Page 14 of Pick-Up
Managing Editor
Escapade Magazine
I waited forty minutes to respond so as not to seem desperate. Which I am.
Derek, hi!
Thank you for getting in touch. It’s lovely to meet you. Fortunately, you’ve caught me at the perfect moment, in a short gap between projects. I’d love to learn more about this opportunity.
And, yes, I’m available on Thursday afternoon. Looking forward!
Best,
Sasha
Derek confirmed the next morning.
Though I claimed to be free to meet at 4:00 p.m., of course I am not. Because that’s after pick-up, when I’m with my kids. Which is why, later that morning, as I walk from drop-off toward the park for my run, I text my mother to request backup. If my parents can help out, I won’t have to harvest another organ to pay a sitter.
Mom. Hi! Possible for you to babysit the kids on Thursday afternoon, starting at around 3pm? I have an important meeting!
Seconds after I press Send, my phone rings with a FaceTime call. This is my mother’s move lately. FaceTime all day, every day. It’s my nightmare. Especially inconvenient when you’re texting from the toilet.
Out of options, I accept the call, ducking into a corner by the eco dry cleaner (which I suspect is just a normal dry cleaner) so I can talk without blocking street traffic.
Of course, as soon as her image pops onto the screen, a fire truck zooms past with sirens blaring.
“I can’t hear you!” she shouts.
“One second,” I say, holding up a finger.
“What?!” she says.
“Hold on!” I say, holding my hand up.
“What?!” she says.
I consider throwing my phone, or myself, into oncoming traffic.
“HOLD ON!” I yell into full quiet. The siren has passed.
A woman walking her collie brings a hand to her chest, startled, and shoots me a dirty look. The collie shrugs. They resume walking.
“What was that?” my mom is saying. “I think it was on your end.”
“It was definitely on my end,” I say. “It was a fire truck. I’m on the street. You’re on your couch.”
She is indeed sitting on the modernist couch my parents have had for at least ten years, squinting at me through her wire-rimmed glasses, aNew Yorkerissue castoff beside her. This is my mother in a nutshell.
“True, true,” she says, slipping her glasses off. “So, I got your text.”
“I figured.”
“What?!”
“Mom, should I just call you? It might be easier to hear.”
“No, this is great. You’re just in a loud place. Where are you? Can you go somewhere quieter?”
