Monkey Business

jamie saves the world one book at a time

Monday, January 12, 1:00 p.m.

Instead of basking in the Miami sun, I’m back at the overheated Zoo, quizzing Layla before her interview with Silverman Investments. I’m sprawled across my bed, my booted feet hanging over the edge. She’s pacing from one side of the room to the other. Click-clack (she’s on the wood), silence (she’s on the carpet), click-clack (other side of the room near the desk), pivot. She accidentally kicks my pile of last semester’s textbooks and swears under her breath. (I don’t know what to do with those books. The school bookstore won’t take them, and there’s no used bookstore in the area. Do they really expect us all to buy new books at full price every year when these are available?)

She looks tanned and fantastic. In her knee-length charcoal-gray skirt suit and matching fitted jacket, she looks like a serious teacher who might at any moment rip her clothes off.

Sexy Pacing Goddess: Ask me something else.

Me: If you were a flower, what kind of flower would you be?

SPG: That’s ridiculous.

Me: That is not a good answer. You will not get the job if you call the interviewer ridiculous.

SPG: Then I’m a Venus flytrap. Because I can trap success wherever I go.

Me: Much better! (She can trap me anytime she wants.)

SPG: (Scowling.) I hate interviews.

Me: You’ll be great.

SPG: Thanks. Crap. It’s one-ten. I have to go.

Me: Your interview isn’t until two. And it’s in the Katz building. You don’t want to sit there for forty minutes.

SPG: You’re causing me unnecessary stress. I have to go. Crap. My shoes. I can’t wear these shoes outside. It’s snowing. My nylons will get soaked. I can’t show up at an interview with soaked nylons. I need to carry my shoes. But what will I do with my boots? I don’t want to bring my schoolbag. What do I do? (Her eyes look wild as if she’s about to get hysterical.)

Charming gentleman: Milady, I would be honored to accompany you to the Katz building and then return here with your boots.

Layla gasps, then joyfully hugs me. “Thank you!” she gushes. “You’re a godsend! Can we go right now?”

I escort her first to her room to get her coat and boots, and then to the Katz building. She sits on a wooden bench in the main hall and reaches to remove her boots. I gently slap her hands. “Allow me, milady. I wouldn’t want you to go to your interview with soiled hands.” I unzip each boot slowly, relishing the moment.

“Oh, wow, I love you,” she says, blows me a kiss and runs to the elevator. “Wish me luck!”

Love you? I wish. “Good luck,” I say. I have no doubt she’ll get the job. I saw her first-semester transcript by her bed this morning. She had a 4.0. Who has a 4.0 in business school? I only got a 3.3. I wish I were in her group. Both so I can work with her, and so I can watch her work.

I step outside and the snow lands directly on my bald spot, numbing my head. I forgot my hat. Again, why am I not in Miami?

This week is interview week, which unfortunately cuts into winter break, but it’s not as if I have any interviews lined up. I just can’t bear to work for a bank or a consulting firm. They seem so soulless. I need to have a job I’m passionate about. I guess I can always go back to writing. But I think I prefer to be in a career that involves more companionship than a computer.

So why am I here? Sunshine notwithstanding, I was bored in Miami. And I knew Layla would be back.

I have it bad.

“Excuse me,” sings a blond undergrad in a parka and hat. Ringing a bell, she says, “Can you spare some change for the Children’s Hospital? We’re trying to raise money for the new pediatric oncology department.”

I get instantly depressed. Here I am whining about my future. There are people out there, children, who might not even have a future. I reach into my pockets. All I have is a five. “Here you go,” I say, placing the bill onto the tray. I wonder how the kids’ ward at Miami General is doing without me.

As my bald spot continues to freeze, I have an epiphany, which I decide to share with Kimmy. Back at the Zoo, I knock on her door.

“Hold on,” I hear from inside. The door clicks open, and she scampers back under the covers. As far as I can tell, it’s just her.

“Kimmy, my sweet, welcome back! Lover-boy not here?”

“No. He’s flying back today, I think. His first interview isn’t till tomorrow.”

“When did you get back?”

She sits up in bed. “Last week.”

I lean against her desk. “So early?”

“I had to apply for a loan.” She groans. “Don’t ask.”

I don’t. “When are your interviews?”

“I only have two. One on Thursday, one on Friday. I’m glad you woke me, Jamie. I should start researching the companies.”

“I’ll let you be, then. I just have a question. What did you do with your last-semester books?”

“Nothing. They’re piled over there.” She points to the corner of her room. “Why?”

“Would you give them to me? I want to hold on to them and sell them to the first-year students next year. I’m planning to donate the proceeds to help fund the pediatric oncology department at the Children’s Hospital.”

“Definitely,” she says. “I’ll even help you collect them. That’s a great idea. Why don’t we make up flyers and then hand them out door-to-door throughout the Zoo?”

Something occurs to me. There Kimmy was telling me she needs to apply for a loan, and she’s willing to give up the proceeds from selling her books privately next year. She really does have a heart, after all.

I return to my room, feeling a familiar rush at the idea of making a flyer. I don’t think I can handle working for a hospital full-time again-living it, dreaming it, breathing it wasn’t right for me-but doing part-time work makes me feel great. Ideally, I should have a career that’s creative and that allows me time for charity work on the side. I’ll start collecting books tomorrow. Good thing I don’t have too many clothes. My closet is about to become a storage room.

Forty minutes later, boots still in hand, I decide I should go pick up Layla. Why not? I don’t want her to ruin her adorable shoes.

A half an hour later she spots me in the lobby of the Katz building. “You came back for me? I love you!”

If she tells me enough times, I’m afraid I’ll start to believe it.