Best Friend for Hire Read online

  His logic was elegant in its simplicity. He needed a publicist and I needed an office.

  “I have something you need, you have something I need,” he continued.

  “And what exactly do you have that I need?” I flirted back.

  “I have the perfect headquarters for your new company, a fantastic office space and it’s available. All you have to do is provide a little publicity help. And the best part is that, the space is totally free. A fair exchange of our assets.”

  It did not take too much convincing for me to leave my Starbucks pseudo-office and upgrade to his private space. And I did like the way he smiled when he mentioned my name in a familiar tone: Jess instead of Jessica or even Jessie. No one ever called me the ultra casual “Jess.” I liked it a lot.

  And then everything began to move in slow motion, as it tended to do when really important things happened in my life. He talked, but made no sound, and I stared at his impossibly white teeth wondering if he used Crest Whitening Strips or if he had had them professionally done.

  “Jess, you can’t run a real business in a Starbucks; no one will take you seriously.”

  The realtor and his client who were still lurking nearby waiting for a table to open overheard this comment.

  “Sorry, Gerard, no offense. I didn’t mean you,” Dave addressed to one of the hoverers.

  “None taken, man. Good luck with the bar and if it doesn’t work out, it would make a great condo.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Dave said, in a tone of voice that indicated he would never ever consider that option.

  My confidence level was at an all-time high. I was a good publicist and I was convinced that I could help Dave save the day and maybe even the bar. It was all quite a romantic notion. I envisioned a new headline in the Hoboken Reporter, “Best Friend for Hire Saves the Day.” The picture alongside the front-page story would show me atop Dave’s broad shoulders and Bruce Springsteen would be serenading me, all the while getting major publicity for my new business. It was good for everyone, I rationalized.

  Gerard and his potential client who had eavesdropped the entire conversation moved in for the kill. They sensed that Dave had this in the bag and our meeting was at an end. As we vacated my coveted spot and gathered my mobile office, Dave threw my bag over his shoulder and said, “This looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” even selling the line with a Humphrey Bogart lisp.

  On the way over to the club, I hoped that my agreement with Dave would net clearer results than in Casablanca. And with that, BFH had its first pro bono client. It was all very Live Aid, I thought.

  The Garage still looked like an active club on the corner of Washington Street. The door had posters for bands and a calendar for the upcoming month’s events. The only difference was a sign that posted new hours—“Open on weekends only.” Due to the imminent closure, Dave could not afford to keep the place open all week; instead of firing staff, he limited the bar hours and rotated his people so that everyone could still get some pay.

  We entered through the back door. I felt like I had gained secret entry to the club, where the cool kids hung out. Dave was true to his word and insisted on showing me my office, to make sure I liked it, before we started work on his end of the deal. Even at that point, I was unsure that someone who looked as intimidating as Dave could be so sweet, even chivalrous.

  The small upstairs office looked more like a college dorm room than a place of business. One desk was for the accountant and the other for the booker. On the walls were signed posters from bands that had appeared there: The Smithereens, The Alarm, Natalie Merchant, and even The Boss himself at the beginning of his career.

  “Take your pick. The booker’s work is done, no more bands to book. And well, the accountant, not sure even if he is ever coming back.”

  He put my bag down on the desk and looked around as if taking a survey of what was there.

  “I never come up here anymore. I never liked offices, anyway.”

  This was made clear when he opted to sit on top of the desk that I was sitting at, instead of simply sitting in the provided guest chair. Again, he was encroaching on my personal space, but I was starting to get used to that. He told me I could redecorate, if I liked, but there was something nice about all these bands in their live-action concert glory. It seemed unfair to evict all those musicians abruptly without a fight. Besides. This was going to be a temporary office, just until I could afford a proper headquarters for BFH.

  Saving the bar was a small part of my grand business plan. But the key to any good business plan is a clear mission statement. And at that point, my mission was clear: to start BFH through all necessary means, and if that meant saving a club and its owner along the way, so be it.

  My lack of real employment was becoming a cause of deep concern for my family, which was one of the reasons that James and I were meeting for a check-in session. James, my brother, was waiting for me at Swift Bar on West Fourth Street in New York’s Greenwich Village is where, like a good son, he was to check on my general mental condition and find out what was on the schedule for the rest of my life. Another thing about my family, they all talk behind each other’s backs. To be fair, most of what they say behind one another’s back is what they would say to your face anyway, so no one can get really offended. That is just the way it is. Despite my family’s need to get me back on track, these first few days of inertia were seen as laziness, and it was making them uncomfortable; at least that’s what they were telling one another.

  I reported for my intervention of one, fully prepared to go through a verbal “to- do” list of all the things I was doing to prove that I was actually doing something. Another habit in my family, we all are constantly reporting on our activities so that we can prove our worth to one another and look for approval. The networking group and my family had many similarities. If my grandmother were to attend the networking group, she likely would have cut to the chase and tell the people wallowing in their rejection to simply “suck it up.” Note to self: see if grandma has a speaker’s agent.

  James was sitting at the end of the bar, easily recognizable because he had not changed in years; it’s a look best described as rumpled elegance. Thick, wavy black hair fringes his eyes and he has pale skin and hazel green eyes, unlike my tan skin and dark brown eyes. He is wearing his usual uniform: a black biker jacket, Levi 501s, and a graphic T-shirt with either a political statement or alternative rock band emblazoned on it. Today’s choice was a longtime favorite, a faded black Joy Division shirt. Older by four years, James had always been my barometer for cool. When he dropped out of Montclair State’s music department to pursue what he had hoped would be a promising solo music career, my parents were worried. But he immediately sold a punk rock-inspired jingle to Playskool and started earning money. He was actively pursuing his passion and my parents could not argue with the fact that he had supported himself from the time he was 18.

  Work followed as a studio guitarist, and he happily bounced around the New York City musician scene. He even played an occasional “mercy gig” at a wedding or bar mitzvah to make his rent. I was convinced that he got work more for his cool aura than his actual talent, which, although undeniable, was probably at the same level of the thousands of unemployed guitarists all over the city. When he caught sight of me, he flipped back an errant curl and pulled me in for a nuggie. But just as the bartender served me my Heffeweisen beer, James was paying the tab and rushing me out the door.

  “Jessie, I am glad you’re here. And I will tell Ma that you are doing fine, which I am sure you are, right? But let’s head out. I need your help with something.”

  Heading east toward Avenue A, James told me that his new girlfriend, Tara, would be moving in with him and they could use a little help with organizing the move. James explained that it would probably be easier for one girl to help another girl move. At the doorstep of her building, h
er faint voice answered the intercom and an insanely loud buzzer offered us entry to the walk-up building. The entryway and stairways of this one-time tenement building had likely not been cleaned since the building was constructed.

  Tara was waiting for us at her door, which she cracked open about an inch. James gave a nod, as if to say, “She’s cool,” meaning me. This was my second meeting with Tara; the first had been at the very same bar that James and I had just left. People who live in New York City rarely have people over; you could know someone for years and never set foot into their apartment. This could be for some very simple reason, like your work friends prefer to meet and socialize near the office, or some people you know commute into the city and want to take advantage of all their local bars and restaurants, or people just don’t have the space to entertain. All of these are acceptable reasons, but I was beginning to sense that none of these reasons were Tara’s. In fact, no one at work had ever been in my apartment, mainly because it’s on the wrong side of the Hudson, even though Hoboken is closer by distance to Manhattan than parts of Brooklyn, and by time faster than the Upper East Side, where it is nearly impossible to find an adjacent subway entrance to your house. Hoboken has the sad distinction of being located in the much-maligned state of New Jersey, thus making travel there by most New Yorkers unlikely.

  Tara cracked the door a few more inches and said for us to come on in. This statement proved to be the first difficult transition into Tara’s apartment. James pushed the door a bit more and headed in first. I wondered, not without a little bit of apprehension, what I was going to find on the other side of that door.

  Entry into this apartment was not easy. The small foyer was covered with a potpourri of shopping bags of every variety. Based on what I was seeing, when asked if she wanted plastic or paper, Tara’s most likely reply had been, “Yes.” Several broken umbrellas sat upon an intricate recycling system consisting of twin garbage cans, one for plastic and cans and another for paper. The overflowing paper receptacle needed further investigation. Inside, it had little plastic bundles of shredded paper. They looked like little gift bags. Tara had put a ton of effort into recycling. As a late night office worker, I would often greet the evening cleaning staff. Office policy was strict: place regular garbage in bag-lined garbage cans and paper garbage in blue recycling bins. Every employee had one of each receptacle.

  I watched in horror as the cleaning crew would take each receptacle and empty them into the same dumpster. This recycling thing was a hoax, I thought. Since that shocking revelation, my confidence in recycling was forever changed. In the interest of full disclosure, conspiracy theories are something that come naturally to me. Could be the Sicilian superstition gene, but both James and I had our own theories about who was behind the Kennedy assassination and who actually set foot on the moon first. We just didn’t believe everything we read.

  Past the bins, a stack of mail teetered above the floor, propped up by what I thought was a table, but it was so obscured I could not tell. But more than the visual distraction, all this clutter was causing a physical impediment as well; there was no easy way to get into this apartment. With all of the garbage stacked in front of the door, the door itself could only open about five inches. James had mastered entry to this secret fortress by turning sideways and sidling his way through a small path already cleared on the floor. This was not an easy maneuver for him. James is a lean six feet tall, but here he looked like a giant entering this dark crowded place. We were similar in build, but I lacked the height gene, being just a few inches above five feet tall. He waved me in, encouraging me to follow him using the same method.

  What was particularly odd about this was that Tara did not think this was odd at all. She watched our side-shimmy and quickly directed our attention to where she had been packing. Usually, when someone is packing for a move, there is disarray; things are temporarily displaced before they find their even more temporary homes in moving boxes. But the designated packing area was not at all distinguishable from the rest of the crowded mess. The two-room apartment, which would have been considered roomy by Manhattan standards, was so crowded with stuff that it was nearly impossible to see what was garbage and what was worthy of packing. She couldn’t possibly think that the contents of this apartment could be moved and recreated at James’s small studio apartment. While I was creeping further into the space, two precariously placed boxes that were on top of the dresser caused a mini avalanche of coins, receipts, gum wrappers, and Duane Reade bags to cascade down around me. One of the boxes tumbled down, ousting in the process its resident, an oversized black cat, which landed on its feet right in front of me. He hissed at me and pounced into the corner, where a well-worn scratching post awaited more defacing. I felt like telling him, “Hey, it’s not my fault.”

  “Mr. Felix is hard to get to know at first, but he’s really quite friendly,” Tara explained.

  I should note that Mr. Felix was not the only feline resident here; my eyes drifted toward the two open litter boxes that blocked entry into the second room. Mr. Felix had a roommate who had yet to announce him- or herself. It looked like James was about to have three new roommates.

  Like a museum visitor, I scanned the room in amazement. James shifted, moving boxes from hand to hand in an effort to appear casual. As if to say, this disarray we were standing amidst was just temporary, a function of the move. But we all knew it was not the case. Tara adopted the role of gracious hostess, offering herbal tea and a place to sit down. But I didn’t want to sit. I was afraid to sit. This entire Grey Gardens scene had made me extremely uncomfortable. Not only did I not know how to help Tara, but I was also thrown off by the intimacy of knowing that she lived this way. If it were me, I would have been embarrassed, but she didn’t act as though there was anything amiss.

  The De Salvos are meticulously clean people. James and I grew up in a hermetically sealed environment. If Ma had known about this place, she would not only have disapproved, but she also would have encouraged James to run for the hills. With all the stuff on the dressers, the furniture, and the floors, it was obvious a good housekeeping had not taken place in many years. There is an Italian word for this, skeeve, which can be used as a verb or noun to show deep disgust for something providing a viscerally uncomfortable sensation that could even lead to nausea. The implication is that the offending item or items is dirty, germ-ridden.

  As children, we had heard this word constantly. The dishtowel is only to be used when your hands are clean, Ma would caution, and don’t sit on the bed in your street clothes, they have germs, you know. But probably the best evidence of my mother’s intolerance for things she deemed “skeevy” was her inherited skills at cleaning chickens before they were cooked. To counteract her “skeeve” of birds (she thought they were filthy), every chicken that was to be eaten in our house was put through a brutal hot-water-and-salt bath. The bird was then inspected and trimmed and scrubbed further for any evidence of its “bird”-like existence. My mother, who is short on compliments, always had a good word to say about anyone who was clean. Of her own mother, one of the few nice things I ever heard her say was, that woman sure knew how to clean a chicken.

  That world of clean chickens, pristine bed linens, and immaculate dishtowels was in direct contrast to the “thing” that I was supposed to be helping James with. How in the world James thought I could help was beyond me. But here we three stood. Moving day ahead and more junk to weed through than at a landfill. Tara, a compassionate person about other people’s hardships, wanted a full update on how I was doing with the unemployment. Funny thing about people in crisis: they are always willing to shift focus to someone else’s problems. Resisting the urge to smack her and say, “You’re worried about me, you’re living like a homeless person,” I thanked her for her concern and looked to James to bridge the conversational gap that was opening wider and wider.

  “Jessie has always been the organized one in the family and, well, she love
s packing things up, so when she offered to help….”

  Throwing my drowning brother a life preserver, I began to explain my long fascination with putting things away, and how my childhood Barbie collection was still preserved in its pink carrying case in the basement of my parents’ house.

  “It looks like she never even played with them,” James added.

  How we got from my pristine doll collection to what appeared to be the home of a madwoman was beyond me, but I played along. Step one is negotiation. Tara had not created this alternate universe overnight, so what made us think that she was going to be ready to part with all of the items she had so painstakingly saved. Resistance from our patient popped up quickly with the explanation of the intricate recycling system she employed. Concern for the environment aside, this worry about things that were going to be thrown away was downright obsessive. She even removed the small plastic window out of those envelopes that carry checks, and then placed them in a separate recycling bin. All of these meticulously sorted items then received further scrutiny, which was why they were at the front door. Tara was just not sure if all of it was really garbage.

  “I like to double-check everything before it goes out,” she explained.