We ordered another round. I was feeling pleasantly buzzed, but the alcohol was having a noticeably opposite effect on Jeff. As he told me about my new duties at the magazine in addition to editing I'd have the authority to assign stories to the reporters I noticed that he was starting to slur. Then, as he went on about how the magazine needed to start covering more provocative local stories to differentiate itself from the national competition, he started cursing and speaking in a louder voice. I declined a fourth drink, but as Jeff had his he suddenly started telling me a joke about a priest who had sex with a gorilla. He said the punch line in a booming voice, and two women at a nearby table who seemed to be having a business lunch kept glaring in our direction.
When Jeff stopped laughing, he said, "I got another one for you a guy goes into a proctologist s office," and I suddenly started feeling nauseous. I was hoping it was just indigestion, but then the discomfort started moving higher, from my stomach toward my throat, and I knew I was about to get sick.
"Excuse me," I managed to say as Jeff was still telling the joke.
Keeling over, holding my stomach, I headed toward the bathroom. I was feeling even sicker, and I didn't think I'd make it to the toilet. I thought about solid things wood, cement, bricks and I reached the bowl just as I was starting to yak. After a few minutes I thought I was through, but the sour taste lingering in my mouth reminded me of the last time I threw up in Charlotte's bathroom and I threw up again.
I was sweating badly, and then my knees buckled as I started to stand and I had to grab onto the toilet paper roll to steady myself. Finally I made it to my feet and over to the sink. I stared at the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot and my mouth was sagging open. Splashing a few handfuls of cold water against my face didn't make me look or feel any better. I gargled a few times, and then I left the bathroom and headed back toward my table.
Jeff was arguing with the waiter, but I couldn't hear what they were saying. The waiter had his back to me, and Jeff's face was pink as he spoke in an animated way, gesticulating with his arms. As I got closer to the table, I heard Jeff saying, "… and you're telling me this meat is rare? There's no blood in it. Show me the blood. Show me the fuckin' blood!"
The waiter, a young blond guy, said calmly, "Would you like me to bring the dish back, sir?"
"For what?" Jeff's thin salt-and-pepper hair was usually combed straight back, but now loose strands were hanging over his eyes.
"What're you gonna do, un cook it?"
The waiter was acting as if he'd seen outbursts like this from Jeff many times before. "We can cook you a new order, sir."
"Yeah, and I'll have to wait another twenty fucking minutes to eat. Did you tell the chef I wanted rare? Did you tell him or did you forget?"
"I told him, sir."
"Sure you did." Jeff looked toward me, but didn't make eye contact.
"See? This is what happens when they don't hire professional waiters and they hire fucking actors instead."
"Would you like me to take your dish back, sir?"
"Do whatever the fuck you want," Jeff said. "I'm not eating that shit."
Jeff was shaking his head and cursing to himself; he didn't seem to notice me as I joined him at the table. My salad had arrived, but just looking at food brought back memories of the toilet bowl and I had to cover the dish with my napkin.
"What?" Jeff said. "Something wrong with your food too?"
"I'm just not feeling very well," I said.
"It was probably the calamari," Jeff said, and then he downed the rest of his drink. As he signaled to the waiter for another, he said, "Take a good look at me in this shithole. This is the last time I'm coming here. Four, maybe five years ago the food was great. The last couple of years it started going downhill. Now they should serve it in a fucking feedbag."
Another drink was brought to Jeff. As he drank it he quickly deteriorated into full-blown drunkenness. He was cursing, spraying spit, talking too loud. When he got back to the office he'd probably fire an intern or two.
As another wave of nausea overcame me I said, "Maybe we should just go."
"Good idea," Jeff said. "What do you say to some Japanese?" He pulled on the sides of his face with his index fingers, slitting his eyes.
"I think I'm just gonna get back to the office," I said.
"Come on, don't be a wimp," he said. "The afternoon's young."
I felt like I was at some college frat party and a guy was trying to peer-pressure me into drinking. I got up and went outside. Breathing in the fresh air if you'd consider the air in midtown fresh didn't help much. I still felt sick, and I wondered if I had a virus or if maybe Jeff had been right about the calamari.
Jeff came out of the restaurant, mumbling to himself, and we headed up the block; he was walking half a stride ahead of me, as if I weren't there.
At the corner, I said, "Jeff, I don't want to hold you back. If you want to go someplace else»
He grunted, then said, "It's all right. I'll just order a sandwich or something."
We didn't say anything else to each other until we were back in the office and I said, "See you later," and he said, "Yeah, later." Then I branched off along a different corridor and went into my office.
I had gotten about ten more messages from reporters and one message from Aunt Helen. She sounded even more concerned than before and told me to please call her back as soon as possible.
I still felt zonked out and really didn't feel like talking to her, but I didn't want her to worry about me.
"Hi, Helen."
"David, where are you?"
"Work."
"I was calling you at home too I thought you'd be there today. So is it all true?"
"Looks that way."
"You poor thing I'm so sorry."
"It's okay thanks."
"So you had no idea? I mean, about her husband in Los Angeles."
"No," I said, suddenly feeling clammy.
"It's so awful," Aunt Helen said. "All of it. I'm just glad to hear you're safe."
"You don't have to worry about me."
"Tell me something, David. Does this have anything to do with the money you borrowed?"
"No, of course not," I said.
"Oh, because I was just wondering," she said, "because you were so secretive about it, and then I heard about this and… I just thought I'd ask, that's all."
It was hard to think clearly with the way I felt, but I realized that Helen's trying to make a connection about the money could be a potential problem. If, for some reason, the police started investigating me, they could talk to Helen. She'd tell them about the thousand dollars I'd borrowed, and they'd wonder if I'd given Rebecca money for drugs, or if I were involved some other way.
"That money was for a class at the Princeton Review," I said.
"The Princeton Review?" Aunt Helen said.
"Yeah," I said. "I wanted to see how I did on the test before I told you about it, but I'm studying to take the GMATs. You know, so I can get into an MBA program."
"That's wonderful!" Aunt Helen said. Then her voice became distant as she said to someone else in the office, "My nephew's going to get an MBA." I heard a woman's voice say, "Mazel tov."
I knew the MBA lie would make Aunt Helen happy. After college, before I got my job at the Journal, she used to nag me to apply to grad school every time I saw her.
"So what're you going to do with your MBA?" she asked.
"I don't know, probably get a job as a stock analyst," I said. "You know how much those guys make? Mid six figures or more."
"I think that's great, David." Then, as if suddenly remembering why she'd called, she said, "I just wanted to tell you if you want to come stay with me, you know you're always»