Everyone Worth Knowing (5 page)

girl crouched in a corner, sobbing quietly but with a pleased

awareness that others were watching, and sidestepped a strikingly

stylish foreign couple who were making out furiously, and with

much hip grinding. I then made a big show of ignoring the meathead

bouncer who, incidentally, was reading from a tattered paperback

version of
Lady Chatterley's Lover
(sex fiend!) and threw

my arm in the air to hail a cab. Only the street was completely

empty, and a cold drizzle had just begun, practically guaranteeing

that a taxi was nowhere in my immediate future.

"Hey, you need some help?" he asked after opening the velvet

rope to admit three squealing, tottering girls. "This is a tough street

for cabs when it rains."

"No thanks, I'm just fine."

"Suit yourself."

Minutes were starting to feel like hours, and the warm summer

sprinkles had rapidly become a cold, persistent rain. What, exactly,

was I proving here? The bouncer had pressed himself against

the door to get some protection from the overhang and was still

reading calmly, as though unaware of the hurricane that now

whipped around us. I continued to stare at him until he looked up,

grinned, and said, "Yeah, you seem to be doing just fine on

your own. You're definitely teaching me a lesson by not taking one

of these huge umbrellas and walking a couple blocks over to

Eighth, where you'll have no trouble getting a cab at all. Great call

on your part."

"You have umbrellas?" I asked before I could stop myself. The

water had soaked entirely through my shirt and I could feel my

blanket-thick hair sticking to my neck in wet, cold clumps.

"Sure do. Keep 'em right here for situations just like this. But

I'm sure you wouldn't be interested in taking one of them, right?"

"Right. I'm just fine." To think I'd almost begun warming up to

him. Just then a livery cab drove by, and I had the brilliant idea to

call UBS's car service for a ride home.

"Hi, this is Bette Robinson with account number six-threethree-

eight. I need a car to pick me up at—"

"All booked!" barked back an angry-sounding female dispatcher.

"No, I don't think you understand. I have an account with your

company and—"

Click.

I stood there soaking wet, anger boiling inside me.

"No cars, huh? Tough," he said, clucking sympathetically without

looking up from the book. I'd managed to skim
Lady Chatterley's

Lover
when I was twelve and had already gleaned as much

about sex as possible from the combination of
Forever, Wifey
and

What's Happening to My Body? Book for Girls,
but I didn't remember

anything about it. Perhaps that had to do with a poor memory,

or maybe it was the fact that sex hadn't even been a part of my

consciousness for the last two years. Or maybe it was that the plots

of my beloved romance novels crowded my thoughts at all times.

Whatever it was, I couldn't even recall something snide to say

about it, never mind clever. "No cars." I sighed. "Just not my night."

He took a few steps out in the rain and handed me a long executive's

umbrella, already unfurled, with the club's logo emblazoned

on both sides. "Take it. Walk to Eighth, and if you still can't

get a cab, talk to the doorman at Serena, Twenty-third between

Seventh and Eighth. Tell him I sent you, and he'll work it out."

I considered walking right past him and getting on the subway,

but the idea of riding around in a train car at one in the morning

was hardly appealing. "Thanks," I mumbled, refusing to meet what

would surely be his gloating eyes. I took the umbrella and started

walking east, feeling him watch me from behind.

Five minutes later, I was tucked in the backseat of a big yellow

taxi, wet but finally warm.

I gave the driver my address and slumped back, exhausted. At

this hour, cabs were good for two things and two things only:

making out with someone on your way home from a good night

out or catching up with multiple people in three-minute-or-less

cell-phone conversations. Since neither was an option, I rested my

wet hair on the patch of filthy vinyl where so many greasy, unwashed,

oiled, lice-ridden, and generally unkempt heads had

rested before mine, closed my eyes, and anticipated the sniffling,

hysterical welcome I would soon receive from Millington. Who

needed a man—or even a newly engaged best friend—when you

had a dog?

3

The week following Penelope's engagement party was nearly

unbearable. It was my fault, of course: there are many ways to piss

off your parents and rebel against your entire upbringing without

enslaving yourself in the process, but I was clearly too stupid to

find them. So instead I sat inside my shower-sized cubicle at UBS

Warburg—as I had every day for the past fifty-six months—and

death-gripped the phone, which was currently discolored by a

layer of Maybelline Fresh Look foundation (in Tawny Blush) and a

few splotches of L'Oreal Wet Shine lip gloss (in Rhinestone Pink). I

wiped it off as best I could while pressing the receiver to my ear

and rubbed my grubby fingers clean underneath the desk chair. I

was being berated by a "minimum," someone who only invests the

million-dollar minimum with my division and is therefore excruciatingly

demanding and detail-oriented in a way that forty-milliondollar

clients never are.

"Mrs. Kaufman, I truly understand your concern over the

market's slight decline, but let me assure you that we have everything

under control. I realize your nephew the interior decorator

thinks your portfolio is top-heavy with corporate bonds, but I assure

you our traders are excellent, and always looking out for your best

interests. I don't know if a thirty-two percent annual gain is realistic

in this economic environment, but I'll have Aaron give you a call as

soon as he gets back to his desk. Yes. Of course. Yes. Yes. Yes, I will

absolutely have him call you the moment he returns from the meeting.

Yes. Certainly. Of course. Yes. Naturally. Yes. A pleasure hearing

from you, as always. All right, then. Bye-bye." I waited until I heard

the click on her end and then slammed down the phone.

Nearly five years and I'd yet to utter the word
no,
as apparently

you need to have at least seventy-two months' experience before

being qualified to go there. I went to send Aaron a quick email

begging him to return Mrs. Kaufman's call so she would finally

stop stalking me and was surprised to see that he was back at his

desk, busily blast-emailing us his daily inspirational bullshit.

Good morning, folks. Let's remember to show our clients our

high energy levels! Our relationships with these good folks comprise

our whole business—they appreciate our patience and consideration

as much as our results-oriented portfolio handling. I'm

pleased to announce a new weekly group meeting, one that I

hope will allow us all to brainstorm ways we may better serve

our clients. It will be held each Friday at 7 a.m. and will provide

us with an opportunity to think outside the box. Breakfast is on

me, folks, so bring yourselves and your thinking caps and remember,

"Great discoveries and improvements invariably involve

the cooperation of many minds."—Alexander Graham Bell.

I stared at the email so long my eyes began to glaze over. Were

his insistence on using the word
folks
and his constant references

to "thinking outside the box" more or less annoying than his inclusion

of the phrase
thinking caps?
Did he craft and send these

emails just to add to the all-pervasive misery and hopelessness of

my days? I pondered this for a few moments, desperate to think

about anything other than the seven A.M. meeting announcement. I

managed to move beyond it long enough to field another frantic

call, this time from Mrs. Kaufman's nephew, that lasted a record

fifty-seven minutes, ninety percent of which he spent accusing me

of things that were entirely beyond my control while I said nothing

or, occasionally, just to switch things up, agreed with him that I

was, in fact, as dumb and useless as he claimed.

I hung up and resumed staring listlessly at the email. I wasn't

exactly sure how Mr. Bell's quote applied to my life or why I

should care, but I did know if I planned to escape for lunch, now

was my only chance. I'd abided by the no-leaving-for-lunch policy

my first few years at UBS Warburg and dutifully ordered in each

day, but lately Penelope and I had brazenly begun sneaking out

for ten, twelve minutes a day to retrieve our own takeout and cram

in as much whining and gossip as possible. An IM popped up on

my screen.

P.Lo:
Ready? Let's do falafel. Meet at the 52nd Street cart in five?

I punched in the letter Y, hit Send, and draped my suit jacket

over the back of my chair to indicate my presence. One of the

managers glanced at me when I picked up my purse, so I filled my

mug with steaming coffee as additional proof that I hadn't left the

premises and placed it in the middle of my desk. I mumbled something

about the bathroom to my fellow cubicle dwellers, who were

too busy transferring their own facial grime to their telephones to

even notice, and walked confidently toward the hallway. Penelope

worked in the real-estate division two floors above me and was already

in the elevator, but like two well-trained CIA operatives, we

didn't so much as glance at each other. She let me exit first and circle

the lobby for a minute while she ducked outside and casually

strolled past the fountain. I followed as best I could in my ugly,

uncomfortable heels, the humidity hitting my face like a wall. We

didn't speak until we'd blended into the line of midtown office

drones who stood both quietly and restlessly, wanting to savor

their few precious minutes of daily freedom but instinctively getting

pissy and frustrated at having to wait for anything.

"What are you having?" Penelope asked, her eyes scanning the

three different carts of sizzling and highly aromatic ethnic food that

men in varying costumes and facial hair were steaming, slicing,

sauteing, skewering, frying, and heaving toward the hungry suits.

"It's all some sort of meat on a stick or dough-filled something,"

I said tonelessly, surveying the smoky meats. "Does it

matter?"

"Someone's in a great mood today."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot, I should be thrilled that five years of

slave labor have turned out so well. I mean, look at us, how glam-

orous is this?" I waved my arms expansively in front of us. "It's sad

enough we don't get to go out to lunch at some point in the middle

of a sixteen-hour workday, but it's fucking
pathetic
that we

aren't even permitted to pick out our food ourselves."