Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [89]
When I balked at this suggestion, Dr. D-P told me that she wouldn’t have suggested it had she not known that I had it in me. “Whether you recognize it or not, Mira, one doesn’t get to the top of one’s profession without the liberal application of Leapfrog principles.” When I tried to tell her that there’s also a hefty element of luck involved, she reminded me of my iron-willed resolve in trying to hold onto Jake and Grappa. Sure, it hadn’t worked out, but it hadn’t been because I gave up too easily.
I devour the sandwich, a mountain of corned beef between two greasy slabs of marble rye, leaking cheese and Russian dressing all down the front of my sweater. It’s delicious, and I don’t stop eating until I’ve finished the last thick fry, which I use to mop up the remains of the sandwich. I need all the sustenance I can get for what I’m about to do.
I leave the waitress a hefty tip, which she tucks into the breast pocket of her uniform. “Thanks, doll,” she calls, smiling at me and waving, her silver rings glinting in the afternoon sun.
An hour later, I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, clutching the rejection letter, on which Enid Maxwell’s phone number is prominently displayed, making it all too easy for me to call her. I’ve spent the last thirty minutes online on my laptop reading past Food section excerpts. At a minimum, it has given me second thoughts about having any association with the Post-Gazette. The recipes are uninteresting (cream of cauliflower soup made with frozen cauliflower, Velveeta Light, and canned tomatoes). In addition, they review a different fast-food freezer item each week. This week’s offering, Amy’s Vegan Black Bean Burritos, has been given two thumbs-up by the reviewers. Doesn’t anyone in Pittsburgh cook?
I’m looking for excuses not to call, but the alternative—having to fess up to Dr. D-P next week that I hadn’t been able to do it—is by far the more frightening prospect. Dr. D-P has made it seem as if my psychological well-being, not to mention my entire future, is riding on this one phone call. If I’m ever going to be able to move on with my life, I have to get over my fear of rejection, she said. It’s as if Jake’s rejection has seeped into every area of my life, polluting my sense of self worth so that now I live in constant fear of being spurned again, even by a newspaper that lauds the use of processed cheese products.
So, I’m stuck. Finally, I arrive at the psychologically comfortable compromise of calling after five and leaving a message. I’m counting on what I can remember from episodes of The Wire, that newspaper editors are seldom at their desks and rarely answer their land-line phones. So I prepare and rehearse a confident-sounding message, gently challenging Enid’s provincial sensibilities and offering to meet with her to discuss the rise of the Pittsburgh restaurant.
I dial the phone.
While it’s ringing I rehearse my message. I take a deep breath. I want to sound relaxed and confident. “Hello, Enid. This is Mira Rinaldi. Listen, I just wanted to touch—”
“Pressroom.” The voice that answers is gruff and masculine.
“Yes, hi. I just wanted to leave a message for Enid Maxwell.” There is a deafening noise in the background.
“Who? I can barely hear you.”
“Enid Maxwell,” I yell.
“This is the pressroom. She must have forwarded her phone. Hang on, I’ll find her.”
“No!” I practically scream into the phone. “I mean, that’s okay,