Monkey Business (19 page)

10:30 a.m.

I
shake the interviewer's hand firmly and sit down. We're wearing matching Brooks Brothers navy suits, white shirts and blue ties. He's in his forties, balding at the top of his head. He hands me a pad of yellow paper and a black ballpoint pen, then opens the black leather folder in front of him.

“We're going to run a case,” he says. His chin disappears when he talks.

No kidding. I relax my shoulders and try to smile. I need to invoke all of my superhuman mental strength. “I'm ready.”

“How many dogs are in the U. S.?” He's looking me straight in the eye to see if I flinch.

Oh, man. Who gives a shit how many dogs there are in the U. S.? I try to remember all that I've learned about answering estimation cases. They don't expect you to get the right answer. They just want to see how you think. How you analyze the problem and come to a conclusion. First you have to show that you can clarify. So here's my clarifying question: “Is that just domestic dogs or working dogs, as well?”

He's still staring. “All dogs.”

All dogs. Wait a minute. Maybe he doesn't expect a number, like 2,000,577. Maybe he wants a list of types, like beagles and boxers. What the hell do I know about dogs? Wait. Maybe I'll be creative, and list them by function. “All right. Let's see now. There are domestic dogs, police dogs, show dogs and racing dogs.”

“Are you sure that's it?” he says, pointing an accusatory finger.

Am I sure that's it? I have to appear confident. If I can't make choices in my real life, how am I supposed to make them here?

“No. Let's not forget hot dogs.”

He smiles.

 

Afterward I go straight to Kimmy's room. She's lying in her bra and panties. I take off my clothes and carefully arrange them over her chair. (Maybe she'll be inspired to iron them?)

Four hours to relax before my next interview.

Relax.
Now that's a good euphemism.

I inhale her warm, vanilla smell. “How'd you do?” I ask.

She nestles her knee between my legs. “All right. I'm glad I'm done for the day.”

“Cases suck, eh?”

“Don't laugh,” she says, “but I don't mind them as much as I thought.”

I mess up her hair. “Did you enjoy yourself? Did you find the cases fun?”

She giggles. “A little.”

Knowing how ticklish she is, I go straight for her underarms. “Stop,” she squeals, squirming in my hands. Her hands are now under my arms, and we're both laughing and rolling around.

I spent twenty-one years alone, and now I'm seeing two people at the same time.

Shit. I freeze.

“What's wrong?” Kimmy asks, sitting up.

Shit, shit, shit. “I forgot seeing-eye dogs.”

Thursday, January 22, 2:40 p.m.

“W
e regret to inform you that we will not be hiring you for the position of summer associate.”

Fuck. In an e-mail, too. You'd think BCG could pick up the phone to shatter my heart.

All my hopes are now on O'Donnel. All of my eggs in one consulting basket. I think the interview went well, but what the hell do I know?

Not much, apparently, according to BCG. I e-mail Russ.

 

You hear from BCG? I'm a no-go.

 

He's sitting diagonal from me at the computer lab, but I like seeing his name in my inbox.

Ding! He says: Yeah. I got a thanks but no thanks.

Ding! An e-mail from Layla:

 

Hi! What's up? I'm in the library, where are you?

Guess what? I got the second-round interview with the Manhattan Group! Not my first choice but the interview is in the
city and Manhattan Group shares an office building with Lerner Investment Bank—where Bradley Green works! Maybe I'll meet him…must go to futures and options now! XXX Layla

 

Layla has second-round interviews scheduled all through next week in Manhattan. And each company is putting her up at some fancy hotel.

Sigh.

On the bright side, if I have no interviews, I won't have to miss any classes and become even more clueless.

Speaking of clueless, thank God I don't have to take Futures and Options. It's Layla's elective. This semester our block has Finance on Monday and Wednesday at nine, then Marketing at ten-thirty, and GBE, Global Business Economy, at one-thirty. Today and Tuesday we have Operations at ten-thirty, and after an extralong lunch, Russ and I have our one elective, Corporate Strategy with Martin. We've both decided to become strategy majors. Why not? Martin's class last semester was my highest mark, A-minus; maybe I'll be two for two.

More classes mean more books. Beads of sweat sprout on my forehead. Books I'll have to buy with my nonexistent money. Why is it so hot in here? You'd think the school would learn to regulate its buildings' temperatures. The computers could melt.

I look over at Russ to see if he's looking at me, but he's fixated on the computer screen and typing away. He's probably writing to Sharon. A love letter.

We don't talk about it, but I know he's still with her. What's wrong with him?

Not that he has any incentive to break up with her. Why should he? This way he has his cake and gets to eat it, too. Those are Jamie's words, by the way. Now that he knows about us, he loves to give advice. Yesterday, it was warmer than normal and we sat on the bench in the courtyard, the
same one we first kissed on, and smoked cigarettes. I smoked and he talked. He said I deserve better, but I don't know if he meant it or if he's jealous. Either way, he said if I don't ask for more, I'm not going to get it.

I know he's right. I'm being an idiot. I should tell Russ to choose.

But what if he doesn't choose me? I should dump him for doing this to me. Tell him to get lost. He's never going to break it off with Sharon. Why should he?

He will. He's going to break up with her. He'll have to choose between us eventually. He can't marry both of us.

Can he?

No, he can't.

The clock on the bottom of my screen tells me I have eleven minutes till Corporate Strategy. I tap Russ's computer and point to the clock.

 

As we're leaving Martin's war dungeon, Russ's cell phone beeps.

He clicks it on to check. Is it Sharon? He gives me a thumbs-up. Is that his infantile way of telling me they're over?

“Second interview for O'Donnel,” he says. “Do you have your cell on you?”

I left it in my room. “No.”

“Do you want to check your messages with mine?”

What if it's a no? Then I'm left with nothing. It's like giving Russ an ultimatum. Then the answer would be in front of me in black and white. At the moment I prefer the unknown of a shade of gray. “Not yet. Wanna grab a smoke?”

 

“One new message.”

My chest cavity is taking a beating from my heart. I sit on the corner of my bed, tapping my heels against the floor. I need this job. Otherwise, how will I pay back my ever-in-creasing massive debt?

“Hello, Kimmy, this is Claire Moss at O'Donnel. We'd like to bring you down to Manhattan for a second interview…”

Oh. My. God. She keeps talking, but my hand is shaking as I note down the number. Word on the street is that they make offers to three-quarters of those who make it to second round. Oh. My. God.

I dial her number immediately.

“Hi, Kimmy. Thanks for calling back. Would you like to come to the Manhattan office for our second round?”

Oh, no thanks, I'd rather remain unemployed. “That would be great.”

“Good. Second round will be next Thursday, and then we're having a dinner for the prospective employees that night.”

Amazing. I've never been to New York. Russ will be there, too, and it won't matter who sees us together there. We can sleep in the same bed in the same hotel the entire night without setting the alarm for six-ten. I hate six-ten. I hope I never have to see six-ten again on my clock.

I'm going to need a new suit. And an outfit for dinner. After I make the arrangements, I check my bank balances online.

Bank account: $400.00.

Visa balance: $1,000. (Stupid second-semester textbooks.)

Loans…no need to torture myself and look at that link. Today I'm focusing on the positive. New York. Hotel. O'Donnel. Me and Russ.

Wednesday, January 28, 4:00 p.m.

I
am stalking Bradley Green.

All I need is a long-lens camera, a trench coat, cigarette hanging from my lip and dark sunglasses. I bet most stalkers don't wear Chanel suits.

The best part is that I didn't even break in. Since my interview was at one, I just stayed in the building's coffee shop. The woman behind the counter makes a mean vanilla chai. I've set up camp with my
New York Times
directly against a glass wall that faces the elevators. And it's not just the potential of catching a glimpse of my potential Prince Charming that's exciting me; it's the energy. I love working. I seriously love the pulse of getting things done.

Why hasn't Bradley come in for a cup of coffee? Then I can casually bump into him and we'll finally meet. Everyone needs a four-o'clock break. Maybe he's not in his office today. I could be waiting here all day for nothing. I should call him. Why not? I'll call and hang up. I take out my cell phone. No. Sitting here, minding my own business (meeting
the man of my future
is
my business) is one thing, but stalking him on the phone is totally unethical.

What the hell. I'll star 67 and block the call. And Kimmy thinks she has nothing to teach me. I dial the company number, which I looked up just before I left for New York, and ask his receptionist to connect me to him.

Connect me to him.
That has a nice sound to it.

It rings. I am going to hang up, aren't I? I will. I will not speak to him. I can't speak to him. I'll sound like an idiot.

“Hello, you've reached Bradley Green, it's January twenty-eighth, and I'm either on the phone or away from my desk…”

Fantastic. He's in the office today. I hang up the phone.

At six-thirty, I see him.

It's him. I know I've only seen one picture of him, although I did enlarge it on my screen, but I feel that it's him deep in my soul. It's him. My prince. I'm going to meet him!

He's about six feet tall, and wearing black pants and a silvery-gray shirt. His hair is light brown, and he's talking to a woman in a short yellow suit. He's holding his folded jacket over his arm. Is he leaving? So early? Is he a slacker or is business slow? And who is that woman? And why is she wearing yellow? Vile. That is so not her color.

I hate being catty. It is not nice to be catty. It's time to meet my prince!

I'm paralyzed in my chair.

I can't. I just can't. I don't have an excuse.

The door flaps behind him as he leaves for the night.

I pretend to read the paper.

Thursday, January 29, 7:10 p.m.

T
he cab jerks forward and then backward, and then forward again. Oh, man. I try to steady Kimmy by putting my hand on her knee.

“Russ, I think I'm going to be sick,” she says.

“We're almost there.”

“That doesn't help. I'm nervous.”

“What are you so nervous about, eh? You said the interview went great.”

“I think it did. But…this is it. If I don't get this, I'll probably end up back in Phoenix.” She uncrosses her legs and then crosses them again. “I can't take out more loans if I'll never be able to pay them back.”

“You're being ridiculous. You can look for a job on your own. These are just school jobs. There are a million opportunities out there, and not just in New York.”

She kisses me on the cheek. “Yeah? What about you? You're not worried about this dinner?”

“Who me? Nah.” I'll be more worried if I get the job and
I have to decide whether I want to take it. Which doesn't mean I don't want it offered to me.

I'm not going to pick the pimple that has appeared by my left temple. I'm not even going to touch it. I may not have willpower when it comes to Kimmy, but I have willpower for my picking.

Me, nervous? Oh, man.

The taxi slams to a stop on the corner of Fifth and Forty-seventh. I hand a five over the plastic divider, then we shuffle out onto the street. “Ready?” I ask, holding open the heavy metal door for her. The floor of the lobby is green, the walls a dark wood, the ceiling pale blue. Are they trying to impersonate a golf course?

Kimmy bites the side of her lip. “As ready as I'll ever be.”

I scratch at my pimple.

“Hello,” I say to the maître d'. “We're here with the O'Donnel party.”

He nods. “They're in the private room on the left.” I follow Kimmy through the lobby. She looks hot in her tight black pants and red blouse. Clothes that I'm looking forward to taking off later tonight. We each have a hotel room with a king-size bed. We'll have to try them both out. She gives me a nervous smile as we walk into a room full of partners and applicants. I squeeze her shoulder and put on my best fake smile. I've gotten better at being fake this year than I ever thought possible.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” a floating bartender asks us. Apparently my fake smile looks like it could use a drink.

“I would, thank you.”

I pass one to Kimmy. We clink and dive into the deep end.

 

Kimmy seems to be doing better in the deep end than I am. She's been talking to the same partner, some guy named Johnny Dollan, for the past half hour. Doesn't she know she should be mingling? They're standing very close to each
other. He keeps laughing at everything she says. Ha, ha, ha. She's not
that
funny.

I've been wandering from group to group, making sure I converse with everyone. I was doing fine until I got stuck in the lame football huddle I'm in now, with three other wanna-bes and one partner.

A short, stocky guy with thick glasses is talking about the collapse of the Internet bubble. Haven't we been talking about that for the last five years? “I think there's still room in the market for technology companies with good ideas,” he says.

“American innovation didn't die with the collapse,” another drone adds, eager to insert her opinion.

Kimmy just flipped her hair. Is she flirting? Flirting to secure a job is so wrong. Maybe she's flirting to make me jealous. How immature, eh? I'm not going to get jealous. I have a girlfriend. She can do whatever. If she wants to flirt and sleep her way into a company, then fine.

I excuse myself from the huddle. I need more booze.

 

She's sitting next to him. I can't believe she's sitting next to him at dinner. Doesn't she realize that all the partners will know what she's up to? That he's just trying to pick her up for a one-night stand? It's embarrassing.

She sips her wine, slowly, letting her lips linger on the glass. Is she trying to turn him on?

I gulp down my water. I have to get a grip. I'm not going to get the job if I keep this up. I hear the guy next to me discussing the new
Spider-Man
movie. That I can do. About ten minutes later, Kimmy's
friend
excuses himself to use the washroom. I see her trying to catch my eye.

Yeah, right. Now she wants me? I ignore her. Let's see what she does now.

“Did I hear you say you're from Cali?” she asks the man across the table from her.

Cali? What's a Cali?

“Yes, you did,” he says.

“I love California. I spent a summer working in San Diego when I was in college.”

She did? Now she's flirting with
him?
I try to block her out and focus on my conversation.

People start leaving, but Kimmy is now deep in conversation with Johnny-boy. I grab my coat and hail myself a cab.

When I get back to the hotel, I call Sharon.

“Hi! I'm so happy you called,” she says. “You said you didn't think you'd get a chance.”

Her voice sounds soft. I love her voice. I wish she were here with me. “I miss you,” I say.

“You do? You're so sweet. How did today go?”

I miss her so much that I can barely breathe. The Kimmy-spell has been broken, dead, finito, now that I see her for what she is. “I want you to come visit.”

“Visit New York?”

I flop down on the bed, my shoes still on. “No, visit me at school.”

“Honey, you know it's hard for me to get away on the weekends…because of tutoring and—”

“Enough with the tutoring. Call in sick for a weekend. Please?” Kimmy probably went home with Johnny-boy. Finally, my decision is made. I won't get the job, anyway, so I'll go back to Toronto and be with Sharon. No more lying, no more yo-yoing between them. Maybe I'll even marry her. And have two-point-two Canadian children. Or would four Canadian children equal 2.2 U. S.?

“When?” Sharon asks.

“Soon. This weekend.”

“I can't come this weekend! I have to book a flight.”

“So in February.”

She giggles. “Maybe I'll come for Valentine's Day. It's on a weekend.”

I forgot about Valentine's Day. “Perfect. Valentine's Day. All
settled. And you'll call in sick on Monday, too. It's a holiday here. President's Day.” Maybe I'll propose then. Forget chocolates, I'll get her some carats.

“So tell me about tonight. How was it?”

A few minutes later, there's a knock on my door. I ignore it. What, Kimmy's back so soon? Did she give Johnny-boy a quick blow job in the bathroom of the restaurant? She knocks again. I ignore her again. I talk to Sharon for twenty minutes and then say good-night. As soon as I hang up, the phone rings. I know it's Kimmy, but I pick up, anyway. “Yup.”

“What happened to you?” She sounds pissed.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” she shrieks. “I looked around the room and you were gone. I looked for you forever.”

“I took a cab.”

“Why didn't you wait for me?”

“You seemed a little busy with Johnny-boy.”

Pause. “Are you joking?”

Joking? “I don't think so.”

“Go to hell,” she says, and hangs up.

What? Now she's mad at me? I stare at the ceiling. She can't be mad at me; she's the one who was flirting all night.

I touch the side of my face with the pimple. I should just pop it. One time. I won't start picking again. I'll just do it quickly before I change my mind.

I jump out of bed, stand in front of the mirror over the dresser and pop it.

Ah.

Let's see. Is there anything else that needs to be popped?

Stop. What am I doing? I put my hands on the dresser and take a deep breath. I'm not taking out my anger on my face. No way. I was an ass to Kimmy, I know I was, and I'm going to go apologize.

I grab the room key and march over to Kimmy's.

“It's me,” I say, knocking on the door.

“Go away,” she shouts.

Uh-oh. What's wrong with me? Why am I so evil? I'm not a superhero, I'm the evil villain. “Please let me in. I'm sorry. I was an idiot. Please?”

Pause. A few seconds later she lets me in without looking at me. Her eyes are red, as though she's been crying.

“I'm sorry. I was a big jerk.”

She stands next to the window and looks outside. “I don't get it. Is that what you think of me? That I'm such a slut that I go home with everyone? Do you have no respect for me at all?”

“Well, I…” I trail off. I've been a total ass. How could I make her feel like that? I'm the one who seems to go home with everyone. I'm the slut. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I didn't mean to insult you. You're right.” I wrap my arms around her waist and feel how tense she is.

“I am right,” she says, and then turns around so we're eye to eye. “Don't ever make me feel like that again.”

My heart feels so heavy and all I can do is kiss her. No, not all I can do.

I lead her to the bed.