Pounding the Pavement (21 page)

“Cheers.”

We sip our wine quietly for a few moments, staring at our reflections mirrored in the black void of a Sony TV screen at the center of the room. How is it that, even when a TV is turned off, it is still the focus of any aimless eye?

Jake picks up the remote. “You mind if I turn it on?” he asks.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

He flicks it on and hands me the clicker—a downright gracious gesture that loses its impact almost immediately. He only gets four channels. Two are in English.

“You
don’t have cable?” I ask, shocked.

“I did. It was in her name. I told her to cancel it.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t think I was sticking around for much longer. Thought I’d be in Canada by now.” I decide not to ask why he isn’t.

“Well, we can still find something to watch,” I say, lightly. “You have any movies?”

“Some.”

“Hey, you got any movies you’ve made? I’d love to see your stuff. I wanna find out if you’re really as talented as I think you are.”

“No,” he says adamantly.

I decide not to ask why not.

Jake heaves himself off the futon and toys with the rabbit ears for a few minutes. We finally get somewhat clear reception for NBC, which suits us just fine because Conan O’Brien is on, and we’re both big fans, even though we can’t remember the last time we actually watched his show.

“This reminds me of college,” I say.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I meant that in a good way.” I put down my wine and scratch my arm. When I realize I am rubbing my skin raw, a thought occurs to me.

“Oh, hey, where’s your cat?”

“Yeah, well.” Jake picks up his cup of wine and stares at it. “She took the cat.” He takes a deep swig.

On the TV, the studio audience erupts into laughter, so we force ourselves to join in. Soon, laughing gives way to giggling, giggling gives way to yawning, and—if I think I’ve heard correctly—yawning gives way to snoring. I look over to find Jake’s head tilted at a funny angle on the back of the futon, his mouth hanging slightly open. I poke him gently.

“You tired?”

“Huh?” He snaps his head up and blinks. “Oh. Yeah.” He turns off the television and gets up, leaving me stranded on the futon. A door swings open behind me and I assume he has retreated to the boudoir. I haven’t exactly been invited, but I don’t think it would be out of line to join him.

“So,” I say, sneaking in and closing the door behind me. “This is the bedroom.”

“What?” Jake’s T-shirt is halfway over his head. He peeks out from under it and searches for me with sleepy eyes. “Umm, yeah.”

I follow his lead and remove my own shirt.

“You have a side of the bed you prefer?” I ask, coyly flinging my blouse aside.

“Umm, I guess I usually sleep on the left.”

I drop my skirt to the floor and gingerly step out of it. Thinking I’m being rather seductive, I sink languidly onto the right side of the bed and prop myself up on my elbows.

Jake’s tired eyes linger on me. It occurs to me that I’ve just given
him the perfect opportunity for comparison. How easy it must be for him to imagine me literally taking his ex-girlfriend’s place.

“You know what? I think it would be better if you slept on the left.”

I recoil as if slapped and quickly withdraw to the other, safer, side of the bed.

    Jake’s lips graze my forehead. I struggle to open my eyes.

“I have to go to work,” he says.

“So?” Grumpily, I grab the pillow and roll over on to my stomach.

“I left a set of keys for you on the dresser so you can lock up after you leave. But …” He plants sweet kisses on my shoulder. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

I open my eyes again and blink at the alarm clock: 7:45 a.m. Ugghhh.

I don’t remember closing my eyes, but when a car honks outside I am jolted back into consciousness. Jake is gone and the alarm reads 9:15. I am wide-awake. And I don’t really see much point in staying.

Waking up in a strange bed is a peculiar experience, mostly because it is a practice I don’t engage in regularly. But this bed is made stranger still. I slither out of the sheets as if afraid of waking a sleeping ghost. If I strain hard enough I can hear her snoring. Loose strands of her hair probably still cling to the pillowcases. I collect my clothes and tiptoe into the bathroom.

She follows me there, too. The crème de corps, the lavender
shower gel, berry lip gloss, and sugar shea butter—these all must have been hers. I find it hard to believe Jake is a man accustomed to keeping his hands soft and his lips sun-kissed. I rip off a sheet of
her
toilet paper, flush
her
toilet, and rinse my hands with
her
antibacterial hand soap.

And here she is now, in the living room. Her absence, quite literally, has left a big gaping hole in the middle of the apartment. And where her coffee table once stood, now lies my colossal messenger bag, almost irreverent in its casual disarray.

I’ve never been one for a purse, and people like Jake who can cram their wallets into their pockets and head out the door utterly amaze me. Me, I don’t go anywhere without a wallet, keys, cell phone, an extra pack of cigarettes, a journal, my hairbrush, and assorted chapters of whatever manuscript I’m still reading. And then there are the just-in-case items: an umbrella, a change of socks, half a bottle of tepid water, and a prescription for birth control pills I never bothered to fill. Shamefully, almost apologetically, I repack my items and clear the bag out of the way.

And the keys Jake left for me on the dresser. Did these once belong to her, too? I shove them into my pocket and head out the door, fishing for them only when I need to lock up behind me.

That bloody apartment—by daylight, a rather intrusive examination of all of Jake’s most savage, open wounds—may be all well and good behind me. But now there’s the rest of Brooklyn to contend with. Bright, sunny Brooklyn with blue skies and scattered clouds so long and thin they stretch like arms in an open embrace. I shield my eyes and curse the fact I’ve forgotten my sunglasses.

The only sign of traffic is a bus that lurches down a nearby avenue. No taxis, of course not, that would be asking too much. I stop a man loading crates into a restaurant and he mimes directions to the nearest subway.

“Gracias,” I tell him.

The further I stray from the apartment, the less it continues to haunt me. So there’s a coffee table missing from the living room. So there’s an abandoned kitty litter box in the corner. Big deal. But the wineglasses—just thinking about those evil vessels makes me cringe. Because somewhere in the deep recesses of my fragile ego, I think I just might be their plastic cup replacement. Cheap, functional, and disposable.

Now, where the hell is that subway?

Luckily, like Manhattan, it turns out Brooklyn has a grid system of its own. So, even though I don’t know where I’m going exactly, at least I know I’ve made progress. I’ve gone from Fifteenth Street to Eleventh on a particularly quaint little avenue lined with boutique clothing shops and home accessory stores. If you want to bring a subway to a major hub of activity, my guess is this would be the place to do it.

I pass a deli, which is another good sign. After that, a newsstand, even better. Then I stop dead in my tracks. In the window of the Park Slope Animal Clinic, a yellow flyer presses its cheek against the glass and whimpers plaintively.

His name is Sleeve. He is a beautiful pit bull and Labrador mix with a goofy grin. His coat is all white except for one little black leg. It is as if someone tried darning him a black sweater and gave up only after the first few stitches.

“ADOPT ME!” the flyer begs. My throat constricts and a dull pain in my chest starts throbbing. Then I peer in closer to read the fine print.

“Volunteers welcome! Come in and say hi!”

Need I say more?

O
kay, so not that I have a thing for Julie Andrews or anything, but the rest of my day is a page right out of the
Sound of Music
libretto—starring me as the impetuous nun Maria, of course. I’ve embraced the role so completely that soon I find myself twirling gleefully on the greens of Prospect Park, with my head tilted upward and my arms outstretched. I’ve even assumed the massive undertaking of teaching my charge how to sing.

“Doe!” I command.

“Doe!” he responds.

“A deer! A female deer!” Ray, a drop of golden sun.

“Me!” I shout.

“Woof!” he agrees.

“A name I call myself!” I toss him a branch and watch him gallop after it. Far—a long, long way to run.

It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed a good frolic. Years, even, since I thought to turn a cartwheel. I wish someone had clued me in on the secret of Brooklyn’s existence before. Who needs the recycled air of a stuffy office environment when outside there are flowers to smell and rumps to be sniffed? I think Sleeve and I can concur—there is nothing like the tree-filtered light of a blazing afternoon sun to burn the abandonment blues right off our sweaty backs. I’ll bet the most rewarding job at the most reputable company couldn’t grant me half the satisfaction I feel today.

A warm patch of grass and a dog’s head in my lap. Reading a book and dozing off for a nap. A phone in my pocket that never once rings.

These are a few of my favorite things.

I
return Sleeve by sunset and leave the clinic smelling distinctively like dog. Which doesn’t bother me so much, but it might not be a
prospect so enticing to my fellow subway travelers. An unfamiliar jangling in my pocket reminds me, however, that an inviting shower is a mere five blocks and a twist and a shove away. And a climb up three flights, another twist and a shove—well, you get my drift.

I don’t emerge from the shower until well after my fingers are pruned and my toes are pickled. The bathroom heaves a deep, steamy sigh of relief. And then, just as soon as the aloe-scented cloud kisses the mirror, it is sucked right back out of the room as if through a vacuum.

The door has opened. Jake stands motionless with a guilty hand still on the knob.

I’m sure his mind is a flurry of witticisms, charming apologies, a gracious word or two. But the only one he can think to voice is a rather panicked, “Oops!”

Modesty being my first instinct, I grab a towel from the rack— and shriek.

The door slams shut, concluding the shrill pierce of my scream. I clutch the towel securely around my body and wait. A moment of incredibly awkward silence ensues.

“Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s okay. You can come in if you want.”

The door reopens a smidgen. He pokes in his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t—”

“No,
I’m
sorry. I went to the park today and I came back to take a shower. I didn’t realize you’d be home this early and—”

“It’s all right.” He pushes the door open a little wider. “I just wasn’t expecting you. I mean, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted you to be here. I didn’t think you would be, but I was hoping …” his voice trails off.

I smile at him. A brilliant, dazzling white smile. But I doubt he
even notices it. Because, at the same time, I also let my towel drop to the floor.

S
leeve pounces a pile of leaves and looks up at me, wagging his tail beseechingly.

“Good boy, Sleeve,” I assure him from my perch under a nearby tree. He rests on his haunches, eyes wide and earnest. I grab a twig by my knee and toss it to him.

“Go get it, boy!” He races beneath its floating arc.

Sleeve and I have become fast friends over the course of the past couple of days. I like him because he doesn’t judge me and I hope I offer him the same. I don’t care that he comes from a broken home or that he’s suffered from poor upbringing. In return, he is willing to overlook the fact that my clothes are wrinkled and that my English major in college is a bit ineffectual.

Sleeve trots back with the twig between his teeth and drops it in front of me. Then he settles back and cocks his head sideways.

I ignore the twig. I’ve got a better plan.