Who You Know (10 page)

I dated a few guys over the next year, but it never got serious with any of them. Not until Gideon. Both Marcos and Gideon had a kind of music pulsing through them, making them seem more alive, more vital than most people I knew.

Maybe there's no such thing as romance. Maybe it's just a concept created by marketing executives to sell perfume and candles and novels and expensive dinners and weekend getaways.

Somehow though, despite all the pain, I still believed in love and happily ever after. But I also knew that there was something worse than being alone, and that was settling for less than you deserved. It's funny though, how the two men I'd loved had been so full of themselves they had no room left for me.

Every relationship called for some sort of compromise. The challenge was knowing when you were giving so much you were compromising yourself. It was a challenge I had yet to overcome.

 

 

I fell asleep on the couch early; it must have been before ten o'clock. Another exciting Saturday night.

I woke up Sunday morning at 6
A.M.
, feeling well rested and full of energy. I began cleaning the house, starting with cleaning out Martha's litter box.

I was wearing my flannel pajama bottoms and a stained sweatshirt. I pulled my hair back into a greasy ponytail. I wasn't wearing any makeup, and two large pimples on my chin foretold that my period was right around the corner. Ordinarily, I would never leave the house looking so bad—Gideon lived just a few buildings down from me. But Gideon would never get up before noon on a Sunday morning, so I knew I was safe.

I brought the litter box out to the Dumpster and heaved the litter into it just as a gust of wind rushed by, causing the litter to whirl back into my face in a vile dust storm. I was half blinded by the litter and coughing up the ammonia-filled dust I'd inhaled when I turned to see Gideon in the leather coat and tight black jeans he only wore when he went dancing at the clubs. Beside him was a tall, thin woman wearing a black patent leather cat suit and platform shoes. She had blond hair—blond-blond, not dishwater blond like mine but an unlikely cascading platinum sheen—to her waist. It was obvious they were just getting back from the clubs while I, with such an exciting social life I'd gone to bed at ten the night before, was cleaning out the cat litter box at 6
A.M.
on a Sunday.

Gideon nodded his head almost imperceptibly by way of greeting. I waved feebly in return.

JEN

I
peeked out from my office door and looked down the hallway first right, then left. There was no sign of Les. I took a deep breath and hastened down the hall to Sharon's office door. Ordinarily I would rather poke my eye out than go to lunch with Sharon, but if I wanted a chance to take over for Sharon while she was on maternity leave, I needed to market myself.

“Ready for lunch?” I asked.

“Are we ever. Boy, get pregnant and you just can't stop yourself. You're hungry all the time.”

Whatever, Sharon, you were a lard ass well before you were pregnant, don't blame the kid
. I smiled understandingly.

“I invited Lydia along, is that okay?” Sharon asked.

“Great!” Oh, dear god. Could my day get worse?

I left Sharon's office and immediately my question was answered. Yes, my day could get worse. There stood Les in the hallway, with a smile as moony and enthusiastic as a puppy wagging its tail.

“Hi, Jen,” he said.

“Hey, Les,” I said, avoiding his gaze. It looked like he wanted to talk, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lydia coming down the hall. For once, I was happy to see her because she gave me a good excuse to ignore Les.

“Happy Monday!” Lydia said.

“Ready?” Sharon was standing at the doorway of her office, slipping her enormous, duffle bag-size purse on her shoulder.

“I told my husband we'd meet him at the Sink for lunch,” Lydia said. “Is that okay? Me and the kid are craving pizza like crazy!”

How was I supposed to kiss up to Sharon with Lydia and her husband in my way?

Two pregnant ladies and an accountant as lunch companions and a lovelorn fat boy named Lester lusting after me. What had I done to deserve this?

“Great!” I said.

 

 

T
he only good thing about going to lunch with two pregnant women was that it made me feel very skinny. Watching them hoover up their pizza made me totally lose my appetite.

Sharon spent the entire meal complaining about the shiftless teleresearchers in her employ and about how she had eight million and one ways to single-handedly turn McKenna Marketing into a Fortune 100 company but the villainous Morgan McKenna thwarted her every innovation due to his ignorance and lack of forward thinking.

“And my back is absolutely
killing
me. My doctor gave me this special pillow to sleep with between my legs—”

I suppressed a shudder.

“—but it's just not helping. I know I'm not the first pregnant woman to suffer from back pain. You'd think they could do
something
. I mean, they can sew limbs on people and grow hearts from pigs for human use, don't you think they could do something to help my back? I mean the pain is
unbearable
. Sometimes I don't know how I get through the day.”

“But just knowing you're carrying a child makes the discomfort bearable, don't you think?” Lydia gushed. “And I've been getting so many back rubs and foot massages, I'm thinking about being pregnant all the time!” Lydia rubbed Dan's shoulder. He wasn't bad-looking; he had a good job. Why could Lydia land a good man but I couldn't even score a date? I was way prettier than her. It just didn't make sense.

“I just feel guilty; I was the one who knocked you up.” The three of them laughed. It took me a moment to remember to laugh too.

I strangled a lemon over my glass of water. It was infuriating. It was almost time to go back to the office, and we'd spent the whole hour talking about pregnancy when what we were supposed to be doing was discussing my ample credentials for advancement.

“I can't wait to have kids,” I said. “Sharon, I just don't know how you do it all, managing so many projects and such a large staff while you're pregnant. If you ever need any help, I'd be glad to assist. I've been looking for some more challenges.” There, I'd finally said it.

“I'd love some help. Thanks for offering.”

“You're in for it now,” Lydia joked. This time, I didn't forget to laugh with everyone else.

 

 

W
hen I got back to my desk, I felt a little better about my job, but I was feeling worse about my boyfriend status. There was nothing like a happily married pregnant couple to make you reflect on just what a sad and pathetic life you led.

After a couple of hours of work, I was dying for some water, but I was afraid to leave my desk lest I run into Les. On the other hand, Tom was a huge caffeine addict, so the chances of running into him in the kitchen were good.

Eventually, my bladder insisted I depart from the safety of my desk. Warily, I snuck down the hall to the bathroom. Victory! I made it without Les seeing me.

I returned from the bathroom using similarly diversionary tactics. This time, they were unsuccessful.

“Hey, Jen.”

My heart seized as I turned to face him. “Les!”

“I was wondering, can I take you to lunch tomorrow?”

“Shhh!” I said in a loud whisper. “I can't. I've got plans.”

“How about Wednesday?”

“No, I can't go to lunch with you Wednesday, not Thursday, not Friday, not ever. Do you want people to think we're a couple? Do you want me to be the butt of office gossip and destroy my career?”

“Of course not. I hadn't thought of it that way. Of course, you're right.”

“You haven't said anything to anyone, have you?”

“No, of course not.”

Thus assured, I relaxed a little. “Look, Les, you're a great guy, but we can't be seen talking to each other or going to lunch. We can say hi in the hallways, but that's it.”

“Can we get together after work? I'd love to take you to dinner. I . . .”

How many drugs was this man on? What was it with the egos of men that a guy like Les actually thought he deserved a woman like me? “Look Les, I'm getting over a serious relationship.” I was whispering so softly, Les pulled in closer to hear me. I pulled back and indicated with a pointed sweep of my eyes that we were not alone and he had to be more discreet. “It's been hard, and I've been drinking a little too much. I haven't been making the best decisions lately. What happened the other night happened because I'd had too much to drink; I was lonely. It's too soon for me to think about getting into another relationship, but even if it weren't, there is no way I'd date a co-worker.”
If, that is, he looks like you
.

“I can quit my job.”

“No!” I yelled, then quickly remembered myself and returned to a whisper. I was trying to be nice and let him off easy, but he was just not getting a clue. “Les, you're a great guy, but there is no possibility of us being a couple. Ever. Under any circumstances whatsoever.”

“Oh,” he said.

“I'll see you around.” I didn't want to hurt him, but there was obviously just no other way.

I nearly jumped when I stepped into my office. Tom was standing there, talking to Avery.

“I was just telling Tom about the Halloween party I'm having next Saturday night. He said he didn't have anything to wear, but I said you were thinking of going as Scully from
The X-Files
and he could easily pass as Mulder. All he'd need to do was wear a suit and you'd give him a badge that said FBI.”

I stared at Avery. This was the first I'd heard of a Halloween party. “Yeah, I mean that was just one idea I had. So Tom, what do you think?”

“Sure. That sounds cool. I'll pick you up, say around eight?”

“Perfect,” I said.

“Saturday,” he said, pointing to me just as he left our office.

It took me a moment to remember to breathe after he left. I turned to Avery. “What Halloween party?”

“I've been thinking about having one, and when Tom came in here to check out what was wrong with my e-mail, I figured what better way to get you together?”

“Scully? That is so unsexy.”

“I had to think quick of something you two could go as together. I said you were thinking of going as Scully but needed a Mulder. I believe some thank-yous are in order.”

“You're right. Of course. Thanks, Avery. You're the best.” I smiled, feeling practically human for the first time all day.

The prospect of seeing Tom at the party cheered me, but only a little. Why had I slept with his overweight coworker? What if he found out? What if anyone found out? Why was I behaving so stupidly? I was glad Dave was out of my life. I just needed to be in a good relationship to ground me, a relationship with a guy like Tom.

RETTE

I
spent far too much time waiting like an expectant lover after a promising first date for the phone to ring. Why wasn't McKenna Marketing calling? The rejection was excruciating. And none of the other résumés I'd sent out were getting me interviews. The worst was having to explain, over and over to Jen, Avery, Mom, Dad, and Greg, that no, no one was interested in me, there had been no new developments in the job front, I was just a big old unemployable loser.

I felt like my life was on hold. I wanted my future to begin. I fantasized about paid sick days and having health insurance. I envisioned getting a stressful, high-paying job and wearing nice suits like Jen did, or getting a job editing for a small magazine and eventually getting a better job at a bigger magazine where I'd earn scads of awards and endless critical acclaim.

Looking for work was about as relaxing as a shopping mall parking lot at Christmas time. When I wasn't fantasizing about becoming a senior editor at the
New Yorker
or Random House, I fixated on our albatross of debt.

I made millions of budgets and long-term financial plans. Even in the best case scenario, it would be years before Greg and I could put a down payment on a home. Mom had told me over and over that the only way to get ahead was to invest in a house. Getting ahead seemed preposterously abstract when we were struggling so hard not to fall further behind.

Every time I sent out a résumé, I felt as hopeful as if I'd bought a lottery ticket. The chances of getting a decent job were equivalent to my chances of winning a zillion dollars. Who knew how many people applied for each job I applied for? Maybe they hired from within or hired the boss's nephew's friend.

I was so desperate, I entertained the idea of becoming a technical writer. I had no interest in it, but the pay was decent and it was at least tangentially related to my major. Of course the ads specified that I needed years of experience and knowledge of computer programs I'd never heard of. It was quite depressing to realize I wasn't even qualified for jobs I didn't want.

 

 

I flipped through the pages of
Bride's
magazine. I loved all the intricately designed dresses, the lace, the fabric, the satin shoes, the veils, the gloves, the flowers, the sophisticated, emaciated models who always looked so content.

The wedding itself terrified me. In my fantasies I was an elegant, demure bride who would host an event that would be talked about for years to come. The reality was that I hated the idea of everyone watching me walk down the aisle and say my vows. I hated public speaking. How could I say my vows in front of everyone I cared about and, more important, the people I didn't particularly care about but wanted to impress?

The wedding was ten months away and I was already having trouble sleeping. How could I relax with images of stumbling over my vows or my dress falling off plaguing me? Or tripping on my way down the aisle. God, what if I broke my leg and the wedding, all the months of planning and all that money, went to waste because I needed to be rushed to the hospital? What if one of us got sick or I broke out in hives the day before the wedding? What if I got a really terrible hair cut? For sure at least three of my nails would break the week of the wedding.

Why was I worrying about my wedding when it was still months away? I didn't handle stress well, never had. Even as a kid I came home from kindergarten with sidesplitting stomachaches if I ever missed a question on a spelling test or if little Freddy Hanson called me Carrot Top. I suffered from allergies, tension headaches, gastrointestinal problems, and an increasingly serious weight problem. I was an evolutionary reject. In any other era I would have been mercifully exposed on a mountainside long ago.

I was already in training for the big day, practicing looking graceful and skinny in high heels. I paced up and down the living room floor trying to feel elegant and bridal despite the oversized, faded sweats I wore to train in. I tried not to wince in pain from the constricting shoes as I imagined myself as a glamorous model striding down a catwalk. Just as I was losing myself to the fantasy, I lost my balance, and my shin went careening into the coffee table. I fell to the floor, gripping my damaged shin. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

Someone knocked at the door. I fought through my pain to teeter over to the door, my feet screaming for me to free them from the vise-like shoes.

“Should I ask?” Avery said, eyeing my sweats-and-heels ensemble and following me inside.

“I'm scared I'll trip when I walk down the aisle, so I'm practicing.”

“I thought you hated heels.”

“I do, but weddings aren't about comfort, they're about beauty.”

“I thought they were about love and commitment.”

“Whatever, yeah, that, too.”

“Isn't the wedding like ten months away?”

“I really need the practice,” I said, collapsing on the couch beside Avery, rubbing my bruised shin. “Oh my god, these shoes are torture. In college I used to waitress, you know? And being on my feet for hours gave me this bunion that makes these shoes even more unbearable. I only waited tables for six months, but the job left my right foot permanently deformed. Only surgery can correct it. Mine isn't bad enough to go through all that. So I just have to buy shoes that are like a size too big for me. What I want to know is, why don't shoemakers notice that women's feet don't come to a point at their toes? And why do they make shoes so damn skinny?”

“I don't mean to gloat or anything, but you do realize that you're talking to someone who had the good sense to get married at the Justice of the Peace?”

“Yeah yeah, okay. But didn't you ever want a big wedding?”

“Sometimes I wish we had. But we didn't have any money, and the important thing was that we were in love and I was marrying a gorgeous, sophisticated, wonderful—at least so I thought—man. So have you decided what you and Greg are going as for Halloween?” she said, changing the subject.

“I have some ideas.” Historically I'd tried to ignore Halloween, but I wasn't going to let Avery down.

Halloween was a holiday for people with creativity and enough self-esteem to look ridiculous. I could never think of anything creative, and I didn't like spending money or time hunting through thrift stores to come up with props. I wasn't the kind of person who saved old stuff and had yarn and glue and paint stored in some closet and could miraculously transform it into some clever costume.

“I'm so bad at Halloween. What are you going as?” I said.

“It's going to be a surprise. So what are these ideas of yours?”

“I was thinking we could go as literary characters. I could go as Hester Pr ynne and wear a scarlet
A.
But I'd need a bonnet and an apron. I thought Greg could go as a savage school boy from the
Lord of the Flies,
but we'd need to get him a conch.”

“I have a conch and an apron.”

“You own an apron? And a conch? That's amazing. I wish I kept handy things like that around.”

“It's not handy. I'm just a pack rat.”

“Are you inviting Art to your party?”

“I think it would be awkward to meet at a party.”

“You're just chicken. Don't lie.”

“That could very well be. I guess I don't want to find out he's human. I like the Prince Charming I've made him out to be in my head.”

“Men usually are better in theory,” I agreed.

 

 

It would not be inaccurate to call me a social misfit. I preferred to spend my weekends at home reading or watching a video with Greg than going out and partying. So of course I wasn't going to attempt to go to Avery's Halloween party sober. Beer was another thing I wasn't supposed to drink, yet another substance that had a nefarious influence on my stomach, but I had vats of Maalox and Pepcid to appease my ornery internal organs.

Getting myself to the party wasn't the only obstacle. I had to plead and cajole Greg into going. Like me, Greg was opposed to looking like an idiot, but I finally convinced him that he would have a blast and his costume would be brilliant, and besides, what else were we going to do for Halloween?

 

 

I
had to explain my costume and Greg's costume about four hundred times. Greg joked that graduate school had turned him into a savage. It was cute the first time, but it lost its appeal by the eleventh time I'd heard it.

One of the main reasons I liked to be in a relationship was to avoid confronting social situations solo. However, I ditched Greg as soon as he started telling the story about his boss at his last job. The punch line was not even funny. The first time I heard it, we were on our second date. I'd laughed, which only encouraged him. It was the beginning of a new love. I was giddy and happy then. So sue me.

The house full of smiling strangers made me tense. I tried to chug my beer, but all the beer-guzzling talents I'd developed as an undergraduate had faded, and I had to settle for sipping my beer demurely.

I surveyed the room, looking for Avery. There were the usual random goblin/scary types, someone in neon green with a sign that said “Toxic Waste,” a woman with a lampshade on her head and a nightstand around her waist that was a one-night stand, and an assortment of other costumes, all of which were better executed and more creative than my frumpy Hester Prynne. Avery caught my eye from across the room, but it wasn't until she smiled and came toward me that I recognized her. Her makeup was amazing: her body, face and clothes were splattered in paint, splashes of green, blue, and black that somehow wove together beautifully. I could barely distinguish her face.

“Quit hiding in the corner,” she said. “I want to introduce you to some of my coworkers. They don't work in editing, but maybe they can somehow put a good word in for you anyway.”

“You look awesome. What are you?” I asked.

“I'm supposed to be a Jackson Pollock painting.”

“Of course. You look so good.”

“Thank you, Rette.”

“I can't believe I didn't think of that. You look exactly like that. You look great.”

Avery introduced me to Lydia, who was good-looking in a bland, wholesome way. Her nurse's costume strained over her pregnant belly.

“Where's Dan?” Avery asked.

“He wasn't feeling well, so I brought my cousin Ben as my date. What are you supposed to be?” Lydia asked me with a toothy smile.

Didn't anyone fucking read anymore? Why did I live in such an illiterate country?

“Hester Prynne. From
The Scarlet Letter
. The book. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. It's a great work of literature?”

Finally, a look of recognition passed across her face. “That was made into a movie with Winona Ryder, right? She's so great, don't you think?”

“Mmm.”

“I dressed as a nurse because
ER
is my favorite show. I never miss Thursday night ‘Must see TV.' ”

I smiled and thought
, How embarrassing for you to admit that.

Thankfully, just then Jen and her latest boyfriend had finally shown up dressed as Dana Scully and Fox Mulder from
The X-Files.

“Jen is here,” I said. “I should probably go say hi. It was nice meeting you.”

Jen looked gorgeous in a green pantsuit with a badge pinned to her lapel that read FBI.

“Sorry we're late,” Jen said.

“No problem. You look great.” Next to Jen, I felt even frumpier and more old-fashioned. Hester Prynne was about as sexy as roadkill. Everybody knew who Jen was supposed to be.
The X-Files
were just slightly more hip than an eighteenth-century literary character.

“I'd like you to meet Tom,” Jen said. “He works in our IT department, but before that he was a white-water raft guide, a blackjack dealer, a carpenter, and a paramedic. Doesn't that sound exciting? Tom, tell her that story you were telling me the other day about when you were a paramedic.”

“Oh yeah, that was kind of interesting. I was telling Jen about how, this one time, we had these two whacked-out cases right in a row. First we were called to the home of an eighty-eight-year-old woman with pneumoxia—that means that she had too much liquid in her lungs and not enough in her blood.” Tom was cute in a rough way. He said “wit” instead of “with” and his hard gestures emphasized his muscular arms. “She was blue, just blue from lack of oxygen. We needed to get an oxygenating valve to force air into her lungs, but all of her veins were collapsed. I mean she was so sickly, we had no way to get the valve in her. There was nothing we could do, except there's this procedure an EJ stick, an external jugular stick—you
jam
it right into the patient's jugular. It can be really dangerous if it's not done right. You only do it if the patient is absolutely going to die without it because if you don't hit the caroted artery, it cuts the flow of blood to the head. I mean you're jamming a huge needle into a patient's neck. None of my partners had ever done it;
I'd
never done it. Ken and Jim were like, I'm not going to do it, what if we mess up and the family sues us? But I was like, she's most likely going to die anyway, why not give it a shot? So I took a needle and stuck ten cc's of epinephrine right into her neck and instantly, instantly the woman turned pink and started moving, started talking, asked what had happened. This had all happened in moments; we were still at her house. It's kind of unusual to see a patient reanimate right in front of me. Usually they're unconscious when we pick them up until after we've dropped them off at the hospital. Our job is to just keep them alive while transporting them. So it was kind of cool. I was feeling really high, like I'd really saved a life instead of just helping somebody cling to life till I got her to the hospital. So I'm feeling good, we're on our way home, we stop at a stop light, and this man knocks on the door to our ambulance. For a second I think he's going to try to steal the ambulance or I don't know what, but he gestures to indicate that he can't breathe, and sure enough he's turning blue. My partners and I get out of the cab and walk around to the back of the ambulance to give him some oxygen. We give him some oxygen, and the guy says he's feeling much better, and then he dies, just collapses right there.”