Salad Days

In an empty apartment, strewn with the evidence of last night's shenanigans, Veronica wakes up on a flat air mattress, an uncoiled air pump poised for use just inches from the open inflation port. 

She surveys the state of the room, attempting to trace the trajectory of the night. Contents of a girl’s getting ready bag lays strewn across the hardwood. The sheer chiffon of last night’s dress lays weighted by vomit in a heap on the floor. Looking between strands of blonde crusted together by the same sour film, Veronica sees a trash bag placed caringly in arm's reach surrounded by bite sized pieces of a black and white bodega cookie. Crawling to the nearest crumble of baked good, she takes a bite and recalls the events leading up to the facedown.  

Veronica was celebrating at her high school best friend’s birthday at a bar downtown when, halfway through a tequila soda, she was called by the siren song of inappropriate blackout. 

______

A keen sense for the system and an aptitude for working smarter, not harder, Veronica enjoyed university almost aggressively in the way that a person is supposed to. She had been popular in high school, a quality that quantified personal fulfillment in the number of house parties and birthday brunches she was invited to. In time, she learned that though college was subject to different rules, success could be similarly quantified. An inexhaustible social battery and a capacity for binge-drinking took popularity’s place. Whether bar crawl or sports game, beach darty or boozy brunch, there was always a good time to hold the uncomfortable consciousness at bay. 

By senior year, university had brought Veronica a half a dozen sidekicks with second homes, an open invite to any party and a weekly message from the Rabbi on the Jewish student email chain, inviting her to Shabbat. Every Friday night at Jesuit university, Veronica stood alone at the Rabbi’s door. The email chain had no bcc. 

Four years felt long, but graduation day came quick. On the day of the ceremony, Veronica and her friends leaned into the sentimental, posing for grad photos in matching white dresses and spring summer sandals. Chins tilted up, to get their good sides, the girls looked at one another with open mouth grins as they threw their caps in the air on the photographer’s count. 

Veronica’s stomach turned with the flight of the cap– a feeling less severe than dread, but more sinister than butterflies; a mix of hunger and nausea as the unfamiliar pang echoed in her gut. 

That night, Veronica crushed fourteen beers and a half gallon jug of homemade mixed drink in preparation for the final blow out. She blacked out at the threshold, and blacked in at the top of the steps, surveying her subjects from the mezzanine of the frat house. On her way back into the fray, Veronica took one step and missed the next fourteen, tumbling, face first, down a flight and a half of stairs. 

She woke up in the morning missing her four front teeth, her only memory being the moment before the fall. Empty sockets and blood crusted gums, Veronica wondered if her incisors were still between the cracks in the frat house floor boards. 

Roots exposed and front teeth unfound, Veronica ate baby food until the dentist could inspect the damage. The doctor asked her to recount the events leading up to the facedown as he marveled at the state of her lips. He asked her how she fell and she asked him why. 

“Usually when this kind of thing happens, the teeth go through the front lip. Sometimes they’ll come clean out of the socket and stay wedged in the flesh for a while. Not you, though, yours are fine. Not even a scratch. You must have been smiling on the way down.”

With no job prospects on the horizon, Veronica moved home After graduation. The southern California summer turned stagnant as August ran into September and nothing ever changed. The grad parties turned to going away parties and Veronica, again, began to experience the pangs. Over Cecconi’s chopped salads with the girls from high school, she learned that everyone who was anyone was moving to New York. Overcome with an acute feeling of I could do that, Veronica called a relative in the closest suburb and asked how long she could stay. She left her diploma hanging at home and told Aunt Barbara to prepare the guest room. 

When she arrived in Dobbs Ferry, Veronica again experienced a pang. Over dinner at the boat house, she attempted to give voice to the feeling in her gut. But, before she could get the words out, Aunt Barbara met her with a cooing hush, assuring her niece that she had just the fix. In the morning, Aunt Barbara took Veronica for a root touch up and then to a pilates class. 

Veronica was halfway through a kegel, when she found purpose. She would work in public relations. 

Pfizer was on a hiring spree, assembling a team to launch the media campaign for their new oncology unit. Veronica knew nothing about the pharmaceutical sphere, but years of private education had earned her business slacks and an impressive CV. Within a week, she signed a salaried contract and bought a pack of seamless underwear that would sit inoffensively under her work trousers. 

Having known nothing but the undergraduate nepotism internship, Veronica didn’t know what to expect from her first day in the working world. Though Aunt Barbara had armed her well for the cut-throat world of the business casual, gifting her a Dyson on the first day of Hanukkah and a button down for the eighth, she was unsure that looking the part would be enough. But when the new hire made her cubicle debut, she walked confidently into the 44th street office, winter wool cinched at the waist and kitten heels echoing on the slick marble flooring. 

The learning curve was steep, but Veronica showed no signs of panic, like a duck, kicking furiously beneath the opacity of the water. By the end of her first month, she had a company computer, a client dinner once a week, and a closet full of Aritzia business slacks folded neatly into pant hooks. Veronica had mastered the art of the quick blowout, perfected the curt email, and could make it from Grand Central to the glass door of her office in under ten minutes provided she walked at a clip and didn’t stop for an early morning cigarette. Most importantly, when her millennial boss made the rounds to rank the employees based on physical appearance, Veronica placed comfortably in the high-middle, with a capable clack on her double monitored desktop. 

Typing had proved the only task Veronica had yet to master. Somewhere between a rare disability and an unfortunate genetic twist, her hands were clinically petite. Like those of an infant, they lacked both size and dexterity, which slightly inhibited her in matters of nimbleness and tact. As the assignments rolled in, Veronica’s fingers stretched across the sprawl of the adult sized keyboard, straining her tendons so that the tip of her acrylic nail might meet the edge of the shift key. Her manicure was more than a cosmetic fix, it was her answer to the demands of the corporate world. 

By every metric, Veronica had made it. She had a standing Sunday nail appointment, charged as a company expense, a commuter ride pass on the Metro-North and when Pfizer found the cure for childhood cancer, Veronica would be credited with the fastest Instagram post. The unsung hero, baby hands in overdrive, dancing across an iPhone keypad to spread the good word. Nevertheless, the pangs returned. 

By the time of the birthday party, Veronica had been working overtime on Pfizer’s Super Bowl commercial. The ad would feature a musical animation of scientists singing in a library, ending in a saccharine tableau of bald children smiling and waving from their wheelchairs. The screen would fade to black as a soft but serious voice introduced the pharmaceutical company’s pediatric oncology initiative. 

A commercial intended to break hearts and open minds. Pfizer the cheeky. Pfizer the sentimental. Pfizer the benevolent. Pfizer the anti-Sackler. Pfizer the exceptional. Pfizer, American football’s big pharma darling. 

Veronica’s work was in statistics. A file of a thousand names was dropped on her desk to investigate as she was tasked with finding the death count of those treated in the company’s new program. Veronica trudged through the first dozen, painstakingly sifting through parents’ Facebook accounts for memorial posts or comments that featured “rip” messages. Most searches came up inconclusive, the patient profiles indistinguishable from a sea of healthy people with the same name. 

It was in a search of “Kate Smith age ten dead?” that Veronica landed on a jackpot of youth obituaries. There she inputted the remaining nine-hundred and eighty-eight names, and found that most were deceased. She was done by lunch and braved the Sweetgreen on 44th and 2nd to pick up a kale caesar salad. 

The Monday after the commercial aired, the PR office was in a frenzy. Pfizer was blindsided by the backlash and the girls were dispatched to put out fires on every platform– Ashley on Instagram, Abby on Twitter, Amy on YouTube. As the best dressed and most capable, Veronica was put in as the liaison between the company and the on-screen faces in the commercial. Her inbox flooded with emails from the parents of children featured in the commercial inquiring about unwanted publicity. Their children were terminally ill, immortalized in Pfizer’s Super Bowl debut. 

Veronica worked smarter, not harder, using the proximity of the copy/ paste commands to her advantage. To each angry email, she replied with the company statement, cordially breaking it to the families that their children would not be paid for participation in the commercial. The pediatric wing of the state hospital was under public domain, and so were their image rights. Per company policy, child cancer patient features had no grounds on which to sue or ask for compensation. 

Veronica was done by lunch and again braved the Sweetgreen on 44th and 2nd to pick up a kale caesar salad. 

With no expenses other than her daily take out lunch, Veronica’s income was all disposable. Dinners were always at the boat house and Aunt Barbara’s card was always on file at the pilates studio. Veronica had everything a young woman could possibly need. 

In time, the benefits that Dobbs Ferry provided were outweighed by the disadvantages. Veronica’s social life had stagnated, grueling work hours made the commute impossible, and her living space was constantly under construction as Aunt Barbara was always re-wallpapering. 

On a Sunday in February, Veronica stepped off the reformer and broke it to Aunt Barbara that she would be moving out within the month. Where exactly, she didn’t know, but her heart was set on the city. 

After sending a text in the girls’ group chat regarding her move, Veronica was inundated messages from enthusiastic roommate prospects. She settled on two communication majors from a wealthy suburb in the tri-state area, figuring that at least one would have a family beach house. The group settled on color swatches and matching monogram bedding for a three bedroom in Chelsea. Jess would buy the couch if Emily would splurge on Smeg for the kitchen appliances. 

But when it came time to sign the lease, the girls got cold feet. Jess and Emily pulled out of the agreement and opted for a luxury two bedroom in a Hoboken high-rise. They were not quite ready to leave Jersey. 

Veronica was scorned, having no choice but to move down the roster. Caitlyn and Emma were called off the bench, but the Chelsea place had already gone to a group of grads from Boston College. After half a dozen in-person tours of three-bedrooms in Lower Manhattan, the roommates-to-be called their mothers crying, horrified by the harsh reality of the doorman-less building. They decided to stay home for the time being, again, leaving Veronica to fend for herself. 

Eventually, Veronica was left with two girls from a social bracket far lower than her own. The young professional gave up her gritty yet charming downtown dream and settled for a place on 86th and Amsterdam, complete with crown molding and street views. When Aunt Barbara toured the place, she wept for Veronica’s safety. She squeezed her tight and told her that she would see her at Passover, if she was even alive by then. 

By the time of the birthday party, the ink on the lease was not yet dry. Veronica was slated for official move in that Monday, but had come into the city early for the celebration, planning to stay the weekend in her empty apartment. Air mattress and Longchamp XL weekend bag under her arm, Veronica took the Metro-North for the last time. The city was under flood warning, so Veronica was drenched by the time she arrived to her new front door. She collected the keys from her super, walked three flights to her apartment and unfurled her blowup mattress on the hardwood. 

Veronica was pressed for primping time as the rain had wrecked both her hair and her spray tan. Her baby hands made up for lost time, dancing nimbly in an application of glitter eyeshadow, hairspray. She threw on her dress and called a car charged to her own card. On the way downtown, she cracked the windows as the Uber flew down the west side highway, evading the Saturday night congestion of the surface streets. 

Young people in black tie duck into the low lit bar for the birthday party. Veronica lights a cigarette, then two, standing under the overhang as the rain beats down on the soft tarp of the awning. The guests filter through the double doors; a parade of characters collected by her best friend, the girl who keeps everyone. Veronica flicks the butt and slips the pack in her Prada clutch. A loose lip gloss and a lighter clink against her keys with every swing. 

The night flies by, one tequila soda after another, as Veronica trades what are you up to nows with friends of friends and attendees from high school. From the dance floor, to the bar and back again, Veronica leans into the momentum of the good time. 

In the last hour of the party those left loosen their heel straps and take to the couch. As the chorus of the birthday song begins, Veronica heads towards the lounge. The gold halo of the candles near the birthday girl as she closes her eyes to make a wish. Veronica moves in for a closer look, but having overshot the good time by half a dozen tequila sodas, she misses a step and takes a tumble into the empanada tray. An obstacle course of stationary passed apps between herself and the birthday girl, she puts hand to the yucca section, flipping the tray and catapulting the carne. 

The guests cheer as the candles are blown out across the room and Veronica attempts a recovery step. But her legs go limp and she hits the deck, this time falling face first into a mirrored table on the way down. The glass shatters on contact with Veronica’s forehead and a seam of blood turns quickly to a trickle. Her eyelids at half-mast, she looks up from the facedown, and takes the hand of the familiar boy standing above her. He helps her to a seat, moving comfortably in his formal wear, displaying the coy confidence of a kid who had put on a suit for the sixth time this week. 

Andrés had been attracted to acts of selflessness for as long as he could remember. As a child, he excitedly anticipated Halloween, not for the candy but for the rush he got from filling his trick-or-treat basket with UNICEF donations. As he counted the coins, a warm fuzzy fizz filled his stomach. He knew not what it was, but only that he had to have more. 

By Freshman year of high school, this pursuit had led Andrés to the line of the blood donation tent. He convinced the soccer boys to accompany him, luring them with a promise of the best high they’d ever felt. The teenagers filled twelve bags and walked back to class, scarfing recovery snacks and waiting to feel the feeling that Andrés had promised. For most, the high never came, but Andrés was on cloud nine. He resolved that he would be back to give another bag after Algebra. 

Chasing that feeling he could not name, Andrés made his way to the humanitarian Super Bowl. By the time of the birthday party, he had been working as a diplomatic advisor at the United Nations for just under a year. The work was low level, but stakes were still high. Tie knot taut and lapel pin fastened, he did the administrative work, so the world could run fine. With every paperclip out of place and typographic error unfixed, international peace and security were on the line. 

Every morning, Andrés made his bed, lined up his dress shoes and hung his button-ups in color gradation, before heading out for his commute. On his way to Midtown, he reviewed the heads of state, who condemned what, and most importantly what he would say if faced with the question of the UN’s efficacy. Whether the organization did more harm than good, he didn’t have the heart to consider, so he got off at Grand Central running his lines in his head, “it’s not perfect, but it’s the best we’ve got.” 

Day after day, the question went unasked, so Andrés went to work where the world heard each other out and then broke for lunch. On his midday break, braved the Sweetgreen on 44th and 2nd to pick up a harvest chicken salad. 

When Veronica goes down, Andrés is among the first to assist, eager to aid in conflict on the home front. He coaxes her, then reasons with her, then calls in the muscle, knowing that, in the context of the facedown, sanctions won’t do any good. 

A nearby teenage boy, full of creatine and testosterone, hoists Veronica off the floor and over his shoulder in one graceless sweep. Out of the bar and into the street, Veronica’s limp halved body dangles in a fireman carry, her bare ass exposed to the oncoming traffic in the 7th Avenue gutter between Chelsea and Flatiron. The upturned mini Prada hangs limp from Veronica’s wrist, contents spilling into the street behind the exit party. Andrés flags a cab. 

Like a slinky down a staircase, Veronica melts reluctantly into the backseat, as a crowd of half-concerned onlookers sip tequila sodas and send their well-wishes. With Veronica’s black strappy heels secured in his capable hands, Andrés directs the taxi to the Upper West Side. In his head, he rehearses the hostess’s wishes, “get her inside, make sure she’s okay, and come back to party.”

Veronica breaks the silence with a foreboding hiccup. She covers her mouth, but the bile evades the shield of her petite palms. The vomit sprays in liquid on the second round, leaving a spit-up sheen on Andrés’ suit jacket. With a burn in her throat, Veronica gasps for air as a remaining dribble rolls down her chin. 

The cab rounds the corner on 86th, and drops the pair under the first awning. Veronica slumps against the cool brass of the front entrance, remaining non-verbal despite Andrés’ attempts. The rain starts up again and Veronica claws her way out of the alcohol daze to deliver her six-digit building code before sliding comfortably back into the blackout. Fatigued by the sudden burst of consciousness, she regresses to a limp-bodied state as Andrés drags her tequila-logged body up the stairs of the three-story walk-up. 

When they approach the landing, they are faced with three identical doors. Veronica gestures to the first. Andrés confirms, “this one is you?” 

Veronica nods her head, the right corner of her mouth curling into a smile. Having no key, Andrés tries the handle, shaking the brass with increasing pressure. The nob stops, held in place by a hand from the other side of the door. 

“This is not her fucking apartment. She’s in 3c.” 

Veronica looks at Andrés, innocent mischief in her eye as she undoes her up-do and hands him a hairpin. Andrés begins to pick the lock. The door swings open to an empty apartment. 

“Home sweet home. You going to be okay here?” 

Veronica sways from one foot to the other, blocking the doorway, a fleck of pleading in her gaze. Looking for something to satisfy her, Andrés reaches for the black and white cookie tucked in the bag on the floor. He unwraps the plastic as she sits down. Tearing the cookie into small pieces, Veronica litters the room in sizable crumbs as Andrés watches. 

“Okay, you ready for bed now?” 

The air mattress is deflated but Andrés treats it like a bed, fluffing the imaginary pillows and turning down the illusory duvet. Veronica settles in, allowing Andrés to tuck the fictive sheet tight. Like a child going down for an unwanted nap, Veronica shuts her eyes convincingly. 

“Okay, I’m going to go.” 

Veronica opens her mouth, a back throat gurgle fighting its way past an inarticulate tongue. What presents as a hiccup reveals itself as an attempt to speak. The constants remain round, tongue unable to make comfortable contact with the slick backside of her tooth implants. Navigating the structure of her mouth, uncertain of the distance between teeth, tongue, and soft palate, she strings together a question. 

“Does the UN even do anything?” 

“Well, it's not perfect, but it’s the best we’ve got.” 

“You’re so perfect” 

“That’s sweet, I think you’re perfect” 

“No, you must feel so perfect. Cause like you’re wearing a suit like a boss, but you’re also just a baby. Like boss baby.” 

“I guess, yeah. Just like boss baby” 

“Boss baby?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m going to drop-kick you”

“Okay. Sweet dreams, kid.” 

The lock clicks as Andrés shuts the door gently behind him. He descends three stories to street level into the lamp light of early morning. The rain stops, and he goes back downtown to party. 

______

Veronica stands before the locksmith, her forehead tinted in a smear of blood from where the laceration gushed, and her arms covered in hand shaped bruises from where Andrés held on as he dragged her up the stairs. She squints, blinded as the glare of mid-morning dances across the wall of keys behind the register. 

“I need to have my front door lock repaired.” She pauses, “it was broken in to.”

The locksmith’s face falls into concern as he surveys the damage. He offers counsel on the only thing he knows for certain. 

“You don’t have to be in any relationship you don’t want to be in.” 

A pang stirs in her stomach, but Veronica chalks it up to hunger. She assures the locksmith that she’s been battered but only by the night. After setting a time for him to change the locks, Veronica heads out to find lunch. 

The first day of spring is marked by Sweetgreen’s seasonal menu change. Root veggies are swapped for peas, and winter kale swapped for little gem. Veronica is nowhere near Midtown, so she heads to the location on 81st and Amsterdam to pick up a green goddess with romaine.