I sat at my desk and got right to work on my story. I always seemed to work best under deadline and I started writing as fast as my fingers could press the keys. After everything that had happened at Sue's apartment, I was very pissed off, and it came out in my writing. I blasted Byron Technologies' management, calling them "deceitful," and characterizing their accounting practices as "Enronesque." In reality, the company's management had been up front with investors, and a minor accounting error regarding the reporting of last quarter's proforma earnings had been quickly and publicly corrected. But I was on a roll, and the negative ideas kept flowing. I used a portion of a quote taken out of context from Kevin DuBois, an analyst who covered Byron's stock.
DuBois had told me that "I wouldn't be surprised if the company has to raise cash later in the year, perhaps with a secondary offering, but they have a great product and outstanding management and I'm still quite bullish on the future." In my story, I wrote a paragraph, stating that Byron Technologies had "an alarming cash-burn rate" that could lead to bankruptcy by year's end, and I'd ended the paragraph with DuBois stating, "The company has to raise cash."
In about fifteen minutes, I'd finished a rough draft of the article; then I went back through it, rearranging sentences, changing words, correcting typos, inserting quips. As I was working, I saw Angie enter my office in my peripheral vision. She waited for me to pause from typing, then said, "Where've you been?"
"The bank," I said.
"All day?"
"I had some other errands to run too."
"I thought you had to work on your story."
"I do."
I stayed facing the computer monitor, partly because I wanted to finish my story and partly because I didn't want Angie to see my fat lip.
"Hey, what's that?" she said.
She came up alongside me to my right and reached onto my desk for a copy of People with Tom Cruise on the cover. As she turned pages of the magazine, it was hard to keep facing away from her without raising suspicion. I noticed she was wearing the same perfume she always wore, the one that I'd never liked on other women, but that always smelled great on her.
"I didn't see this issue yet," she said. "Mind if I borrow it?"
"Sure."
"Thanks… God, what happened to you?"
She had turned to look at my face.
"I tripped," I said.
"Tripped?" she said. "Where?"
"Outside the bank."
"How?"
"Shoelace. It was pretty embarrassing. I fell right on my face on the sidewalk. I felt like a total idiot."
"You should sue."
The word sue made me cringe.
Angie must've noticed, because she said, "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine," I said.
"Your shirt's ripped."
I looked down at the tear in my shirt, as if noticing it for the first time.
"Huh," I said, acting dumbfounded. "I guess it must've ripped when I fell."
Angie was squinting at my shirt, looking unconvinced. "It's nothing really," I said.
Now she was staring at my face again.
"You look like you were in a fight," she said.
"I know," I said. "It's crazy, isn't it?"
"You want me to get you some ice or something?"
"No, I'm fine, thanks. I just have to finish this story."
"No problem," she said. "Stop by later and say hi."
"I will," I said.
I returned to work on the article and finished it at a few minutes after two o'clock. After proofreading it quickly on the monitor, I sent the file to Peter Lyons. He'd fuck it up with Britishisms, then send it back to me; then I'd forward it to Jeff for some final idiotic input before it went to Copyediting.
Relieved to get my article out of the way, I ordered in a smoked turkey on rye for lunch, and then I spent most of the rest of the afternoon on the phone, setting up interviews for my next story. At around four-thirty, I went down the corridor to Angie's office. She was laughing, sitting across from Mike CHara, a recent college grad, who worked in the marketing department.
"How's it going?" I said.
They both gave me looks, as if I were intruding. Then Mike said,
"Dude, what happened to your face?"
"Fell," I said. "It's no big deal. I guess I'll come by later."
"That's okay, dude," Mike said. "I gotta take off anyway. I'll call you tonight, Ang, okay?"
"Okay," Angie said.
Mike put his hand on Angie's shoulder and she put hers over it for a second or two, and then he left the office.
"Ouch," I said.
"Shut up," Angie said, blushing.
"So what's the deal with you guys? Are you a couple now or what?"
"Why do you care?"
"No reason. You know me I just like to get the latest dish."
"We went out a couple of nights ago," she said.
"Really?" I said, surprised by how jealous I felt.
"I had a pretty good time," she said smugly. "We went to this little Italian place in the Village; then we went to a bar and had a few drinks. It was fun."
"Isn't he a little young for you?"
"He's twenty-two."
"Exactly. You're what, four years older than him?"
"Jesus, who're you, my father?"
I could tell she was enjoying making me jealous.
"Sorry," I said. "He seems like a nice guy. You two make a great couple."
"I don't know if I'd consider us a couple."
"Whatever you want to call it."
I hung out with Angie for a while, talking about office minutiae Mitchell in Accounting's ugly shirts, rumors about looming staff cuts, speculation about who kept leaving dirty dishes in the kitchen but there was tension between us and I felt awkward. Eventually I made an excuse and left.
Walking home rather than taking the subway, I decided that tonight I was going to really break up with Rebecca. I belonged in a normal relationship with someone like Angie, and as soon as I dumped Rebecca I could get my life back on track.
Passing the Time Warner buildings at Columbus Circle, I rehearsed possible breakup lines. I could use the standard, "It's not you, it's me," or "I think we should start seeing other people." Or, taking the self-deprecating angle, I could say, "I'm not good enough for you you deserve someone better." But I knew those stock lines wouldn't work with Rebecca. She'd think I wasn't serious, and then she'd come on to me, and before I knew it, I'd be back in bed with her.
Maybe I didn't have to say anything just give her the silent treatment.
Or maybe I should take the opposite tactic barge into the apartment like a total psycho, screaming, "Pack your things and get the fuck out, you crazy bitch!" Maybe to get through to a psycho, you had to become psycho.
I shuddered, remembering bashing Ricky's head into the steel door.
Continuing up Broadway, I managed to forget about Ricky but was suddenly bombarded by memories of Barbara on practically every block. I remembered reading magazines at Barnes amp; Noble, eating shrimp dumplings at Ollie's, arguing about the ending of some movie while having spicy tuna rolls at Dan.
Then I veered over to Columbus, passing Banana Republic.
"So do I look like a rock star?"
I was outside the dressing room, modeling a red leather jacket and a pair of black jeans.
"You look gay," Barbara said.