Boy Meets Girl

Hello, you’ve reached the mobile phone of Arthur Hertzog. I’m on the links at the moment—or maybe at the bar—and can’t get to my phone. But leave a message, and I’ll be back to you in a flash.

(Tone)

Dad, it’s Stuart. You have to come home. I mean it. I know you’re probably enjoying yourself, and God knows, you deserve a vacation, just like the rest of us. But Mitch is out of control. I really mean it. I’m worried he actually might do me—or worse, my fiancée—bodily harm. Dad, I’ve had to barricade myself in my office because just now in the hallway—right in front of Clarissa—right in front of the receptionists—he actually took a swing at me. A swing at me, Dad. He tried to physically strike me. You know he’s always been bigger than me. You HAVE to do something. Call me tonight, I’ll be home.

(Click)

Hello, you’ve reached the mobile phone of Arthur Hertzog. I’m on the links at the moment—or maybe at the bar—and can’t get to my phone. But leave a message, and I’ll be back to you in a flash.

(Tone)

Arthur, it’s Margaret. You know I would never deliberately disturb you when you are on one of your interminable lost boys’ retreats. But if you would deign to check your messages once in a while, you would see that all hell has broken loose back home. Mitchell physically assaulted Stuart—assaulted him!—in the hallway. I understand that law enforcement was not called in, but only because Stuart didn’t want the reputation of the firm tarnished by controversy. You’ve GOT to do something, Arthur. Oh, and your daughter Janice hasn’t been any joy to live with these past few days either. You might want to give her a call, too, and tell her that drugs kill! THAT’s why I violated her privacy. Because I don’t want HER to end up like Mitch. You do know he smoked marijuana when he was in Thailand, don’t you? I swear it’s residual THC that’s making him behave this way. Oh, for God’s sake, Arthur, put down the highball and come HOME!

(Click)

Hello, you’ve reached the mobile phone of Arthur Hertzog. I’m on the links at the moment—or maybe at the bar—and can’t get to my phone. But leave a message, and I’ll be back to you in a flash.

(Tone)

Dad, it’s Sean. Seriously. I’m going to kill her. If she comes in my room one more time, I won’t be held responsible for my actions. Also, Stuart’s girlfriend is a tool. That’s all.

(Click)

Hello, you’ve reached the mobile phone of Arthur Hertzog. I’m on the links at the moment—or maybe at the bar—and can’t get to my phone. But leave a message, and I’ll be back to you in a flash.

(Tone)

Hi, Daddy, it’s Stacy. Look. You might be getting some messages. . . . I’m not saying I really understand what’s going on, but if I were you, I’d just ignore them. It’s just Stuart, being a jerk. How’s the weather? It snowed here last night. Just a dusting, but still. Snow! In March! The girls say hi, and so does Little John. Love you.

(Click)

To: Mitch Hertzog

Fr: Stacy Trent

Re: Kate

Okay, okay, slow down. I could barely understand your message. Apparently, you’ve left the office now, and you aren’t answering your cell, so I’ll try Blackberrying you. So you had a meeting with Stuart and his girlfriend and the ever-attractive Kate this morning, and then Amy apparently fired Kate, and now you can’t find her (Kate) because she’s run off with someone named Skiboy?

Well, really, Mitch. She doesn’t sound as if she was all that stable to begin with if she’s hanging out with people named Skiboy. Maybe you’re better off.

Although it was mean of Amy to fire her. Why’d she do it, anyway?

Little John said his first full sentence today, in case you’re interested. It was, “Up yours, dickhead.” Apparently, he heard it from his “Unca Mitch,” who said it to his “Unca Stu” last Saturday. So thanks for that.

All my love,

Stace

To: Stacy Trent

Fr: Mitch Hertzog

Re: Kate

Thanks, got your message. Don’t worry, though, I found her. Well, “we” found her, actually—I ran into Kate’s friend Jen in the lobby of Dolly Vargas’s building. Apparently, she was as concerned as I was about Kate, and we both came rushing over here, in separate cabs. We finally convinced the doorman to let us up, since no one was answering the intercom.

Thank God he did, too. Apparently “Skiboy,” Dolly’s latest “friend”—not Kate’s—got Kate completely plowed on vodka and tonics. He doesn’t seem to see what the problem is, being pretty well sloshed himself. But he’s not the one we found facedown on Dolly’s bearskin rug.

Good thing they’re both still fully dressed, or I’d be wiping the smarmy grin off his face.

By the way, his real name is Gunther. He doesn’t know why everyone seems to call him Skiboy.

Anyway, Jen and I are currently trying to sober Kate up, although she is not being very receptive to this plan. Jen’s trying to get her to down some Vitamin B right now.

Sorry about the alarming phone call—I guess I just needed to talk to someone sane for a minute. But this Jen girl seems surprisingly lucid, for a human-resources type.

I’m just going to ignore that little barb of yours about Kate being unstable.

Oh, and congratulate Jason for me. I’ll be proud as punch the day MY boy first uses the worddickhead in a sentence.

Fucker

To: Mitch Hertzog

Fr: Stacy Trent

Re: Kate

You like her, you like her, you really, really like her.

Sorry. I was momentarily transported to second grade there.

So. You’re in love with the instable little lush, aren’t you? It’s okay, you can admit it to your big sis. You always did have a bit of a rescue complex where girls were concerned. You just LOVE rushing in to play the big hero.

But do you really think you can get her job back? I mean, no offense, but you’re not the one engaged to her boss.

And, uh, just a word of warning: when she sobers up, she might not like you anymore. You DID get her fired, from what I understand.

Stace

P.S. I am so getting you back when you have kids of your own. Their first words are gonna be “I love my uncle Stuart.”

To: Stacy Trent

Fr: Mitch Hertzog

Re: Kate

Re: your accusation that I have some sort of “rescue complex” when it comes to choosing my romantic partners: I must disagree. Admittedly, there have not been many, but the women I have chosen to date have all been fiercely independent, with very definite goals and lives of their own. Even the flight attendant you mentioned—the one in Kuala Lampur—aspired to own her own gym someday. Her body was important to her, and she worked hard to keep it trim, and longed to help other women do the same. . . .

Sorry, I’m being flippant when I meant to be serious. The fact of the matter is, Stuart’s girlfriend really pulled a number on us both. Kate and me, I mean. Well, mostly on Kate. I suspected, but wasn’t sure, that Amy falsified a document—and forged Kate’s name on it. I will admit that I hoped to force Ms. Jenkins to own up to it at the depo today. I figured I’d rub Stuart’s nose in the fact that his future wife isn’t the innocent young flower he’d like all of us to believe she is. You know, make him admit Amy’s capable of calling me a fucker, and all of that. In fact, I was hoping I could get her to do it in front of him.

But damned if Ms. Jenkins—with Stuart’s help—didn’t turn the tables. I’ve seen dirty dealing in my day, but even some of the pimps I’ve defended in the past couldn’t have held a candle to those two for pure subterfuge. Amy’s now saying Kate is the one lying about it, and used that as grounds for firing her.

Thing is, Amy seized Kate’s computer, so the chances of proving Amy wrong are slim to none. Still, the urge to see justice done is pretty strong, considering the whole damn thing’s my own fault—and where there’s a will, there’s a way, and yadda yadda yadda. . . .

You know us rescue-complex types. We’re all the same.

Hey, did you talk to Stuart at all? I almost got off a good one right in his face, but I tripped over one of those damned potted ferns Dad’s got all over the lobby. Then he barricaded himself in his office and wouldn’t come out. Big baby.

Better go, my battery needs recharging, and Kate seems to be coming around. . . .

The Fucker

To: Margaret Hertzog

Fr: Stuart Hertzog

Re: Mitch

I tried calling you, Mother, but no one is picking up. Are you speaking to Dad, perhaps? I put a call in to him, but got no response. I hope you’re having better luck.

Seriously, Mother, I’m worried. I think Mitch needs to be on medication. Clearly he has anger management issues, as today’s violent outburst so eloquently illustrated. I suggest we sit down with the therapist you’ve been sending Janice to and ask if he can do some sort of intervention on Mitch. The man is clearly suffering from some sort of delusion. I almost wonder if it could be post-traumatic stress syndrome left over from his days as a public defender. You know he saw some grisly photos during that time, death and dismemberment and she-males and who knows what all else.

And really, he can’t think any of it—the sacrifices, the time—was ultimately worth it, because all he was doing was trying to defend lowlifes who were never meant to function in society in the first place, and probably should never have been born at all.

Maybe Mitch just needs a vacation. Maybe Dad could arrange for Mitch to use the condo in Aspen for a few weeks. I think if we could just get him out of the office for a while, he might be okay.

Think about it, Mother. He’s been acting strangely ever since you made Janice come home from college—not speaking to you, except to accuse you of interfering where your help’s not wanted or needed, that kind of thing. Almost as if he were on JANICE’s side.

He’s screwed up his own life so badly, it’s no wonder he thinks it’s fine if Janice screws up hers. Thank God Dad was able to bail Mitch out by offering him a position with the firm. Think what he’d be doing by now if Dad hadn’t been so generous. Probably working for the Legal Defense Fund, or worse.

Well, anyway, call me, Mother, as soon as you can. We really need to do something about Mitch before it’s too late.

Stuart

P.S. Amy sends her love. We looked at the loveliest apartment today, a three-bedroom on Fifth Avenue, complete with a maid’s room and eat-in kitchen. We also had blood taken for genetic testing to make sure neither of us is a carrier of any inherited disorders. You know Dad’s side of the family has always been a little sketchy—I mean, everything that happened prior to great-grandad’s arrival at Ellis Island. It will be interesting to discover if there is any form of psychosis that might possibly run through our family. Because I’m convinced that is what’s wrong with Mitch.

Stuart

Stuart Hertzog, Senior Partner

Hertzog Webber and Doyle, Attorneys at Law

444 Madison Avenue, Suite 1505

New York, NY 10022

212-555-7900

To: Kate Mackenzie

Fr: Vivica

Re: Your Ex

Dear Kate,

Hi, you don’t know me, but the other night I did a runway show (I am a model) in Bryant Park for Marc Jacobs and I met your ex-boyfriend, Dale Carter, lead singer for the band I’m Not Making Any More Sandwiches (isn’t that the funniest name for a band? Dale told me why he calls his band that, and I think it’s just the CUTEST story).

Anyway, I think Dale is pretty hot, and all. I mean, I have always wanted to have a boyfriend who could perhaps immortalize me in song. Like that Alison girl that other guy sings about, or the Lady in Red. Or Layla. Or that lucky-duck showgirl Lola, for that matter.

But the thing is, due to an unfortunate experience two years ago involving a man I learned was actually a murderer (well, attempted, currently serving twenty years to life), I have given up on dating men who don’t come with references, particularly from their exes. I would really like to get to know Dale better, because he is a fox—I love his little goatee!—and a musician and all. But I told him, “No way will I ask you out, buster, unless you give me your mother’s phone number and the names and e-mail addresses of the last five girls you’ve dated.”

Well, you can imagine I was pretty surprised when I found out Dale’s only been with one girl in the past ten years! I mean, I haven’t even had the same HAIR COLOR for that long, let alone DATED anyone. I think it is pretty impressive that Dale and you went out for that long, even if, like Dale says, you ultimately stabbed him in the back by demanding a commitment and then left him, rendering him into the broken shell that he is today.

I, however, am not looking for commitment, since I am only twenty-fo—three years old, and as I said, I am a model, and so I travel quite a bit between New York and Milan and Paris, and the last thing I want is a ball and chain. Know what I mean? I mean, I did get a dog, finally, but Pedro is a Maltese and fits into my wallet, practically. If you could get a wallet-sized boyfriend I so would, but you can’t, so I am stuck looking for ones who don’t mind a girlfriend who travels a lot. But since Dale will be touring with his band for the next eighteen months, he says my traveling is cool with him.

So if you don’t mind, Kate, could you call me on my cell at your convenience? The number is 917-555-4532. And if you could just answer true or false on the topics below, I would really appreciate it.

Love,

Vivica

1) My ex has never attempted to murder someone for the inheritance money.

T or F

2) My ex is appreciative of the fine arts, such as driftwood sculpture.

T or F

3) My ex would never have sex with a hotel maid while I was at the beach.

T or F

4) My ex would never lie about having a job and then try to borrow my money and never pay it back.

T or F

5) My ex has never borrowed my Christian Dior thong and stretched it all out.

T or F

6) My ex enjoys exotic cuisine, such as onion blossoms from TGI Friday’s.

T or F

7) My ex is fond of animals.

T or F

8) My ex is respectful of his mother/sisters/aunts.

T or F

9) My ex has never asked another person to pose as him in order to dupe a reporter into thinking he is somewhere he is not.

T or F

10) My ex does not snore.

T or F

Thanks bunches!

V

To: Kate Mackenzie

Fr: Mitchell Hertzog

Re: Hi

Remember me? Okay, stupid question.

Wait, before you hit the Delete button, hear me out—or read me out, anyway.

I had absolutely no right to do what I did. And I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am. I completely and totally screwed up. My intention, for what it’s worth, was twofold—and I could probably be disbarred for admitting this, but what the hell: 1) to get Ida her job back—no one who makes brownies like that should be out of work, and 2) to show my brother what kind of girl he’s marrying, by forcing my future sister-in-law into revealing what kind of two-faced liar she really is.

I should have known Ms. Jenkins would react the way she did. She is, after all, cut from the same cloth as my brother.

I know you didn’t write that letter, Kate. I know Amy wrote it, forged your signature and Ida Lopez’s initials on it, and then stuck it in Ida’s file. I’m betting she didn’t do it until after Ida filed for breach of contract, when Amy must have realized she’d been a little too cavalier with union regulations in her zeal to appease my brother’s wounded pride.

What I’m really writing to say—besides I’m sorry—is that I don’t want you to worry about any of this, because I’m going to get your job back.

And then we’ll see how your boss likes being on the receiving instead of the sending end of a letter of termination for a change.

Listen, we really should get together and talk about this. What are you doing tonight? If you’re not feeling too vodka-and-tonicked out, why don’t you come over to my place for dinner? It might be safer than dining out. At least for my wardrobe.

Please don’t say no. I owe you dinner, at the very least.

Mitch