Hard Feelings (12 page)

“Fuck you,” I said.

I was losing control now, outside myself.

Rudnick stood up and came around the desk to face me. He was probably hoping he’d be able to intimidate me with his size, the way he used to. But now I was taller than him. He had forgotten this.

“Look, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you or what you think you’re doing here, but if you don’t get the hell out of here right now I’m calling security.”

I shut the door so no one else could hear what was going on. When I turned back around, Rudnick was holding the telephone receiver up to his ear and had started dialing.

“Put the fucking phone down,” I said.

He ignored me.

“I said put it down.”

Now he was looking at me. “I told you to leave.”

“I know what you did to me, you fucking son of a bitch,” I said.

I heard a faint voice on the other end of the line, saying, “Hello,” and then Rudnick hung up.

He continued to stare at me for what seemed like a very long time, but it might have only been a second or two, then he said calmly, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” I said. I wasn’t
there
anymore. I was just a body with a voice coming out of it. I heard myself say, “You know exactly what I’m fucking talking about, you perverted fucking bastard.”

Rudnick looked blank-faced, pretending to be completely confused. “Look, I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, or what’s going on in your head—”

“ ‘You’re gonna feel it.’ Do you remember saying that to me? Do you remember what you did to me afterwards?”

He was staring at me, still playing dumb.

“You’re gonna feel it?” he said, as if he had no idea what I was talking about.

“How about chasing me around your Ping-Pong table?” I said. “How about pinning me down on the fucking couch?”

“Look, if you want to avoid a nasty scene, you can just turn around and leave here right now—”

“I’m not going anywhere until you admit what you did to me.”

“What did I do to you?”

“You know exactly what you did.”

“Look, I don’t know what kind of problems you’re having in your life right now,” he said as if he were speaking to an insane person, “but I’m not the answer. You obviously need help. So why don’t you do yourself a favor and get the hell out of here?”

“Admit it,” I said. “Admit it or I’m not going anywhere.”

He reached back toward his desk, trying to get to the phone, but I stopped him, grabbing his shoulder from behind. He stuck out an arm to push me back, and the feel of his hand, pressing against my chest, set me off. I pushed him away and he stumbled backwards onto his desk. There was a loud noise—probably a paperweight falling onto the floor. I was yanking on the phone cord, but he wouldn’t let go of the receiver. Then the cord suddenly freed and my momentum forced me backwards into someone who had just entered the room. Before I had time to think, huge dark-skinned arms were wrapped around my chest and a deep, angry voice was saying, “Calm down—just calm the fuck down, asshole.”

The guy holding me back was a big black guy, apparently a maintenance worker in the building. Rudnick, with sweat covering his reddened face, ordered the man to throw me out of the office. As the man led me out, I yelled back at Rudnick, “You child-molesting bastard! You son of a bitch!”

The maintenance worker stood with me by the elevator, making sure I got on.

I walked downtown in the rain. Crossing Forty-second Street, I realized I had left my umbrella in Rudnick’s office. It wasn’t raining as hard as it had been this morning, but I had walked more than ten blocks and my suit was soaked. I continued walking downtown at a steady pace.

At Twenty-third Street, I veered onto Broadway, and I continued walking through the Village. It was raining hard again and my feet were sore, but I felt like I needed to keep moving. I was still worked up from the scene in Rudnick’s office—I realized that I had probably gone into shock—and I was afraid that if I didn’t work off my excess stress and anxiety I’d wind up craving a drink.

I had to pee, so I stopped in a church on Broadway and Tenth Street. After I went to the bathroom, I decided to rest and I sat down in one of the pews near the back. Organ music was playing at a low volume. There were several people scattered around the church, praying. An old woman sat alone to my left. A shawl was wrapped around her head and she was crying, rocking slowly back and forth. I stared at Jesus on the cross. Sometimes I thought that the idea of God existing was absurd, like believing in Santa Claus. Other times, I’d think about all the intelligent people in the world who believed in God—scientists, world leaders, scholars— and wonder how it was possible that all these people could be wrong.

When I was a kid, my mother used to drag me to church all the time. My father never liked the idea of my mother “forcing religion” on me, but my mother had more serious problems with my father. The real reason she went to church so often—besides Sundays, she went at least a few days during the week—was because she knew my father was cheating on her during his long business trips and she didn’t know how else to handle it. I didn’t figure out what was going on until I was about ten years old, when my friend Shawn told me that the little balloons we had been stealing from my father’s suitcase were actually rubbers. Then I started eavesdropping on my father’s hushed phone calls that he had only when my mother wasn’t home, and I heard him telling some woman named Doris how sexy she was and how badly he wanted to be with her. After my parents finally divorced, my father never called me on my birthday and he tried to weasel out of paying child support.

Then I remembered all the times my father used to talk to Michael Rudnick on the street. My father liked Rudnick and often commented on what a “great, bright kid” he was. One time, I’d just come home from school and I saw my father and Rudnick, talking and laughing in Rudnick’s driveway. It was during the period Rudnick was inviting me down to his basement to play Ping-Pong, but it never occurred to me to tell my father what was going on. Maybe I was just confused and didn’t understand what was happening. Or maybe it was my fault—maybe if I’d told on Rudnick right away he would’ve been punished a long time ago. But how could I blame myself? I was just a kid. I was naive and afraid and I wanted to be liked. I already knew my father didn’t like me, and Rudnick was so smooth and calculating that he used this against me. Rudnick knew I was vulnerable, that he could manipulate me however he wanted.

I stared at Jesus for another half-hour or so, then I got up, passing the old woman who was still praying out loud, and went back out into the rain.

I had a big, painful blister on the bottom of my right foot. After soaking the foot in warm water in the bathtub for a while, I covered the blister with a Band-Aid and hobbled into the living room and settled in front of the TV.

It was about three-thirty in the afternoon. I’d walked all the way downtown, through Chinatown and the Wall Street area, to the Seaport, and back uptown on First Avenue. I was physically and mentally drained. I turned on the TV to some game show and fell right asleep.

I didn’t wake up until Paula walked into the living room and Otis started barking.

“Hello,” Paula said.

Still involved in a dream in which Paula and I were laughing, sitting next to each other on lounge chairs in the backyard of the house where I grew up in Brooklyn, her cold, angry tone confused me. Then I remembered the events of the past two days and I wished I were back in my happy dream.

“Hi,” I said weakly.

Paula disappeared into the bedroom and I lay back down and started to doze. I had started to dream again when Paula returned to the living room, wearing shorts and a big white sweatshirt. I was glad to see that the bruise on her cheek was almost gone.

“Did you call A.A. today?”

It’s hard to think fast when you’re half-asleep, but luckily I had the wherewithal to say, “Yes.”

“When are their meetings held?”

“There’s one Monday.”

“Isn’t there one sooner?”

“No.”

Apparently satisfied, Paula went into the kitchen. Thanks to my rapid heartbeat, I was wide awake. I felt bad for lying, but I knew Paula would be upset if I’d told her that I had completely forgotten about A.A.

Paula returned from the kitchen and asked me what I was in the mood for tonight—Chinese or Vietnamese.

“Vietnamese,” I said.

She handed me the Vietnamese menu. I said I’d have the Saigon chicken, and she called the restaurant, ordering a grilled beef salad for herself.

When she got off the phone, Paula said, “I found out some good news today—my sister had a baby.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Boy.”

“Great.”

There was a long, awkward silence. I was thinking how great it would be to have kids, yet how far Paula and I were from even discussing the idea.

Paula went back to the bedroom, then returned when the food arrived. We ate together at the dining table. Paula was slightly more talkative than last night, but things were still far from normal between us.

After dinner, we sat in the living room and watched the end of a bad made-for-TV movie. Paula reminded me that our counseling appointment was at six tomorrow evening, then she said goodnight, in a way that indicated there was no way in hell she was ready to sleep in the same bed with me.

Later on, alone on the couch, I tried to do what I had sworn I was going to do while I was walking home this afternoon— forget Michael Rudnick existed.

I turned off the TV and shut my eyes. I was back in Rudnick’s basement in Brooklyn, underneath him on the black vinyl sofa. He was so heavy, I couldn’t breathe. My face was pressed against the couch and I was crying. Then it was later that day. I was in the bathroom, staring at a wad of bloodstained toilet paper.

The memory ended and I still couldn’t catch my breath. I opened the door to the terrace, but exhaust from Third Avenue made me even queasier. I kneeled on the floor and put my head between my legs, finally starting to recover.

I had forgotten all about the toilet paper. I remembered telling my mother that my butt was bleeding and she had told me, “Don’t worry about it, Richie. You probably just wiped too hard.”

I feared that if I returned to the couch I would have another terrifying flashback, so I sat in the reclining chair and covered myself with the blanket. I couldn’t sleep all night. Toward morning, dazed but wide awake, I came up with a plan.

By seven A.M. I’d already showered and was dressed for work, sitting at the snack bar in the kitchen, finishing a bowl of raisin bran. After breakfast, I went into the bathroom and poked my head into the shower stall where Paula was bathing and told her that I wanted to get a head start at work today and that I’d see her later on, at the marriage counselor’s office. On my way out, I bent over and kissed Otis on top of his head, said, “See ya later, buddy,” and headed out the door.

It was a clear, cool morning. I had plenty of time to get to work so I walked at a comfortable pace, arriving shortly before eight o’clock. I was heading down the corridor toward my cubicle when, from behind me, Bob said, “Richard, can I see you in my office for a sec?”

“Sure,” I said.

I made a U-turn and followed Bob into his office. He’d sounded particularly serious and unfriendly and I wondered what could be wrong. I didn’t think my job was in jeopardy, given that I was finally starting to generate some serious leads.

Bob sat at his desk. He stared at me for a few seconds, like a disappointed parent, then he said, “Where were you yesterday?”

“What do you mean?” I said. “I left a message on your voice mail—didn’t you get it? I took a sick day.”

“So you were home all day?”

I nodded. Bob smiled, shaking his head. I felt like I was the butt of an inside joke.

“Heidi saw you yesterday morning on Madison Avenue. She said you were in a suit and tie. What were you doing, going out on job interviews?”

“What difference does it make where I was?” I said.

“Look, I believe in honesty, all right?” Bob said. “No bullshit, no beating around the bush. Do you want to work for this company or don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then act like it,” Bob said. “You’re not exactly producing as it is, then you start calling in sick, going on job interviews—”

“I wasn’t going on job interviews.”

“Then what were you doing?”

“If you really want to know, I was at a doctor’s appointment.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true.”

“What was wrong with you?”

“I’ll tell you, but it’s kind of embarrassing . . . I have hemorrhoids.”

“Hemorrhoids?”

“Yes, and actually it’s a very bad case. Just sitting here now is killing me.”

“Look, Richard,” Bob said seriously. “I think I’ve been very fair with you since you’ve been here, don’t you? The least you could do is be fair with me in return.”

“I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

“I don’t want to get into a big blaming match, all right? I really don’t care if you have hemorrhoids or if you don’t have hemorrhoids. The bottom line is I need salesmen at this company who want to be here, who won’t let personal issues affect their performance. I know you were upset that we couldn’t service your prospect the other day and that you lost your office, but that’s just the way the ball bounces. You have to go with the flow, be a mensch. You make a very nice base salary here—start showing me you deserve it. I can’t have any negativity on the sales force. Negativity is a disease—one guy has it and before you know it the whole company is infected. I want to kill the disease before it spreads. This is your final warning, Richard. I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but I really hope you start taking this job seriously.”