“No, Nicky. This means you pay me the same shitty wage. I’m already going to have to take out a bunch of loans to make this work.”
Before Nicky could even twist his mouth to protest, I leaned over the desk and added, “You need to pay me back for the cocktail waitress, Nicky. I was with you for five years. Four years for five. That’s a good bargain.”
I had figured that this was the only argument that would work with him. Nicky didn’t understand doing things out of kindness or common decency, but he couldn’t stand to be in debt—financial or emotional. Plus, he loved a good bargain.
So when he agreed to my terms it was because he felt like he was paying me back for hurting me. And in a way, that was true.
So for the first time in my entire life, and at the age of twenty-six, I was finally in charge of my own destiny and making the decisions based on what I wanted to do. Freedom was a very unfamiliar feeling and, to tell you the honest truth, all sorts of scary. But I loved every bit of it, and I promised myself I would never let go of it again.
. . .
Often waiters would start at the club with their high school diplomas and showbiz dreams, and I would overhear them saying stuff like, “There isn’t anything college can teach me.” I would have to fight the temptation to ask them, “How would you know?”
Because college taught me a whole lot.
It seemed like the answer to every question I had ever had about my life and America and the world could be found in a class or a textbook. In fact, two years into my psychology major, I was not only able to let go of my beef with the Farrells, but also able to walk into Nicky’s office and deliver new terms for our ongoing relationship.
Nicky, as usual, was on his computer doing work when I entered. If I ever came in and caught him playing solitaire or looking at online porn like most bosses behind closed doors, I think I’d likely drop dead of shock.
“What you want? I’m doing the payroll.”
“You want some lunch or something?” I asked him.
“Leon’ll bring something round from the kitchen in a little bit.”
I half smiled. “No, I mean you want to go someplace and get something to eat.”
“Why would I want to get something to eat when there’s free food right here?”
I shrugged. “My treat.”
Nicky took off his reading glasses and looked up at me. “Davie, how many times do I have to tell you not to spend your money on stupid shit? I don’t pay you enough to beat around the bush with lunch offers. If you want to get back with me, just say so.”
“Nicky, I don’t want to get back with you. And by the way, if I did want to start going with you again, what you just said was so the opposite of romantic, it would have killed any desperate feelings I was having. You’ve got to work on that if you ever want a woman to stick around.”
Nicky put his reading glasses back on and went back to clicking his mouse. “Then why are you here?”
I sat down in the IKEA folding chair in front of his desk. “Listen, Nicky, my life—I don’t need any more crazy in it. I’ve already had enough crazy. I mean look at how all I grew up. I want to be in a boring relationship. A very boring relationship, with no Closet Catches, no surprises. Just me and a guy. Simple. That’s what I deserve—no, that’s what I need at this point. So understand, you and me are never going to happen again. And you need to stop bringing it up, because I’ve been thinking, and the thing is, what you told me when I first started working here was wrong.”
I could see Nicky’s muscles straining underneath the Loyola T-shirt he wore when he did the payroll, instead of his usual suit. It looked like he was physically restraining himself from throwing me out of his office. “What thing I told you?” he asked.
“You said we weren’t friends. And I’m here to say that I think we are. In fact, I think we’re best friends. So you’re going to have to deal with that.”