Angeles Mercury even found a compliment for JD, noting that, “the man is obviously so in fear of his job, his vocabulary has finally moved beyond the inane, maddening cry of ‘Booya-ka-ka!’ Please, Mr. Coolz, keep this up!” Even the contestants seemed to have gained some fans. On YouTube, for example, 198,234 people had rewatched Mia Pelosi singing “The Prayer.” Without a doubt, season thirteen had been as much of a critical triumph as it had been a commercial failure. So did that mean a word-of-mouth campaign could save us? Perhaps a #savejoey hashtag on Twitter? Not likely, unfortunately. As Len had once explained to me at great length, the season premiere of any show is nearly always the highest-rated episode until the finale. Hence the term “natural falloff,” which describes the second and third week declines in audience that networks expect as a matter of course. And the usual falloff is about ten percent—which in our case would mean losing another million and a half viewers.
Even if a comeback managed to offset some of that, we were still screwed.
There was no point staying in the office any longer: might as well go home, order that long-overdue takeout from The Gates of Eternal Destiny, get the two-dollar wine flowing, turn on my new TV, and pretend that everything was going to be absolutely fine. But my day hadn’t stopped getting worse just yet: As I waited for the elevator, I felt a buzz inside my purse. Pulling out my phone, I learned that my one hundred sixty-eighth text message of the day had just arrived. So far, I’d ignored them all. Not this one, though. Don’t ask me why, but I tapped the screen to read it.
Bad move.
With a thud, my head fell against the wall.
Please, no—not now, not today.
Groaning, I checked the screen again. In a cheerful little green speech bubble:
“REMEMBER! DATE WITH BORIS TONIGHT. SEVEN O’CLOCK — NO BE LATE! (HE WAIT FOR YOU UNDER PALM TREE OUTSIDE.)”
I’d totally forgotten that Mr. Zglagovvcini had actually gone through with his ridiculous plan to set me up on an Internet date. I’d meant to cancel, days ago. But I hadn’t. There’d been too much going on. And now it was almost 6:45. Boris—whoever he was—would be arriving at my apartment in the next fifteen minutes, and Mr. Zglagovvcini would be watching from behind his heavy red curtains.
He’d become like a grandpa to me, Mr. Zglagovvcini. Always bringing me cookies that Mrs. Zglagovvcini had made, asking me how I was, showing me photographs of his sons, who now lived in Berlin. He’d be upset if I just didn’t show up: It would be an insult. I should have cancelled in advance, like I’d planned to. But I hadn’t.
There was no getting out of it.
20
Maison Chelsea
“LOOK, BORIS,” I BEGAN, awkwardly, as I climbed off my bicycle, lost my balance, and clattered into the sidewalk with a startled ring from the handlebar bell. “There’s been a—uh, oof, dah, grrr—misunderstanding. This whole, y’know, this Internet thing—”
Boris reached out to grab my hand.
I motioned to him—as best I could, given that I was on the floor with my feet in the air and a bicycle on top of me—that I could manage on my own, thank you very much.
“As I was saying,” I resumed, now upright, dusting myself off. “This whole—”
“You speak English,” said Boris, with surprise.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. Just from your e-mails. I thought… y’know, you write with an accent.” He laughed. Boris didn’t seem nervous. He was also… dammit, I didn’t even want to admit this… not bad-looking—by the standards of an Internet date, anyway. Or that’s what I assumed, having never been on an Internet date before. Hair longish and brown. A couple of days’ stubble. Hazel eyes. Not short. I mean, okay, the suit was a bit odd—who the hell wears a suit in LA?—but it was at least in a tan color and went very nicely with the fitted white shirt underneath.
“Look, about those e-mails, Boris,” I said. “I didn’t actually—”
“You like Japanese?” he asked, suddenly.
“The food?”
“No, the trains.”
“Huh?”
Boris laughed again and play-punched me on the arm. “Messin’ with ya,” he said. “Yeah, the food.”
This Boris was quite a character. I liked him already. More to the point: I needed a drink, and I was hungry. Would it really be so bad if I had some company for once? I mean, Brock would understand. Or maybe I didn’t have to tell him.
“Ooh, how about some balls,” I blurted, excitedly.