Pink Slip Party (10 page)

“I’m sure.”

“I could call back later…” She lets her voice drift off.

“Really. I’m awake.”

“You’re sure.”

“Mom!” I cry, starting to get annoyed. “What do you want?”

“Well, I sort of have, a, er, issue.”

“Yes.”

“It’s about work, you see. I start today, and I’m not exactly sure…” Her voice drops and I can tell she’s trying to keep Dad from hearing. “…what to wear.” She says the last part quickly, almost as if she’s embarrassed.

“You don’t know what to wear?” I echo.

“Yes, that’s right.” She sounds guilty, as if she’s admitting to shoplifting Miracle Bras. “They told me casual, but I’m not sure what they mean by ‘casual.’ Can I wear slacks? Is that appropriate? Or do you think I should wear a dress and hose?”

Mom uses words like
slacks
and
hose
despite my reminders that they make her sound older than she actually is.

“Mom, when you went there for an interview, what were people wearing?”

She thinks about this a moment.

“Well, I don’t exactly remember. I think, though, the receptionist was wearing sneakers. And, maybe I saw a couple of maintenance workers. They wore blue jeans.”

“How do you know they were maintenance workers?”

“Well, surely, the people who work there don’t wear blue jeans? I mean, it
is
a respectable office.”

“Mom,” I say. “Dot-coms usually don’t have dress codes, so jeans are probably fine.”

“Blue jeans!” Mom cries, sounding offended. Mom uses the word “blue” to describe jeans, even if they are another color like “white blue jeans” or “pink blue jeans.”

“Well, why don’t you just wear some khakis and a regular shirt.”

“You mean like a beige skirt?”

“No, pants. I mean like regular pants and a regular shirt.”

“A pants suit?”

“No. Like a pair of black pants, and like a shirt.”

“A blouse?”

I hate that word almost as much as I hate the word
slacks.

“Sure. That,” I say.

“What color?”

“Whatever color you want, Mom.”

“Well, I was reading in
McCall’s
that color makes an important statement about your personality.”

“Trust me, no one in the office is going to be reading too much into your outfits. Not unless you wear spandex and go-go boots.”

“Jane!” Mom sputters. She is so easy to shock, I almost can’t help it.

“Mom, you’ll do fine,” I say.

“Do I sound nervous?” she asks.

“Petrified,” I say.

“Rats. I thought I could fool you.”

“Never.” I hear her laugh softly on the other end of the line.

“Well, I’d better run if I’m going to catch the train.” She pauses.

“Mom,” I say. “You’ll do great. Really. You’ll knock ’em dead. Remember, you make Martha Stewart look like an amateur.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” she says, and it sounds like she’s teary.

There’s a pounding on my door, and shouting, and I realize it’s Landlord Bob.

I sigh, and throw the covers over my head.

“JANEZ, I HAVE A KEY, NO? OPEN ZEE DOOR!”

I jam on my jeans, and throw a T-shirt over my head, and I am fishing around for my glasses when I hear Landlord Bob’s key in my lock. I am halfway out the window when he bursts into my bedroom.

“GOING SOMEWHERES, EH?”

“I’m taking out the garbage,” I say.

“WHERE GARBAJ? I SEE NO GARBAJ.”

I am still weighing the risks of fleeing down the fire escape. Landlord Bob is distracted. He is looking around my bedroom, assessing the value of my second-hand Ikea furniture and Target knick-knacks. I could still flee. It’s not too late. I lean a bit further out of my window, and Landlord Bob comes alive.

“COME DOWN FROM ZERE,” he says. “WHERE IZ MY MONEY? MY COUSIN CAN MOVE IN TOMORROW, IF ZOO DON’T HAVE IT.”

“Bob, give me until this afternoon, all right? I’ll have it for you then,” I say.

“OKAYS, BUT ZAT’S IT. IF ZOO DON’T HAVE THE MONEY ZIS AFTERNOON, YOU OUT, YES?”

I have eight dollars in my wallet and wonder if I should use the money to buy cigarettes or lotto tickets. As I’m digging through my purse, hoping that somehow I’ll find something of value (like a new credit card or a misplaced old bonus check from Maximum Office), I run across Missy’s business card.

I need advice. I call Steph’s cell phone. I get a half ring, before I’m instantly kicked over to her voicemail. She’s still in New York, and knowing Steph, she’s probably forgotten her cell phone charger.

There’s nothing more to do.

I call the handwritten number on the card.

“I TOLD you I didn’t touch your fucking stereo,” Missy shouts into the phone.

“Uh, hello?” I ask tentatively.

“Huh? Who the hell is this?” Missy asks.

“It’s Jane. From Maximum Office. We met the other day…”

“Jane?”

“I’ve got the two-bedroom apartment in Lakeview.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, I thought you were my boyfriend calling.”

“Listen, I know this sounds weird, but are you still looking for a place to live?”

“Am I ever. My house-sitting gig is over today. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a decent place to rent in March?”

“How do you feel about paying for a couple of months’ rent in advance?”

Missy, it turns out, has cash to spare. She says she saved most of her inflated techie salary, and says she’s more than willing to pay cash up front if the apartment is in good shape, and she can have the bigger bedroom. She agrees to come by this afternoon to take a look at the place.

Two hours later, there’s a hard rapping on my bedroom window. Since Ron never knocks, I know it can’t be him. When I pull up the blinds, I see Missy looking in with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.

“Are you going to just stand there?” she barks.

I open the window, and she clambers through it and onto my bed, dropping ash in her wake.

“I have a front door,” I inform her.

“Nice place,” she says, ignoring me. She scans my bedroom and walks into the hallway, checking out the living room, kitchen, and bathroom.

“Looks good,” she says. “I’ll take it.”

“OK, great…” I say as she heads back out my bedroom window. Seconds later, she’s back again, with a heavy Samsonite suitcase.

“You’re moving in
now?”
I ask her, perplexed.

“No time like the present,” Missy says.

Missy is wearing cut-off jeans, her hair is in knots on the top of her head. She looks like she left her house-sitting assignment in a hurry. She does not look like a Rich Techie. She looks like a Bill Evader. She looks like the sort of person who regularly skips out on restaurant checks.

I have a bad feeling about this.

Besides, she could be a serial killer, even if she is half my size.

“Missy, maybe we should talk about this,” I start.

Missy clomps through my apartment, her muddy boots making track marks along my floor. “This is my room,” she says, coming back to my bedroom and bouncing once on my bed. “I can use your furniture, right?”

“Maybe we should reconsider this arrangement,” I say, as she sits down on my comforter.

“Here’s the $2,000 you asked for — that’s for three months’ rent, right?” Missy says, handing over a thick manila envelope, like a blackmailer. Inside, there are crisp $100 bills.

“Cash?” I squeak.

“I hope that’s OK,” Missy says.

Looking at the bills, I decide instantly she isn’t a serial killer, and that maybe she should have my room, after all.

Missy snaps down my blinds, and peers out of them as if she’s afraid someone’s following her.

“Thanks, roomie — would you mind getting the rest of my things? They’re in the alley,” she says, still looking out of the blinds. “I’d get them, but I have a bad back.”

My smartass comeback is silenced by the thick envelope full of money in my hand. I suppose we all have a price. Mine is $2,000.

There are four more boxes in the alley, and what looks suspiciously like a Maximum Office desk chair. I do a few rolling twirls in the chair before I carry it up. The boxes are next, and they’re filled with a mix of clothes, shoes, and serious electronic equipment — a DVD player, a stereo speaker, and what looks like a Sony PlayStation. I lift up one of the wires, and underneath is a man’s wallet, a man’s gold watch, and a set of house keys. I tap the box and the wallet falls open — there’s one edge of a $20 bill sticking out and the corner of a driver’s license with a man’s face on the front.

Hmmmm.

I don’t think I want to know.

By the time I’ve put the boxes and chair in my bedroom, I’m sweating. I haven’t had this much physical exertion in weeks.

I take the cash and run it upstairs to Landlord Bob. I give him the envelope along with my check for most of what’s left in my bank account.

“SANK ZOO!” Landlord Bob exclaims. “MY LEGS SANK ZOO, TOO.” He’s in his rumpled pink bathrobe and I see his hairy shins. For a second, I think Landlord Bob might cry tears of relief. He makes a move to give me a hug, but I put my hand up.

“That’s OK, Bob,” I say. “Stay away from the bookies, OK?”

“YES. BOOKIES BAD,” Landlord Bob agrees, nodding his head emphatically.

When I get back to my apartment, I see Missy has taken up a position on my couch, and is flipping through my three channels and the snow that makes up the rest of them.

“You don’t have cable?” she exclaims, shocked, as if she’s just discovered that I’m a cannibal.

“No,” I say.

“I wish you’d told me this
before
I moved in,” she says.

“You mean before I moved you in,” I correct.

“Whatever. Look, do you know where your cable box is?”

I shrug.

In amazement, I watch as Missy follows my cable cord out the window. She grabs a pair of pliers from one of her open boxes and scrambles up the fire escape and onto the roof. Within minutes, the cable is back on. And not just any cable, there’s HBO, Cinemax, and Showtime.

Missy comes back into the apartment knocking roof dust off her pants.

“My ex-boyfriend was a cable guy,” she says, by way of explanation.

I am silenced by the bootlegged cable. I feel at once very lucky and very anxious. Just who is this girl I just let move in with me?

The entire afternoon, Missy doesn’t move an inch, except to ask me to fetch her Diet Cokes from the refrigerator. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she is nesting. When I get too close, she starts squawking like a blue jay.

My phone rings, and Missy, who is sitting on the cordless phone as if it might hatch, answers first.

“Hello? Jane? Nobody named Jane lives —” I hear her say, before I can snatch the phone away from her.

“I’m
Jane,” I hiss.

“Jane? I thought you were
Jan.”
She shrugs.

I grab the phone.

It’s Steph. The connection on her mobile phone is terrible, like she’s standing in the middle of a crowded bar. I can barely hear her.

“Bike has a Beyonce Single,” is what it sounds like she says.

I say “What?” over and over again, but I still can’t understand a word Steph is saying.

“Steph, I can’t hear you, can I call you back?”

I hang up, and try to call her back, but all I get is her voicemail.

The phone rings again. I snatch it up.

But it isn’t Steph. It’s Kyle.

“How are you?” he asks me. I wonder, for a minute, if Todd has asked him to check up on me.

I sigh.

“If you insist on knowing, I’m doing fine. I narrowly avoided eviction by getting a roommate.”

“Very industrious of you,” Kyle says. “I hope you can keep this one longer than six months.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Your track record with roommates is terrible,” Kyle says. “One of them almost sued you in People’s Court.”

“That’s a blatant exaggeration,” I say. “That was Mandy, and she wasn’t going to take me to People’s Court, she was going to take me to small claims court for breaking her VCR.”

“Right. And Karen?”

“Karen was psychotic, that’s not fair,” I say.

“But was she a diagnosed manic-depressive
before
she moved in with you?” Kyle asks me.

“Don’t even start,” I say. “Now why did you really call?”

“I thought you might like a field trip,” Kyle says.

“A field trip?” I ask, skeptical.

“To the Art Institute,” he says. “I know how you love the Art Institute.”

It’s true. I could spend hours there, days even, except on my reduced salary I can’t afford the “suggested donation” cost of admission.

“My law firm is having a cocktail party tonight with the Impressionists,” he says.

“Cocktails and art, my two favorite things in the world,” I say, starting to perk up at the prospect of leaving my apartment.

“Who knows you best?” Kyle says.

Kyle comes to my door wearing a black suit and one of his trademark Burberry ties. He is carrying white roses and his wide, lawyer’s smile.

“Do you ever go a day without wearing plaid?” I ask.

“Well, good evening to you, too, Ms. McGregor,” Kyle says, ignoring my comment. “My, but you do look good when you shower. I appreciate you washing your hair. I feel special.”

I stick my tongue out at him.

I am, actually, looking the best I’ve looked in weeks. I did shower, and not only washed my hair but blow dried and styled it, too. And, miracle of miracles, I’ve actually put on make-up. And high heels. And an above-the-knee red cocktail dress. I look less like an unemployed degenerate and more like a lady of leisure.

“Who’s the fucking stiff?” Missy cries from her perch on my couch.

“Kyle, I’d like you to meet my roommate, Missy. Missy, this is Kyle.”

“Is that Burberry?” she asks him.

“I’m afraid so,” he says.

“He’s a keeper,” Missy tells me.

“Thanks for the advice,” I say.

“You’re fucking welcome,” she says.

Kyle raises his eyebrows, and I suspect this whole field trip ruse might have been just an excuse for him to get a glimpse of my roommate.

“These are for you,” Kyle says, giving me what are, objectively, very pretty white roses.