Your Big Break (2 page)

“Crossroads? Give me a fucking break.” He groans. “Did Lucy tell you to say that?” Before I can answer, he rushes on. “Forget it. I've been putting up with her BS for months now.”

He takes a sip of his cappuccino and we stare at each other.

“She used to be fun, the kind of girl you take to a Red Sox game and then down a few beers with, you know?” he finally says to me.

A CPA enjoying beer and baseball? The way Lucy described Jason, I'd expected a hardcore number-cruncher whose idea of a good time was analyzing cash-flow statements.

“Now she's gone all Gwyneth on me,” Jason continues.

“Gwyneth?”

“As in Paltrow. Lucy's obsessed with wheatgrass shooters and yoga and not eating meat. She wants to find herself.” He rolls his eyes. “She wants to be ‘at one with the universe.'”

I don't have the heart to tell him that what Lucy
really
wants to be at one with is her new acupuncturist, Nate. “Jason doesn't do it for me anymore,” Lucy had confided during our initial consultation. “He's too clingy. And, physically speaking, he's not what I want. Nate, on the other hand . . . Nate's amazing. He practices tantric sex.” And, besides, I'm not sure how much I buy Lucy's hippie vegan routine. Last time I talked to the girl, she was preparing to become an actress.

I shake the image out of my mind. I'm supposed to be giving Jason the cold, hard facts. “Okay, I'll be blunt,” I say, locking my eyes on his. “Lucy's fallen out of love with you.”

He looks like he's about to vomit.

I place a reassuring hand on his arm. “I know this is hard to hear, but, unfortunately, it's the truth.”

“When?” he asks in a voice barely above a whisper. “When did it happen?”

“She's felt this way for several months now.”

“My God,” Jason breathes, his body visibly tense. “And she doesn't even have the nerve to tell me? She sends some friend to do her dirty work?” He swats my hand off his arm.

“She couldn't find the words,” I say. “She can't bear to hurt you.”

The truth is, Lucy's reached the point in the relationship where all she wants is a clean break. And she doesn't have the guts to tell him to his face. Most of our clients are cowards.

“What are you, her spokesperson or something?”

“In a way, yes.” This is always the worst part. There's no easy way to explain what I do, so I usually come right out with it. “Here,” I say, handing Jason my business card.

 
 
“I work for a breakup service. Lucy was afraid things might get complicated, so she hired me to help sort through the details,” I explain as Jason stares blankly at the card.

“She
hired
you to dump me?”

I nod. His jaw drops.

“I didn't even know you could do that!”

“Your Big Break Inc. is one of the first companies of its kind. There was a huge article on us in
The Boston Globe
last month. Did you see it?”

“No, I did not,” Jason snaps. He runs his hands through his hair, the shock on his face palpable. “Let me get this straight—you make your living dumping people?”

“Yes.” And ending friendships. We'll even quit your job for you if the price is right. Your Big Break Inc. offers all sorts of services: Breakup Recovery Kits, personally crafted Dear John letters, counseling phone calls, property and pet retrieval, and guilt gifting (the dumper placates the dumpee by sending him or her specially arranged packages of baked goods, balloons, and massage certificates). Our fees range from $25 to $350—a real bargain, if you think about it.

“This is fucking unbelievable!” Jason exclaims loudly. A few people turn to stare.

“My job is to help you two transition to single life while remaining on good terms.” He seems too stunned to speak, so I continue. “Lucy had some things she wanted to tell you, and she felt it best to put them in a letter.”

I give Jason the envelope and he sets it down on the table. “I'll read it later,” he mumbles.

In actuality, every word of the letter was written by me. I interviewed Lucy extensively about why she wanted to end things, and then reworded her answers into what I hope is a concise, heartfelt good-bye note. It's a tough balance. You have to be straightforward and honest, while letting them down easy. I pick up my duffel bag. “Lucy also wanted me to give you these,” I say, holding it out to him.

Jason glances at the bag suspiciously.

“Go on, take it,” I prod. “It won't bite.”
But it may sting a bit
.

He unzips it and peers inside, pulling out Your Big Break Inc.'s official Breakup Recovery Kit, which I prepared for him this morning. There are a few standard items that go into every box: a list of the fifty best breakup songs, a guide to Boston's least date-friendly restaurants (the goal is to keep the dumpee away from as many happy couples as possible), a selection of counseling resources, and a mix of humorous and serious articles about getting over a broken heart.

Each Breakup Recovery Kit is tailor-made to fit the individual who's receiving it. We add as many little extras—aka
guilt gifts
—as the budget allows. In Jason's case, Lucy sprung for a pair of tickets to a Red Sox game and a DVD of
Die Hard
.

Jason digs through the duffel bag, locating a copy of
Under the Table & Dreaming
. “My Dave Matthews CD!” he exclaims. “I've been looking for this forever.” He retrieves a boxed set of
The Sopranos
DVDs, a framed photo of the once-happy couple, and a dog-eared guidebook about northern California. “This was our first big trip together,” he says, looking pained. “I took Lucy to San Francisco for her thirtieth birthday. I told her I loved her in front of the Golden Gate Bridge.” His voice is quavering.

“Jason,” I begin, “do you need me to—”

He holds up a hand to silence me. “No, I can do this.” He continues digging through the bag, taking stock of everything. “I see she's kept all the jewelry I've given her.”

They always do
.

Jason narrows his eyes. “You must get some sick pleasure out of dumping me. For her,” he clarifies.

I've heard this one before. “Believe me, nothing could be further from the truth.”

“That's crap. Isn't this what you do? Profit off of other people's misery?”

“I'm a communications specialist,” I say. “I help facilitate a smooth ending to a troubled relationship.”

“And how many ‘smooth endings' have you facilitated this month, Dani? Do tell.”

If you include all the kiss-off phone calls, e-mails, and in-person meetings, I believe the total comes to thirty-three. But who's counting? “Jason, my intentions are to help you. Lucy still cares about you, but she thinks you're better off as friends.”

“That's pathetic.
She's
pathetic for hiring someone to dump me.”

“Believe me, there are worse ways to break up with people.”

“Yeah, right.” He snorts. “What do you know?”

“A lot, actually. This is my area of expertise,” I remind him. “I've seen people pull all kinds of breakup moves: leaving their lover on Valentine's Day, a birthday, at Christmas.”

There are dozens of crappy ways to dump someone: via e-mail, cell phone text message, AOL Instant Messenger, postcard, or Post-It; on an answering machine; through a friend; over dinner. But by far the most popular method seems to be the duck-and-run.

“Most people pull the old ‘drop off the face of the earth' routine,” I tell Jason. “They decide to dump someone, and, rather than tell the person, they just avoid them and hope they'll take the hint. At least Lucy's being straightforward.” I smile sympathetically. “I wish
my
last boyfriend had hired someone to break things off.”

Jason looks skeptical.

“The way he did it was publicly humiliating.”

For the first time since we've met, Jason relaxes a bit. “Why, what'd he do? Take out a billboard?”

“You're not far off. He dumped me on the radio.”

I'm leading into The Story—my own personal breakup horror tale that is sure to put Jason at ease. All of the employees of Your Big Break Inc. have one, and we pull them out when things get sticky. The only difference is mine's one hundred percent true. My two coworkers embellished theirs.

“Did your boyfriend call up and dedicate 'N Sync's
Bye Bye Bye
to you? No, wait, let me guess! It was
Fuck Off
by Kid Rock.

I give him a tight smile; that
is
kind of funny. “It was Ben Folds Five's
Song for the Dumped
. My ex-boyfriend was a DJ at WBCN,” I say, citing Boston's biggest rock station. “He broke up with me on-air during the drive-time show.”

In the eleven months since it happened, I must have told The Story a hundred times. Now it almost seems as though it happened to someone else. “I hadn't heard from Garrett for over two weeks.” I lean across the table and lower my voice conspiratorially. “I'd been leaving messages at his house, calling him at work, the whole nine yards. Then I turn on my radio one day after work and—boom! There he is, talking about how he'd gotten laid the night before by some Hooters waitress.”

“He
obviously
wasn't referring to you!”

My hands instinctively fly up to cover my less-than-ample breasts, and Jason's cheeks turn pink.

“Oh, God, I didn't mean it like
that
. Nothing I say ever comes out right.” He smashes his face against his hands. “It's like my foot is surgically implanted in my mouth. That's probably why I can't keep a girlfriend.” He gets really quiet, and I'm afraid he might start crying.

“Everybody has failed relationships,” I say. “Think of them as practice runs. They prepare you for the real deal. Not that your relationship with Lucy wasn't genuine,” I throw in, before I get myself into trouble.

Jason laughs. “That'd fix her, wouldn't it? Lucy always likes to think of herself as a star player in everybody's lives. She's such a drama queen. She'd hate it if I considered her a ‘practice girlfriend. '”

I can see he's starting to head off down the bitterness track, so I quickly shift the topic back to The Story. I find it calms people and distracts them. “So, anyway, about Garrett and the Hooters waitress . . .”

“Ah, yes,” Jason says, brightening. “You were getting to the good part.”

Why do we get so much comfort out of other people's misfortunes?
I push the thought aside and continue. “After he made the announcement about his Hooters hookup, one of the other DJs said, ‘Dude, I thought you had a serious girlfriend.' Garrett laughed and replied, ‘Not anymore. I dumped her weeks ago.' Which, of course, was news to me. Then he cued up the Ben Folds Five song.”

“Ouch! What did you do?”

I shrug. “What
could
I do? At first I thought it was a joke, but when I talked to him off the air, I learned he was serious. I cried and screamed and shredded pictures of him. I left rambling messages on his answering machine. I even threw a drink in his face when he came over to drop off my stuff. I was totally nuts for a little while.”

“Sounds like a normal response to me.”

I could tell him about the five stages of getting dumped, but I want to wrap up this job. “Getting back to the matter at hand, Lucy gave me a list of things she left at your place.” I pull it out of my purse and hand it to him. “I'll need to arrange a time to pick these up.”

His face falls. “She's actually doing this, isn't she?”

“I'm so sorry, Jason. I really am.”

“Please,” he begs. “I don't want to do this.”

“Lucy's mind is made up—”

“Talk to her for me!” he interrupts. “Tell her I'll do anything! I'll give up cigarettes. I'll meditate! I'll take up Tan Chi!”

“Tai Chi,” I correct.

“Whatever! I just want her back. I'll completely overhaul my life if that's what it takes!”

“You shouldn't change yourself for someone,” I caution. “It never works.”

“Dani,” he says, glancing around to make sure no one's listening. “You don't understand how much I love this girl. All I want is a second chance to prove myself to her. I don't think that's too much to ask.”

“I'm afraid Lucy's mind is made up.”

He places his hand gently on mine. “Then help her
un
make it.”

“I can't.”

Jason draws in a deep breath. “Will you at least do one favor for me then?”

“That depends.”

“My brother's getting married in a few months down the Cape, and Lucy is supposed to be my date. If I show up alone, my parents will go ballistic. They'll give me the third degree about why we broke up. I come from a large Catholic family—they're already upset that I haven't gotten married and given them grand-children yet.”

For a brief moment, I'm worried he's going to ask me to go with him. Not that he's grossly unappealing, but that would be a serious violation of protocol.

“Convince Lucy to come to the wedding and pretend we're still together,” Jason says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “One last date to really say good-bye.”

“I don't know. . . .”

Craig McAllister, my boss and the founder of Your Big Break Inc., is always citing one of our cardinal rules to me: Do
not
get personally involved with a client. I can hear his voice in my head now, warning me. But how do you break someone's heart—even a stranger's—without getting personally involved?