used to drink Long Island iced teas,” I said.
“Well, that hasn’t changed, at least.”
I drank the last bit of my wine and signaled the bartender, who was sulking in the corner of the bar, playing Peggle on his phone. “Two Long Island iced teas,” I ordered.
“Much obliged,” she said. “It’s been a thirsty day. So what else do you remember?”
“You used to date Bad Boy Tommy Killebrew,” I said.
“That name,” she said. “Oh, my God, you said that name. Of all the men I dated in college, you had to bring up Bad Boy Tommy Killebrew.”
“You asked me what I remembered, and I only remembered it because you dated him more than once. You must have seen something in him that nobody else did.” My experience of dating Bad Boy Tommy Killebrew was limited to fending off some overly aggressive groping in the alley behind a Race Street dive.
“You know what he’s doing now? You’ll never guess.”
“He’s either in jail, or he’s an orthodontist in New Rochelle,” I said.
“He’s doing drug and alcohol counseling.”
The bartender dropped off the Long Island iced teas. “Unbelievable,” I said, as I took my first sip.
“He’s doing drug and alcohol counseling for Eric Clapton’s rehab center in Antigua.”
“Seriously?”
“And he’s married to a Japanese ex-porn star,” Vanessa said. “Before you start booking a flight down there to visit, I mean.”
“Perish the thought,” I said, although just saying that didn’t, in fact, stop me from thinking about Bad Boy Tommy Killebrew, shirtless on a Caribbean beach. “So what are you up to?” I asked, in a desperate attempt to change the subject.
“Freelancing,” she said.
I knew I’d put my foot in it. The one question that people of my generation learn not to ask each other is where they’re working, because so many of us aren’t working, or at least not doing anything important. “I hope that’s turning out well for you,” I said, and I meant it.
“It’s kind of dodgy right at the moment,” she said.
“Sorry about that.”
“Oh, don’t be. You seem to be doing very well, though.”
“I scrape by,” I said, taking a long sip of my drink.
“You do better than that,” Vanessa said. “You have a nice job doing estate planning for a mid-sized law firm in North Jersey. You have a downtown condo and a red convertible. You’re single and unattached, and you spent a week last November at a luxury resort in the Dominican Republic. You’re the great-granddaughter of one of the five richest men in Philadelphia, with a good-sized trust fund that vests when you turn thirty-five. And tomorrow, you and your mother are going to get up early and go to the funeral of one Sheldon Berkman.”
I put my glass down on the bar, resisting the impulse to see how well it would fit jammed into Vanessa’s eye socket. “I could never make up my mind whether you were just a bitch, or a whore pretending to be a bitch. Now I know.”
“Oh, that’s a great comeback,” she said. “I am going to have to write that one down. Do you mind if I use it? I can think of so many people that statement applies to.”
“The trust fund thing is bullshit, anyway. My older brother had his fund vest, and he said that he had to pay out almost all of it in taxes.”
“That must be a nice problem to have. Next you’re going to tell me how much your student loans are. Can’t be that much worse than mine.”
“If you came all this way to work out your class resentment issues, you wasted your trip,” I said.
“You mean you still haven’t figured it out?” she said. “I thought you were smarter than that, dearie.”
“The only thing that makes sense is that you’re freelancing for Gawker, in which case, go to hell. You’ve already caused me enough agita.”
Vanessa drained the last of her Long Island iced tea. “This is what happened,” she said. “Hand to God.”
“Which God?”
“Another good comeback. I am totally writing
“Well, that hasn’t changed, at least.”
I drank the last bit of my wine and signaled the bartender, who was sulking in the corner of the bar, playing Peggle on his phone. “Two Long Island iced teas,” I ordered.
“Much obliged,” she said. “It’s been a thirsty day. So what else do you remember?”
“You used to date Bad Boy Tommy Killebrew,” I said.
“That name,” she said. “Oh, my God, you said that name. Of all the men I dated in college, you had to bring up Bad Boy Tommy Killebrew.”
“You asked me what I remembered, and I only remembered it because you dated him more than once. You must have seen something in him that nobody else did.” My experience of dating Bad Boy Tommy Killebrew was limited to fending off some overly aggressive groping in the alley behind a Race Street dive.
“You know what he’s doing now? You’ll never guess.”
“He’s either in jail, or he’s an orthodontist in New Rochelle,” I said.
“He’s doing drug and alcohol counseling.”
The bartender dropped off the Long Island iced teas. “Unbelievable,” I said, as I took my first sip.
“He’s doing drug and alcohol counseling for Eric Clapton’s rehab center in Antigua.”
“Seriously?”
“And he’s married to a Japanese ex-porn star,” Vanessa said. “Before you start booking a flight down there to visit, I mean.”
“Perish the thought,” I said, although just saying that didn’t, in fact, stop me from thinking about Bad Boy Tommy Killebrew, shirtless on a Caribbean beach. “So what are you up to?” I asked, in a desperate attempt to change the subject.
“Freelancing,” she said.
I knew I’d put my foot in it. The one question that people of my generation learn not to ask each other is where they’re working, because so many of us aren’t working, or at least not doing anything important. “I hope that’s turning out well for you,” I said, and I meant it.
“It’s kind of dodgy right at the moment,” she said.
“Sorry about that.”
“Oh, don’t be. You seem to be doing very well, though.”
“I scrape by,” I said, taking a long sip of my drink.
“You do better than that,” Vanessa said. “You have a nice job doing estate planning for a mid-sized law firm in North Jersey. You have a downtown condo and a red convertible. You’re single and unattached, and you spent a week last November at a luxury resort in the Dominican Republic. You’re the great-granddaughter of one of the five richest men in Philadelphia, with a good-sized trust fund that vests when you turn thirty-five. And tomorrow, you and your mother are going to get up early and go to the funeral of one Sheldon Berkman.”
I put my glass down on the bar, resisting the impulse to see how well it would fit jammed into Vanessa’s eye socket. “I could never make up my mind whether you were just a bitch, or a whore pretending to be a bitch. Now I know.”
“Oh, that’s a great comeback,” she said. “I am going to have to write that one down. Do you mind if I use it? I can think of so many people that statement applies to.”
“The trust fund thing is bullshit, anyway. My older brother had his fund vest, and he said that he had to pay out almost all of it in taxes.”
“That must be a nice problem to have. Next you’re going to tell me how much your student loans are. Can’t be that much worse than mine.”
“If you came all this way to work out your class resentment issues, you wasted your trip,” I said.
“You mean you still haven’t figured it out?” she said. “I thought you were smarter than that, dearie.”
“The only thing that makes sense is that you’re freelancing for Gawker, in which case, go to hell. You’ve already caused me enough agita.”
Vanessa drained the last of her Long Island iced tea. “This is what happened,” she said. “Hand to God.”
“Which God?”
“Another good comeback. I am totally writing
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