Temporary Insanity Read online

  And some things must be said.

  “What do you expect me to do about it?” Ramona asked testily. “Bart Harrison’s a partner. You’re a temp. If you don’t like it here, you can go back to your agency and ask them to place you somewhere else.”

  She was right on the second count. Except that I was painfully aware that my homespun skills were an obstacle when it came to placing me in a firm where I could earn enough money to keep the landlord at bay.

  “I would appreciate your speaking to him about the way he treats the temps in the coding room. Or speak to someone who would be the most appropriate channel for conveying our complaint.”

  “Our complaint?” Ramona responded.

  I looked at her quizzically. “Mr. Harrison has made gratuitous, sexually charged remarks to every woman I work with, and even makes disparaging comments to Roger. Roger’s wife walked out and Mr. Harrison seems to delight in emasculating him.”

  There was a knock on Ramona’s door. “Come in,” she said. Eric Witherspoon poked his head inside. Ramona immediately warmed up and pasted a wide smile across her nasty face. “What can I do for you?” She was practically flirting.

  “I just had a question,” Eric said. “But it can wait until—”

  “Go ahead. We’re not discussing anything important,” Ramona insisted. I could scarcely believe she’d said that, since I thought that bringing Mr. Harrison’s inappropriate behavior to her attention was not exactly trivial.

  “That’s okay. When you’re done,” Eric said, closing the door.

  Ramona looked very peeved; her dislike for me couldn’t have been more evident if it had been etched into her face. “You say you’re coming to me on behalf of all the temps in the document-coding room?” I nodded. “Well, I have news for you, Alice. You’re the only one who has ever walked in here with a complaint about Bart Harrison.”

  “But Marlena—”

  Ramona raised her hand to cut me off. “Marlena has been at Newter & Spade for more than two years and she has never once even made a passing reference to Mr. Harrison. You’ve been here for barely a month and suddenly you think you’re Joan of Arc—”

  Eric knocked on the door again as he simultaneously turned the handle. “I’m heading back to my office. I couldn’t wait anymore. Alice, would you give me a call when you get back to the coding room? I have a question that I think you can answer for me.”

  “Alice is only a temp. And the newest one here. Is there something I can help you with?” Ramona asked Eric sweetly.

  Eric briefly looked at the floor, then back at Ramona. “No, actually. It’s a question for Alice. Specifically.” He closed the door with more haste than one would imagine for a senior associate talking to a midlevel administrator.

  “So?” I asked her after Eric was gone.

  “So, what?”

  “Can you convey our feelings about Mr. Harrison’s sexual remarks to him?”

  Ramona rested her hands on the desk and leaned toward me. “It’s your crusade, Alice. Not the others’. I told you, you’re the only one who has ever mentioned the situation to me. What are we supposed to do? Fire a partner because he occasionally acts like a boor? That’s not the way things work in the real world. Bart Harrison is only answerable to Raymond Spade. And not only is Ray Spade Mr. Harrison’s golf buddy, he’s the man’s first cousin.”

  “What about Mr. Newter?”

  “There is no Mr. Newter,” Ramona replied. “He was killed in a skiing accident in 1996. Alice, my advice to you is don’t take on a partner. Just do your job. And do it well. Then go home. And come back in the morning ready to put in another full day, Bart Harrison’s dirty comments or no dirty comments.” She stood up and gestured to the door; it was clear that our meeting had come to an end.

  I let myself out of Ramona’s office. I hated her guts but she’d certainly sounded like my conscience when it was playing devil’s advocate.

  Fifteen minutes after I returned to the coding room, my extension rang and Eric asked if I had a moment to talk with him in person. Sure, why not, I responded. He came down from his office and stood at the doorway, crooking his finger at me.

  I left my computer terminal and joined him in the hall. “What’s up?” I asked him.

  “Do you like baseball?”

  “Sure. Yeah, I like it fine.” I’m not a huge sports fan, but baseball is one that I enjoy because I can actually understand what’s going on. Another reason I like it is because it’s also one of the few games where the players don’t usually act homicidal as part of the rules.

  “Would…?” Eric glanced at the floor, then back at me. “Would you be interested in accompanying me to a Yankees game after work tomorrow night? The firm has season tickets—a whole bunch of box seats between home plate and first base—and there are about a half dozen of us going to tomorrow evening’s game. So, if you’d like to join me…I’d…well, I’d really like that.”

  I thought it was sort of charming that even highly salaried powerful attorneys got a bit bashful when they asked a girl out. “Is this a…date?” I said, thinking that it was better not to assume anything.

  He stuck his hands in his pockets and smiled sheepishly at me. “Yeah, I guess it is. Are you okay with that? I mean, I didn’t even ask you whether you have a boyfriend. And of course…if you do, we can still go to the game as friends, but if that’s too weird for you, I understand.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend. Lately I’ve been dating José Cuervo.” Eric gave me a funny look. “I’m drowning my sorrows at being single-and-presently-prospectless in tequila,” I explained.

  “Cool. I mean cool for me that you aren’t seeing anyone right now. So, it’s a date for the game tomorrow?”

  It was becoming hard to continue to act casual. I felt a silly grin spreading across my face.

  Hey, Alice, this is the first time you’ve been asked out on a date in how long?

  Shut up. Am I being taunted by my own conscience?

  Are you sure you’re supposed to accept that kind of an offer from someone you’re working with? What did Ramona’s silly list of rules say again?

  Shut up. My social life currently consists of going home to hang out with Gram and the occasional get-togethers with Dorian, who mostly talks about himself, and Izzy, whom I love, but she’s got a husband to go home to and he hates it when she stays out too late.

  “Yes. Sure. I’d like that,” I told Eric. “Very much.” I found the juxtaposition of his confidence as a professional and his personal shyness somewhat intriguing, if not a touch endearing. And he was nice-looking, too. Not much taller than average, not built like a brick shithouse, not drop-dead gorgeous, but very pleasant-looking. And he dressed well, so there was another point in his favor. But I think what I appreciated most about him, even though I didn’t know him well, was the way he didn’t allow the Newter & Spade mind-set to infect the way he treated people. Eric was warm, courteous, respectful. And for that he could have resembled Frankenstein’s first cousin and I would still have gone to the Yankee game with him. Gladly.

  Hmnh. Ain’t it nearly always true that when you’re not looking for something, that’s when you get it?!

  You’re such an optimist, Alice.

  Chapter 4

  “Don’t hate me,” Eric said anxiously into the phone. It was twenty-four hours since our last conversation.

  “Do I have a reason to?” I asked him.

  “Bart Harrison gathered together all the associates on the tobacco case this morning. The plaintiffs just responded to our motion for summary judgment to dismiss their claims and we need to file a sur-reply by the end of the week, which means no Yankees game tonight. He’s the lead partner on the case; working late is not exactly something you say no to. Unless you don’t want to make partner yourself. Which I do. Sorry about that, Alice.”

  I had been looking forward to the game, I have to admit. I’d even remembered to stuff a pair of jeans and sneakers into a Duane Reade plastic shopping bag, so
I’d have the appropriate attire to wear to a baseball game. “Not a problem,” I said, hoping to mask my mild disappointment with a smile in my voice. Actually, it was probably a blessing in disguise. I’d gotten some news earlier in the day as well. I’d been asked to audition for a recurring role on a soap opera next Tuesday afternoon and needed to run to the casting director’s office after work to pick up the scene I was supposed to perform at the audition so I could learn it backwards and forwards beforehand. I could better use the time I might have spent yelling my lungs raw for Derek Jeter by studying the soap script instead.

  Oops, that was another problem. I’d have to tell Ramona that I would need to run out to an audition in the middle of the day. I got paid by the hour through Turbo Temps, so technically it shouldn’t be a big deal; I just wouldn’t include those hours on my time sheet and “eat” the money I’d have made had I been slaving over a hot computer at Newter & Spade.

  Still, everyone I worked for at the firm, from Ramona on up to Mr. Harrison, took it as a personal affront if any of their employees needed time to handle anything pertaining to their non–Newter & Spade lives. Lisa had to leave early one day to get down to NYU for an exam, and they were nasty about it. There was a particularly awful week when Roger’s wife suddenly started giving him a song and dance about joint custody of their son. She kept calling Roger at work to yell at him, and he had to make a whole slew of phone calls to his lawyer; the poor man was already going through a nightmare, and Ramona’s disagreeableness made it far worse.

  Eric’s voice sounded both harried and apologetic. “I’ll try to see if all the tickets aren’t already snagged for one of next week’s games. The Baltimore Orioles will be in town then.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Eastern Division rivals. And they currently suck. Which is great if you’re a Yankee fan.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “You are pissed off at me.”

  “Because I said ‘whatever you say’? That was a reference to Baltimore sucking, not to my opinions of your canceling our plans. I’m okay with that. Really, I am,” I added, hoping that I was reassuring him sufficiently. I hate to hurt people’s feelings—unless they’ve trampled on mine, in which case they deserve what they get. I have a real tendency to go for the jugular when I’ve been wounded in some way. I’m even fiercer when that happens to someone I love. I come by my loyalty genetically. No one is more defiantly so than Gram. She’s always looked out for me and it’s inspired me to champion others.

  Eric had an incoming call and had to end our conversation. I hung up the phone and turned to Marlena and Natalie. “Eric canceled on me,” I told them.

  “He seems pleasant enough, but it’s probably a lucky break,” Marlena commented.

  “Yeah,” Natalie concurred, nodding her head. “And if you do ever go anywhere with him, watch your ass. They’re all sons of bitches around here.”

  Actually, I kind of like him, I was thinking.

  Remember, Alice, these supportive colleagues of yours were nowhere to be found when you charged into Ramona’s office like Henry V, seeking some behavior modification from Bart Harrison.

  Good point.

  All I’m saying is not to discount your instincts so easily—and to weigh everything with a grain of salt in the scales.

  After work I went across town to the television network’s executive offices and picked up the pages I was asked to learn for the soap opera audition. It was a tense, dramatic scene between a man and a woman. It read like a cliché, but I was determined to play it with as much sincerity as possible. I decided it might be a good idea to tape the show for the rest of the week to see how the actors performed their roles, and also how they were dressed, which would inform my own wardrobe choices for Tuesday afternoon. On the bus ride home I reread the scene, then took out my cell phone and called Izzy, asking for her help. Even though she’d be reading the guy’s part, she was still a better actor than Dorian was. She was also a devoted fan of this particular soap, and would be able to provide me with some hints and nuances I wouldn’t have gotten from watching hours of videotape on my own. Unfortunately, she wasn’t available.

  “Dominick and I have been fighting like cats and dogs, and our apartment is so small you have to step outside if you want to change your mind, so we’re taking the next few days off. We’re going up to a B&B in Rhinebeck so we can argue in peace. I can help you on Monday after work if you still need me,” she said apologetically.

  She filled me in on the characters in the scene I was handed. “I can’t believe they called you in to replace Melanie Mason—the actress playing Darva! That’s wonderful! Melanie is a real bitch. She was up for contract renewal and demanded an arm and a leg, so the network told her to go fuck herself. And now they’re recasting her part. Yes!” I could almost visualize Izzy making that “pull-down” motion with her fist and forearm.

  “Darva is a real gold digger, so I guess the character really went to Melanie Mason’s head. Does she really think anyone else will hire her? She’s a stick figure with big hair who couldn’t act her way out of a Baggie. Okay, what you need to know about Darva, besides the gold digger part, is that she grew up in a trailer park in Tennessee, but she has no accent because when she came to Huddlerville, she hired the high school drama coach to teach her how to lose it, and she traded him her virginity. Then of course she got pregnant and left the baby in the local Wal-Mart, hoping someone would adopt it. Greta Gainsborough, who is a golden-haired five-year-old, adopted in infancy by the filthy-rich Gainsboroughs, who own everything in Huddlerville, is actually Darva’s daughter. Years later, Darva tried to get herself hired to be the little girl’s nanny, but she learned that she hated domestic duties, and she always thought herself above menial chores, so she couldn’t hack it. And now she’s scheming to snag a rich man so she can marry him and use his considerable fortune to hire a high-priced lawyer to initiate a custody battle for Greta. So she’s been sniffing around Wilkes Chamberlain. Wilkes was named for John Wilkes Booth, who assassinated Abraham Lincoln, and he—Wilkes Chamberlain—also has a mean and violent streak in him. So Darva has lately taken to thinking that if the rich WC won’t marry her, she might be able to convince him to kidnap Greta…or worse.”

  “You mean like murder Greta’s adoptive parents, the Gainsboroughs?”

  “Bingo! Ding-ding-ding, give that woman a hundred dollars! Maybe you shouldn’t act in soaps, Alice. Just send your résumé off to the producers to get a job writing them.”

  “Thanks, I guess. This is great, Izzy. You’ve spared me from…I mean, I hardly need to watch any episodes of the show myself. Oh! How does Darva dress? Shit. Wait a minute, there’s static on the line. Quelle surprise. Damn! Can you hear me? Now half the people on the bus are staring at me and giving me dirty looks. I’m becoming one of those horrifically rude cell phone users that I always want to strangle and the City Council wants to arrest.”

  “Tell them to take a flying leap into the Hudson off Pier sixty-two. But do it with a smile. Alice, are you sill there? Darva still dresses like trailer trash, despite all her claims that she’s bettered herself. Don’t forget the big hair. It’s where she hides her Marlboros and it’s a major part of her character. Darva has lots of scenes with her beautician, Angelique. Angelique is a combination of confidante, confessor, and psychotherapist. Anyway, if they gave you a scene between Darva and Wilkes, chances are she’s being conniving and seductive and she switches tacks about a half dozen times in three pages to try to get him to go along with whatever her objective is in the scene.”

  “You pretty well nailed it,” I told her.

  “I wish I could help you prepare for the audition. It really sounds like fun, but I’ve got to keep the home fires burning this weekend. Or put some out. Call Dorian and see if he’s available. He knows the show really well, too. He does a lot of background work on it. Anytime they need a tall, blond resident of Huddlerville, there’s Dorian, front and center. He’s Mr. Midwest.”
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  I thanked Izzy and shut down my cell phone, much to the relief of everyone on the number 104 bus.

  “Dorian’s a sweet boy,” Gram said when I got home and told her about the soap opera audition. “I’m sure he’d be happy to help you,” she added, skimming my script. A little light in the loafers to play Wilkes Chamberlain, if you ask me, but he’ll do a better job on the scene than I will. I was never too good at playing the heavy.”

  That’s true enough. Grandpa Danny left her with two kids to raise alone; yet she the man remains a troubled saint who happens to wear his halo at a rakish angle.

  “Invite Dorian to dinner,” Gram suggested. “I roasted a capon. There’s more than enough for three.”

  I phoned Dorian. “Have you eaten yet?” I asked him.

  “Law & Order: Special Victims’ Unit was shooting at the Chelsea Baths this afternoon, so yeah, I just ate. Thanks. Why? What’s up?”

  Gram looked a question at me. “He said he already had dinner,” I whispered to her, covering the mouthpiece of the phone with the palm of my hand.

  She shrugged. “Tell him I rubbed the capon with garlic and lemon pepper.”

  So I did, then waited for Dorian’s response. “He’ll be here by seven-thirty,” I told Gram, laughing. Does that woman know people or what?

  Over Gram’s roast capon and potatoes gratinée which she always called “Kennedy potatoes” for some reason, Dorian filled us in on the details of Darva’s dastardly doings over the past umpteen seasons.

  “Angelique. That doesn’t seem like a fitting name for a beautician,” Gram remarked, referring to Huddlerville’s hairdresser extraordinare.

  “Your grandmother is so perceptive!” Dorian responded enthusiastically. “Angelique is really the black sheep of the Gainsborough family. She spent her inheritance on charitable relief causes in Africa and doesn’t want another penny from her family’s ill-gotten treasury.”

  “So how did the Gainsboroughs make their fortune?” I couldn’t believe I was getting into this soap opera. But I needed as much backstory as possible so I could give the best posible audition. I had about eighteen seasons to catch up on, even though Darva had only been on the show for the past six years.