Ten Girls to Watch (23 page)

I guess I could have called Helen. If it had been a work or writing crisis, I wouldn’t have hesitated, but even though we’d certainly crossed the talking-about-personal-things threshold (she once told me, “The real question isn’t whether you like Robert, it’s whether you like yourself when you’re with Robert,” which struck me both as wise and also as something I was entirely incapable of ascertaining, since I didn’t know who I was without Robert for comparison purposes), I still tried to keep myself in some semblance of order when I talked to her.

There was my sister, but this would take more than five minutes, and finding longer than that in a twin household was tricky.

Who else could I call for romantic (or romantic-ish) advice? My mom? My dad? Ha. Raymond, the sleep lab guy? I didn’t have his phone number, but if I ever dragged myself out of bed, he and his coin-covered carpet lived just down the street.

The fact that I basically had no one to talk with about the unpleasantness of this friend breakup made me feel all the more pathetic. I was left with my Craigslist roommate, Sylvia.

In my woeful state, I would have turned to Sylvia, the limits of our acquaintance aside, but unfortunately, Sylvia was nowhere to be found. Which was even more unfortunate because Sunday, the day after the downer dinner, was the day we were supposed to show the apartment to new prospective roommates who could take over when she left for Toledo.

The new me should have left Sylvia a message and told her to find her own gosh-darn roommate replacement, and then gone out and done something with my day. But the old me had already set up appointments with a bunch of people who’d responded to the apartment posting. Plus, I had to live with this person, whoever it was going to be. So, despite my new-me ideals, I went ahead and toured all the potential replacements through the place by myself. Each time I flipped on the light in Sylvia’s room to display it to a possible tenant, I imagined Sylvia off flopping around town somewhere, her bralessness, which usually didn’t bother me, suddenly seeming an emblem of flagrant disregard for others.

I was hours past making my pro and con lists for each roommate (the front-runner so far was a pastry chef who I hoped would bring home leftovers) when I finally heard Sylvia come through the door. Before I could get up and approach her with the tatters of the once billowing sails of my new in-charge attitude, she knocked on my bedroom door and asked whether I had a sec.

She cleared her throat. “I’m not moving back to Ohio anymore. I’m sorry to be so crazy and to change my plans last minute like this. But Rodney and I broke up, so I’m staying in New York.”

“Oh, wow,” I said. “I’m sorry. About Rodney, I mean. You’re sure about this, though? I mean, you quit your job last week, right?” I asked partly for sympathy, but also to clarify, since an unemployed roommate who doesn’t pay rent is far worse than a new roommate who, though maybe less neat or reliable with leftover pastry delivery than hoped for, would likely be on top of the bill situation.

Sylvia shrugged. “Yeah, but I couldn’t stand to be in the same city with him now, so Toledo is out. I’m going to find another job here. I know you’ve been looking for other roommates. I’m sorry to have put you through all this. I can find another place if you want.”

And then came the straight-up, rained-on, puppy-dog look. Her eyes whimpered.

“No, no, stay here. Definitely. I haven’t told anyone yes yet, so stay. For sure. Stay.” I smiled and nodded and was still smiling and nodding like a nice-roommate automaton when she turned on her heels and went back to her room.

In the wake of her businessy reporting of her breakup with Rodney and her immediate departure for her own space, I felt ridiculous for having imagined turning to her for a heart-to-heart. Clearly, she didn’t need to talk, and she’d actually broken up with someone. I had only friend broken up. I felt more tattered by the second.

Con,
I thought,
living with unreliable Toledan. Pro: will not be required to paint.

First thing upon moving in, Sylvia had painted her room a ghastly Pepto-Bismol pink. I’d promised all the prospective roommates, who’d each gasped audibly when I’d opened the door, that it would be a nice taupe before they moved in. Funny how Sylvia hadn’t offered to help paint it back to a normal color herself.

Earlier in the week I’d stopped by the hardware store and procured a couple of cans of paint and brushes. I could return the brushes, but unfortunately, once they’ve mixed you a can of paint, they won’t take it back. Sylvia had disappeared to her room with such remarkable speed that I didn’t dare knock. Clearly, she wanted to be alone. So instead of knocking I passive-aggressively made a lot of noise right outside her door, loudly loading myself up with the paint cans so that I could move them from our apartment to the basement. Unsurprisingly, my huffing and puffing didn’t elicit an offer of help from her room. I should have knocked on her door. The fact that I couldn’t bring myself to was pretty much the final death knell in the dream of a new me.

I’d only been down to the basement once before, after a blow dryer–blender–microwave usage trifecta had blown a fuse. On that occasion, I’d hunted around the apartment for a fuse box, unsuccessfully tried to reach my landlord when I couldn’t find it, then, imagining the basement held the answer, descended the stairs. Approaching the basement door, a smell—two parts mold, one part decaying rat skeletons—had thickened the air. I’d opened the door anyway. And that was as far as I got. Peering into the reeking darkness, I’d decided I could handle a few hours without power. It turned out to be a full thirty-six hours, since my landlord is, how to put it delicately . . . somewhat unresponsive.

Today, though, I was glum and self-castigating enough to feel like the musty basement and I deserved each other.

I made it all the way down the stairs, breathing through my mouth on the final flight to the basement door. I pushed through and felt along the wall for a light switch. One dim bulb hanging in the center of the room lit up. Its reflection bounced back in the good half inch of water collected on the floor in the low part of the room, which seemed to include everywhere but the immediate vicinity near the door. So, I’d found the source of the mold smell. Rotted-out cardboard boxes lined one wall. An old bike with only one tire leaned against a refrigerator, which had no door but did have a bottle of ketchup on the shelf. Miscellaneous tools and jars of screws and hoses and cans overflowed a sodden particleboard workbench.

And then, as I calmly looked around, wallowing in the dankness, I heard a scuffle. Rat? Snake? Psycho killer? Who knew, but I guessed it had something to do with the carcassy smell. I semi-hurled the cans into the pile of miscellaneous buckets and canisters near the workbench, then double-teamed the stairs all the way up to my apartment.

_________

Monday, the day of my meeting with Regina, I woke up ready to shake off the weekend. Just getting back to TGTW would help, I knew, but I also kicked it into high gear by completing every ritual I ordinarily skipped—curling my eyelashes, applying lotion after my shower, spritzing perfume. I hoped to impress Regina with my myriad exciting Ten Girls to Watch ideas, but I also hoped to convince her I was a paragon of style and grace. Maybe then she’d hire me for keeps. I felt a little like a woman who’s trying to convince the guy who’s told her he just wants to have fun that she’s his forever girl, but frankly, I
was
desperate for Regina’s employerly affections. I was somewhat desperate for any affections at all.

Before I’d have the chance to put on my show, though, I had to put in a morning of work at the warehouse archives. Down in my closet, I was chatting away on my headset with 1989 winner and journalist Sandra Seru, who had just returned from a two-month reporting project on miners in Argentina and was telling me all about her book on Latin American workers’ collectives, when, to my great surprise, Elliot Kaslowski leaned his head into my office, all smiles. Panicky, thrilled hormones shot through my body, and I phased out for a second, missing part of the story Sandra was telling me about traveling with her teenage son—something about food allergies—and mouthed “Give me five minutes” to Elliot. He nodded, disappeared briefly, and was back in time to hear me give Sandra the excited spiel about our get-together. No firm plans for the TGTW event yet, but I’d be in touch again as soon as I knew anything. I couldn’t help it—even though I’d now delivered my speech dozens of times, I still bubbled over. I really had been thrilled to talk with Sandra Seru. I really did hope she’d come to the event.

“They must love you,” Elliot said as he perched himself presumptuously on the corner of my desk. I hadn’t yet replied to his effusive e-mail message, and I noted that my inadvertent hard-to-get move was causing exactly the sort of reaction the stupid books promised.

“I’m very lovable,” I said. I was grateful I’d curled my eyelashes that morning.

He smiled. “So what are you doing Friday?”

I paused. This was the weekend of the Helen Hensley reading. I had firm plans to go to Boston. I was very glad to have something to say other than “Uh . . . cutting my toenails and rearranging my socks,” but I felt a momentary pang: he was going to ask me out, and I was going to have to say no.

I heard myself say, “I was thinking of going to Boston. Just visiting a friend.” As if it were in some way tentative.

“Are you taking the train?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t that be fancy!” The train was always at least a hundred dollars each way. “No,” I said. “The Fung Wah Bus.”

“Really? Why don’t I drive you?” he said. “I broke up with the Fung Wah last year and got together with an old Honda Civic. Infinitely more luxurious.”

“Are you kidding? You want to drive me to Boston?” I said, stunned.

“Why not? I’ve got some friends up there. I’ll call and see what they’re up to this weekend. That way I can catch up with them and also enjoy the pleasure of your company on the way up and back, if you’ll have me.”

I’d learned something about the East Coast, or at least New York. Rides were a rarity. In Oregon, offering a ride was common decency. A light, easy thing. Not in New York. Here, it was like offering bone marrow.

“That would be amazing,” I said.

“Good, then it’s settled,” Elliot said. “We’ll leave right after work?”

I nodded, unable to suppress my smile. He smiled just as much, the smile lines around his eyes stretching down to his cheeks.

There are moments, right in the middle of the normal passage of time, when you pause and think,
I’ll remember this.
This was one of those. His eye crinkles were that beautiful.

As he rose from my desk, he briefly put his hand on top of mine, and then he was gone. I didn’t make another call for a full ten minutes. I just sat under the glow of my lamp, gazing at the bulletin board. Gerri Vans and her fluffy curls smiled down at me. I noted, when I finally thought about Robert again, that I’d gone a full fifteen minutes without thinking about Robert.

Another few phone calls to past winners, half a peanut butter sandwich at my desk, and I began my final readying for my return to the Mandalay Carson building. I printed and neatly stapled copies of every document I could ever dream of sharing (including all my profiles, just in case), slipped on flats, and headed aboveground for the walk east, out of exile. Turning down the hallway on the ground floor, I ran into Ralph. Today, he’d transitioned to a royal purple cardigan. If I’d felt like the lord of my little basement dominion, Ralph’s purple cardigan squelched that idea. He was king of this place.

“Gorgeous day out,” he said, as if he saw me all the time and we’d exhausted every other topic of conversation.

“I know,” I said. “I’m headed out into it!”

He nodded, and with that, I pushed through the doors and into the sunshine.

Upon arriving in the Mandalay Carson lobby, I forgot to pretend the silver tree sculpture didn’t mesmerize me, which proved embarrassing when the woman behind me in line to go through the entrance gates slammed into me, not noticing that I had stopped to gawk at the delicate quaking metal leaves above. I did not particularly appreciate the icicle-through-the-heart glare she leveled as I offered my prolific apologies. I did my best not to take it personally. That said, I did take it personally. I always do. I read somewhere that redheads experience dental pain more intensely than other people. In my case, I think it extends to all physical pain, plus emotional slights.

The same tiny woman who’d been there on my first visit to the eighteenth floor once again sat behind the reception desk. I told her my name and said I was there for a meeting with XADI and Regina.

She slowly smoothed stray strands of her white hair up into the massive bun atop her head as she dialed XADI’s office.

“Do you like mint?” she said when she hung up the phone. No segue, just straight to mint. She didn’t wait for an answer. “I planted some mint in my garden this year, and it’s going crazy, taking over everything. I step outside, and I feel like I’m in a tube of toothpaste.”

“That happened to my parents’ garden,” I said. “Mint is nuts. But you know what’s amazing? Mint in lemonade. You just put a few leaves in and it infuses the whole thing with that cool, crisp flavor. It’s the most refreshing thing ever.”

“Mm-hm, that sounds delightful.” Her low voice quaked with pleasure, and then she closed her eyes and smiled, as if she were drinking mint-infused lemonade right then. But the thing is, she didn’t open her eyes again. She hadn’t had a stroke or anything; she was moving her head around a little, smiling. I guess she was just loving the moment.

My parents really had had an amazing garden. Maybe not quite on the order of Rachel Link’s parents’ roses, but they’d grown bushels of vegetables every summer. It had been the one thing they’d seemed to be able to work on happily together. After the divorce, my mom ripped it all out—the garden, the grass, everything—and replaced it with rock. Which might make sense in Tucson, but this was Oregon. Before that though, there was the terry cloth robe phase, during which the garden turned into a tangle of weeds, with mint covering huge swathes of the former flower beds. Only after she signed on to Mary Kay and got a sporty new haircut and several dozen new lipsticks did the plants come out. “No time for all that stuff anymore!” she’d said. I’d been both relieved and alarmed. Maybe I should have helped her pull out the overgrown garden, but I hadn’t been able to stomach the idea and she hadn’t asked for help. Instead, like a person peeking through her blinds at a suspicious neighbor, wondering whether a crime is unfolding but not wanting to get involved, I’d watched from the window of my bedroom as she yanked one bunch of flowers after the next.