The Intern: Chasing Murderers, Hookers, and Senators Across DC Wasn't In The Job Description (3 page)

She bit her very cute lip, trying to decide which Raymond
Chandler book to buy, which gave me one hell of an opening. She said she loved
James Cain but hadn’t read any Chandler. I pretended to have the vapors and
suggested
The Long Goodbye
. I asked her for her phone number, and she
scrawled it down on the back of her receipt. I somehow managed to wait the
requisite two days before calling her and asked her out.

We had been on four dates since, and I was beginning to fall
for her. A rare thing because I was normally the guy who nixed the idea of a
second date for whatever reason, and I was realizing the shoe was now on the
other foot. I regaled all of my friends with tales of her excellence whenever I
could.

She was twenty-five, three wonderful years older than me,
from Danville, Kentucky—what a beautiful accent—and graduated from the College
of Charleston, where she double-majored in English and Engineering.

She had been in DC for almost three years, where she began
by working as a paralegal in a small law firm and was now starting her second
year of law school, which, she said, was hard as hell. She loved to dance, had
a secret crush on Vince Gill, and she mentioned so many times she was over her
old boyfriend Roger that I wondered if she really was. However, I wasn’t about
to tell her this.

That night, I was going to attempt to raise the culture
quotient of our relationship. We had previously gone to the park, the movies
twice, and an Orioles game, so I told Stephanie to be prepared for an evening
of dining and dancing—meaning, please dress up—and who knew what else—meaning,
to put it politely, more physical intimacy than I had yet experienced with
Stephanie. We were going to Rachel’s, a wonderful seafood restaurant, and then
dancing at the River Club. Hubba, hubba.

All afternoon my mind was so consumed with which of my two
suits to wear, which tie to don, and exactly how uptight I was going to be in
the constant presence of this goddess that I barely paid attention to the
panel. Fortunately, through years of church-going and school attendance, I have
developed the ability to appear engrossed in the subject at hand when my mind
is actually in the Cayman Islands with a swimsuit model.

Time moved like a three-toed sloth, but finally at 4:30 pm I
quietly got up and left the room, nodding at Joe as I went. One advantage of
being an intern is the ability to excuse yourself whenever you need to. Now I
could look forward to a date with the most awesome woman in Washington, DC. My
night was definitely going to be better than my day.

Three

I
 have been on more than my share of
dates. I’ve had pretty dates, plain dates, easy dates, dates who wanted to
wait, smart dates, fun dates, boring dates, and the always-interesting blind
dates.

As long as you’re not calling each other boyfriend and
girlfriend, and/or you have yet to bare your sugar-white ass to her during the
throes of passion, you approach any date in a very Zen-like manner, trying your
best not to get your hopes up and checking quite frequently to see if your fly
is zipped. This was exactly my frame of mind as I approached Stephanie’s place.

She lived by herself in a townhouse in Georgetown, which was
entirely out of my realm of possibility. I circled the neighborhood once,
looking for a parking spot, and finally squeezed in at the end of the block. I
headed down the street, noticed a man standing in his apartment in full dress
army gear, and nodded at Stephanie’s next-door neighbor, who was always outside
and beginning to recognize me, which I took as a good sign. I finally got to
her place, walked up the stairs, and rang the bell. To my right I could see in
her living room; she had a fairly good-sized window and had the bad habit of
not pulling the blinds, which was extremely rare in DC. I could see a navy
couch and her TV from where I was standing. And, of course, she could see me
gawking inside as she opened the door.

She smiled and invited me in. Stephanie was wearing a short
burgundy dress so simple that it must have been expensive. It was cut to show
she worked out, but that fact would’ve been apparent if she had been covered in
tar and feathers. She smiled brightly and offered me a seat, saying she just
needed to touch up her hair. I sat down in front of the TV, which was tuned, as
hers always seemed to be, to CNN.

She shouted over the blow dryer, and we had a somewhat
passable conversation while I watched bloody Bosnian images interspersed with
those of fat American politicians. With Stephanie yelling into the mirror, her
hair still yet to be dried, I looked around and once again saw many things I
wanted, but couldn’t afford, hanging on the walls and lining her bookshelves.
She had real photos by Annie Leibowitz and William Gottlieb punctuating the
brilliant white rooms.

I walked over yet again to her big bookshelf, which I
examined on my first trip to her apartment and on each subsequent visit. Some
of the books were law school texts, but most were reading editions of American
authors like Faulkner and Fitzgerald. It seemed like a lot for a law school
student, but she was twenty-five, so what did I know. It was the little details
like her library that made me want to skip every other formality and go
straight to the buying of the ring.

In another corner of the room was a smaller bookshelf filled
with curios and pictures. I bent over to examine some of the photos—Stephanie
with her family, various high school and college friends, and several of her
with a guy who looked to be about my height and size with the same brown hair.
I got that knife in your stomach sensation when I realized this was probably
the oft-mentioned Roger and was even more unnerved when I noticed how much he
looked like me. Stephanie told me he had been her only serious boyfriend, and I
was sure it was going to be tough to step out of his shadow, now even more so,
since I appeared to be his shadow. I stood up and moved away just before she
walked out which was nice because I didn’t want to have to hear even more about
Roger.

We left and headed to Rachel’s, a pricey restaurant near
DuPont Circle complete with snotty waiters and small portions. It was decorated
in creams and off-whites, and the soft lighting made you wonder if you were
developing cataracts. I called ahead for reservations—suave, I know—and we were
seated ahead of all of the schmucks who hadn’t. I never did junk like making
reservations, but Stephanie was worth planning ahead for. The place was fairly
small, the tables were too close together, and I could hear a northern woman at
the next table saying “salary” in an accent that made it sound like “celery.”

By the time we ordered, I came to the unsettling conclusion
that I was going to really fall for this one. My heart swelled to the point
where I was simply trying to make eye contact, speak in complete sentences, and
not spill anything on myself. Before I blacked out into a blissful abyss where
I merely smiled and mumbled, I remembered the most important advice my good
friend Steven had ever given me about women: “If you like ‘em, get them to talk
about themselves; if you really like ‘em, listen to what they’re saying.” I had
followed this advice religiously with Stephanie, and, amazingly, it seemed to
be working.

It was my turn to ask her questions, and as I raised my
eyebrows and complimented in the right spots, she began touching her necklace
and twisting her hair. Between blushes and a glass of wine, she told me a good
deal more about herself, about the horses she had raised, and about how
exhausting law school could be.

Then, just as everything seemed to be going so well, the
worst thing that can happen to a guy early on in a relationship occurred—I got
to meet the best friend. She walked up behind the table and put her hand on
Stephanie’s shoulder. Stephanie turned and beamed, looking surprised. She stood
to give her a hug and sat back down.

“Trent, this is my best friend, Tabitha Robertson,” she
said.

I shook Tabitha’s hand. She looked like a corn-fed,
hand-spanked southern girl, a good deal taller than Stephanie, with blond hair
swept up off her neck. She was wearing a tasteful set of pearls with a short
black dress that could’ve only been worn by a tan woman with legs like a pair
of cutting shears.

Tabitha smiled and looked me over like a cattle judge.

“Who are you here with?” Stephanie asked.

Tabitha turned and pointed at an older man, probably over
forty, with November-gray hair and a blue tie that didn’t match his blue
jacket. He was sipping a glass of wine, pinky out, and was barely smiling at
us. “My friend Walter,” she said.

Stephanie nodded, and the two of them talked for a minute
more. She asked if we were having a good time, if we were enjoying
ourselves—all of the normal stuff. She seemed very nice, but I still wanted her
to vanish, which she finally did.

Now I knew I would be the topic of conversation either later
that night or the next morning. I imagined long, drawn-out telephone
discussions of my merits and weaknesses—at least, I hoped I deserved as much
consideration and rated highly.

“Where did you meet?” I asked Stephanie.

“Tabitha and me?”

I nodded.

“At work. We’ve known each other since I moved here.” She
glanced at Tabitha, and I followed her gaze. Walter seemed like a smug asshole,
and Tabitha didn’t seem to be having all that much fun. She touched his arm
occasionally, but the way she sat indicated he was getting the cold shoulder.
Still, I wondered what kind of friends they were. I wondered if they would be
friends for much longer.

After dinner, it was time for my next stab at culture; after
all, I worked at the NEA, right? The River Club was in Georgetown right near
the water. It was converted to look like a swank forties nightclub, the kind
where men wore painted neckties and the women wore pillbox hats. It was dark
except for the dance floor and the pale light cast from the flickering gas
lamps. Stephanie had told me she had a real thing for forties music, and I knew
she would love it. Before we went in, we walked down to the dock by the river.
The Potomac isn’t the world’s most scenic spot, but there are moments, as the
sun is fading away and the night still awaits, when it can be just right.
Stephanie brushed up against me, and we watched the sunset and waited for a
breeze. Finally, I took her hand, and we headed inside.

We sat in a corner, ordered martinis, and watched as older
men and younger women danced the jitterbug. During a slow dance, I took her
hand and led her out on the dance floor. She looked gorgeous, and I told her.
She smiled and kissed me. I prayed that the song wouldn’t end, but it did, and
after dancing a dozen blissful others, we left.

We drove back to her street and slowly walked back to her
house, probably both wondering how this was all going to end. I accepted when
she invited me in and tried to refrain from dancing the funky chicken while she
went to the bathroom. I thought about going to look at the books again, but I
could just see myself dropping or ripping something, so I stayed put until she
returned. She went to the kitchen for a glass of ice water and brought me one
too, handing it to me just before she sat down, fairly close but far enough
away for me to know she wanted to talk, not cuddle. I was hoping she would
provide the topic, because my mind had ceased having independent thoughts after
the main course.

My mouth was open, and some indiscriminate first syllable
was already out, when the phone rang. She crinkled her mouth apologetically and
grabbed it.

“Hello? Oh … Yeah … Now? … Are you okay? Where are you?” She
grabbed a pen, frowned, scribbled, put down the phone, and took a deep breath.
“That was Tabitha. I have to go pick her up,” she said, looking at the note she
had just made.

I was stricken and tried not to show it. She was leaving.
“Do you want me to go with you?”

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.” She looked honestly
apologetic, fixing me with a sad look for a second before she finally stood up.
I did the same. For the first time that evening, she seemed unsure of herself.
“But I had such a great time, and I want to do it again.” She looked me in the
eyes again. I was looking for signs of irony or deception but wasn’t seeing
any.

She walked me to the door, kissed me with lips still cold
from ice water, and said goodbye as I stepped out and tried not to trip.

I walked down the block, trying to decide what had just
happened. I couldn’t. Even if I had been able to tell something, I still would
be suckered into the waiting and hoping game.

Tuesday

Four

I
 must’ve hit the snooze button
thirty-seven times. I hadn’t fallen asleep until after one, mainly from staring
at the ceiling with knots in my stomach thinking about Stephanie. I ran through
scenarios where she liked me, where something actually wound up going well, but
most of my time was spent wondering why in the hell she had to go pick up
Tabitha at eleven-thirty at night. Wasn’t that the way women blew you off?
“Best friend needs me?” I tried to read, but the minute I would start something
I would think about Stephanie and her love of books and be right back in the
same place.

My roommate Angie banged on the door. I heard her take a
shower already, and I imagined she was now dressed. “You’re gonna be late,” she
said just before my alarm went off yet again. It was 7:50; she was right. I
mumbled a “thank you,” which she may or may not have heard, and headed into the
shower. I wouldn’t have time for breakfast, so I’d have to grab something at
work.

I made it to work by a quarter ‘til nine and took a detour
to the atrium, where there were a number of eating places arrayed among the
plants and faux marble. I got a cinnamon roll the size of a beehive and a
Coke—my alternative to coffee—and made my way to the office. If Joe or Kurt or
Damon gave me any grief, I’d bribe them with some of my breakfast.