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even rented City Lights once , and I cried at the end—not because I didn’t go out on a date with Ted. That was such a romantic movie! The little blind flower girl regained her sight, and a grown man didn’t speak for almost two hours!
    It was beautiful.
    “Um, Shari, are you doing anything interesting this weekend?” Ted asks.
    Ted is white and divorced, chain-smokes seventeen floors down on William Street every three hours, and roots for the Mets. The Mets bobblehead doll on his desk is cuter than he is, though it has far fewer freckles than Ted does. He asks me the same thing just about every Friday. If he would just drop the word interesting, I might think he’s trying to ask me out again. I’d turn him down gently again, I’d probably rent another silent movie again, and I’d probably cry again.
    “Everything I do is interesting, Ted,” I say. Not really. What exciting thing will I do (but not really do) this weekend to impress Ted? Last weekend I “attended” an all-day novel writing contest, and Ted was fascinated. Who would ever go to one of those? “I’m in a Skee Ball championship tournament this weekend,” I tell him. I love that game. The Brooklyner actually has a Skee Ball machine in the Lounge, and while the other cool, hip, and generally drunk singles and couples play pool and snuggle up to an imminent hangover in the Lounge, I shake my booty and rack up the points.
    To the excitement of no one, apparently, but me.
    “Yeah?” Ted says. “A championship Skee Ball tournament? I didn’t know they had those.”
    They don’t, Ted. Only I have them. I am always the champ because I’m the only one who plays.
    “So you’re pretty good, huh?” he asks.
    “Good” is such a relative term. I’m good at managing my boss. I’m good at flossing. I’m good at singing and praising at Brooklyn Tabernacle, my church. I’m good at walking. I’m good at cleaning my glasses with my sleeve. I’m good about paying my bills. I’m good at eating. I’m good at giving massages.
    “I’m the reigning champ, Ted. No one has ever beaten my high score.” Mainly because no one else ever plays. “Anything else you need to ask me, Ted?”
    “Um, no. Bye, Shari.”
    “Bye, Ted.”
    I loosen my boots under my desk and attack Corrine’s e-mails, most of them memos from the upty-ups. None are particularly interesting or well written. They all want to know how it “went” out in LA. I’m sure it didn’t “go,” since Corrine decided to “go it alone” this time without one of our usually productive “storm sessions” because the client had an upscale and ridiculously unaffordable designer clothing label. “What could be more perfect for me?” she had asked.
    I so much wanted to answer her. In my mind, I saw a blade from a guillotine dropping onto and through her neck. That would have been “more perfect” for her.
    And yet ... and yet ... we work together.
    I know, I know. It makes no sense.
    We’re kind of like Fluff and Mutt. She’s Ebony , and I’m Jet . She’s Toni Morrison (although I do love Toni’s writing), and I’m graffiti on the wall. She’s Stormy Weather, and I’m Uptown Saturday Night. She’s haute couture, and I’m greasy spoon, pass the ketchup and the salt. She’s Whitney Houston when she wasn’t strung out, and I’m Tracy Chapman, only without the deep voice or the dreads. Corrine is steak tartare, and I’m “Burn me one!” She’s—
    Here .
    Well, isn’t this a fine how-do-you-do.

Chapter 5
     
    A nd she’s not happy.
    She must have sucked up in LA.
    And how do I feel about this? Do I feel happy? Do I feel angry that she didn’t consult me before going on this little jaunt all by herself? Do I want to say, “I told you so”? Yeah, I do. Will I?
    No. It is payday, and I want to eat for the next two weeks.
    I usually have something to hand her, some slips of paper or some Post-its that really mean nothing at all to her since she only flips through them once