7

All U serves 350 “mind erasers” on a typical evening, explains barkeep Jon Templeton. The layered concoction—a mix of vodka, Kahlua, and tonic water—helps men approach women, gets girls swaying their hips all sexy . . . “You know, sometimes I think it’s good to forget everything you know and look at the world in a completely different way,” Templeton said, quite poetically for a drink designed to get you loaded.

Ray got real quiet after he heard that and said, “Yeah. Bring on the mind eraser, Jon Templeton. In fact, make it a double.”

Judy, Belinda, and I went to a crazy Mexican spot for lunch. Cantina Mexicano was densely hung with streamers and chili pepper lights. Bright pink rugs lined the floors.

I was inspecting a bottle of “Kick Your Butt Hot Sauce” and enjoying a frozen strawberry Plan B. I was letting everything just hang out with me; I was a killer, and that was fine, even if I felt I didn’t deserve this nacho chip and zippy salsa verde, because there is no such thing as deserving, Fenwick says (hopefully, he is not a quack). Plus, I was sipping my Plan B and letting the possibility that the column might be the absolute worst piece of trash just hang out there with us, too, and wasn’t going to let this cloud the fact that I should be defending myself and working toward success and fulfillment, and trying to keep my job.

Belinda crunched a nacho chip mounded haphazardly with salsa verde. “I have to tell you something,” she said to me.

“Oh no,” Judy and I said in unison. Everyone knew that when Belinda said, I have to tell you something, that it was never good. And considering the bad news we were already there to talk about, it would have to be pretty bad to require an “I have to tell you something.”

I sipped at my frozen strawberry margarita for strength. “Is this about Joseph?”

“Child, in all the meetings I’ve been in with Ed and Joe in the past couple of weeks, all Joe has said is that your column ‘sucks,’ that it is ‘self-concerned crap’ that has no place in the paper, that no one is interested in it.” She mimed air quotes around the condemning words to be clear about the source.

I’d been operating under the impression that Ed and I were the only ones who thought that (though I didn’t really think it, my brain misfired and made me think I think it, Fenwick says. And what I’m supposed to do when these thoughts arise is counter to what you’d expect: I don’t ignore them because this doesn’t work. Instead, I let them hang out and eventually the thoughts and I will coexist to such an extent that I will laugh at this kind of thought that I think I think). And I’d managed to convince myself that Ed was crazier than me, so it didn’t matter what he thought. Now my circuits switched to paranoia mode. Every cell flashed, “YOU SUCK, YOU SUCK” in neon green. “Don’t hold back, Belinda,” I said because I didn’t know what else to say.

“Oh, see now that’s why I didn’t want to tell you! Didn’t you see the air quotes? I don’t think that, and honestly, I think the column’s even growing on Ed now. It’s that moronic duo, Nasty and Joe, making all the problems. Listen I wasn’t going to tell you, but after what we just witnessed, I figure you’d better have all the information. You know it’s not true what he says about the column; he’s just pissed because his column is shrinking.”

I did know that. I’d heard his mom rake him out over it. “But what do you think I should do?” I asked them both. They were silent, and the waiter came balancing our three plates on a round tray on his head. I love this place. I wish I could write about this place. I really do. You don’t see talent like that every day.

We inspected our rolled flour tortillas, in their blanket of cheese and richly colored sauces, each filled with something smushy, and resting on a bed of Spanish rice.

Since we were putting all our cards out on the table, I brought up those folders I’d seen in Ed’s office. “Belinda, do you know anything about those folders Ed has labeled Joseph James Disciplinary 1 and 2?”

She lifted a fork full of rice into her mouth, and only half-finished chewing when she answered. “Oh God! Those are good—top-secret info I’m passing on here, by the way.” She leaned in.

Judy and I met her halfway across the table, our mouths open to flies, anything.

“Ed came in not once, but on two different mornings to find Joseph fishing around in his Rolodex. He was going to fire him right on the spot the first time, but Joseph started crying! And Ed felt so bad that he said he’d give Joseph another chance.”

“I don’t know. I asked Ed and it looked like he was about to tell me, but then suddenly he stopped himself midsentence and said, ‘That’s none of your business, Belinda. If you want to keep your job you’ll keep your nose out of it, too.”

“Woah! I wonder what it was.” I wouldn’t put it past Joseph to have dug for some dirt on Ed so that he could blackmail him or something. I said as much.

“Not sure, but now that I think of it, I have an overwhelming feeling that if we find out, we’ll know exactly what Nasty and Joseph are up to. Must be connected.”

“Oh yeah? What?” I leaned in over my plate. A grain of rice stuck to my blouse.

“Cheers to that,” Belinda said. We held up our glasses and sucked up some frozen margarita.

“What you need is a defense strategy,” Belinda said, waving her fork authoritatively. “So that you can defend yourself from the unknown.”

“That’s true,” I said. But what? What defense did I have? All I had was my column, and I didn’t even know if it was good or not. I said that out loud.

“That you don’t have confidence in yourself. That you let some loser like Joseph and some freakazoid like Ed dictate your point of view.”

If there were multiple points of view, I’d always go with the worst. Despite everything, I guess I still felt undeserving. “You can’t trust how you feel,” Fenwick always said. So I switched onto automaton and forged on. Then I lied. “I do have confidence,” I said to my burrito, of which I took a bite, causing all the stuffing to plop onto the plate.

“Well, you’re a terrible liar, but thankfully, there are other people who have confidence in you,” said Judy. “Like Kate McCarty from Skiffer instant floor cleaners.

“A potential advertiser—Kate McCarty from Skiffer loves your column. She asked if I could bring you to a dinner meeting this week. If we can get her to insist on an exclusive advertising plan for your column only, then we make you an invaluable asset impenetrable to the evil doings of the moronic duo . . . and I make advertising history and a huge commission.”

“Oh that’s good,” Belinda said. Her hair was half up today, which lent her style extra height. She smacked the table. “You are too good, child,” she said to Judy, then winked at me like everything would be okay.

When we returned to the office, Judy raced off to make a call and I stood outside with Belinda while she smoked.

“Been doing what you advised about Gerry,” she said and took a long drag. The ash burned red hot and then she flicked it without looking where it went.

“Well, he hasn’t gotten much better yet, but he told me the other night that I’ve been such a great support for him, that it means the world to have me there by his side. I said, ‘yeah, yeah, you’re the world to me too, child,’ because I hate that mushy stuff, but he knew I liked the sound of it. He knows me.” She smiled, but tried to squeeze her lips out of it immediately, took two final quick drags, stubbed her cigarette out in the pedestal ashtray, and led us back to work. “I don’t have a soft side; and if you try and tell anyone I do, I’ll kick your skinny little ass, so Joe and Nasty won’t have to,” she said sternly over her shoulder, without a trace of a smile.

“Now listen to me, Anna. This is going to work. We are going to get your column to bring in the money Ed is looking for, which will protect your column and in turn give Joseph a sticking where it hurts. Now, this is how it’s going to work. I like to get the table all set, pick the power seat, rearrange the salt and pepper shakers, so the client will have to ask, ‘Can you pass me the pepper?... that kind of thing,” Judy sid as we walked over to the table. She had three folders and placed one in front of each chair.

I inspected the one in front of me. Inside there were stats on my column. My headshot was there—fresh from perm—and a couple of quotes pulled out from the columns.

“Darling! So glad you made it! Sorry about the LYMJ fiasco! I should have warned you . . . David, dear . . . don’t you break this girl’s heart. She’s my friend.”

Nina looked to Bernard like none of us mattered, like it was the two of them and then a smudge that was everyone else. It was beautiful really.

They sounded kind of smart like that . . . didn’t they? Like something I might want to read. The stats covered readership and demographics. Apparently, I appealed to stay-at-home moms in the 28 – 40 range, with a disposable income of two hundred thousand-plus. I tried to picture this woman, shoveling orange mush into her baby girl’s mouth, while she read about David giving me a pair of designer heels. “C’mon, little Cassie! Be a good girl and eat up all the yummy fruities!” she’d miss, spooning puree over her daughter’s cheek, nose, ear, while her own eyes were glued to the paper. Save the baby the trouble of smearing it all over herself, I guessed.

“Now, just nod your head a lot, and whatever I say agree and expand. Agree . . . and expand. Yes?” She smiled wide as Kate approached, carrying two long Skiffer poles with boxes around the cleaning ends.

“Hello, Kate!” Judy sang in a happy voice I’d never heard her use. She embraced Kate, knocking the Skiffer poles into each other so they were slipping from Kate’s grasp.

“Hello!” Kate replied, pulling her shoulders up high at her cheeks, smiling hugely. “Is this . . .?” She darted her eyes in my direction.

I squirmed, standing behind my chair, my cheeks firing up. Don’t worry about how you feel, I told myself. Don’t worry about being a phony. Just act the part.

“Yes!” The exclamations were obviously catching. “I’m Anna Walker. It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Kate.” I shook her hand, thinking how I sounded like I was reading a script from Business Meetings 101.

“Sit ladies! Take a load off!” Judy demanded. We obeyed, as she’d planned. Now there was someone good at her job.

“Anna! I can’t believe I’m sitting here at the same table as you! I don’t know if Judy told you, but at my yogasize class in Plainview, Long Island, we talk about your column every single day! In fact, my friend Brie thinks David is all wrong for you. She says she knows he’s really nice and caring and everything, if a little too straight, but she doesn’t think that’s what you need. She keeps talking about you and your friend Ray getting together. You remember that night at All U when you wrote that he ‘got real quiet’ after Jon Templeton said that thing about looking at the world in a new way? Well, she thinks that was a sign. She thinks he’s waiting for the right moment to tell you.”

I was so taken with what Kate had said, with her interpretation of Ray and David and with how much she knew and what instantly dedicated fans she and her friends were that it took me a second to process it all.

“Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we,” Judy stage-directed my answer, raised her brows for me to agree and expand.

“Yes, we’ll have to. You know, Kate, your friend Brie isn’t the first person to say that. Sometimes it seems like everyone knows you better than you know yourself, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, I totally think that. It’s unbelievable the take my friends can have on a situation. I barely do anything without running it by them first.” Kate appeared to consider what she said and then added, “Maybe they should change the column, Anna, so that you could solicit advice from readers on your situation . . . and in exchange, they could ask for your advice with their problems. It’s just like you said—sometimes others know you better than you know yourself.”

That was sort of genius, wasn’t it? I thought of those choose-your-own-ending books I used to read as a kid. God, did I enjoy the power of getting to decide on a fate, even if it wasn’t my own.

“That is a wonderful idea, Kate. You should be an editor over there.” Judy bore through me with her eyes, so I continued on. “Yes, it’s a great idea. I think people like to be involved. And you know, I’ve often wondered whether there was a reason for some of the things that happened in my life, as I’m sure everyone does. If I could somehow help people because of the troubles I’ve suffered, that could mean something, maybe.”

“You’re right about that,” Kate said. “People who’ve experienced suffering are the best advisers. For instance, my friend Stephanie—she totally wore the wrong hairdo on her wedding day, and so when I went for my wedding style, she went with me and nixed all the do’s that would have been disastrous.” She seemed reflective, probably thinking of swoops and swirls of her chestnut hair beneath a veil. “You don’t know, Anna. You’re a real celebrity where I live. Everyone’s talking about you. People seem to get extra excited because you’re new, something completely different. My friend Serena asked me to ask you if you remember a guy named Thomas Peterson? He says he knows you from Kellmore.”

Thomas Peterson. He has been my Thanksgiving hookup for seven years running. We were on again/off again, commiserating in misery and self-deception, back in high school. He was dark and brooding, the type who looked like a musician but didn’t play an instrument.

“Yes, I know him . . . but I wouldn’t want to give the whole story away,” I said, winking.

“Now,” Judy said to Kate. “Order the most expensive thing on the menu, let me pay for it, and then let’s sign this exclusive advertising contract for six months to run opposite The Velvet Rope Diaries column.”

Kate scanned the menu, said, “I’ll have the surf and turf,” snapped it shut and turned to me with her hands at her chestnut bob. “Now . . . about that Ray,” she said, moony. “Tell me, how do you really feel about him?”

“So how’d it go?” David called as I approached the subway station on my way home.

“Good,” I said, suddenly uncomfortable due to The Ray Question I’d been dwelling on all night. “So what’s going on with you” I tried to change the subject.

“Oh, let’s see . . . Susan, Susan, Susan. I don’t think we’ll ever settle this thing. Every time he agrees to another amount, she ups it. Hey, I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about you . . . coming over now.”

I wanted to. I really did. But I felt dishonest doing it. And I didn’t want a replay of the other night. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. To talk to Ray and assure myself once and for all that we were friends going through a mutually rough patch and nothing more.

I was disappointed when I opened our door to find Ray wasn’t home. Had he always been away this often? I couldn’t recall it bothering me this much before if he had been. There was no question the episode with David at Sampson’s had put a strain on our relationship. I wanted to talk to him, find out where that had come from. Why then? What was so bad about David? And finally, what did he hope to gain by ruining things between David and me? But all that aside, I just had the urge to talk with him. He was my most insightful, kindred friend, and it was starting to seem like my greatest fear was about to be realized: Our friendship looked to be, quite obviously, at great risk.

I guess I’d fallen asleep on the couch after an episode of Emotional Eating on the Food Network. They’d made “Are you and David Going to Make It Meatloaf” accompanied by “Why Was Ray Acting Like This Potatoes,” or something like that.

I’d been dreaming of sex with David, something we’d flirted with but hadn’t actually done yet—mainly because David, unlike Ray, was a gentleman. So I was shocked when I realized it was Ray, and not David, waking me from my dream.

“Whoa! What were you dreaming about? You’re unbelievably red,” Ray teased, the back of his hand pressed to my cheek.

I swatted him away, surprising myself with an incredible rage. Here he was getting in the middle of things again! “Ray! What’s going on with us here?”

He smiled like I was amusing and endearing. I hate when he does that because it swipes away my anger and replaces it with the warm fuzzies, which really pisses me off. “Well, it’s kind of complicated, but let me try to explain it to you. I just got home from a night of—well, you don’t want to know what kind of night it was—and I found you here, snoring on the sofa with an episode of Emotional Eating on (so predictable by the way).” He shook his head, smirking playfully, before continuing. “So I woke you up so that you could get into your bed. Hope that clears things up.” He kissed me on the cheek, loosened his tie, and made his way to his bedroom. “Goodnight, love,” he said, before closing the door behind him.

“Susan!” We hadn’t spoken since we left her getting funky with Carl and Comfort.

I wasn’t sure. I mean, no. I really didn’t want to know. I expected Susan could be quite graphic. Plus, here they had probably done it six ways to Sunday, and David and I haven’t even gotten to third base. Why am I always so caught up in thinking about everything? Why can’t I just go and do it, like Susan?

“Hello! Okay, here’s the story. Carl is, by the way, the most amazing kisser in the entire world. He’s got this ridiculously sexy chip on his shoulder. Like, he acts as if he doesn’t give a shit about anything. Don’t you find that hot?”

“Oh, but darling it is. It’s very hot. Don’t you watch soap operas? I mean, what do you do all day long? There’s nothing else on the television. Anyway, he just looked right at me, through me basically, and when he kissed me, he moaned like crazy, which really, really turned me on.”

I held the phone away for a minute. Why wasn’t I getting that kind of action? I’d been the dark, passionate one! That was my M.O. she was describing! David and I had met in an extraordinary way. In fact, I’d say it was even more passionate than what Susan was talking about. And less disgusting. So what happened?

“Does he know your plan to be with as many men as possible and use them all for sex?”

“Yes. He does. He said that was a major turn-on. Although I did have a hard time kicking him out in the morning.”

“So, I’m calling to invite you for a girl’s night on Monday. You know I’m recently divorced, poor lonely leftovers, and I need my friends more than ever.”

You had to hand it to Susan. There was no one in the world like her. And I really loved that about her. And given my current state, a night without men sounded fabulous. “What’s the plan?”

“That sounds great, Susan. I’ll just ask her. What do you want to do?” I pictured take-out, Ten Things I Hate About You, chocolate.

I called Nina after I hung up. “Wanna go to Susan’s apartment on Monday for a girl’s night?”

This could not be good. “What’s wrong?” Suddenly I had become everyone’s shrink.

“Oh, you know. It’s the same stuff.” Nina got down like this every once in a while when she thought this spa idea was never going to happen, or that she’d never get married—so I knew it had to be one or the other.

“Anna, I just don’t know. It feels like it’s never going to take off. I can’t get a backer. I can’t get a loan. I can’t get it going.”

I felt like a jerk. Here I was realizing my own dream right in her face. It just kind of fell in my lap while Nina went nuts arranging meetings, writing letters, reading books, attending seminars called “Have a Beautiful Life: Own Your Own Spa,” spending thousands of dollars on research. It had to feel particularly unfair now.

“I’m sorry. Maybe you can bring your stuff to her place and we can all see if we can think of some new angle. You know Susan’s dad owns about a million businesses. She must have some great perspective.”

“That’s true,” Nina said. “Yeah, she might have an idea or two for me. I’m not getting my hopes up, though.”

My phone just didn’t stop that afternoon. Next it was my mom, with her distinct mixture of delicacy and pity.

“Anna, dear?” I’d made Mom earn her title over the years—killing her husband, my mini-breakdowns, clinging to her like a baby panda, and now, shoving her off so I wouldn’t have to face all that hurt. Through it all, unselfish as a Civil War nurse whom hadn’t been told the war had ended, she’s remained the most caring, wonderful mother.

“Not too much, really. Just finished a column about a new bar called Comfort.”

“I guess so. We should—” I was going to say that we should go sometime, but I stopped myself. I’ve been down that road before: make plans, think it’s a long enough way off that I’ll be fine when the time rolls around, promise myself I won’t freak out or get consumed by guilt that I ruined my mother’s life, and finally, make up an excuse as to why I can’t make it.

I always cancel, which makes things worse. Mom knows why, and so she doesn’t complain. This is a vicious cycle and it’s truly ruined our relationship. We love each other . . . through a thick, blinding fog. “—talk later. I’ve got a meeting,” I excused myself, not exactly lying. There was a staff meeting. It just happened to be scheduled for Monday.

The day was nearly done when Belinda came running over to my desk. She looked so frantic, her entire bouffant had separated down the middle and looked like two hills with a valley running through. It was a rare thing to see inside the hair. I felt, in the funniest way, that it brought us closer. “Child,” she kneeled down next to my chair and whisper-screamed. “I am so sorry about the e-mail that is about to—”

She was cut off by the email jingle—a great echo of jingles, actually. We both turned our attention to the monitor.

TO: All Staff

FR: Belinda Lewis for Ed Richards

RE: White after Labor Day

I only had to look down at my snowy outfit to know this was not good.

It has been brought to our attention that one of our employees, namely, Anna Walker, has been wearing white after Labor Day. Since it is our mission to be a high-fashion, trend-setting newspaper, we are obliged to dress accordingly. You’d all do best to follow this advice if you’d like to keep your jobs.

Now have a very, very nice day,

Ed the Ed (isn’t that cute?)

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t have a choice but to type it up. Ed doesn’t know how to type.” She looked tormented. “He stood over me the whole time.”

“Hey, Belinda, I don’t blame you. No, you keep doing your job. First of all, you need it, and second of all, I’m gonna need you to keep trying to find out what the heck those two idiots are up to. If we don’t have you there, we’ll really be in the dark.”

“All right, well, now that’s out of the way, I’ll tell you how this came about.” She leaned in closer and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Nasty came in half an hour ago. I kept calling you, but your line was busy.”

“And ten minutes later, she came out of his office, and Ed handed me a tape dictating this email.”

I sunk into my seat. “This is too hard, Belinda. I think maybe I should just give up. Maybe some people are meant to be happy and satisfied, and some people aren’t. Maybe what I should do is go ask for my old job back and rectify this discord I’ve created in the universe, trying to be happy when really all along that’s not what I’ve been destined for.”

Belinda stood up, hovered above me, jabbed her finger at my chest, and said, “Now you listen to me. I don’t ever want to hear you talk like that again. Ever. People like you, who’ve come this far, make it possible for the rest of us to believe we can, too. And without that, we’ve all got nothing. And I just won’t have that. I just won’t.” Then she kissed me lightly on the cheek, pinched it, and walked away, her imposing, womanly silhouette so convincingly impenetrable, just as she liked it.

After my father’s death, I spent a couple of years hiding out from life, trying to stay home as many days out of the school year as possible. Then I moved on to convincing myself that I was a brave person, who if given the chance, would do whatever she could to prove that.

I started out small. If I found our Tropicana OJ was a couple of days past its expiration date, I would drink it anyhow. I’d wiggle the empty container when I was through, throw it into the trash, sure for a few minutes that I was brave, that I would, given the chance, do whatever I could to prove that. But then, that wasn’t enough. I needed something bigger. Didn’t I realize that anyone could drink old OJ?

I graduated to Pop Rocks exploding candy with soda—purported via urban legend, to be a deadly combination. I’d hold it and hold it, my mouth stretched to capacity. I wouldn’t jump or spit it out at the first terrifying crackle to burst on my tongue. I lived. Next I tried participating in dodge ball, shelving my roster of “girl problem” excuses. If a ball came booming toward me, which it always did, since my poor sporting reputation was legendary, I stood there and let it smack me in the face. I once received, as a reward, a bloody nose. I said to myself, he, look, you stood there and took a bloody nose! But after a while I couldn’t remember the way it had all played out; it became like an out-of-reach dream, and I couldn’t use it as my touchstone any longer.

Later, when I was older, it only got worse—higher stakes, more dangerous consequences, the possibility of STDs, allowing a drunk senior to drive me home, holding onto the dash without a seatbelt, like I was a fearless superhero.

Eventually, my anxieties took another tack; I needed to be sure, positive, that I hadn’t done anything wrong on the day my father died in the fire. This became more important, somehow than being brave. I had to know. Over and over I had to place myself in the Care Bear sneakers and the uncomfortable braids until I was sure. Soon, soon, I was sure I would feel confident and move onto everything I’d had on hold in the meanwhile.

Was I going to allow myself to come this far from that wretched place, only to give up?