Slim Chance - Jackie Rose

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that she wants to have us over for watery soup and boiled potatoes, in which case we drop everything and run directly to the Fulbrights’ Greenwich, Connecticut compound for a meal that would make dinner with the Royal Family seem like a hoedown.

      I was at the very least glad to hear tonight would not be one of those nights. One Friday a month with his mother is quite enough for me, though Bertie would have us over every week if I didn’t put my foot down. It’s my theory that these so-called family nights are really just an excuse for her to try and turn Bruce against me, since she obviously thinks I’m stopping him from fulfilling his true potential. And who could blame me? Bertie sets the tone with interview-style questions like “Bruce, do you feel that teaching second grade is a challenge for you, intellectually speaking?” (A: “As you know, Mother, it’s a school for gifted children, so yes—it is a challenge”). Or perhaps a confusing zinger like, “Evelyn, does being Italo-American give you an edge in the mail-order cosmetics industry?” (A: Well, I’m only one half Italian-American, Mrs. Fulbright, but no, I don’t think it really makes a difference.”)

      Then we all sit back and enjoy the show while Bruce’s wicked WASPy sisters, Brooke, Wendy and, of course, Diana—each lovelier and thinner and perkier-breasted than the next—turn the emasculation of their older brother into a spectator sport, while at the same time taking an obvious mental inventory of every bite I manage to put in my mouth without gagging. By the end of the night, I’m ready to kill, ready to shake his sweet old dad and say “Wake up! They’ve got you by the balls, man! Get out now, while you’ve still got a good 20 years left!” But nobody seems to notice any of it except me, and Bruce and I spend the train ride home fighting.

      But we’ll save all that for next Friday. Tonight, we’re free.

      “I was thinking Luna,” Bruce continued. “I made reservations for nine.”

      He knows I love it there. Luna is where my parents had their first date, a blind date. It was where they fell in love the second they laid eyes on each other. When I was little, and sad or not feeling well, I begged my mom to tell me the story over and over, and she would always oblige, sparing no details—what she was wearing, the food they ate, how my dad said she looked like Elizabeth Taylor, only with brown eyes and a bigger butt. I tried to imagine them there, sitting next to the steamy window on a dark winter night. Luna was also where they went to eat the night I was conceived. It was the last time they did it before my dad died, although she left that part out until I was a little older.

      Bruce and I always save Luna for special occasions, never more than once or twice a year. And walking around Little Italy makes us horny and couple-y feeling, so it’s always a guaranteed good time. There’s something so nice about prancing around, arm in arm, flaunting our delirious happiness to the droves of miserable Manhattan singletons out hunting in packs, or, even better, those on obviously painful blind dates. It’s like we’re members of a private club of two, and it reminds me how being a part of something, no matter how troubled or even depressing it may be at times, is usually far superior to being a part of nothing.

      “That sounds all right, sweetie,” I said, playing along. Our anniversary was coming up—six years. I figured that’s what he had in mind.

      “Okay, so I’ll call you around lunchtime. Will you be in the office or are you planning to go out?” he asked.

      “Um, I should be in all day, but I have a meeting around one.” In retrospect, I can see now that he was being unusually inquisitive, but since interest in my workday comings and goings wasn’t something Bruce normally displays, his clumsy attempts at making sure I’d be there were lost on me.

      “Good, good,” he said. “Well, have a nice day, then. Call me if you leave work for some reason.”

      So I was wide-awake, full of omelet and full of energy as I stepped out the door on September 24, a glorious autumn morning, and decided to bring the paper to read on the train, despite the fact that I was wearing my new winter-white three-quarter-length trench from Anne Klein (Marie Claire, September: “Revamp Your Fall Wardrobe with These 10 Must-Haves”). It’s about a 40-minute commute from our Park Slope apartment in Brooklyn to the midtown Manhattan offices of Kendra White. Normally, I use the time to drift in and out of consciousness. Yes, I’m one of those unfortunate sorts you see on the train or bus whose head lolls to one side like an idiot or whose mouth suddenly drops open. At least once a week I miss my stop, usually twice a week.

      That morning, though, I read the paper alongside the other commuters like a real Cosmo girl, maneuvering the pages deftly, spilling my grande latte only once. There’s the usual something or other about Afghanistan on the front page… Better turn to the Entertainment section…oooh, it seems Madonna might be considering having another baby, just as I suspected. That’s good. She’s such a stylish mom… Bla, bla, bla, Leonardo DiCaprio broke his clavicle tripping over his feet outside a hot but unnamed L.A. nightclub…That little cross-eyed boy from Jerry Maguire has a new movie coming out…. Dreadful, I’m sure…Wonder how far off my horoscope will be for today….

      Virgo (August 23-September 22) See the forest for the trees. Focus on partnership, communication, personal advances. Individual close to you confides, “I need you now more than ever.” Keep an eye out for details. Work situation may be stressful, but don’t lose your head. Taurus plays key role today. Spotlight on domestic situation, home, cooking. Financial prospects good. Be leery of Uranus, planet of sudden changes. Stay cool! This too, shall pass.

      Oh for God’s sake, that could mean anything—they really do all sound the same. I can see why Morgan thinks horoscopes are for idiots who feel powerless over their own lives. How utterly ridiculous! As if planets could have any effect whatsoever on what’s happening down here on Earth. Except for the moon, maybe. Now that’s another story. And it’s not really a planet anyway. I’ve heard that since the moon controls the tides, it can also pull all the water in your body around every which way, accounting for things like PMS and unexplained weight gain….

      I woke up only one stop too late. By the time I got off the subway, the front of my trench coat was covered in black smudges and coffee, more than enough to ruin my good mood for the day. Ridiculous—white coats are even sillier than white carpet. What the hell was I thinking?

      Upstairs, comfortably ensconced in my gray-carpeted cubicle, I worked hard at online solitaire for a good two hours until I realized that I’d forgotten to forward out Pruscilla’s memo regarding that afternoon’s staff meeting. Oh God, no one even knows about it, and it’s Friday—half of them are probably out to lunch already.

      As one of the legion of marketing assistants at KW, and, more specifically, as Pruscilla’s immediate underling, my responsibilities tend to lean more toward the administrative than the intellectual. A great way to put my four-year honors degree in philosophy (with a minor in psychology) to work, although, to be fair, I suppose my career does allow me to hone my existential angst.

      After an hour of damage control and an hour and a half of lunch, I managed to round up most everybody in the department and assemble them in the boardroom. It’s not like it would matter much who was there, although pretty much everybody was. Pruscilla, Queen of the Universe and Director of Product Marketing for the East Coast, had called the meeting for no reason really, other than that she likes to call meetings from time to time to berate some of us for our laziness and impress others with her uncanny knack for finding typographical errors in promotional materials after they’ve been printed by the tens of thousands. The usual blame-laying and defensiveness followed, and I was getting quite sleepy, until there was a knock at the door.

      And then someone walked in. A tall guy with rounded, wire-rimmed glasses and freckles. I stared at him for a few seconds until I realized that I recognized him. It was Bruce. My Bruce. Of course, my first thought was that someone had died. My mother? My heart flew up into my throat. His mother? My heart settled back down to its usual position.

      “Wh-what are you doing here?” I stammered, already embarrassed. At this point, the ten or twelve women seated around the boardroom table realized with interest that Bruce wasn’t a courier. One of them whispered to me, “Isn’t he yours? He’s got roses!”

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