On the Verge by Ariella Papa Page A

publishing company,” Paul asks, smiling at me with bad teeth.
    “Yeah.”
    “You girls got an apartment here in the city?”
    “No, we are visiting from Tulsa, and we’ll be leaving tomorrow.” Roseanne shoots me a look. It’s amazing that she can hear me so clearly with her back to me yet she needs to lean so close to Brad’s lips to understand him. I correct myself, for her sake. For the sake of love, if you will.
    Anyway, we imbibe quite a bit. So much so that at one point I must mistakenly give Paul the go ahead to kiss me (maybe it’s just the example set by face sucking Roseanne and Brad), but I quickly put a stop to that.
    Roseanne walks away with a business card and a date for next Thursday night (props to her). Luckily, it’s the night I’m going to the Fashion Awards with Tabitha. Once again we are back on the bus, but this time we get to pass out. I wake up just in time for our stop and note that Rosie has a smile on her face as she sleeps. It warms the cockles of my cold heart.
     
    “I found it!” Roseanne says when I pick up the phone. Herb happens to be standing near my desk, talking to one of the writers.
    “What’s that?” I try to sound professional.
    “The most wonderful apartment!” Let me just say that ever since her date prospect, she’s been a little happier, but finding the perfect apartment is nothing to joke about. I feel my heart start to beat. This could be the new beginning.
    “Where?”
    “Chelsea. Right on 7th Avenue. It’s amazing. The landlady’s cousin showed it to me. She says they’re making their decision tomorrow. Eve, there were like thirty other people there.”
    “How much?”
    “Only fourteen. Only? Gosh, I never thought I would say that. Shit, I’m becoming a New Yorker. Eve, I am serious, we have to get this apartment. Have to. Call the landlady and schmooze her. You’re good at that.” Really?
    “Okay, give me the number.” She gives it to me. Her name is Mrs. Yakimoto. “How many bedrooms?”
    “Well it’s just one bedroom with this alcove and a sleep loft. The bedroom and the loft aren’t that big, but the living room and everything else is huge. It’s unbelievable, it’s amazing. Eve, I haven’t seen an apartment this nice. Oh, shit.” Roseanne is getting real accustomed to this cursing thing. She is loving her new New Yorkness. It’s actually rubbing off on me and I find myself wanting this apartment sight unseen.
    I hang up the phone. I smile up at Herb, who just sort of stares at me, like I am somehow representative of a generation of young women that he would never want to attempt to understand.
    “Searching for an apartment,” I say.
    “I hear it’s tough these days.” I smile and nod, hoping he will go away so I can make personal phone calls.
    “Can you send this out for me, Eve?” He hands me a big puffy envelope full of stuff. Now as I said, Herb is a very self-sufficient man, but little things like “sending stuff out” are beyond him. This man has published books and had honorary and real degrees from all over but can’t figure out the Prescott Nelson mail system. Basically, our mail system entails just dropping it in a bin for someone else to come and take care of postage. It’s wonderful. My mother gives me care packages to send to my sister all the time. No one questions anything. All it takes is a Bicycle Boy or Prescott Nelson label. Since Herb has already written out the address, all I have to do is put the package in the mail bin next tomy desk. It’s easy enough, and the nice thing is it makes both Herb and I feel like I am earning my title as “assistant.”
    I take the package from him. I ooze efficiency. “Great. I’ll do it right away.”
    I call Mrs. Yakimoto. She lives on Long Island. Her son answers the phone. He can’t be more than six. He screams for his mother to get the phone. She answers and speaks in slightly accented English.
    “Mrs. Yakimoto, my name is Eve Vitali. My roommate Roseanne