I was twenty-six years old in 2003, young, strong, virile, and ambitious, a magnet for young women and men. I lived in New York City, studying and performing in the theatre, ostensibly my chosen profession. Though paid sporadically for my craft, I considered myself lucky.
So, I had to supplement my actor’s income with a regular job, a soul-sucking exercise at that point in my life. Every morning, for five days a week, I had to hop aboard three different trains on my way to Jersey City, New Jersey. Jersey City is where Forrest Laboratories is located, a short distance from the Hudson. I worked as a data entry specialist, earning fourteen dollars an hour, an amount barely above minimum wage for a person living in New York City.
Sure, I did not earn a great deal of money, but I was still content, as I was a working actor living in a city that is known for producing excellent, world-class acting talent. New York City is where Denzel Washington, Samuel L. Jackson, Morgan Freeman, and Ving Rhames honed their redoubtable skills on the stage, historically great black actors who became movie stars.
One evening, as a woman friend and I watched Devil in a Blue Dress, starring Denzel Washington, in her apartment, she gushed.
“Denzel is so smooth,” she said, her tongue practically wagging. “Like maple syrup flowing from a tree.”
I folded my arms across my chest and said, “Am I chopped liver then?”
Her right eyebrow quirked upward. “Of course not baby. You are fine too. You remind me of Will Smith in Ali. You have got a cute face and a good body. But Denzel is…Denzel.”
“I can be smooth, too.”
“Then show me how smooth you can be.”
I showed her.
Another woman, Jamie, made life bearable at the day job. She was a dreamer too, as she owned a bar situated next to a convenience store in Brooklyn. The Butterfly moniker was affixed across the bar’s façade.
I spent my Saturday evenings hanging at Butterfly, assiduously working to buttress Jamie’s bottom line by spending my meager earnings on women and drink. One of those women was a friend of Jamie’s, Laura, an “exotic” woman of Russian and Egyptian descent. After sharing a few outings with Laura, I knew that I wanted to be exclusive with her. She was hesitant to accept my entreaty, though, as she was still smarting from the sundering of a long-term relationship with a previous boyfriend. Still, we did not allow a disagreement on relationship status stop us from having fun together.
Jamie and I arrogantly supposed that we were the only two people working at Forest Laboratories with extraprofessional dreams, and this uninformed belief strengthened the bond we shared. Our cubicles were conjoined, a fortuitous happenstance for the two of us since we did not have to venture far to find each other. During a break in the day, we often walked to the outdoor area, where we smoked Marlboro Light cigarettes and talked about our dreams. Still, those thirty minutes were not enough, so we conversed with each other as we performed our data entry duties, our voices traveling over the partition. We seemed never to grow tired of each other.
As employees at Forrest Laboratories, Jamie and I were surrounded by intrigue, as curious coworkers prattled and tittered surreptitiously, often suggesting that we were lovers. We shared an acquaintance with Heather, a tenured employee who suggested that Jamie and I be more discreet and “professional”. Jamie and I, exuding irreverence for these sad, “typical” employees, scoffed at the killjoy, for we were creators, intent on living authentic lives.
One afternoon, Jamie and I stood in front of the building’s façade, boisterously chirping as we smoked our cigarettes. Large windows provided a view into the lobby area, as a procession of employees traipsed across the floor. They looked like your average administrators, middle-aged men dressed in drab suits and boring-looking ties carrying suitcases in their hands.
I shook my head and said, “Look at those poor guys, Jamie.”
After exhaling cigarette smoke into the air, Jamie said, “Which guys are you talking about?”
“Those guys walking across the lobby just now. They are going to the same place in a straight line, all of them one day closer to dying, their dreams unfulfilled.”
“How do you know that they are not living their dreams right now?”
“They can’t be, Jamie. They can’t be.”
“Okay. But why?”
“They just look sad and unfulfilled. There does not seem to be any life inside of them. They are all dressed the same, gray and brown suits and ties,” I said as I considered my outfit, a bright orange and blue combination. My bright orange shirt was form-fitting, hugging my chest, arms, and shoulders. “There is no color in their outfits.”
Jamie threw her head back and laughed. “Their stomachs are hanging over their belts. Flapping up and down.”
“That is what I’m saying! I am never going to be like those dudes. I’d rather die than end up like one of them.”
“You won’t,” said Jamie. “I won’t let you. Jamie and I assumed that our friendship would last forever.
Laura broke up with me at the end of the summer, precipitating my descent into an acute spiral. For a while, I shunned food and sleep as the depression tightened its grip on my soul. I would have fallen further down the abyss if not for Jamie, who proved to be the anchor keeping me tethered to reality. As the days passed, my mood gradually improved. There was some lingering sadness, though, because a beautiful woman had rejected me after just four months — she had given her previous boyfriend, an alcoholic fiend who had psychologically abused her, four freaking years.
A month after enduring the stinging rejection, I was nearly myself again, a byproduct of spending more time together with Jamie, often in the confines of my Harlem apartment. We stayed together in bed sometimes, without engaging in any coital activities. She slept with her back turned toward me, exhibiting her trust while tempting me at the same time. Our bodies were separated by mere millimeters as we exuded in slumber. And early in the morning, when we both began to stir, I turned to stare at Jamie, hoping that our eyes would meet, prompting a stirring of our nether regions. As our eyes locked onto each other, I did see her eyes swim with affection. We refrained from ravaging each other because she was involved with another man, Cleveland, an analyst with Goldman Sachs. She loved Cleveland and I liked Cleveland, as he had invested complete trust in the two of us. Although Jamie and I reveled in an illicit activity, we did not want to hurt Cleveland. More importantly, I assumed that Jamie did not want to risk the friendship, at least not at that particular moment in time.
At the beginning of fall, Jamie and I sat down for dinner at the local bar and grill, situated a few blocks from Forrest Laboratories, our favorite place to decompress after the workday. The food was delicious, the bar was fully stocked, and the servers were cordial and efficient. Moreover, the place teemed with members of the upper echelon, individuals earning six figures donning designer clothes. As an aspiring power player, Jamie liked to be amongst them. We sat a few feet from the bar, where Jamie would often focus her attention, as she was eager to poach ideas for her place. Jamie was an unrepentant and assiduous hustler, constantly scheming even when it was time to relax.
We talked about work as we scarfed burgers and drank our beers, the conversation spanning across a variety of topics. After the server took our plates away, Jamie let out a sigh, interlaced her fingers, and pointed her eyes until they penetrated my forehead.
“What?” I said.
“I got a phone call last night,” Jamie said.
“You got a phone call?”
“You look skeptical.”
“Because you said you got a phone call, which is not an unusual thing, I think.”
Jamie’s eyes were slitted as she smirked. “You are being a smart ass.”
With my head shaking, I said, “No I am not. I just responded to your statement with a question. It wasn’t supposed to come across as smart.”
“You said that a phone call is not unusual. You were being a smart ass.”
Silence fell as I considered Jamie’s response. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m guessing that this was a very important phone call.”
“I think it was.”
“Okay.”
“Laura is the one who called me.”
Outwardly, I projected a mask as my heart thudded beneath my chest. “Oh. What did you all talk about?”
“Nothing in particular,” said Jamie, flashing a smile. “We just talked for a bit. It had been a while since she and I had talked.”
My heart collapsed onto the floor and split into pieces, mimicking a glass vase. Hope drained like a liquid. “Hmm.” I could no longer occlude my upset, manifesting itself through a spontaneous frown. Jamie seemed to be unmoved.
“Are you coming to the bar tomorrow night?” Jamie asked.
Of course, she wanted me parked at one of her bar stools, for I was one of the few customers whom she could count on for repeated business. The bar was struggling, hemorrhaging funds like blood from a gaping wound, and I knew that she was worried about the place. Still, I wished she could have been more tactful.
I sighed and said, “I’ll be there.”
The next evening, I stood just to the left of the entryway of Jamie’s bar, transfixed by the seemingly sullen Laura. She could feel me staring at her, which prompted her to look in my direction. She attempted to project a kind of nonchalance, affirming that she was not there because of me. A performance, I thought. She came because she knew I would be at Butterfly, the place where we engaged in our first kiss. She wanted to see me, though she was not going to make this reunion easy. I was going to have to get to know her once again, a proposition I deemed unfair because she was the one who dumped me…over the phone.
Jamie stood behind the bar, occasionally serving drinks to patrons. She had expressed her distress to me earlier in the evening. The area was nearly empty, drained of the propulsive energy that used to drive the place. Cleveland was there, looking dapper in a long-sleeve shirt and slacks. Sitting next to Laura was Jamie’s other boyfriend, a construction worker/corner boy. These two men appealed to different aspects of Jamie’s character, and each man became infatuated with the character she chose to portray. The two of them being there meant she could not readily choose a side of herself to embrace, leaving her temporarily paralyzed behind the bar. She had told both men about me, though, her devoted work companion.
Jamie, who was quite possibly my best friend, needed me at that exact moment. However, I wanted to talk to Laura more than I wanted to save Jamie. I knew I would do anything to bring Laura back into my life, including giving up my acting dreams. I had in my possession a business management degree from Boston University, one of the nation’s preeminent undergraduate/graduate colleges. I could use the degree to obtain an office job that demanded more of my time and attention, a job that required that I dress up in a drab suit and carry a suitcase. Moreover, it had been Laura’s dream to have children soon, a desire that I had treated as an anathema before seeing her that evening. I could make her dream a reality, one in which she and I raise three — she wanted two girls and a boy — children, eventual stewards of my heritage and ancestry.
I took a hesitant step forward before Jamie, as quick as a cat, approached me. She grabbed my forearm and hissed in my ear: “I need to get out of here! Come with me!”
After a second of excruciating indecision, I chose to follow Jamie outside, because she had been there for me when I was at my lowest point. What could be so important? I thought. Why did she need me right then?
Jamie set a brisk pace, making it hard for me to follow her. She stopped in front of the corner store, our spot for smoking cigarettes. She drew two Marlboro Lights from the carton. “You want one?”
“No. I’m good,” I said. “What’s happening right now?”
“Don’t you remember me telling you? Cleveland and Rafael are both here, within a few feet of each other.”
“Yeah, but they don’t know about each other, right?”
“Yes. But what if one of them tries to approach me?”
“Alright. Then just stay out here for a while. I need to go back in — Laura is there.”
“So that is what you are about? I’m dealing with this crisis and all you can think about is what you need?”
Exasperated, I sighed and threw my hands up into the air. “Jamie?”
“Just stay out here and have a smoke with me.” Jamie stepped forward and offered another cigarette, which I accepted. I pulled the lighter from my pocket, sparked a fire, and lit both of our cancer sticks. “You can go back in later.”
“All right,” I responded. “One cigarette.”
Jamie attempted to commiserate as we smoked, as we were both caught in what we believed were existential crises. My foot was tapping on the cement as we spoke, a sign of my impatience and exasperation. I took one last drag of my cigarette, dropped the butt on the cement, and stamped it flat. “I’m going back in,” I said. “Are you going to be all right out here?”
Jamie let out a long exhale. “I’ll be fine.”
“Good,” I said. I spun around and started walking, increasing my cadence as I approached the entryway to the bar. As I crossed the threshold, I focused my eyes on an empty barstool, prompting another collapse of my heart. Laura had abandoned her spot. A quick reconnaissance of the entire area, left sparse by an exodus of customers, confirmed my initial impression.
I had lost my second chance.
Monday arrived too quickly, for I was still lamenting over my lost opportunity. Jamie, sensing my profound upset, followed me around the office, repeatedly asking if I was feeling all right. Normally, I would appreciate Jamie expressing her concern for me, the friend she had claimed to love. It felt like she was overdoing it though, as if trying to compensate for something.
Fake.
As we sat together for lunch at the Bar and Grill, my agitation compounding with each passing minute, I considered calling Laura right there. My cell phone was burning a hole in my pocket, a product of the need. Once again, Jamie could sense that my mind was roving. “You seem to be very far away,” she said.
“Huh?” I said.
Looking offended, Jamie said, “I said that it looks like your mind is somewhere else.”
“Oh, yeah. I got a lot on my mind.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“What?”
“I said what are you thinking about?”
A sudden surge of heat escaped my stomach to flow toward my temples, a byproduct of being gobsmacked by the temerity and impertinence. Who did she think she was? She was not my wife, my mother, or even my girlfriend. She already had a long-term boyfriend that she could probe and pester; and my thought was that Cleveland, a taciturn and complex man by nature, would have satiated her need to know everything about a paramour. Still, Cleveland left her wanting and unsatisfied intellectually, thus precipitating her obsession with me.
“I’m thinking about…”
“Yes?”
“A missed opportunity. I’m thinking about missed opportunities.” I sighed before hunching forward and interlacing my fingers, and hoped that I was proffering an impression that belied my true intentions. “You don’t see them sometimes, even when they are in front of you.”
Once again, I sighed, before looking up. Jamie was staring at me, her eyes soft and wet. “Eze?” Jamie said.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think that someone deserves a second chance after doing something horrible?”
“If the person is honest and truly remorseful, then yes, I believe that person deserves a second chance. The person deserves redemption.”
Buttressing her face with her right hand, Jamie sighed deeply and smiled. Of course, I wanted more from her. Speak the truth, I thought. I expected her to tell me why she called me out of the bar, a move geared toward upending my chance at redemption with Laura. Instead, she just smiled wider and sort of melted in her seat. I wanted to projectile vomit in her face.
As the afternoon progressed, I started to feel worse. Because at age twenty-six it was my first time absorbing a betrayal from someone that I thought I could trust with my life. When it became too much, I was enveloped by a pernicious sadness, precipitating a sort of convulsion. I started to sob in my cubicle, though I was still cognizant of being in the workplace.
“I can’t believe she did this to me,” I said before abruptly exiting my swivel chair. I headed for the elevator, desperate for some separation from Jamie, who I suddenly regarded as my chief antagonist. Co-workers stared in my direction as I walked by, wondering what was wrong with a traditionally easy-going employee.
Broken-hearted and suddenly bereft, I collapsed onto the concrete. An obtuse Jamie followed me, her smile askew. She halted her approach a few feet from where I sat, as she was unsure of how to console me. She called my name twice, but I ignored her.
The best thing about the day job became the worst thing as the fall season progressed. I had stopped talking to Jamie, but I could not escape her presence, which is what I wanted. Unfortunately, she was not going to quit her day job because she needed the money to support her flailing business venture. I was not prepared to quit my job and relegate myself to a starving artist. Therefore, I did my best to ignore her, which was difficult because she sat in the adjoining cubicle, clacking computer keys and making my teeth grind together.
The theatre provided a necessary outlet, a safe space where I could express all of my emotions, manifesting themselves as a swirling maelstrom inside of my stomach. I had secured a semi-permanent spot with a small Manhattan theatre troupe in October 2003. Granny Mae, an elderly black woman and veteran of the New York theatre scene, led the troupe while consistently espousing her belief in my acting talent. We had not known each other for long, but I felt comfortable in her presence, and deemed her as wise.
I’d met my grandmother once before she passed away during my childhood. Granny Mae seemed to fill a void I was not conscious of until I met her. Unfortunately, a life-long smoking habit had compromised her health, blackening her lungs and sapping the wind from them. Nevertheless, she still smoked her cigarettes, often more than one carton per day.
Granny Mae consistently doled out advice, the majority of which was pertinent. I eagerly heeded her tutelage, except when she focused on Laura and the day job. She care for the way Laura treated me, and she did not care for my job. During a rehearsal, as she sat in her tattered easy chair, she looked up at me and said, “You’ve got talent, Eze. But your focus is all over the place.”
“I am focused Ms. Mae,” I said. I always come to you prepared and ready.”
“I’m talking about your career focus honey. What do you want to be?”
“An actor. I want to be an actor.”
“Okay, then. So why are you focused on this girl and that job? Those things are not why you came to New York City. You came here because you wanted to become a professional actor. All of these distractions are going to take you away from that goal. Do you remember who you want to be honey? Because if you are going to let that girl and the job take away your focus, you are not going to achieve what you want. Let them two things go.”
Grannie Mae’s advice was a punch to the gut, even if it was what I needed to hear. Of course, she was correct in her assertion. If I were to settle for a mundane career in the office, thereby giving up my coveted acting career for a woman, who would I be? “I understand what you’re saying Ms. Mae. I’ve got it all sorted out.”
“All right then. You can do this if you focus.”
Still, my bank account was inexorably contracting, a byproduct of repeated trips to the Chinese eatery — I did not cook — situated across the street from my apartment building, and my penchant for cigarettes. Moreover, rent was not cheap in New York City, especially for someone making thirty thousand dollars per year. And crucially, and perhaps most importantly, I could not allow Jamie to win the fight she’d started. She and I were engaged in a cold war, an existential struggle to determine a survivor. Who was going to receive an offer for permanent employment at Forest Laboratories? Could I secure my new dream, which was to win the love of Laura? Jamie was trying to snatch away a source of livelihood and a reason for living, potentially leaving me with no job and a broken heart. I could not let that happen.
I could not let Grannie Mae know of my true plans, a shame because I had come to trust her before making my fatalistic decisions, pursuing a longshot opportunity with an ambivalent employer and love from a woman who seemed so far away. Nevertheless, I was still going to continue working with Mae, even if I could not trust her with my secrets. New York City, a sprawling metropolis containing eight million people, became a very lonely place.
I called Laura’s phone as soon as I arrived at my apartment, my heart rate accelerating with the succession of each ring. Suddenly, a long pause, and I braced myself for a greeting from Laura, because she was horrible over the phone. Instead, I was greeted by a voice recording, prompting an exhale, because nerves would have caused me to stutter. I inhaled a breath and then emitted timid words, my voice barely audible in my ears. Through stammers, I said that I would be there for her, and permitted her to tell me to fuck-off if she was inclined. Successive days passed without a phone call from Laura, eliciting a mixed reaction on my part. She had not deigned to call me back, but she had not rejected me outright either. Thus, I decided to call her once a day until she answered, with the hope that she would not take too long of a time to respond.
October bled into November, and I fell into a grueling pattern during these months. Work was brutal, as Jamie and I continued our vicious cold war, using silence as knives. Though we were the only two temporary employees situated at Forest Laboratories, Jamie and I, objectively, were the two most productive employees in our department. I was ranked first, producing work at twice the rate of the permanent employees, while Jamie was rated as a very distant second. Stupidly, I assumed staying atop the rankings and continuing to work hard would propel me forward to my goal. Jamie worked on cultivating relationships with the people who had once been skeptical of her, chatting with them and offering to alleviate some of their workloads.
I had gotten to know most of the people in the department, and correctly perceived them as lacking verve and passion for their work, because they were permanent employees, ensconced in the warmth that emanates from job security. I craved the stability that came from knowing that I would be receiving a substantial raise — permanent employees were paid more than temps — and viable healthcare.
I attended a Thanksgiving Party with a group of creatives, the majority of whom had migrated from the state of Ohio. Clara, my frequent scene partner at acting school, lived in an upper-west side apartment, where the party took place. After we stuffed ourselves with Turkey, mashed potatoes, and gravy, she and I stole away to the apartment balcony. As we leaned against the railing, taking in the city, Clara passed me a cigarette.
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for inviting me to this. I certainly needed this kind of goodness today.”
“Life treating you bad?” said Clara.
“I wouldn’t say “bad”. It is just hard. I’ve got the nine-to-five job and then I’m rehearsing for shows at night, and there is some other drama too.”
“So, the young man is finally learning some things about the world.”
“Whatever. You’re only four years older than I am.”
Clara nudged me with her shoulder and said, “I’m just joking with you.”
“How are you doing?” I said.
“Good. Trying to move things along with my acting career. I have created a website to market my services to agents and producers. I want to take control of my career, you know. I don’t want to have to wait for someone to discover me. And I walk dogs on the side.”
“You walk dogs?”
“I do. It is good money, and I get to make my schedule. I have more time to work on performing and promoting my art.”
“That’s cool. Really cool.”
“Maybe you should look into creating your own website.”
“You’re probably right. I just need to find the freaking time.”
Clara laughed and said, “You are always working hard.”
“I know,” I said sighing.
“And you are extremely talented.”
“Thank you.”
“I remember doing scenes with you at school. You were always so good. Always so very giving and such a great listener.”
“Now you are making me blush.”
Clara and I shared a laugh, which felt somewhat awkward, as I had not had a genuine laugh with anyone for an extended amount of time. She stared at me, cigarette dangling from between her lips. “What are you doing for the rest of the night?”
I sighed and said, “I’ll probably go home after this, relax, and get ready for Saturday. I have to go to work on Saturday.”
“Oh my god, Eze”, said Clara, smacking her free hand against her forehead. “You are working during Thanksgiving weekend?”
“I know. I know.”
We shared a few seconds of silence, a comfortable period, allowing me to reflect on my current journey as I took in the sights of the city. My two years in New York had been chaotic, full of unexpected pitfalls. Islamic terrorists had razed the Twin Towers four months after I’d arrived in the city; my original roommate, a sly and ruthless drug dealer, was murdered while I was touring the country with a theatre troupe — leaving me homeless; I’d recently cycled through a spate of roommates, individuals that I could not count on to pay their portion of the rent on time; and I was locked in an epic battle for survival with my former friend, so close to losing my stable source of income. It was all so stressful, and I was starting to question if I belonged in New York City.
“Come and take a walk with me,” Clara said.
I turned to Clara, who smiled as our eyes met. She extinguished her cigarette on the railing, flicking it onto the concrete below.
“Take a walk with you?” I said as I extinguished my cigarette.
“Yeah. The city is so nice at night and I want to catch up with you. It has been a year since we’ve talked. Let’s get to know each other again.”
Clara and I had spent the previous Thanksgiving holiday in bed together, satiating our appetites for each other. I was more than sure that a meandering jaunt through the city would lead to more vigorous lovemaking between us, and so, I was tempted to say yes to Clara, who had readily expressed her passion for me in and out of the bedroom. Grandma Mae would have probably approved of Clara, because she was focused on securing a career as an actor too. I could have just forgotten about Laura and moved on with my life with Clara, an attractive and smart woman who enjoyed my company.
No. I had to stay faithful to Laura, who could have been anywhere that evening, probably not thinking about me. But she needed to know that I was thinking about her, as I’d been “seeing” her in random places.
“Thank you for offering,” I said, “But I think I’m going to get on home. I’m a little bit tired after eating all that food.”
Clara’s smile became a frown, a reflection of a profound disappointment.
I know, I thought. I was not tired last year.
“I’m sorry for being such a killjoy,” I said. “I’m just not in the right space for a walk right now. Thanks for the invite, the food, and the conversation. I needed it.”
“You’re welcome, Eze,” Clara said. She smiled. She had an enticing smile. “I enjoyed having you here.”
“Can I hug you?”
Clara said, “Of course you can.”
On my way home that evening, I left an angry voicemail on Laura’s phone, an unwise thing for me to do, but I was tired of having to walk on my tiptoes with her. I was willing to give up everything — a career and a possible relationship with Clara — for the slim chance of being with her. Laura had responded with indifference, leaving me to twist in the wind. I had had enough.
Temporary employees were not afforded company key cards, as we were still not classified as essential. After sixteen months of being the best employee, I was still pigeonholed as a second-class hourly worker, somehow unworthy of healthcare and other benefits. I had not thought of the keycard issue before leaving my apartment for Forest Laboratories on Saturday morning.
I had gotten to know the security guard operating at the station, an abnormally large bald man dressed in a green blazer. Despite our cordial relationship, he rebuffed my entreaties for entry. “I can’t let you go by if you don’t have a keycard.”
“Can I use your card?” I asked.
“You know I wish that I could, but I can’t.”
“Well curses,” I said. I sighed heavily, seemingly defeated before the elevator rang, announcing the arrival of Ernie, a bespectacled black man who worked with another section of Forest situated on the same floor. Hope upwelled within me, like new oil from a hole in the ground.
“Hey, Ernie!” I said.
Ernie smiled and waved at me as he approached the security desk. “What are you doing here?” Ernie said. “I thought I was the only one coming in today.” Ernie extended a hand forward, spurring me to take his hand into mine.
“I thought it would be good for me to be here,” I said. “I don’t have a keycard though.”
“Ernie shook his head and said, “How long have you been working there? About a year?”
“More like a year and a half.”
“And they still haven’t given you a keycard, huh?”
“No, they haven’t,” I said.
“I can let you in.”
I turned to the abnormally large security guard. “Is that cool?”
“Go ahead,” he said.
Finally, I thought. A quick rewind took me back to a conversation I’d had with a bartender, who’d confidently told me that a path would open up to a righteous individual. It was who I thought I was, righteous, a man walking an enlightened path, the hand of a divine force pushing me forward. Thoroughly elated, my faith in the eventual arc of the universe was restored, that is, until I caught sight of two women entering the lobby. Upon recognizing the both of them, I shook my head before bowing it forward, resting my chin on my chest.
As I have intimated previously, Jamie worked on cultivating relationships in the workplace, while I relied on dumb luck and divine signals. I had thought that Latrice, the individual walking with Jamie, had harbored some misgivings about my former friend before that Saturday morning. Nevertheless, there they were, traipsing across the lobby floor, the two betrayers. I should have known, I thought. Both of them had told me stories of how they had humiliated and disrespected their significant others. Yeah, they had that in common.
My appearance at Forest was an unpleasant surprise for Jamie, who had assumed that she was more cunning and sneaky than I was. True, she was probably smarter, more experienced, and more conniving than I could ever be. However, I was confident that other forces were guiding me, the metaphysical and perhaps ineluctable kind.
As I attempted to immerse myself in my work, Jamie, sitting in the cubicle attached to mine, seethed. I could feel it, radiating from her as she repeatedly stalked past, jaw tight and eyes slitted, intent on making her presence known to me. I knew I had won that day, prompting a sly smile that I kept hidden from her. Now she knew what it felt like to be surprised, thrown off balance, and swerving after being blindsided by an unexpected action. I stayed in the office for eight hours straight, banging away on those computer keys, padding my already considerable lead.
Two days later, I was in the manager’s office, discussing the holiday weekend with her, though I was anxious to skip the formalities. She was a relatively new manager of the department, replacing the previous supervisor, a woman who openly expressed her favoritism for the only white male member of the data entry team. The new manager was a bespectacled black woman, an individual whom everyone in the office classified as fair.
The manager, Lisa, looked up at me, her eyes roving as she considered my sartorial style. I had recently decided to adopt a more conservative appearance, replacing my bright-colored and form-fitting clothes with muted shirts, slacks, and sweaters.
“I haven’t been here very long,” she said. “But I have noticed the work you have been doing. You are doing a really good job.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Actually, you and someone else have been stepping up recently, which I appreciate.”
Of course, I knew of whom Lisa spoke: Jamie, the second most productive person in the department. I wanted the fact rolling across Lisa’s vision space, like a breaking news chyron. I was the gold standard and Jamie was the silver standard, several lengths behind me. Lisa must have known this.
“And I appreciate the opportunity to work here,” I said.
Lisa nodded her head before saying: “I’m thinking that it is a tie between you and this other person.”
My insides roiled as I rode the trains to my apartment complex. Tied! I thought. She had thought that Jamie and I were tied after reviewing objective evidence that reflected the exact opposite. As the train moved forward and more minutes passed, my anger and disillusionment grew. Still, I could not give in, although I did not know what more I could do.
Immediately after entering my apartment foyer, I grabbed the phone receiver and dialed Laura’s phone number. The phone rang three times before I was hit with another distressing development: a disconnected phone line. Of course, I would have preferred that she’d called and asked me to leave her alone, a request that I would have readily granted. Instead, she just cut me off without warning, and I felt as if one of my vital organs had been excised with a serrated blade. I could not recall experiencing such pain.
Although I was in no condition to function in the office, I boarded the train for Forest Laboratories. Almost immediately after arriving at my desk, I sensed a drastic change, exemplified by Lisa, who, as she walked past my cubicle, fixed me with a furtive, elongated glare. My mind started spinning for seconds. Why was Lisa suddenly so angry with me, her best employee? I turned my head toward the partition as I frantically considered my question. Suddenly, Jamie stopped clicking her keys. She must have sensed me shooting bolts through the cubicle partition, because she launched into an audible titter, confirming my initial suspicion. It was Jaime, now my mortal enemy. She had slithered into Lisa’s office and whispered pernicious lies about me into her ear.
I wanted to punch through the cubicle partition and scream obscenities through the hole, but thought better of it. Instead, I would write a strongly worded and voluminous email to Lisa, informing her of Jamie’s shenanigans and of my intent to sue the company. In the email, I had asked Lisa to keep the correspondence a secret, an action that prompted the exact opposite response.
I turned twenty-seven on December 8, 2003, two days after I’d threatened to sue Forest Laboratories. I should have stayed home that day, but I was not in the right state of mind. Hence, I traveled to work.
Lisa greeted me as soon I stepped out of the elevator, sporting a weird smile. She enthusiastically acknowledged my birthday and told me that the whole department was intent on celebrating my important day with an outing to a nearby restaurant. As she escorted me to my cubicle, heads turned, and I could feel eyes staring holes through my back. Something does not feel right, I thought. As more smiling individuals stopped at my cubicle, making me feel afraid, I seriously contemplated running away from that place. But they kept me confined to my cubicle, acting as prison guards.
They made sure to keep someone at my right and left flank as we walked to the restaurant. The day was as gloomy as my mood. I turned toward the street, coveting an escape route. As I frantically struggled for a polite way to excuse myself from this group, a yellow cab ambled past us. Jamie sat in the back, pressed her face against the rearview mirror, and smiled broadly. It was the evilest thing that I have ever seen.
While sitting at the head of the eating table, directly across from Lisa, I felt as if I was sinking into a dark place.
“Look at the man,” said Latrice, smiling and pointing in my direction. “He is the king!”
About a dozen other Forest employees were sitting at the table, all of them laughing uproariously at Latrice’s derisive taunt; everyone except for Lisa, who stared at me, her eyes alight with murder. She reached inside of her purse, pulled out a camera, and focused the lens…on me. She pressed the button, precipitating a sudden flash. My life was in danger. As I was no longer concerned with being polite, I stood up without a word and ran out of the restaurant.
As I rode the train back to Manhattan, I furtively monitored the other commuters and braced myself for an attack. When the train stopped, I exhaled and jumped onto the subway platform. The cold seeped through the walls of the train station, forcing me to stuff my hands into my pockets. I climbed up the stairs, my head continuously swerving for any sign of a mortal foe.
No one deigned to attack me.
So, with my head bowed, I walked forward, beginning a perilous twenty-year journey.