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It's the story of a woman who inadvertently becomes the symbol for all things anti-love in Manhattan. Still not sold?
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THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB
by Brenda Janowitz
Chapter One: Money for Nothing
“Jo,
you’re fired,” he says. Just like that.
Fired.
And I’m utterly shocked. I know, no one
ever expects to be fired, but I really
didn’t see this coming. My mouth is wide open as I stare back at him.
“Fired?” is all I
can choke out. The room begins to spin. That may be because I was out until
sunrise last night drinking vodka tonics at an underground club in
Williamsburg, but I’m pretty sure that it’s the news that’s doing it to me, not
the hangover.
“Yes. I’m sorry,
Jo, but it’s not working out here,” he says. His skin is gleaming when he says
it. His skin always gleams. He’s a dermatologist, so it has to gleam in order
for him to stay in business. My skin doesn’t ever gleam. At the very most, it
shines and turns red when I get hot or embarrassed. I feel it beginning to
shine and my hand immediately flies to my cheek, which, of course, only makes
it get hotter.
We are in his office when he tells me
and he is sitting at his desk, his head framed by his many diplomas and awards
that are hung on the wall behind him. They are, as they are always, shining brightly
as if they’d been dusted and cleaned that very morning. I look at the picture
he keeps framed at the edge of his desk—a photograph of his family taken at a
New Year’s Eve party, framed in a sterling-silver picture frame that his wife
lovingly picked out for their thirtieth wedding anniversary—and then look back
up at him.
“You can’t fire
me,” I say, which I wholeheartedly believe. I really didn’t think that he ever would or could fire me.
“I can,” he says,
“and I am.” He begins to toy with one of the pens sitting on his desk.
“I’m your best
employee!” I plead.
“You wore a ‘Save
CBGBs’ T-shirt to work,” he says.
“CBGBs was a New
York institution,” I say. He gives me a blank stare. I shrug in response. Is it
my fault that this man has no sense of culture? Of history? “What does it
matter what I wear under my assistant’s coat anyway?”
“You know the
dress code—scrubs or business casual,” he says.
“Jeans and a
concert tee is business casual!”
“People can see
the prints on your T-shirts right through the fabric,” he says. “And sometimes
you wear ones with dirty words on them,” he continues, whispering the ”dirty
words” part as if his grandmother is somehow listening from up above and would
be appalled by this particular bit of information.
“Like what?” I
ask. Watching him squirm is kind of fun.
“You know which
one,” he says. And then, in barely a whisper, “Free Pussy Riot.”
“That’s a band,”
I say, “not a dirty word.” You’d think a doctor would have no problem saying
the word “pussy” out loud.
“Jo, it’s not just the T-shirts. You’ve
called in the wrong prescriptions for my patients more times than I’d like to
admit.”
“Some of those
drugs have very complicated names,” I say in my own defense. And for the
record, they do.
“That doesn’t
mean you can give a patient a more pronounceable drug without consulting me
first.”
“Then maybe you
and your colleagues should start prescribing
more pronounceable drugs,” I argue. He furrows his brow in response. “But I’m
your favorite employee!” I plead.
“You balanced the
company checkbook wrong the last three out of four quarters.”
“You know that I’m not an accountant.” When
he hired me for the job two years ago, I knew that there would be some
accounting involved. What I hadn’t realized at the time was that I would have
to be quite so specific with the numbers. Which is a challenge for me, seeing
as I’m really more of a right-brain kind of person.
“But you know how to balance your own
checkbook, don’t you?” he says.
For the record, I don’t.
“Of course I know how to balance my own
checkbook,” I say and laugh, as if to say, “Doesn’t everybody?”
“A business checkbook is much, much
different than a personal checkbook,” I explain.
For the record, it’s not.
“I’m your most loyal employee,” I say. My
last resort. I find myself alternating between staring into his solid gold,
monogrammed Tiffany belt buckle and his shellacked black hair, because I can’t
meet his eyes.
“This is
difficult for me, too, you know,” he says, even though I know that it’s not.
“Do you realize how embarrassing this
is going to be for me?” I say. Manipulative, I know, but it’s not exactly like
I have anything left in my arsenal.
“I thought you don’t get embarrassed,”
he replies, looking into my eyes, challenging me.
“I don’t,” I say, frowning like a
little girl who hasn’t gotten the piece of candy that she wanted.
“Don’t take this
personally, Pumpkin.”
“You can’t call
me Pumpkin when you’re firing me, Daddy.”
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