrible coffee.”

“That’s why you didn’t hire me? Because I make bad coffee?”

“No. Not at all. I didn’t hire you because you’re too old to be making coffee. You deserve better, Sarah.” She places her hand against her inflated chest in a ridiculously phony gesture of concern. “I really, truly mean that.”

Her hand drops. But that phony display of concern? No, that stays.

“I sincerely hope you won’t let this ruin our relationship,” she continues, her voice oozing sugar. “You know how crazy I am about your coverage. You do excellent work, doll, you really, really do. In fact,” she lowers her voice confidentially. “There is a
major
book I just got my hands on. Definitely, no talk, no trade. The agent isn’t even going to officially submit it to film companies for another two weeks. He just happened to give it to me last night as a thank-you for—” She stops herself. “Well, let’s just say as a thank-you. Anyway, you’d be so perfect for it. I couldn’t trust anyone else.”

With that, she leans back, permitting me a moment to fully absorb her rare confidence. And despite myself, I blush at the faint praise and prickle with a twinge of excitement.

“Yeah?” I say, careful to remain guarded. “What’s the book about?”

Princess groans and flutters her hand in the air. “The same thing they’re all about. ‘Boy Comes of Age,’ I suppose.”

Uh-huh. Not to be confused with Girl Comes of Age. A different genre entirely.

“It’s called
Gideon,”
she adds.

I swallow a gasp and try to keep myself in check. But if my face has registered any of the shock tickling my spine, Princess doesn’t notice. She picks up her phone and dials an extension, drumming a French-manicured nail against her desk impatiently.

“Crystal?” she barks into the receiver. “You remember that manuscript I made you hide in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet?” Princess swivels in her chair. With her back to me and her head bowed, she continues speaking in a hush. “I changed my mind. We’re going to let Sarah have it instead.”

She hangs up the phone and spins back to me. “So.” She smiles brightly. “Don’t I owe you some money?”

She gives me two hundred dollars in an envelope. The manuscript
she puts in a padded sealer, wraps in tissue paper, and stuffs in a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag. I hold out my hand to receive the package. Instead, Princess stares at the bag for a moment, thinking.

“You’re headed uptown, right?”

“Yes,” I say cautiously.

“Excellent.” She reaches under her desk and pulls out yet another shopping bag. “Can you swing by Bloomingdale’s on your way? Sheila at the Lancôme counter gave me the Resolution night treatment for dry skin when she knows full well I only use the one for normal skin. If you tell her I sent you, she’ll know exactly what I am talking about.”

I balk. “You’re serious? Bloomingdale’s is all the way on the East Side.”

“Oh, Sarah.” She laughs. “You make it sound like it’s in a different
borough
. It’s only another couple of blocks.” She stuffs the smaller bag into the bigger one and hands it to me. “Thanks, doll, I appreciate it. I’ll have a messenger come by your place tomorrow.”

Fuming, I snatch the bag from her hands. If any part of me had been even remotely flattered that Princess considered me more than just a personal assistant, that part knows better now.

I march out to the hallway and wait for the elevator to arrive. When the doors open, a hefty man in a light suit cocks an eyebrow at me.

“Going down?” he asks.

“Uh-uh.” I shake my head. “Going up.”

“N
ow, you sure you want to do this?”

Normally, if
Laurie
is the one to voice any reservations at all, I should know I am encroaching on dangerous territory. But this time, my mind is made up.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” She stares uneasily at the manuscript pages on the copier tray. “I’m hitting copy.”

“Fine.” I shrug. “Hit it.”

She does as told. The machine sucks in the first page. The small, dark room soon becomes an orchestra of white light and electronic purrs. I turn my head because I cannot bear to look. Laurie smiles at me.

“Must feel good to be bad.”

“Sure,” I lie.

    The following week, at 4 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, I can be found in front of my computer, wearing flannel pajama bottoms and my favorite Brown sweatshirt. My desk is lost under the remains of an Amazon rain forest—several trees at least which now serve as disorganized manuscript pages and hastily scribbled notes. To jab my finger even deeper into the wound of Earth’s imperiled ecology, I’ve also been using several Diet Coke cans as makeshift ashtrays.

The first light of dawn forces its way through the slats of the window blinds. And still I push on, swallowing another swig of soda, inhaling another hit of nicotine, and trying to ignore my heavy eyelids.

I haven’t pulled an all-nighter since college. There is something so wholeheartedly romantic about it. Like I am eighteen years old again, tired but determined, beaten but not even close to broken, welcoming the new day like it belongs to only me.