Spooning Read online

  Now, from under my just-flipped mattress, I revisited the situation. He'd claimed that he couldn't sleep well through the night at my apartment, in my bed. At first, I wanted to blame the city noise. But he lived in midtown next to a hospital, so he was used to sirens and such. And we still hadn't had sex yet. I had tried to put out of my mind that men's sexual peak was in their early twenties, aka, now. Was it me? Did the abstinence speak to the depth or to the shallowness of our relationship? No, must be my mattress. I had always heard about flipping mattresses, but had never actually flipped one. So maybe mine was flawed and needed to be flipped—or something.

  “Hernia!” Syd screamed again as the mattress fell on top of me. This time I was sandwiched between the box spring and mattress, so mission accomplished. Almost.

  The first day of work at Sunshine & Sensibility dawned like the first day of school. I squeaked as I walked down the shiny hallway of the network's corporate high-rise in my new shoes.

  “It will be a bit like high school,” the HR woman had warned. “There's a lot of competition here. And sometimes that desire to succeed can translate into pettiness and yes, nastiness.” High school? Nastiness? I pulled my skirt down a bit. I didn't need any stares about the “inappropriate length.” How could I, I wondered, as a measly PA, be any sort of a threat to a high-ranking producer?

  “And you are?” came a voice with a thick Boston accent from behind my cubicle wall. I stood up and peered over to see who was speaking to me. The “voice” did not glance up. She didn't even turn around. Staring at her hazy screen in her dimly lit office, she repeated, “And you are …” Like rhetorical questions, I hate lingering statements. I knew she wasn't asking me out of interest, but out of obligation.

  “I'm Charlotte Brown,” I said

  “Charlotte. Family name?” she said.

  “Umm no. Ahh, most people just call me Charlie,” I said, figuring I might as well throw her some bone in the interest of female bonding.

  “Charlotte, I don't like nicknames. I'm Margaret. Not Meg, nor Maggie, nor Marg, just Maaargaret. Oh, and don't bother me for things like paper clips. The supply office is just beyond the gym.” That damn Boston long a. The Pilgrims left the fucking Mayflower four hundred years ago and some still wished they could kiss the weathered mast, or should I say, “Maaaast.” I ducked back down after her whirlwind of crap.

  Margaret seemed like she was in her early thirties (probably bitter about her single status—no shining diamond ring on her left hand) and somehow had reached producer status at an early age. She was therefore destined for greatness at Sunshine & Sensibility. I just hoped that she wasn't an example of the effects of a rapid rise to success. If so, I was screwed.

  Besides hearing a couple of screaming matches between producers in the studio and the occasional, “What the hell were you thinking?” coming from Jane's office at the other end of the building, it seemed like a pretty normal morning. I sat in my cubicle and waited for someone—hopefully not Margaret—to give me some direction.

  “Psst,” I heard. “Psst!” someone spit not too quietly. A head popped out of the cubicle on my right.

  “Hey, new girl! Hi. Come here for a sec.” I walked around the wall that encased our fifteen or so cubicles (and kept us peons separated from the bigwigs as effectively as the Great Wall of China). There, I met Julie.

  “Charlie? Charlie Brown?” she asked, when I told her my name. I steeled myself for the obligatory laughter. I could mouth the next question: “Do you have a dog?” Julie even went so far as to waggle her hands at the sides of her head mimicking Snoopy's floppy ears.

  “Nope, no dog, only the occasional best friend of dog sniffing around my bed if I'm lucky.” Not particularly clever, but it tended to do the trick.

  “So, not married either?” she asked. Okay, so TV people were nosey. I'd soon learn it was just part of the profession.

  “Nope, uh, not yet,” I repeated, as if marriage at an early age would be such a terrible crime in today's era. She, obviously single too, smiled.

  I quickly realized that Julie was one of the good guys at work. She had lasted as an admin for five years at S&S, and I immediately knew I would need her help to survive my first day. She showed me around the studio, giving me the inside scoop on who was who and what was what. First, we went to what she dubbed the Craft Closet. This was the secret closet where the Diva kept everything from über-fancy ribbons and hot pink stationery to stacks upon stacks of chichi fabric and jars of knickknacks and buttons. You name it, it was in there. It was a craft-lovers' paradise. I drooled and I wasn't even crafty! Yet all I wanted to do was to start stuffing my pockets and run like hell. My mother would have peed her pants if she'd gotten a look at all the pretty goodies. No wonder she was a fan of the show. Deep down I felt like that evil little girl Veruca Salt from Willy Wonka: I wanted it and I wanted it now.

  Julie didn't stop there. She showed me everything. Jane had a test kitchen where five chefs were constantly working around the clock to churn out fancy and delicious recipes for the Diva to use during one of her upcoming segments. She also had a handful of stylists who only worked on prepping and presenting the food, designing the invitations, and arranging the bouquets. It was absolutely insane. The place was a full-fledged sweatshop busting with extremely talented seamstresses, florists, carpenters, chefs, producers, directors, and PAs—all of whom wanted to please the Queen of Daytime Domesticity. The problem was that I had two left thumbs. I was doomed to be doomed on my first day!

  “Hey, do you want to help me stuff the trick-or-treat bags?” Julie asked.

  “The what?” I asked before realizing I was questioning my very first assignment. “I mean sure!” I corrected with the glee of a high-school cheerleader. “What do we need to do?”

  “Well, Santo, our head stylist, came up with these cellophane bags for Jane's trick-or-treaters.” After hearing the screaming from Jane's office, I couldn't help but wonder what evil creature she transformed into once the sun went down.

  “We stuff her candy bags? You mean for the candy bowl at her house?”

  “Oh, she doesn't use a bowl. She, I mean we, stack the bags in old-fashioned washtubs. It's quite effective.” I couldn't wait to tell my mother that I, being one of the talented employees at S&S, could use my newfound skills to open bags of discount miniature candy bars. You know, just in case Jane couldn't handle the stress of it.

  Having nothing else to do, I joined Julie at the craft table. We proceeded to mark up the cellophane bags with stamps (hand carved out of potatoes by the art department) and metallic orange ink. With a flick of the wrist, Julie dusted each wet imprint with silver glitter. We then filled the cellophane bags with classic types of candy. No slimy gummy snots in these bags! Only quality old-fashioned root beer barrels, Sweet Tarts, Mary Janes, and bull's-eye caramels filled these sweet sacks.

  “Oh, that won't work,” Julie informed me.

  “What?”

  “That bag of candy you just put down. Those rolls of Sweet Tarts need to be vertical.”

  “What?”

  “Seriously.” She giggled at my incredulous look. “Untie it and put the candy in a new bag because that one can't be reused. It will be too manhandled after you untie it and rearrange the candy.” She spit out these rote instructions as if she was describing how to pour milk on breakfast cereal. After we stuffed the candies into their “proper” positions, we adorned each bag with a pumpkin cookie and a bit of raffia. For the last century, kids have been warned about eating homemade Halloween goods. However, mothers would be clamoring at the Diva's door in the New York suburbs, ready to shove these yummy handmade treats down their kids' throats.

  Over our candy-stuffing bonding, Julie told me that I probably would never have a formal introduction to Jane. The rule of thumb around the cubicles was that she didn't like to be bothered by the lower staff. Speak when spoken to was the strict policy. Of course, this hadn't been included in my HR new-hire packet. Julie also quickly warned me a
bout Jane's pet peeves:

  No personal photos on desktop.

  No colored push pins (only brushed silver).

  No live plants.

  No bananas anywhere in the office (it was known as “stupid fruit” to the Diva).

  No wearing jeans.

  No folders labeled by hand—only by a professional labeling machine.

  No long stringy college hair (the Diva liked cropped, cultured dos).

  I giggled nervously after her last point and played with my below shoulder-length locks. And God was I craving a banana (I was always the type to want what I couldn't have).

  “What are you doing?” someone barked from behind me.

  “Excuse me?” I answered with the utmost grace. It was Margaret.

  “I think you can find something more productive to do with your time. If I were you, I'd make myself appear just a tad busier on my first day.” Then she turned on her pointy shoes and went back to her cubicle.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, “I thought I was helping.” Shit, I was helping. Julie and I had stuffed at least seventy-five goddamn little trick-or-treat bags (all with vertically placed rolls of Sweet Tarts), and Maaargaret would rather see me inflating my newly donned corporate ass at my computer. I shuffled back to my cubicle in candy-stuffing shame.

  I decided to keep low in my new little six-by-six space. Back inside the compound, I dug through some of the more fun items on my desk. There was a fresh box of S&S stationery, a box of hot pink S&S pens, a name plate with my title strategically placed on the outside of my cubicle. I snuck a few pencils for Syd inside my bag. If my parents could see me now they'd be so proud. I was officially part of the workforce.

  That night, so inspired, I brought home some of Jane's, or rather the head chef's, famous toffee. Tara snickered that I was already sucked into the Diva's universe as she popped one of the toffees I had left on the table by our front door into her mouth. I headed for my room and threw a mask on to detoxify after my stressful first day; I was exhausted. I warmed some milk like my mother had done when I had an upset tummy, and I lounged in my high school sweetheart's sweatshirt, ignoring the inappropriately placed worn spots. The girls had headed out, so I had the tiny apartment all to my bloated self. When someone knocked and let themselves in, I shouted “hi” from my fetal position.

  “Hot. Very hot!” I leapt up at the sound of a male voice and looked around wildly for a blunt object. In my hasty search, I noticed a lopsided grin on my invader. He was standing in my living room. I didn't know whether to cover my holes, wipe off my mask, press stop on the Disney movie I was watching, or continue my search for the blunt object. Syd must have forgotten to lock the door again.

  “I just wanted to come by and say congrats on your first day of work.” Bells a'ringing! Were those angels singing? I still hadn't said a word. Mr. J. P. Morgan took about two steps with his well-formed lacrosse legs and, sweeping a hand under my sweatshirt, pulled me in for a long kiss. I pulled back first, I think, out of breath. On his nose was a smidge of green papaya mask. I wiped the smear away. He pulled off the sweatband holding my hair back off of my head.

  “Rapunzel, Rapunzel. I like the curls,” he mumbled running his fingers through my hair. “You look busy, so I'll head out. Just wanted to say hi and give you these,” from behind his back he handed me three Gerber daisies. “Have a relaxing night.” He kissed me once more, and then strode back toward the door as suddenly as he had come, leaving me off balance. On his way out, he grabbed some of the toffee before closing the door behind him. Standing there, still wondering whether or not I had said a single word, I heard a yell. Peering through the peephole, I could see Mr. J. P. Morgan, a distorted yet still cute version of him anyway, licking his fingers at the top of the stairs.

  “Delicious!” he yelled. He liked the toffee. And he seemed to like me, green papaya mask and all! Things were looking up. I would nab this boy, and I would master that toffee recipe.

  “For Pete's sake, who would ever buy this small plastic bottle of laundry detergent?” the Diva screamed from the studio. Day two had begun!

  “Everyone knows that I would buy the economy size. You buy the large bottle and then dispense it into smaller, more discreet pour bottles. Who, I mean, who did this?” Who, I mean who, cares!? I wondered. Obviously millions of people cared because her show raked in gazillions of dollars. I sidestepped the tantrum and darted back to my cube, escaping back into logging hell.

  By the end of the week, I was wondering if I had made a wise decision in taking the position at S&S. I thought that the new girl always got a break or two during her first week, right? Wrong. S&S was doing a segment on ice fishing. To begin with, I had a hard time envisioning Jane's padded derrière chilling on a frozen lake. Second, mean Margaret put me in charge of finding “fishing-related gear” for Jane (so much more important than candy stuffing). After about ten minutes of scrambling on the Internet and Googling the words “ice fishing” and “gear,” I finally broke down and asked scary Margaret for some much-needed help.

  “Umm, Margaret. Can I, I mean may I ask you a question?”

  “What? I'm busy,” she mumbled from her computer.

  “Um, it will only take a sec.”

  “Fine, what?”

  “Well, what exactly do you think I should be looking for?” I asked kindly.

  “Are you kidding me?” she yelled. “Are you living in a cave? Do you not know what ice fishing is?” Oh dear Lord, big mistake to ask Margaret. Is ice fishing a recognized Olympic sport? Think, Charlie, think! She's making a scene. What to do? What to do?

  “Oh, I just meant, what size clothing do I get for Jane?” I quickly rebounded.

  “Do I look like her wardrobe assistant?” she barked.

  “No!” I wanted to scream, “but Julie told me you started at S&S as Jane's wardrobe assistant five years ago!” I bit my tongue and actually think I tasted blood. I wondered if Margaret had been in this bad of a mood back then too. (Note to self: Don't know? Definitely don't ask!)

  “Oh, and get those flowers off of your desk before Jane sees them,” Margaret sneered. Was it another corporate bylaw or would Jane just take offense to my three wilting daisies from J. P., which I had gently transported via the subway to my new job? As another few petals fell I whispered, “He loves me, he loves me not …”

  I spent the remainder of the afternoon scouring the L.L. Bean and Eddie Bauer Web sites. I was looking for practical yet flattering styles of foul weather gear for incremental to severe cold. Why couldn't they make waders in a nice shade of blue (to match the Diva's eyes, of course). The beaten-down wardrobe assistant (about the twentieth since Margaret's humble days) had finally pointed me in the right direction and had warned me to get multiple sizes of each item.

  “She'll flip if they are too small, implying that she has gained weight. Yet she'll flip if they are too big, implying that you couldn't predict the exact size of her ever-fluctuating waist. Just blame ill-fitting items on the cheap manufacturing found these days.” He gave me a feeble smile of encouragement.

  I found it strange that the retail companies claimed that they would “loan” the clothes to Jane, in return for proper accolades during the credits at the end of the show, but they still wanted them returned. Why? What were they going to do with them after she had worn them? Disgusting! I figured the heads of merchandising knew that they would make a killing by selling slightly worn fishing gear that had once graced the body of Ms. Jane Dough on eBay someday. I found the cutest knit hats on the InStyle Web site that were selling for $129.00 (yes, for a hat). I thought that the color would be perfect with Jane's meticulously highlighted hair (little did I know the wrath that would ensue about a month from now when I learned that Jane had a horrible allergy to wool, and therefore had to go hatless during the entire segment). I also called Skinny Sage in a panic when I realized how many colors long johns came in. Sage was a fashion guru who knew the latest trends yet somehow found those few precious items that would outlas
t one season. She was always trying to play up her skinny wrists and hide her emaciated rib cage with the hottest new things out there.

  “Black. Black is such a safe bet especially since the tabloids have been covering Jane's weight gain.” You could hear the scorn in Sage's voice. “And black hides a multitude of sins!”

  “Black long johns? You're right, you're right.” Black was New York City's official color! “And I guess nobody will really see them under all these other layers.”

  “But the key is that she'll know,” Sage theorized. Just when I thought I was done, Margaret leaned over and dropped another bomb.

  “Oh, and get gear for the cameraman, Jane's cousin who is also going on the shoot, and the two producers. But make sure to outfit them in colors different than Jane's. Remember that the colors should be complementary and not clash in case any of them end up in a shot. Oh, and make sure none of them will look cuter that Jane—maybe get some unflattering coat styles or something. Jane won't want to be outshone.”

  Outshone? On the friggin’ ice? Didn't Margaret know that Jane would be worrying only about keeping her golden ass warm on the ice? I thought of ordering the Diva a bottle of whiskey to hide in one of her new vest's many pockets.

  After yet another particularly hellish day of S&S, Macie and I met for a few drinks. Taste, talk, sip, share, gulp, gossip, drain, drunk. Using each other as a crutch we stumbled back to our apartment. Juan was manning the door (well, the door next to our door). Juan was the most amicable of the doormen in the stately prewar high-rise next to our walk-up. He worked the oddest hours, had the brightest smile, listened to our endless babble and all the while minded his p's and q's better than the rest. He bowed as if we were about to enter the Plaza. We, of course, nodded to him grandly and waltzed (while hiccupping) into our building's stairwell. Up we went.

  We entered our apartment to soothing darkness. The dim light inside the place was calming compared to the city's night glare. I guess one would say that our apartment had an urban quality to it. You know, a quality like the kind you find in seedy B-movies. Outside the living room (and consequently the dining room/my bedroom view too) was a pulsating red sign declaring “Manhattan Motel.” The vertical sign was larger and higher than the five floors of the motel. But tonight, the red glare was sort of dim.