Monkey Business

the green-eyed monster gets to russ

Thursday, January 29, 7:10 p.m.

The cab jerks forward and then backward, and then forward again. Oh, man. I try to steady Kimmy by putting my hand on her knee.

“Russ, I think I’m going to be sick,” she says.

“We’re almost there.”

“That doesn’t help. I’m nervous.”

“What are you so nervous about, eh? You said the interview went great.”

“I think it did. But…this is it. If I don’t get this, I’ll probably end up back in Phoenix.” She uncrosses her legs and then crosses them again. “I can’t take out more loans if I’ll never be able to pay them back.”

“You’re being ridiculous. You can look for a job on your own. These are just school jobs. There are a million opportunities out there, and not just in New York.”

She kisses me on the cheek. “Yeah? What about you? You’re not worried about this dinner?”

“Who me? Nah.” I’ll be more worried if I get the job and I have to decide whether I want to take it. Which doesn’t mean I don’t want it offered to me.

I’m not going to pick the pimple that has appeared by my left temple. I’m not even going to touch it. I may not have willpower when it comes to Kimmy, but I have willpower for my picking.

Me, nervous? Oh, man.

The taxi slams to a stop on the corner of Fifth and Forty-seventh. I hand a five over the plastic divider, then we shuffle out onto the street. “Ready?” I ask, holding open the heavy metal door for her. The floor of the lobby is green, the walls a dark wood, the ceiling pale blue. Are they trying to impersonate a golf course?

Kimmy bites the side of her lip. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

I scratch at my pimple.

“Hello,” I say to the maître d’. “We’re here with the O’Donnel party.”

He nods. “They’re in the private room on the left.” I follow Kimmy through the lobby. She looks hot in her tight black pants and red blouse. Clothes that I’m looking forward to taking off later tonight. We each have a hotel room with a king-size bed. We’ll have to try them both out. She gives me a nervous smile as we walk into a room full of partners and applicants. I squeeze her shoulder and put on my best fake smile. I’ve gotten better at being fake this year than I ever thought possible.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” a floating bartender asks us. Apparently my fake smile looks like it could use a drink.

“I would, thank you.”

I pass one to Kimmy. We clink and dive into the deep end.

Kimmy seems to be doing better in the deep end than I am. She’s been talking to the same partner, some guy named Johnny Dollan, for the past half hour. Doesn’t she know she should be mingling? They’re standing very close to each other. He keeps laughing at everything she says. Ha, ha, ha. She’s not that funny.

I’ve been wandering from group to group, making sure I converse with everyone. I was doing fine until I got stuck in the lame football huddle I’m in now, with three other wanna-bes and one partner.

A short, stocky guy with thick glasses is talking about the collapse of the Internet bubble. Haven’t we been talking about that for the last five years? “I think there’s still room in the market for technology companies with good ideas,” he says.

“American innovation didn’t die with the collapse,” another drone adds, eager to insert her opinion.

Kimmy just flipped her hair. Is she flirting? Flirting to secure a job is so wrong. Maybe she’s flirting to make me jealous. How immature, eh? I’m not going to get jealous. I have a girlfriend. She can do whatever. If she wants to flirt and sleep her way into a company, then fine.

I excuse myself from the huddle. I need more booze.

She’s sitting next to him. I can’t believe she’s sitting next to him at dinner. Doesn’t she realize that all the partners will know what she’s up to? That he’s just trying to pick her up for a one-night stand? It’s embarrassing.

She sips her wine, slowly, letting her lips linger on the glass. Is she trying to turn him on?

I gulp down my water. I have to get a grip. I’m not going to get the job if I keep this up. I hear the guy next to me discussing the new Spider-Man movie. That I can do. About ten minutes later, Kimmy’s friend excuses himself to use the washroom. I see her trying to catch my eye.

Yeah, right. Now she wants me? I ignore her. Let’s see what she does now.

“Did I hear you say you’re from Cali?” she asks the man across the table from her.

Cali? What’s a Cali?

“Yes, you did,” he says.

“I love California. I spent a summer working in San Diego when I was in college.”

She did? Now she’s flirting with him? I try to block her out and focus on my conversation.

People start leaving, but Kimmy is now deep in conversation with Johnny-boy. I grab my coat and hail myself a cab.

When I get back to the hotel, I call Sharon.

“Hi! I’m so happy you called,” she says. “You said you didn’t think you’d get a chance.”

Her voice sounds soft. I love her voice. I wish she were here with me. “I miss you,” I say.

“You do? You’re so sweet. How did today go?”

I miss her so much that I can barely breathe. The Kimmy-spell has been broken, dead, finito, now that I see her for what she is. “I want you to come visit.”

“Visit New York?”

I flop down on the bed, my shoes still on. “No, visit me at school.”

“Honey, you know it’s hard for me to get away on the weekends…because of tutoring and-”

“Enough with the tutoring. Call in sick for a weekend. Please?” Kimmy probably went home with Johnny-boy. Finally, my decision is made. I won’t get the job, anyway, so I’ll go back to Toronto and be with Sharon. No more lying, no more yo-yoing between them. Maybe I’ll even marry her. And have two-point-two Canadian children. Or would four Canadian children equal 2.2 U. S.?

“When?” Sharon asks.

“Soon. This weekend.”

“I can’t come this weekend! I have to book a flight.”

“So in February.”

She giggles. “Maybe I’ll come for Valentine’s Day. It’s on a weekend.”

I forgot about Valentine’s Day. “Perfect. Valentine’s Day. All settled. And you’ll call in sick on Monday, too. It’s a holiday here. President’s Day.” Maybe I’ll propose then. Forget chocolates, I’ll get her some carats.

“So tell me about tonight. How was it?”

A few minutes later, there’s a knock on my door. I ignore it. What, Kimmy’s back so soon? Did she give Johnny-boy a quick blow job in the bathroom of the restaurant? She knocks again. I ignore her again. I talk to Sharon for twenty minutes and then say good-night. As soon as I hang up, the phone rings. I know it’s Kimmy, but I pick up, anyway. “Yup.”

“What happened to you?” She sounds pissed.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” she shrieks. “I looked around the room and you were gone. I looked for you forever.”

“I took a cab.”

“Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“You seemed a little busy with Johnny-boy.”

Pause. “Are you joking?”

Joking? “I don’t think so.”

“Go to hell,” she says, and hangs up.

What? Now she’s mad at me? I stare at the ceiling. She can’t be mad at me; she’s the one who was flirting all night.

I touch the side of my face with the pimple. I should just pop it. One time. I won’t start picking again. I’ll just do it quickly before I change my mind.

I jump out of bed, stand in front of the mirror over the dresser and pop it.

Ah.

Let’s see. Is there anything else that needs to be popped?

Stop. What am I doing? I put my hands on the dresser and take a deep breath. I’m not taking out my anger on my face. No way. I was an ass to Kimmy, I know I was, and I’m going to go apologize.

I grab the room key and march over to Kimmy’s.

“It’s me,” I say, knocking on the door.

“Go away,” she shouts.

Uh-oh. What’s wrong with me? Why am I so evil? I’m not a superhero, I’m the evil villain. “Please let me in. I’m sorry. I was an idiot. Please?”

Pause. A few seconds later she lets me in without looking at me. Her eyes are red, as though she’s been crying.

“I’m sorry. I was a big jerk.”

She stands next to the window and looks outside. “I don’t get it. Is that what you think of me? That I’m such a slut that I go home with everyone? Do you have no respect for me at all?”

“Well, I…” I trail off. I’ve been a total ass. How could I make her feel like that? I’m the one who seems to go home with everyone. I’m the slut. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to insult you. You’re right.” I wrap my arms around her waist and feel how tense she is.

“I am right,” she says, and then turns around so we’re eye to eye. “Don’t ever make me feel like that again.”

My heart feels so heavy and all I can do is kiss her. No, not all I can do.

I lead her to the bed.