Monkey Business (14 page)

Tuesday, November 18, 11:20 p.m.

A
nother day, another blow job.

I'm getting cynical in my old age. It's almost eleven-thirty, and Russ and I are lying on his bed, wrapped in each other's arms, as though we have just made love and are now basking in the afterglow.

Wrong. We're still not having sex. We kiss, we fondle and we oral, but that's it.

These dates give a whole new meaning to foreplay, but I'm beginning to get a little annoyed. Yeah, yeah, he reciprocates the favor, but since I can't come, I don't get much pleasure. The thing I like about sex is the closeness. While you're doing it, nothing else matters, nothing but the weight of his body, the smell of his neck, the feel of his skin.

My favorite part is now, listening to his heartbeat slowing down, my head nuzzled in his chest. He's wearing a T-shirt but no pants, and I'm completely naked. Sometimes he plays with my ear. It's the same spot that I like to play with and I think this must be a sign.

The Zoo is quiet, and there are a few noises outside, a car
driving off, two friends laughing, but they're in the distance. Any second now the phone is going to ring, furious and loud, demolishing the harmony, like a wineglass slipping out of your hand onto the tiled kitchen floor. Any second now. His clock says 11:29 p.m. and she always calls at eleven-thirty.

If I had any self-respect I'd make a furtive exit. I'd kiss him on the forehead, tell him we'll speak soon, or something equally evasive, and let the phone ring when I'm long gone.

I don't move. The thing is, I need to hear the phone. If a phone rings and I don't hear it, did it really ring at all? Hearing the phone ring is my only way of monitoring the relationship. I wait for the day when the phone will stop ringing.

Ring
.

I guess it's not today.

Ring. Ring.
Voice mail picks up.

Russ's back tenses. Then he forces himself to relax. At eleven-forty I kiss him on the forehead. “See you tomorrow,” I say, and reach for my crumpled panties and socks, which always end up squeezed between the corner of the bed and the heater. I get dressed quickly and quietly.

“Good night,” he says. I press my head against the door to see if I can hear anything outside. I'm holding a textbook as my alibi in case anyone is lurking in the hallway. Nothing. I open the door a crack and don't see anyone outside. I wave, and close the door behind me. Then I wait. After a few minutes, I hear him move inside. He listens to the message. And then dials her number into the phone. “Hi,” he says. “I'm good…. No…nothing new…. You?”

I hear someone walking up the stairs, and decide to take off before I'm caught eavesdropping. What I should be doing, instead of eavesdropping and giving blow jobs, is writing my cover letter and résumé. I think I want to be a consultant. Sounds glamorous. Lots of travel, high salary, get to be based in New York. Get to play with goals and tactics and strategies all day long. I'm applying to all the strategy
consultant firms, including Bain, McKinsey, Accenture, BCG and O'Donnel.

Back in my closet of a room, I flip open my laptop. The job I
really
want is that of girlfriend. But before I can get that job, Russ has to fire the person currently hogging my position. I'm hoping he'll lay her off over Thanksgiving.

I really don't feel like writing a cover letter. Maybe this is what I'll write instead:

Thursday, November 20, 7:00 p.m.

I
knock on Layla's door to the rhythm of “The Sound of Music.” The-hills. Are-a-live. To-the-sound. Of-mu-(long pause)-sic.

“One sec!” She hollers, then opens the door, dressed in khakis and a Polo shirt. I love that this is her study outfit. Everyone else wears sweatpants and flannel to study in. Or maybe that's just me. What's the point in being uncomfortable?

“It's Thursday night. Time to watch the student body drink and make fools of themselves,” I tell her.

She laughs and shakes her head. “Are you crazy, Jamie? There's no time for a beer bash tonight. There's a speaking event I want to go to, and do you realize how much work we have due next week? Job applications, Economics midterm, our group OB and Strategy cases, never mind the Economics assignment—”

“You can't still be working on Economics. You've been doing it for ages.”

“It's worth sixty percent of our final mark! Have you finished your applications?”

“Nah, I'm not applying anywhere through school.”

She throws her arms up in bewilderment. “What? Why not?”

“Because I don't want to be a consultant or a banker or work for a pharmaceutical company. And those are the only companies hiring through LWBS.”

“Why don't you?”

“They suck your soul. Did you see
Harry Potter?
Remember the dementors? I don't want that to happen to me.”

“It's not that bad,” she says quickly. “What do you want to do?”

“What do I want to do, what do I want to do.” I lean against the doorway. “I have no idea.” Sleep? Watch movies?

“Do you want to hear some fabulous female speakers in the auditorium?”

“Like who?”

“Megan Milton, CEO of E-World.”

“I've never bought anything off the Web.”

“Get out! Come with me and learn how safe it is.”

“Who else is speaking?”

“I think the woman who runs Body Shop and also some nonprofit female executives. Come on!”

Not a movie, but I wouldn't mind spending some quality time with Layla. Last month I couldn't stop thinking about Kimmy. Now I can't stop thinking about Layla. Ever since our Halloween conversation, I can't get her long blond hair out of my mind. I must be a flake. One day I'm proposing marriage to Kimmy on the bathroom wall, and the next day I'm fantasizing about another woman's long bond hair dripping over my naked body.

If I thought Kimmy was out of my league, Layla isn't even in the same hemisphere. At least Kimmy had the Jewish thing going, which I thought would give me an edge. A Jewish girl usually wants to marry a Jewish guy, right? But even
if Layla isn't into this whole caste system thing, she has her eye on someone else. Some WASP-y prince. I'd say my chances of wooing her are effectively zero.

Which is a good thing, I suppose, because if I brought her home for Hanukkah dinner, both my mother and bubbe would have a heart attack.

So instead, I'm going to take what I can get, friendship with Layla. “I think I'll come along. Not sure if Megan can put on as entertaining a show as our beer-satiated classmates, but whatever.”

“Give me ten minutes to change, and I'll meet you downstairs.”

She's changing? The khakis and Polo top aren't good enough? I look down at my sweatpants and fleece sweatshirt, and decide it wouldn't hurt to spruce up a bit.

I change into black pants and a shirt I tuck in, and meet her downstairs. She's wearing a striped pantsuit and looking fantastic. She's holding a leather folder and a fountain pen. I'm assuming she's planning on taking notes. Should be a wild and crazy night. Oh, what one does for “friendship.”

She puts her arm on my shoulder. “Jamie, I have to tell you something important.”

Is it possible? Does she like me?

“I worked for Rosen Brothers and we were the ones who recommended to personnel at your hospital to scale back. And ever since I found out you used to work there, I've been feeling horrendously guilty.”

Damn. Not what I was hoping for. “Don't feel bad. The truth was, I wasn't happy there, anyway. Working at a hospital wasn't the right environment for me. I tend to absorb my surroundings, and I ended up feeling down most of the time. So getting laid off ended up being good for me.”

“Wow,” she says. “I feel a huge sense of relief.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“If I can ever do anything to help you get a job, let me know.”

I hold open the glass door. “Actually, Layla, I could use one favor.”

“Anything.” She tightens her coat around her.

I take a deep breath. “This is going to sound very strange. But for some reason, LWBS thinks I'm a woman.”

She stops walking and laughs. “Pardon me?”

“I don't know why,” I lie. “It's some sort of glitch in the system. Because of my name, I guess. I've tried calling and e-mailing so someone will fix it, but no one has gotten back to me. You have access to the main computer, since you're on the applications committee. I was wondering if there was any way you could set things straight?”

“That's hilarious. Are you on the WOB e-list and everything?”

“I am. I even got an e-mail for tonight.” I've gotten three e-mails from the Women of Business society. And trust me, I'd love to join. Talk about an easy place to pick up.

She considers it. “So all I would have to do is change the
W
to an
M
?”

“Yup.” I try to sound casual, as though it's no big deal.

“All right.” She exaggerates giving me a once-over. “You are, in fact, a man, aren't you?”

“I'm all man, darlin'.” I'd certainly like to prove it to her.

 

Some of the speeches are interesting. Right now a woman named Danielle Grand is explaining her job as executive director at the nonprofit Girls Group in Danbury, which is about ten minutes away. “Girls Group sets up art, athletic, business and career-building programs for young women aged seven to seventeen, with the aim of building confidence, and teaching them that they can make positive contributions to the world,” she explains.

Layla starts scribbling furiously.

“Most of you here tonight,” Ms. Grand continues, “have probably noticed that only thirty percent of the students at LWBS are women. To significantly increase the number of female business owners and leaders, we have to increase the flow of women into key educational gateways such as business schools. And one way to do this, something that I do at Girls Group, is to motivate young women to prepare for a business career at an early age.

“Nonprofit work is not for everyone. You must have passion for the cause. That's the intangible reward that compensates for less income. And trust me, the income is much, much less than what you'd make at a bank or consulting firm. The cause—arming young women with the tools to make a difference in their lives—is something that fuels my passion.”

I fade in and out of the rest of her speech. The truth is, I can't stop thinking about my application lie. About why I got accepted. About why I applied.

It was research. For an article. I had just seen the movie
Soul Man
. The one where C. Thomas Howell pretends to be black so he can get a scholarship to Harvard. There were articles about affirmative action everywhere, and I thought it would be an interesting study. I researched different programs and found that MBA schools claimed that they were committed to diversity but that women didn't have a competitive advantage when applying. I thought it was bullshit and that women would have an easier time getting in. So I decided to apply to ten different schools. Five as a male and five as a female. I handed in the exact same application to all ten schools. The only difference was my gender.

Out of the ten schools I applied to I was rejected at all of the ones I applied to as Jamie the male. For the ones I applied to as a female I was rejected at two, but accepted at one, and asked to interview at another two. I thought, busted! My thesis was proven correct. I would write the article and expose the bullshit.

But there was the acceptance to LWBS. Sitting on my desk. Signed by Layla's boss, Dorothy. Winking at me. Packaged with a brochure promising career advancement, wealth and leadership positions. And I thought—well, why not?

Why not go? Why should women have the advantage? If LWBS claimed they didn't accept based on gender then it shouldn't matter anyway, right?

I look at Layla staring intently at the speaker. She's one person who wouldn't agree with me. Who might even turn me in.

Maybe I shouldn't have asked her to change my official gender for me. But I didn't have a choice. I needed to get a new student card, or I wouldn't be allowed to write my exams. And she's the only person I knew who had access to change the letter
F
to a letter
M
, so my student card could be printed out and not give me away.

And she did get me fired in the first place. Not that I'm angry. I hated being in the hospital anyway.

And I shouldn't worry. If LWBS claims to be gender blind then they shouldn't care about my lie if I ever got caught.

Yeah, right.

I try to stop worrying and pay attention instead.

After the lecture, Layla runs to the podium to thank Ms. Grand for her inspiring speech. I approach the two of them just as Layla is whipping out her checkbook.

“I'd like to make a donation,” she says, scribbling.

“I certainly didn't expect to fund-raise at a women's business panel,” Danielle says. She glances at Layla's check and looks astounded. “Wow. Thank you. The Girls Group sincerely appreciates your overwhelming generosity. Have you ever considered a career in nonprofit?”

“Me?” Layla says. “No.”

“What do you do?”

“I'm in Mergers and Acquisitions.”

“So was I,” she says, and smiles. “Here's my card. If you
ever want to volunteer, or perhaps apply for a summer job, call me.”

We say goodbye and leave the auditorium. How cool is Layla? “That was nice of you to give a donation,” I say.

“Yeah? I thought I'd feel good, but now I feel worse for some reason. It would be fun to work somewhere where I felt I was making a difference. And not just…you know.”

“Making a fortune? Why don't you apply for a summer job with them, then?”

She laughs. “Yeah, right. I'm a banker. I've worked at banks for the last three years. I'm majoring in Finance. My parents are bankers. I'm going to be a banker. Maybe all I need is an extracurricular activity, like bridge or square dancing. Only something I can be passionate about.”

I want to tell her she's welcome to be passionate about me, but I hold my tongue.