Free Hard Feelings by Jason Starr Page B

wondered what “friend” Paula could be having lunch with and I couldn’t help imagining that she was with Doug. Maybe Doug had called her again at work and invited her out. Paula, caught off-guard, could have agreed, or maybe she didn’t have to be coerced. I remembered how Doug had been hitting on her right in front of me in Stockbridge, and how Paula hadn’t exactly seemed uninterested. It made sense that Doug would try to hit on Paula again in New York, and Paula could’ve easily been attracted to a guy who was better-looking than me and who was much more successful.
    I called Paula on her cell phone. It rang three times, then she answered.
    “Hi,” I said. “What’s going on?”
    “Oh, hi,” she said, uncomfortably.
    “Did I get you at a bad time?”
    “No . . . I mean not really. I was just having lunch.”
    “I know,” I said. “I just called your office. Who are you having lunch with?”
    She hesitated then said, “Debbie.”
    Debbie was a friend of Paula’s from college with whom I’d thought Paula had fallen out of touch.
    “Really?” I said. “Did you call her or did she call you?”
    “I called her,” Paula said. “I should really go now.”
    “Okay,” I said. “Say hi to Debbie.”
    “I will. ’Bye.”
    Paula hung up. Even though I could picture the scene clearly—Doug sitting across from Paula, maybe holding her hand as she had an awkward conservation with me—I tried to stay calm, not jump to any conclusions.
    I spent the rest of the afternoon working on my résumé and calling headhunters. One was confident that she’d find me something soon, but warned that the job market for high-end salespeople was “tight right now” and that I might have to “humble myself” and start at a “much lower salary” than I was currently making.
    At 5:01, I left my office, feeling miserable. I went right across the street to a bar on Sixth Avenue. I weaved my way through the crowd of tourists from Kansas or wherever and found some room at the end of the bar. I ordered a Scotch and soda. The drink went too fast and it didn’t relax me enough, so I ordered another. This one went as quickly as the first, so I bought a third. When I put the empty glass back on the bar I realized I was buzzed, maybe even drunk, and that I’d probably be very drunk once the alcohol made its way into my bloodstream. I was angry at myself for falling back into a bad habit so easily, but I also realized how my problems at work didn’t seem nearly as important as they had about twenty minutes ago. Maybe if I had one more drink I’d feel even better. I waved the bartender over and ordered a refill. Number four went down as smoothly as the first three. I contemplated ordering a fifth, but I knew if I came home stumbling drunk it would lead to a big fight.
    I decided to take a different route home for a change, through Central Park. I didn’t realize how wrecked I was until I started bumping into people on Sixth Avenue.
    The park was a surreal blur of joggers, trees, horses and buggies, and bicyclists. I walked unsteadily uptown along the park’s East Drive. At one point I stumbled and a jogger, a young Asian woman, bumped into me and almost fell down.
    “Moron!” she yelled, looking back over her shoulder.
    Now I was extremely self-conscious. I knew how pathetic I must look—drunk, with my tie partially unwound and my hair a mess. I decided to rest for a while on a bench. I passed out quickly and woke up, groggy and disoriented. I checked my watch, surprised to see that it was 6:55. More than a half-hour had gone by in what seemed like an instant. I felt less drunk, but I was starting to experience hangover symptoms— a headache, dizziness, slight nausea. As I walked, I felt steadier and less disoriented. I was confident that by the time I got home Paula wouldn’t be able to tell I’d been drinking.
    I exited the park and headed east. I stopped at a deli on Madison and bought a medium-sized bottle of