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Merry has that look, especially when the DJ plays Madonna’s “Santa Baby.” She pretty much does a spotlight solo for that song, which nobody else considers danceable.
Mental Note: Never, under any circumstances, dance alone, no matter how much you love the song.
“Man, I’d hate to be Merry on January second,” Brenda comments as my friends and I and Jack stand around watching her from the bar.
“Yeah,” I say. “She’s probably curled in a fetal position with pine needles in her hair.”
“Nah, by then she’s booking her flight to Punxsatawney and airing out the groundhog suit,” Jack says unexpectedly, and we all laugh.
“He’s a keeper,” Yvonne rasps as he flags down the bartender to order another round for all of us.
“Yeah, Tracey, how’d you hook up with him?” Brenda asks.
I shrug. “We just started talking.”
Another big plus: My friends approve. And he seems to like them, too. He’s even a good sport about Latisha, aspiring photographer, who insists on taking a picture of me and Jack together. He puts his arm around my shoulder and smiles, like we’re old pals. Or a couple.
He seems to know a lot of people who work at the agency, and he introduces me to them as Tracey from account management.
He’s too good to be true.
What’s the catch?
There has to be a catch, dammit. There’s always a catch. Men like this don’t just drop into your lap when you least expect it. Well, they certainly don’t drop into mine.
The crowd is starting to thin out. Brenda keeps looking at her watch, saying Paulie is going to kill her.
I don’t want to leave yet.
Or ever.
I’m boozy and blissful, leaning against the bar talking to Jack while the DJ plays one of my favorite U2 songs, “With or Without You.”
As the song heats up, Jack leans over and kisses me.
I kiss him back.
Everything falls away. Brenda and her watch, the music, the bar. There’s just me and Jack, floating in space. At Space. In front of a few hundred co-workers and, for all I know, my boss.
When we come up for air, my friends are gone.
Oops.
In fact, almost everybody’s gone, and the DJ is announcing last call.
“Where do you live?” Jack asks, taking my hand and strolling me toward the coat check.
“East Village. How about you?”
“Brooklyn. Let’s get a cab.”
To where? The East Village? Brooklyn? (Yeah, I know, a borough, but Jack’s the exception to the bridge-and-tunnel-people-aren’t-cool rule.) His intent isn’t clear, but what the hell?
I’ve got other things to worry about right now. It’s all I can do to concentrate on finding my coat-check tag. Jack helps me look. We both crack jokes and laugh hysterically the entire time.
I guess you had to be there. And drunk.
Ultimately, we arrive at the hilarious—at least, to us—conclusion that I’ve misplaced the tag. I then have to focus on not slurring when I describe my outdated wool coat to the utterly unamused and fashionable coat-check girl.
Outside, the arctic air hits me, along with a big dose of reality. Suddenly nothing seems funny.
I just made out with some guy at the office party. Now I’m leaving with him.
Does he think he’s coming to my place? Does he think I’m going to his place?
I should insist on separate cabs to our respective places, just to make sure this doesn’t go any further.
For some reason, Buckley’s face pops into my head. I hear Buckley’s voice warning me to stay away from strange guys.
I promised him. At least, I think I did.
But Buckley doesn’t have to know…
No. Stop it, Tracey.
Sleeping with some guy you just met and will never see again is one thing. A bad thing.
Sleeping with a co-worker you just met is…
Well, it’s just out of the question.
It’s the ultimate Don’t.
I stand on the sidewalk by a garbage can and smoke a cigarette, trying to sober up while Jack stands in the street and tries to hail a cab. They’re few and far between, and when he finally gets one, I’m not about to tell him to let me take it alone. I mean, that would make me a Don’t and a Bitch. A Bitchy Don’t.
I giggle. I can’t help it.
Jack looks at me. “What’s funny?”
I wipe the goofy grin off my face. “What?”
“Didn’t you just laugh?”
“Me? Nope. Not me.”
Jack looks confused.
I smile pleasantly. At least, I hope I do. For all I know, another burst of maniacal laughter can escape me at any moment.
Oh, Lord, am I ever trashed. I try to send myself Sober Up vibes as we climb into the back seat, which smells of mildew unsuccessfully masked by fruity air freshener. I immediately tell the driver my address.
“And after that, I need to go to Brooklyn,” Jack says through the plastic window.
Instant relief. He’s not planning on coming home with me.
Bitter disappointment. He’s not planning on coming home with me.
As the cab barrels down Ninth Avenue, I focus on the driver’s name on his license fastened to the dashboard. To inebriated moi it looks like Ishmael Ishtar, and I vaguely wonder which is his first name and which is his last.
Then Jack puts his arm around me and pulls me closer. Kisses me. I feel weak.
In the front seat, the driver speaks in a foreign language into his two-way radio.
In the back seat, Jack makes me forget everything I promised myself five minutes ago.
All too soon, we’re at my building. Jack opens the door, and we both step out onto the sidewalk.
“Can I come up?” he asks, low, in my ear.
“You already told Ishmael you’re going to Brooklyn.”
“Huh?”
I gesture at the driver.
“Oh.” He shrugs. “I’ll give him a big tip.”
He kisses me, an intensely sweeping kiss.
Life comes down to a few Moments of Truth. This is one of them.
What will happen if I say yes?
What will happen if I say no?
There’s no way of knowing.
Nothing to do but take a deep breath—and make a decision.
5
Monday morning, I wear a frumpy navy rayon dress that’s two sizes too big for me, no makeup and sunglasses.
The sky hangs low and gray over Manhattan, but I don’t give a damn. I’m in disguise. At least, in the lobby and in the elevator, where I stand in the back silently facing straight ahead while the crowd chatters about the office party.
Is it my imagination, or are people nudge-nudge, wink-winking about me?
It has to be my imagination. I’m no stranger to paranoia. Just because I flirted—
Oh, all right, made out with—
—some guy at the office party, well, that doesn’t mean anybody noticed. Or that if they noticed, they care.
Insert Kinks’ guitar riff here. Duh…duh-duh…duh-duh-duh-duh-duh. Paranoia, Self-Destroya…
I find myself wishing I had called in sick today. Or, um, you know…quit.
On my floor, Lydia greets me as usual from beneath a green-and-silver garland of tinsel. She doesn’t even do a double take before chirping, “Morning, Tracey” and going back to her Newsday.
Mental Note: Disguise not 100 percent foolproof.
I have to take off the glasses anyway when I get to my desk. Luckily, it’s barely nine o’clock and the place is deserted. It’s also got that Monday-morning chill after a weekend with the heat turned down.
I’m shivering as I head for the kitchenette—also deserted—and grab coffee from the community pot. Normally I drink it with skim milk and an Equal, but I hear somebody coming and duck out the opposite door sloshing black coffee all over my hand. Ouch, dammit!
This is ridiculous. I can’t go sneaking around all day like I’m starring in The Mole.
Why, oh why, was I such an all-out Don’t on Saturday night? Why didn’t I stop and consider the consequences?
Back at my cubicle, I set my coffee on my desk and take several deep breaths. I can’t stop shaking, and it’s not just because it’s cold in here. I feel a panic attack coming on.
Needing a distraction, I turn on my computer and sip some coffee while it whirs into action, and then I log on to the Internet and see that I’ve got a bunch of e-mails. One is from Buckley, asking if I want to have lunch today; one is from Kate, asking how the Christmas party was; three are from my sister-in-law Sara, all of them forwarded jokes as old as my screen name. But she and Joey are new to e-mail, so lame forwards are still a novelty to them.
“Hey, what happened to you on Saturday night, girlfriend?” Latisha calls from somewhere behind me, in her loudest yoo-hoo voice.
“Shh!” I wave my arms at her, almost knocking over my coffee.
“Here,” she says, handing over my camera. “I figured you were going to lose this at the club, the way you were—”
“Carrying on?” I supply when she hesitates.
“That’s one way to put it.” She smirks. “Anyway, I brought it home safely for you.”
“Thanks.” I didn’t even realize until now that I didn’t have it. “But why didn’t you bring me home safely? You guys abandoned me.”
“We didn’t abandon you. We told you we were leaving,” Brenda pipes up, materializing behind Latisha. “Three times. You didn’t hear us. You were too busy kissing that guy.”
I cringe.
The two of them park themselves on my desk, wearing expectant expressions.
“Well?” Latisha asks. “Did you go home with him?”
“No!” I act totally outraged, as though the thought never would have entered my chaste mind. “Do you guys really think I’m that sleazy?”
They look at each other. Obviously, they do.
“You were kind of all over each other,” Brenda says with a shrug. “I was a little surprised.”
