Pounding the Pavement Read Free Page B

silver symbol above the door. And to make matters worse, the inside looked as though it had been chiseled out of ice. Like the clientele it served, it was cold, sleek, and utterly transparent. I spent the entire evening on tiptoe, trying not to touch anything with sharp edges, in constant fear of breaking martini glasses or knocking over rail-thin models on six-inch stilettos, and grazing past men in slippery, silk shirts. Yet inevitably, as I forged my way to the back room, I smacked straight into some poor, unsuspecting woman. I started to apologize profusely until I realized the woman I had bumped into was my own reflection in a mirror. The back room was but a mirage.
    The bar we are at tonight, however, is a welcome surprise. It’s a seedy throwback to an era when bars were bars—a saloon for a weary gunslinger, a dive for a thirsty sailor—and not high-gloss hotel lobbies for Bellini drinkers and ditzy cocktail waitresses.
    Amanda, as always, lingers by the door. Even at a dingy hole-in-the-wall like this, she still feels the need to make her entrance as if she were a nubile young debutante presenting herself to high society. Her cover girl smile, however, is lost on this crowd. The patrons of this particular bar look as badly shaken as their martinis, their faces soured from having sucked on one too many olives.
    Furthermore, as soon as we’ve walked in, the walls resound with the echo of a shattered glass, followed by an appropriate “Shit!” All heads swivel, not toward Amanda, but to the bar itself where an assembly of stockbrokers—or are they investment bankers?—with discarded jackets and shirttails untucked, cheer wildly. The pound their pints against the wood countertop and chant, “Joe! Joe! Joe!”
    A man at the very center, soaked in lager, smiles good-naturedly and fixes his comb-over.
    “Well, now that I have everyone’s attention …” He motions for his friends to quiet down. The middle-aged, gray ponytail-sporting bartender hands him another beer.
    “Cheers.” He raises his new glass and addresses the room. “Friends, loved ones …” He points his glass at an overweight man at the rickety table in front of him, “and Charlie.” A few of his colleagues snicker. Charlie holds up his own glass to accept the toast. Joe continues.
    “I just want to take this moment to thank you all for the loyalty, the memories, and even the tears. And although I’d like to say the booze is on the house—it isn’t. But don’t let that stop you. Here’s to buying your own drinks, and may there be many more in your future!”
    He pauses, waiting for the rallying call.
    “And fuck Seaman Partners!”
    The members of the bar lift their glasses and respond with a furious, “Hoorah!” Another glass slips and breaks, warranting even more raucous cheers. A thought dawns on me and I turn to Amanda stricken.
    “Please don’t tell me you brought me to a
pink slip
party.”
    “Oh, come on.” She grins and wraps her arm around mine. “Isn’t it wild?”
    I am too stunned to resist as she leads me to Charlie’s table, smack dab in the midst of all the hoopla, and pulls up a chair.
    “Everyone! Everyone!” she calls out. All heads turn. Amanda has that wonderful, mysterious power afforded to strikingly beautiful blondes everywhere. When she commands attention, people give it to her.
    “Everyone, this is my roommate, Sarah. Sarah, this is everyone.”
    Unlike Amanda, I don’t really command much attention. The group acknowledges me with a collective nod and a few grunts. Butjust as soon as they are about to return to their drinks, Amanda makes another announcement.
    “Sarah has been unemployed for six months!”
    And just like that, I am the life of the party.
    I realize now this whole evening has been a setup. After Amanda has paraded me around like Westminster’s prize terrier, she introduces me to Monica. Monica is a college friend of hers from U Penn. Because I’ve never even heard of Monica