Things I can’t Explain Read online

  Point: Clarissa.

  “Love the shades,” says MT, her nude-glossed lips spreading into a smile.

  “Thanks.”

  “Shall we get to the pitches?” Dartsy suggests in a snippy tone. “Finance for the trailer park crowd, was it?”

  “My favorite auntie lives in a trailer park,” says MT coolly. “Lovely double-wide just outside of Surrey.”

  Dartmoor shrivels a bit in his seat.

  Point two: Clarissa.

  I take a deep breath, decide not to give him time to recover and go into my song and dance.

  “So, from Martha Stewart to the post-hipster demographic, the DIY economy is taking America by storm.”

  “Oh God, save us, DIY is so boring, tell me you’re not going to write about making macramé suitcases?” Dartmoor snorts derisively, but I notice MT seems interested. Confidently I continue, describing my plan to bring a bit of this trendy DIY culture to Nuzegeek’s readership by examining how a new breed of entrepreneurs will be impacting every sector of the economy. I provide the applicable statistics and trot out a slew of expert testimony documenting the influence of DIY on traditional modes of commerce and schools of thought in retail, thereby reinvigorating American capitalism.

  Damn, I sound smart! And what’s even better, I actually have stats and quotes from some of the most successful DIYers waiting in my briefcase, including their sales figures and projected earnings and all kinds of fancy, finance-y crap to fling in Dartsy’s face. And speaking of which—I can see from his expression that he’s recalibrating, aware now that he’s underestimated me. Clearly, he’s regrouping.

  “Please, Clarissa, if you wouldn’t mind, let us hear the specific sectors of the economy you’re talking about?” Dartmoor challenges.

  I give him a big, serpentine smile. There’s nothing like overly polite hostility. I have to admit I kind of enjoy sparring with him.

  “Well, let’s start with the lodging sector and the thirty-six-room hotel being built from heavy-gauge steel cargo shipping containers on the east side of Detroit as part of the riverside reconstruction.”

  “Sounds uncomfortable,” Dartmoor says, wincing. “Not sure we can run that anytime soon. We’ve just commissioned a series on new hotels. I’m sure our guys are covering that.”

  My ass, I think. He’s just trying to shoot me down. But I smile sweetly and stifle the urge to scream, Moron!

  MT gives me a patient smile; my cue to move on to the next pitch. She knows.

  “Okay … well…” I muster my aplomb and sally forth. “Mason jars. Americans love ’em.”

  “I’ve never heard of him,” Dartmoor sniffs. “Who is Mason Jars?” MT and I share a glance. Now we’re both trying not to laugh.

  “It’s not a who, it’s a what,” I explain with exaggerated patience. “Old-fashioned glass jars that are used for making preserves and pickling food are appearing throughout every sector, repurposed in all kinds of clever ways at restaurants and bars, as storage containers, consumer packaging. It’s environmentally conscious, recyclable, good old Americana, and more. Entrepreneurs behind the trend are cleaning up.”

  “Oh, goody,” Dartmoor exclaims sarcastically, “we’re going to do a story about jars. That’s sexy.”

  MT throws me a glance that tells me this isn’t worth fighting over.

  “Anything else, Ms. Darling?” Dartmoor asks. “Or are you done wasting our time?” Dartmoor smiles, self-satisfied, like the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland, but I know it’s all for show and he’s just trying to bully me into giving in.

  The problem is, I am kinda done—with one exception.

  “You’ve got to understand,” I say, more to MT than Dartsy, “I think Nuzegeek could be the webzine for a new generation of entrepreneurs. Even if every one of their products isn’t scintillating, their ingenuity, creativity, and impact will be. These people and their followers could be a major part of your demographic.”

  MT perks up. I’m speaking her language and Dartmoor knows it. He realizes he’s got to do something fast to shut me down and he senses a weakness.

  “Well, that’s a very nice idea, actually,” he begins, “only that’s not what you’ve shown us. I think perhaps we’ve heard all there is to hear.”

  “For today,” MT amends. “I don’t see any harm in giving Clarissa an extension to absorb our concerns.”

  “What? I hardly see why. She’s had her shot. Besides interesting generalities, there’s nothing here to discuss. We need reporters with real financial insight and experience. We have to put Nuzegeek first; we don’t have time to babysit novice writers. Launch is in two months and our readers, viewers, Internet people, whoever they are will judge us instantly with their clicks and their mouses. We simply can’t…”

  But MT and I have stopped listening because even though Dartmoor is swooping down on me for the kill, there’s some other kind of fierce commotion outside the towering mahogany doors and it sounds really weird.

  Dartmoor finally notices that no one is paying attention to his coup de grâce performance and stops blathering. He stands to open the doors, and I believe if my entire career weren’t on the line, I would collapse in shock.

  Norm.

  Standing right there before us is effin’ stalker boy restrained in an eye-popping deadly-force chokehold at the capable hands of Druscilla. Is she MT’s bodyguard as well? Does she have a degree in martial arts?

  “Nobody gets in to see Miss Wilkinson without an appointment!” Druscilla yells as Norm struggles to break free.

  This isn’t happening, I tell myself. But it is. Norm has crashed my pitch meeting as if it were a college keg party. He’s even dressed like it’s a keg party, in cargo shorts, a brand-new T-shirt featuring his company’s “All Decked Out” logo, and a pair of Vans.

  I pull myself together. My job possibilities are likely hopeless. Not only have I failed to turn back Dartmoor’s onslaught of objections, but at the moment where I was about to receive a reprieve, the most obnoxious male on the planet, the most baneful association I have ever made, has intruded and looks like he’s choking on a hairball. There’s nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. I’m so furious I feel like my head will explode, so I drop all pretense that a job is a possibility.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand. “And how did you even know where I was?”

  Druscilla loosens her grip enough to allow him to form words.

  “Ol’ Norm isn’t as dumb as he looks,” Norm says, gasping for air. Definitely a debatable assertion. “You told me.”

  I did?

  “Excuse me,” Dartmoor intrudes, utterly pleased by the turn of events. “Who is Norm?”

  I’m tempted to say, “He’s a friend of Mason Jars,” but I resist and stay focused on the idiot who is being physically restrained by MT’s able administrative assistant. I still can’t figure out how he could have possibly known to show up at Nuzegeek.

  “I only told you I had an interview,” I say. “I never said where.” I stop for a minute and rewind to our fleeting encounter at Joe’s.

  “You said the Seaport!” Norm proudly reports. “Which is why I’ve been to every office in every building on every block down here. Good thing I had my board, otherwise it would have taken me forever. I might have missed you.” I notice his intricately designed custom deck, leaning against the file cabinet. Wow. It’s pretty cool. No wonder people are buying them. He’s come a long way since our permanent-Twister days.

  The phone rings and Druscilla is flummoxed. She doesn’t seem to know what to do. MT nods and like a bull terrier following her master, she releases Norm from the headlock to answer the phone.

  That’s when I notice something strange: MT’s eyes are locked on Norm, looking hungrily at his shaggy hair, movie-hero facial features, and skater’s physique. Hmmm. I wonder … and begin to formulate a plan, but before I can say a word, the situation gets worse.

  Norm, free from Drusy’s chokehold, with oxygen unfortunately restored to his p
oor, challenged brain cells and blood rushing to his vocal cords, drops to his knees in front of me, his eyes filled with a psychosis that passes for “love” and that Norm would pathetically call “hope.”

  “Clarissa Marie Darling … will you marry me?”

  “Oh my,” MT gasps, moved by pure emotion. She clasps her hands to her heart and I think she might do something ridiculously British, like swoon.

  “This is too good,” Dartmoor says with a satisfied smile, excited beyond belief by my humiliation. He looks like he’s on the verge of having a spontaneous orgasm.

  “MT, as entertaining as this is, please, do we really want someone who associates with this kind of nut job working here at Nuzegeek?” he says, but MT isn’t listening. She can’t seem to see beyond the kneeling nut job’s handsome cheekbones.

  “Norm, you’re embarrassing me,” I say evenly, managing to recover my cool. “You shouldn’t have come here. We’re not together. We’re not a couple. I’m not going to marry you no matter how many times you ask.”

  He looks at me in genuine shock. How he seems truly surprised each and every time, even though I’ve turned him down over and over again, is absolutely a wonder of denial that neuroscientists should explore.

  “It’s because you think ol’ Norm’s broke, isn’t it? You think ol’ Norm will never amount to anything, admit it!” he pleads.

  I shake my head, wondering how many times I’ve had to explain. I’m about to answer, but ol’ Norm is on a roll.

  “Do you realize how many aging hipsters are out there willing to put out big bucks for my decks?” Norm says and makes a “hang loose” hand sign. “I’m rolling. Babe, I’m ready to level up big-time.”

  “Norm, it’s not about money or your career possibilities. Really, we had our chance, it’s over,” I answer as quietly and compassionately as possible, thoroughly embarrassed and saddened that all of this is playing out in front of my only current job prospect. I really had a chance here, even if I was desperately fighting for a foothold. I prepare to apologize to MT for even thinking I might have a job at Nuzegeek and hope to go home and cry into my pillow as soon as possible.

  “Okay, okay, as exquisitely entertaining as this is, it’s time for some of us to get back to work,” Dartmoor intercedes like he’s everyone’s father.

  “Hey, suit dude,” Norm calls out to Sir Dartmoor, “you should cool out and get down with my biz-i-ness. You might want to buy one of my boards. Even straight stiffies like yourself are getting into it.” I stifle a laugh. I hate to say it, but I don’t think Norm is right about Dartmoor. He probably sleeps with his tie on.

  “Look, Norm, I’m sure your little skateboard company will sell a few boards in Astoria, Queens, or wherever the rock you live under is, but we have a website to run and…”

  “You guys have a website? Whoa! Clarissa didn’t say anything about that. I’ve got to tell Bezos about you folks, maybe he’d throw some money your way. Those Amazon suits are putting down real bucks for me,” Norm says and honestly, I figure he’s out of his mind, but I have to find out.

  “Bezos as in Amazon?” I ask.

  “Yeah, just got the confirmation this week,” Norm says and pulls out a piece of paper. “It’s some DIY support thing they’re doing. That Bezos baldie is opening an online store for my decks and droppin’ down serious cash investing in ol’ Norm here. Considering they’re a company of nerdheads in suits, those dudes are pretty cool. Hey, did you know they publish books and make TV shows now? I hear he’s even bought a newspaper.” Whoa, I forgot about that.

  I grab his piece of paper and I’m reading it, totally floored that it is, in fact, signed by none other than Jeff Bezos. You’d think he’d have someone else to do the actual signing for him. Without warning, a voice comes whispering into my head. It’s Sam’s voice, speaking to me from the past, from Joe’s Coffee, years earlier: “I like how you lay out the facts, but still put your own personal spin on the subject.”

  I stare at Norm with his ab-hugging new logo T-shirt and his letter from Jeff Bezos at Amazon and I know in an instant exactly how to score this gig. Lucky for me, Norm is an irrefutable example that the DIY approach can be profitable. And he is the profile that makes it a story. A story I know personally.

  “Actually,” I say, turning to MT, “I don’t need an extension. This is my pitch.”

  Dartmoor and MT look a tad baffled. And why not? My “pitch” is still on his knees in front of MT’s office.

  “But what about the marriage proposal?” MT asks, genuinely disappointed at this sudden shift back to business. “That was so romantic.” She still has her eyes locked on my former BF, so I figure I’d better act fast.

  “All Decked Out is Norm’s DIY venture, and, as you can see by this handsome logo tee, Norm’s DIY has become quite a big deal despite these unforgiving and trying economic times. Therefore, as the first in my series of DIY articles, I would like to profile Norm and his company.”

  The words trip off my tongue eloquently as I explain to the dreamy-eyed MT and the scowling Dartmoor my plan to present a “trials and tribulations” account of Norm’s rise to skateboard notoriety and success. I finish by indicating the still-kneeling Norm with an exaggerated Wheel of Fortune spokesmodel arm flourish.

  “So what do you think?”

  MT is still gazing at Norm, who has remained steadfastly in proposal mode.

  “Oh, I do,” she answers on a sigh. “I do.” Then she catches herself, realizing what everyone else is thinking, and stammers, “Um … what I mean is, yes, I do like it. Quite a lot, in fact. It’s brilliant. You’re hired.”

  “Thank you!” I say, grabbing clueless Norm under his arms and hoisting him to his feet.

  “Wait!” Dartmoor says. “Don’t I have anything to say about this?”

  “Of course you do,” says MT, “as long as it’s ‘Welcome to the staff, Clarissa.’”

  Dartmoor seethes, but I couldn’t care less. I’m hired.

  And weirdly enough, I owe it all to Norm, his skateboard obsession, and his Kutcher-esque cheekbones. Still, I don’t want to risk him doing anything weirder than he already has, so I’m ready to wrap this up.

  “Well,” I say, “Norm and I had better get going.”

  “Must you?” MT says, clearly only giving a damn as to whether Norm must. I smile and nod yes. “Oh, I understand—I assume you must,” she adds wistfully, her upper-crust training kicking back in. You never know, she might even think there’s still some kind of spark between Norm and me.

  “Yep, ol’ Norm has to go back to work,” I say, trying to put some distance between Norm and the idea that we’re together.

  “Norm does?” he asks bewildered, finally realizing that MT’s eyes are fixated on him, and he’s looking back at her realizing for the first time certain other possibilities.

  “Actually, I’m sure Norm would be free for lunch some time,” I mention offhandedly. “Right, Norm?”

  Norm nods, in that charming empty-headed way of his.

  MT does what any self-respecting CEO would do in this situation: She conservatively bats her eyelashes.

  “Perfect,” I say, grabbing one of MT’s cards off Druscilla’s desk and shoving it in Norm’s shirt pocket. I shoulder my briefcase, pick up Norm’s deck, and head for the elevator. Norm reluctantly follows.

  “I’m out of here,” I say, smiling at Dartsy, “because, ya know … I’m just really anxious to get home and start working on my assignment.” Oh, that feels good. I have barely enough time to catch Dartmoor’s desultory sneer as the elevator closes.

  As soon as the elevator opens in the lobby I drop Norm’s deck on the designer inlaid floor, watch him walk out, and press the elevator up button, giving him a little wave good-bye as the doors close again.

  I get out on the mezzanine balcony and wait until I see the confused half dude, half boy make his way home. Months of being pursued by my very own stalker have taught me a few diversionary tactics.

  Minutes late
r on the street I’m ready to leap in the air like Marlo Thomas in the opening of That Girl. You know, the one that used to play on Nick at Nite? I want to run and spin. I even contemplate flying a kite in Central Park.

  Jumping for joy, I feel my phone vibrate.

  It’s a text message from G-bomb, Genelle Waterman, the ultimate buzzkill, the last person I’d ever want to hear from.

  Oh, sugar—whatever it is can’t be good.

  CHAPTER 17

  Some say that Vladimir Lenin coined the phrase, “Two steps forward, one step back,” or was it “One step forward, two steps back”? I swear it had something to do with dialectics or Hegel and materialism, but I can’t remember. Either way, I know he wasn’t talking about an episode of Dancing with the Stars. I do know that every time I think I’m getting a few paces ahead on my own personal curve, I wind up being jerked backward by my past. Take the darling Fergwad appearing on Dartmoor’s radar, for example.

  It’s as if you go through life tied to one enormous bungee cord—you try leaping into thrilling new territory, but you can only go so far before karmic elasticity yanks you back. Sometimes I think all of humanity is in serious danger of getting whiplash.

  Once in a while the nostalgic pull is positive, like hearing a They Might Be Giants song and remembering it was the first tune you ever downloaded on your MP3 player. But mostly, it’s the not-so-great stuff that sucks you back.

  Life is like that stupid board game, Sorry!, where you try to progress your pawn (how’s that for symbolic?) around the board, but other players are always waiting to force you off the path. According to the rules, they have to say, “Sorry!” But you know they don’t mean it. Funny how the space on the board you get sent back to is called “Home.” Well, why not? That’s where you find the heartsick parents, the self-destructive brothers, the lost loves, and the high school enemies.