Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [113]
“You had to once she matched your offer. That jump plus your big down payment is what got Skip on board and killed the prospect of an extended bidding war. And the look on his face.” He laughs and swipes at his beard. “I’ve known the guy twenty years and I’ve never seen that look!” he says, a string of cheese hanging from his mouth.
I have to admit I had enjoyed Skip’s sudden about-face. He’d gone from being a condescending finger snapper to someone respectful, deferential, and subservient as soon as I whipped out my checkbook. Someone who took me seriously. Since giving up Grappa I’ve become accustomed to people not taking me seriously, and I relished Skip’s rapt attention as he chatted amiably about my new neighborhood, how up and coming it was and how it took a real New Yorker, someone as sophisticated and savvy as myself, to recognize the true value of this investment.
“I, ah,” I start to speak, but no words come out. The bottom line is I have no job and only one slim prospect. I have a child to raise, and I’ve just bought an impractical penthouse apartment in a city where, until an hour ago, I had no future plans.
Ben puts his sandwich back in the red plastic basket and wipes his mouth. “Come on. It’s a good investment. You’re a successful businessperson. I’ll bet you would have had to pay five times as much for a similar place in Manhattan.”
“Ten times, more like,” I tell him.
“See, you’ve made a wise business decision. These loft apartments are going to take off, you watch.” Ben shakes a fry at me to emphasize his point. “You’re just not thinking down the road. I’ll bet you make a bundle.”
“I can’t believe that I’m taking long-term investment advice from you.” I look up at the ceiling of the restaurant, open wooden rafters stained to a dark patina from years of grease and smoke. Light a match, and the whole place would probably go up in flames.
Ben looks hurt. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
I gesture to the sandwich, the second half of which is already poised in Ben’s hands. “Anybody who eats this stuff is clearly not thinking long-term.”
He smiles at me, the lines around his eyes, which I hadn’t noticed before, making tiny craggy creases underneath his lids. He covers his mouth, disguising a delicate belch, and gestures to the waitress for some more water. She pretends not to see him.
“You’re one to talk,” he says, his mouth full of sandwich.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you did just buy a three hundred thousand dollar apartment on impulse. Good investment or not, that’s not exactly planning ahead.”
I’m not sure if it’s the Primanti sandwich or the beginnings of buyer’s remorse, but I have a pain in my stomach, a burning sensation that’s begun to radiate down my left arm. I take a deep breath, and the pain shifts from my arm to deep in my esophagus. I remember reading somewhere that heart attacks begin like this.
“I’ve always wanted to live in a loft,” I tell him, my voice sounding hollow and unconvincing. I put a hand to my chest. “Who am I kidding—I don’t even have a job! I have no idea what I was thinking.” Ben leans forward and looks concerned. He reaches into the pocket of his work shirt and pulls out a roll of Tums. He unravels the package, hands me two, and takes two for himself.
“Look. You misjudged me,” he says, waving the Tums. “I planned on having lunch at Primanti’s today. Who says I don’t think ahead?”
Between several calls to and from Skip, not to mention my financial advisor, Avi Steiner, in New York, I spend most of the afternoon on the phone, with each call becoming more deeply entrenched in the Pittsburgh real estate market and the inexorable march toward home ownership. I’ve exhausted my supply of Tums, having consumed the rest of Ben’s, plus another entire roll that I bought on the way home from lunch. When the heart palpitations begin, I shut off my phone and lie face down on the bed and try to think quieting thoughts. Can you die from an overdose of Tums?