On The Verge

At work the next day, I don’t hear from Tabitha until she calls at noon (when she finally rolls in) thinking I am going to be a wreck, but, it is she who is moving slowly. I ask her about the rest of her night. Despite the presence of several “fabulous celebs,” she is really most excited about the Kevin meeting and his kind compliments. Of course, she has to take some credit.

“Remember when I told you how to shape them better?”

“Yes, Tabitha, I owe it all to you.”

“Well, it really all goes back to Kevin. I mean, I got the idea out of his book. But, you know I can’t help feeling a bit envious. First you meet Prescott and now this. Two of my personal heroes you manage to charm.”

“I didn’t exactly meet Prescott, or charm anyone. It’s really thanks to you that I know who both of them are.”

“Well, I guess you’re right.” Everyone feels a lot better now.

I was so undrunk last night that I had a long talk with Roseanne when I got home. She had waited up for me after her short-lived disaster date. Apparently her breasts also were in the spotlight. She had just sat down for a nice dinner with Brad (okay so the tipoff should have been when he took her to a midtown tourist trap) when, feeling a little hot, she slipped off her blazer.

“Wow,” he gasped. “What a set of jugs.” Needless to say, Roseanne considered getting a doggie bag for her dinner and bailing, but she stuck it out through Brad’s leerings and boring descriptions of his ad accounts, specifically a tartar control toothpaste and how they made the tartar look especially gross.

“Yuck,” I said.

“Worse, when I got back, I wanted to go for a run, but your mom was up and she forced me to discuss portobello mushrooms.”

“How bizarre. Poor you.”

Just as we were falling asleep, we realized that we only had four more days until we moved in and became true New Yorkers.

I have to deposit the check Roseanne gave me. She handed it over a little nervously; apparently she’s down to her last three hundred dollars after I cash it. We have to send in our first month’s rent and deposit. Somewhere along the line Mrs. Yakimoto raised the rent to fifteen hundred and in all the excitement, I agreed. I am keeping this from Roseanne until she gets a job. Not fun.

I head to the bank at lunch and hand the bank teller my money and the deposit slip. She’s a really attractive British woman. I wonder why she’s working in a bank.

“Eve Vitali?” She looks up at me, questioning.

“Yes, what?”

“That’s your name.” I nod. She smiles at me, a perfect tartar-controlled smile.

“Well, that’s a grand name—a telly name. I’m charmed by it. Absolutely.” Wow! I love British people.

I walk back to the office. It’s cool out, really perfect weather, and I just feel like everything is working. Ever have one of those days when you just feel perfect, unsinkable, nothing can touch you, because it’s just going to roll right off? It’s all going to fall into place finally. The apartment, my job, everything. I wanted the apartment and I got it. Didn’t Kevin say I had nice eyebrows? I feel like I’m floating. A telly name? Imagine that. Thanks, Mom and Dad, you’ve made me destined for greatness, just by choosing the perfect name.

When I get back to the office Lorraine looks at me strangely. I am so cheery, so far from being fake. I am a strong woman, I can do anything.

“Um.” She looks so uncomfortable. “Lacey Matthews got the job.”

“How wonderful,” I say. Not great, wonderful, and I mean it. We walk together to my desk. Good for Lacey Matthews. Nice name, not a telly name, but I wish her all the success in the world.

Lorraine still seems uncomfortable, she should just relax. She’s awkwardly holding a stack of napkins. “Herb took her out to lunch.” Lorraine takes my arm firmly before I get to my desk. “She brought Max in. You know, the dog?” She looks down and I follow her gaze.

For the rest of the afternoon, me, my perfectly shaped eyebrows and telly name mop up the floor and try to ignore the disinfectant smell mixed with the dog piss.

November

I race up the stairs the moment we get the key, early Saturday morning. Roseanne follows behind me (she can usually run faster, but she is giving me the lead). We both kind of take a deep breath before I open the door.

I was expecting a palace, but what I find is just a really nice average-size apartment. Anywhere else it would be worth less than half of what we are paying. Here in New York, it’s a place I want to call home. The floors are amazing. Roseanne, seeing that I don’t hate it, starts pointing out more features. I follow behind her, looking at the windows, the bathtub, the brand-new stove.

“So?” she asks.

“Wow!” I grab her arm. “Good job.”

“Dusty,” says my mother, before sneezing.

“Where should I put these?” asks Phil, one of my dad’s buddies, holding up a box of my clothes. My dad says nothing.

The room I get is pretty big. It’s a washed-out dingy white, which eventually we will have to change. The closets are huge. Rosie’s cranny, as we call it henceforth, is a smaller alcove next to the kitchen with a sleep loft above the kitchen. In the alcove, she has space for a desk and maybe a bureau. It’s actually kind of cute.

I’m really happy that my dad’s friend Phil is helping out, even though we see a lot of his butt crack. My dad is still on hyperspeed, he’s rushing up the stairs with everything, but thanks to Phil, there is a lot less for him to take. My mom cleans the whole time. She brought her super-duper vacuum and vows to buy us a small vacuum so we can be “on the ball about cleaning.” The thing about my mom is she keeps giving me these hugs and saying “my little girl” like I’m getting married or something. My father stands on the fire escape, which we will henceforth call either the balcony or the veranda, and smokes.

The whole process takes about two and a half hours. Phil goes to the store and gets a bunch of sandwiches and some beer. Then, we sit around on the hardwood floors eating. I look at my dad to make sure he is not going to have a heart attack, but he is happily gnawing away at his pastrami and swiss with mayo.

“So,” asks my mother as she leaves, “are you coming home for Thanksgiving?”

“Mom! I’m not living in Alaska! Of course I will, it’s only an hour train ride.”

“Okay, honey! Remember you can always come home.”

“Okay, Ma, okay.” As my father leads her out, I hear her start questioning whether or not the lock is safe.

Rosie and I work steadily for a while. We put up shelves, hang a few posters, unpack clothes, arrange the bathroom. By the time we get the apartment closer to the way we want and make a list of the things we need, it’s almost nine o’clock.

We stand out on the veranda and look out over 7th Avenue. If we turn to the right we can see all the way up to the lights of Times Square. “Tired?”

“A little—” Rosie leans against the stairs “—but I wouldn’t mind a drink.”

We don’t even bother to shower. We (I) invite Tabitha, who agrees to go out with us, but informs us that she is “not in the mood to excess.” Adrian declines because he has a date.

Tabitha arrives with puffy eyes. She refuses to talk about Jaques. He left for Paris a few days ago. She surveys the place. “Not bad. This is a loft.”

“Thanks, we knew that,” Rosie says, getting up to finish putting on her makeup. You’d think in their times of need they could be nice to each other. Wrong.

“How do you plan to fill your days?” Tabitha yells toward the closed door.

“C’mon on, now,” I plead with her. Tabitha looks like she might start crying again at any minute. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I’ve got a tennis lesson.”

“Tennis?”

“Yeah, I need something to fill my time away from Jaques. The circles I want to run in are full of people who play tennis. I would encourage you to look into it.”

“No thanks, I like to be sedentary.”

“Even with Ms. Jazzercise, here?” Ms. Jazzercise herself opens the door to the bathroom and emerges with an obvious foundation line. There is no way she needs to wear this much makeup. Maybe I should buy the Kevin book and leave it open to a page that talks about minimalism. I look at Tabitha and shake my head.

“Okay let’s go, ladies.” I clap my hands together like my mother.

Tabitha wants us to go to this lounge all the way over by the river.

“C’mon, there’s so many other places. Both of us are a little weary. We just want to sit and drink and not have to worry about anyone looking at our breasts.” Roseanne nods in agreement, probably too scared to say anything.

“Why not?” Tabitha is confused.

“Tabitha, at least think of Jaques. We don’t want a meat market.”

We wind up at Peter McManus. It’s an Irish pub with a kickass jukebox. This is the type of place that I would think Tabitha would hate, but she gets up and puts at least two dollars in the jukebox. She keeps telling us we are going to love her selections. When each song ends we pause and look to Tabitha for a word on whether the new one is one of her choices. It’s always a good one, but never one of the ones she picked.

We drink a lot while waiting for her songs to come on.

While Rosie is in the bathroom, I ask Tabitha if she’ll call Johann, the German banker.

“Eve, what about my feelings? I’m just getting over one European.”

“Tabitha, you don’t have to date him, just give him a call.”

“You never tire of testing me. Oh, God.” She gets up. “Shit, shit. This is it. My song.” I leap up, too. It’s “Suspicious Minds” by the King himself. We start dancing and dancing and when Roseanne comes out she starts dancing, too. Some of the regulars look over at us and laugh. They sing along, but it’s just kind of us, fucking up the words, making up dance moves. It’s a good drunk.