out of my mind. She’s escorting Janey home after Janey skips choir practice to rehearse with Jeff (and of course gets caught by the evil, rotating-closet-owning bitch, Natalie), and she says, ‘Whenever I’m in a room with a guy, no matter who it is – a date, my dentist, anybody – I think, “If we were the last two people on earth, would I puke if he kissed me?’’ ’ Well, thanks to Lynne, I can’t help wondering it, either; the unfortunate outcome, though, is that I envisioned myself kissing Aaron and felt ill.
‘Okay? How does that sound?’ He shifted nervously from foot to foot and I wondered how this anxious, socially inept man had managed to climb at least three levels above me in the corporate hierarchy. I’d watched clients physically recoil when he went to shake their hands, and yet he glided up the ladder like it was lubricated in the very oil he used to slick back his few remaining strands of hair.
All I wanted was for him to disappear, but I made a crucial miscalculation. Rather than just agreeing and going back to my lunch, I said, ‘Are you unhappy with my performance, Aaron? I try really hard, but you always seem displeased.’
‘I wouldn’t say I’m unhappy with your performance, Bette. I think you’re doing, well, um, just fine around here. But we all seek to self-improve now, don’t we? As Winston Churchill once said—’
‘Just fine? That’s like describing someone as “interesting” or saying a date was “nice.” I work eighty-hour weeks, Aaron. I give my entire life to UBS.’ It was useless to try to highlight my dedication in an hours-worked formula since Aaron beat me by at least fifteen hours every single week, but it was true: I worked damn hard when I wasn’t shopping online, talking to Will on the phone, or sneaking out to meet Penelope for lunch.
‘Bette, don’t be so sensitive. With a little more willingness to learn and perhaps a bit more attention paid to your clients, I think you’ve got the potential to get promoted. Just keep the powwows to a minimum and really throw your heart into your work and the results will be immeasurable.’
I watched the spittle form on his thin lips as he mouthed his favorite phrase, and something inside me snapped. There was no angel on one shoulder or devil on the other, no mental list of pros and cons or quick scans of potential consequences, ramifications, or backup plans. No solid thoughts of any sort whatsoever – just an all-pervasive sense of calm and determination, coupled with a deep understanding that I simply could not tolerate one additional second of the present situation.
‘All right, Aaron. No more powwows for me – ever. I quit.’
He looked confused for a minute before he realized I was completely serious. ‘You what?’
‘Please consider this my two weeks’ notice,’ I said with a confidence that was beginning to waver slightly.
Appearing to consider this for a minute, he wiped his sweaty brow and furrowed it a few times. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said quietly.
It was my turn to be confused. ‘I appreciate it, Aaron, but I really do have to leave.’
‘I meant that the two weeks won’t be necessary. We shouldn’t have much trouble finding someone, Bette. There are loads of qualified people out there who actually want to work here, if you can imagine that. Please discuss the details of your departure with HR and have your things packed by the end of the day. And good luck with whatever you’ll be doing next.’ He forced a tight smile and walked away, seeming self-assured for the first time in the five years I’d worked for him.
Thoughts swirled in my head, coming too fast and from too many directions for me to actually process them. Aaron had balls – who knew! I’d just quit my job. Quit it. With no forethought or planning. Must tell Penelope. Penelope engaged. How would I get all my stuff home? Could I still charge a car to the company? Could I collect unemployment? Would I still come to midtown just for the kebabs? Should I burn all my skirt suits in a ceremonial living-room bonfire? Millington will be so happy to hit the dog run in the middle of the day! Middle of the day. I would get to watch The Price Is Right all the time if I wanted. Why hadn’t I thought of this before?
I stared at the screen a while longer, until the gravity of what had just happened settled in, and then I headed straight to the rest-room to freak out in the relative privacy of a stall. There was laid-back and there was plain fucking stupid, and this was quickly beginning to resemble the latter. I breathed a few times and tried uttering – coolly and casually – my new mantra, but whatever came out sounding like a choked cry as I wondered what the hell I’d done.
‘Christ, Bette, it’s not like you maimed someone. You quit your job. Congratulations! Welcome to the wonderful world of adult irresponsibility. Things don’t always go according to plan, you know?’ Simon was trying his best to soothe me while we waited for Will to get home because he couldn’t tell that I was already completely relaxed.
The last time I’d felt this zen, I thought, might have been the ashram retreat. ‘It’s just kind of eerie, not having any idea what to do next.’ It was that same involuntary calm-cum-paralysis.
Though I knew I should be more panicked, the last month had actually been pretty great. I’d intended to tell everyone about quitting, but when it came time to actually make the calls, I was overtaken by an all-consuming combination of ennui, laziness, and inertia. It’s not like I couldn’t tell people I quit – it was just a matter of dialing and announcing – but the effort of explaining my reasons for leaving (none) and discussing my game plan (nonexistent) seemed utterly overwhelming each time I picked up the phone. So instead, in what I’m sure was some sort of psychologically distressed/avoidance/denial state, I slept until one every day, spent most of the afternoon alternately watching TV and walking Millington, shopped for things I didn’t need in an obvious effort to fill the voids in my life, and made a conscious decision to start smoking again in earnest so I’d have something to do once Conan was over. It sounds comprehensively depressing, but it had been my best month in recent memory and might have gone on indefinitely had Will not called my work number and spoken to my replacement.
Interestingly, I had lost ten pounds without trying. I hadn’t exercised at all save for the treks to hunt and gather my food, but I felt better than ever, or certainly better than I had working sixteen-hour days. I’d been thin all through college but had packed on the pounds quite efficiently as soon as I’d started work, having no time to exercise, choosing instead to down a particularly disgusting daily diet of kebabs, doughnuts, vending-machine candy bars, and coffee so sugar-heavy my teeth felt permanently coated. My parents and friends had politely ignored my weight gain, but I knew I looked terrible. Annually I’d declare my New Year’s resolution of more dedicated gym-going; it usually lasted a solid four days before I’d kick my alarm clock and claim the extra hour for sleep. Only Will repeatedly reminded me that I looked like hell. ‘But, darling, don’t you remember how scouts would stop you on the street and ask you to model? That’s not happening anymore, is it?’ Or ‘Bette, honey, you had that no-makeup, fresh-faced, all-natural girl thing working so well a few years ago – why don’t you spend a little time trying to revisit that?’ I heard him and knew he was right – when the button on the single pair of Sevens I owned nestled so far into my fleshy stomach that it was sometimes difficult to locate, it was hard to deny the extra poundage. That unemployment made me thinner was telling. My skin was clearer, my eyes brighter, and for the first time in five years the weight had melted off my hips and thighs but stayed squarely put in my chest – surely a sign from God that I wasn’t supposed to work. But of course I wasn’t supposed to enjoy being shiftless and lazy, so I was trying to demonstrate the appropriate combination of chagrin, regret, and distress. Simon was buying
