A Romantic Occupation

"I'm sorry, Helen. The holiday season wasn't as good as we'd hoped. The economy is still in the dumps. Sales were down. We're going to have to let you go."

She looked at Bill in shock. "Let me go? You mean fire me?"

"Not fire you. Lay you off. It's not the same thing. We'll be happy to give you a good reference when you're looking for another job."

"But what about rent? I have to pay my rent. It's due tomorrow." She hated that she felt tears welling in her eyes.

"We've prepared a package that explains your benefits." He pushed a thin manila envelope across the desk. Her name was written on it in black felt tip. It was the only envelop on his desk. "You can take this home and read it carefully." He stood up. "I'll show you out."

She shook her head dumbly. Did he think that she couldn't find her way out of the store after working there for almost five years?

She stayed seated. "What about Angela? Is she being laid off, too?"

"I'm not going to discuss our other employees." He walked around the desk. "Come along now."

"She's not, is she? She hasn't been here long enough to earn her seniority raise so she gets a dollar fifty an hour less than me, right? After working here for five years, you're firing me for earning a lousy buck fifty over minimum wage."

"Let's not make this more difficult than it has to be." He put his hand on her arm and began to pull her gently to her feet.

"Get your hands off me," she said. "You have no right to touch me."

He pulled his hand back as though he had been burned. "Come along, then. We don't want security to escort you out of the store, do we?"

"I have rights," she said. But she stood of her own volition.

"You do. As a part time employee, you have the rights that are explained to you in this package." He pushed the envelope into her hands, being careful not to touch her again.

"I can find my own way out," she said.

She left the store with her head held high. But tears were rolling down her cheeks.

The other employees, her friends, did not meet her eyes when she walked past.

* * *

The contents of the envelope could be summarized as: "You were a part-time employee so we can lay you off anytime we want without explanation. And we don't have to pay you another cent. Good luck, sucker."

Helen looked around her room. This was where failure lived -- in a one-room basement apartment next to the laundry room. The building management called it a

bachelor suite

but she thought of it as a

loser lair

.

This was what she had at the age of twenty-four. One room with a lumpy bed, a handful of mismatched dishes, and a closet filled with sweat pants, work clothes, and one dress that she could wear out in the evening.

The only thing in the room that was worth anything was the high-definition, flat-screen television. She remembered buying it. For twenty minutes, she had stood in the store, staring at it, walking away, coming back, and staring some more. When she finally found a salesman and told him that she wanted it, her blouse was half-soaked with sweat and her hands were shaking.

Never before had she spent so much on anything for herself. She had not been able to afford it, but, in the end, she told herself that she needed to have something to prove that she wasn't working for nothing.

She couldn't afford cable so she had bought a little antenna from the Salvation Army store for two dollars. It could pull in only a few snowy channels. There was half-decent sound on a couple of them. Sometimes.

She had hoped that soon she would get hired full-time at the store so that she could get the cable turned on.

That sure hadn't worked out.

She stared at the papers on the kitchen counter. The letter from the store ended with upbeat assurances that, with the aid of their glowing reference, some other company would surely be happy to give her a job that was just as crappy as the one that she had lost.

In other words,

Good luck, sucker

.

Next month's rent was due tomorrow, her bank account was a joke, and her fridge was mostly empty.

The envelope included her last paycheck. It would cover the rent but leave her short of food before the month was over. Or she could fill her fridge and eat well until she was evicted. It was a hard choice.

Her cell phone buzzed. The phone was essential. Though she had only worked part time, the store had insisted that she be available for work any time they called. She would have taken a second part-time job but the store would have fired her for being unavailable and she couldn't afford to lose the one job that she had.

Now, she'd lost it, anyway.

Lost it? The store had taken it away so that it could save a lousy buck-fifty an hour. Forty-five dollars a week. That's what she had not been worth to them. An extra forty-five dollars a week.

Now she needed her cell phone more than ever because she had to have a phone number to write on job applications. She couldn't be hired if nobody could call her to offer her a job.

Maybe she should let herself be evicted and beg for food at the food bank so that she could keep paying her cell phone bills for as long as possible.

This was the modern American dream: a supermodel-thin woman walking down the avenue with a cell phone in her pocket. Thin because she had no food. Walking down the avenue because she had no home. Cell phone because that was the only way that an unemployed, homeless, starving woman could hope to find a job.

Her hands were shaking when she picked up her phone but she couldn't tell if that was from anger or fear.

The text message from Suzie said, "Barneys at 9?"

That was another option. Meet her best friend at their favorite bar and spend her last paycheck on drinks until she was sad no more.

She replied, "OK."

* * *

"I got laid," Suzie said.

"I got laid off," Helen replied.

"That's too bad."

"I'd rather get laid." Helen tried to hide her fear behind a smile but failed.

Suzie smiled at the memory of her successful night, and then frowned in distress at her friend's predicament. "What are you going to do?"

"Look for a handsome, charming man."

"I mean about getting laid off."

"Look for a

rich

,

generous

, handsome, charming man."

Suzie laughed. "I guess that's a plan."

"In this economy, it's as good a plan as any."

"Don't worry about it tonight," she said. "Drinks are on me."

"You can't afford as much as I'm going to drink."

"I don't have to afford it. I've got a new American Express card. It's too new to be maxed out yet."

"Oooh. I've got a rich friend."

"A rich, happy friend. I got laid last night. And this morning."

"You mentioned that. Anyone I know?"

"Ew, no. I wouldn't sleep with any of those guys. You've never met Seth."

"Seth? The Seth?"

"I only know one."

"He's your boss."

"Technically, he's my boss's boss. But bossness trickles down, so I guess he's kind of my boss, too. But he's hot. I didn't spend the night with him for his bossness. I did it for his hotness."

"How old is he?"

"About forty, I think. But he's a hot forty. He knows how to tickle the right parts in the right way."

"Wait a minute. He's married, isn't he? A couple of weeks ago, you told me about that woman who came into the office and threw a big fit. That was Seth's wife, right? The one you keep calling the unholy bitch."

"He's only a little bit married."

"Only a little bit married?" Helen had to laugh. "How does that work?"

"They're almost separated."

"Almost? Not actually separated."

"Right."

"Kids?"

"Two. That's why they're not completely separated yet. For the kids. But he says that they haven't slept together for months. You can't really be married if you're not sleeping with your husband. If you do that, you're just roommates. Right?"

"He's roommates with the mother of his kids. The woman who owns all his property jointly. That's a little more than just roommates."

"He's going to get a divorce. He just has to wait until the time is right for the kids."

"That would be after they graduate from college. How old is the youngest one?"

"I don't know. Two or three, maybe. I never met them. I'm not going to meet them. That's not happening ever."

"So he'll be ready to divorce the unholy bitch in about fifteen years. You'll be forty."

"At least I don't have to wait that long to get laid. Woo-hoo!"

"We both need to find a decent man."

"We both need to find a decent drink. Where is that waiter, anyway? We need our vodka-crans." She looked around. "It's not that busy tonight. Not for a Friday night."

"They tell me the economy's bad."

"So, it shouldn't be this hard to get a drink." She stood up. "To hell with the waitress. I'll get our drinks, myself." She walked toward the bar, leaving Helen sitting at the table.

Barney's Water Hole was a good place. The drinks were moderately priced, the furniture was comfortable, and the music was soft enough to chat without shouting. It was popular with professional men who were climbing the corporate ladder. Those men, in turn, attracted women who hoped for a relationship.

Two kinds of women looked for relationships in Barney's: dreamy-eyed romantics who were so naive that they believed that good men come to bars to look for a life-long partner; and cynical realists who knew that the only long-term relationships that any of these men would offer was coming over a couple of evenings a week when he could find an excuse to duck out on his wife.

Suzie, though no older than Helen, fell into the second camp. Helen couldn't tell if her friend's cynicism was heartfelt or a shell that she had grown to protect her heart from being broken one more time. Suzie claimed that she liked her freedom and never wanted to be tied down with a husband and children. But Helen thought that she said that a little too often and a little too loudly to be sincere.

While Helen waited for Suzie to return with drinks, she watched the other people in the room. One man caught her eye. He was handsome, but not devastating. Maybe eight out of ten. Tall. In his mid-thirties. He looked a little like a young Tim Robbins with blond hair.

He was talking to a woman sitting alone at the bar. She laughed and shook her head. He flashed an expression of comic disappointment, and then said something else and handed her a business card. She wrote something on it and handed it back to him. They chatted for another minute, and then he took his drink to an empty table. A minute later, he gestured to another woman who was returning from the lady's room. She approached his table and he began chatting with her. A moment later she was laughing at something that he said.

"The bartender was changing a tank of some kind," Suzie said, setting an old fashioned glass of cranberry and vodka on the table, "so it took forever to get served."

"Thanks. So tell me how you got down and dirty with your boss's boss." Suzie obviously wanted to talk about it -- she had mentioned it twice already.

"I told him that he was a saint."

"You got laid by a saint?"

"Exactly. He took it as an affront to his macho ego and had to prove to me that he was no saint. He took me home and we sinned all night long. It was wonderful."

"Why did you call him a saint?"

"I was dropping a report in his office -- Cheever wanted it hand delivered -- and Seth's wife was there, giving him holy hell about some problem with his kids. I had to wait for her to finish and storm away before I could take the report in and explain what Cheever wanted. Seth apologized for his wife's behavior and I told him that he was a saint and he said that he wasn't and I said that he'd have to prove that to me and the rest is history."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. When I told him that Cheever wanted his comments on the report ASAP, he said that he'd read it right away because he was in no hurry to go home and I said that I didn't blame him and asked him if he wanted to take me to dinner. He never did get home. At least, not home to his house."

"And the rest is history."

"That man had a lot of pent-up frustration. It took a little coaxing, but once he got going, he was more enthusiastic than a guy half his age."

"Which would be about your age."

"Not quite. He's in his low forties. Nowhere near fifty."

"And married."

"Just a little bit. He says that he hasn't been laid since his last child was born and I believe it. I never saw such a horny man."

"You're awful."

"Awful good, according to Seth." Suzie had a naughty giggle. It drew men like flies. "Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, if a man isn't getting it at home, then he isn't really married and that makes him fair game."

She finished her drink. "Bottoms up. I'm getting refills and I expect your glass to be empty by the time I get back."

Helen's vodka-cran was still half full. Normally, she drank one for every two of Suzie's, but she decided that she was going to keep up tonight. She'd been fired. She hadn't had sex since her last boyfriend dumped her six months ago. She needed a change and the easiest thing to change was her propensity to drink in moderation.

She downed the rest of the glass.

The Tim-Robbins-looking guy was standing next to Suzie at the bar, saying something to her. She giggled her patented naughty giggle and he beamed at her.

They chatted for a few minutes before she giggled again and shook her head.

He gave her his card and moved on.

She brought their drinks back to the table.

"Who was that?" Helen asked.

"Some horndog," Suzie replied. "He thinks he's a pickup artist." She paused. "Actually, he's not bad at it. He has some good lines. Nothing too corny. Exactly the right balance of sarcasm and sincerity. It's practice, I guess. He'll hit on every woman in the place before the night is over. At least every woman who isn't with a man. And he'll hit on the ones with dates, too, if he can get them away from their men for long enough."

"Not every woman," Helen replied.

"What do you mean?"

"Not me. Men never hit on me."

"He will. Just wait."

"No, he won't. Watch him. When he looks around, he glances at me and then dismisses me."

"No, he doesn't."

"Sure he does."

Suzie watched the man for a minute. "I don't see it. I'll make a bet with you. Take your drink and go sit at the bar alone and he'll hit on you before ten minutes have passed as sure as sunshine."

Helen looked at her friend for a minute, and then said, "Okay. Watch."

She sat alone at the bar and nursed her drink.

While she was there, the man exchanged cards with one woman, approached another and chatted with her for ten minutes, and then started on a third prospect.

He walked right past Helen twice and didn't so much as nod at her.

After twenty minutes Helen felt sufficiently humiliated to rejoin Suzie at their table.

"Wow," Suzie said. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. What do you do? Wear garlic around your neck and wave invisible crosses at men? It's like you're surrounded by a no-pickup force field. It's like some kind of superpower."

"I'm kryptonite. It must be my green, lumpy face." She finished off her second vodka-cran and was feeling the effect of the two drinks.

"There's nothing wrong with your face."

"I'm no movie star."

"You're no dog. You might not be a supermodel, but you're prettier than most of the women in here. You're certainly prettier than most of the women that Mr. Horndog is chatting up."

"Flatterer." She stood up. "It's my turn to get the drinks."

"No," Suzie said. "Sit down. I lost the bet. The drinks are definitely on me tonight." She stood and Helen sat back down.

To get to yet another woman on the other side of the bar, the horndog walked passed Helen once more while she was sitting alone at the table.

By the time Suzie returned, Helen was feeling thoroughly unappreciated.

"Tell you what," Suzie said. "If Morten won't talk to you, then you should go talk to him. Take the bull by the horns. Be bold."

"Morten?"

"That's what his card says. Morten Miller."

"Mort. I couldn't go home with a man named Mort," Helen said. "Mort is a terrible name."

"It's a great name. I'll bet he overcompensates like mad. Does everything he can to prove that he's not a Mort in bed. Never underestimate the fun that you can have with a man who thinks he has something to prove."

Helen laughed. Suzie could always make her feel better.

"Besides, you don't want to go home with him. I might, but you don't. He's not your kind of man. You just want to flirt with him for the fun of flirting. Go for it. See what happens."

"I couldn't."

"I dare you. Now you have to do it. You can't refuse a dare."

"What would I say?"

"Anything. Be shocking. Ask him why he didn't hit on you. That'll give him something to explain."

Helen downed half of her third vodka-cran. She was drunk enough to be bold, but not quite drunk enough to be desperate. She smiled. "I've got a better idea. A much better idea. See that guy at that table with the beer. He looks more like my type. Watch this and be impressed."

The man that she had indicated looked like a thirty-five-year-old Brad Pitt, except that a larger nose and slightly weaker jaw line made him noticeably less handsome. He had been drinking with three friends earlier, but, they had left, leaving him to finish his beer alone.

"Excuse, me," she said. "I was wondering if you could help me with something."

"Sure."

"May I?" she gestured to an empty chair and then sat in it without waiting for an invitation.

"Sure," he said, belatedly. "What can I do for you?"

"You're a man and I need an insight into the male mind."

He smiled wryly. "We men are all different from one another, you know."

"I'm sure that you know more about men than I do so I'd appreciate any insight that you can give me."

"Okay. Insight about what? Cars? Football? Bear hunting?"

"Women, of course. Men and women. See that guy over there? The one chatting up that blonde with the mimosa?"

"The tall guy with the blond hair?"

"Right. I've been watching him all evening. He's been getting the phone number of every available woman in the place. By now, he must have exchanged cards with a dozen women."

"Yeah. He looks like a player."

"He's hit on every woman here except one. Me. So I was wondering if you could tell me what's wrong with me."

The man looked at Helen with a raised eyebrow. "I don't see anything wrong with you. Not a single thing."

"There must be something. He even hit on my friend. Why not me?"

"Maybe it's because you're sitting with your friend."

"No. I sat by myself at the bar for twenty minutes and he ignored me. No one else tried to hit on me when I was by myself, either. It's not very flattering."

The man laughed. "I don't think that it would be all that flattering to be hit on by a guy who's trying to do every woman in the bar. Not being hit on makes you the special woman here."

She frowned. "It may make me special, but not in a flattering way. It makes me feel unattractive."

"Let me assure you that most men would find you attractive. You look quite desirable to me."

"Really?"

"Really."

"That's hard to believe. You didn't try to hit on me, either."

"I didn't try to hit on anyone. I came here with a few business associates to wind down a bit after a long day of meetings. We didn't have romance on our minds, just spreadsheets. If I were the kind of guy that hits on girls in bars, I assure you that you'd be the first girl here that I'd try to seduce."

"Then that would make you unique. Men never try to pick me up. I must be doing something wrong. Is it the way I dress?"

He looked at her for a minute and then said, "Stand up."

She stood up and stepped to the side so that he could see her all the way down to her shoes.