“This proves my point,” I say. “Discrimination is just as real as it’s ever been.”
Chris goes on the defensive. “The firm I work for barely receives any applications from women for the accounting positions. How are men at fault for that?”
“How?”I parrot back. “First of all, it’s because our society conditions girls to think they’re not good at numbers from the time they’re babies. They’re given Barbies that say things like ‘Math is hard!’ and dress up as princesses for Halloween while the boys are astronauts. And there’s all this other sexist conditioning; it’s an endless list. But women have still somehow overcome those barriers, and there are actually more women than men getting degrees in math and business now. But women don’t have the same network and old-school connections with the men at the top, and they also don’t feel welcome in those environments, so that’s why they’re not applying to your firm. And if you really want to walk the walk when it comes to gender equality and racial equality and all kinds of equality, you have to seek out diversity and go where you haven’t gone before. You can’t just wait for résumés to fall in your lap or they’ll be the same country club white guys you’ve always worked with before.”
I pause for a gulp of air to refill my lungs, but it still feels like they’re empty, like everything is. “You want to know what the real problem is?” I ask Chris.
“Sounds like you’ve just told me what the problem is.” He’s wearing that blank expression, so I have no idea what he’s thinking or feeling. It makes me want to put some kind of emotion on his face, even if it’s a bad one.
“Wrong,” I say, slashing the syllable. “That’s all just the minutiae of it, but the big sweeping problem is that you don’t see any of this as a problem.”
On that note, I drop two tender kisses on Arnie’s nose and hurry out of the apartment before Chris can think up any kind of rebuttal. Arnie barks after me like he’s distraught to see me go.
I don’t like that Arnie’s upset, but it’s kind of nice to feel like someone’s missing me, wishing I’d stay.
Chapter 7
I end up watching Arnie sort of regularly. It becomes an unspoken agreement that I’m Chris’s go-to dogsitter. My time with Arnie ends up being one of the highlights of my summer, maybe eventhehighlight, not that I’d admit it to Chris. There are some other bright spots too, but I never remember them in the morning the same way. The experiences don’t stick between my toes like being with Arnie does.
By the time Labor Day rolls around, I’m kind of wishing that Chris and Olivia would just stay in the Hamptons forever. I’ve started sleeping in Chris’s bed when I stay over, not the spare. I’m not trying to roll around in his scent or anything; it’s just a Tempur-Pedic mattress and I like the way it holds my shape and shows me the indents I make in the world.
I haven’t lost my populist soul, no risk of that, but I really don’t mind playing with privilege for the weekend, using the bougie espresso maker and having a quiet place to crash without Tara mumbling lines in her sleep and Hal banging things around in the living room for her latest product invention.
I wouldn’t want this life for good, but it’s fun to put on the costume and ridicule the rich from the inside. I understand more why Hal was dating that trust fund girl, though they’ve broken up now. Hopefully Jenni catches the hint and splits from Peter too, but it’snot looking promising from how things are going. Her autonomy is fading by the day.
On my last weekend watching Arnie, I return Chris’s spare key. I’ve made a copy of it just in case I ever need it. I don’t tell him about that, no need, but I just thank him for employing me. “It’s been better than expected,” I tell him. “I wish you bad luck with nothing.” It’s a less mawkish way of wishing him good luck with everything.
“Well, it’s not goodbye,” Chris says, looking caught off guard. “There might be some weekends in the fall that I’m out of town that I might see if you can come by. Arnie has really grown fond of you, I can tell.”
I know Chris means that he’s grown fond of me too, but I don’t ask him to say that explicitly. It’s easy enough to interpret.
Opening night for Tara’s show arrives a little bit after that, sometime in early fall when the city has finally shed the humidity because it was too clingy. I can relate to that.
While Hal, Jenni, and I are getting ready at the Inn before heading out, Hal barges in on me in the bathroom and flicks on the lights.
“Hello there,” I say from the toilet.
Hal shrieks. “EJ, why the fuck do you always pee in the dark?” she says, like I’m the one with poor manners here.
“I like to conserve electricity,” I say. “Now you’re welcome to hang out in here with me, but FYI, the aroma might not be divine. I’m ejecting last night’s Thai dinner.”
“Unbelievable.” Hal makes a face and exits the bathroom, turning the lights off as she goes. “And hurry up, we need to leave in five,” she calls back to me.
Moments later, Jenni bangs on the door. “EJ, hurry up, I need to fix my makeup.”
“You don’t need makeup,” I yell back to her as I adorn my own face with glittery eyeshadow while sitting on the toilet. It’s peak multitasking, and I have the muscle memory down so well that I don’t even need to look in the mirror.
After a bit more ruckus and revelry, we head over early to the Metropolitan Playhouse in Alphabet City to warm up the audience for Tara’s show.
Audiences are such malleable things. They hardly ever have an opinion of their own; they just react however the person next to them is reacting. The key is to have enough enthusiasts in the crowd that the applause catches on like wildfire until everyone believes it’s the best thing they’ve ever seen.
The three of us split up and find our seats. We’re all in different sections to spread out the euphoric reactions across the crowd so they don’t seem manufactured. I plunk down toward the front and start feeling secondhand nerves for Tara. She’s got to be freaking out backstage right now, all those self-doubts flapping around inside her.
I try to picture what I’d be feeling if I were about to go out there and perform. It makes me itchy and sweaty at the same time, or maybe that’s just the sound of the too-loud piano that’s playing in the background while people are taking their seats. Either way, I’m reminded why I’m meant to be the writer, not the actor. I want to give life to it all without the responsibility of having to deliver every line just right. I’m not enough of a perfectionist to enjoy that.
Sitting there in the sold-out theater inspires me to put more time into writing, to earn my own moment to shine. I vow to go straight home after the show and stay up all night working on a script so it can be performed in a place like this. But even as I think the thoughts, I know they’re flimsy. I know I’ll be out at the after-partyuntil morning or noon and then dip into a fidgety sleep the moment I get back. It’s kind of disappointing to admit that, but it’s also validating that I’m living such a liberated life that I don’t have anything to prove to anyone.
That damn piano finally stops and the theater falls quiet. It’s that delicious liminal space before everything starts. I take a swig of the vodka I’ve snuck in and prepare to rally the crowd.
