The Job (30 page)

“You can’t just end it-” “I can’t? Who are you to say I can’t?”

“I made a mistake. A terrible mistake.”

I sank down onto the sofa and put my head in my hands. Lizzie stood and watched me cry. As my weeping intensified, she didn’t move, didn’t soften, didn’t stop staring at me with dispassionate contempt. When I quieted down, she spoke.

“I made a mistake, too,” she said, “thinking there was a chance of putting this all back together again.”

Her voice broke, her eyes began to fog with tears.

“How could you? How fucking could you… ?”

“I didn’t mean-” “Who cares what you ‘meant Ned. You did it. Knowing full well our marriage was on shaky ground, you still went ahead and did it. And there’s no excusing that.”

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Then, picking up the two suitcases, she walked to the front door, opened it, and deposited the bags in the hallway.

“You’re going now,” she said.

I didn’t move.

“Did you hear me? I want you out of here,” she said.

“Please, Lizzie…”

“There is nothing more to say.”

“There is everything to say….”

“I’ll be talking to a lawyer today.”

“Say I refuse to go.”

“Then I’ll get the lawyer to make you go. With an injunction. You want an ugly scene, Ned? I’ll give you an ugly scene.”

I was in a no-win situation. I’d blown it-and no amount of arguing or begging would bring her around. So I stood up and walked to the door. My hand on the knob, I turned and was about to launch into one final plea. But before I could say a word, she cut me off.

“I don’t want to know,” she said.

She walked into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. Silence. Then I heard her crying.

I approached the closed door.

“Lizzie… ,” I said softly.

Her crying abruptly stopped.

“Fuck off and die,” she said.

I remained paralyzed to the spot. I scanned the apartment frantically, as if there were something there-a wedding photo, a vacation memento, a dumb little trinket we bought together on a whim-that would make everything better, end the crisis, bring us back together again. But all I saw was sleek interior design and polished wood floors and bie bright windows that framed the mid town skyline with all its vertical promise. And I thought, There’s nothing of us here. Nothing at all.

Then, as instructed, I walked to the front door. I opened it. Is this how a marriage ends? An opening and a shutting of a door? Is that what it all comes down to?

The door closed behind me. With a thud.

I had $7.65 in my pocket. And it was raining. Not a mild little drizzle, but a near monsoon. I lugged my bags through this downpour to Sixth Avenue and spent ten minutes trying to find a cab. No luck. I checked my watch. 8:18 A.M. Even if I hauled my suitcases over to the subway, there was no way I was going to make the 8:30 A.M. punchin time at P.C. Solutions. So I found a phone booth and called the Jellyfish. Before I had a chance to say I’d be late, he interrupted me.

“Why weren’t you at work yesterday?” he asked.

“When I called on Monday, I warned you that I might have to stay in Hartford for another day.”

“No, you just said you’d be out Monday. Then I told you that if you did miss Tuesday, you’d be docked a day’s pay, and your week’s quota would rise to eighteen units. But I didn’t give you permission to be absent for the day.”

“I must have misunderstood you, Mr. Rubinek,” I said, trying to sound calm.

“But, as I told you, a good friend of mine died.”

“That’s not my problem. Your quota is now twenty-two units. And an additional three units on top of that if you’re not here at eight-thirty. You’ve got nine minutes.”

I suddenly heard myself saying, “Fuck you, you sadistic geek.” Then I slammed down the phone-after which I thought, I have just resigned.

Having finally told that pathetic monster what I thought of him, I felt a buzz of triumphant satisfaction. That lasted about a nanosecond-at which point I remembered that I was homeless and jobless, and that my worldly assets now totaled $7.40.

I considered my limited options. I could try to check into a hotel, but none of my credits cards would permit such an extravagance (and if I wrote a personal check for the room it would bounce like a basketball, allowing the bank to prosecute me under federal law). So I needed to throw myself on the mercy of a friend. But who? After last night’s insanity I really didn’t want to make contact with Debbie Suarez because I was terrified that she might interpret my call as an expression of ongoing romantic interest. She was a widow with a kid, after all. If she found out that Lizzie had left me, she’d probably zoom in on me like a heat-seeking missile. Right now I was about the worst catch imaginable. I was trouble-and she, of all people, didn’t deserve trouble.

There was, of course, la nand Geena-but I could already hear Lizzie’s rage when Geena called her in L.A. to say that I’d scrounged a bed for a couple of nights. And I was certain la nand Geena would feel rather used when Lizzie informed them of the real reason why I was locked out of my apartment. Who else? Phil Sirio. Bingo.

I dug out my wallet in search of the cocktail napkin on which he’d scribbled his phone numbers. But as I shuffled through assorted wallet debris (credit card slips, taxi receipts, old business cards) I found myself staring at Jerry Schubert’s card. He’d asked me to call him (“Don’t be a stranger”)-and, unlike Phil, he did live in Manhattan. Surely he’d help out an old Brunswick High pal for a few days. I fed a quarter into the phone and nervously punched in his office number. After keeping me on hold for a moment, his secretary put me through.

“Ned!” he said, sounding pleased to hear from me.

“I was hoping you’d call. Sounds like you’re on the street….”

“You could say that.”

“Where you calling from right now? Your West Twentieth Street tennis club?”

“I’m in a phone booth at Nineteenth and Sixth….”

I must have sounded a little shaky, as Jerry asked, “Everything okay, Ned?”

“Not really. I’m in a bit of trouble, Jerry.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Big trouble-as in, I don’t know where I’m going to sleep tonight.”

“That sounds serious.” With a laugh, he added, “Don’t tell me your wife threw you out?”

“I’m afraid she actually did.”

“Hey, I’m sorry.”

“Shit happens,” I said weakly.

“Yeah-especially in marriage. Listen, I’ve got to run into a meeting with Mr. B. Get up to my office-it’s 502 Madison Avenue, between Fifty-third and Fifty-fourth-and we’ll take it from there, okay?”

The rain was still torrential. There were no cabs on Sixth Avenue. And when I tried to get cash on every credit and ATM card in my wallet, the machine kept flashing the same message: INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. So I dragged my bags down into the depths of the subway, bought a token, and squeezed onto a packed uptown car. My bulky suitcases did not win me friends among my fellow passengers. Especially after I accidentally dropped one bag on the toes of the woman executive standing next to me.

“Watch it!” she said sharply as the bag hit her feet.

“I’m really sorry,” I said.

She shook her head with disdain. Under her breath, she muttered the ultimate New York insult:

“Tourist.”

I closed my eyes and wished this day were over.

I got off at Fifty-third and Fifth. After dragging the bags upstairs to the street, my shoulders felt as if they were on the verge of dislocation. The downpour had been transformed into a steady drizzle. I struggled east for two blocks, and all but fell into 502 Madison Avenue.

The offices of Ballantine Industries were located in a sleek 1950s skyscraper-one of those proud, vertical testaments to postwar optimism and corporate confidence. There was a security man posted near the elevators. He took one look at my drenched, disheveled state (and my two large suitcases) and immediately filed me away under Trouble. He blocked my path.

“Who are you visiting, sir?”

“Jerry Schubert at Ballantine Industries.” *

He motioned me toward a cluster of chairs.

“You can wait there while I call him.”

“But he’s expecting me.”

“I’m sure he is,” the guard said, returning to his desk.

“Please sit down.”

I planted myself on a chair. My overcoat was sodden, my shoes waterlogged, and I felt an internal chill coming on. The guard hung up the phone and said, “Mr. Schubert is on his way down to see you.”

Jerry showed up two minutes later, dressed in his overcoat, briefcase in hand.

“You look like a drowned rat,” he said with a smile.

“Having a bad day?”

“The worst.”

“Come on,” he said, picking up one of my bags.

“There’s a car waiting outside.”

A Lincoln Town Car was parked at the curb. The uniformed driver relieved us of the two bags and put them in the trunk. We climbed into the backseat. Jerry told the driver, “First stop is 115 Wooster Street, then I’m heading to 111 Broadway, at the intersection of Broadway and Wall Street.”

Turning toward me, Jerry said, “I’m off to a meeting with some financial guys, but I’ll drop you off at my place on the way.”

“Listen, if this is an inconvenience, just loan me a hundred bucks and I can find some cheap hotel for a night or two.”

Jerry rubbed his right thumb and forefinger together.

“Know what this is?” he said.

“The world’s smallest violin. Cut the self-pitying shit. Allen. It doesn’t wash with me.”

“Sorry.”

“If you want a bed, I’ve got a spare room in my loft.”

“Sold,” I said.

“And I really can’t thank you …”

He held up his hand.

“Gratitude accepted. What the hell is that on your neck?”

“A hickey.”

“Courtesy of your wife?”

“I wish.”

He laughed.

“So that’s the problem?”

“It’s a long story. Everything’s a long story.”

In the cab going downtown, I told him the entire god-awful tale-from the moment Getz-Braun was sold, to being evicted by Lizzie. When I finished talking, Jerry let out a long whistle.

“That’s some epic,” he said.

“And it’s not over yet-considering that I’m now homeless….”

“Rule Number One of the Jack Ballantine philosophy of life: If you want to bounce back, you will bounce back.”

“I want to believe that,” I said.

Jerry’s apartment was between Prince and Spring. It was stark and empty. Bleached floors, plain white walls, a large black leather couch, a television, a stereo, a long steel table and chairs. The guest bedroom was tiny. It accommodated nothing more a double futon and a clothes rack. To call it austere was an understatement-it seemed devoid of any signs of actual life.

“Quite a place,” I said.

“I’m hardly ever here,” he said, “except for the six hours a night I’m asleep. As long as you’re tidy, you can stay here indefinitely.”

“I’m very tidy,” I said.

“And very grateful.”

“Do you have any idea what your next move might be?” he asked.

“I’m in the market for anything,” I said.

“Especially since I’m about to be named Debtor of the Month.”

“How deep you in for?”

“Around seventeen thousand.”

“Impressive.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“Anyway, first things first. Make yourself at home. Hang your stuff up in the spare room, order in any food you want, ‘cause there’s nothing but beer in the fridge. You okay for cash?”

“Fine,” I said.

“Bullshit.” He pulled out his money clip, peeled off two $50 bills, and handed them to me.

“Jerry, I can’t accept your charity….”

He stuffed the bills into the breast pocket of my suit. Yeah, well, that dumb-ass Maine pride doesn’t wash with me. I’m going to be out late tonight….”

“Business?”

“Pleasure,” he said.

“The beautiful Cindy?”

“Nah-she’s history.”

“Jesus, that was fast.”

“It usually is with me. Listen, I’ve got to get to this meeting. We’ll talk in the morning. But here’s a small piece of advice, Ned. Try to kick back today, and not worry about tomorrow. Because life’s going to look a lot better after you’ve gotten twelve hours’ sleep.”

“You’re a good guy.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he said with a smile.

“Catch you later.”

I unpacked my bags, stripped out of my wet clothes, took a long hot shower, changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and made a pot of coffee. I began to feel vaguely human again-until I thought about Lizzie, and how badly I’d blown it. I checked my watch. It was just before noon. I knew what I was going to have to do. Call her at work, beg her to meet me, apologize profusely, and (if necessary) get down on my hands and knees and plead with her for another chance.

I picked up the phone and punched in Lizzie’s office number. Her assistant, Polly, answered. She obviously knew what was going on, because her tone with me was nervously cool.

“You just missed Lizzie,” she said.

“She had a couple of meetings this morning, and then caught the noon American flight back to L.A. You know, she’s still in charge of our office out there.”

So she really had dropped everything and flown cross-country to try to reconcile with me. Oh you dumb, stupid asshole, Allen. You walked right into the oncoming headlights.

Polly continued talking. She sounded extremely jittery.

“Uh, Ned, I don’t know how to say this… but Lizzie also asked me to inform you that she … uh … asked the landlord to sublet the apartment. She also told him that you were not living there anymore, and asked him to arrange for everything to go into storage. So if you need to get any of your stuff, you should call-” “I have the landlord’s name and number,” I said.

“Of course you do,” she said quietly.

“Please tell Lizzie I’m staying with a friend in SoHo, and that I can be reached at 555-7894.”

“Anything else, Ned?”

“Just tell her how sorry I am.”

I hung up quickly so she wouldn’t hear me burst into tears. It took about ten minutes for me to calm down. Had my father seen me now, he would have been appalled.