she’s talking about.”
I looked in the drawer for the Zagat’s again, but it wasn’t there. I rummaged through papers on Chick’s desk looking for the little red restaurant bible, but I couldn’t find it. My heart was beating so quickly I feared it might pop out of my chest. I stood, and the wayward book fell off my lap onto the floor. I found the number for Per Se. Hit light, dial number. “Hi, yes, I’d like to make a reservation for tonight at 6:30 for four people, and if you love me you will tell me that’s possible. Yes, I know you don’t know me, but you’re talking to someone who is hanging on to her sanity by a thread and if you tell me there are no reservations, I might go postal … you can? Oh thank God, you are a nice, nice man, thank you. Yes. Katz, 6:30, four people. God bless you.” Click. I hung up. It felt nice to be on the other end of the disconnect for once.
I threw my headset on the desk and rubbed my throbbing temples. The phone rang.
I screamed as I mentally gave myself the proper instructions to pick up the phones on the NASA-worthy phone board for the hundredth time in the last hour. Hit right headset, hit ringing light. “Cromwell, this is Alex … No, Susan, I’m sorry he’s still not back but I promise you I’ll give him the message. No, I actually have no idea if he has his cell phone on him but he’s at a meeting so it’s probably off anyway. Is it an emergency? Okay, good. Then I promise as soon as he returns to the office I’ll have him call home. Okay, no problem.” Click.
“What’s up, Alex?” Will asked as he plopped himself down in an empty chair and wheeled over next to me.
“Seriously, why does that guy Chip’s wife call thirty times a day? I have answered at least seven phone calls from her in the last two hours. What part of ‘I will tell him you called’ does she not understand?”
Riiiiing. Chip’s line rang again.
“It can’t be her again. It just can’t be.”
“Here,” Will said as he picked up my phone receiver. “You want help? You got it.” He hit the ringing light. “Hello? Sure, hold one second, please.” He dialed a number, pressed transfer, and hung up.
“Did you just hang up on Susan?”
“I didn’t hang up her. I transferred her, umm, elsewhere,” he said, his eyes glinting mischievously.
“Where?”
“The Chinese place down the block.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding. Please tell me you didn’t just transfer her to Szechuan Panda.”
“Yup.”
“How is that helping?”
“I bet she doesn’t call back again! I subtly told her that she was being an annoying pain in the ass. I just solved your problem. Well, one of them at least.”
I giggled. “I appreciate the help; you’re a good friend.” Friend? Was that presumptuous? Nice going, Alex. Way to make yourself look like an idiot.
Riiiiing. “OHMIGOD!” Hit ringing line.
A muffled voice in a strange accent on the other end of the line said, “Yeah, is this Fung Yoo dwy cleana? You mess up my shirt! My suede shirt, you ruined my shirt! You gonna pay for this!”
“What?” I asked in desperation. “Wait, sir, hold on, you have the wrong number; this isn’t a dry cleaner. This is a trading floor.”
“You stupid beetch, you ruin my suede shirt. You replace it. It cost five hundred dolla!”
“Sir, please, you have the wrong number!” I tried in vain to make him understand that his ruined suede shirt (who wears suede shirts?) was not my problem. I turned to my left to see if someone else could pick up the phone to help and found Drew, Will, and Marchetti listening in on the line from the end of the row, laughing with their phones on mute. I turned the other way and discovered Reese, standing in the corner with his headset, looking straight at me. “You stupid beetch, Girlie-san, you ruin my shirt! You pay me five hundred dolla!” They erupted into laughter as I dropped the phone on my desk. Prank called by your own teammates. Normal? Not so much.
“I’m done!” I said, laughing. “You guys want to screw with me? Fine, I’m waving the white flag, you win! Score is immature idiots, one; Alex, zero.” I waved my arm back and forth, pretending to surrender to the enemy. “I can’t answer another phone or I think my head will explode. What is going on here today? It’s crazy!”
Marchetti came over and rubbed my tired shoulders, “It’s okay, Girlie. Just trying to loosen you up a bit. You looked stressed. Relax. Are you coming out with us tonight?”
“Sorry, guys, I can’t. I have to finish these sheets for Chick. Have fun, though.”
“Okay. Good luck, Girlie,” they said in unison.
When the phones finally stopped ringing, I turned my attention back to the spreadsheet and tried not to worry about what would happen if I didn’t finish it.
I WAS EXHAUSTED AND FRUSTRATED by the end of the day. I still couldn’t understand concepts that I was sure I should get by now, and I lived in fear every day that Chick would call me over for one of his infamous pop quizzes. I couldn’t even handle ordering him a fucking car. How was I supposed to learn the markets when I couldn’t master basic technology? I had a splitting headache and was dreaming of a hot shower and sweats when I got home at 8:00. When I entered my building, the doorman stopped me to deliver an envelope that had been dropped off earlier. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded in thirds.
A—
I have a dinner tonight at Smith & Wollensky’s. Meet me at Manchester’s afterwards for a beer? I’ll be there by 9:30.
—Will
I couldn’t believe that he had come to my apartment. I couldn’t believe Will knew where I lived. I couldn’t believe that Will remembered my name. I wasn’t sure if it was really sweet or stalkerish, but I decided not to worry about it. Suddenly, I caught a second wind. After a quick shower, a change of clothes, and a forty-minute battle with a blow-dryer, a hairbrush, and a straightening iron, I left my apartment and walked uptown.
Manchester’s was a small British pub on Second Avenue at Forty-Ninth Street. They had a good selection of beers on tap, but you usually couldn’t find two feet of clear space to enjoy them in.
When I entered, I found Will sitting at the end of the bar, next to a few rowdy European guys who were watching a soccer game. He was drinking a pint of beer and chatting with the bartender, who had three teeth and a Union Jack tattooed on his wrist. When Will saw me enter, he waved me over, and the soccer fans happily shifted down the bar to open up a seat for me.
“Glad you got my note. I was trying to decide how long I should wait before figuring that you weren’t coming.” He patted the wooden bar stool next to him, and I hopped up onto the seat.
“It’s only nine thirty-five, and you’re already planning your exit strategy?”
“I was going to give you until ten. I think a half hour is a perfectly respectable amount of time to wait.”
“I’d
