Someday, Someday, Maybe: A Novel

  “Oh, Good Lord,” Jane says. “Can we order, please? It’s making me queasy just looking at you.” But she smiles as she picks up her menu, and I know she’s happy for me, too.

  “Jane,” I say, leaning in and lowering my voice. “Seriously. I know it’s new, but honestly, I’ve never felt this way before.”

  She leans in, too, and studies my face. “Really? You’ve never felt this way before? Not ever? Not even with Velcro Man?”

  I smile and roll my eyes, remembering the guy I dated for a month or so, a comic I met at the club who admittedly had an impressive array of Velcro items: shoes, wallet, his nylon book bag, the red hat with the black racing stripe, the light blue jacket with the tab collar he always wore.

  “How I miss the familiar phwisht of his arrival!” Jane says sadly.

  “Yes, Jane, it’s very different from Velcro Man.”

  “I really thought you guys were going to stick.”

  “Jane.”

  “And so,” Jane says. “You like this hunky actor dude even better than Purpolo?”

  Phil was an actor from class who took me out a few times, but Jane insisted she couldn’t be expected to learn the name of someone who always wore the same purple polo shirt.

  “He must’ve forgotten he wore it the last time he came to pick me up,” I’d tried to explain. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure he owns more than one. He told me purple is his favorite color.”

  “You’re going out with a guy whose favorite color is purple?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s okay with you?”

  I smile at the memory of those minor players and give Jane a nod. “Yes, Jane, I’m fairly certain I like James better than Purpolo. He has a wider variety of shirts.”

  Jane lays her menu down and looks at me more seriously now. “Franny, do you think he’s—well, what about Clark?”

  Of course it’s occurred to me that James is the first person I’ve met in the last couple of years who might be in a different category than the likes of Velcro Man or Purpolo. And of course I’ve wondered what to do in the event that our relationship gets really serious. “Clark, I’ve met someone,” I try to imagine saying to him over the phone in a grave tone, eliminating any joyful note from my voice as a gesture of respect. We never really made plans about how to handle things in the event either of us met someone else. I’m not sure what the right thing to do would be, and I’m not sure I want to think about it yet. Anyway, it’s too early to tell if there’s something I need to tell him.

  “We’ll see, I guess.”

  “Okay,” Jane says with an understanding nod, picking up her menu again. “So, Fran, you know I’m honestly the last person to care about this, and may I say again, you look great already, but what, uh, what exactly are you eating these days, if I might ask? Are we splitting that cheesy thing, or are you ordering a bowl of ice cubes for dinner, or what?”

  “I don’t know. I’m too hungry to think straight. I haven’t eaten anything at all today.”

  “What? It’s nine o’clock at night. How are you still standing?”

  “No, it’s—I’m fine. I have a new thing I’m doing.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ve figured out a new way to view eating—it’s like, if you think about it, calories are like money, you know?”

  “Umm. Nooo.”

  “I mean, you get, or, I get, I’m allowed, let’s say, a certain number of calories a day, right? So, let’s say it’s a hundred—obviously it’s not, but what if you think of it as cash, and in cash, for the sake of this explanation, it’s a hundred dollars. Let’s say I’m rich, okay, and I’m in France or somewhere, and someone’s given me a hundred dollars a day to spend.”

  “I’m so confused …”

  “Stick with me. Let’s say I’m in France and I get one hundred dollars a day to spend on anything I want. Well, at first I might think the best thing to do is use it in little amounts throughout the day, a coffee here, a pack of gum there …”

  “Why’d you go to France for gum?”

  “But then, I figure out that if I save my money, I’ll have it all left over at the end of each day, and then instead of a hundred packs of gum, I can use it all at once for something bigger and better, like on a really cute hat or something. Doesn’t that make more sense?”

  “But, then,” Jane says, shaking her head. “What do you eat in France all day? Your hat?”

  “Anyway, if I was in France, I would’ve saved up all my packs of gum today.” I fold my hands and rest them on the table in triumph.

  “So we are getting the cheesy thing.”

  “Exactly.”

  Jane exhales in relief and lays the menu on the corner of the table, and our usual, terminally deadpan waitress comes by and takes our order.

  “She seems happier today,” says Jane. “Don’t you think?”

  “Positively buoyant.”

  Jane looks around the room, full of young couples and families with small babies in tow. “I feel like everyone in this neighborhood agreed to start having babies at the same time.”

  “Remember when we first moved here?”

  “It was just scholarly lesbians in sensible shoes,” Jane sighs. “And the elderly.”

  “You don’t think it’ll ever get hip, do you?”

  “You mean turn into a neighborhood with actual good restaurants?”

  “Or places that sell jewelry that isn’t handmade?”

  “God, I hope not. I can’t imagine. Have you and James come here yet?”

  “No … not yet.”

  “Upstairs Chinese place?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where do you guys like to go?”

  It occurs to me we haven’t actually been anywhere, not for dinner, anyway. We mostly go to the Cuban coffee place with the gritty espresso, and the diner near his corner that smells like old grease. And to bed.

  “We mostly order food in. Sushi,” I add, as though he should get points for that. “He’s going to be my date for Katie’s wedding, though.”

  “He is? That’s great!”

  I’m only slightly exaggerating the exchange I had with James after I asked him to be my date for Katie Finnegan’s wedding:

  JAMES. (studying script, distracted) Aww, that’s so sweet.

  FRANNY. (hopeful) So … yes?

  JAMES. Well, I’ll try. I’ll check the schedule.

  FRANNY. These are my favorite cousins. We’re really close. And they’re really fun.

  JAMES. Oh yeah?

  FRANNY. Yeah, they’re just—crazy—and—heh, heh (laughing as if remembering something really fun), really fun. There was this one time … well … nothing’s coming to me … it’s hard to describe. But take my word for it.

  JAMES. Well, like I said (gets up, pats her on head), if it works with the schedule.

  FRANNY. So, maybe then?

  JAMES. (wandering off, perhaps to smoke cigarette) You got it, babe.

  “He’s coming—probably—yes. If he isn’t working.”

  “He’s coming, or he’s probably coming?” Jane says, narrowing her eyes.

  “Jane. He’s a working actor.”

  “They don’t go to weddings?”

  “Working actors work.”

  “Well, I’ll go with you if something comes up for old Scarfy. I always have a blast at those Finnegan things.”

  “Jane, no, please. He doesn’t always wear a scarf.”

  “Yes he does. I saw him.”

  “Once. You only saw him that one time we rehearsed at the apartment.”

  “It’s a gut feeling.”

  “You can’t nickname him. He’s a real person, not a joke person.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. Only a real person would try to shake hands with my best friend’s foot.”

  “Jane, you’re not explaining it right. It was very romantic, and—”

  Thankfully, our steaming bowl of bright yellow melted cheese with flecks of green chiles arrives.

>   “Listen,” she says, dipping a chip into the creamy depths. “You’re the one with the brand-new personality. I’m still the same old Jane.”

  “Here’s to that,” I say. And our salt-rimmed margarita glasses meet in the middle with a clink.

  19

  You have three messages.

  BEEEP

  Frances, it’s your father. I renewed your subscription to The New Yorker. Also, I don’t mean to nag, but I’m just reminding you to call me about the wedding. Will you be taking the train? We’re starting Crime and Punishment this week, one of my favorites, as you know. Reread it if you need a reminder that things could be worse. You’re not in prison, only in show business.

  BEEEP

  Hello, this message is for Frances Banks. I’m calling from Girl Friday Temps. We’ve reviewed your résumé, and we’re sorry, but we aren’t able to place you at this time. You don’t seem to have any office skills whatsoever, and we aren’t hiring receptionists right now. Feel free to check back with us in a few months or if you’re able to add office experience, Windows 95, or typing to your résumé.

  BEEEP

  Hey, baby. Wow, what a night! I’m just sitting here thinking about you … Damn, girl. So (cigarette exhale), catch you later, okay?

  BEEEP

  I have to smile, since I learned very quickly that “Catch you later, okay?” means there’s almost a 100 percent chance we’ll be seeing each other later. Ninety percent at least. It’s James’s way of making plans.

  The only thing is, while I’ve been spending all these intense, giddy, sexy evenings with him, staying up late and sleeping past noon, it seems as though all the regular waitressing jobs in Manhattan have disappeared. The temporary gigs I’ve always done in the past to fill in the cracks haven’t been steady enough, I’ve had a few commercial auditions but no callbacks, and I’m pretty sure Niagara has stopped airing entirely. I desperately need a job. There have been no weddings to cater, either, so I’ve turned to picking up lunches, but lunches pay the least because no one tips, and the hourly wage stinks because the shifts are so short.

  It’s better than nothing, though, so I wash my regular uniform—a white button-down shirt and polyester black pants—every night and I call in every morning, both hoping I’ll get a shift and hoping I won’t, because the shifts—mostly held in soulless, musty corporate conference rooms—are so miserable. They keep promising me things will pick up when wedding season starts in June, but I need a break now.

  I haven’t had to call my father for money yet. But it’s getting close to that time.

  I literally cross my fingers as I wait on hold while they check what’s available for today, hoping for I’m not sure what. Just not the worst-case scenario.

  “Franny?”

  “Yes?”

  “So, all we have is a buffet lunch at United Electric—it’s in Midtown. Two servers. Just setup, breakdown, and beverage. Want it?”

  This is almost the worst, but not quite. It’s one step up from bus-boy. You set up giant chafing dishes full of brown slop that the office workers help themselves to, buffet-style, and take their drink orders, then stand in the back of the room until they finish and it’s time to clear the dishes. It’s hardly even waitressing. Only one thing could make it worse.

  “Black and white?”

  “No, sorry, their uniform.”

  This is the worst, the absolute worst, the most humiliating level of all. I can picture the polyester dress, worn by hundreds before me, in a drab color and shapeless no-size-fits-anyone. But then I picture the number in my bank account.

  “Okay, I’ll take it.”

  “Also, it says bring pantyhose and a hairnet.” She must be able to hear me take a deep, sad breath.

  “Better luck tomorrow,” she says.

  I thought I left the apartment in plenty of time, but the train stopped between two stations for the usual unexplained reason, and all my nylons had holes in them so I had to stop at a drugstore on the way, and the only color they had was a burnt orange not found in actual human flesh. I arrive late, and the only other server with me is clearly one of the regular career lunch ladies who looks like she’s worked there for a thousand years. She doesn’t introduce herself or bother to ask my name.

  “Hurry up, hurry up,” she says to me brusquely. “These trays don’t lift themselves.”

  I change as fast as I can into the bulky brown uniform, made of some fabric that doesn’t breathe, and by the time I’m lighting the butane warmers, I’m already in a sweat. At least there’s no one here to see me, or to care what I look like.

  “Franny? Franny, is that you?”

  I turn and see an attractive woman in a dark tailored suit. The voice is familiar, but I don’t recognize the face at first.

  “I’m sorry, do I know—”

  And then it hits me. It’s Genevieve. Genevieve Parker, who lived on my dorm floor when she was a senior and I was a junior. Genevieve, who was always in her room working, but would leave the door open and offer you coffee if you stuck your head in. Sweet, smart Genevieve. She was that category of friend from college who was a happy constant in my daily life, but for some reason we never kept in touch. I didn’t recognize her at first because it’s been a few years, and because she appears to have lost about thirty pounds.

  “Oh my God! Genevieve!” I put down the metal tray I’m holding and give her a hug. Her nails look recently manicured, and her hair smells like expensive shampoo from a salon. “You look great! What are you doing here?”

  “I was just hired as a junior associate. I work here now.”

  “Well, how about that? I work here, too!” I smile and gesture grandly around the shabby room, as if I’m proud to own the place. “Voilà!” I add lamely. I put my hand up to wipe a bead of sweat that has started trickling down my forehead, and my fingertips graze the elastic of the hairnet. I had forgotten for a moment what I must look like. I look down at my uniform and my face starts to burn. I see Genevieve’s eyes take it all in, and I’m overwhelmed by embarrassment. “I mean, this isn’t my regular … I’m just temping. I do work here, but just for today.”

  “Sure, yeah, of course!” Genevieve says brightly. “I mean, I practically just got out of law school myself, and only recently … well!”

  She trails off, struggling to compare our situations, to find a way to show they’re similar, but I can see the gap between us as if we were standing on either side of a massive canyon. I’ve been on my own timeline, but now I’m looking at the results of a regular person’s life plan, and the reality is a little shocking. Regular people go to law school and graduate and get a job and get a promotion and get a better job. In the years since college, Genevieve became a junior associate who gets waited on in conference rooms, while I played Snow White in elementary school auditoriums, and somehow became the person who waits on people with real jobs.

  “So,” she says, her smile undiminished. “You’re still doing the acting thing?”

  “Yep. Yeppers,” I say, and put my hands on my hips like I’m a brown-polyester-uniformed superhero.

  “And it’s … it’s going well?” Genevieve says, a little tentatively.

  “Yes, it’s going—” and, out of nowhere, I start to laugh. “It’s so good—I’m so successful that—” I try to speak, but I can’t even finish my sentence. Suddenly, the situation is totally hilarious. Suddenly, I’m thrilled to be standing in my grungy costume that’s in such stark contrast to Genevieve’s elegantly besuited one, because nothing could be funnier than being dressed in a hideous hairnet and burnt orange nylons, being asked sweetly by an old friend how my career is going. I’m covering my mouth with the back of my hand, cracking up but trying to control myself so that I don’t attract the attention of my surly co-worker, who fortunately has disappeared for the moment, but then Genevieve starts giggling, too, and we’re instantly transformed back into college girls living on the same floor who’ve turned punchy from too much studying and lack of sleep. Finally,
we pull ourselves together.

  “It’s really good to see you, Gen,” I say, dabbing under my eyes. “It’s not as bad as it looks, I swear.”

  “Honestly, Franny, I know you’re fine. All the stuff you did in school—you’re so talented—there’s no way you won’t make it.”

  “Aw, thanks.” I can see my lumbering cohort down at the far end of the hall pushing a tray of glassware toward us. “Shoot, I should go.”

  “Catch me up—just quickly,” Genevieve says. “Do you see anybody? Anyone from school?”

  “I see a lot of Jane—we’re roommates in Brooklyn.”

  “Oh, great! Tell her I said hello.”

  “Yeah, and, uh, let’s see, we were seeing Elisa and Bridget a fair amount, but Elisa’s on a kibbutz, and Bridget had kind of a—”

  “Yes, I heard,” Genevieve says, with a conspiratorial frown.

  “But she’s okay now. She teaches Jazzercise.”

  Genevieve smiles. “I heard that, too.”

  “And, well, I’m sure you know that Clark ended up in Chicago. Even though we’re still in touch.”

  Something passes across her face. “Are you?” she says, nodding delicately. “So you’ve—you’ve spoken with him recently?”

  “Well, I guess it’s been a few weeks, or gosh, maybe longer. I owe him a call, in fact. We’re each other’s ‘backup plans,’ as dumb as that sounds, and he called—”

  “Franny,” Genevieve says with a strange sharpness in her voice. “Oh. I thought you’d—you know, Clark and I, we actually overlapped at the University of Chicago. Just by one year, but …”

  Something small and cold grips my heart. Something I can’t quite name.

  “Oh, right!” I say, too happily, smiling a little too hard. “Of course—you went there, too. I forgot!”