On The Verge. Ariella Papa

know you two are old friends. She was really hoping to make it tonight, but we’ve got so much going on.”

      “Oh, Diana, she’s great, isn’t she?”

      “Oh, yes, great.” There’s that funny word again.

      “She must be such a joy to work for.”

      “She’s pretty intense,” I say, intending to be ambiguous. (It’s not easy to gauge if my intentions are actually coming across when I’ve had all this good vodka.) “What was she like in school?”

      “We didn’t go to school together. We knew each other through her ex-husband. It’s a long story. Diana doesn’t have much education. She just worked her way up. Started as an assistant on the lowest level. Some rag magazine. Who knows what she did to get this far.” Talk about ambiguous.

      The bathroom door opens and three people come out. I look at elizabeth and shrug. I extend my hand for her to go in. She puts her hand on my shoulders and puts her face a little too close to mine.

      “We could go in together if you want.” As boozy as elizabeth is, I catch the sparkle in her eyes.

      “Gee,” I say (this is the speech I reserve for women and men wearing tube socks), “I’m awfully flattered, but you know I’m sort of out of that stage. Thanks for asking.” Lesbian experimentation is so passé.

      “Have a great night—” she smiles up at me “—and be sure to pick up the copy of my book.”

      On the ride home, I chat with Dwight for a while. He’s a sweet old guy whose got no problem with speed. This I like in a driver. Dwight has it together. “The best part is at the end of the day, or the end of the night, it’s over, you know,” he says. “I never take it home with me. No baggage. I get my life.” Very interesting.

      Another nice thing about Dwight is his obvious respect for the city. You know this about a driver by the way they handle the view right when you are about to go into the Lincoln Tunnel. There’s a dip right before you go under where you can see the city. At this late hour, the city really is beautiful. Dwight doesn’t talk incessantly over that view. He sees me staring at it from the rearview mirror and he seems to enjoy it, too.

      “I know how you feel, kid, gets me every time, too. All that life going on.” Well said, Mr. Dwight. (Hang on! I’m not getting cheesy just because I crossed over to the Jersey side and I’m not too drunk. You check out a view of the city at 3:30 in the morning with just the right amount of free alcohol floating around in your system and I bet a tear or two trickles down your cheek.) Dwight knows all these shortcuts to get to my doorstep. I bid him farewell and climb up my stairs, trying not to make too much noise.

      As I’m passing out, I think, for as long as it takes the room to stop spinning, about all the things people know about each other that they probably shouldn’t know. Tabitha knows the select portions of Roseanne with that guy in the bathroom and I know that the Big C doesn’t have an education. I wonder how much people know about me. Maybe I don’t have too many secrets. Maybe I should cultivate some.

      Also, it’s reassuring to think that the Big C started out as an assistant and now she’s wearing fabulous clothes and skipping the coolest parties, just because she can. I have to remember to tell Tabitha all this stuff. She will love it.

      Hungover again. The terrifyingly long ride into the city did not help my throbbing head. As it is, I’m a half hour late for work, but of course, I still get into work before everyone else. Perseverance is the only way to the top. Of course it would be a lot easier to get into work early and catch the proverbial worm if I only lived around the corner. More motivation to start looking for a pad.

      First, I send an e-mail to everyone who works for the magazine. This is really against what our internal e-mail is supposed to be used for, but if people can send porno and the Top 10 Reasons Mondays Suck and all those wretched chain letters, I can use the system for myself.

      Hi all,

      I am going to need to leave the nest pretty soon and I would prefer not to be homeless. If anyone out there knows of the much coveted “available New York apartment” please let me know and save another soul from the streets. Thank you!

      —Eve

      I get a couple of sympathetic warnings about apartment perils and a few people e me names of their brokers. Marketing Adam e-mails his standard biblical reference.

      Eve,

      Just stay with me forever in our garden. I promise to put on some clothes.

      —Adam

      Since paper is old news, (I know, I know I work for a magazine. Shame on me! Whatever.) I check the Net for real estate. Even one-bedroom apartments are at least fifteen hundred plus the broker’s fee, which is fifteen percent. I have been the sympathetic shoulder to cry on for enough of these loony health nuts I work with to know a few things about finding apartments. First, I am supposed to locate a neighborhood and stick to it. Second, it helps to have a roommate to split the cost of incidentals. And finally, apartments are a lot cheaper in the outer boroughs. Now, I may have limited funds and I could probably get a palace in Brooklyn or Jersey City for the price of a closet in the city, but, I refuse to continue my stint as a Bridge and Tunnel person.

      It’s Manhattan or bust.

      I find a great apartment, right on University Place in the Village. The ad says perfect for students. Well, we were once students. The student thing implies that it’s cheap, but, it’s really $1550. It’s a converted one bedroom with a big living room. There’s an open house tomorrow. The best part is that the ad says it’s no fee. I call the number. It doesn’t hurt to jump on these things. It rings about eight times before a woman answers.

      “Hi. My name is Eve Vitali, I’m a student at NYU and I was calling about the apartment on University Place. I was wondering if I could see the apartment a little early because I have class at that time.” Pretty crafty, huh?

      “Sorry, honey, the apartment’s already taken.”

      “But, the open house isn’t until tomorrow.”

      “It’s amazing. Someone found out about the apartment and came by with three months’ rent in cash and offered another six more.”

      “Wow, so you are definitely going to let them have it?”

      “Well, of course, wouldn’t you?” No, I would give the apartment to me, because I really deserve the lack of hassle in my search for an apartment.

      “I guess. Are there any other apartments available in that building?”

      “Well,” says the lady who obviously thinks she has better things to do, “you would have to call the management company for that.”

      She gives me the name of the management company. When I call them they tell me that I will have to send thirty dollars for myself and anyone who I would be living with so they can run a credit check. I also have to go to their offices on the ultra Lower East Side and fill out applications. If everything goes okay, I can get myself on a waiting list and maybe, just maybe, I will be able to afford one of their apartments. I tell the receptionist I will consider it.

      The next place I call sounds too good to be true. I don’t know why I didn’t call there first. It is a two bedroom on Avenue A for $1450, also no fee. I call and it turns out to be one of those places that you have to pay $200 and they fax you this listing every day until you find an apartment. What a disappointment.

      Since we at Prescott Nelson are so self-contained, we have some kind of special deal worked out with a real estate agency. It’s no great bargain, just a ten percent fee instead of the usual fifteen. When I call, the lovely real estate agent, Judy, doesn’t laugh when I tell her what we’re willing to spend. She is hopeful that the market may change. In, like, eighteen months. Maybe. I’m screwed.

      “Well, Eve, this is New York,” says Tabitha, informatively. I am standing outside the dressing room in Lord and Taylor. She hasn’t been very