Plus One (10 page)

Mrs. Ramirez was Sam's fourth grade teacher and, bless her heart, a loyal repeat customer of Sammy's Salves. Alex knew he should be nothing but thankful to Mrs. Ramirez and proud of Sam's industriousness. But looking now at his bottles, lined up in a row with filmy ribbons tied around their caps, Alex did not feel proud. He felt panicky.

He swiveled around to the cabinet and fished around for a drink, filling one of the kids' juice cups with Trader Joes' two-dollar cab. Then he headed over to the computer on the kitchen counter. He scanned through his music files for just the thing, a sonic response to this particular moment. He found what he was looking for in a playlist titled “Iggy”: the Stooges'
Fun House
album. He clicked on a track and filled the kitchen with a squall of feedback. Tapping out the bass drum part with a spatula, he moved over to the corner where Sam was bent down with his concoction. It was suddenly crucial that Sam appreciate the Stooges' anarchic brilliance.

But the boy wasn't having it. Sam stayed planted on the floor, beakers and vials arranged like a tiny defending army. Sylvie scurried up from behind, calling “Up! Up! Up!” until Alex turned and
lifted her by the armpits, her feet flailing against the counters with percussive plunks. After a few revolutions he lowered her down. Sylvie immediately crouched, bent her elbows out, and made a big cartoon frown.

“Slam dance!” she hollered, barreling toward Alex.

Alex pivoted to the side in time to offset the blow, sending her careening directly into the path of Sam and his many bottles. Seven or eight containers went down, skittering across the linoleum and releasing a pungent slick of oil, cream, and powder. Albert barked happily and immediately set to work lapping up the spill.

“Not the jojoba!” Sam cried. “No, Al! Not the jojoba!”

Alex went over and shooed away the dog. “My fault, Sam,” he said. “But no biggie! I'll clean it up. It's not a party 'til someone spills the bath balm!”

Sam stayed mum, hands wedged over his eyes, as if the scene before him was too awful to look upon.

“What… for goddsakes… is going on down here?”

Alex turned. He wasn't sure when she'd come in, but now here was Figgy, wobbling against the doorframe, eyes half open, hair wild and arms crossed over her chest. She squinted into the light of the kitchen, crossed over to the computer, and punched off the music.

“Hey, honey!” Alex said. “We're slam dancing here! Come on—join the mosh pit!”

Figgy leaned against the counter and sighed. Alex held his breath and took a quick inventory. The phone message this morning, the music interrupting her nap, the mess, the tears beginning to spurt from behind Sam's fists… there was just so much for her to react to, so many avenues of disapproval she might charge down.

Figgy rubbed her eyes and finally spoke up. “Are those
jeggings
?” she said. “Is my husband wearing jeggings?”

“They're jeans,” Alex said, rising up. “They're French. Are they
ridiculous? I'm ridiculous, right?”

In one quick move, Figgy swiped a washcloth off a counter, tossed it to Sam, and motioned for Alex to turn around. Apparently, the array of unguents dripping across the hardwood was nothing serious; Alex's jeans were the thing. “Gimme the 360,” she said.

Alex pivoted around. “The lady at the store said they gave me a nice line,” he said. “Why didn't you ever tell me I have a
line
?”

Figgy grimaced. “
Panty line
is all I'm getting,” she said, nose wrinkling. “If you're serious about those pants, you're gonna have to lose the boxers. You're bunchy.”

Alex peered down. “Am I?”

Figgy sidled up behind him as he reached under the sink for a sponge and bucket. “Just saying, if you wanna pull those off you better go commando,” she said. “Fly free, sweetie. Either that or you're into thong territory.”

“Oh God, no.” He moved over to Sam, who was standing helplessly over the mess. “I'll deal with this, buddy. You go play with the Xbox. Thirty minutes.”

It never ceased to amaze Alex how fast his son could snap out of the most serious sulk when offered thirty minutes of sanctioned videogame time. As Sam bolted toward the living room, Alex lowered down to his knees and began sponging up the mess. Sylvie went back to the dog, taking advantage of Albert's interest in the spill to go after her hind quarters with a frilly white tennis skirt.

Figgy stayed at the counter and gave Alex a long look. “So I did carpool today so you could dip yourself in French denim? What
happened
to you?”

“What happened was the most amazing day in I-don't-even-know-how-long,” he said. “I met up with Katherine's husband—Huck, remember? Turns out he's a super nice guy and he took me to this insane Korean sauna and then we went to this incredible
butcher and went to get pants—and there was my 'zine, plastered on the wall of the changing room!
R.I.P.
! How crazy is that?”

“So you just ditched work? Went totally AWOL?”

“Oh.” Alex stopped swabbing. He hadn't thought about work since getting into Huck's car ten hours earlier. He hadn't checked his voicemail or email. His phone was probably clogged with messages. A wave of nausea passed through him.

“Yeah, well, I don't think I'm going back there,” he heard himself say.

“Sorry?”

Alex took a long breath and rocked back on his heels. “I think I'm quitting that job,” he said. “I'm done. It just doesn't make sense any more.”

“Look, Daddy, she's
beautiful
!” Sylvie was now standing behind Albert, holding her upright. Albert whimpered, her snout smudged with violet-colored cream.

Figgy gave him a pointed look over her glasses. “Listen to you now. You're just
leaving
?”

Alex leaned down to uncouple the dog from Sylvie's grasp. “We can talk about it, but yeah—it's time, isn't it? I mean, you're busy. And getting busier. And I just can't really see the point in me going in every day to slave away on whatever bullshit campaign Kanter thinks will make clients forget about the goddamn carrots. And with the deal you're getting, we've got some room to breathe a little.”

“It's just kind… not really like you. You sure you're not getting… midlife crisis-y?”

Was that what this was—a midlife crisis? He hooked a thumb through the belt loop of his jeans and rotated his hips around. “Whatever gave you that idea?” he said.

Figgy smiled and put out her arms. “Come here.”

He stepped forward, tipping his head up as she pressed her face into his neck.

“
Am
I being crazy?” he said. “I just think, with all that's happening right now, one of us should be home. There's stuff I'd like to pursue on my own, plus I really think I can help get a handle on the home front.”

She looked up at him, her expression intent. “You want this? You won't go batshit?”

“I'm the stable one, remember?”

Figgy gave him a squeeze. Alex felt certain, for this second anyway. This was a good and sensible decision. He'd leave an old job for a better one; he'd keep the family intact, protect his kids from the bullshit of Hollywood, be the sort of man that Figgy could depend on.

Figgy took a long breath and pressed herself up against him. “I'm about to spend the next six months locked in a conference room with the smell of dry-erase markers and half-eaten takeout. So I'm a little jealous is all. But if I'm stuck at work, why shouldn't you be at home in your French jeans, slam dancing with the kiddies?”

“So you're okay with this? Really?”

“I am. You're such a great dad. If you're gonna be home, maybe… you know, we could try for another.”

Alex frowned. “Another what?”

“You know. Another squishy.”

Figgy had been making noises about having a third kid for a while now, but he'd so far managed to avoid any real negotiation. “I dunno, hon,” he said. “That's a lot all at once. Maybe we take this one step at a time.”

She pulled him in. “You're such a great dad. You'll be the most awesome househusband in Atwater Village.”

Alex frowned. “Please don't ever call me that.”

Under their chair, he felt the dog brush up against his leg. Her whimpering had taken on a low, throaty rumble.

“Why not?”

“Maybe because the most awesome househusband in Atwater Village never gets laid, ever.”

She pulled him close. “I wouldn't be so sure about that,” she said. “Caretaking is
hot
.”

“Just don't call me a househusband. I'm thinking something more along the lines of… domestic first responder.”

Figgy cocked an eyebrow. And then the bejeweled dog coughed up the contents of Sammy's Salves all over the leg of Alex's new $350 jeans.

• • •

Alex wrote a resignation letter that night, heaping praise on Kanter and BestSelf but saying he'd “reached a crossroads,” that he “wanted to spend more time with family,” and that he'd decided to “pursue other projects.”

It sounded grandiose, like the parting missive of a CEO resigning under suspicious circumstances. But it was true—he
had
reached a crossroads. He
did
want to spend more time with his family. Notwithstanding the occasional toxic spill, he was good with the kids (or with Sylvie anyway). He was at least better than his own parents had been with him—which was, he thought, the bottom-line goal of all parents. But he wanted to do better than that, to “parent” as a verb. When Sam and Sylvie were little, he reveled in the extra credit he got for mundane chores that mothers did routinely (he'd learned to turn a diaper change into an elaborate performance piece). Now he got a quick vision of himself wearing a BabyBjorn and sitting beside that redheaded mother of twins at the playground. She'd never given him the time of day before, but now he'd be a regular. She'd share her park bench, let him sample from her sack of healthy snacks and thermos of good coffee. In soft-focus slow motion, he saw her lean over, lay a hand on his leg, and confide how she wished her own husband was half
as attentive and involved as Alex was.

Of course, there was another, more pertinent truth about quitting his job that he didn't bother mentioning in the letter: His wife was about to make more in a single deal than either one of them had made in their entire careers, enough to make his own $85K annual salary seem irrelevant. He no longer had to work up a lather of temporary enthusiasm about this or that campaign, to scrape and hustle and pitch, hoping this cookbook or pamphlet or TV spot or direct mailing piece would turn into a huge deal and make some actual difference in the world. Let Kanter hype his millionaire friends' pet charities. Alex would do something creative, something entrepreneurial, the exact nature of which he wasn't entirely sure about but which had something to do with the feeling that life was getting bigger and he needed to stop being the same smallish guy.

As he drove to work the next morning with the resignation letter stashed in his bag, he felt an intense, whole-body certainty that the time had come to get what he'd always wanted.

Alex planned to drop the letter off in Kanter's office before the boss arrived. He knew he really should sit down for a face-to-face, but an official exit interview with Jeff Kanter was more than he could stomach. What could Alex possibly say? And why bother saying it? He'd leave his letter, get out, and move on.

After packing a box with his things, he folded his letter into a BestSelf envelope, padded into Kanter's office, and propped it up on his burnished, steel-topped desk. He lingered a moment, plopping down in Kanter's mesh-topped chair and looking around the room.

“Hey.” Kanter was in the doorway, slinging his messenger bag off his shoulder. “What's happening in here?”

Alex jolted up. “I was just dropping something off—”

“What?” Kanter said, crossing the room and eyeing the envelope.

Alex coughed. “It's a letter.”

“I see that. What kind of letter?”

“You don't have to read it now—”

Kanter picked it up and tapped it against his palm. “So you'd rather I wait until you're in the elevator on the way out? I saw the box on your desk.”

“I didn't know when you'd be in—”

“Chickenshit move, kiddo.” Kanter stayed standing in front of his desk, jaw set, shoulders squared, not an ounce of that famed gooey Jeff Kanter empathy in evidence.

Alex said nothing, embarrassment and confusion pounding in his chest. Chickenshit? How could Kanter not recognize that quitting this job was the exact opposite of chickenshit—it was quite possibly the bravest thing he'd ever done?

“So where to? Back to Feinstein Pierce?”

“No.” Alex's shoulders tightened up.

“Rainman-Kott?”

“No—nowhere. No other job. I'm out. Done.”

Jeff frowned and dropped down into his chair. “So what—you're off-ramping?” He let out a hissing half-laugh. “Okay then. Just gonna let the wife carry the load while you—what? Kick back, hang out?”