The Kissing Game (7 page)

Once we finish our boxes, it’s past 8:30 p.m., the receptionist
area is a remote wasteland, and the whole floor is nearly empty. Each city of
boxes is neatly stacked and ready for copying.

Alone, Robert and I clop toward the elevator, some files in tow.     

“You can make the arrangements with Conrad tomorrow,” he
instructs. “He’s likely gone home for the evening anyway.”

“Okay.”

We enter the elevator together. It feels narrower going down than
going up.  Time has turned back and he seems to be the mountain beside me. In
my head I’m in the red dress threatening to kiss him again. And then I briefly
wonder what he would look like naked. Why do I think these thoughts? I don’t know.
My mind possesses a mind of its own. I refuse to look at him, but I can see his
reflection in the brass elevator door. His beauty overtakes him, even in the
distorted glossy image. We fall some forty stories together until the elevator
doors open and we exit single-file.

“The town car can take you home if you like. It’s getting late to
take the bus.” He holds the main door open for me and outside our town car
awaits us. We slip inside and I feel a rush of dark as I contemplate why Robert
is being so nice to me. Is he that afraid?

Soon the town car arrives at the office, and while I’m collecting
my backpack Robert emerges from his office and hands me a blue manila envelope.

“Here,” he says. “I meant to give this to you earlier. If you
could sign it and give it back to me, I need to forward it to personnel.”

Evaluations. I had totally forgotten that it was evaluation time
again. I dread evaluations. I wonder what horrible things he said about me this
year.

“Thanks.” I try to sound enthusiastic.

Shoving the blue envelope into my backpack, I rush back downstairs
to catch my ride in the town car. It is a luxury I rarely enjoy. The last time
I took the town car was at 1 a.m. after we’d spent evening on a document that
had to be emailed to New York before the offices opened.

In the back seat, I open up the blue envelope, a sickening feeling
of nail holes in my stomach overcoming me—that fear I get when someone
criticizes me. What is it about criticism that is so hard to take? Everything.

 As the town car makes its way down Market Street, I read.

Knowledge of work: outstanding.

Communication: outstanding.

Teamwork: outstanding.

Decision Making: meets expectations.

Expense Management: not applicable.

Independent work: outstanding.

Leadership: not applicable.

Client responsiveness: outstanding.

Personal appearance: outstanding.

Employee Strengths and Accomplishments:  Caroline’s performance
has improved immensely over the past year. I believe it has taken time for her
to fill in the big shoes required in becoming my assistant. She has survived a
trial by fire. In this regard, she has gone to great lengths to ensure her
tenure at the firm. Even though I would prefer that she worked around the
clock, she always arrives early for work and puts in more hours than her peers.
In this vein, her dedication to her job is without question. I can leave the
office at any time for a court appearance or client meeting and know that when
I return Caroline will have made certain that my clients’ needs were met with
utmost care. All my clients are on a first-name basis and feel comfortable
communicating with her. Unlike her peers, Caroline does not consider any task
beneath her and merely operates as an important unit within a group effort. She
will do any task necessary, including picking up lunch or accompanying me on
important client meetings. Caroline is more than an assistant. She is an
invaluable asset to me and the firm. I consider her work more important to me
than the work of my associates; if Caroline were to ever leave this position, I
fear I would need to hire two, maybe three, assistants to fill her shoes.

When the town car stops in front of my apartment, I have already
read the evaluation three times and my stomach feels queasy from carsickness.

All I can think is—when did he write this? Before or after?

“No dio alas a los alacranes."
 
God did not give wings to scorpions.

            It’s after 9:30 when I exit the
town car and bear the weight of my thoughts up the stairs to my apartment. As I
trek towards my door, I can see into Ted’s apartment. Three guys sit around
Ted’s kitchen table, likely his law school buddies. The table is covered in empty
plates and immense books that seem useful only for squishing large bugs. The
four seem to have given up on studying and opted for talking instead. Ted is
laughing.

            Before I can get inside my
apartment, I hear my cell phone ringing in my backpack. After unlocking my door
and tossing my stuff on the couch, I answer the phone.

 “Look,” Henry says as if he needs to whisper
from his own apartment. “I just called to let you know that I’m proud of you.
You’re my new hero.”

With the phone in my hand, I slink down on the
couch.

“You there?” Henry asks.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“What?”

“It’s just that, I don’t know. Robert gave me
my review, and it’s really nice. He went on and on talking about what an
amazing assistant I am.” My apartment is an inventory of silence. I hear Henry
breathe. Why is breathing always amplified on the phone?

“Well, you know why he’s doing it, don’t you?
He’s scared to death you’re going to get him fired for the elevator incident. He’s
doing whatever it takes to make you happy. The dude has brains. Whatever you
do, don’t think he means it, don’t think he’s Mr. Nice Lawyer all the sudden.
You know he’s not.” Henry sounds like a brother to me. I can picture him on the
other end of the line wearing his sweater vest. Something about Henry reminds
me of a big sweet cat. I talk more to Henry, Cory, and Todd than I do my own
brother, who’s always too busy with his own college life.

“You’re right. I know. But I was wondering if
you know anything about Robert’s background. You’ve worked at the firm longer.
Did you hear he got a scholarship to Stanford and that he was a foster child
growing up?”

“No. He came in all bright and shiny like the
other Stanford law grads. They’re all the same to me. Why? How’d you find out?”

“Oh, doesn’t matter. It’s a long story. Anyway,
how’re you doing?”

We spend twenty minutes discussing Henry’s
failed attempt at seducing an intern. I’m on the verge of giving him the talk
about throwing away all his sweater vests just before he reminds me: “You know,
tomorrow could be ridiculous, if the tape arrives. The mail is pretty fast in
these parts. I don’t know what’ll happen, but you can bet you’ll be called into
meetings. Partners will grill you. Just be cool. Be yourself. They’ll all love
you. Everyone knows Robert’s an ass anyway. In the end, you won’t even remember
Robert’s name. He’ll be history and you’ll be working for someone else, onward
and upward.”

“I guess so,” I say.

Just then I hear a knock on my door.

“Henry, someone’s at my door. I’ve got to let you
go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When I hang up, I have a feeling about who’ll
be at the door, and I’m right. There he is, my serial killer neighbor, Ted, standing
there, the moon over his shoulder, with a tinfoil-covered plate in his hand and
three guys standing behind him. They look like friends ushering their buddy into
the honeymoon suite on his wedding night. They have teenager grins though they
must be in their twenties. Ted stands taller than all of them and looks a
little red-cheeked. One blonde peeks around Ted’s shoulder to get a better look
at me.

“Hi,” I say to the four.

“Thought I’d bring up your steak before these
moochers ate it first,” Ted says, holding the plate out for me.

I take it. It feels warm.

“Thanks,” I reply, glancing at the eager four
who make no motion to leave. “You all want to come in?”

“Sure!” says the blond who hustles past Ted and
into my living room. I stand back to let them in while the blond plops down on
my couch. One by one, the others meander in, too.

“Have a seat,” I offer. A stocky Hispanic man
sits on my couch next to the blond. A lanky Indian man sits at my kitchen
table, but Ted just stands there looking apologetic for invading my apartment
at 9:45 PM with a band of wannabe lawyers.

“I just wanted to drop off the plate. We don’t
need to make ourselves all comfortable,” Ted asserts, a scolding eye at his
friends. They almost seem to be sucking their teeth at me, as if they’re
waiting for something important to happen. Perhaps they were bored downstairs.

“No, it’s fine, make yourselves at home. I
never get to hang out with lawyers or prospective lawyers, so this is a real
treat,” I say, smiling. The sarcasm is not lost on Ted who smirks an apology at
me. After I put the plate into the fridge, I sit down at the kitchen table with
Ted and the lanky Indian guy.

Ted points to him and says, “This is Martin.
He’s studying to be a patent lawyer.”

Martin shakes my hand. It feels like a sauna.
He winks smartly at me. “Got my degree in engineering. Next logical step is
patent lawyer. I’m gonna to work for Google someday,” he proclaims in a voice
that sounds like that of a kid.

“Oh, cool.” I nod.

“And that’s Kenny,” Ted says, pointing to the
blonde. Ted sounds as if he’s the most mature of the group. “He’s going to be a
litigator, of course.”

“Of course,” Kenny says, with a wave of his
hand. He looks like a privileged boy who hasn’t had to do much standing up in
his life, as if the world was just meant for him to lie down on.

“And that’s Enrique.” Ted points at the
Hispanic man who sits at the edge of my couch, as if the furniture is too
flowery for him. He seems slightly older than the rest. “He’s studying criminal
defense,” Ted explains.

“If you say, ‘of course,’ I’m going to come
over there and kick your ass,” Enrique says to Ted.

In spite of the fact that they’re wearing
jeans, t-shirts, and tennis shoes, they all have that cleaned up lawyer look about
them. It must be a kind of illness that sweeps over all law school students and
turns them from normal people into lawyers. Or maybe it’s just me. I’ve
developed radar, a sixth sense.

This group represents the most people I’ve ever
had in my apartment at once, and despite the fact that I’m somewhat exhausted
from my day, it’s nice to have the distraction from my thoughts. However, I’m
kind of starving. I want to break out the steak and eat it in front of them,
but I opt to wait.

“Caroline works at Milton and Burns,” Ted
explains, “She’s an assistant to a partner over there.” At the word
partner,
Ted gestures with his hands, holding them on the sides of his head to
indicate that my boss has a huge head.

I wonder how he knows that Robert is a
big-headed partner. Perhaps Ted’s smart and likely deduced this information
during his brief encounter with Robert. Robert has a way of exuding importance
in the same manner a bull points its horns at you.

“I hear that firm is a sweatshop. They work new
associates 90 hours a week, put them in Kleenex-boxes for offices and pay them
in Kleenex with the promise of partnership that’s never come’n. I wouldn’t work
for Milton and Burns if you paid me a million a year,” Kenny says, lounging on
my couch. I have the urge to offer him a pillow and a blanket. He looks as if
he’s been invited to a sleep-over.

Enrique snorts at Kenny. “What do
you
have to worry about? You’ll be working for your parents’ firm. It’s not like
you’ll ever have to have a
real
job,” Enrique says. “And you already live
in Pacific Heights in a mansion.”

“It’s not a mansion. It’s only 5,500 square
feet,” Kenny defends, gesturing with a limp hand. He turns to me. “So who do
you work for?”

“Robert Carver. He’s a partner in real estate.”
I feel the need to take a deep breath after saying his name.

“I don’t know him,” Kenny replies sleepily.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t want to. He’s a complete
jerk,” Ted explains to Kenny before turning to me. “And poor Caroline has to
work for him.”

Ted’s eyes are a pretty blue, not nearly as
pretty as Robert’s. I notice slight muscles bulging under the arms of his
t-shirt. Looks like the serial killer works out. He also smells freshly washed
all the time, as though he takes two showers a day. This only fuels my serial
killer thoughts: why would he
need
to take two showers a day?

“Robert Carver – is that Robert Carver from
Marshall High?” Enrique asks, his brown eyes seeming squinty.

“I don’t know what high school he went to.” I
shrug.

“The Rob Carver I knew in high school was a
badass. He was a senior when I was a freshman. He used to get straight A’s but
had no friends, the complete nerd type, but if you made the mistake of crossing
him, he’d make you wish you hadn’t. My buddy saw him beat the crap out of a
jock who made the mistake of teasing him. The dude was a ball of crumpled
muscles lying on the basketball court when Rob was done with him. People called
him Rob back then. Tall, dark hair, mean eyes?”

“Blue eyes?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Enrique says, “never looked
close enough.”

“Yeah, it’s not really masculine to know
another guy’s eye color,” Ted chastises me.

“What else did you know about this Rob guy?” I
ask Enrique.

“Might not be the same guy, but the Rob I knew
dated one of the hottest girls in high school, Katie Gallagher, for about a
week, and when she broke up with him for another guy, the guy ended up being
locked in the school janitor closet for the whole weekend, till the janitor
came back on Monday. Luckily there was water and stuff in there and it wasn’t
hot that weekend. Otherwise, who knows what would’ve happened to the guy. Rob
never got caught. The guy kept his mouth shut. What was the guy’s name? Kevin Delah-something.
I remember Rob used to wear his hair perfectly combed, slick-like, and his
clothes always made him look too overdressed for school, not suits, just nice
shirts all the time. Looked freshly pressed. Anyway, what was that guy’s name?”
Enrique pauses to think about the name of the guy in the janitor’s closet. All
of us gaze at him waiting for him to continue, except Kenny, who pulls out his
fancy phone.

“Here,” Kenny says, tapping his finger on the
screen. “Let’s look him up. Robert Carver,” he says, pressing the touch-screen.
“Is that him?” He hands Enrique the phone to look at the picture on the screen.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Enrique states, holding the
phone. Looks older, but definitely him. He’s got a scar on the inside of his
elbow, supposedly got it during the scuffle with Kevin. Rob was smart, could do
stuff that none of the school staff or teachers ever found out about. I know I
never wanted to make him mad.”

Kenny takes back the phone and holds it up to
me. “Is that your boss?” he asks.

“Yeah, that’s him.” My mind is suddenly filled
with images of fist fights and janitor closets. For a flash second, I wonder
how it would feel to be locked in one for an entire weekend.

“Ah, Caroline, Teddy boy here came over to ask
you—” Kenny starts.

“Shut the hell up, you toady!” Ted interrupts
him.

My eyes jump between Kenny and Ted. “What?”

“Nothing,” Ted swats his hand in front of his
face, as if a gnat annoys him. “We gotta go.” Ted rises swiftly. “Come on,
boys, got some studying to do if you ever want to call yourselves real
lawyers,” he announces as if he’s their general. “Just wanted to drop off your steak.
The losers here were eyeing it. I’ll see you around, Caroline.” Ted heads
toward my door. All I see is the back of him. Why is he in such a hurry? People
to kill later, Ted? Enrique and Martin follow closely. Kenny moves as if he’s
being dragged.

“Nice meet’n ya, Caroline,” Kenny gives me a
little exaggerated bow, which earns him a slap on the top of his head from
Enrique. They file out my front door one at a time. I watch them walk down the
steps.

“Thanks for the dinner,” I call out as they
descend. As soon as I close my apartment door, I hear Kenny yell, “Ted wants to
take you out for real dinner!” And then laughter.

For a moment, I contemplate dinner at a
restaurant with Ted. What would that be like? Since we’re both on a budget, it
probably means we’d go to some excellent dive place, where the Chinese food or
Mexican food is so authentic that we’d feel as if we’re transported to a
different country, albeit poorer than our own. We’d sit over some plastic table
in the bad side of San Francisco.  The view out the restaurant window would be
the greasy car-repair shops with their broken signs, the small markets with
recently killed animals hanging upside down in the window, the flies collecting
outside, the second-hand clothing shops with their weird smells—all lining the
streets below the apartments, where children watch cartoons and yell
obscenities out the window at passersby.

            I try to think more about Ted, but my
mind is contrastingly electric and exhausted. After eating and readying for
sleep, I lie in bed. The streetlight through my bedroom window gives
black-orange shapes to my soon sleeping mind. All night long I dream I’m late
for work and that Robert expects me. To get to work I must cross a desert
quaking with lightning while thunder-beads of rain pummel me and the wind blows
gritty, wet dust into my mouth. Once through the desert rain, I cross the
mountains, where the rocky skyline is pockmarked with soft orange fires. After
navigating around bands of flames, I see the sudden severe skyline of San Francisco.
Above my office building, the moonlight shines through a vapory dust. Wet,
dirty, exhausted, I have only one dreaming thought: “I hope I’m not too late.”