Chapter 5

“I don’t know about this Jackson fellow,” Joan said as she taste-tested the sangria. She stuck out her tongue. “Needs more fruit.”

“Got it.”

“So this guy sees you walking a dog, conveniently lets go of his dog’s leash, knowing full well that his little terror will chase after your dog. Makes any excuse to tell you he’s a lawyer, and makes up some lame ass story about being a struggling young professional. Sounds fishy.”

“No, really. He was totally sincere. And did I tell you about his smile?”

Joan rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Good looks are a bad sign. You know what happened with my last too-good-looking guy.”

I had no clue, but politely engaged in a disgusted “pshhh” with her.

“And now you have me all confused. I get all excited about this bike messenger guy, and now it’s like you don’t even care.”

“No, see here’s what I’m thinking. I think Brent gave me the confidence to talk to Jackson. You know how addictive it is when you feel like you’re on top of your game? I mean, I probably would’ve just walked away after the dogs came back, if it weren’t for Brent.” I fully believed myself at this point. “The bike messenger’s like my good luck charm. I’ll get a new job. A new boyfriend. And a new outlook on life.” Now I had gone a bit too far.

“Give me a break, Lexi. And this “on top of your game business”?” Joan leaned back on the kitchen counter, her cynical expression turning pensive. “Although new men always come in threes. Maybe you’ll meet someone else at the party, and it’ll be “good-bye Brent and Jackson!”” Loving this idea, Joan gave two enthused claps.

Having perfected our sangria, Joan and I went to my bedroom to pick out my party outfit. It was hard to beat Joan, who was wearing her so-called “break-up pants”: paisley velvet spandex she could fit into only when she loses five pounds, which is only when she breaks up with someone. It’s a quite effective system, as the tight, and I mean tight, pants give her the confidence to get back out into the dating scene. But really, Joan doesn’t need much to become extroverted. After vetoing three too-cutesy sundresses, we chose an eggplant pencil-cut skirt with a fringy flapper-like sleeveless top, and the mandatory black strappy sandals. Joan described it as my “I own this party, and don’t be actin’ like you own me” outfit. Effective enough.

The doorbell rang. “Our first guest!” At the door, stood a tall perfectly thin woman with hair perfectly highlighted blond and perfectly tousled wearing a Chanel suit that I definitely saw in Times’ style section the previous week.

“Good, Lord,” Joan reacted, as I took the guest’s coat. I giggled.

“You must be a friend of Keith’s. I’m Lexi, his roommate. Keith’s making one more run to the liquor store. He’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Lexi. I’m Sharon. What a fantastic place this is.”
Sharon made her way over to the buffet, and Joan and I scurried off to the kitchen. “Do you think all of Keith’s friends look like her?” Joan asked.

Her question was quickly answered as more unfamiliar guests soon arrived. As each one rang the doorbell, predicting the person behind the ring became quite easy. Joan and I made it into a game and would yell out a designer before opening the door. “Prada!” “Manolo Blahnik!” We were surprisingly accurate. Joan, who never hides her immediate reactions, would express her disbelief at each door opening. “Damn, is that real fur?”

My I’m-too-cute-for-this-party outfit soon turned into an I-look-frumpy-and-thrift- store-chic-is-way-out-sister outfit.”

As Joan mingled with the guests, I found small excuses to make trips to the kitchen. “Does the crab dip look low to you?”

Fortunately, Sarah (yoga friend) showed up and persuaded me back into the living area. “Boy, Lexi, how did you get so many attractive friends?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. They’re all Keith’s guests. I don’t even know where he is. He went to the liquor store, like, 45 minutes ago.”

“And why are half of Keith’s friends eastern European?”

This hadn’t occurred to me. “I have no idea. You gotta help me out. This party’s quickly turning shady, and it’s not even 9.”

“I think that punch bowl’s already helping you out. You look really flushed.”

“Yeah, I don’t hide my intake well.”

“You got that right.” Sarah smiled. “Let me do some catch up. This party’s making me nervous. Have I told you I have a bad history with Ukrainian men?”

Sarah hadn’t told me anything, considering we had only spoken a few times at yoga class. Nonetheless, I felt relieved to have her there. That was until Uri (Gucci, if you’re wondering) asked her to dance, and by the look of her batting eyes, I knew I had lost one of my few safe friends of the night.

Around 10, after at least 15 petty trips to the kitchen, and after my third Jack and ginger and who knows how much punch, I walked out onto the fire escape, crouched into a corner, and watched the party through the open window. Joan and Sarah were dancing with Uri and friends, and Ori (who I never saw arrive) was cracking up some Michael Kors suits with one of her notoriously entertaining monologues. I sulked over my drink and wondered where the hell my roommate was and what happened to “cool, confident, flirtatious Lexi”.

Not only had half of my guests not shown up, but the two guests I was most excited about hadn’t showed up.

“Hey, hon. Thought I might freshen up your drink.” I jumped up on my feet, as a portly bald man in an all-black shiny (water-resistant) suit showed up at the window.

“Pleather man! I’m so happy to see you!” As he came through the window, I almost knocked him over with an (inappropriately?) long and hard hug.

“Woah, Lexi. I’ve never seen you so emotional. Not even when you sing Cyndi Lauper at Pluto. And by the way, outside of karaoke night, I go by Mike.”

I pulled away and was surprised to see my tears sliding off of his (did I mention water-resistant?) suit. “I’m so sorry, Pleather Mike,” I bumbled. “It’s just that - I threw this party - and I don’t know anyone here – and all I have is Joan - and you - and now I realize I have a crazy shady roommate – and he’s got all these uber beautiful friends – and I don’t know where they came from - and he isn’t even here.” I stepped back and tried to regain my breath. Who is this? I’m not a sad-drunk. I’m a happy cute drunk, right? I knew it was pathetic, but I had to say it. “I just feel really lonely.”

“How can you be lonely? You’re fabulous, darling. Everyone knows you’re fabulous. Just go out there and show everyone how fabulous you are.”

“No, man. You’re wrong. What’s the saying? You can take Mike out of the Pluto lounge, but you can’t take Pleather Man out of Mike?” I leaned back on the window, feeling like I was in no condition to stand up by myself. Mike nervously looked behind him, likely realizing I was blocking his only non-life threatening exit. “See man, you only know me when I’m fabulous. Because everyone’s fabulous at karaoke night. But look at me. I’m just a lonely, confused girl with a lot of designer wearing strangers in her apartment.”

Mike stopped smiling as he looked back through the window into the party, sipping on the “freshen-upper” he never gave me. “Yeah, Lexi, you’ll be OK. You’re fabulous. Trust me.” With eye contact ending after the fourth “fabulous”, Mike was ready to leave me, so I moved back into my corner, watching him quickly go back through the window to mingle with my (legitimately fabulous-looking) party guests.

Damn. I could even depress Pleather Man.

Joan, seeing Mike’s hasty exit, joined me on the fire escape, crouching next to me. “Honey, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Why are you out here and not in there?”

Noticing my puffy eyes, Joan realized the bad hostess approach was a poor one. “This is such a great party, my little Lex. People can’t stop talking about your crab dip. And that Uri guy’s a great DJ.”

“They like the crab dip?”

Joan capitalized on my faint glimmer of hope. “I’m telling you. They can’t stop talking about it.” Joan jumped up, showing a familiar sparkle in her eye. “I don’t think I’ve introduced you to Tony. He’s crazy cute. You never know, he could be bachelor #3.”

I tried not to think of the MIA bachelors 1 and 2 as I obligingly returned to the apartment with Joan.

I finally relaxed, as I watched Keith’s friends challenge Ori’s claim of knowing “every verse to every campfire song every written.” After the fourth verse of Green-Grow the Rushes Ho we were all in stitches, and I barely heard the doorbell ring.

“Hey, Lexi. Sorry I’m late. My bike had a flat. Nice place.”

I looked behind Brent, and saw no “friend”, as I had feared might accompany him.

“Come in. Can I get you a drink?”

Chapter 4

“Oh. Hello, is Brent there?”

“Yep.” Long pause.

“Oh. Is this Brent?”

“Yep.”

“Hi, this is Lexi from RTX.” Another long pause. “The one who liked your bag?”

“Aw, yeah. How’s it going?”

“Great, actually. I’m calling to thank you. I have an interview with Rita, the designer, on Monday.”

“Oh, cool. That’s great.”

“Yeah. So, uh, my roommate and I are throwing a cocktail party on Saturday night. I’d love it if you could come. Like a thank you of sorts. We live right by Fenway.”

“Cool. Uh, yeah, I might be able to make it.”

“Great. I’ll give you directions tomorrow. 10 am, right?”

“Yep.”

“Alright. Take care, Brent.”

“Yep.”

Not the worst way the call could have gone. But I could tell that if anything ever happened between us (who am I, Joan?), phone calls would not be of the “talk philosophy for hours” variety. Not that I’m complaining.

* * *

Friday at work, I rushed through my purchasing agreements, and spent the rest of my morning planning the menu for Saturday’s cocktail party. While I considered the cliché factor of cucumber sandwiches, Allison and hundreds of formerly-known-as-junior-associate-buyer-trainees analyzed the hipness factor of cut-off sleeves. Man, this design job needed to come through.

Just as I found the perfect on-line recipe for baba ganoush, I noticed it was 10:02. How could I have forgotten courier boy? I mean, Brent. I rushed downstairs and stood outside the main entrance. I was relieved to see the familiar Schwinn locked onto the bike rack.

Wanting an excuse for loitering outside the building (besides waiting for Brent, of course), I analyzed my options. Bum a cigarette from the ladies in accounting? Too risky. He could really hate smoking. Grab a cup of coffee? Might miss him leaving the building. Still looking around for anything to cover my guard, I was too late. Brent ran out of the building.

“Hey, uh, Lexi? What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing. You know, just, uh… waiting for a friend.”

“Oh, cool.”

“Here’s the directions for the party. And please come. No one really knows each other, so you’ll fit right in. Everyone’s a stranger.” I immediately felt guilty for saying this. Like I couldn’t give him the benefit of the doubt that he knows how to interact with people at a party. Then again, Brent didn’t seem like a chit chat kind of guy.

“Yeah, cool. I’ll be there.”

“And bring a friend.” I said as he got on his bike.

“Cool.”

I hope he doesn’t bring a girl.

* * *

After work, Keith and I went grocery shopping and prepared appetizers for Saturday’s party. We were both pretty excited about the party, since it was our first at the loft. I was a bit nervous about meeting his friends, though, and wondered if he felt the same way about me, considering the only friend of mine he had met was Joan, who is admittedly “on the eccentric side”.

Bill at work claims he went to college with Keith, and that Keith got his money (money, like, bought the loft in cash, money) from a university health center malpractice suit. According to Bill, the center mistreated a burn he claimed was from a toaster, but was really from a drinking game. I don’t know if Bill’s the most reliable source. I mean, he’s never once looked at me above my neck. But that’s a pretty bizarre story to make up.

Of course we all do things we regret in college. I once thought it was a good idea to wear fishnet stockings and three coats of eyeliner. And Keith has proven to be a pretty nice guy. I just couldn’t help but picture beer-pong drownings and flip-cup chokings at my otherwise classy cocktail party.

Not that my guest list was that impressive. I had:

- Joan (who was bringing three friends I kind of remember meeting at a party)
- Sarah from yoga class (who heads up the Boston chapter of the Wham fan club – love her!
- Ori from the office (who although complains all day at work is a surprisingly happy drunk and is a fabulous story teller
- Two college friends (not even good friends. I’m talkin’ work-study in the library friends)
- Brent

Nevertheless, I was looking forward to Saturday night. Besides, if the company wasn’t good, I still had my fabulous crab dip. Plus, the fact that I had actually invited a stranger (and a boy!) to a party was pretty exciting.

* * *

Saturday morning, like every Saturday morning, I volunteered to walk dogs from the SPCA at Jamaica Pond. That morning, I had Frankie, an old, tired-looking collie, with a face so sad and wise, he looked like an embittered war veteran. On our first lap around the pond, I caught myself feeling annoyed that Frankie wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t share his wisdom that could bring clarity to my life.

As Frankie and I began our second lap around the pond, I heard a man yell behind us, “Maggie! Stop!”. Shortly thereafter, a Dalmatian, who I assumed was the sought after Maggie, sprinted ahead of us, abruptly stopped, turned, and sprinted right back in the direction of my Frankie. Frankie was not pleased. He hid behind my legs, and as Maggie ran behind me to meet the cowering Frankie, both dogs did two laps around my legs before Frankie broke out of his leash, and ran off to the neighboring field, with Maggie not far behind.

During this showdown, I managed to fall over, both legs tangled up in the leash, unable to stand up. Shocked that Frankie had the strength to get out of the leash, and further shocked that I could miserably fail at seemingly easy volunteer work, I sat on the pavement, helpless.

“Are you OK? I’m so sorry. My dog’s crazy.” I looked up, and in the confusion of the moment, saw a tall man hovering over me. As I gained my composure, the man came more into focus: his deep brown skin, deeper brown eyes, defined cheekbones, and wide, warm smile.

“I guess so. I’m just shocked my dog could do that.” I smiled at him, trying not to wince at the pain of my bleeding knee.

He gave a deep and soft laugh. “You’re really tangled up there.” He kneeled down next to me, and worked at the knot that held my legs together. I thought I had never seen hands as large and commanding as his. The light touch of them on my skin made my stomach flutter with nerves.

“Here you go,” he said, as he handed me the broken leash. “I’m so sorry. This dog, Maggie, is my nephew’s. She’s a crazy puppy, and I’m just terrible with animals.” I loved that he said that. Who says they’re terrible with animals? It’s the social equivalent of saying you don’t like babies.

He offered me a hand, and I took it, along with his forearm, to help me stand up.

“It’s fine. This dog’s not mine, either. He’s with the SPCA. I just volunteer to walk dogs on the weekend.”

“Oh, you must know Maria then, the director.”

“Yea, I’ve met her a few times.”

“We’re old friends.” I wondered what it would be like to be “old friends” with this man. I pictured myself with him and with our other “old friends”, having beers at Doyle’s after work. Playing cards at Maria’s on a Saturday night.

“How did you meet?”

“Oh, she was a client of mine awhile back. I run a non-profit immigration law firm in the area. I’m Jackson, by the way.” Not just a beautiful man. A beautiful man with a conscious!

As I introduced myself, Maggie and Frankie ran back down from the field and joined us on the pavement. Jackson tied the broken leash around Frankie’s neck and handed him over to me. “That should at least get him back to the center. Sorry again.” Jackson and Maggie walked ahead, with Jackson giving a farewell nod as if to say, “Good-bye Lexi. We could’ve had a great life together, but there’s nothing more to talk about now that the two escapees are back.” Damn dogs.

Not wanting to end our conversation, I tried my best flirting techniques. I could do this, right? In the past 24 hours, flirting had given me a sort-of date and an interview for a dream job.

“You know, I feel bad taking Frankie away from his new friend. The poor dog’s in a cage all day. He probably doesn’t make friends a lot.” [read: Please don’t leave me. I’m stuck in a cubicle all day and never make friends, let alone gorgeous, socially conscious ones.]

Jackson offered a slow, directed smile. “Well, I guess I have one more lap in me before Maggie tires me out.” My stomach fluttered again, as we, the four unlikely friends, started our walk together.

Energized by meeting a likely interesting (did I mention beautiful?) man, I fired a dozen questions at him. Did he live around here? How long had he practiced immigration law? Was he single? [Well, I didn’t really ask him that, but no ring…]

“So what about you, Lexi? What brings you to the area, besides walking dogs around the pond.”

“Well, I went to school in Boston, did some traveling, and I’ve been back in the city now for over six months. I’m kind of stuck in a bad job, but I’m searching around. I have a good feeling, though, that I'll be around shere for awhile.” Unless, you move somewhere, and then I’ll be around there for awhile. “This city’s just so transient. I’m trying to fight that instinct to leave and instead make it work here somehow.”

Jackson stopped and pointed to the skyline behind us. “You see that building over there? The tallest one of the three? When I first moved to Boston, I was a legal secretary for 18 grueling months there, typing up car accident reports for a man who seemed so heartless he could probably make babies cry just by looking at them.” He looked directly into my eyes and gave his now familiar slow, thoughtful smile. “You have to suffer through the bad jobs to appreciate the good ones, y’know?”

He could’ve said “You have to eat the bread-and-butter pickles to appreciate the dill ones” and I would’ve lovingly sighed, but even so, it was a nice thing to say.

We continued walking, talking about our favorite parts of the city and about good bookstores and restaurants in the neighborhood. When we arrived back at the beginning of the pond loop, I knew it was the end of my short time with Jackson. “It was nice meeting you, Lexi. Say hi to Maria for me. Who knows, maybe I’ll see you here next Saturday. Next time I’ll try not to lose Maggie and maybe you shouldn’t pick such a strong dog.” One more wide smile.

Next Saturday was too far away for me. “Y’know, If you’re not busy tonight, my roommate and I are having a casual get-together…”

Feedback questions from Chapter 4:

Is the meeting with Jackson way too corny?
Do you like how the two new men in Lexi's life are very different?

Chapter 3

Like many people, graduating college was a very anti-climactic experience for me. I was definitely ready to move on, but I didn’t feel any kind of closure. I was grateful for what I had learned in four years; pleased with how I had grown as a person and as an artist. But mostly I just felt detached. Detached from people I spent four years with, but would probably never see again. Detached from a city I lived in, but never fully explored.

So when my friend Becca told me she was traveling through Peru for the summer, I bought a ticket for Lima that night. For two months, we traveled around the country, attending workshops in traditional weaving, hiking through the Andes, and visiting native Quechua communities.

At the end of the summer, when Becca left to return to the States, I couldn’t face going home. The past few months had been the most peaceful and grounding time I had ever experienced. So I stayed for six months, living in a small remote village, working with a women’s artisan co-op, selling my weavings and saving up enough money to pay for my ticket home in cash.

When I finally did move back to Boston, I immediately thought I had made a mistake. Before I found Keith and the loft, I stayed with a friend of a friend from college, who dragged me to every gay bar in town every night for the first two weeks. I was in such a daze at that point, that it hardly bothered me. I always hovered near the bar, drank my whiskey, and let the crowded room blur in the background.

But when my less than sensitive temporary roommate insisted he throw me a “back to civilization party” (his words), and dragged me to (my god!) Costco to shop for it, I had my first of many panic attacks. I knew it would be hard to transition from months living in an impoverished area to the wealth surrounding me back home, but not this hard. Standing in Aisle 26, staring at a choice of six different fabric softeners, I vomited, ran out of the store, hopped on a bus, and cried the entire ride back to the apartment.

That night I checked into a youth hostel. Needless to say, the party never happened. I never did talk to that guy again, not even to explain my crazy behavior. I feel a little guilty about it now, but c’mon, Costco?

* * *

As I watched the clock on my computer change from 9:52 am to 9:53 am, I prayed that something, anything, would break up the monotony, which is the life of the Junior Associate Buyer Trainee (excuse me, Junior Associate Buyer). A bomb scare. An announcement of leftover food in the lunchroom. Anything.

“Hey, Allison. Wanna go get some coffee?”

Allison took a long pause. “Uh. Please don’t get mad at me for saying this, but I kind of don’t want to get the reputation for, uh, well, taking a lot of breaks. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I think they notice, y’ know?”

“Yeah, well, I’m just gonna take that chance. Latte’s on me sister. You just sit there looking industrious, and I’ll be back in five minutes. Cover for me, OK?” Even though I wanted to do something nice for (poor disillusioned) Allison, I smiled at the thought of her fretting over her obligation to “cover for” her bad-ass break-taking cubicle co-pilot.

Sitting outside the café, I saw a familiar scruffy face pedaling my direction via a well-worn Schwinn.

“Hey, there!” I yelled out. He slowed down his bike and stopped next to my table. Although he (knowingly?) stared at me, he didn’t reply.

Small talk, Lexi, come on. It’s not that hard. “Uh… where’d you get that bag? It’s really cool.”

“Well, yeah. I, uh, kind of designed it.” My heart lept. As did my coffee, which spilled on my over-starched-too-corporate-for-a-cool-scruffy-bike-messenger-to-talk-to-me-button-down blouse. I should really use sippy-cups.

“Really? I design bags, too. Well, I design them, but nothing comes of it. I’ve been looking for design jobs for months.”

He pulled out a napkin from a well-designed pocket of a well-designed messenger bag, and handed it to me. “Well, I don’t really design them myself. A woman from a local design firm interviewed me to, y’know, find out what makes a good messenger bag? So, yeah, I, kind of co-designed it with her.”

“Wow. I’d kill for a job like that.”

“Yeah, well, I could give you this woman’s number. She’s really cool and liked my ideas, so I kind of have an ‘in’, I guess.”

“That would be great. Thank you so much. I’m sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Lexi.”

“Cool. Here’s her card,” he said, pulling it out of another well-designed pocket of a well-designed messenger bag. “I gotta go, but I’ll see you around, I guess. I deliver to your building every day,” he said while anxiously looking at oncoming traffic. He pulled back onto the street, and yelled over his shoulder, “10 am, every day.”

* * *

“He likes you.”

“What?” I responded, dropping my sandwich, causing roasted eggplant and peppers to land on my lap. “No way. He’s a bike courier.”

Joan threw a crouton at me. “Since when are you a class snob, Miss I Lived in Peru with Indigenous Weavers?”

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t like him because of his job. I’m just saying he’s too much of the artsy type to be attracted to me.”

“Lexi! You went to art school.”

“I know. And that’s how I know the artsy type don’t fall for me. The design majors were too into themselves to notice me, and my only other friends were the lesbian fibers majors.”

Joan looked concerned. “You mean you never dated in college?”

“No, I dated. But I resorted to intense Harvard psychopaths who were so involved with their studies. I don’t know. It just never worked out.”

“Well, I still don’t believe any of this “artsy-types don’t like me” business. But, anyway. Finish the story. Did you call this woman?”

“Are you kidding me? I ran, no sprinted, to the nearest phone booth. We talked for, like, 20 minutes, and the company sounds really cool. She said they’re always looking for designers, and it’s all freelance work, so you make your own hours. Basically, my ideal job. And they’re right downtown, so I could get rid of my awful car I have to drive on the awful turnpike every day. Oh, Joan, when I say it out loud, it sounds even better.”

“I’m so proud of you, chica.” Joan said, with a huge smile. “I have a good feeling about this.”

“Me, too. I have an interview at their office on Monday. Oh, and one more thing. It was a little awkward because the courier never gave me his name. But the woman knew exactly who I meant. Plus, she gave me his name and number.”

“Lexi! Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” Joan’s eyes sparkled at even a hint of potential scandal. “You’re gonna call him right away, no?”

“Well, I do have to tell him about the phone interview.” I love teasing Joan with my nonchalant attitude. It fuels the fire of the drama she craves.

“So, what’s this artsy-type future Lexi boy-toy’s name?”

“Brent. Not bad, huh?”

Feedback questions from Chapter 3:

Lexi spills stuff on herself twice in this chapter. Is this overkill? Is the whole "I'm cute and clumsy" thing way too trite at this point?

Do the three different sections flow well?

Chapter 2

“So today’s the big day.”

“What big day?”

I caught a strong whiff of vanilla perfume as Allison rushed over to my side of the cubicle barrier. Making “hush-hush” gestures as she tripped over my bag, she whispered “Lexi, you gotta show a little more enthusiasm.” Allison thinks Big Enthusiasm Brother of RTX, Inc. is constantly watching.

“Today’s the day we officially change over from Junior Associate Buyer Trainees to Junior Associate Buyers. The memo said our new business cards get delivered this morning.”

“Oh, sorry. I guess I forgot.”

“You’d think after four months of working our asses off, you’d be a little more excited.” If working our asses off meant stretching the 45 minutes of work per day we got as Junior Associate Buyer Trainees to 53 minutes, then yes, I guess I deserved the promotion. What was Allison doing while I surfed the web and sent out resumes? Re-reading inventory sheet instructions? Researching new cost-effective labor resources?

“Our final training workshop’s at three, and I hear there’s cake.”

“Great. Thanks Allison.”

Cake. Add that to the list of things that made me feel guilty for being trained to do a job I’d leave the second I found something else. When I started at RTX, I didn’t realize they would pay me to do nothing while letting enough time pass for management to pretend they had trained their Junior Associate Buyer Trainees. I had hoped I would photocopy and file for a few months; hide in deserted storage rooms; find the perfect design job; profusely thank human resources for the RTX experience in my exit interview; and get the hell out of there.

But now cake was involved.

* * *

“They gave us cake.”

“Cake?” My roommate Keith has the bad habit of making people repeat things.

“Yeah, cake. They’re wasting perfectly good cake on me. Am I a terrible person?”

“Cream cheese icing or confectioner’s sugar?”

“Confectioner’s.”
“Then you’re not a terrible person.”

This didn’t comfort me. So I dug further into my carton of ice cream and subjected Keith to more of my misery. “I just can’t believe it’s gotten to this point. Six months at RTX? I thought I’d be out of there by now. But no. This is my life now. This is all I got going for me. This carton of Ben & Jerry’s. A job that I hate. And a training program that gives me cake.”

Keith wisely left me at this point, alone with my ice cream and my sulking.

In my I’m-miserble-even-though-I’ve-lived-a-relatively-privileged-life-and-actually-have-a-job-dammit-so-why-am-I-complaining speech, I forgot to add that I also had an amazing apartment. I definitely had that going for me.

My one (huge) break since moving to Boston was that I was the first to respond to this ad in the Globe: Roommate needed to share my 1000+sqft loft by Fenway Park. Rent reduction if knows how to spend $4K decorating budget.

When I called Keith, the loft owner and my future roommate, I played up the former art school design major pretty big, so he was pleased to show me the place right away. When I went to visit, I wore my design major outfit I wore all freshman year. Tight, sleeveless high-necked shirt with non-descript black pants. Hair pulled back in a low ponytail, topped off with thick black-rimmed glasses. Yeah, I thought I was cool back then.

My whole “too cool for your 1000+sqft Fenway loft” persona dropped when I fell prostrate at the sight of the space. With tears building in my eyes, I asked, “All of this is yours?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of an investment. How do you like the view of Fenway?” This was not just a view. The entire loft was covered in floor to ceiling windows. And the view of the park? We could pretty much sell Red Sox tickets just to sit on our floor.

Keith’s one contribution to decorating the place was a huge overstuffed black leather couch. God, I hate leather. But you need to respect a guy who actually designates a decorating budget. “Yeah, I know four thousand dollars isn’t much for a decorator, but to an art school student, that must be a fortune, right?”

The kitchen was easy – beautifully laid out with all stainless steel appliances. I just bought some bright cartoonish paintings from an art school friend to lighten up the yuppy mood. For the living room, I found sheer silver fabric with hints of purple, and used it to cover pillows and an ottoman/coffee table, and to make curtains, hung from a thin silver wire. To finish the living room, I bought a purple velvet love seat and a white oval carpet. The great thing about purple is that it makes women feel like queens and men feel like pimps. I think Keith would agree. We spent almost all of our time in the living room.

For the dining area I bought a farm table and two long wooden benches, along with two armchairs, which I reupholstered with some tapestries I had woven in college. Fortunately, Keith liked a lot of my textile art, so I hung two long earthy pieces in the dining area.

The whole project cost $3,000, and Keith even bought some of my art for his bedroom, , so my first two months living there were free. This was particularly fortunate, because it took me that long to find an (unsatisfying) job. Although I was proud of the work I did, I was more overwhelmed with gratitude. How often are you given a budget to decorate your dream apartment?

* * *

The next morning, when I arrived at my cubicle, (WARNING: gratuitous metaphor follows) I received the confectioner’s sugar icing on my cake of guilt. I had a real nameplate on my cubicle. Being the first nameplate ever issued in my honor, I was a little excited – until I remembered that I was not designing Fendi handbags, but I had been recently promoted to Junior Associate Buyer of cheap and ugly clothing for mega-discount stores throughout the country.

“Hey, Lexi. Wanna grab some coffee?” Ori was the only other Junior Associate Buyer who was not as thrilled about the job as Allison. But she was a lot more vocal. As we walked towards the elevator, Ori announced to the seventh floor her current complaints about RTX. “Can you believe they want us to fill out these pricing reports every week? It’s such busy work.”

Ori and I were met in the elevator by a short, scruffy looking guy in his early 20’s, who, by the look of his cut-off pants and reflective baseball cap, was almost certainly a bike messenger.

Wanting to drown out Ori’s depressing monologue, I gave the bike messenger a smile. He smiled back. So I decided to do something I hadn’t done in ages. I flirted.

First, I gave him the ‘save me from this crazy woman’ eyes. He returned with the ‘what can I do?’ eyes. Then I gave the ‘I wish I had a job where my creativity was encouraged and my co-workers were passionate about art and originality’ head nod. He returned with the ‘I don’t know how to interpret your weird gestures’ averted eyes.

You’d think at this point in my life I’d know better than to try any form of body language (case in point, the karaoke winking incident), but oh well. I guess I was being optimistic.

Ori’s voice cracked the third time she repeated ‘too damn many reports’, so I was saved. The courier and I locked eyes and both silently laughed.

As we left the elevator, and the courier jumped on his bike, I imagined what his 9-5 was like. Speeding through town, dodging cars, searching for new shortcuts, taking the long route, so he rides along the Charles River.

Chapter 1

When the phone rang, I knew it was Joan. Again. I let the machine pick it up this time. “Lexi, don’t forget to wear the ring! See you in five.” Joan thought that karaoke night at The Pluto Lounge was the perfect event for revealing her new collection. And it sure was a collection. A week earlier, in a “fans of plastic jewelry” chat room, she met a man who claimed to have an inventory of 2000 yellow plastic rings with black magnets embedded on the top.

According to him, they were used in a children’s museum where kids could press the rings on a plaque and learn about an exhibit. So Joan, who immediately thought of at least 10 ways she could use these magnet rings, sent the guy 300 dollars in cash for 250 of them. Although I was skeptical of the shady transaction, true to his word, Joan received the much-anticipated package three days later, including a note that read, “USE THESE ONLY FOR GOOD”.

I’m proud to say I was the first recipient of Joan’s new found treasure, and after wearing the ring for only six hours, had four people ask me where I got it (just as Joan predicted). Joan and her latest obsessions never fail to attract attention.

When Joan arrived at my apartment, she was wearing black velvet pants and a black cotton tank top “to not distract from the rings.” Her only risk was her shoe choice, but I convinced her that the purple stilettos complemented the yellow without overshadowing the rings’ beauty. Having spent the better part of her day with a glue gun, six rings were linked together and hanging from each of her ears. As always, Joan looked fabulous.

When we arrived at the club, we were greeted by the usual Pluto crowd: Bartender Ralph, Pleather Man and Tiny Tina (when at Pluto, you refer to people strictly by their karaoke pseudonyms). Pleather Man, clearly enthralled with Joan’s accessory choice, said “Joan! You must tell me where you got those earrings.” Pleather Man, who had a miniature Barbie doll in a fat suit hanging around his neck, was once again out-styled by a Joan creation.

“I’ll never tell,” Joan replied with a wink. Joan’s the only unannoying winker I know. “But don’t you fret. I have something for you.” Joan then proceeded to give all of her Pluto friends the rings, each one with the “only for good” warning.

When Joan was a kid, I’m sure the other kids constantly made fun of her and whatever high school version of Pluto types she hung out with. I’m talking goth, marching band, Shakespeare troupe, Dungeons & Dragons. You name it; I’m sure Joan was into it. But I think they were just jealous of those who had a community full of unconditional acceptance. I mean, I don’t think Joan has one judgmental bone in her body.

Case in point, last month, this hipster college student came to karaoke night, wearing Chuck Taylors, Dickie’s pants, trucker hat, “Jesus is my co-pilot” t-shirt – I’m talking about the whole ensemble. Rolling my eyes, I tried to explain to Joan how this guy just does not belong at Pluto and how his t-shirt probably cost him fifty dollars, and she replied, “That’s just silly. If Jesus were his co-pilot, he’d give that boy the t-shirt for free. Jesus is not about the cash, y’know?”

By the end of the night, Joan and hipster boy had sung a medley of three Fleetwood Mac songs masterfully mixed by DJ Karl. More on him later. As a true lesson in the power of acceptance, The Boy Formerly Known as Pabst Blue Ribbon (his official karaoke pseudonym) is now a regular. And he’s a little toned down now.

After one too many vodka and cranberries (which is three, in case you’re wondering), I was ready for a duet with Joan. DJ Karl asked, “What’ll it be tonight, gorgeous?” I hate to admit that a man calling me gorgeous has the power to make me feel better about myself, but oh well. The man has a thick Boston accent. I can’t resist that.

“”Friends Can be Lovers” by Dionne Warwick” I answered. As I took a sip of my fourth vodka and cranberry (two too many), I tried to wink at DJ Karl. But I’m a really terrible winker, and since I spilled half of the drink on Pleather Man in the process, the moment was lost.

“Don’t worry, hon. It’s pleather. It just slides right off.”

Even though I knew they were cheering mostly for Joan, it still felt good to be appreciated by the crowd. I left the stage, and Joan continued with a Madonna medley (medleys are her favorite).

Joan is classically trained in voice, so every song she sings sounds like opera. It brings a whole new element to karaoke. Where most people are so bad, they’re good, Joan is so good, she’s bad, and thus good. Brilliant. That night she chose to add some high notes Madonna never intended for “Open Your Heart to Me.”

Pleather Man followed with Whitney Houston’s “Didn’t We Almost Have it All”. Although Joan won in the wardrobe category, Pleather Man unarguably took the karaoke award. So they called it a draw, and Joan and I walked home, each a little too giddy. Joan from her victory, and I from my drinking.

As she dropped me off at my apartment and started walking the two blocks further to her own, Joan yelled back, “Remember, Lexi. Use it only for good!”

Feedback questions from Chapter 1:

Does Lexi seem obsessed with Joan (not intended)?
Does the ‘Joan in high school’ paragraph sound preachy and out of place?

Introduction

I browsed through the book section of Galway’s Amnesty store, looking for a quick read for an 8-hour bus ride to Londonderry. By-passing respectable manuals on how to end world hunger and how to fight the WTO, I picked up a trashy novel called "Fashionistas".

After an empty yet satisfying read, I thought, “I could easily write one of these hip-20-something-fashionable-girl-in-the-city-type novels.” Wouldn’t you know, the last page of the book was an advertisement asking, “Did you like this book? Think you could write a hip-20-something-fashionable-girl-in-the-city-type novel? Send your manuscripts here.”*

True to my claim, I decided to write my own piece of chick-lit. Not really sure why I was so convicted, but at the very least, it will get my creative juices flowing.**

*not a direct quote
**nastiest commonly used metaphor in the English language