Dumped by his boyfriend, outed to his parents, and about to lose his job, Tim did what depressed people did in the days before Celexa: He slept. Not ten hours. Not twelve. He stayed in bed, half-sleeping, half-staring at the ceiling, for a day and a half. The phone would ring occasionally, but he ignored all calls, not even listening to the messages. He did make one exception—a call from his mother. It was in Ann’s nature to expect something melodramatic, so he took her call, just to reassure her that he hadn’t committed suicide. He chose his tenses carefully. He didn’t say he “wouldn’t,” only that he “hadn’t.”
Finally, he decided to get up, if only because he had started to smell funny. It was 10:00 A.M. on Friday, and he supposed
he should show up for work. He was entitled, he figured, to some sort of severance; plus, it would be nice to have that Rolodex here at home while he tried freelancing.
Having showered but still carrying an odd odor, he walked to his BMW—imagining the FOR SALE signs he’d soon be placing in the rear windows. He drove slowly to work. He was in no rush to see Simon.
The office was much more active than usual when he walked in. Everyone was scurrying about, chattering loudly, carrying boxes. It was almost like an office party.
“Congratulations,” said Sandy, handing him a box. “You just managed to sleep through getting fired.”
His brain was still foggy. He knew why he had a box, but he wasn’t sure why everyone else had them, too. Why, for instance, was Sandy packing her belongings?
“We’ve all been let go,” she said. “As of midnight last night, Hollywood Today ceased to exist. Synergistic pulled the plug on us. We had a big meeting; they told us we were a noble experiment but that there were too many other sites like us on the Web. They’ve decided to concentrate their resources elsewhere.”
“You’re fucking kidding,” said Tim.
“Nope, Simon made a beautiful speech and then he cried. He said he had been a fool, that Synergistic had planned to close us down months ago and he just didn’t see the signs. He felt that he’d led us all astray. But he told us we should all stay in touch—that journalism is a network of friends, and that he’d do his best to help us all find jobs. And then he left. Look—his office is totally barren.”
Indeed it was, as if it had never been occupied at all.
She handed Tim an envelope marked “Confidential.” He opened it.
Dear Tim,
By the time you read this, I will have apologized to the entire staff for encouraging them to believe in what turned out to be a house of cards. I was greedy, and in my greed, I allowed myself to be stupid, not seeing the warning signs someone of my experience should know all too well.
I owe you an even bigger apology.You were the best, and yet I allowed you to see me at my worst. We’re all complicated and conflicted humans, and while I can’t deny that the immoral, greedy side I showed you the other day exists, I’d like to think that the other Simon James, the one who loved his work and appreciatedtalent such as yours, existed, as well. For years, good Simon won out over bad Simon. You saw the one skirmish where good Simon was annihilated.
Forgive me. I know thatyougave some valuable documents to your father, and for that, I thank you. It taught me something. You’re never too old to learn, me included.
I can’t do much for you, but I have done this. Hollywood Today may be dead, but your syndication deal lives on. I phoned Arthur in New York this morning and got his assurance that you could continue doing your column for all your papers. You’ll still have an income, and while it’s about half what you’re used to, you’re no worse off than when you started here. Call Arthur early next week and work out the details.
I’m sorry and thanks. I think that says it all.
Tim folded the letter and put it in his shirt pocket.
“Do we still have E-mail?” he asked Sandy.
“Just for today, so you better check it.”
Tim signed on and found yet another E-mail from Mom.
Dear Tim,
Your father must have called you twenty times last night. He heard they were closing your company down and he wanted to tell you. He feels so bad, he can’t even enjoy his own good news—the partners decided not to sell. Please call your dad. He’s worried sick. (So am I, but I’m always worried.)
Love,
Mom
“Now what?” asked Tim.
“I already have a job interview next week,” said Sandy. “Simon set it up. An on-line art dealer. I’d write catalog copy. That might be more up my alley anyway, if I get it. What about you?”
“I get to keep the newspaper column,” he said. “And other than that, I think I’m making a fresh start.”
“Antonio?”
“Gone. Ancient history. Ancient rude history.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No you’re not, but thanks for lying.” Tim smiled. “And I came out to Mom and Dad. Accidentally, but it’s done.”
“You’re having a big week, aren’t you?”
“It seems that way. I liked life so much better last week.”
“Maybe,” said Sandy. “Maybe you didn’t. It wasn’t a very Tim life, I don’t think. In a lot of ways, you seemed happier when I first met you.”
Tim wasn’t sure she was entirely wrong. His new life hadn’t
fit well, but he’d assumed he’d grow into it. Now he’d never know.
“So, do you know anybody stupid enough to want to buy my BMW?” Tim asked.
Sandy thought about it for a moment. “Well, there’s Perry. He’s dumb in almost the same way you are.”