Balancing Acts (5 page)

“He is,” answered Felicity. “Senior year is no joke these days.”

“Senior year of high school,” Charlie echoed. “That feels like a hundred years ago.” She shook her head with a smile.

“Since Malcolm is a wash, do you have any friends who might be interested in building one for us?” asked Felicity.

“I really don't think so, but maybe I can make one,” Charlie answered, smiling at her students as they ambled past the desk.

W
hat are you wearing?” Dan asked.

Bess surveyed herself, splayed on top of her gray Calvin Klein duvet cover. Her sheets set had been a splurge, but Bess had sworn to herself that when she finally was making decent money and lived in an apartment with a legitimate living room, she would spring for the luxurious thread count. It had been worth it. Her bed was like a cloud. “A white, spaghetti-stained tank top and my navy sweatpants with the gigantic hole in the crotch,” she answered in her best mock-sexy voice.

“Ooh, easy access.”

“You know it, big boy.”

“Bess!” chirped Dan. “I miss you again.”

“You missed me already today, you get only one shot,” replied Bess, smiling to herself. She rolled herself to an upright position and transferred herself down to the floor. The fact that Dan missed her so openly, without any of the cool-guy bullshit that she so often encountered, was almost enough to rid her of her trademark cynicism. Almost, but not quite.

“Rules are made for breaking. How was your day?”

“Good. Kind of boring on the work front though. Ever since rehab became the new overdose, it's been pretty dead. No one does anything interesting anymore.”

“Yeah, rehab has really ruined it for everybody. Hey, should I get tacos or a burger for dinner?”

Bess, in the middle of attempting to touch her toes, grunted in response.

“What's that? Are we communicating monosyllabically now? Like cave people?”

Bess laughed, “Oh sorry, no. I was stretching and ‘tacos' came out like ‘blurgh.'”

Dan laughed. “That's a painful stretch. ‘Tacos' and ‘blurgh' aren't even in the same family. Careful you don't pull something—like your spleen.”

“Roger that, doctor. I told you about that yoga class I signed up for, right?”

“Oh yeah, the one in Brooklyn with your old college peeps?” asked Dan.

“Yep. Saturday is our first class and apparently I have the flexibility of balsam wood. Seriously, my hamstrings are like two slabs of marble.”

“Oh marble hammies, you exaggerate. I happen to know that you are quite flexible where it counts.”

Bess blushed. “This is true. But you and I aren't exactly downward dogging together.”

“Yet!” replied Dan gleefully, happy to exploit Bess's yoga reference.

Bess laughed. “I walked right into that one, I guess.”

“Slammed face-first into the wall!”

“So, did I tell you my real reason for becoming a yogini?”

“Ooh, look at you with the fancy, gender-appropriate terminology,” teased Dan. “I dunno, Madonna biceps? It's okay to use faux spirituality to mask your body dysmorphia, Bess. If rehab is the new OD, yoga is the new anorexia.”

“No, it's not about my biceps, although I guess that would be a nice by-product. I'm actually working on a new story idea.”

“Oh really?” asked Dan, excited for Bess. “Awesome. What's the story?”

“Well, I was looking for some sort of divine inspiration to get me out of my slump, and it all sort of fell into place at that reunion thing.”

“How so?”

“Seeing these women and how they've changed since college really got me thinking. I mean, these were all creative, driven women, you know? Women who had dreams and goals that weren't yet affected by the hustle of the real world. Now all of them seem to have sold out and given in to society's rules about how to make a living.” Dan was silent. “You know what I mean, Dan?”

“Um, I guess so,” answered Dan—a note of wariness in his voice.

Bess decided to steamroll over his lack of enthusiasm. She got up from the floor and walked out of her bedroom, into the living room. She plopped down on her chaise and stared out the window of her twenty-third-floor apartment. Turn one way and she experienced the serenity of the twinkling city lights and the Hudson just beyond. Turn another and she was basically inside the kitchen of the apartment across the way. Even living large had its limits in New York City. She continued her explanation. “I'm going to write an article about just that. How these creative women all changed what they wanted out of life to fulfill somebody else's idea of success.”

“But how can you make that call at this point? You don't even know these women yet.”

“True, but I have a pretty good idea that what they're doing now is not what they dreamed of. That's the thing, it happens to almost every woman—this sort of universal sellout.”

“You think these women are going to agree to be the subjects of such a mean-spirited article? Who are you to call them sellouts?”

“They don't know that I'm writing it. I figure I'll act as sort of a spy—finding out when and where everything went south for them in terms of their creativity. And I'm not planning on labeling them as sellouts per se, Dan. Just painting as accurate a picture as I can of a very real phenomenon. The reader can make any judgment they like.” Dan didn't respond. Bess continued on, “Although one of the women, Charlie, seems to defy my hypothesis. She started out as a sort of money shark with a master's in finance and is now running the yoga studio. I can't help but think there's more to the story there though—I don't think her life change was as inspired as it seems to be. A one-eighty-degree switch like that has to have at least some sort of less than noble background, don't you think?”

“Bess, I think this is a bad idea,” Dan finally said. “I don't like it at all. It's unethical.”

“Oh my God, give me a break! When did you become the spokesperson for ethical? Reporters have to work behind the scenes all the time.”

“Not to be an ass, but I wouldn't call this reporting.”

“Oh really?” asked Bess. “What would you call it then?”

“I would call it a thinly veiled attempt to reconnect with your own creativity at the expense of others. It's a glorified puff piece, with nothing ‘feel good' about it. These women are going to hate you if the story ever goes to print.”

“Jesus, tell me how you really feel.” She wanted to reach through the phone and scratch his smug eyeballs out. “A puff piece? You don't know what you're talking about. This is a significant female issue, and one that is almost never researched in an urban setting. What's interesting about it to me is that by all standards, these women are living independent, self-empowering lives. They're in New York, they all are in some sort of artistic field, and yet they're really not that different from typical suburban housewives. All of them have sacrificed their dreams on some level. It's important that society know that all women wrestle with this dilemma.” She flipped on her flat-screen television and muted it. Anderson Cooper soothed her, even if she couldn't hear him.

“Even if that is the case, why couldn't you just be open with them about your article? That way, there's no bad blood.”

“Are you kidding me? There's no way I would get the kind of juice I need if it was all aboveboard. They would all censor their conversations with me and the article would have no heart.”

“Oh, that's funny.”

“How so?” snarled Bess. He was really pushing her buttons now.

“The way you've explained this article to me, ‘heart' is the last thing that comes to mind.”

“Real nice, Dan,” said Bess. “Now I'm heartless because I want to fulfill my own dream and get the hell out of my stupid tabloid job? I'm heartless because I'm looking out for me for a change?!”

“You're twisting my words,” Dan argued.

“I don't think so,” Bess said as she held back tears. She couldn't believe how worked up she was getting. Why was Dan behaving like such an assface? “I have to go. Maybe we shouldn't talk for a while.” And with that, she hung up her phone and tossed it onto the floor. She turned off the television. Not even Anderson could soothe her now.

S
abine grimaced as her alarm shrieked rudely in her ear. Eyes still closed, she scrambled to silence it. She turned from her side onto her stomach and buried her face in the warmth of her pillow.
You have to get up,
she thought.
No excuses. Get uppppp.
Her blanket cocoon was so warm. . ..
GET UP! NOW!
She forced herself into an upright position and switched on her bedside lamp. Through squinted eyes, she made out the distinct image of Lassie staring at her accusingly from the foot of her bed. She stuck out her tongue at him.

She got up and pulled her sweatshirt, pajama pants, and socks on before blearily stumbling into the kitchen for a glass of water. Well, really, she walked to the refrigerator, which—technically speaking—was in her living room. There was an island separating the appliances from the couch, but it wasn't much of a divider. This was New York. If your toilet was in your apartment, you were supposed to consider yourself lucky.

She gulped down half the glass and eyed the clock on her microwave. It was 6:03
AM
. This was Sabine's first attempt at pre-work writing, since her after-work writing was a joke. Switching into writing mode after a day of editing and weaving her way through the various minefields of bureaucratic bullshit felt like a mild form of torture. Sabine hoped that reversing the process would yield better results. Any results would be nice, really. She had always been a gym-rat in the morning kind of person when she was so inclined. By the time she fully woke up, she was halfway through her workout. Why shouldn't the same kind of miracle occur here? Two cups of coffee in, and she would be a third of the way through her novel. She set up the coffee maker and moved into the bathroom to plunge her tired face into a freezing cold washcloth. “Gahhhh!” she shrieked into its folds. It was official now. She was awake.

Sabine filled her coffee mug and meandered into her bedroom, where her laptop sat on her half-a-desk, which was pushed up against the wall. She grabbed it and moved toward the bed, planning on propping it on top of some lap pillows as she typed. Just then, Lassie leaped onto the bed from the floor and gave her a judgmental glare.

“Damn you, Lassie!” yelled Sabine, pumping her fist toward the ceiling in mock anger. The cat was right, though. No writing of any value would get done in her bed. Two minutes in, she would pass out. It was a sure thing, as Lassie could attest.

She placed her computer back on her desk and pulled her folding chair out from its storage spot under her bed. She unfolded it, placed it in front of her desk, turned her computer on, and sat down. She opened Word and drew up a blank document. The stark white cyber-page stared at her accusingly.

Sabine coached herself:
No pressure, just start typing—see where it takes you.
Her mind flitted about like a pinball as she flailed internally. She was so consumed by the idea of writing with purpose that she couldn't just relax and let it flow. That was the problem with not writing regularly—it paralyzed your confidence and sense of ease. Sabine liked to call it creative constipation. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

She decided to write about a particularly absurd conversation she had had with her boss the day before. She began free-writing, just depositing the details onto the page the way she would a check at the bank. Three sentences in, she stopped.

“Should I go ahead and use the quotation marks now?” she said aloud.
That would save me a lot of time and maybe some confusion later,
she thought. She inserted punctuation where necessary and, in re-reading what she had just written, became doubtful.

“Ooh, this is bad,” she whined. Lassie, stretched out on the bed, lifted his head as Sabine's doubt filled the room. “This is really bad.” She pressed
DELETE
and watched the cursor steamroll through the past ten minutes of her life. She sighed deeply and turned to pet Lassie.

“Lassie, don't judge me,” she whispered. “I just can't do it this morning.” Sabine wondered if she even wanted to write anymore. Maybe she was just holding on to it out of habit.

Sabine felt like a failure, but somehow vindicated at the same time. It was her life, and if she didn't feel like writing, she didn't feel like writing. The question was, If she really wasn't into it anymore, how come it haunted her all day? Why, when she closed her eyes and visualized the rest of her life, did she see herself typing away ferociously?

She closed her computer and got up, crossing over to her bureau. Atop its cedar surface sat a huge magnifying mirror. She switched on its light and was immediately fascinated by the depth of her pores and the stray eyebrow hairs that needed attending to. Nothing was more satisfying than plucking those little guys. Sabine hummed to herself as she cleaned up her arches.

“Sabine, no!” she reprimanded, as she moved to pluck a hair that had no business being removed. Sometimes she went a little nuts and ended up looking like Drew Barrymore circa her boob flash on David Letterman. In college she had actually removed the entire interior corner of each one in an attempt to eradicate her monobrow. Her mother had called her Comma Face for the entire summer she had been home, and had even taken her tweezers from her.

“It's for your own good, Comma Face,” she had said over their glasses of chilled box wine.

Sabine smiled, remembering. She put down her tweezers and shut off the mirror's light. It was 6:54. She could squeeze in another hour of sleep, no problem. She crawled into her bed, nestling herself carefully between Lassie and her plethora of pillows. She eyed her computer, which seemed to mock her from its post a few feet away. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, it was 8:45. “Shit, shit, shit!” she cursed, jumping out of bed. She had neglected to reset the alarm. She had twenty minutes to shower, get ready, and head to the subway. Lassie smirked as she ran through the apartment like a madwoman. She emerged from her body shower—no time for anything hair related—and surveyed her closet. She grabbed her picks with zero consideration.
Were these pants always so tight?
she asked herself as she sucked in to zip. Good thing she was starting yoga. She did a quick concealer/mascara/lip gloss swipe in the mirror, noting that her eyebrows were still a bit red from her earlier descent into tweezing madness, grabbed her jacket and bag, and flew out the door. On the street, she looked at her watch: 9:10.
Not bad.

At her subway station, she swiped her pass through the slot and moved through the turnstile—only to be stopped by the cold metal arm. Annoyed, she glanced over to the card reader.

“Insufficient fare?” she read aloud. She sighed deeply. She extricated herself from the small mob forming behind her and approached the card machine. She dug through her purse aggressively.

“Where the hell is my wallet?” she mumbled to herself.

Just when she was about to convince herself that her wallet had been stolen, there it was. She bought a new card and returned to the turnstile. Her second swipe successful, she continued on with her morning, already feeling like she needed a nap.

She walked down the platform, thinking about her outfit. It was not a good one. Sometimes, when she left for work, she felt like a somewhat together thirty-something with good taste. Not too much, not too little, but just right.

And then there were the days like today, when she was running late and ended up looking like a bank teller. Exhibit A: ill-fitting pants in a polyester blend, an empire waist shirt, and pointy flats from the late nineties. She had no one to blame but herself; certainly there were other options in her closet, but sometimes an extra five styling minutes was too much to bear so early in the morning. Sabine liked to excuse herself from judgment by saying that if she looked like a million bucks every day, she would never appreciate the occasions when she did. The occasional misstep into bank teller territory kept her humble.

She stopped and rested her bag full of manuscripts on the ground. She stretched to the sky, hoping to release some of the Monday tension that was already building. It started Sunday, late afternoon, this tension. Just thinking about the five days ahead of her was enough to knot up her entire back. Coming down from her stretch, she looked to her left. There he was. Subway Crush.

Her heartbeat sped involuntarily and she felt a blush spread over her face. He was standing about two people over, listening to his iPod.

God,
she thought to herself.
I love him.

For about two years running, she had been seeing him on the subway. Not every morning, but maybe once a month or so. He was adorable. Tall, dark, and lovely. Black hair and a five-o'clock shadow, even at nine in the morning. A lean frame with hands that looked like they could do things: hang a picture, hammer a nail, maybe make turkey meatballs.

Her crush on him was epic. She had rehearsed what she would say to him maybe a thousand times, but every time she went to open her mouth, she went blank. Completely blank.

He looked over suddenly. His eyes were dark brown, but they twinkled like little raisin jewels. She had described them that way to her friend Karen over drinks one night and she had burst out laughing.

“Sabine, really?” she had said. “Raisin jewels? You've got it bad.” Sabine had agreed, and taken a huge gulp of her gimlet in response.

“What's the big deal?” Karen had continued. “Just say hi! Jesus. What's the worst that can happen?”

She was right, of course. The worst that could happen was that he would ignore Sabine, or worse yet, brush her off unapologetically, but still—she just couldn't do it. Realistically, she knew that the odds of him being a complete dick were slim, but the thought of approaching him paralyzed her. This was New York, after all. If a guy wanted to say hello to you, he did. Sabine had been approached by enough clowns to know that.

Wait, is he looking at me?
she thought, as she stared intently at the tracks. She could feel the raisin jewels burning a hole into her skull, but she couldn't be sure if that was just a product of her overactive imagination. The train approached and she snuck a glance back at him. Nothing.

They got on the same car. He was exactly four people over. Still listening to his iPod and also now reading a book. The double-whammy combo of the two screamed “leave me alone.”

Sabine took a seat, once again reminded of her bank teller ensemble. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't say hello today. Her outfit was a disaster and he. . .well, he was perfect. She sighed. She pulled a manuscript out of her bag and pretended to read.

“Hey, Sabine!” she heard beside her. She looked up. Great. There was Michael, the Close Talker. He was a friend of a friend and he had zero respect for physical boundaries.

She turned to face him, nervous already about the proximity of his mouth to her nose. She knew from past experience that it would hang open, dangerously close.

“Hey, Michael,” she replied, her discomfort obvious to anyone except Michael. She wondered if Subway Crush was watching. She cringed and hoped that wasn't the case. The Bank Teller and the Close Talker did not a good impression make.

“Soooo, what's new, Sabine? Last time I saw you, you were pretty wasted!”

Is this guy for real?
wondered Sabine.
How old are we? Twelve?

“Sorry, I don't remember that,” she replied, with as much composure as she could muster.

“I bet you don't!” guffawed Michael. “We were at Carrie's birthday.”

“Oh rightttttt,” said Sabine. “I wasn't wasted, I just had a killer sinus infection. I was doped up.” She thought back on that night. She had been so miserable and then, naturally, Michael appeared. They had had some horrible conversation that she couldn't even hear in between her head feeling like a balloon and the loudness of the bar. By the end of it, she literally felt like her skull was on the verge of exploding.

Michael started jabbering on, but Sabine could not even pretend to be interested. The train pulled into the station and she realized that she had only three more to go to freedom. She made a mental note never to sit in this car again. But wait! Subway Crush. She couldn't sacrifice the chance of seeing him just to escape from the clutches of the Close Talker. She craned her neck around a giant backpack to get another glimpse of him.

Wait, what!?
Her heart stopped. He was craning his head around the backpack, trying to get a look at her. Or was he? Sabine looked around her for a supermodel or maybe a former president. Nothing. She realized that Michael was still talking. As a matter of fact, he was the only person talking in the entire car. Of course he was that guy. Sabine looked back. One of Subway Crush's iPod buds was hanging from his ear. Was he trying to overhear their conversation? Really? He was back to his book, but the bud dangled—the only proof that maybe Sabine wasn't hallucinating. He was looking at her. Or wait, maybe he was gay and looking at Michael.

She turned back toward Michael.
No, not possible.

“You know what I mean?” he asked breathlessly. He had been talking the entire time. Sabine had not heard a word he had said. No wonder he always thought she was drunk.

“I do, Michael,” she replied. The train pulled into her station. “Well, this is me!” she announced. “See you!”

She gathered her bag and pushed her way out of the train. She glanced back to mentally say good-bye to Subway Crush. He was looking! He was definitely looking!

They locked eyes and Sabine froze in her tracks.

“Hey lady, give us a break, will ya?!” a burly guy yelled in her ear. She willed her limbs to work and turned to exit the train.

Through the turnstile, up the stairs, on the street. Finally, here, Sabine could take a moment to digest what had happened. An eye lock with Subway Crush! It had really happened. She smiled and straightened her shoulders as she marched down Sixth Avenue.