On The Verge. Ariella Papa
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Brian.” I don’t take my eyes off the screen, but I’m surprised how annoyed I am that Brian thinks it’s that simple.
“Did you ever think about trying to write?”
“Bikes don’t really interest me.”
“But still, it’s a great opportunity you have here.” I think they must brainwash them at the intern orientation. “I mean, you don’t want to be a receptionist all your life.”
“What?” This time I actually turn and look at him. Now, I have a very long desk that is sort of in the middle of a bunch of offices and cubes, but the receptionist sits in the elevator lobby. “I am not a receptionist! I am a department assistant. Big difference!” Brian walks away with his head hanging. Good riddance. But this raises another more serious question, do I really seem like a receptionist? Image is everything. What if I give off a receptionist image? I call Tabitha.
“If you seem like a receptionist, I seem like a receptionist, and I am certainly not a receptionist.” Tabitha has the same desk that I do and sits in almost the exact same position.
“Do you think it’s the desk? Is that what makes us seem like receptionists?”
“Hey, Eve, don’t clump me into the reception pool. It’s this shitty intern who is ignorant of the ways of Prescott Nelson. Don’t let it bother you. That’s the problem with these interns—they waltz in here with these ideals and think they can run the company.”
“Well, Tabitha, so do we.”
“Well, we can.”
“But here is the question, is there any more dignity in being an assistant than a receptionist?”
“Ah, the conundrum,” says Tabitha as my other line beeps.
“Hold on.” Tabitha sighs as if by putting her on hold I have ruined her day. “Eve Vitali.”
“Eve, Zeke.” Wow!
“Zeke! Hold on, I’m on the other line.”
“Is this a bad time I could—”
“No, I’m just finishing. Hold on.” I click back to Tabitha, who is incidentally singing a Spice Girls’ song, although she stops quickly when she hears me. “Hey, Slutty Spice, that’s Zeke.”
“Return of the Ape Man.”
“Thanks for consoling me about the receptionist thing.” I click back to Zeke. “Hi.” I will be strong. He can’t just decide not to call me and get away with it.
“Oh, Eve,” he growls. I might weaken a little. (I know, I know, but remember, I have needs, too.) “God, I’ve missed you.”
“Really.”
“I had to go to L.A. to check out a band.” I reminisce about why I first liked him. Say ’bye, ’bye receptionist, my carriage awaits. I can get over the hair, I know I can.
“How was it?”
“Oh, you know L.A.” I don’t, but someday I’d like to. “It’s good to be home.”
“Yeah.”
“So, Eve, can I see you?”
I agree to meet Zeke for Jamaican food. I must admit that he has a knack for picking restaurants. Tabitha thinks this signifies a chronic dater, but she gave me her blessing, because I might as well keep on getting some after my long drought. Roseanne wasn’t thrilled about spending the night alone with my parents watching “Nick at Nite,” but she agreed to corroborate my working late story. This being the only reason my mother would accept for not being a proper host to Roseanne.
Anyway, Zeke has on a dizzying shirt. It has black and white swirls and I wonder if he thinks it will hasten my drunkenness. Again, I intend to stand firm.
“Eve.” He gets up and kisses me (yes, on the lips). It’s not one of those gushy kisses—it’s worse. It’s one of those “we have something that won’t be cheapened by saliva, so let me take your face in my hands as if it is an exquisite jewel and kiss you with just a hint of the passion that will hopefully not explode all over the dinner table” kiss. You know the ones? Anyway, it’s troubling.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. Everything,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s great to see you. You look beautiful.”
“Thanks.” Standing firm. Unsinkable. We sit down.
The waitress arrives and places Jamaican beer in front of both of us.
“I ordered for us,” he says, taking my hand. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Uh, no.” Well, I guess I don’t mind. What I mind is the way he is sniffing my hand.
“You smell good, Eve, real good.” I have to wonder if my life just got scripted by soap opera writers. I look around for a camera.
“Are you looking for someone?”
“No.”
“Good, because I just want us to focus on each other.”
“Well, I’m starved. Let’s check out the menu.” I break free from him. I feel him watching me, but I ignore it. I take a sip of my beer.
“Eve,” he says. I look at him. He looks intensely at me and smiles. “I can’t wait to taste you again.” Yes! He says that. I feel yucky. I have a serious uh-oh feeling.
“Okay.” Straight back to the menu. I get the jerk chicken.
When the food arrives Zeke is telling me about the book he is writing. He is writing it from the perspective of a thirty-five-year-old, Korean-African-American single mother.
“But, it’s different, very stream of consciousness. Very…I don’t know, how do I say it…?” he pauses as if thinking. Something tells me he has given this very same explanation a hundred times. “…well, I like to think poetic.”
“That’s interesting, Zeke—” I take a bite of my chicken and chew almost as thoughtfully “—but I thought the idea was to write what you know.”
From Zeke’s expression, I assume no one has ever discussed this with him before.
“Eve, that’s so oppressive. Why should I let my writing be defined by limits, by archaic rules. I understand this woman, I feel I’ve gotten her. That’s what being an artist is. I feel a side of me opening up. It’s an amazing release. It transcends everything.”
“Does it?” We eat our meals for a while. The waitress brings more beer. I’m pacing myself. Zeke is really quiet. No amount of sexual eating will pull him out of it. He’s not even watching me. The silence is so awkward, I actually run my tongue over the chicken before I put it in my mouth. It does nothing. When he isn’t talking, I kind of enjoy looking at him, and what the hell, I’m horny. (Yeah, yeah, I know what I said.)
“So, what should we do now? Do you want to get a drink?”
“Eve, I think I am ready to get the check and call it a night.” What?
“What?”
“I just don’t think it’s going to work between us.” Really.
“Really?”
He takes my hand again, this time almost pityingly. “You just don’t seem to get my work.”
“The A&R stuff? What’s to get?”
“No, Eve, not my job. No, my writing, my art.”
“What, that book?”
“It’s a huge part of me, and it’s clear by your ignorance that you’ll never understand.” Is he being serious? “I cared for you, Eve, but I realize you will never support me and that is a big issue.” The big issue I think