Milkrun (7 page)

Look at that bod. Maybe I should suggest we do spy books at work.

I really have to go to the bathroom.

I try crossing and uncrossing my legs. I'm not sure why, but I drink more of my Orange Crush.

Maybe I can convince the marketing people at work to put Pierce on the cover of our new spy books. Of course, I won't be invited to the shoot, but Pierce will hate the fake-blond bimbo chosen to model with him. I, of course, will happen to be passing through the room, and he'll ask “What about her?” in his husky British voice. “Her?” Helen will say (although she is only an associate editor, not a senior editor, so she won't have a fat chance of being there, either). “But she's just a copy editor!” The whole scene will unfold with perfect timing and I'll say, “Me?” And he'll nod enthusiastically, beckoning me with his wonderfully strong hands, and I'll join his pose. And while the wind machine blows my hair, he'll turn to me and say, “Will you be my next Bond girl?” And I'll play a DNA expert who runs around the hospital in a tight white tank top and silver stretch pants.

Oh, God. It's a waterfall scene. This isn't going to work.

I have to use the washroom. Now.

“Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me…”

“Hey, sit down!”

“Get out of the way!”

“What's the matter with you?”

I sprint to the ladies' room and run into an empty stall. I carefully place a paper toilet cover on the seat. I'm not Sam, but I'm not crazy.

And then just when I'm minding my own business…swoosh.

What is wrong with these automatic bathrooms? Why do they flush while I'm still using them? How can I be a Bond girl when I can't even figure out how to work a toilet?

I sneak back into the theater (“Hey, sit down!” “Get out of the way!” “What's the matter with you?”) and despite the temptation, I don't ask the blonde what I missed. After all, she might think I want to be friends with her, which probably wouldn't be so bad since she probably can get any guy she wants and therefore has great castoffs. Forget that; I don't want her to think I'm friendless
as well
as annoying—or, God forbid, desperate.

When the credits start to role, I leap up to make a quick exit to beat the refill line. Granted, I barely even ate a quarter of it. But I paid for a refill and dammit, I'm going to get it.

“Jackie?”

I turn to the seat next to me and see Andrew Mackenzie's lightly freckled arm curled around the blonde.

I am never sitting by myself at a movie ever again.

The blonde is checking me out, most likely thinking, So this is what a person who has no friends looks like.

“Hey! Andrew. I know it looks like I'm here by myself, but I'm not. I'm here with friends. Really. But they're sitting in the front row, and it was hurting my neck…” They both stare at me, expressionless.

Andrew is going to tell Jeremy I went to see a movie by myself on a Saturday night. I might as well just throw myself in front of Marc's two-door Civic.

“How are you?” he asks. Smiling, he motions for me to exit into the aisle.

“No, really. I'm
not
here by myself.” I'm not exiting
anything
until Marc and Sam walk by so I can prove that I am not here alone.

“Jackie, this is Jessica. Jessica, Jackie.” I shake her perfectly French-manicured hand. She looks like a Jessica. She looks like how I used to picture Jessica Wakefield, the Sweet Valley Twin.

Who is this Jessica? And why didn't he mention a girlfriend? Not that I gave him much of an opportunity at Orgasm to talk about himself.

Sam and Marc are already near the doors. Damn. They went around the other side.

“Nice to see you, and nice to meet you. I have to go,” I say, choosing not to prolong the misery. I hurry out of the theater.

At least there's no line at the popcorn counter.

No line because it's closed. What a rip-off. This sucks. I'm the worst Bond girl ever.

“I'll get the car, girls,” Marc says.

“Oh, you're so sweet, Marc.”

“That's Bear. Biggy Bear.”

Never mind. I don't want to be a Bond girl, anyway. I hate silver stretch pants.

 

No message. Not that I'm expecting one, but you never know. He wouldn't call on a Saturday night. If he does, it would mean that he thinks I'm home, meaning he thinks I have nothing better to do but stay and wait for his call. And why would he be home on a Saturday night, anyway?

Thank God he didn't call. I don't go out with losers.

I wash up. The green mold around the drain is starting to scare me. I really have to clean the bathroom. Where are the supplies? Why did Sam take them away? Tomorrow for sure I'll do it. I'll even set the alarm. For nine. Okay, nine-thirty. Ten.

 

Brrring…
It's 9:57. Secretly, 9:48. I still have three more minutes. I am not answering. Go away, Dad. I unplug the phone and turn off the alarm.

Shit. It's 12:40. I've got to clean the bathroom. But wait, I have a message. It wasn't Dad who called; the caller ID says
Anonymous.
What inconsiderate fool calls at 9:57 on a Sunday morning?

“Jackie, this is Jonathan Gradinger calling. My number is 555-2854. Call me back when you get a chance. Call me back when you get a chance.”

Y
AY
! H
E CALLED
. Y
AY
! Y
AY
! Y
AY
! Thank goodness I didn't pick up when I was asleep. I might have said something awful. I might have told him how foxy he was. Why did he call so early? He must really like me. I mean
really
like me. He thought of me as soon as he woke up. Assuming he wakes up at around 9:30, which is pretty probable considering that's a usual wake-up time. Or maybe he woke up at eight, thought about me, decided to go for a run to diffuse the energy building up in his loins, and when he couldn't take it any longer, called me.

Omigod. What if he wants to go out tonight? Or what if he wants to go out today? What if as soon as I call him back he asks me if he can come by and pick me up for lunch, and what if once he comes inside he has to use the bathroom? I've got to clean it
now
and only after I clean it, can I call him back.

I walk into the bathroom. Strands of my hair have woven themselves into a blanket on the tiled floor. “Sam!” I holler, close to tears. “Help! I don't know how to do this!”

In a jumping-jack five-second flash, in comes Sam, fully equipped with liquid cleaner, yellow gloves, and some sort of brush I'm pretty sure is supposed to go in the toilet but I'm not a hundred percent.

“Why don't I have one of those?” I ask.

“They don't come with the toilet, my dirty friend, they're sold separately. Like batteries.”

“Got it. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“I'm not cleaning it for you. I'm just showing you how.”

“Oh.”

A half hour, a half bottle, and two rolls of paper towels later, I am satisfied.

Now I can call him back. Maybe he's planning an afternoon picnic with champagne and strawberries and cut-up tuna sandwiches. But first I have to make myself presentable. Right now, my frizzies are pointed in many obtuse angles. I feel like Pippi Longstocking. I shower, blow-dry my hair, and squeeze out what's left of my concealer. And a little lipstick. I put on my bathrobe. I don't want to get dressed if I don't know where we're going. Duh.

I listen to his message again: “Jackie, this is Jonathan Gradinger calling. My number is 555-2854. Call me back when you get a chance. Call me back when you get a chance.”

I'm not sure why he says that last part twice. His message reminds me of the ones Wendy's grandmother used to leave when Wendy and I were at Penn together: “Vendy, this is your bubbe calling. Your bubbe called. Call your bubbe. Call your bubbe.”

I write down his number. I dial.

“Hi,” his sexy voice says. Omigod. I'm talking to Jonathan Gradinger.

“Hi, Jonathan?”

“This is Jonathan Gradinger. I can't get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and I'll call you back as soon as I can. So leave your name and number and I'll call you back as soon as I can. Have a great day.” Again with the double statements. That should tell me a little something, but do I have foreshadowing on my mind? No, foreplay is more like it. At this point all I can think of is, omigod, I'm talking to Jonathan Gradinger's answering machine! Forty-eight hours ago I never would have believed that I'd be leaving him a message. If some psychic had read my palm and told me that in a few days I'd have Jonathan Gradinger's home phone number—so much more intimate than a cell phone—I would never have believed it.

Wait a minute. How do I know it's his home number?

Beep. I have to leave a message. Beep.

My mind is blank. I have no idea what to say. Beetlejuice, beetlejuice? I stare at the receiver and hang up.

My fault. I should have known to be prepared. Where's my red felt pen? Okay, let's keep it simple.

Hello, Jonathan. This is Jacquelyn.

Too formal.

Hi, Jon, it's Jack.

Too close. We're not even phone-acquainted yet. And what if he thinks I'm a guy?

Fifteen minutes pass and I'm still struggling.

“Your bathroom looks great! I'm impressed!” Sam calls out, interrupting my concentration. “Jackie, where are you?”

“In my room.”

“What are you doing?” She enters tentatively, as if expecting something alive to jump out of my overfilled laundry basket and attack her.

“Composing.” I outline the situation for her.

“Okay,” she says. “How about this. Hi, Jonathan, it's Jackie returning your message. Give me a call when you have a chance.”

“Oh, that's brilliant. What comes after ‘message' again? Say it slowly so I can write it down.”

“You're a nut.”

“Never mind. I remember.”

“Don't forget to block your number.”

“Why?”

“What if he has call display? You already hung up once. It'll look funny if it says your name twice with only one message.”

“Soooo clever! You'd be single-girl
extraordinaire.
”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

I pre-dial the code to withhold my number, then re-dial Jonathan's. Sam holds my other hand for moral support.

“Hi. This is Jonathan Gradinger. I can't get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and I'll call you back as soon as I can. So leave your name and number and I'll call you back as soon as I can. Have a great day.”

Trying to make my voice sound as natural as possible, I read my scrawled message and carefully place the phone back on the receiver.

Now all I have to do is wait.

Hmm, hmm, hmm.

How am I going to wait all day?

How is he supposed to pick me up for our picnic and see my clean bathroom if he doesn't call me back?

“What should I do all day, Sam? What are you doing all day?”

“Correcting some homework.”

“You give homework to fourth-graders? That's mean.”

“I have to give a little homework.”

“Wanna go shopping?”

“I can't. I'm broke.”

“Yeah, so am I. So what's your point?”

“I find window-shopping depressing.”

Oh. Oh, well. I'll just watch TV then. Jonathan will call back soon.

Six o'clock. No Jonathan.

Seven o'clock. I'm sure he's just out for the afternoon.

Eight o'clock. He just got home now. He's turning on the TV. Getting ready to watch a new episode of
The Simpsons
.

It's the last scene. Any minute now.

It's over. Any second now the phone is going to ring. Any second now. C'mon, phone, don't be shy.

It's eleven and I'm not waiting anymore. I detest Jonathan Gradinger; he obviously met someone else tonight, fell in love, and forgot all about me. No one will ever love me again. My days will consist of work, my nights will consist of TV, and I will spend Saturday nights from here on at the movies—alone.

And so I go to bed—alone.

The next day at work I try to proofread a manuscript, but every time I get to the end of a paragraph I call in for my messages. “No new messages,” the anal recorded bitch says.

I get home feeling pathetic. But what's this? From the doorway I see the flashing red light. I leave my shoes on—I mustn't waste any time!—even though I know Sam will shoot me. Please don't be Janie, please don't be Janie, please don't be—“Hi, Jackie, this is Jonathan Gradinger again. Give me a shout back. My work number is 555-9478. My work number is 555-9478.”

No waiting this time, no bathroom cleaning, and no red ink preparation. I don't care if my bed isn't made, I'm calling him back
now.

“Dartmouth Clinic,” a woman says.

“Hi, can I speak to Dr. Gradinger please?”

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Jackie.” I'm still not crazy about the repeating everything on the answering machine thing. Half the point of the recorded message is so you can listen to it again if you need to. Or again and again and again like I might want to do with this one.

“Jackie who?” Okay this woman obviously wants a piece of my Jonathan. Maybe she's already had a piece of him. Maybe that's where he was last night.

“Hello?” she asks somewhat impatiently.

“Norris. He knows who I am. He called me. I'm calling him back.”

“One second please.”

I'm on hold. What type of date will he propose? You can tell a lot about a guy from the type of date he suggests. Dinner means he's not afraid to jump right into it.

“Jackie?” he says in his foxy, sexy voice.

Coffee means he's a coward. “Jonathan! Hi.”

“Great to hear from you.”

On the other hand, it could mean he's sensitive. “Great to hear from
you.
”

He laughs. “I told you I'd call.”

“I know.” Drinks would be best. So trendy.

“How was the rest of your weekend?” he asks.

“Good, thanks. Yours?”

“Great.”

Great? Why great? What made it great
exactly?

“What are you doing Thursday night?”

“Nothing, why?”
Why?
I can't believe I asked him
why.
Sometimes the stupidity that comes out of my mouth even amazes me.

“I was hoping you'd come see
The Apartment
with me.”

This I am not expecting. Tickets to
The Apartment
are a gazillion dollars apiece, never mind completely sold out.

“I'd love to.”

“Perfect. The show starts at eight. I'll pick you up around six-thirty and we'll grab a bite somewhere, okay?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“I'll call you on Wednesday to finalize everything.”

“Okay.”

“Great. Have a good week.”

“You, too.”

I stare at the dead receiver in my hand and place it down gently in its cradle. I remove my shoes and leave them near the door so that Sam won't find out that I wore them into the house.

Yay!

I'm pretty sure taking me to a play symbolizes more commitment than drinks do.

Omigod. I'm practically engaged.

 

“I think it's a little sketchy,” Wendy says. “He bought the tickets before he asked you?”

“He's trying to make a good first impression.”

“Or maybe he was supposed to take someone else.”

“Or he wanted to impress me.”

“So he just assumed you'd want to go with him? What if you couldn't make it? Would he ask someone else? The tickets are two hundred dollars!”

“He's a doctor. What's two hundred dollars to a doctor?”

“He's a podiatrist, not a real doctor. He works with feet! Anyway, don't you think he's going to expect a little something in return for his two hundred dollars?”

“He doesn't think I'm a prostitute, Wen.”

“Whatever. I'd be leery.”

“Thanks for the encouragement. I'm going to call someone now who's not Scrooge.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

I hang up the receiver. Three days 'til true love! What will I wear? Should I dress like the girl-next-door-Sandra-Bullock type, or like the I'm-not-wearing-any-underwear-Sharon-Stone type?

It's only three days A.B. and I already have a date. Have dating regulations changed since I last played the game?

Do I mention the Prozac right away?

Just kidding. I'm not on Prozac—yet.

Do I invite him in for coffee and Letterman? Letterman and sex? Coffee and Letterman
and
sex?

Can I make the first move, or should I play hard to get? What about Fashion Magazine Fun Fact # 2: women are supposed to keep the first date impersonal and vague so that the man longs to know more, more,
more
about the mysterious woman sitting across from him. In other words, she must be the Fonz.

I'm feeling the pressure here, a culmination of years of contradictory First Date training regulations. I try to remember my first date with Jeremy.

Try
to remember? My, now that's a good sign.

On our first date, he took me to the Motley Hotel, to the dining room, that is, not to an actual room. He ordered a bottle of wine, after asking me what kind I preferred. I said white since red stains your teeth and you end up looking as if you haven't been to the dentist in years, as if you're in serious need of tooth bleaching. (I'll admit I'm a bit crazy when it comes to teeth. I had braces for three and a half years in high school, which I'm sure is the longest braces-run anyone ever had. When they finally came off, the whole damn orthodontist's office cheered, and I vowed to never, ever mistreat the pearly straight darlings—which to this day means no smoking, no red wine, no curry, and no red spaghetti sauce. And I still wear my retainer once a week on Sunday, and will continue to do so until the day I get married, which is the date my ortho proposed, not a self-inflicted time frame.)