On The Verge. Ariella Papa
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from a picture in a book by this great makeup artist that she loves.
“What do you think, too much kohl?”
“Well, not if you are going for that Cleopatra look in blue.”
“I wish he would let me know where he gets his liquid eye-liner.”
“Who?”
“Kevin.” The makeup artist, of course. “It’s sweet though, you know he isn’t selling out to anyone, he’s tight-lipped about who he gets his cosmetics from. No exclusive contract, not yet anyway. How admirable.” Whatever.
Back at the table Adrian and Roseanne are laughing loudly. There is an empty margarita glass next to Roseanne. I told you she could suck it down. Anyway, I have to hand it to Adrian, he’s definitely taking some of the edge off. Thank God.
“I mean, I wasn’t raised to live in a place like that,” Roseanne says. She quiets down when I sit. “Imagine showering in the kitchen.”
“Imagine,” Tabitha says. I think she’s pissy because Adrian and Rosie are getting along. Adrian is a god to Tabitha. Rosie ignores Tabitha and we actually have a great dinner. Of course Rosie and I get drunk and when the bill comes I’m not psyched about paying for Rosie’s portion and it hurts me to turn her down when she offers to pay, but I keep my word.
While Rosie is in the bathroom, Adrian suggests we go to this gay dance club. “Adrian, the last thing I’m going to do is go to another meat market with you. If I want to see that kind of hormonal display I’ll go to the Upper East Side and get lucky with a frat boy.”
“Listen to Miss Thing,” says Adrian, laughing. He looks at Tabitha. “And you?”
“Well, I’m certainly not ready to go home to the ’burbs.” She smirks at us.
“Meow,” Adrian and I purr together.
“Your friend Rosie is nice, we should try to hook her up with a job.” What a sweetheart Adrian is. Let that be a lesson to Herself. Tabitha rolls her eyes.
“What’s next?” asks Rosie, back at the table. I know she’s tanked.
“Next is a whirlwind of an evening on the bus. I can’t be hungover again. You can sleep late.”
“You could always stay over, Rosie,” Adrian offers, and I feel Tabitha kick me under the table. She would absolutely die.
“Well, thanks, Adrian,” says Rosie softly, “but I don’t want Eve to go back by herself.”
“Of course you don’t,” adds Tabitha definitively. She could just give me a car voucher, but I’ve got no legitimate cause to ask for one.
We take a cab to Port Authority and catch the bus home. I plan on sleeping the whole way home. Rosie wants to talk about Chelsea.
“I think we should live there, Eve. All those guys, I mean, I know they aren’t your type, but they all seem so built and cute—and did you notice all the dogs? That’s the kind of guy for me.” She must be kidding, but she isn’t. It only gets worse.
“And Adrian, what’s his story? He’s so cute and nice. He’s a designer for Prescott Nelson, well, of course you know that, but how cool is that? Why didn’t you ever tell me about him? Did you like him? I kind of wanted to hang out, but I didn’t know. Are he and Tabitha together?”
The worst part is, she’s serious. I mean, Adrian isn’t flaming and he doesn’t really fit what people would stereotype as gay, but isn’t it obvious? Does one need to be singing the show tunes to be clear about their sexuality?
The trip turns into a harsh education for Rosie. I thought it might upset her more, but she actually takes it well. She laughs with me for the first time since she started looking for a job.
Need I remind you again that it’s only been eleven business days?
Tuesday morning is our staff meeting. I am mildly hungover. The staff acts like these meetings are the greatest things since the Times Square Shuttle. How much fun can you make articles about cycling? You get a real feel for what exercise geeks these writers are—they sometimes read questions that are sent in to the “Dear Biker” column and laugh about the ignorance of readers. Today is a special treat, we are watching a promotional video for some biking company that wants us to cover their newest brand.
Everyone is on the edge of their seats, mesmerized by the amazing angles the cameraman got on the bikes. Everyone except Lorraine and me. Since Herb has seen all the footage, he manages to be even more smug than usual, like he created the bikes or something.
I do a lot of eye rolling at Lorraine and she shakes her head. She leads the business aspect of the meeting; who is supposed to be doing what assignment, what kind of budgets the writers have and gives us feedback from different departments, lines of business as they are called. Herb does a lot of interrupting during Lorraine’s part. It amazes me that he does it with such ease. He makes the stupidest jokes and people will laugh. How does someone get the confidence to do that? Is it just by being the boss? If I ever tried that I think everyone would look at me as if I had eight heads and maybe I would get a good human resources “talking to.”
The meeting concludes with people reading select excerpts of their articles. There is a separate meeting called the Feed Meet, to get feedback before the articles are published, but this is reading the articles after they are already in the magazine. If we really cared we could just grab a copy of this month’s issue, but Herb insists that certain writers should read their articles during our staff meeting. There is no escape, not even in the fresh-squeezed orange juice and bran muffins. After the “special” writer finishes, we all have to applaud.
After the meeting I bring the carnage of the picked-over breakfast by my desk. This means that all day long, I’ll have all of them coming by looking at the leftovers as if there might be some new healthy snack that just appears. They also make goofy jokes about how the food is breaking down and are inspired to talk about how many miles and at what speed they have to bike in order to burn off a certain number of calories. Then it always deteriorates to fiber jokes and bathroom humor. Like I said, exercise geeks.
“Do you need any help?” Brian, the new semester slave, asks me after the meeting. I’m in the midst of e-mailing Tabitha.
“No, I’m fine for now.” Brian lives for these meetings. The bad thing about interns is they remind you of how little you have to do, and thus, how little you can pass onto them. Brian is going to be with us all semester, which means that I have him to look forward to until Christmas. “Why don’t you check out some of our old issues?” Brian is one of those interns who thinks if he asks enough questions and kisses enough ass, he’ll get a job here. When Brian isn’t slaving away or kissing ass, he is harassing me. He seems to think that part of the so-called learning experience is being involved in every aspect of the office.
“Hey, Brian. This—” I cover up my monitor “—is personal. It’s not some important job secret that is being kept from you.”
“Oh, okay.” He goes back to sit at his makeshift desk. I guess I should feel bad for the guy. At least I get paid.
He comes back fifteen minutes later under the pretense of getting a different issue. This time I’m on the Net trying to find Roseanne a recipe for gumbo. This is getting annoying. I quickly switch my computer back to the desktop and pretend to find it amazing. He decides to address me anyway.
“You know, I’m thinking of trying to write an article.” Mother of God.
“Great, 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