Pounding the Pavement Read Free Page A

helped me unload my pilfered goods into my apartment lobby. I offered him a gracious tip for his trouble, but he refused to take a dime. He settled instead for a heavy duty three-hole paper punch.
    My apartment bedroom is now but a glorified version of my office cubicle. And if you were to see me dwarfed among all my office luxuries, you’d probably think I’d been vindicated. So did I. But in retrospect, I didn’t even come close to getting what I deserved. Two weeks after my termination, when the doors to 451Films.com would close for good, one plasma TV would be reported missing and twenty-six laptops would be left unaccounted for. I guess I could very well have walked out with my computer too.
    But at least I got the Aeron. And I do love that fucking chair.
    A t 8 p.m. I decide it’s
really
okay to watch television. At 8:30 I decide it’s okay to start drinking.
    I grab a bottle of Merlot—and a wineglass, for propriety’s sake—from the kitchen and bring them both back into the living room. After a few moments of channel surfing, I am delighted to see that
Tootsie
will be on AMC in twenty minutes. I pour myself another generous glass of the wine and get comfortable. This is shaping up to be a perfectly pleasant evening.
    And it is all ruined as soon as I hear the rattle of a key chain at my front door.
    Bitch. I never hate my roommate more than the moment she’s about to walk in.
    The jangling at the door scales up for an incredibly long, drawn-out moment until it finally reaches its shrill crescendo. The door flings open and in spills a white blur of blonde curls and long legs.
    Amanda straightens, and with one graceful sweep of her long, swanlike arm, she brushes back her curls, smoothes out her white blouse, and delicately plucks down the hem of her skirt. Casually slipping her keys back into her purse, she is the picture of poised perfection. But there is a pink flush to her naturally pale white, porcelain cheeks. I can tell she’s been drinking.
    Amanda smiles brightly. “You find a job today?”
    “No. You find a boyfriend?”
    Her smile dips. Opting to ignore me, she breezes into the kitchen.
    I can hear her rattling. The refrigerator door squeaks, cabinets slam shut, silverware clatters. Annoyed, I turn up the volume on the TV.
    “Hey!” Amanda pokes her rosy red face into the living room. “Any idea what happened to the wine? I know there was at least half a bottle left over from last night.”
    It is too late for me to feign innocence. My wineglass is poisedan inch away from my lips. The empty bottle is on the coffee table, not a foot away in front of me.
    Amanda frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. In the background, I can hear Dustin Hoffman pleading with producers who want to cast someone taller—“Oh, I can be taller!” Normally, I’d already be giggling were I not being seared by Amanda’s poisoned, humorless eyes.
    She cocks her head at the TV screen. “Whaddya watching?”
    “Tootsie?”
    “Yeah, I don’t think so.” She grabs the remote control and switches off the television. And the simple, quiet evening I had so been looking forward to goes dark with it.
    “I think we should go out,” she says.
    “No.”
    “Why? It’s not like you have to be up early tomorrow morning.”
    “But you do,” I point out hopefully.
    She rolls her eyes. “I’ll manage.”
    I’m fighting a losing battle and I know it. “Where do you want to go?”
    “A friend of mine is having an office party in Tribeca.”
    “Tribeca?” I grimace. “Do I have to get changed?”
    “Of course you have to change! You’re wearing a bathrobe!”
    “Can I wear jeans?”
    “Fine!” She throws up her tiny, manicured hands in exasperation. “Wear jeans!”
    T he bar in Tribeca is not as obnoxious as I had initially feared. The last time Amanda dragged me out to this neighborhood, she took me to a place Citysearch had voted the “Best Singles Scene.” Itdidn’t have a name or a sign, just a funny