On the Verge (8 page)

Roseanne and I play good cop/bad cop for a while getting Brad’s (of course) employment history out. It figures he works in advertising. Rosie is into it. I can imagine Tabitha smirking as we are in the process of picking up the cheesiest men in the bar. That is, Rosie is. I am not interested in Paul, the fat friend.

“So you work for a publishing company,” Paul asks, smiling at me with bad teeth.

“Yeah.”

“You girls got an apartment here in the city?”

“No, we are visiting from Tulsa, and we’ll be leaving tomorrow.” Roseanne shoots me a look. It’s amazing that she can hear me so clearly with her back to me yet she needs to lean so close to Brad’s lips to understand him. I correct myself, for her sake. For the sake of love, if you will.

Anyway, we imbibe quite a bit. So much so that at one point I must mistakenly give Paul the go ahead to kiss me (maybe it’s just the example set by face sucking Roseanne and Brad), but I quickly put a stop to that.

Roseanne walks away with a business card and a date for next Thursday night (props to her). Luckily, it’s the night I’m going to the Fashion Awards with Tabitha. Once again we are back on the bus, but this time we get to pass out. I wake up just in time for our stop and note that Rosie has a smile on her face as she sleeps. It warms the cockles of my cold heart.

“I found it!” Roseanne says when I pick up the phone. Herb happens to be standing near my desk, talking to one of the writers.

“What’s that?” I try to sound professional.

“The most wonderful apartment!” Let me just say that ever since her date prospect, she’s been a little happier, but finding the perfect apartment is nothing to joke about. I feel my heart start to beat. This could be the new beginning.

“Where?”

“Chelsea. Right on 7th Avenue. It’s amazing. The landlady’s cousin showed it to me. She says they’re making their decision tomorrow. Eve, there were like thirty other people there.”

“How much?”

“Only fourteen. Only? Gosh, I never thought I would say that. Shit, I’m becoming a New Yorker. Eve, I am serious, we have to get this apartment. Have to. Call the landlady and schmooze her. You’re good at that.” Really?

“Okay, give me the number.” She gives it to me. Her name is Mrs. Yakimoto. “How many bedrooms?”

“Well it’s just one bedroom with this alcove and a sleep loft. The bedroom and the loft aren’t that big, but the living room and everything else is huge. It’s unbelievable, it’s amazing. Eve, I haven’t seen an apartment this nice. Oh, shit.” Roseanne is getting real accustomed to this cursing thing. She is loving her new New Yorkness. It’s actually rubbing off on me and I find myself wanting this apartment sight unseen.

I hang up the phone. I smile up at Herb, who just sort of stares at me, like I am somehow representative of a generation of young women that he would never want to attempt to understand.

“Searching for an apartment,” I say.

“I hear it’s tough these days.” I smile and nod, hoping he will go away so I can make personal phone calls.

“Can you send this out for me, Eve?” He hands me a big puffy envelope full of stuff. Now as I said, Herb is a very self-sufficient man, but little things like “sending stuff out” are beyond him. This man has published books and had honorary and real degrees from all over but can’t figure out the Prescott Nelson mail system. Basically, our mail system entails just dropping it in a bin for someone else to come and take care of postage. It’s wonderful. My mother gives me care packages to send to my sister all the time. No one questions anything. All it takes is a
Bicycle Boy
or Prescott Nelson label. Since Herb has already written out the address, all I have to do is put the package in the mail bin next to
my desk. It’s easy enough, and the nice thing is it makes both Herb and I feel like I am earning my title as “assistant.”

I take the package from him. I ooze efficiency. “Great. I’ll do it right away.”

I call Mrs. Yakimoto. She lives on Long Island. Her son answers the phone. He can’t be more than six. He screams for his mother to get the phone. She answers and speaks in slightly accented English.

“Mrs. Yakimoto, my name is Eve Vitali. My roommate Roseanne looked at the apartment today.”

“Yes, I think my cousin mentioned her. There have been so many calls today.” Mrs. Yakimoto sounds a little stressed. I can hear her kids in the background.

“Well, we are really interested in the apartment and we are really hoping to get it.”

“I know, but I wasn’t expecting to rent to two people and you haven’t even see the apartment yet. I never expected to even have this apartment to rent. My cousin decided to get married and now she wants to move uptown. She said she would handle it, but I still have to talk to all these people. Do you believe people are offering me six months’ rent?”

“Yes, I do. It’s really tough to get an apartment in the city.” I hear one of Mrs. Yakimoto’s children bawling and she yells at them in another language and gets back on the phone with me.

“Are those your kids?”

“Yes, I have four.”

“Well, Mrs. Yakimoto, I’m sure the last thing you want to do is worry about all of this. I just want to tell you how great my roommate Roseanne thinks the apartment is and how much we would really love it.”

“Well, I have to talk to my husband about this. You girls seem very nice, but it’s a lot to decide. I will call you back tomorrow.”

“Okay, but Mrs. Yakimoto, we are really interested in the apartment. We’ll be great tenants. Really.”

When we get off the phone, I get an idea. I call Adrian.

“I was wondering if you had any extra Little Nell toys lying around.”

“We’ve got tons. Come down and get some. I could use a visit.”

It’s always nice to visit Adrian, because he notices things that most men wouldn’t. Today he said my lipstick was glam and very
New York. He’s so cute. I can understand why Rosie had her little crush on him.

Not only did he give me a bunch of Little Nells, he gave me all kinds of cartoon T-shirts and some promotional toys from
Little Nell
’s advertisers. I look up Mrs. Yakimoto’s address on the Net and FedEx all the stuff to her with a note telling her (again) how much we’d like to live in the place and hoping her kids enjoy the stuff.

I can tell Tabitha is impressed with my cunning and maybe a tad jealous that I will live in a much cooler area plus be closer to Adrian
and
Krispy Kreme donuts. I neglect to tell her about my night out at the bar and the guy Roseanne kind of picked up. I am too tired to go out tonight, but I promise to go out tomorrow night, Friday, to kick off what might be one of the last warm weekends of the year.

She bugs me again about what I am going to wear to the Fashion Awards next Tuesday. Again, I say the same black Bebe sweater and some skirt I got in Soho for really cheap. I can tell Tabitha isn’t all that excited about it. All we are doing is seat filling. She finds the whole thing a tad beneath her. She wishes we had actual tickets instead of having to hop around from seat to seat whenever someone vacates. She is also dying to find a post event invite, but the Big C only got one.

“Eve, you’re a real peach today.”

“I’m just worrying about the apartment thing.”

“I’d worry, too, especially if only Roseanne has seen it. You’re giving her an awful lot of responsibility, don’t you think?”

“Well, I trust her, Tabitha.”

“What are you gonna do if she can’t get a job?”

“She’s been looking for three weeks. Only three weeks. She’ll get one.”

“As what? An aerobics instructor?” I don’t say anything for a full twenty seconds. I count it on my phone’s time display.

“Look, Tabitha, just give me a call tomorrow when you decide what you want to do this weekend.”

“Maybe try to scout out some more pseudo celebrities. Roseanne will like that. I hear there’s a bar where old cast members from the
Real World
are put out to pasture.”

“Whatever.” I hang up. That’s something I never do to Tabitha. I just can’t take the excess drama.

My parents are delighted about the apartment possibility. Well, I’m exaggerating, my mom dabs her eyes a little and congratulates
us in her typical martyrish way and my dad makes some comment about Chinese people. I remind him that Mrs. Yakimoto is most likely Japanese, but it doesn’t seem to register. Thankfully my sister Monica isn’t around to start a political correctness war with them.

Roseanne describes the entire apartment to me. The things she keeps raving about are the hardwood floors and all the space. It’s unbelievable that it’s so cheap. There are only two other tenants in the apartment building. One above us, one below. We have the entire floor. It sounds too good to be true.

And we definitely need to get out of Jersey.

I call Mrs. Yakimoto first thing in the morning. A different kid answers this time, this one is probably nine. I ask to speak to Mrs. Yakimoto and he starts screaming.

“It’s the lady, the toy lady!” Mrs. Yakimoto comes to the phone.

“Eve?” She sounds weary.

“Hi. Mrs. Yakimoto.”

“Thank you for the stuff. The kids love it. They told me to give the apartment to the toy lady.”

“Well you should,” I say, pleased.

“Well, Eve, to be honest, my husband isn’t thrilled about the idea of giving it to two girls. What if something breaks? We’re just not sure about girls.” We’re women, thank you. I will get this apartment one way or another even if I have to sue her for sexual discrimination.

“Well, Mrs. Yakimoto, we’re very self-sufficient women. Actually, my father owns a plumbing business. He’s really handy. So, really, we’ll never ask for anything.”

“But, you’re so young, and how do we know you can pay the rent? We have a lot of other interested people.”

“I know, but we love the apartment. It’s our dream. We will be the best tenants ever. Really.” Mrs. Yakimoto laughs. “We will definitely be able to pay the rent.”

“What about Roseanne, she doesn’t have a job?” Damn!

“Yes she does.” Shit.

“Really?” Fuck.

“Yes, actually she got a job working here, working for…” Help! Help! “A different magazine, she just found out last night.” Mrs. Yakimoto is silent for a long time.

“Well. I would like to see a copy of your last pay stub and I
need something from Roseanne. Can she get a letter from her employer?” That Mrs. Yakimoto is sharp, depressingly sharp.

“Of course, I’ll send it right over.”

“You can fax it to my husband’s office.” The awful Mr. Yakimoto once again standing in the way of all that is rightfully ours.

Shit! Shit! Shit! I call Roseanne. She has just returned from a grueling run that she starts to tell me about. I cut her off right away to tell her the news.

“What are we going to do?” She sounds like she’s on the verge of tears. Why must I always be the pillar? I don’t have time to start wondering why; instead I come up with a brilliant plan. “Roseanne, I’ll call you back.” Immediately I call Tabitha.

“What’s up?” she says, obviously still a little miffed from yesterday. “Wanna have a cigarette?”

After a lot of begging and pleading and many allusions to how much more I like Tabitha than anyone else in the world (i.e. Roseanne). I get her to agree to be Roseanne’s boss. An idea that I’m sure would be dangerous were it a reality. The letter I type on
NY By Night
stationery reads like this:

It is a vision. I call Roseanne to let her know what her new job is and remind her to be very very nice to Tabitha the next time she sees her. Sure enough, within an hour of getting the fax, Mrs. Yakimoto has called Lorraine, my reference, and left a message on Tabitha’s (fortunately) unincriminating voice mail.

Although she is pretending to be huffy about it, Tabitha likes the idea of all of this. She calls me and then conferences with Mrs. Yakimoto. I keep my phone on mute so I can hear. Mrs. Yakimoto answers for a change. Tabitha is all professional. “Mrs. Yakimoto, this is Tabitha Milton. You left me a message?”

“Yes, I wanted to know about Roseanne Sullivan.”

“Oh, right, she’s our new hire. I wrote up a letter…” Tabitha is doing her Big C frazzled impression.

“Yes, is she going to make $38,000?”

“Yes, and probably a bonus that she doesn’t know about.” Wow, we never discussed that, what an actress!

“Really? Do you know Eve Vitali?”

“I know of her, but she works at a different magazine. I think she’s a writer, too.” Tabitha will be preparing her Oscar speech after this.

“They’re so young, how did they get these great jobs?” Good question.

“Just talented I guess. Is that all your questions?”

“Yes, thank you.” Mrs. Yakimoto is as impressed with us as I am. We all hang up. I call Tabitha right back. She sees my number and answers on the first ring.

“You owe me so big.”

“Tabitha that was great. I’ll buy you a drink tonight—ten drinks, whatever. I’ll never stop repaying you.”

“True enough,” says Tabitha. “But hopefully there will be men buying me drinks, thank you.”

“There will be. You are the coolest. I am gushing.”

“Now let’s hope she gives you the damn apartment.”

“She has to. She just has to.”

“Okay, I’m going to leave you alone with your emotions. Come to my place after work and we’ll head downtown.”

“Okay! Um…”

“Speak!”

“Roseanne?”

“Whatever. She can come, I guess. Just tell her to go easy on the perfume or better yet, change it.”

This means Tabitha is warming up to Roseanne. It’s only a matter of time.

Roseanne is just as excited about the conversation. I don’t think she can quite believe that Tabitha would do that or that Tabitha wants her to come out tonight (so, I exaggerated a little, I’m giddy).