Free The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel by Laurie Graff Page B

news is awful.
    “Work your magic,” Jay says, quickly dashing past. I see he’s looking good.
    “If it’s an L.A. celeb, the event’s still in New York, right?” I call behind him.
    “Don’t worry, if it goes L.A., we’ll rent you a nice convertible,” Jay shouts from inside his office. “Maybe something red.”
    I immediately grind to a halt and do an about-face to where JAY SPIEGEL, EXECUTIVE V.P. is engraved on a thin metal plaque on his office door. I barge in.
    “Jay!” At his desk and back online, his time for our conversation has ended.
    “Fast, fast,” he says, acknowledging me though his eyes stay on his e-mail.
    “The launch has to be in New York because you know I don’t drive,” I blurt out. Fast.
    “Still?” His trim body collapses into his black leather chair. “Are you saying you have yet to handle this?”
    “Yes. And I don’t want any surprises.”
    “Aimee, Aimee, Aimee.” Jay looks at me. Disappointed.
    “What?”
    “We go through this every time we plan an event,” he says. “You may even be worth it, but car service for the PR firm is not a given in a client’s budget. And don’t make me remember Utah.”
    The coup of KISS and its new line of digital cameras as a corporate sponsor at the Sundance Film Festival was short-lived. After days of a media blitz and no sleep, not to mention frigid weather, the second it was over everyone packed up and took off in order to make the flight. No one realized there could be ramifications to my driving both me and the superexpensive signage to the airport in the rental car.
    “Is that what you’re saying? Are you first telling me now that
you don’t drive
?” Jay shouted repeatedly into his cell until some mountain made him lose his signal. I lost face, sleep, my flight . . . don’t ask about the rigmarole to fix it.
    I had been able to conceal my driving phobia from PR With A Point for several years, but the more we travel, the more it comes up and the more problems it potentially creates. Of late, we’ve been traveling a lot. And everyone’s just about had it.
    “Here’s a tip: when creating the event, create why it’s New York based,” Jay now advises. “And alongside that, consider how to get over your problem. Don’t tell me how, but by the time of the launch I’ll expect you have. Understood?”
    “Understood.” As if I had just signed someone’s death sentence, I almost cry.
    “Please don’t.” Jay wipes away a fake tear. “This is important. I’m taking you at your word, okay?” He extends his hand to shake on it. “I do have the number of a great phobic shrink if you want.”
    “Really?” I ask, as I shake. Literally and figuratively. “What freaks you out?”
    “An account supervisor on the cusp of becoming a VP who still can’t drive at forty.”
    “Excuse me. Who you callin’ forty?”
    “Gotcha.” Jay winks. “Now get out.” His hand shoos me as if I were a fly, the aroma of the flowers following me into the hall.
    I’m dizzy when I leave. But determined to figure this out. I’ll come up with the perfect celebrity-based New York City KISS event. Sans cars. And after, when this goes down as a big success,
maybe
I’ll consider . . . Oy, I hope I won’t have to explain to Josh how I grew up in northeastern Pennsylvania without a driver’s license.
    At the end of the corridor, I press the button that opens the door to exit into the main hallway. Past the elevator bank, I turn left to the ladies’ room and use my key to enter. Next to the row of sinks is a full-length mirror. I feel pleased when I catch my reflection on the way to the loo. Even though I have never looked more together, I have never felt less. But one thing’s for certain. I must protect my job. Whatever may happen, work remains my constant. The place I at least imagine I maintain control. Now Jay is saying there can be a stop sign. A time I won’t get to go unless I drive there.
    “Zeman,” I shout when I exit the