“It’s not easy being in a relationship when one person is unemployed.”
Gilbert Brickwell was talking to Dan Copithorne, one of the twelve sales staff he managed at Blackgaurd Technologies, a mid-sized information technology company in Lower Manhattan. It was almost 7PM on a Wednesday in late February and Brickwell was standing at the entranceway to Copithorne’s cubicle.
Copithorne was thrown by the personal nature of his usually unsentimental boss’s remark. “Um, yeah,” he said. “Sarah’s just got way too much time on her hands so she starts—“
“—Whoa, Coppertone. I’m on my way to a date with a hot chick. I can’t get dragged down by your sob story, okay? Gotta stay light on my toes.”
“Yeah, sure. Of course. Who’s the lucky girl?”
“Just some girl I met at a party. Adios, El Coppertoné. Wish me luck.”
“Goodnight, Gilbert. Good luck on your date.”
“You make your own luck, Sunscreen.” Brickwell shadow-boxed one of a wall of Copithorne’s cubicle and walked away.
On his way to the elevators Brickwell made a series of nods, gun-gestures and winks to the few people who remained at Blackguard’s twenty-fourth story office. Soon after calling the elevator, it came and took him down the parking garage. He whistled as he walked up to his car, a black 2010 BMW 3M coupe with caramel leather interior; ‘The Bankmobile’, as he called it.
He opened the car door and sat down with a thud. As he closed the door behind him his head and shoulders slackened and he sighed. Finally, for the first time in nearly twelve hours he was free from the demands of the outside world. On top of his stressful and onerous work as Blackguard’s head of sales, he’d just broken up with his girlfriend of almost a year. It had only been three days since he’d decided to end things with Sammy but he missed her already. He wished she’d be waiting for him when he got home, that he didn’t have cook for one or order some loveless take-out to feed himself. He also missed having someone to vent to about work. Things had become even more stressful at Blackguard since the arrival of their new president and CEO, Jim Halstead. Halstead had barely been there a month and was already demanding they double their revenues over the next two quarters.
Brickwell sighed again, then started the car and shifted it in gear. Whatever it looked to outsiders, it wasn’t easy being ‘Top Shelf”.
Copithorne was already at his desk when Brickwell arrived at work at 7:45 the next morning. The kid’s got hustle; I’ll give him that, Brickwell he thought as he passed Copithorne’s cubicle.
Copithorne noticed his boss out of the corner of his eye and swiveled his chair around to greet him. “Good morning, Gilbert,” he said. “How was your date?”
“No time for chit-chat, SPF 50. I’ve got an eight o’clock call to prepare for. You got any meetings lined up today?”
“Yeah, I’ve got Shamley Financial at four. They’re looking at the gold package. All I need to do—“
“I used to close a deal before breakfast when I wasn’t managing all you skin-sacks. Try to sell something, would you? Halstead’s breathing down my neck to get our numbers up.”
Brickwell went to his office and closed the door behind him. Copithorne didn’t see his boss again all morning. At 9:00 Brickwell’s assistant brought him his usual double latte and butter croissant. Around eleven Copithorne heard him yelling at someone on the phone through his office door. “Performance evaluations?!” Brickwell said. “I kept this company afloat single-handedly through the worst recession in seventy years and you want to talk to me about performance evaluations?!“
At noon Brickwell re-emerged and appeared to be back to his usual, jovial self. “Client lunch, Sunscreen,” he said, closing his office door. “That’s where the big deals happen, not sitting behind a desk.” He put on his designer sunglasses, smiled, and walked away.
“Dickwell,” Copithorne muttered.
Brickwell took the Carey out of Manhattan and the Gowanus Expressway through South Brooklyn. He flew across the Verrazano, weaving the Bankmobile through of delivery trucks and lesser vehicles on his way into Staten. He got off the highway at Clove St. and headed west towards Forest. It was the neighbourhood he’d grown up in and where his mom still lived in his and his brother’s childhood home. His dad was gone though. He’d left when Brickwell was fifteen, when he and Brickwell’s mom separated then divorced.
Brickwell thought about dropping in on his mom but didn’t feel like answering the inevitable “How’s Sammy?” question she’d surely ask. Besides, he was starving and looking forward to having lunch at his favourite neighbourhood Italian restaurant.
He got to Fiorto’s and was greeted by the same effusive Italian-American owner who’d fed him and his friends since they were gawky teenagers. “Bellissimo!” she said. “Where have you been? You look so thin? Come and sit and eat. Why you never come see Nona no more?”
Brickwell sat down at a table by the window. “I work on Wall St. and live in Greenwich, Nona. It’s a long way to come for lunch.”
“’Long way’ he says.” She turned to her husband who was standing at the cash register. “Giuseppe, how far we from Napoli? Three? Four thousand miles?”
“Quattro,” Giueseppe replied.
“Four! Four thousand miles we come and you call Wall St. ‘long way’? Ma-donna.”
“Mi scusi, Nona. I’ve been really busy lately is all. Can I have a half liter of red and the chicken parmesan with fettuccini and gravy?”
“Ci, mi amore. A nice salad too?”
“No thanks. Some bread would be great though.”
“Prego, Bellisimo—Guiseppe! Pane! Meta-litro vino!”
The woman walked away and Brickwell looked out the window. As he looked out at Forest Avenue, images of his youth flooded his mind: high school, parties, girls--
God, why was he still thinking about Sammy? She was one of a million women who’d go out with him. He was only thirty and way more successful than most people his age. Sure she was smart and had great breasts but so were and did a lot of girls.
Nona returned with the wine and bread and Brickwell couldn’t get them to his lips fast enough. The alcohol slowed his racing thoughts and the starch settled the coffee and stress gurgling in his stomach.
He took out his phone and texted his friend James Lacey. James was his closest friend and a mergers and acquisitions lawyer at a medium-sized Midtown law firm. ‘Party this weekend?’ he texted.
A few minutes later Lacey replied. ‘Sure. Your hood or mine?’ the message read.
He put his phone away as his food arrived. He quickly devoured the hot, fresh meal and finished it off with a triple espresso. The food and coffee successfully revitalized him. He felt ready to get back to doing what he did best: sell.
He paid his bill, said good-bye to Nona and hopped in the Bankmobile. Fuck Halstead, he thought as he raced back to Manhattan and took the elevator up to his office. I could sell sand to a camel or ice to an Eskimo. It’s Top Shelf not Bar Rail.
He stopped briefly at Copithorne’s cubicle on his way back in the office for some additional ego-boosting. “Hey Sunscreen,” he said. “You still want to know about my date last night?”
“Well, it’d just make you sad you’re dating Sarah Plain-and-tall so I’m not going to. Thanks for coming out though.”
Copithorne watched as Brickwell walked in his office, took his suit jacket off and threw it on the chair facing his desk. “Let’s sell some systems!” he yelled and he slammed the door behind him.
The next few days were less stressful than the start of the week. Brickwell made a few decent-sized sales since Monday although they’d taken some of his best cunning and verbal acrobatics to pull off. By Friday morning he couldn’t wait for the weekend to arrive. He was sitting at his desk in his leather captain’s chair daydreaming about meeting Lacey for beers after work. Intermittently, he reviewed his team’s weekly sales figures, an activity that made him all-the-more eager for the weekend.
He occupied the rest of his morning with administrative tasks and a half- hearted follow-up call to a vice-president at Citigroup. The afternoon was a complete write-off. He logged into his virtual private network and surfed Facebook. He was on girl he’d gone to college with’s profile when he heard a knock at the door. “Come in,” he said as he minimized his browser and VPN.
His assistant Riley opened the door and walked in the room. “Riley—what can I do for you?”
Riley was in her early twenties, a freshly-minted NYU grad in business. “Um, not much. I just wanted to let you know I have a dentist appointment Monday morning so if you need anything done for then, give it to me now or over the weekend.”
“’Dentist appointment’, sure. I bet you’re going to be partying Sunday and need the extra recovery time. ‘Dentist appointment’ – I invented that move.”
“I don’t even drink, Gilbert. You know that.”
“That’s slander. Go to your desk and think about what you just said.”
Riley turned to leave and as she did Brickwell’s eyes fell onto her tight-fitting red jeans.
“Actually hold on a second, Riley.”
“Yes?” she said, turning around.
“My lawyer-friend and I are going to hit a few bars in the Village after work. He’s
almost as funny as I am. Want to join us?”
“Oh, thanks, but I’m going dancing with some girlfriends. You guys should come if you want.”
“Dancing? It’s been a while since I uncaged this beast on the dance floor.” He gestured towards his upper torso. “What time?”
“Um, probably around eleven. Text me and we’ll meet up.”
Riley left and Brickwell resumed surfing Facebook. He looked up Riley’s profile page and checked out some pictures of her friends. As he looked at the images of young women in clubs wearing clingly clothes surrounded by muscle-y, gelled-haired guys, his mind drifted to Sammy. I wonder if she’s caught a rebound yet, he thought. She was certainly attractive enough before you uncovered all the crazy.
Sammy’s ‘About’ page listed her as single and there were no new photos of her since they’d broken up. In fact, the last photos she had up were of her and Brickwell on Valentine’s Day at a darkly-lit, Midtown bistro he’d taken her to.
He closed his browser and called Lacey to try to stop himself from thinking about Sammy. Lacey picked up on the third ring. “What’s up, cocksucker,” he said.
“Hey dick-bag. What’s the plan tonight?”
“Well, I thought we’d start out at McNaughton’s and see where the night takes us. Sound good?”
“Yeah. My assistant and some of her friends are going to a club later so we should keep an eye on that. She’s got some pretty hot friends.”
“Ah, the old shit-where-you-work play. I like it. I guess you and Sammy broke up?”
“That girl. Fuck. I’d be happy if I never heard her name again as long as I live. If I told you some of the shit—Er, fuck. Nevermind. I’ve got plenty of prospects. Just a matter of converting them. Let’s go get laid tonight. I need a rebound.”
“You bet, buddy. It’s a done deal.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. See you at McNaughton’s.”
Brickwell hung up and went back to checking out pictures of Riley’s friends.
Brickwell woke up at seven the next morning without remembering falling asleep. His mouth tasted of half-digested alcohol and his temples throbbed. What the fuck happened last night? Luckily he had enough experience with hangovers not to pursue the question any further at this stage. He used the minimal energy he had in his body to get up and go to the kitchen. He poured himself a large glass of water, drank it and refilled it, and went back to his bedroom. He got back under the covers and forced himself back to much-needed sleep.
When he woke up again an hour-and-a-half later he felt slightly better. He took a look at his phone and saw he had three missed calls. Two were from Lacey and one was from Sammy. He also had six unread texts: five from Lacey and one from Sammy.
‘Where the fuck are you? These girls are ready to go!’ said the last text from Lacey at 1:03 AM.
Sammy’s, from 12:52 AM, said, ‘What’s up?’
He went to his call log and saw that he’d called her at 12:38AM. “Oh fuck,” he said out loud and fell back on his pillow. I hope this is a bad dream, he thought, and actually closed his eyes to see if he’d wake up again. After a few minutes, feeling reality-resigned, he got out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen to make himself a latte. He drank it quickly sitting on the couch in his boxers. Then he got up and went to the front door to get the newspaper. He made himself another coffee on the way back to the couch and he sat down and read the sports and front sections. He glanced at the business section when he was done. There were stories about the underperformance of some tech stocks and an anticipated zero percent borrowing rate-increase from the Fed. The full articles seemed too strenuous for his booze-addled mind to process so he stopped reading after the headlines. He lay back on the couch and felt his mood gradually improving under the effects of caffeine.
A minute later he heard his phone ring in the bedroom and got up to go get it. ‘Mom calling,’ read the phone’s display. He hesitated to answer it then thought himself cogent enough to converse with his mother. He pushed the talk button: “Hi Mom.”
“Hi Honey. How about brunch? I’m coming to the city to look at vanities for the new bathroom and thought I could take you and Sammy out.”
He thought for a second about what to say, swallowed, and just said it: “Sammy and I broke up.”
The sentence hung in the air.
He swallowed again and mentally-braced himself. His mom liked Sammy, especially the possibility of grandchildren that she represented. Gilbert’s mom hadn’t remarried like his dad had and he worried she was lonely. “Yeah, it just wasn’t going to work,” he added, trying hard to sound nonchalant.
“What do you mean? Why not? You seemed so happy together at Christmas...”
“She’s just too needy. I have enough stress in my life without someone who’s insecure to deal with.“
“Well, don’t you think you were ever insecure? Did people just cast you off for it?”
“That was years ago. And besides, my situation was dif—God, Mom. I’m upset too. Would it kill you to show some sympathy for me for a change?”
“You’re not the one who’s just been dumped! Isn’t she a bit more deserving?”
“Yeah. Sure. And that’s what her mom’s for!”
“Ok-ok. I just want you to be happy, sweetheart. I think sometimes mine and your father’s relationship put you off of them...“
“Mom – it’s got nothing to do with you. Let’s drop it, okay? I’ll give you a call tonight. I don’t feel very well.”
“Nothing, ugh, I don’t know. I’ll call you tonight, okay?”
“Ok, honey. You know I only want you to make the most of your life. You get to be my age and suddenly some of the stuff you thought was important seems pretty silly.“
“Fuck,” he said out-loud as he hung up. He threw his phone against the couch and went to the bedroom. He put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and went to the door. He grabbed his parka and put on his boots. I need some fresh air, he thought. To hell with winter.
Outside it was a grey cold but Brickwell hardly noticed. His thoughts were still hot from the phone call with his mom. They remained that way as he walked across West 4th to Washington Square towards the Lower East Side. At 9:30 AM it was still too early for NYU students to be up but the twenty-somethings of Alphabet City were beginning to stir. He watched the young, carefree artistic-types getting coffee and walking their dogs. He noticed a couple lolling in Tompkins Square Park and the sight depressed him further. How does anybody stand dating after thirty? He decided to head north towards a more age-appropriate environment.
He walked all the way to the Empire State Building before noticing his stomach was gurgling. He hadn’t had anything to eat since he got up over two hours ago. He spotted a deli and went in and got a bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich and a bottle of water. He ate at the stand-up counter and listened to the clerk bicker with customers about the Knicks, Bloomberg, and whether spring would ever come. When he’d finished eating, he felt substantially better. Good enough go for a beer, he thought as he stepped back onto the street. Maybe I’ll call Lacey.
He felt for his phone in his pocket then remembered throwing it at the couch. Fuck, how could this day get any worse? He walked to Park and hailed a cab. “721 Grove,” he told the driver and sunk as deep as he could into the vinyl-covered bench. As soon as he got home he went straight to his soft leather couch. He was planning to take a nap but decided to take a glance at his phone first. There was a text from Sammy on it. ‘You all right?’ she’d written an hour earlier.
‘Not really,’ he typed and sent after lingering over the send button for a few seconds.
‘Do you want to get dinner tonight?’ she wrote back a minute later.
‘Okay. Let’s meet at The Standard at 7.’
He stretched out on the couch and soon fell asleep. He didn’t remember his dreams but thought he must have had some because he woke up sweating.
Sammy walked into the Standard at five-after-seven. She looked around the room for Brickwell, spotted him sitting at a table for two along the glass wall overlooking the Hudson and walked over to him.
“Hi,” Brickwell said, standing up and kissing her on the cheek.
“Have you been waiting long?” She took her coat off, hung it over the back of the chair and sat down.
She wore a tight grey Marino wool sweater with a deep back-line and her hair was pulled back in a bun. Their server arrived and took their drink orders: a Grey Goose martini and a double Bowmore 18.
After a few sips of his drink Brickwell felt brazen enough to move beyond small talk. “Sorry for calling you last night,” he said. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
He took another sip of his drink. “So, have you started dating again?” he said.
“Ugh. Steph wants to set me up with a banker friend of hers but I don’t know, he’s kind of a douche.”
Sammy narrowed her eyes. “Don’t start, Gilbert.”
They turned in unison and looked out the window. They looked out at the Hudson and the office buildings in Hoboken. The Hudson was a still lifeless winter grey crawling towards the ocean.
“What about you?” Sammy said after a minute.
“I’m too busy to date. Halstead’s been riding me like crazy.” He paused and tilted his head. “Well, that’s not completely true. I’ve got a few pots on the boil. It’s ‘Top Self’ not ‘Bar Rail’, you know.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why can’t you be the least bit vulnerable ever? It’s not a sign of weakness, you know. In fact, it’s the opposite.”
“Obviously you’re not in sales. If I showed an ounce of ‘vulnerability’ in my work, I’d be out on my ass. Would you buy millions of dollars of information systems from somebody who was ‘vulnerable’?”
“Life’s about more than work.”
“Oh yeah? What’s it about then?”
“Relationships…building a community…maybe starting a family...”
“I can’t see one of those things paying my mortgage, filling my gas-tank, or putting food on the table. In fact, just the opposite.”
“Well, then you’re blind.”
“Yeah, or maybe you’re naive.”
Sammy’s voice rose in urgency and volume: “Who texted who they weren’t okay today? You’re not paying me to be here, you know!”
“But I’m paying for dinner.”
“Oh, fuck off! I could have ordered a pizza and stayed in. What do I get out of eating at a nice restaurant with someone who’s miserable?”
“’Miserable’? I’m the happiest person I know.”
“Well, that’s a big achievement.”
“Here we go. ‘Sorry Sammy’. The world’s been so hard on you…”
He started to think of a comeback but something distracted him. The sun had fallen beneath the overcast sky and was shining directly at them. He looked down and saw the river glistening in the light. The sight reminded him of summertime at his dad’s in Connecticut. He imagined himself behind the wheel of his boat, the wind blowing in his hair and the smell of the ocean. He remembered taking Sammy there the summer before, before she’d been laid off and all their problems started. “I am,” he said abruptly.
Her eyes widened. “Well, that’s refreshing to hear.” She paused and tilted her head.
“But wouldn’t that make you bad at your job? Wouldn’t that make people less likely to give you their business?”
“No. It doesn’t mean I won’t work my ass off for them.”
“But you’ll always put yourself first.”
He thought for a second. “Yeah.”
Now Sammy looked out the window. She straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “You know, I’m not feeling very hungry anymore. I think I’m going to go.”
Gilbert tried to remain calm but he dreaded the thought of being left alone in the busy restaurant. His mouth salivated in wont for words. He couldn’t think of anything to say that would let him save face yet stay in Sammy’s company. Luckily his years of sales experience kicked in and he remembered that a question was often more powerful than a statement. “Do you remember last summer at my dad’s?” he said.
“Why couldn’t things have stayed like that?”
She stared at him a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe they still could.”
“Beats me. We could move there and open a coffee shop or something. There’s
a ton of tourists with money to burn.”
“We’d think of something…”
Gilbert thought for another second. “You’re crazy. We hadn’t even been dating a year or lived together when we broke up. Plus, I have a job.”
“So what? If Connecticut’s where you’re the happiest, what are you doing here?”
He downed the remainder of his scotch and started to signal the server for another drink. “Don’t,” Sammy said, touching his hand. “Stay with me.”
He looked at her. Her eyes had circles under them but there was warmth there too. “Fine,” he said. Then he remembered some of the bitter arguments that had led to their break-up in the first place: “But you have to meet me half way, okay?”
“Great. Can we go for a walk? It feels hot in here…”
“But it’s so cold outside.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Half way.”
She narrowed her eyes and looked back at him: “Half way.”
They got the bill – which Gilbert paid it – then they got up and left. Outside, they walked up the stairs to the Highline and found each other’s hands sticking out the ends of their parkas. It might have been the scotch, but Gilbert swore the temperature had risen few degrees since before he’d arrived at the restaurant. He looked up and down the Highline and listened to the hum of traffic below. Whatever doubts and questions he still had about his and Sammy’s relationship, he knew one thing for sure: spring would come again and the Highline would be full of people and colour. Then, in the summer, there’d be boating in Connecticut.
