her. “Don’t even think about it.”
“So what’s wrong with Ronald Buzick?”
Ronald Buzick was a butcher. He was balding, and he was fat, and I suppose I was being a snob about the whole thing, but I found it hard to think in romantic terms about a man who spent his days stuffing giblets up chicken butts.
My mother plunged on. “All right, then how about Bernie Kuntz? I saw Bernie Kuntz in the dry cleaners, and he made a point about asking for you. I think he’s interested. I could invite him over for coffee and cake.”
With the way my luck was running, probably my mother had already invited Bernie, and at this very moment he was circling the block, popping Tic Tacs. “I don’t want to talk about Bernie,” I said. “There’s something I need to tell you. I have some bad news…”
I’d been dreading this and had put it off for as long as possible.
My mother clapped a hand to her mouth. “You found a lump in your breast!”
No one in our family had ever found a lump in their breast, but my mother was ever watchful. “My breast is fine. The problem is with my job.”
“What about your job?”
“I don’t have one. I got laid off.”
“Laid off!” she said on a sharp inhale. “How could that happen? It was such a good job. You loved that job.”
I’d been a discount lingerie buyer for E.E. Martin, and I’d worked in Newark, which is not exactly the garden spot of the Garden State. In truth, it had been my mother who had loved the job, imagining it to be glamorous when in reality I’d mostly haggled over the cost of full-fashion nylon underpants. E.E. Martin wasn’t exactly Victoria’s Secret.
“I wouldn’t worry,” my mother said. “There’s always work for lingerie buyers.”
“There’s no work for lingerie buyers.” Especially ones who worked for E.E. Martin. Having held a salaried position with E.E. Martin made me as appealing as a leper. E.E. Martin had skimped on the palm greasing this winter, and as a result its mob affiliations were made public. The C.E.O. was indicted for illegal business practices, E.E. Martin sold out to Baldicott, Inc., and, through no fault of my own, I was caught in the housecleaning sweep. “I’ve been out of work for six months.”
“Six months! And, I didn’t know! Your own mother didn’t know you were out on the streets?”
“I’m not out on the streets. I’ve been doing temporary jobs. Filing and stuff.” And steadily sliding downhill. I was registered with every search firm in the greater Trenton area, and I religiously read the want ads. I wasn’t being all that choosy, drawing the line at telephone soliciting and kennel attendant, but my future didn’t look great. I was overqualified for entry level, and I lacked experience in management.
My father forked another slab of pot roast onto his plate. He’d worked for the post office for thirty years and had opted for early retirement. Now he drove a cab part-time.
“I saw your cousin Vinnie yesterday,” he said. “He’s looking for someone to do filing. You should give him a call.”
Just the career move I’d been hoping for—filing for Vinnie. Of all my relatives, Vinnie was my least favorite. Vinnie was a worm, a sexual lunatic, a dog turd. “What does he pay?” I asked.
My father shrugged. “Gotta be minimum wage.”
Wonderful. The perfect position for someone already in the depths of despair. Rotten boss, rotten job, rotten pay. The possibilities for feeling sorry for myself would be endless.
“And the best part is that it’s close,” my mother said. “You can come home every day for lunch.”
I nodded numbly, thinking I’d sooner stick a needle in my eye.
SUNLIGHT SLANTED THROUGH THE CRACK in my bedroom curtains, the air-conditioning unit in the living room window droned ominously, predicting another scorcher of a morning, and the digital display on my clock radio flashed electric blue numbers, telling me it was nine o’clock. The day had started without me.
I rolled out of bed on a sigh and shuffled into the bathroom. When I was done in the bathroom, I shuffled into the kitchen and stood in front of the refrigerator, hoping the refrigerator fairies had visited during the night. I opened the door and stared at the empty shelves, noting that food hadn’t magically cloned itself from the smudges in the butter keeper and the shriveled flotsam at the bottom of the crisper. Half a jar of mayo, a bottle of beer, whole-wheat bread covered with blue mold, a head of iceberg lettuce, shrink-wrapped in brown slime and plastic, and a box of hamster nuggets stood between me and starvation. I wondered if nine in the morning was too early to drink beer. Of course in Moscow it would be four in the afternoon. Good enough.
I drank half the beer and grimly approached the living room window. I pulled the curtains and stared down at the parking lot. My Miata was gone. Lenny had hit early. No surprise, but still, it lodged painfully in the middle of my throat. I was now an official deadbeat.
And if that wasn’t depressing enough, I’d weakened halfway through dessert and promised my mother I’d go see Vinnie.
I dragged myself into the shower and stumbled out a half hour later after an exhausting crying jag. I stuffed myself into pantyhose and a suit and was ready to do my daughterly duty.
My hamster, Rex, was still asleep in his soup can in his cage on the kitchen counter. I dropped a few hamster nuggets into his bowl and made some smoochy sounds. Rex opened his black eyes and blinked. He twitched his whiskers, gave a good sniff, and rejected the nuggets. I couldn’t blame him. I’d tried them for breakfast yesterday and hadn’t been impressed.
I locked up the apartment and walked three blocks down St. James to Blue Ribbon Used Cars. At the front of the lot was a $500 Nova begging to be bought. Total body rust and countless accidents had left the Nova barely recognizable as a car, much less a Chevy, but Blue Ribbon was willing to trade the beast for my TV and VCR. I threw in my food processor and microwave, and they paid my registration and taxes.
