Pink Slip Party (16 page)

“I think you’re getting too serious on me,” I say.

“I’m just saying, if you want to talk, I’m here,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say.

*   *   *

Several drinks later, we get into a debate about whether or not “Mr. T” or “B.A. Baracus” is a better alias, which naturally leads to the discussion about how a crack team of former military specialists managed never to shoot anyone despite ample rounds of ammo. The sheer volume of bullets should’ve guaranteed at least one person shot, and not just the dirt in front of their feet.

Kyle tells me he has a talking bobble-head doll of Mr. T, which naturally I have to see, which leads to a trip to his apartment.

Once inside Kyle’s apartment, I realize I haven’t been here before now, that he always came to my place, or I’ve met him at Todd’s, or he’s just shown up at my parents’ house. Everything is neutral at Kyle’s, tasteful, his CDs hidden away in a cabinet especially for this purpose.

He has all of the CDs I do: Wilco, Radiohead, Coldplay.

“I pegged you as a Celine Dion fan,” I say.

“Ouch, that hurts,” Kyle replies, coming back to me carrying two glasses of red wine. I’m already a bit tipsy from the wine and dinner.

He puts on Wilco.

“Do you want another glass of wine?” he asks me. I realize I’ve gulped down my glass in two long drags. I suddenly feel like the fifth-grader again, the one who squished herself in the backseat between Todd and Kyle, hoping Kyle would notice the fact that she was wearing new Jordache jeans.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I ask him.

“Maybe I am,” he says, then pauses. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Kyle might be flirting. He’s using The Smile again. And it’s beginning to work on me.

“Is that my painting?” I ask, amazed, jumping up from my seat on his couch and crossing the room to the fireplace to put more distance between us.

I squint at it. It is, I realize. It’s one of my art projects from my undergraduate days. It looks very different hanging on the wall of a well-furnished apartment. I’m used to seeing my paintings as props for covering cracks in drywall and rips in wallpaper of poorly furnished studios.

“I’ve got two of your other drawings in frames in the bedroom,” Kyle says.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

There’s a funny vibe in the room. My stomach feels like there are small electric charges running through it, making it jump.

“See for yourself.”

The framed pictures are drawings of tree branches. Two vague renditions of the ends of branches of the trees in my parents’ backyard. I think I sketched them on a whim, one summer when Kyle and Todd were playing tag football in the backyard.

“I’ve got better work than that,” I say, turning around. Kyle is standing close to me.

“Not to me,” he says.

Before I quite know what’s happening, he’s kissing me. On the lips.

For a second, I’m shocked. Literally. It’s like an electric surge, like I can feel my hair standing on end. After the initial surprise of it wears off, I’m kissing him back, and all I can think is, wow. I never knew Kyle was such a good kisser.

And before I know it, we’re on his bed, and he’s on top of me, and his hands are under my shirt. And I’m having trouble remembering exactly why it is that I didn’t do this before. Why I had been so quick to give up on my fifth-grader’s crush. My shirt is half off, before I finally react to the dull warning sirens in the back of my head, the ones that are screaming: “Alert. Drunken Sex with Brother’s Best Friend Is Not a Good Idea No Matter How Good a Kisser He Is.”

“Wait,” I say, temporarily pulling back from Kyle, my head spinning. Everything’s moving so fast.

“I’m sorry,” Kyle breathes to me, pulling back, sitting up and running his hands through his hair. “I didn’t mean to go so far.”

“No, it’s OK,” I say, seeing the stricken look on his face. “Really.”

“Really?” he asks me.

“It was nice. Really,” I say.

“In that case,” he says, bending down to kiss me again.

“But maybe we should stop for now?” I say, putting a hand on his chest. My body is screaming at my brain to stop being such a killjoy. My body is hoping that Kyle will argue with me.

He doesn’t.

“You’re right,” he says, pulling away. “It’s late. I’d better get you home.”

Cook4U.com, where everyone is a gourmet™
57 W. Grand Ave.
Second Floor
Chicago, IL 60610

Jane McGregor
3335 Kenmore Ave.
Chicago, IL 60657

March 29, 2002

Dear Jane,

While we felt that you were a strong candidate for the position of web designer and artist, we decided to go with another applicant who better fit our qualifications. We will keep your resume on file for up to one year, and will be happy to consider you for any related future positions.

Best of luck to you,
Cheryl Ladd
Hiring Manager and Director of Content
Cook4U.com

P.S. I feel obligated also to inform you that you did not pass our required drug test. There were detectable amounts of cannabis in your sample. I am sorry to say that this will most likely prevent us from considering you for future positions at Cook4U.com.

10

I
find myself wanting to sing out loud. Kyle
kissed
me, I keep thinking, over and over, like I’m twelve again. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. All I can think about is Kyle.

I’ve been wanting to laugh out loud ever since he kissed me. I wonder if this is what a crush feels like. It’s been ages since I’ve had a legitimate one.

In a couple of days, he calls me to apologize.

“Really, there’s no need,” I say, practically beaming, because I’m happy to hear the sound of his voice.

“I feel like I took advantage of you,” he says.

“I like being taking advantage of now and again,” I say.

“In that case, what are you doing tomorrow night?” he asks me.

This makes me laugh.

“Not so fast, Romeo,” I say.

“Right, you’re right,” Kyle says. “We should probably wait the required three days between dates, and pretend we’re too busy to actually see one another for another week.”

“Oh, definitely,” I say. “And then I’ll have to put you off for another week, and then
maybe
we can meet for coffee.”

“Coffee? Hold the phone, you’re moving
way
too fast for me. Next, you’ll want to pick out the first names of our children.”

I laugh. Kyle is fun to flirt with. I suppose he’s had lots of practice. Immediately, I shoo this thought out of my head.

“What are you doing Saturday?” he asks me.

“Wow. You skipped right over the casual weeknights and went right for the Saturday date — that’s brave,” I say.

“You don’t win big unless you risk big,” he says.

I smile at this.

“Saturday is Dad’s annual Spring Barbeque,” I tell Kyle. “Did you forget?”

“D’oh,” Kyle curses. “How could I forget enough charred meat to feed a third-world country?”

Dad hosts his annual Spring Week barbeque on the first Saturday in April, which he does every year no matter how cold it is. Dad loves to grill meat, and does so almost every other Saturday from April to October. The first week in April, however, is second only to the Fourth of July in sheer amount of food basted, grilled, and eaten.

“I’ll see you there?” I ask him.

“Most definitely,” Kyle says. “Can I offer you a ride? I promise to be on my best behavior.”

“If by best behavior you mean you’re going to try to grope me, then I accept your offer of a ride.”

Kyle laughs.

“You’re on,” he says.

I hang up the phone and sigh. This crush stuff feels pretty good, I decide. I’m not even too bothered by the incessant squeaking coming from my bedsprings in the next room, since Missy and Ron act like they’re Serta mattress testers on a marathon mission.

I’m distracted from the merciless grinding of my bedsprings by the unexpected arrival of Steph.

“I’ve been evicted!” she cries into the intercom.

When she arrives on my landing, she’s winded, but manages to tell me her sad story. Her lease is up, and her landlord, being cunning and determined to find a way to get Steph out so she can raise her Wrigleyville rent thirty percent, checks Steph’s credit history.

“Well, she found out I’m jobless, and that’s it — no lease renewal,” Steph says, wiping at her eyes.

I give her a hug. I understand her pain. And, while I know I’ll probably regret it, I hear the words come out of my mouth anyway.

“Why don’t you stay here?” I ask. “You can sleep in my room, or on the couch for a few days.”

Immediately Steph stops crying. “Really?”

“Really,” I say.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Steph cries. She disappears down my staircase and comes back again carrying two suitcases. “You’re the best!” she says, giving me an air kiss on the cheek.

“You brought over your suitcases?”

“Well, if you didn’t invite me to stay, what kind of friend would you be anyway? And I make it a rule not to keep crappy friends.”

“I suppose I should take that as a compliment,” I say. “I don’t suppose you have anything to contribute to the rent?”

“No, but I do have a fabulous shoe collection. You want to borrow any of them, you let me know.”

“Steph, I wear a seven. You wear a nine.”

“Right, well. Purses then. Borrow away!”

“Thanks,” I mutter, but Steph misses the sarcasm.

Not ten minutes later, there’s another buzz at my apartment’s buzzer.

I look out my front window and see Ferguson standing on the stoop.

“Great,” I say. “What am I supposed to tell him?”

“Pretend we’re not home,” Steph says behind me. Ferguson looks up, catches me in the window, and waves.

“Too late,” I say. I buzz him up, and Ferguson wanders into the apartment looking sheepish.

“Hi girls, I just wondered if maybe I left my keycard here the other night?”

Ron pops out of Missy’s bedroom at that moment wearing nothing but a towel.

“Ferg!” he cries, seeing Ferguson. “What’s up, dude? Want to smoke a bowl?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Ferguson hesitates.

“Come on, stay awhile,” Ron insists, acting like he owns my place. I’m too busy trying to avoid looking at Ron’s pale chest to argue too fiercely.

“OK,” Ferguson agrees.

Missy comes out of the bedroom, too, wearing what looks suspiciously like one of my missing Gap shirts.

“Is that my shirt?” I ask her.

“No,” she snaps indignantly, as if I’d accused her of hoarding Pop Tarts (which I did a couple of days ago).

“I think that’s my shirt,” I say.

“You’re crazy,” she tells me, cuddling up to Ron, who is fashioning a bong out of tin foil and one of my nice Crate & Barrel bud vases.

After an hour of smoking, Ferguson starts telling us how much he loves us.

“Really, I love you guys,” he says over and over again.

Missy rolls her eyes. Ron slaps Ferguson hard on the back. “You have to respect a man who isn’t afraid of his emotions,” he says.

“Maximum Office sucks,” Ferguson says suddenly.

Missy, Steph, and I look at him, then each other. By all accounts, Ferguson was a company man. No one ever heard him say a bad thing about Maximum Office, ever.

“What do you mean?” Missy asks, carefully neutral.

“We’re having
more
layoffs this month,” Ferguson says, his voice dropping to an exaggerated whisper. “And, this time, they’re going to throw in a couple of managers so it looks good. Well, let’s just say that in three weeks, I’ll be looking for a new job.”

This news would’ve made me ecstatic six weeks ago. Now, I’m just numb to it. Nobody deserves a layoff. Well, no one except maybe Mike.

Steph and Missy exchange a glance.

“Why don’t we tell him our plan?” Steph asks.

“I don’t know,” Missy says.

“Come on, he can help us,” Steph says.

Missy considers this a moment, then she gets up, walks to her bedroom, and comes back carrying several rolled-up blueprints under her arm.

“You guys aren’t seriously going to do this,” I say. I thought they’d abandoned the Maximum Office break-in plan.

“You can’t be serious,” I say.

“As a heartbeat,” she says.

“You mean ‘heart attack,’ ” I correct.

“Whatever,” she says.

“What’s all this?” Ferguson asks, as he takes in the blueprints and our guilty faces.

I expect Ferguson to leap up and call the police, or worse, for an entire SWAT team to descend upon my apartment because he’s secretly wearing a wire. I wait one or two beats, but I don’t hear urgent footsteps on the stairs or police helicopters overhead. Instead, a giant smile breaks out across Ferguson’s face.

“I love you guys. Did I mention how much I love you guys?” He beams, and attempts to hug each one of us. Ron and Steph are the only two who let him.

Days blur together like pregnant pauses in soap opera dialogue, and Ferguson rarely leaves my apartment, except to fetch clothes from home. When I ask him about his job, he snorts. “I’m using up my sick days before they steal them from me.”

No one seems to really want to leave my apartment — it’s like a Roach Motel. Missy has moved ahead with her plan of breaking into Maximum Office, even though it is becoming increasingly clear that she has no idea how to accomplish her objective. She constantly argues with Ferguson about how to read the blueprint, the pair continually confusing air ducts with hallways.

Steph, who’s painted and repainted her toenails, chips in now and again about what she thinks they should do to the executives when they get into the email system. So far, firing them and then sending their wives copies of their expense reports seem to be at the top of the list.

Ferguson, whose pot intake has severely weakened his dieting willpower, consumes all the carbohydrates in my apartment, including an entire loaf of bread.