On The Verge. Ariella Papa
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Yakimoto.” I take a deep breath. “Roseanne and I have lived together for almost four years. We are very good friends and we never fight, but if we did fight we would resolve it very quickly and not let it ruin our time in the apartment. We wouldn’t move out. Do you want me to call Mr. Yakimoto?”
“No. No. Eve, you seem very nice and I wanted to give it to you, but my husband thinks I will regret it.”
“You won’t, Mrs. Yakimoto, believe me, you won’t.” Slowly, I think I will lose every shred of dignity I possess solely to get an apartment that I have yet to see. “I think the fact that I haven’t even seen the apartment and I am fighting this hard based on what Roseanne says is a testament to how much I trust her.” Mrs. Yakimoto doesn’t say anything for a while. It’s creepy. Finally, I can no longer stand it.
“C’mon, Mrs. Yakimoto, don’t let Mr. Yakimoto tell you what to do. You’re the one that holds the family together. I know you are sick of this apartment thing. Has Mr. Yakimoto handled any of it? No, it’s been all you. So, c’mon, Mrs. Yakimoto, trust your instinct. Let us have the apartment.”
“Well,” she breathes again, “my kids would be happy.”
“They know—” I am triumphant! “—they know.”
“Oh, I guess.”
“Really?” I can’t believe it. Yakimoto might be toying with me.
“Why not?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Yakimoto, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Just don’t make me regret it.”
I want to do a little dance, but at the same time, I’m in shock. I never thought we would find an apartment this quick. I can’t believe it. I call Roseanne, who is in the middle of an elaborate calisthenics routine, and she screams when I tell her. I wish I were away from this office, so I could celebrate. I still haven’t seen the apartment myself and I certainly hope I won’t regret it.
Thursday, Tabitha and I are putting our dresses (well, Tabitha’s dresses) on in the bathroom stalls on my floor. (She didn’t want the Big C to see her before the event.) I had been trying to hide my hands from Tabitha all day, but she finally saw them and had a hissy fit at my chipped nail polish. She ran right downstairs and over to the Duane Reade and bought nail polish remover.
She’s starting to calm down now, but I’m still reluctant to complain about anything. Putting stockings on in a stall has to be the most difficult thing ever. I suffer in silence. I have no idea how the dress Tabitha gave me ever fit her. It feels painted on. “Tabitha, I don’t know about this.”
“Let me see.” I step out of the bathroom, sort of smiling at the other women who are there for a reason. I hear a couple say “Wow.” Tabitha opens her door a crack and peeks out.
“Looks pretty good. Except lose the bra.”
“I don’t want droopy booby.”
“Eve, just take it off. You’ve got good boobs. Pull it down a little to show them off.” I do as she says and stare at myself in the mirror, clutching my breasts. I’m not so sure about this.
Tabitha fully emerges from her stall. She is wearing some shiny gray dress that’s almost sheer. She puts her hair up and reapplies her makeup. I compare our reflections in the mirror. Tabitha may be a lot bigger but she fills her space up well, while I think I’m sort of grasping for a “look.”
“You look fab, you’re really doing it, Mommy,” Tabitha says catching my eye in the mirror. She turns toward me her lip pencil poised. “I just want to redefine. Your lips are really your best attribute, Eve—well your lips and those perky boobs. We should go.”
I bounce all the way down 7th Avenue.
The Fashion Awards are kind of a snooze. I mean it’s cool to hobnob, but when there is no alcohol involved and the dialogue is this poor, it’s kind of a letdown. The nice thing is wherever I look there’s celebrities, but you really can’t want to interact with them without seeming like the biggest star-struck loser. It’s only fun to look at them for so long.
Being a seat filler is solely for the purpose of making an event appear to the viewing audience as if it is the most populated happening in history. Most of these award shows are attended by industry people, and if they manage to lure celebrities, the celebrities only want to stay for a little while. They are kind of like us, they just want to get to the party.
I know I get on TV a couple of times. That will make my mom happy.
The party is at some club I’ve never heard of. My presence doesn’t stop Jaques and Tabitha from being overly affectionate with each other. Just as I was afraid of, this party is more for production people. There are some low-level celebs and models, but no one to really freak out about. I am here to keep Tabitha company while Jaques schmoozes with the producers to insure that he will be styling the awards next year. We have the bartender make us something extra special, which turns out to be Absolut Currant and cranberry juice. We have three. Suddenly Tabitha starts quasi-hyperventilating. In fact (and she would hate for me to point this out), she looks a lot like Roseanne did at the fateful brunch.
“What? What? What?” I say, while motioning to the bartender for more.
“It’s him, it’s him.” I look around. Who could it be? “It’s Kevin. C’mon.” She pulls me with her, practically spilling my new drink. It’s Kevin, the stylist whose book is her bible.
We hover close to Kevin, who is talking to some TV actress. It’s hard for him to ignore us because Tabitha is breathing down his neck. He smiles at us.
“Hi,” says Tabitha—whom I have never seen like this—“I think you are great. I love your book. You are truly an artist. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Tabitha.”
Kevin extends his hand, very humbly. “I’m Kevin.” Wow! Then, he turns to me and smiles warmly. He takes my hand.
“Eve,” I say, wishing Kevin could be my best friend.
“Nice eyebrows.”
“Thanks,” I say, but not being enough of a fan to gush I feel kind of stupid. Tabitha drags me away, although I know it’s difficult for her to remain calm.
“Isn’t he amazing? So nice. Introducing himself like we didn’t know who he is.” We sigh and have another drink to celebrate the glowing goodness of Kevin.
Eventually, Tabitha has to hang out with Jaques and I wind up talking to some production assistant who tells me that his name is Moose. Moose talks to me as if I am about five. Even though he has opted to wear sunglasses inside, I can still pretty much tell that he is staring at my breasts.
“Have you ever been here before, Eve?”
“No, have you?”
“No.” He enunciates every word like he’s my preschool teacher. Maybe he’s really stoned or just used to talking to four-year-olds. He is so repulsive, but I’m bored and I’m kind of enjoying just toying with him. I guess correctly that he is from Staten Island and I think he thinks I want to go home with him.
“You know it smells there. Do you know where the bathroom is?”
“No,” he tells my chest. “I said I was never here before. Why would I lie to you?”
“I don’t know,” I say, adding, “Moose.” And then he just stares, blatantly stares, at my boobs. I look around for Tab, but she is cuddling with Jaques. She is to blame for my lack of bra. But wait! No matter what, I don’t deserve this. Why should I be gawked at or talked to like a child, by the likes of Moose? I’ve had enough.
“So, Moose—” I crouch down to crotch level and speak to his fly “—are you having fun?” I’m not quite sure Moose gets it. He would most likely swear I was seconds away from giving him a blow job. Tabitha must think the same, because she and Jaques rush over and decide to send me home in Jaques’s