Three-Martini Lunch (5 page)

T
he next morning I made sure to stop and rub the phoenix's talon, happy for my new career and hopeful to keep it. Mr. Turner stuck his head out of his office exactly three times that day: once to give me some reports to type up, and two additional times to inquire with great irritation why I wasn't finished yet. Rising to his challenge, I picked up the pace, completed the task in no time flat, and knocked on his door. I figured since he seemed to be in a great hurry, he would want to know the instant I was done.

“Somebody
ought
to have informed you, Miss Katz, I loathe unnecessary interruption. You are never—
ever
—to knock on my door if it is not open,” he scolded me. “If it's an absolute emergency you may buzz me on the intercom.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't know,” I said.

“Well, now you do,” he sniffed.

My cheeks colored and I left his office immediately, closing the door behind me.

During the months that followed, though I got used to my duties, I found Mr. Turner impossible to please. There were a great many annoyances in his life that I was personally responsible for, according to him.

“For God's sake!” he complained on one occasion, nearly giving me a heart attack as he burst through his office door and shook an angry finger at the radiator near my desk. “Why do you insist on letting that infernal thing clang away until we are all deaf instead of calling for the janitor?” Sure enough, I listened, and the radiator was rattling ever so slightly. But it was hardly the kind of apocalyptic racket Mr. Turner was ranting about. I'd hardly noticed it myself, and I couldn't understand how he'd managed to hear it from all the way inside his office, behind a closed door. Fearing both Mr. Turner's sensitivity and his wrath, I called for the radiator to be fixed immediately, and stood over the janitor while he worked.

I would have believed he hated me, save for the fact I knew it was much more likely he didn't care about me at all.

“He's just like that,” Judy remarked, during one of our quick lunches together. She looked thoughtful for a moment and frowned at the half-moon lipstick stain rimming her paper coffee cup. She wiped at it with her thumb. “He's like that, but . . . perhaps a little more so with you.”

“Why more so with me?” I asked.

Judy shrugged. “Oh, I don't know,” she said, and changed the subject to an evening radio soap she'd recently begun to follow. Judy lived in a women's hotel similar to the Barbizon, but with a few more niceties. She had a radio in her room, and there was even a big black-and-white television in the lounge the girls could gather around to watch things like
American Bandstand
. I had none of these distractions, but that suited me; Mr. Turner let me take the slush pile home with me, and I spent my evenings reading manuscripts.

“If any of them show promise, you are to write up a reader's report and submit it to me,” he had instructed. “Then I'll be the judge of whether they are worth our time.” I'd written up a small handful of reports, but so
far nothing I liked tickled Mr. Turner's fancy. That's the thing about taste: It's rarely shared, and Mr. Turner made it clear he did
not
share mine. But if Mr. Turner did not want to play mentor to me, that was all right, because Miss Everett seemed to want the job.

By the time I'd been at Torchon & Lyle for a few months, Miss Everett had cultivated a habit of calling me into her office once or twice a week for the purposes of having, as she called it, “a little professional chat.” She did this so regularly, I soon had the walk to her office memorized: the sailboat paintings that hung on the wall in the corridor that led to Miss Everett's door with their flaccid cheerfulness; the plant that sat on her window ledge with its waxy-leaved tendrils curling down into the slats of the radiator below it; the pungent, lingering tang of the Russian dressing I knew Miss Everett used on her daily salad. Miss Everett would sit just as she had on the day of my interview, leaning back in her oversized swivel chair, leveling a cool stare at me. “I take it, Miss Katz . . .” she always began when we sat down for one of our little professional chats. Miss Everett had a peculiar habit of phrasing her questions as observations. I don't know whether this was a calculated maneuver, but the result was it made it difficult to introduce information not contained in her observational statement lest it sound like you were disagreeing with her. Even now, my brain is still filled with examples of these conversations.

“I take it, Miss Katz, you are enjoying your time here at Torchon and Lyle?”

“Oh yes, ma'am.”

“I take it you've been enjoying all the book signings and publishing parties?”

“Oh absolutely, ma'am.”

“I imagine our little soirees must be rather different from what you're used to in Iowa.” (Miss Everett often used the state names Indiana and Iowa as though they were entirely interchangeable, and I knew enough by then not to correct her.)

“Oh, you bet they are, ma'am,” I said with what I hoped sounded like sincere enthusiasm. Gushing was not a disposition that came naturally to me, but I pressed on. “I have to pinch myself half the night to keep from thinking I've dreamed the whole thing up!”

“Hmm, yes. Isn't that something. I heard from a colleague that you've managed to turn up at every single party he's been to in the last week and a half. What a busy little bee you've been.”

“I thought it would be a good way to get to know who's-who—you know, in case it comes in handy down the road when I've been promoted to editor.”

“That's very ambitious of you. Of course, there's more to this job than socializing, you know.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“After all, you
do
want to be an editor and not a debutante, is that correct?”

“More than anything, ma'am.”

“More than anything?”

“Oh yes.”

“Mmm. ‘More than anything' sounds rather extreme. I'd be mindful, if I were you, of anything that implies you'd be willing to go to
immoral
lengths . . .”

I nodded with all the vigorous sincerity I could muster. I was glad to have her on my side, despite her odd preoccupations with certain subjects. For instance, Miss Everett seemed particularly concerned with giving me advice about how to be “a proper lady” and about how to avoid wanton behavior. She told me about other girls she'd hired in the past, girls who'd disappointed her by finding themselves
in the family way
, and unwed to boot. Miss Everett said no matter how nice, one simply couldn't keep a girl on staff once she'd gone and gotten herself in that sort of situation. I think she felt she was giving me a thoughtful warning—the kind of
warning where, if I ever did find myself in the family way, Miss Everett could tell herself:
Can't say I wasn't generous . . . After all, I warned that girl.

The funny thing was, whenever Miss Everett launched into a lecture on the value of not giving in to a man's demands, I always found myself staring at her carefully lipsticked mouth and imagining her at home, dressed in a chiffon peignoir, eating bon-bons and reading a Harlequin pocketbook. Picturing her like this, it was a challenge to take her seriously. There was an air of profound loneliness about Miss Everett, an impression that some sort of yearning had ripened on the branch and then was left to go rancid. I immediately chastised myself for these thoughts; after all, she was being generous with her time, and a willing mentor was certainly nothing to sneeze at. The very fact she—a woman executive—existed at Torchon & Lyle gave me hope that I might someday make editor after all.

O
ne morning, when I reached up to rub the shiny talon of the phoenix, I was startled to see a dark hand appear next to mine. I turned to see a young Negro man in horn-rimmed glasses. He was strikingly handsome, with high cheekbones and a tall, athletic build.

“Oh!” I said. “You must work at Torchon and Lyle.”

He smiled politely at my surprise. “In a roundabout manner. I'm a messenger-boy,” he answered, then nodded in the direction of the phoenix hovering over us. “But I suppose I like it enough to want to keep my job.” We turned back to gaze again at the phoenix.

“It's silly, isn't it? I'm not at all superstitious,” I lied, suddenly feeling the need to explain myself.

“Neither am I,” the young man said. “But I like a good ritual.” He put a finger to the bridge of his nose and pushed his glasses up. He regarded me through the lenses. There was a glimmer of shy, bookish intelligence in his eyes. It was a kindred glimmer, one I recognized in myself.

I thought to ask him about what it was like to be a bicycle messenger for Torchon & Lyle; whether he ever got sent out on any odd deliveries or else brought things to famous authors' houses. But I was too timid to ask. So the young man and I stood there staring at each other, a pair of awkward smiles on our faces, neither one saying another word, until finally we both nodded and turned to go through the revolving door and into the building. He went downstairs to the mail room, and I waited for the elevator to go up.

Later that afternoon I was typing up some dictation I'd taken earlier that morning, when Mr. Turner emerged from his office and tossed something onto my desk. I recognized the reader's report I'd written a few nights prior, recommending a novel I'd found in the slush pile. I braced myself for him to announce what terrible judgment I had, but the criticism never came.

“This one isn't half-bad,” he said, frowning. “I pulled the manuscript and I agree it has promise. The quality of your report itself is middling, but I expect you may improve over time if you're to be a reader from now on.”

“Reader?” I repeated in disbelief. My heart leapt and I couldn't help but smile. “Am I being promoted to reader?”

As he caught sight of my smile, Mr. Turner's frown deepened. “It's more work, but not more money—understand?”

“Oh yes, sir! I'm still very honored! I . . .” I hesitated, searching for the correct word. “. . . I accept!”

Mr. Turner gave me a disdainful look, and I understood my naked enthusiasm, coupled with the presumption I was somehow entitled to accept or decline the position, had annoyed him.

“Fine,” he grunted. “You can start with these.” He placed a small stack of manuscripts on my desk. “And get in touch with the author of that unsolicited manuscript.” He pointed back to my reader's report.

“Oh, I will, sir! Right away,” I said. He vanished into his office, the door swinging shut behind him.

I didn't care if he'd been annoyed by my eager attitude. I was a reader! I was one tiny step closer to becoming an editor. Perhaps rubbing that statue was lucky after all. As I looked the submission log over in search of the unsolicited author's address and telephone number, I picked up the telephone to dial someone else entirely.

“Judy?” I spoke into the receiver. I could hear the clackity-clack of her uninterrupted typing.

“Mmm?”

“Say, let's go for a drink tonight. I've got something to celebrate!”

•   •   •

L
ater, when I told Judy the details, she was happy for me and eager to celebrate, but I had to twist her arm to get her to go down to the Village.

“Why not let's go to a bar here in midtown, or else on the Upper East Side?” she complained, slicking on a fresh coat of red lipstick once the clocks had struck five and we were riding the elevator down. “That's where all the eligible bachelors are.”

“It's fun in the Village; you'll see,” I promised. “There's a real energy. I've met the most interesting people down there. You never know who you might meet: a painter or a musician or a poet!”

Judy snapped her compact shut and slipped it back into her pocketbook. “
That's
what I'm afraid of.”

“Oh, c'mon, Judy! Who knows? The next Hemingway or Salinger could be down there, and Torchon and Lyle might someday publish his book!”

“You forget,” she said. “
You're
in it for the books.
I'm
in it for a husband.”

She sniffed and pretended to pout, but followed me in good humor out to the street to catch a taxi. We rode down Fifth Avenue to Washington Square, giggling with excitement as the wedding-cake arch loomed into view. I had decided on the Minetta Tavern, over on MacDougal. It was
cozy inside, dim, with lots of dark wood and a black-and-white checkerboard floor.

“How do you know about this place?” Judy asked, raising an eyebrow as we walked through the door. We pulled out two stools at the bar and wobbled onto them in our pencil skirts. I explained about the day I'd met Swish, and how he'd introduced me to a whole slew of bohemian cafés below Fourteenth Street.

“I wish I could come down to the Village every day after work,” I said. “There's always something interesting going on—some poetry reading or improvisational band or . . . well, some of it I don't even quite know how to describe!”

“Yes, well, going out can get expensive,” Judy said. “Especially if you're not out with the kind of gentleman who knows he's supposed to foot the bill.” I could tell she had not liked the sound of Swish one bit.

“Well, I'm not interested in him like that.”

“So?” Judy said. “He still ought to treat. It's what a fella
does
.”

“Anyway, you'll find it's not at all expensive down here. Most of the readings and art shows and music are free. It's the time, not the money, that I can't spare. Too many manuscripts to read!”

Judy rolled her eyes. “You and your career gal ambitions,” she said in a mock-scolding voice. “What
am
I going to do with you?”

Just then I felt someone brush by my elbow.

“Say—Eden, right?”

I looked in the direction of the voice and saw a man with a slight build, sandy hair, and pale blue eyes.

“Oh! Yes,” I replied. “How good to see you again. Judy, this is Cliff.”

“How d'you do?”

Judy shook his hand and gave him an appraising look, but almost immediately her gaze slid to another boy standing just over Cliff's shoulder, and she blushed.

“This is my buddy Bobby,” he explained. “Bobby, meet the gals.”

Bobby grinned in an extremely charming, lopsided way. He was tall and very good-looking, with the kind of relaxed, slouchy posture that suggested he was very reassured about how good-looking he was, too.

“Listen,” Cliff continued. “We were just headed over to Chumley's. There's a playwright who wants a few actors to do a cold reading of his new play, and Bobby is going to volunteer.”

“What d'you say, Judy?” I asked. I wanted to go but I wanted her to feel comfortable, too.

“All right,” she agreed, still smiling at Bobby in a wistful fog.

•   •   •

T
he play was fairly awful. It was obvious the playwright fancied himself some variety of absurdist, like Ionesco or Beckett, but possessed only a fraction of the talent. However, Bobby read his lines with fierce commitment, and the whole room sighed dreamily every time it was his turn to speak. When it was all over, we clapped Bobby on the back, and the boys suggested we relocate to the Cedar Tavern. I hadn't planned on taking a tour of all the bars in the Village, but it seemed like that was what the night was shaping up to be. Once at the Cedar, a third man came over to join us. I was startled to recognize the bookish-looking Negro with horn-rimmed glasses.

“I saw you this morning in front of the phoenix!” I exclaimed. He smiled and the sense of camaraderie we'd shared earlier that day returned.

“You've met?” Cliff asked.

“Well, not formally,” I said, realizing we'd never introduced ourselves. “I'm Eden.”

“Miles,” he said, extending a polite hand. We chatted a bit.

“How long have you been a bicycle messenger?” I asked.

“For almost a year. I only do it part-time,” he said. “I'm still in school.”

“Oh!” I said, cocking my head in confusion. He didn't appear young enough to be high school age.

“College,” he said, reading my misapprehension. “Columbia.”

I was impressed, and was about to say so, but just then a stranger spilled a drink on Judy's lap, and she leapt up from her barstool. I could see she'd had enough. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. Cliff and Bobby wanted to go to yet another bar for more drinks, and looked slightly disappointed when Judy and I excused ourselves.

“Time for us career gals to turn back into pumpkins,” I said, “or it'll take a whole lot more than coffee to wake us up in the morning.”

In the taxi on the way back uptown, Judy sat dabbing her skirt with a handkerchief.

“Was it terrible?” I asked.

“Not terrible,” she said. “But I'll send you my dry-cleaning bill.”

I asked her what she thought of them.

“Well, that Bobby is about as handsome as they come,” she said, still blotting away at her skirt. “But he's not marriage material. You can see he's more trouble than the devil himself! And Cliff . . .” She considered for a moment. “Well, he might be different. He seems like he's from a nice family, and a college boy, too: I noticed a class ring!” I was glad she liked Cliff. I liked him, too. “But I don't know . . .” She qualified her endorsement: “He runs around with so many Village kids . . .”

“More of them might've gone to college than you'd think,” I murmured, lost in thought and watching the city flying by outside the taxi window as we zoomed up Third Avenue. “Miles told me he's due to graduate Columbia this June.”

“Who's Miles?”

“That young man I was talking to just now.”

“The Negro?”

I nodded, and she sighed.

“Oh, honestly, Eden . . . hipsters and Negroes! Don't you
ever
want to get married?”