"At first, I had a friend, and now, she's my competition."
"Amanda would be mortified if she knew you felt that way. Oh, she would be mortified," Martha said sadly.
"Really? well, don't tell her I said anything," Debbie said softly.
Amanda, Mike and Steve were partying so uproariously in the other room, they probably did not even notice or care that she had left them.
There they had stood. Mike, at the PC, playing golf on bright green lawns and florescent blue ponds. Steve, taking business calls after five, as he subsequently lowered the radio. Mike's friend, Ronnie, innocently looking on as Amanda flitted from Mike to Steve, massaging the tense back of Steve, rubbing Mike's shoulders, now Steve, now Mike.
Debbie glowered in smoldering silent rage. She had been mad for days. She could not help it. She hated it when she got into these moods. But she could not drag herself out of the bottomless depths of despair and anger.
Amanda perched on the radiator next to Mike, then stood.
"No, stay here," Mike told her.
She held his hand. Debbie's eyes narrowed as she glared at the back of Amanda's head. She stared at Amanda's leg, stretched across the room her black patent leather spike heel resting on Steve's chair. Amanda rubbed the muscles of Steve's back, which did not budge under her kneading hands.
"You've go ta lot of work ahead of you, Amanda," Debbie laughed tensely.
"He never will relax. Know when the last time I saw him relaxed? Piled up in the back seat of my car when I drove him home," Mike laughed.
"Really?" Debbie stared at his tense back.
And Amanda's hand went to rub Mike's back passionately again.
"Michael," she whined, "When are you taking me out to dinner?"
"Why should I take you out to dinner?" he said.
"When commission checks come in, you're supposed to take me out to dinner," she crooned. "Michael..." and she clenched her teeth in an imploring smile.
Debbie was now ready to punch her. Or pull that long curling hair out of her head. She was getting drunker by the minute. She sipped wine out of a tiny paper cup. When Amanda's face turned to her, she gave her a look of narrow-eyed hate.
The golf game continued. Mike's eyes never left the screen.
"I give him massages and he almost falls to the floor," Amanda nodded to Mike.
"Yeah, she reciprocates. But she gets uncomfortable if anyone sees us."
What? They give each other massages in his office?
"Call Martha. See how she likes her salad," someone said.
And Amanda and Mike described the salad they picked out together for Martha, down at the Chinese deli-grocery.
"Hello, Martha. How's your salad?"
"I'm in Steve's office. No, Amanda's her, too. And Mike. Did I say something I wasn't supposed to?" Debbie hung up the phone.
"Yes!" Amanda leaned on Mike's shoulder, smirking sheepishly.
She ran out of the office to explain to Martha. Mike followed her and Debbie slammed the door behind them.
"How about it, Debbie? Amanda and Mike? What do you think?" Steve jibed, his face lighting up.
"Steve! Yes!" Debbie gave him her thumbs up, and laughed bitterly. She put on Steve's jacket. "Pierre Cardin? You don't mind, do you? I don't want to ruin it."
"That looks good," Ronnie nodded his approval. Amanda returned with Mike.
Debbie opened Steve's behemoth blue and white umbrella, striped beach ball style. (Oh....I still have it! That's where it comes from???) {sic}
She lifted it to the ceiling and began to spin it.
"Like a disco," she said.
"Now, pose," Mike said admiringly.
She stuck out her chest. "No, that's sleazy," she said.
"No, it's not," Mike said. But he looked down in adolescent fascination at her leopard print jeans she had changed into, after work. Her conservative blue skirt and blouse seemed so dull next to Amanda's red satiny dress.
"All women are in competition with each other, Debbie," Martha now said.
"I know. I know it's only them, but...I have to get a life."
"Amanda would be mortified if she knew you felt that way. I've know her for two years."
"Really? Only two? I thought you knew each other for years."
"No, just two years."
"But you know her pretty well. She's going through a divorce, so I guess she needs their attention more than I do." Debbie stood.
"I guess I better get going before they..." She doubted they missed her.
But before her words had time to trail off, Amanda was by her side.
"Well, I never listened outside someone's door before," she said with a surprised smirk.
Martha covered her face with her hands.
Soap opera, Debbie thought instantly, numb with rum and coke.
"Amanda," Debbie said, fueled by booze and surprise, "it's making me mad, every day. I'm not used to you being divorced. I don't want to like Mike."
At this, Martha tilted her head in utter embarrassment. Amanda put her arm comfortingly around her friend.
"Poor Martha," Debbie said. Martha leaned her forehead into her hand, her elbow propped up on her desk.
"I should have told you this a long time ago." Debbie now confessed.
"I do that same stuff to you!" Amanda said, her smile bright. "Let's go." And she led her friend away to the ladies' room so Martha would not hear anymore.
"Why is this place like a TV show?" Debbie said as they walked past Kooch's office. "You wouldn't give him the time of day!"
"I have to divide the attention between Mike and Steve so no one will know I like Steve." Amanda explained. "I ws dying to touch him!"
They leaned over the vanity.
"You over compensated," Debbie realized.
"I don't want to like him," Debbie then said.
"But you see him every day," Amanda said. "And now, Jamie wants to come over tonight and he hasn't called to say when, so I'm thinking about that, while I'm in there. And Jim's working late and I'm worried. I'm wondering why he's working late. And this..."
"I don't compete with my friends," she said softly. Her face was so innocent that Debbie believed her.
They walked down the corridor together, back to Steve's office.
"Where's Mike?" Amanda said.
"He's talking with Martha," Ron smiled.
"Stay here," Amanda said.
"I'm not going to jump," Debbie told her. She sat on the desk.
Outside the building, Amanda and Debbie faced the three handsome young men in business suits and jackets. Mike gave Amanda a light hug. He turned to Debbie. She looked up at him, complacent with the aftermath of tears. Steve had rushed her into the corridor, and now they all stood beneath the skyscrapers on a misty New York night.
She lifted her arms up to Mike's shoulders. When did he get so tall? They embraced softly and she murmurred into his shoulder. "You better be careful."
She turned to face Ronnie. He smiled, moved by all of this.
"Goodnight, Ron," she said cheerfully.
She and Amanda left their handsome partners and walked off together to Penn Station.
CORPORATE BLUES
Denise Hickey
Sept. 1989
0910D
(P.S. I wonder where they all are now...on Facebook, probably.)
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
TELEPHONE CALL
"I bet Mike won't make it into work today."
"Oh, yeah?"
"He wasn't feeling too well."
"I would've given him some aspirin," Debbie said. She loved the chance to give her young staff member aspirin, to get him breakfast at the coffee shop downstairs, and set it up for him, coffee, bagel with cream cheese ("bagel C.C.," he called it), at his desk.
"He went and bought aspirin. He took it with a Coke," Amanda said incredulously.
"I woulda given him some! He doesn't know that? Aspirin with Coke?!"
"He got a stomachache," she continued. "I told him you're not supposed to do that. He said, 'You're not?'"
They walked into the office, Debbie sporting Amanda's lovely pink sweater dress. Amanda had kidnapped her the night before, unexpectedly asking her to sleep over at the last minute.
"Michael won't be in today. He's sick," Elyse said unnecessarily.
Amanda and Debbie laughed. Elyse looked up questioningly.
"Debbie," Elyse whispered. "Are you wearing a slip?"
"What? No. I was going to buy some nylons. I know," Debbie nodded. The panty line a sweater dress created was not a good idea in this office.
"Well, buy them now," Elyse said.
She was so exhausted from getting up at five in the morning. Was it worth it to Amanda, living way out on the Island? All her childhood years, Debbie would stare across the Sound to the invisible land mass she nonetheless knew lay ahead: Long Island. She had never seen it until one day two years ago when she first moved to New York.
"I called him. He wasn't home." Amanda had just come back from lunch.
"I was going to tell you to call him." Debbie said. And she was. She knew that Mike was feeling depressed because Amanda told her last night. But still, she wanted to be the one to make the suggestion.
"Nope. He wasn't home. Whoever it is must be enjoying his company today."
Debbie frowned. Amanda had once said that her face told a story. She knew as well as Amanda that he was sick! Why did Amanda have to say that? It made her burn up inside. She knew he was sick. He was probably just sleeping over a friend's house. But it made her mad. Why did she tell her he wasn't home?
"Well, I don't envy her," Debbie said hotly.
The phone rang.
"Is Steve there?"
"He's away from his desk. Can I take a message?" Debbie recited.
"Debbie. It's Mike."
"Oh. Hi, Mike," she said furiously to the phone. Mary looked at her. "How are you feeling," she quickly added.
"Better. I've been crashing all morning." His voice sounded nasal, as if he had a cold. She imagined him in blue and white striped pajamas.
"You...have?" Debbie started to giggle, slowly, giddily and carefree, into the phone.
"Is Steve there?" Mike sounded hurt, confused.
"No. He left to meet with the cable TV man," she said cheerily.
"Some people have such a rough life," Mike said.
"Yeeah," Debbie said, giggling breathlessly. "Yeah."
"Is Amanda there?"
"Um. She tried to call you!"
"She did?" His voice was full of faint hope.
"Sheee sure did!" Debbie said.
"Is she around?"
"Um. I don't know. Hold on."
Debbie ran into Amanda's office.
"Mike's on the phone," she said and transferred him directly to Amanda.
0735D/Fall 89
"Oh, yeah?"
"He wasn't feeling too well."
"I would've given him some aspirin," Debbie said. She loved the chance to give her young staff member aspirin, to get him breakfast at the coffee shop downstairs, and set it up for him, coffee, bagel with cream cheese ("bagel C.C.," he called it), at his desk.
"He went and bought aspirin. He took it with a Coke," Amanda said incredulously.
"I woulda given him some! He doesn't know that? Aspirin with Coke?!"
"He got a stomachache," she continued. "I told him you're not supposed to do that. He said, 'You're not?'"
They walked into the office, Debbie sporting Amanda's lovely pink sweater dress. Amanda had kidnapped her the night before, unexpectedly asking her to sleep over at the last minute.
"Michael won't be in today. He's sick," Elyse said unnecessarily.
Amanda and Debbie laughed. Elyse looked up questioningly.
"Debbie," Elyse whispered. "Are you wearing a slip?"
"What? No. I was going to buy some nylons. I know," Debbie nodded. The panty line a sweater dress created was not a good idea in this office.
"Well, buy them now," Elyse said.
She was so exhausted from getting up at five in the morning. Was it worth it to Amanda, living way out on the Island? All her childhood years, Debbie would stare across the Sound to the invisible land mass she nonetheless knew lay ahead: Long Island. She had never seen it until one day two years ago when she first moved to New York.
"I called him. He wasn't home." Amanda had just come back from lunch.
"I was going to tell you to call him." Debbie said. And she was. She knew that Mike was feeling depressed because Amanda told her last night. But still, she wanted to be the one to make the suggestion.
"Nope. He wasn't home. Whoever it is must be enjoying his company today."
Debbie frowned. Amanda had once said that her face told a story. She knew as well as Amanda that he was sick! Why did Amanda have to say that? It made her burn up inside. She knew he was sick. He was probably just sleeping over a friend's house. But it made her mad. Why did she tell her he wasn't home?
"Well, I don't envy her," Debbie said hotly.
The phone rang.
"Is Steve there?"
"He's away from his desk. Can I take a message?" Debbie recited.
"Debbie. It's Mike."
"Oh. Hi, Mike," she said furiously to the phone. Mary looked at her. "How are you feeling," she quickly added.
"Better. I've been crashing all morning." His voice sounded nasal, as if he had a cold. She imagined him in blue and white striped pajamas.
"You...have?" Debbie started to giggle, slowly, giddily and carefree, into the phone.
"Is Steve there?" Mike sounded hurt, confused.
"No. He left to meet with the cable TV man," she said cheerily.
"Some people have such a rough life," Mike said.
"Yeeah," Debbie said, giggling breathlessly. "Yeah."
"Is Amanda there?"
"Um. She tried to call you!"
"She did?" His voice was full of faint hope.
"Sheee sure did!" Debbie said.
"Is she around?"
"Um. I don't know. Hold on."
Debbie ran into Amanda's office.
"Mike's on the phone," she said and transferred him directly to Amanda.
0735D/Fall 89
THAT NIGHT
"So, what happened to Mike that night," Mary asked her.
"Oh! I couldn't figure out what happened to him!"
"He said everybody left him by himself at the bar," Mary smiled.
"No, we didn't! We were having this nice conversation about work, he was giving me all this advice - he is a really nice guy, he seems so arrogant, but he's not. I think he is the most sensitive out of all the guys. For being such a smooth-talker, he is such a nice guy."
"I don't know if I said something to make him mad, or what - I can't remember." There were a lot of things Debbie could not remember about that night - or wished she could not remember. "But all I can remember is getting in this black car, I don't remember who was in it or who was driving. I got in this black car and I could see him in the bar looking at me."
Debbie remembered this clearly. As if it were a vivid dream. Jeanie had urged her into the black racy car. Debbie had stepped into the waiting car and she looked right into the bar and there was Mike, standing at the shiny wood counter, paying up his tab. He had looked right back at her, and then, the car had zipped her into oblivion.
"Be careful," Mary now told her. But she smiled.
Winter 1989
DENISE HICKEY
The Corporate Blues
"That Night"
"Oh! I couldn't figure out what happened to him!"
"He said everybody left him by himself at the bar," Mary smiled.
"No, we didn't! We were having this nice conversation about work, he was giving me all this advice - he is a really nice guy, he seems so arrogant, but he's not. I think he is the most sensitive out of all the guys. For being such a smooth-talker, he is such a nice guy."
"I don't know if I said something to make him mad, or what - I can't remember." There were a lot of things Debbie could not remember about that night - or wished she could not remember. "But all I can remember is getting in this black car, I don't remember who was in it or who was driving. I got in this black car and I could see him in the bar looking at me."
Debbie remembered this clearly. As if it were a vivid dream. Jeanie had urged her into the black racy car. Debbie had stepped into the waiting car and she looked right into the bar and there was Mike, standing at the shiny wood counter, paying up his tab. He had looked right back at her, and then, the car had zipped her into oblivion.
"Be careful," Mary now told her. But she smiled.
Winter 1989
DENISE HICKEY
The Corporate Blues
"That Night"
CASINO NIGHT
31 Readers on Wednesday! Thanx, everyone! And now, CASINO NIGHT "This is great," Mike told her. He handed her back the camera.
"All this will be on film," he continued, his hand sweeping over the entire pseudo casino. "Look at them. Everyone's attention is on the game. Look at their eyes. Any minute, someone is going to get up and go puke in the bathroom."
Debbie burst into a fit of innocent giggles.
"Look at this crowd. Go into it," he said.
And he sliced through the crowd as if it were a monster piece of chocolate layer cake. (Mmmm...earlier today in the afternoon, I couldn't resist -- at the Bean & Leaf Cafe. "Something new and exciting." Could that be the reason I feel nauseous and slightly dizzy -- just like that time in the last job I ever held at West Side when I had two monster slices of cafeteria pizza -- and ended up in the ER at Pequot???)
0523D
Denise Hickey
ALL THAT GLITTERS
Nov. 88
"All this will be on film," he continued, his hand sweeping over the entire pseudo casino. "Look at them. Everyone's attention is on the game. Look at their eyes. Any minute, someone is going to get up and go puke in the bathroom."
Debbie burst into a fit of innocent giggles.
"Look at this crowd. Go into it," he said.
And he sliced through the crowd as if it were a monster piece of chocolate layer cake. (Mmmm...earlier today in the afternoon, I couldn't resist -- at the Bean & Leaf Cafe. "Something new and exciting." Could that be the reason I feel nauseous and slightly dizzy -- just like that time in the last job I ever held at West Side when I had two monster slices of cafeteria pizza -- and ended up in the ER at Pequot???)
0523D
Denise Hickey
ALL THAT GLITTERS
Nov. 88
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Next up: CASINO NIGHT
More drama ensues with Corporate Mike. THAT NIGHT, TELEPHONE CALL, ENTER AMANDA...Be prepared for Heartbreak Hotel! (Well,...what else is new???...* * * :) (Denise...Denise Dances...at the Surf Club...1989, NYC)
FLOWERS
Ring!
"Debbie, you have..."
"What? No, I didn't call for a messenger this afternoon."
"No," the receptionist said, "you have more flowers!"
"Really? Guess what? I've got more FLOWERS!" Debbie shouted at the guys in the office.
"Well, hurry up and go get them so we can go to lunch," Rob told her.
She ran into the hall.
"No, wait, Debbie. Come back."
Mike and Rob stood at the end of the hall.
"Close your eyes and sit at your desk," Rob instructed. "Don't open 'em. Keep 'em closed!"
"All right, all right. I can't take the suspense." Debbie lay her head on her desk, hands over her eyes.
Steve carried in the present and lay it on her desk.
"It's here!" Debbie gasped.
She opened the pink and baby blue wrapping on the tallest bouquet she had ever seen. A silver balloon reflected her bright face. She slowly tore the pretty paper, making her way down to the actual flowers. The balloon floated high above the red and white tulips and baby's breath which sprang from the dainty bouquet. Mike and Steve dug into the box which contained the glass vase for a card, for any sign of a giver's name.
Mike examined the curvature of the fancy glass vase.
"I knew you'd be surprised. No signature." Debbie stared at the scrawled words. She looked up at Mike but his grave red face was turned away.
"They're beautiful. So fresh." And they left for lunch.
"I can't make up my mind. Where should we go?" Debbie asked for the tenth time.
"KNow what? I've never gotten unsigned flowers before. And I'm 27 years old." Debbie sighed.
"It's not me because I would sign them. I would want them to know I sent them," Rob said. "But maybe I should, if it gets a reaction like yours. Do you have a secret admirer?" he asked.
"Is there someone special in your life, Debbie?" Mike asked. But he was looking away from her.
"Not that I know of. But you know me," she said.
"I do?" he asked softly.
"What's more exciting? Knowing or not knowing?" Rob said.
"Not knowing," Debbie answered emphatically.
Where should we go?"
"It's up to you. It's your birthday," Mary said.
"I have a taste for Japanese. But should we? What do you think, Mike?"
"Pearl's," he joked. "No, Houlihan's. Actually, it's on your T&E, Mary."
"Houlihan's? All right. No. Let's go to Dosanko's!" And Debbie's mind was made up.
Mike's face fell. "Shoot!" he said with a grin.
"Good choice, Debbie," Mary said.
"I think so, too," she said.
The four sat at the wide round table at the sunny Japanese restaurant. Debbie clutched the edge of the table. The last traces of nervousness around her coworkers still remained. They always made her laugh and she hated to bare her smile. The teenage awkwardness that comes with wearing braces for years never left her. Throughout the meal, Mike's red face was turned away from her.
"Who is it?!" she shrieked.
"Just stop with the 'who sent the flowers'!" Mike shouted.
"Who do you think it was, Debbie?" Rob pursued. He looked snidely at Mike.
"No, let's stop," she politely waved it away.
She returned to the office. Crystal, her boss, Mary, Ann, and Rob stood or sat in chairs around her desk.
"No one signed them," someone was saying.
"Debbie," Mike said softly. "I wish they were from me, but they're not." Mike's voice when he said "wish" was filled with yearning and sadness. His face was still red and he looked sadly down at his typewriter.
"They're not? Really, they're not?" Debbie ducked down to look him gently in the eye and he shook his head no.
Debbie's face fell. She dragged her feet to her desk and sat down, staring through the stems of the beautiful bouquet and fingering the silver strand of ribbon that tied the balloon to the flowers.
So, it wasn't Mike.
And it wasn't Steve. It certainly wasn't Rob. Or was it Steve?
It had to be the guys at the coffee shop. It had to be. Debbie could not think of a single other.
"How about the gym," Mary asked her.
Debbie's face lit up in introspection.
"Ah, hah," Mike said.
"But they don't know my name," she said.
She thought of all the handsome guys in the office.
"Well, I work in an officeful of gorgeous guys," she said to Mike and Rob.
"Not us," Rob said.
"She did too mean us," Mike argued softly.
"I meant everybody," Debbie said graciously.
"See? Thanks, Debbie," Mike said appreciatively.
She thought of a good-looking guy, way off in Editorial. She thought of Scott. No, he wouldn't do that.
"Who were you with last night?" Mary said.
Debbie thought of the Marriott Hotel, The View they occupied at the top of the hotel. She had left with Ken to get her stuff at the office. Ken...
"Debbie, you've got to find out who sent those flowers." Crystal said.
"Ugh. I feel like I'm at work. I'm so tired of tracing things!" Debbie groaned. More follow-up calls. More paperwork.
It could have been Mike but it wasn't.
"Did you really think I sent them?" Steve asked her. They were in the technology room. Scott sat with his back to them at the computer.
"Well, I don't know." Debbie said bashfully.
"So, you have a Secret Admirer?" Scott smiled at her.
Kooch, sitting in his office across the hall, looked angry. Debbie had stomped into his office and told him.
"Did you ever get flowers?" Steve asked Scott.
"No," he said.
"Well, maybe you should date a guy," Steve stated.
They all laughed and Scott shook his head and shrugged in embarrassment.
"Did you ever give anyone flowers?" Debbie asked Scott.
"Once," Scott admitted, abashed by this honesty. He kept his eyes on the computer.
"Once? What kind of guy are you?" Debbie said.
"Cheap."
"What?" She thought he said deep.
"Cheap."
"Oh. Well, you're smart," she said to his back.
"I really thought they were from Mike," she said to Scott and Steve, unafraid in her big disappointment. "And when he said they weren't, I said, 'they're not?'" Debbie recounted the solemn afternoon.
"It was one of the guys at the gym, you Aerobics Dog," Steve said.
"They don't know my name."
"Do they call you Baby?"
"Hey, I like being called Baby," Debbie confessed.
"I think I know who they're from. But I don't want to say," she smiled.
FLOWERS
Spring 1989
Denise Hickey
"Debbie, you have..."
"What? No, I didn't call for a messenger this afternoon."
"No," the receptionist said, "you have more flowers!"
"Really? Guess what? I've got more FLOWERS!" Debbie shouted at the guys in the office.
"Well, hurry up and go get them so we can go to lunch," Rob told her.
She ran into the hall.
"No, wait, Debbie. Come back."
Mike and Rob stood at the end of the hall.
"Close your eyes and sit at your desk," Rob instructed. "Don't open 'em. Keep 'em closed!"
"All right, all right. I can't take the suspense." Debbie lay her head on her desk, hands over her eyes.
Steve carried in the present and lay it on her desk.
"It's here!" Debbie gasped.
She opened the pink and baby blue wrapping on the tallest bouquet she had ever seen. A silver balloon reflected her bright face. She slowly tore the pretty paper, making her way down to the actual flowers. The balloon floated high above the red and white tulips and baby's breath which sprang from the dainty bouquet. Mike and Steve dug into the box which contained the glass vase for a card, for any sign of a giver's name.
Mike examined the curvature of the fancy glass vase.
"I knew you'd be surprised. No signature." Debbie stared at the scrawled words. She looked up at Mike but his grave red face was turned away.
"They're beautiful. So fresh." And they left for lunch.
"I can't make up my mind. Where should we go?" Debbie asked for the tenth time.
"KNow what? I've never gotten unsigned flowers before. And I'm 27 years old." Debbie sighed.
"It's not me because I would sign them. I would want them to know I sent them," Rob said. "But maybe I should, if it gets a reaction like yours. Do you have a secret admirer?" he asked.
"Is there someone special in your life, Debbie?" Mike asked. But he was looking away from her.
"Not that I know of. But you know me," she said.
"I do?" he asked softly.
"What's more exciting? Knowing or not knowing?" Rob said.
"Not knowing," Debbie answered emphatically.
Where should we go?"
"It's up to you. It's your birthday," Mary said.
"I have a taste for Japanese. But should we? What do you think, Mike?"
"Pearl's," he joked. "No, Houlihan's. Actually, it's on your T&E, Mary."
"Houlihan's? All right. No. Let's go to Dosanko's!" And Debbie's mind was made up.
Mike's face fell. "Shoot!" he said with a grin.
"Good choice, Debbie," Mary said.
"I think so, too," she said.
The four sat at the wide round table at the sunny Japanese restaurant. Debbie clutched the edge of the table. The last traces of nervousness around her coworkers still remained. They always made her laugh and she hated to bare her smile. The teenage awkwardness that comes with wearing braces for years never left her. Throughout the meal, Mike's red face was turned away from her.
"Who is it?!" she shrieked.
"Just stop with the 'who sent the flowers'!" Mike shouted.
"Who do you think it was, Debbie?" Rob pursued. He looked snidely at Mike.
"No, let's stop," she politely waved it away.
She returned to the office. Crystal, her boss, Mary, Ann, and Rob stood or sat in chairs around her desk.
"No one signed them," someone was saying.
"Debbie," Mike said softly. "I wish they were from me, but they're not." Mike's voice when he said "wish" was filled with yearning and sadness. His face was still red and he looked sadly down at his typewriter.
"They're not? Really, they're not?" Debbie ducked down to look him gently in the eye and he shook his head no.
Debbie's face fell. She dragged her feet to her desk and sat down, staring through the stems of the beautiful bouquet and fingering the silver strand of ribbon that tied the balloon to the flowers.
So, it wasn't Mike.
And it wasn't Steve. It certainly wasn't Rob. Or was it Steve?
It had to be the guys at the coffee shop. It had to be. Debbie could not think of a single other.
"How about the gym," Mary asked her.
Debbie's face lit up in introspection.
"Ah, hah," Mike said.
"But they don't know my name," she said.
She thought of all the handsome guys in the office.
"Well, I work in an officeful of gorgeous guys," she said to Mike and Rob.
"Not us," Rob said.
"She did too mean us," Mike argued softly.
"I meant everybody," Debbie said graciously.
"See? Thanks, Debbie," Mike said appreciatively.
She thought of a good-looking guy, way off in Editorial. She thought of Scott. No, he wouldn't do that.
"Who were you with last night?" Mary said.
Debbie thought of the Marriott Hotel, The View they occupied at the top of the hotel. She had left with Ken to get her stuff at the office. Ken...
"Debbie, you've got to find out who sent those flowers." Crystal said.
"Ugh. I feel like I'm at work. I'm so tired of tracing things!" Debbie groaned. More follow-up calls. More paperwork.
It could have been Mike but it wasn't.
"Did you really think I sent them?" Steve asked her. They were in the technology room. Scott sat with his back to them at the computer.
"Well, I don't know." Debbie said bashfully.
"So, you have a Secret Admirer?" Scott smiled at her.
Kooch, sitting in his office across the hall, looked angry. Debbie had stomped into his office and told him.
"Did you ever get flowers?" Steve asked Scott.
"No," he said.
"Well, maybe you should date a guy," Steve stated.
They all laughed and Scott shook his head and shrugged in embarrassment.
"Did you ever give anyone flowers?" Debbie asked Scott.
"Once," Scott admitted, abashed by this honesty. He kept his eyes on the computer.
"Once? What kind of guy are you?" Debbie said.
"Cheap."
"What?" She thought he said deep.
"Cheap."
"Oh. Well, you're smart," she said to his back.
"I really thought they were from Mike," she said to Scott and Steve, unafraid in her big disappointment. "And when he said they weren't, I said, 'they're not?'" Debbie recounted the solemn afternoon.
"It was one of the guys at the gym, you Aerobics Dog," Steve said.
"They don't know my name."
"Do they call you Baby?"
"Hey, I like being called Baby," Debbie confessed.
"I think I know who they're from. But I don't want to say," she smiled.
FLOWERS
Spring 1989
Denise Hickey
LA VERANDA
"Debbie, would you like to join us for a drink?"
"O.K.," she said to her boss. She looked at her watch. Ten after five. Good thing she had not left work right away. She ran to the ladies' room. When she returned, her attractive boss was applying lipstick in her office. Mike wore his long tweed coat which she was especially fond of, soft white scarf around his neck.
A new rumor had just been circulated. Steve sat in his office among his exotic unique plants, at the PC. Word had it that the PC contained X-rated video games. Crystal, Mike, and Debbie stood poised behind his chair. They stared at the blank screen. Kooch joined them. Still, the screen remained blank. Finally, an image flickered into view. But so far, the image remained in a gray blur of dots and bars. Suddenly, a woman's face emerged on the screen, a "private part" in her mouth.
Instantly, everyone shrieked in surprise and ran out of Steve's office, as if zapped by an electric shock.
"Debbie! Don't come near me! Unless you wanna touch me." Kooch's voice shuddered and he disappeared into his office in the small private hallway.
An editor walked by. "What's going on? That was some loud laughter."
The Beanstalk was too crowded.
"Let's try La Veranda," Mike suggested.
They sat on stools at the elegantly quiet bar. Debbie drank in the dim cozy atmosphere. Small pizza squares were passed around by the bartender. Debbie handed Mike a napkin.
"Thanks," he said. He stood by her. Steve and Crystal were already involved in a deep discussion about work.
"Do you know what we do?" Crystal asked Debbie.
"Well, we can show her," Mike siad.
"Why don't you sit down?" the bartender suggested.
"I wanna get closer to the women," Mike said.
And he launched into a flood of work related advice to Debbie.
"I know George Behar," he said.
"Who's that?" Debbie said.
"CEO of McGrath-O'Connor. He got me in. Told me this is the top company."
"Oh, George Behar. You've got connections." Debbie said.
"You can say, 'Yeah, I work for Commodity Services, we've got a view of Manhattan..."
"Isn't life wonderful?" Debbie giggled.
Mike didn't say anything.
"Now, I have a feeling you came here on a whim," Mike said.
"Well, I may not seem ambitious, but I want to do something with my life," Debbie said.
"That's it. Not ambitious," Mike said kindly.
"I have to get going. No, that's alright, you can stay." Crystal siad to Debbie.
Mike went to the phones. He stood there, puffing away on a cigarette. In spite of herself, Debbie thought he looked cool. He smiled slyly at Steve, sitting at the bar.
"Another drink for this beautiful lady?" the bartender asked.
"You are beautiful," Mike said. He stood a few feet away, looking at her in approval. He looked like a little man.
"No, I'm not," she said. She thought she might cry, any minute, if she accepted the compliment. "But I don't think so when I look in the mirror."
"Esteem," Mike pointed out.
November 88
Denise
Corporate America
"O.K.," she said to her boss. She looked at her watch. Ten after five. Good thing she had not left work right away. She ran to the ladies' room. When she returned, her attractive boss was applying lipstick in her office. Mike wore his long tweed coat which she was especially fond of, soft white scarf around his neck.
A new rumor had just been circulated. Steve sat in his office among his exotic unique plants, at the PC. Word had it that the PC contained X-rated video games. Crystal, Mike, and Debbie stood poised behind his chair. They stared at the blank screen. Kooch joined them. Still, the screen remained blank. Finally, an image flickered into view. But so far, the image remained in a gray blur of dots and bars. Suddenly, a woman's face emerged on the screen, a "private part" in her mouth.
Instantly, everyone shrieked in surprise and ran out of Steve's office, as if zapped by an electric shock.
"Debbie! Don't come near me! Unless you wanna touch me." Kooch's voice shuddered and he disappeared into his office in the small private hallway.
An editor walked by. "What's going on? That was some loud laughter."
The Beanstalk was too crowded.
"Let's try La Veranda," Mike suggested.
They sat on stools at the elegantly quiet bar. Debbie drank in the dim cozy atmosphere. Small pizza squares were passed around by the bartender. Debbie handed Mike a napkin.
"Thanks," he said. He stood by her. Steve and Crystal were already involved in a deep discussion about work.
"Do you know what we do?" Crystal asked Debbie.
"Well, we can show her," Mike siad.
"Why don't you sit down?" the bartender suggested.
"I wanna get closer to the women," Mike said.
And he launched into a flood of work related advice to Debbie.
"I know George Behar," he said.
"Who's that?" Debbie said.
"CEO of McGrath-O'Connor. He got me in. Told me this is the top company."
"Oh, George Behar. You've got connections." Debbie said.
"You can say, 'Yeah, I work for Commodity Services, we've got a view of Manhattan..."
"Isn't life wonderful?" Debbie giggled.
Mike didn't say anything.
"Now, I have a feeling you came here on a whim," Mike said.
"Well, I may not seem ambitious, but I want to do something with my life," Debbie said.
"That's it. Not ambitious," Mike said kindly.
"I have to get going. No, that's alright, you can stay." Crystal siad to Debbie.
Mike went to the phones. He stood there, puffing away on a cigarette. In spite of herself, Debbie thought he looked cool. He smiled slyly at Steve, sitting at the bar.
"Another drink for this beautiful lady?" the bartender asked.
"You are beautiful," Mike said. He stood a few feet away, looking at her in approval. He looked like a little man.
"No, I'm not," she said. She thought she might cry, any minute, if she accepted the compliment. "But I don't think so when I look in the mirror."
"Esteem," Mike pointed out.
November 88
Denise
Corporate America
FOLLOW
C'mon people, now! I'm beginning to think you're bored. I only have one follower, someone from SECAPA (Southeastern CT Authors & Publishers Association). Don't you wanna hear more about Debbie and Corporate Mike? Click on the FOLLOW with Google Friend Connect -- you know the FOLLOW widget button gadget thing. It's anonymous. I promise.
Monday, August 23, 2010
RETURN TO THE EAST VILLAGE
RETURN TO THE EAST VILLAGE
("Well, I didn't expect it to be glamorous")
The evening at Grampa's Belle Gente Restaurant was lively and entertaining. Red wine was poured by the waiter into the three girls' glasses without comment. Grampa promptly seated his waiting guests, starry-eyed at their chance to glimpse a celebrity, or "celeb" as Scott called them.
"Are you on the waiting list?" Grampa, the perfect maitre d' asked Debbie, the oldest of the three.
"No," she responded.
"Why? Don't you want to eat here?" the famous Munsters star chided.
Debbie had lived in New York since June and was accustomed to surprises. She was quite the envy of her younger sister Kimberly as well as her sister's best friend Carly, decidedly two of the more starstruck of the midnight crowd. Once during dinner, Grampa had even winked at Carly.
Dinner was consumed, wine was drank. "Drunk?" Debbie, forever the English major, queried.
The beat of Bleecker Street pulsated with the twang of rock n roll bands at the Red Lion Cafe and The Bitter End, the begging of bums and the bustle of the student-age crowd combining to form the hub typical of Central Greenwich Village.
Gradually, the girls walked to a cooler, less dense area, where the road widened, the crowds thinned. Single students and groups of three walked along the darkened street. Rock and roll bars and sidewalk cafes were left behind as the festive cheer gave way to dimly lit grocery stores and parking garages shut down for the night. The echo of metal, like the banging of silver drums, each evening as the doors were rolled over storefronts, crashing to the ground, had long since died.
Broadway was barely recognizable. Where by day, the funky melee of retail shops announced outrageous specials, unique outfits, blasted bouncy hit tunes, now it stood menacingly silent.
"Where's eighth?" Debbie wailed in a frenzy. The girls walked forward, then at Debbie's request walked north. Or was it south?
"Which way's east and which is west?" Debbie cried. "I can never get them straight." The two other girls were growing weary, impatient. Kimberly and Carly had thought Debbie knew her way around the city as, all day long, she had pointed out this tourist attraction and that.
Porch stoops became dilapidated; the cracked sidewalks, cluttered with dirty magazines, torn cardboard boxes, and rag-filled grocery carts, as the transformation from the avant-garde West to the decadence of the East became apparent.
Warehouses sighed with ominous secrets as the former jovial crowd became tense, ethnic, ignorant.
"Spare some change?" A beggar who smelled of an unwashed pile of laundry approached them in a hoarse voice. Debbie handed over her packaged remnants of the evening's supper and he scuttled away, ecstatic.
A lone guitarist drawled mournfully in the middle of Astor Place, barren in the listless night, as a long-haired, blue-jeaned group mellowed to his lament. The girls crossed Astor Place, burrowing further into the East Village to St. Mark's.
"Where...where's the Sockman? All the jewelry stands are gone. No, there's two. Over there. The sunglasses...they're gone, too. Everything..." Debbie bemoaned the loss of the all-night outdoor marts, a prevalent part of her frequent summer forays, the bargaining camaraderie of the summer crowd, the belligerent bums.
The trendy section of Eighth Street was grim without its usual array of all-night jewelry stands, piles of last year's magazines, tables bedecked with the summer's hottest shades and cheapest sunglasses, trendy tee shirts, French postcards, punk hairdos at the point of creation, sloppy pizzas, melting ice creams, all deftly displayed. The former favorite GrassRoots Cafe was lost without its familiar counterparts.
Now dreary brownstones huddled together, as if in cohorts. A sole punk rocker sought solace on the steps of his chosen haunt. Two scrawny men, their black leather jackets flung over torn jeans, sauntered ahead of the girls, headed toward the somber shadows cast over the sign that read "St. Mark's Place."
Up past the Cloisters, that utterly charming old cafe that Debbie had wanted to try all summer. By the wan light of the November moon, she peered through the black wrought iron gates which barricaded its dainty courtyard.
Doorsteps lay deserted, windows long since showed no light, no familiar tunes broke the jaded silence of the East Village.
"My old neighborhood," Debbie thought aloud.
"Oh, Debbie," Kimberly said in dismay.
"Yeah, I guess I didn't realize..."
"Well, I didn't expect it to be glamorous," the younger sister said matter-of-factly.
"You sound like Sherri," Debbie observed, mentioning yet another sister.
The temperature dropped, ever so slightly. Its lead weight sank into the cold dull air.
A rude convertible containing greasy passengers screeched by, jarring their unspoken thoughts with ethnic rock.
"I'm cold," Carly complained.
Debbie tightened her denim jacket around her.
She turned to the girls. "Let's get outta here," she said, as they headed for the yellow illumination of Steve's Ice Cream Parlor.
Doc. # 0444D
ALL THAT GLITTERS
Denise Hickey
Summer of '87
"My old neighborhood," Debbie thought aloud.
"Oh, Debbie," Kimberly said in dismay.
"Yeah, I guess I didn't realize..."
"Well, I didn't expect it to be glamorous," the younger sister said matter-of-factly.
"You sound like Sherri," Debbie observed, mentioning yet another sister.
The temperature dropped, ever so slightly. Its lead weight sank into the cold dull air.
A rude convertible containing greasy passengers screeched by, jarring their unspoken thoughts with ethnic rock.
"I'm cold," Carly complained.
Debbie tightened her denim jacket around her.
She turned to the girls. "Let's get outta here," she said, as they headed for the yellow illumination of Steve's Ice Cream Parlor.
Doc. # 0444D
ALL THAT GLITTERS
Denise Hickey
Summer of '87
Friday, August 20, 2010
Next Up: RETURN TO THE EAST VILLAGE
Youngest sister Kimberly and her best friend Carly visit Debbie in New York City. Next, more scenes from Corporate Life in New York, followed by an impending sense of being called home in a serious sequence of events.
CAFETERIA
She sat with her comrades from the sales department in the corporate cafeteria. She clenched her hands to her sides in girlish apprehension. She tried to pay attention to what each person was talking about. But it didn't matter. They were here, they had just finished assembling the last of the information packages, "media kits," she called them, to mail to prospective customers. They could joke around and talk about anything or nothing at all.
"Debbie, do you usually cook or eat out?" Rob asked her.
"Well, at first I ate out, then I ordered in every night, then I cooked, and finally, I can't afford to do anything."
Everyone laughed.
"I always wondered if you ordered in every night."
"Oh, it's so expensive."
The talk turned to the apartments with more than one room, backyards, and who needed the City, anyway?
Debbie launched her description of life in the East Village. Two of the girls who worked in Circulation had lived in the Village all their lives and no one at the table could relate to it.
"Oh, but it was fun," Debbie said, and her eyes began to look far away. "We lived in this building right on the bus route. The bus used to squeeeeeak, come to a stop and then start again, all night long."
She paused, trying to recollect the flavor of the East Village, its sights and sounds, the feeling. She looked up at Mike, sitting across the table from her. His eyes had taken on a softness, as he gazed at Debbie, a look of longing on his young babyish face.
"Oooooh, I can't believe we lived like that," she managed to finish, startled by her co-worker's attention.
0522D
ALL THAT GLITTERS
Denise Hickey
Summer 88
"Debbie, do you usually cook or eat out?" Rob asked her.
"Well, at first I ate out, then I ordered in every night, then I cooked, and finally, I can't afford to do anything."
Everyone laughed.
"I always wondered if you ordered in every night."
"Oh, it's so expensive."
The talk turned to the apartments with more than one room, backyards, and who needed the City, anyway?
Debbie launched her description of life in the East Village. Two of the girls who worked in Circulation had lived in the Village all their lives and no one at the table could relate to it.
"Oh, but it was fun," Debbie said, and her eyes began to look far away. "We lived in this building right on the bus route. The bus used to squeeeeeak, come to a stop and then start again, all night long."
She paused, trying to recollect the flavor of the East Village, its sights and sounds, the feeling. She looked up at Mike, sitting across the table from her. His eyes had taken on a softness, as he gazed at Debbie, a look of longing on his young babyish face.
"Oooooh, I can't believe we lived like that," she managed to finish, startled by her co-worker's attention.
0522D
ALL THAT GLITTERS
Denise Hickey
Summer 88
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Next Up: CAFETERIA
Corporate Mike is back in the picture. More scenes from the office, more business lunches, before heading for the green pastures of visits home in smalltown Connecticut...and looming ahead -- layoffs.
DATES, DATES, DATES
"Debbie! What should I do?! Please tell me what to do! Who should I go out with?"
Debbie had never seen her so upset. In fact, she had never seen Nicole display this much emotion before. (Uh-oh. Scary, messy emotions!)
"I don't know. Wait a minute, I'm thinking. I'll tell you in a minute." She drew in her breath.
"You had a date with "H," right? And now, Alex is coming over?"
"Well, sort of. What should I do?! 'H' is so nice. And Alex just called. He'll be here in five minutes!" she exclaimed, as if just remembering.
"Can you go out with both?"
Nicole, in her bewilderment, yet remained stunningly beautiful, her yellow hair pinned up in a ponytail that spilled across her forehead, her eyes bluer than usual, reflecting her alarm. Her black leather micro mini stretched perfectly across her small waist, the striped sailor tee a perfect topper.
"I'm going to call 'H.' I'll tell him I'm tired."
She returned from the bedroom turned dressing room.
"I feel so bad! H is so nice! What should I do? Should I tell Alex no? Should I tell him to leave?"
"You could try. It's worth a try." Debbie tried, without success, to ease her roommate's jangled nerves.
"He said, I know you have a date tonight; I'm coming over with a bottle of champagne."
Debbie flung herself from her hot soothing steam bath. She could not stand this any longer. She wrapped herself in the thick blue towel, the bubbles and suds still clinging to her soaked skin. She could hear Nicole, just outside the door.
"Would you please just let me go? Please." She pleaded to the plastic yellow banana.
"Nicole!" Debbie emerged from the bathroom, dripping wet. "Go out with H. This guy is a JERK," she whispered loudly, pointing to the living room. Nicole looked at the ceiling in distress and sighed.
The alarm went off promptly at 6:45. Debbie dragged herself out of her stolen sleep, and made her way toward the shower.
She was just about to leave the apartment for a hectic day at the office when she saw the envelope. It said "Nicole" and it was torn in half. She took two more steps, toward the door and then, by the mechanized banana, lay the note.
Debbie had never seen her so upset. In fact, she had never seen Nicole display this much emotion before. (Uh-oh. Scary, messy emotions!)
"I don't know. Wait a minute, I'm thinking. I'll tell you in a minute." She drew in her breath.
"You had a date with "H," right? And now, Alex is coming over?"
"Well, sort of. What should I do?! 'H' is so nice. And Alex just called. He'll be here in five minutes!" she exclaimed, as if just remembering.
"Can you go out with both?"
Nicole, in her bewilderment, yet remained stunningly beautiful, her yellow hair pinned up in a ponytail that spilled across her forehead, her eyes bluer than usual, reflecting her alarm. Her black leather micro mini stretched perfectly across her small waist, the striped sailor tee a perfect topper.
"I'm going to call 'H.' I'll tell him I'm tired."
She returned from the bedroom turned dressing room.
"I feel so bad! H is so nice! What should I do? Should I tell Alex no? Should I tell him to leave?"
"You could try. It's worth a try." Debbie tried, without success, to ease her roommate's jangled nerves.
"He said, I know you have a date tonight; I'm coming over with a bottle of champagne."
Debbie flung herself from her hot soothing steam bath. She could not stand this any longer. She wrapped herself in the thick blue towel, the bubbles and suds still clinging to her soaked skin. She could hear Nicole, just outside the door.
"Would you please just let me go? Please." She pleaded to the plastic yellow banana.
"Nicole!" Debbie emerged from the bathroom, dripping wet. "Go out with H. This guy is a JERK," she whispered loudly, pointing to the living room. Nicole looked at the ceiling in distress and sighed.
The alarm went off promptly at 6:45. Debbie dragged herself out of her stolen sleep, and made her way toward the shower.
She was just about to leave the apartment for a hectic day at the office when she saw the envelope. It said "Nicole" and it was torn in half. She took two more steps, toward the door and then, by the mechanized banana, lay the note.
Dear Nicole:
I must apologize for the foolish and very immature way in which I reacted last night.
It was very selfish of me and I hope you will forgive my impatience.
I know how you must be feeling, and that you are very confused about everything that is happening
in your life. And I really do understand how you feel. Again, I hope you will forgive
my thoughtlessness because I do care about you.
Please do not come over to say goodbye to me tomorrow morning.
It would hurt me too much to see you for a few brief minutes
before leaving for Japan.
It would make the next two weeks very difficult for me.
I ws hoping to spend my last night here with you.
Just remember that I really do care about you and I love you.
H
"See? We're just good friends --," Nicole was saying and as Alex read the last line, she gasped.
"I don't believe it! Someone normal who cares about me! Do you know, Alex, I am so touched by that?! I am so touched! Will you be leaving soon?"
Alex stood up. He walked to the marble and gilt-edged end table. He picked up a small piece of paper.
"Very clever, aren't you? Isn't it so easy just to run away," Alex read. He looked at Nicole and walked toward the door. But he mistakenly opened the door to the back bedroom where Vladmir was asleep.
Nicole giggled deliriously and shrieked.
"I'm going to leave now. It looks like you've got a little too much going on in your life."
"I'll try to fit you in," Nicole promised with a smile.
The leather couch was vacant. The envelope lay on the floor, the note rested by the phone, and the cord of the banana stretched toward the door. Debbie had only one guess about Nicole's final decision last night.
0843D
Well...I think that's enough for today, don't you???...* * * :) (Denise...Denise Dances...at the Surf Club...1988)
"50 First Dates"
EXCERCISE (is the name of the latest post in the chapter of Debbie's life, FOOL'S GOLD. But I am here to say THANX AGAIN for reading my "Collective Blog." 50 anonymous hits to my blog on Monday, August 16th, the day after the festival! but I know who you are...Keep reading!) The doorbell rang. It was Vladmir. A burst of exuberant sound filled the hallway for an instant before Maxine shut the door.
A black and white divider revealed no clue as to the present occupant of the living room and what that occupant was doing. The CD player erupted, spitting forth ecstatic cheers about "a new sensation."
Somewhere in the dark living room, Nicole was performing her daily catharsis, kicking and jumping all the tension out of her body.
"Hi,Vladmir!" Debbie shouted cheerily, having just emerged from the bathroom where she was painting her fingernails a bright coral or orange, as some would have seen it. She resumed her perch, sat on the closed lid of the white toilet bowl, and finished her nails, painting them atop the latest fashion magazine. Its brightly colored pages reflected the white walls. The stagelights above the mirror provided more than ample light.
"I just come to pay Nicole for phone bill. And my sleeping bags."
Debbie shrugged and looked questioningly toward the living room. "She's excercising." She knew it would be useless to call the jumping jack's name over that loud insane music. She was giggling, as usual.
"You seem happy," Vladmir smiled.
"Oh, I am," she giggled. She spread out her left hand, and examined the coral paint for smudges. Nicole would be in there for a while.
"Poor Debbie. She'll be out of there soon," Maxine motioned to the living room. "How have you been, Vladmir? I'm so surprised to see you."
Vladmir followed Maxine into the narrow white pantry.
"I'd offer you something but we don't have anything. How about a glass of water?" Debbie shouted after him. And she burst into a fit of giggles, echoing in the white bathroom.
0843D
A black and white divider revealed no clue as to the present occupant of the living room and what that occupant was doing. The CD player erupted, spitting forth ecstatic cheers about "a new sensation."
Somewhere in the dark living room, Nicole was performing her daily catharsis, kicking and jumping all the tension out of her body.
"Hi,Vladmir!" Debbie shouted cheerily, having just emerged from the bathroom where she was painting her fingernails a bright coral or orange, as some would have seen it. She resumed her perch, sat on the closed lid of the white toilet bowl, and finished her nails, painting them atop the latest fashion magazine. Its brightly colored pages reflected the white walls. The stagelights above the mirror provided more than ample light.
"I just come to pay Nicole for phone bill. And my sleeping bags."
Debbie shrugged and looked questioningly toward the living room. "She's excercising." She knew it would be useless to call the jumping jack's name over that loud insane music. She was giggling, as usual.
"You seem happy," Vladmir smiled.
"Oh, I am," she giggled. She spread out her left hand, and examined the coral paint for smudges. Nicole would be in there for a while.
"Poor Debbie. She'll be out of there soon," Maxine motioned to the living room. "How have you been, Vladmir? I'm so surprised to see you."
Vladmir followed Maxine into the narrow white pantry.
"I'd offer you something but we don't have anything. How about a glass of water?" Debbie shouted after him. And she burst into a fit of giggles, echoing in the white bathroom.
0843D
Monday, August 16, 2010
THE WIND
The dainty tune of a child's music box carried on the wind which circled their top apartment, as the windows curved around the corner of the luxury doorman building. It flowed through the open windows of the bare white living room, gusting over from the soft blue lights of the Palisades and the far West Side, wrapping itself around distant highrise apartments and swaying the blue lights strung over the George Washington Bridge.
The wind came from remote points north, beyond the quiet residences of Harlem, beyond the far reaches of the New Jersey horizon, beyond the mysteries of the Upper West Side.
Restless, it invaded Penthouse Fourteen, lapping at the windows as if waves on a summer night.
Papers flew around the room, untethered.
Not unlike the tide of the ocean, rushing and receding, it whipped around the corner of Penthouse Fourteen, now rough, now gentle. The swish of traffic below was punctuated by the occasional horn honking.
The wind created an ever present hush. Though still, it ventured away from the penthouse but always returning.
0843D
(Debbie! You live in a penthouse???)
The wind came from remote points north, beyond the quiet residences of Harlem, beyond the far reaches of the New Jersey horizon, beyond the mysteries of the Upper West Side.
Restless, it invaded Penthouse Fourteen, lapping at the windows as if waves on a summer night.
Papers flew around the room, untethered.
Not unlike the tide of the ocean, rushing and receding, it whipped around the corner of Penthouse Fourteen, now rough, now gentle. The swish of traffic below was punctuated by the occasional horn honking.
The wind created an ever present hush. Though still, it ventured away from the penthouse but always returning.
0843D
(Debbie! You live in a penthouse???)
The Apartment in Disarray
First I want to thank everyone for reading my Collective Blog. (25 hits last Thursday) Penthouse Fourteen was growing smaller and smaller, it seemed. Slowly the luxury two-bedroom corner unit was transformed into a collection of multipurpose rooms whose uses were: 1) an art gallery showcasing oriental, impressionistic, and other original art forms; 2) a playroom for the storage of hot rods, model airplanes, remote control army tankers, tall ships and assorted vehicles; 3) a bedroom divided by three chairs, behind which rested a zebra-print quilt (a ready-made bed); and 4) a pool hall (for the use of shooting some pool on a miniature green table with tiny net baskets).
0843D
0843D
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
What's Next?
What's going to happen to Debbie next? Will she move to another locale in the City? Will she move back home to Connecticut? And when, oh when, will she ever find Love? Click on the FOLLOW widget button gadget thing and find out!
THE APARTMENT IN DISARRAY
19 hits to my (collective) blog yesterday, on Monday, August 9th! Thanx for reading, everyone! Next...The Apt in Disarray...RING! "Do you have an apartment for rent?"
"Yes. I don't know!" Debbie sighed.
"Well, can you tell me anything about it? Are both bedrooms rented? How many people live there? Do you live there? Where will everyone sleep? Which room is still for rent? The five hundred dollar one or the seven hundred dollar one?"
All day long, at work and now at home, she wearily explained that she did not have the details, that the "contact name" (as some nitwit had requested) was Nicole, thta she did not have time to answer any questions, she worked in a "very busy office." She sure as hell did not want to rent to Ms. "Contact Name," or anyone else so obviously wrapped up in the business lifestyle that was New York. Let's take the office home, why don't we? Life was too short.
"Oh! I hate liking somebody!" Joyce moaned, emerging from the bathroom in a hopeless, old blue bathrobe.
"Should I call him? OK, Debbie, I know you're sick of hearing this. This is the last time. Let's take a hypothetical situation."
"Yes. Definitely call him. I know I'm paranoid when I like somebody, so he's probably paranoid, too."
"Really? But he's so good-looking. Don't you think he'd be turned off. Let's take this situation and pretend it's Scott. Scott hasn't called you in a few days. What would you do?"
A frown appeared on Debbie's usually bright face.
"That's why I hate liking somebody!" Joyce groaned.
"Did you have definite plans, Joyce?" Nicole asked.
"Yes."
"Did he say, Let's go out Tuesday Night?" Debbie probed.
"Yes. Well, he said he'd call me next week, sometime."
"He's insecure. Give him a call." Debbie pushed.
"But I already did. His father said he's at his cousins."
"Did you call his cousins?"
"Yes, and they're out. He's out with his cousins. Oh, I don't want to like anyone. Should I call him?"
"Joyce. I'm waiting for a very important phone call. Can't you wait until eleven?" Nicole insisted crossly.
"Yeah, Juan-slash-Phil," Debbie chirped.
0834D
"Yes. I don't know!" Debbie sighed.
"Well, can you tell me anything about it? Are both bedrooms rented? How many people live there? Do you live there? Where will everyone sleep? Which room is still for rent? The five hundred dollar one or the seven hundred dollar one?"
All day long, at work and now at home, she wearily explained that she did not have the details, that the "contact name" (as some nitwit had requested) was Nicole, thta she did not have time to answer any questions, she worked in a "very busy office." She sure as hell did not want to rent to Ms. "Contact Name," or anyone else so obviously wrapped up in the business lifestyle that was New York. Let's take the office home, why don't we? Life was too short.
"Oh! I hate liking somebody!" Joyce moaned, emerging from the bathroom in a hopeless, old blue bathrobe.
"Should I call him? OK, Debbie, I know you're sick of hearing this. This is the last time. Let's take a hypothetical situation."
"Yes. Definitely call him. I know I'm paranoid when I like somebody, so he's probably paranoid, too."
"Really? But he's so good-looking. Don't you think he'd be turned off. Let's take this situation and pretend it's Scott. Scott hasn't called you in a few days. What would you do?"
A frown appeared on Debbie's usually bright face.
"That's why I hate liking somebody!" Joyce groaned.
"Did you have definite plans, Joyce?" Nicole asked.
"Yes."
"Did he say, Let's go out Tuesday Night?" Debbie probed.
"Yes. Well, he said he'd call me next week, sometime."
"He's insecure. Give him a call." Debbie pushed.
"But I already did. His father said he's at his cousins."
"Did you call his cousins?"
"Yes, and they're out. He's out with his cousins. Oh, I don't want to like anyone. Should I call him?"
"Joyce. I'm waiting for a very important phone call. Can't you wait until eleven?" Nicole insisted crossly.
"Yeah, Juan-slash-Phil," Debbie chirped.
0834D
Monday, August 9, 2010
FIND ME SOMETHING TO WEAR
"Joyce! Find me something to wear! Please? Now!"
"Want me to make you some coffee?" Debbie offered and brought Maxine a cup ten minutes later.
"I've only had two hours sleep. I'm in no mood to go to Connecticut." She barely touched Debbie's offering before she was out the door. "I'm half here and so is my brain. Chow, Francesco!" The door slammed.
Ring!
"Is Nicole there? This is a collect call from Phil."
"Nicole! Juan-slash-Phil is on the phone." Debbie said.
Nicole slammed the bathroom door in hibernation, taking the banana phone with her.
"Yes. No. Please, Juan, please, you've got to believe me. Pleeeaze."
"Why? I told you I was at the store. Debbie didn't know. I just got back. Ten minutes ago. Debbie! Juan wants to talk to you."
"Hello?"
"Debbie! Where was Nicole two and a half hours ago?"
"I don't know. I thought she was going to visit you."
"She didn't say where she was going?" Juan interrogated her closely.
"No. She didn't say."
"How long was she gone? About how long, would you say?"
"I don't know. I don't remember." Debbie faltered, fear creeping into her voice.
"Get Nicole back on the phone," Juan ordered in exasperated frustration.
"Who? Who are you going to kill? WHO?" Nicole demanded.
"He said: I'm going to kill that stupid bitch."
"Oh, brother. Probably me," Debbie sighed. She was getting rther used to receiving death threats over the phone.
Ring!
"Nicole, it's H," Joyce commanded.
"Oh, I don't need this right now. If I can't say goodbye to Juan, he doesn't want to know me," Nicole sighed.
"Oh, no! Ohhhhh, NO!" Nicole suddenly screamed. She gasped. Chills gripped Debbie. Did someone die?
"My new leather coat! It cost five thousand dollars! Maxine wore it and rolled it up into a ball. I can't believe it! I'm going to put a lock on my closet," Nicole promised.
"Why do you wear all my things? I search for them for hours. Can't you ask before you take them? I don't even know they're gone. Joyce? Did you wear my Hermes scarf home?"
"No!" Joyce replied in guilty annoyance.
"Then why does it disappear when you go home and suddenly turn up for no reason?"
"I don't know. Why are you yelling at me?"
"I know you took them. And you can buy me another one. They're two hundred dollars at the Hermes store."
"I didn't! I didn't take them!" Joyce denied.
"But you have before! Why do you lie about it? I know you're lying, Joyce. You take my clothes, you wear them home, and they stay there. Why do you do it, Joyce?!"
"I DON'T TAKE YOUR CLOTHES HOME! Why do you keep yelling at me?" Joyce whined, losing control momentarily in her guilt.
"Because I know you. I know you take them home and you lie. Then you do it again! Why?"
"I won't do it! I won't," Joyce falsely promised.
"Time to do the laundry," Debbie said. She had just finished gathering articles for her weekly Wednesday washing. She hoped she hadn't forgotten anything. She checked hidden corners, her small closet, the crowded bathroom for remainders.
"Well, I'm going," she said, and she rounded up her soap powder, change purse full of quarters, and headed out.
The wash cycle was in full force when she realized that she was wearing the very jeans she had wanted to wash, shrinking them so they would fit. They were the only pair she had. What would she wear while doing the wash? Maybe she would just wear them baggy until next Wednesday. She was just too tired. She waited for the elevator to ding and the "spaceship" beeped the 13 floors to her penthouse floor apartment.
"I don't have enough quarters to dry! Just to wash!" She sang out cheerily.
Nicole laughed.
"I can't even afford to do my laundry!" she nodded at Joyce, who always inquired about her budget. No sooner were her words out, that she spied an entire bag of dirty socks and underwear in the corner of her room.
"I give up!" said, collapsing on her bed and laughing uncontrollably.
"Want me to make you some coffee?" Debbie offered and brought Maxine a cup ten minutes later.
"I've only had two hours sleep. I'm in no mood to go to Connecticut." She barely touched Debbie's offering before she was out the door. "I'm half here and so is my brain. Chow, Francesco!" The door slammed.
Ring!
"Is Nicole there? This is a collect call from Phil."
"Nicole! Juan-slash-Phil is on the phone." Debbie said.
Nicole slammed the bathroom door in hibernation, taking the banana phone with her.
"Yes. No. Please, Juan, please, you've got to believe me. Pleeeaze."
"Why? I told you I was at the store. Debbie didn't know. I just got back. Ten minutes ago. Debbie! Juan wants to talk to you."
"Hello?"
"Debbie! Where was Nicole two and a half hours ago?"
"I don't know. I thought she was going to visit you."
"She didn't say where she was going?" Juan interrogated her closely.
"No. She didn't say."
"How long was she gone? About how long, would you say?"
"I don't know. I don't remember." Debbie faltered, fear creeping into her voice.
"Get Nicole back on the phone," Juan ordered in exasperated frustration.
"Who? Who are you going to kill? WHO?" Nicole demanded.
"He said: I'm going to kill that stupid bitch."
"Oh, brother. Probably me," Debbie sighed. She was getting rther used to receiving death threats over the phone.
Ring!
"Nicole, it's H," Joyce commanded.
"Oh, I don't need this right now. If I can't say goodbye to Juan, he doesn't want to know me," Nicole sighed.
"Oh, no! Ohhhhh, NO!" Nicole suddenly screamed. She gasped. Chills gripped Debbie. Did someone die?
"My new leather coat! It cost five thousand dollars! Maxine wore it and rolled it up into a ball. I can't believe it! I'm going to put a lock on my closet," Nicole promised.
"Why do you wear all my things? I search for them for hours. Can't you ask before you take them? I don't even know they're gone. Joyce? Did you wear my Hermes scarf home?"
"No!" Joyce replied in guilty annoyance.
"Then why does it disappear when you go home and suddenly turn up for no reason?"
"I don't know. Why are you yelling at me?"
"I know you took them. And you can buy me another one. They're two hundred dollars at the Hermes store."
"I didn't! I didn't take them!" Joyce denied.
"But you have before! Why do you lie about it? I know you're lying, Joyce. You take my clothes, you wear them home, and they stay there. Why do you do it, Joyce?!"
"I DON'T TAKE YOUR CLOTHES HOME! Why do you keep yelling at me?" Joyce whined, losing control momentarily in her guilt.
"Because I know you. I know you take them home and you lie. Then you do it again! Why?"
"I won't do it! I won't," Joyce falsely promised.
"Time to do the laundry," Debbie said. She had just finished gathering articles for her weekly Wednesday washing. She hoped she hadn't forgotten anything. She checked hidden corners, her small closet, the crowded bathroom for remainders.
"Well, I'm going," she said, and she rounded up her soap powder, change purse full of quarters, and headed out.
The wash cycle was in full force when she realized that she was wearing the very jeans she had wanted to wash, shrinking them so they would fit. They were the only pair she had. What would she wear while doing the wash? Maybe she would just wear them baggy until next Wednesday. She was just too tired. She waited for the elevator to ding and the "spaceship" beeped the 13 floors to her penthouse floor apartment.
"I don't have enough quarters to dry! Just to wash!" She sang out cheerily.
Nicole laughed.
"I can't even afford to do my laundry!" she nodded at Joyce, who always inquired about her budget. No sooner were her words out, that she spied an entire bag of dirty socks and underwear in the corner of her room.
"I give up!" said, collapsing on her bed and laughing uncontrollably.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
FAST RIDE
It was as if they were getting into a fast car and they were going for a fast ride. Only the cab just kept getting stuck at red lights or stopping for a bold pedestrian each time they got going at a faster pace. There they were, zipping along the avenues at a steady clip and suddenly they were jolted back into harsh reality, the red traffic light dangling above the windshield. It was exhausting. Where it made the others dizzy, in Debbie it caused general giddiness and she began to giggle with the heady sensation of it all. The others could only follow in her ridiculous laughter. Maxine began to smile prettily. Nicole let out a roar and started to shriek. She could not laugh without screaming.
"Good evening, this is Doctor Ruth," the radio announced in a familiar German accent. And soon she was in a deep discussion about that part of the anatomy.
"Oh, brother," and Debbie began to shake with giggles all over again.
Maxine tried to change the subject. The cab driver appeared oblivious.
The threesome had been in motion all day long, transferring from train to train, first at Bowling Green, making their way slowly but surely from Manhattan to Queens. Then they had to get on a bus which took them to Rockaway Beach on the foremost tip of Long Island. There, at Nicole and Maxine's parents' house, they picked up the car which brought them to the party in Westhampton. It was a Sunday afternoon affair and they had to take the trains back in time to check in early and show up at the office at 9:00 sharp Monday morning. And now this.
Doctor Ruth chattered on as the cab came to a jolt, stopped, started again, raced, slowed, stopped. The starting and stopping was not unlike one of their frequent Friday nights out on the town.
"I don't want to go out tonight. I'm so tired," Maxine would groan.
"Guess what?" She would scream five minutes later. "We can get into Au Bar's!"
"But we have to be ready in half an hour and meet Dr. Klein at the door or we won't get in!" She would suddenly realize. "Hurry up!"
"It's on Madison. No, Park. Park and 58th. Um, let's try Park and 54th. Can we go around again?" She would instruct the unfortunate cab driver.
"Oh, I hate this," Joyce would groan. "I knew this would happen. Watch us end up back at the Surf Club again."
"Good evening, this is Doctor Ruth," the radio announced in a familiar German accent. And soon she was in a deep discussion about that part of the anatomy.
"Oh, brother," and Debbie began to shake with giggles all over again.
Maxine tried to change the subject. The cab driver appeared oblivious.
The threesome had been in motion all day long, transferring from train to train, first at Bowling Green, making their way slowly but surely from Manhattan to Queens. Then they had to get on a bus which took them to Rockaway Beach on the foremost tip of Long Island. There, at Nicole and Maxine's parents' house, they picked up the car which brought them to the party in Westhampton. It was a Sunday afternoon affair and they had to take the trains back in time to check in early and show up at the office at 9:00 sharp Monday morning. And now this.
Doctor Ruth chattered on as the cab came to a jolt, stopped, started again, raced, slowed, stopped. The starting and stopping was not unlike one of their frequent Friday nights out on the town.
"I don't want to go out tonight. I'm so tired," Maxine would groan.
"Guess what?" She would scream five minutes later. "We can get into Au Bar's!"
"But we have to be ready in half an hour and meet Dr. Klein at the door or we won't get in!" She would suddenly realize. "Hurry up!"
"It's on Madison. No, Park. Park and 58th. Um, let's try Park and 54th. Can we go around again?" She would instruct the unfortunate cab driver.
"Oh, I hate this," Joyce would groan. "I knew this would happen. Watch us end up back at the Surf Club again."
Monday, August 2, 2010
Next up: FAST RIDE
Wanna know what happens next? FOLLOW Debbie! Click on the FOLLOW widget button gadget thing. It's to your left.
THE FBI: STRIKE ONE
"So, what do you think?"
"What do I think about what?" Debbie asked. She perched on the radiator next to the windowsill. Thirteen floors down, she looked onto Third Avenue as it shot through Harlem, straight as an arrow. She sat in tight black jeans, in the plush white living room with Nicole as they interviewed a prospective roommate.
"Do you plan on taking off?" he asked her.
"Leaving?! No! I love it here. I"ve got my job, I really like it...I'm here to stay!" she ended her outburst with enthusiasm.
She thought of the office, the fabulous view of midtown and the Hudson River; of the polite, friendly people, of Scott.
"So, Nicole, you're into cars. Is that how I can win you over?" he said, fingering a tiny red camaro, one of the many vehicles which graced the window ledge.
"Yes, I like them," Nicole agreed.
"Or was it an old boyfriend?"
Debbie rose.
"I have laundry to do," she said. She left.
She allowed the sophisticated young man who worked on Wall Street the opportunity to flirt with her roommate. She returned, rejoining them in the living room.
The young man had a fresh copy of the Village Voice in his briefcase. His pinstriped shirt was tucked neatly into suspendered trousers.
"This is a wierd city," he said gravely. He looked as if he could not believe it.
"Oh! You don't know!" Debbie giggled innocently.
Nicole went on to describe their varied candidates for possible roommates.
"A man called me the other day. First, he said he was a dentist. Then, he told me he was really a dancer. Then he said he was a maid. Then, he asked if I minded gays, and I said, No, as long as they're nice. He wanted to know if he could clean our house for us while we beat him!" She smiled a huge beautiful smile and her face reddened.
Debbie smiled and shook her head. She had recalled the incident to her sister over the phone at work. Dead silence traveled through the phone lines from Connecticut to New York.
"Are you there?" she said.
Her sister was laughing so hard that she could not speak, and so, no sound came out.
"Sherri? Hello," she asked and her sister had finally burst out laughing, in hysterics.
Mr. Kidder-Peabody did not smile.
"I'd like to hang out with you for a while," he said. "Maybe, come back and meet with you again. I don't know that many people since I was living in Philadelphia, and I just broke up with my old girlfriend. She knew this whole group of people..."
"What time is it? Would you mind if I ordered something? By the time I get home, it will be eleven. I have to catch the 9:00 train." He eyed the Chinese take-out menu that Debbie was waving around.
"Sure, you can eat with us!" she chirped.
But he made no move to look at the menu.
"So, what do you think, Debbie?" he asked again. "Do you plan on staying here? You're not going to run off?"
"No," she said. Why would she do that?
"Well, I hope you find the right roommates. You seem like a couple of really nice girls," he said, and was gone.
"We are," Debbie said, nodding and smiling.
DENISE HICKEY
Winter 1988
# 0660D
"What do I think about what?" Debbie asked. She perched on the radiator next to the windowsill. Thirteen floors down, she looked onto Third Avenue as it shot through Harlem, straight as an arrow. She sat in tight black jeans, in the plush white living room with Nicole as they interviewed a prospective roommate.
"Do you plan on taking off?" he asked her.
"Leaving?! No! I love it here. I"ve got my job, I really like it...I'm here to stay!" she ended her outburst with enthusiasm.
She thought of the office, the fabulous view of midtown and the Hudson River; of the polite, friendly people, of Scott.
"So, Nicole, you're into cars. Is that how I can win you over?" he said, fingering a tiny red camaro, one of the many vehicles which graced the window ledge.
"Yes, I like them," Nicole agreed.
"Or was it an old boyfriend?"
Debbie rose.
"I have laundry to do," she said. She left.
She allowed the sophisticated young man who worked on Wall Street the opportunity to flirt with her roommate. She returned, rejoining them in the living room.
The young man had a fresh copy of the Village Voice in his briefcase. His pinstriped shirt was tucked neatly into suspendered trousers.
"This is a wierd city," he said gravely. He looked as if he could not believe it.
"Oh! You don't know!" Debbie giggled innocently.
Nicole went on to describe their varied candidates for possible roommates.
"A man called me the other day. First, he said he was a dentist. Then, he told me he was really a dancer. Then he said he was a maid. Then, he asked if I minded gays, and I said, No, as long as they're nice. He wanted to know if he could clean our house for us while we beat him!" She smiled a huge beautiful smile and her face reddened.
Debbie smiled and shook her head. She had recalled the incident to her sister over the phone at work. Dead silence traveled through the phone lines from Connecticut to New York.
"Are you there?" she said.
Her sister was laughing so hard that she could not speak, and so, no sound came out.
"Sherri? Hello," she asked and her sister had finally burst out laughing, in hysterics.
Mr. Kidder-Peabody did not smile.
"I'd like to hang out with you for a while," he said. "Maybe, come back and meet with you again. I don't know that many people since I was living in Philadelphia, and I just broke up with my old girlfriend. She knew this whole group of people..."
"What time is it? Would you mind if I ordered something? By the time I get home, it will be eleven. I have to catch the 9:00 train." He eyed the Chinese take-out menu that Debbie was waving around.
"Sure, you can eat with us!" she chirped.
But he made no move to look at the menu.
"So, what do you think, Debbie?" he asked again. "Do you plan on staying here? You're not going to run off?"
"No," she said. Why would she do that?
"Well, I hope you find the right roommates. You seem like a couple of really nice girls," he said, and was gone.
"We are," Debbie said, nodding and smiling.
DENISE HICKEY
Winter 1988
# 0660D
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