Read The Lonely Hearts Club Online
Authors: Brenda Janowitz
The Lonely Hearts Club
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Brenda Janowitz
Cover design by Georgia Morrissey
ISBN 978-1-940610-02-3
Published in 2014 by Polis Books, LLC
60 West 23
rd
Street
New York, NY 10010
CONTENTS
Also by Brenda Janowitz
Scot on the Rocks
Jack With A Twist
Recipe For A Happy Life
To Ben, Davey, and Doug. Because of you, I’ll never be lonely again
.
“And whatever happened to a boyfriend”
“Jo, you’re fired,” he says. Just like that.
Fired.
And I’m utterly shocked. I know, no one ever expects to be fired, but I
really
didn’t see this coming. My mouth is wide open as I stare back at him.
“Fired?” is all I can choke out. The room begins to spin. That may be because I was out until sunrise last night drinking vodka tonics at an underground club in Williamsburg, but I’m pretty sure that it’s the news that’s doing it to me, not the hangover.
“Yes. I’m sorry, Jo, but it’s not working out here,” he says. His skin is gleaming when he says it. His skin always gleams. He’s a dermatologist, so it has to gleam in order for him to stay in business. My skin doesn’t ever gleam. At the very most, it shines and turns red when I get hot or embarrassed. I feel it beginning to shine and my hand immediately flies to my cheek, which, of course, only makes it get hotter.
We are in his office when he tells me and he is sitting at his desk, his head framed by his many diplomas and awards that are hung on the wall behind him. They are, as they are always, shining brightly as if they’d been dusted and cleaned that very morning. I look at the picture he keeps framed at the edge of his desk—a photograph of his family taken at a New Year’s Eve party, framed in a sterling-silver picture frame that his wife lovingly picked out for their thirtieth wedding anniversary—and then look back up at him.
“You can’t fire me,” I say, which I wholeheartedly believe. I really
didn’t
think that he ever would or could fire me.
“I can,” he says, “and I am.” He begins to toy with one of the pens sitting on his desk.
“I’m your best employee!” I plead.
“You wore a ‘Save CBGBs’ T-shirt to work,” he says.
“CBGBs was a New York institution,” I say. He gives me a blank stare. I shrug in response. Is it my fault that this man has no sense of culture? Of history? “What does it matter what I wear under my assistant’s coat anyway?”
“You know the dress code—scrubs or business casual,” he says.
“Jeans and a concert tee
is
business casual!”
“People can see the prints on your T-shirts right through the fabric,” he says. “And sometimes you wear ones with dirty words on them,” he continues, whispering the “dirty words” part as if his grandmother is somehow listening from up above and would be appalled by this particular bit of information.
“Like what?” I ask. Watching him squirm is kind of fun.
“You know which one,” he says. And then, in barely a whisper, “Free Pussy Riot.”
“That’s a band,” I say, “not a dirty word.” You’d think a doctor would have no problem saying the word “pussy” out loud.
“Jo, it’s not just the T-shirts. You’ve called in the wrong prescriptions for my patients more times than I’d like to admit.”
“Some of those drugs have very complicated names,” I say in my own defense. And for the record, they do.
“That doesn’t mean you can give a patient a more pronounceable drug without consulting me first.”
“Then maybe you and your colleagues should start
prescribing
more pronounceable drugs,” I argue. He furrows his brow in response. “But I’m your favorite employee!” I plead.
“You balanced the company checkbook wrong the last three out of four quarters.”
“You know that I’m not an accountant.” When he hired me for the job two years ago, I knew that there would be some accounting involved. What I hadn’t realized at the time was that I would have to be quite so specific with the numbers. Which is a challenge for me, seeing as I’m really more of a right-brain kind of person.
“But you know how to balance your own checkbook, don’t you?” he says.
For the record, I don’t.
“Of course I know how to balance my own checkbook,” I say and laugh, as if to say, “Doesn’t everybody?” “A business checkbook is much, much different than a personal checkbook,” I explain.
For the record, it’s not.
“I’m your most loyal employee,” I say. My last resort. I find myself alternating between staring into his solid gold, monogrammed Tiffany belt buckle and his shellacked black hair, because I can’t meet his eyes.
“This is difficult for me, too, you know,” he says, even though I know that it’s not.
“Do you realize how embarrassing this is going to be for me?” I say. Manipulative, I know, but it’s not exactly like I have anything left in my arsenal.
“I thought you don’t get embarrassed,” he replies, looking into my eyes, challenging me.
“I don’t,” I say, frowning like a little girl who hasn’t gotten the piece of candy that she wanted.
“Don’t take this personally, Pumpkin.”
“You can’t call me Pumpkin when you’re firing me, Daddy.”
“You got fired by your own father?” my best friend, Chloe, asks me.
“I know,” I reply. “It’s a new low. Even for me.”
“What a dick move,” my boyfriend, Jesse, says. Thank God I still have Jesse. I don’t know what I would do without him. He understands me in a way that no one else ever has before—and I like to think that I understand him that same way, too.
Jesse is looking over Chloe’s shoulder to see if the band is about to start. We are at a tiny Lower East Side club that is packed to capacity to see The Rage, one of our favorite local bands. “He could have at least had your dick brother do it.”
“Andrew isn’t really a full partner in the practice yet,” I explain.
“You’re allowed to screw the Barbie doll nurse before you’re a full partner?” Chloe asks, brushing her silky black hair off her shoulders. Andrew’s girlfriend—the office’s head nurse—does bear a striking resemblance to a Barbie doll. But, to be fair, my brother does look quite a lot like Ken. Still, it’s pretty tough talk coming from a woman who’s only five-foot-two.
“At least you still have the Bumblebee,” Jesse says, referring to my bright yellow VW Beetle.
“Forget the Bee, at least you still have a parking space in the garage of your building,” Chloe says. “An even more elusive asset in Manhattan than an actual car.”
“You’re right,” I say. “I guess.”
“Still,” Jesse says, looking into my eyes. I love it when he burns his eyes into me. Even in the dark, I can see them clearly—a light sky blue, framed by thick black lashes, just like Jakob
Dylan. He has a thick black curl falling to the center of his forehead. He flips his head back quickly and it falls back in place with the masses of other curls piled on his head. “It still sucks.”
