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If someone had told Paris four years ago that she would not only lose her financial security but seek advice from her best friend’s high school dropout pop punk basket case slacking nihilistic ex-boyfriend, she would’ve laughed. If they’d told her that her best friend would be the small-town newbie who stole her kindergarten crush and that said ex-boyfriend would be a close second or third, she would’ve spat in their face. But that’s where Paris was.
Her first stop after her parents broke the news had been the Yale financial aid office. They’d assured her that her current year was completely covered, but when it came to anything else they might as well have stuck their tongues out and thrown up their middle fingers. Paris’ next stop had been the bank for a loan. But whether it was her lack of income or her last name, they wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole. Paris cursed her parents for making her so financially dependent on them without teaching her to fend for herself.
So Paris had gone to her best friend. And Rory had been sweet enough, giving Paris her first gig as a caterer for the DAR. But one evening in customer service almost made a Marxist out of Paris. And she wasn’t sure that really was her style. Or if she could afford to make it her style with such lacking infrastructure for workers’ unions. And Paris wasn’t stupid: she knew she was a bad caterer. She didn’t make light small talk with patrons, and she didn’t have the battable lashes or perky ass for automatic tips.
Paris was back to square one. Dirt broke. In need of something that would pay her all the way through her degree. In need of something that could at least pay her groceries. But she couldn’t go the traditional route. Paris had to call someone who hadn’t gone down that road either. Paris scrolled through her contacts in the living room of her and Doyle’s apartment. Doyle had promised to make sure she didn’t starve for now, but she couldn’t handle feeling like she owed him for it. Paris pressed the call-button and pulled the phone to her ear.
“This is kind of a bad time,” Jess moaned on the other end of the line. “It’s always a bad time with you nowadays,” Paris replied monotonously. “Either that or you always call me two hours before we need to send a script to print,” Jess countered. “Can I call you tomorrow?” “No it’s urgent,” she insisted. “Urgent enough that I have to get in my car and drive the Grease highway over to you?” Paris swallowed. “No.” “Sounds like we can take it tomorrow then,” Jess yawned. Paris had to fight her pride. She pushed through a headache and opened her mouth.
“Jess, I need your advice,” she said. It went quiet on the other end for a while. “Sorry, can you say that again?” Paris shook her head. “You heard me the first time.”
“See, I’m not so sure I did.”
“Last time I checked your hearing is just fine, you just suck at processing information.”
“All the more reason to say it again.” Paris inhaled and huffed through her nose. “… I need your advice.” She could hear him snicker on the other end of the line. The pompous, misogynist-author-loving, nicotine-addicted bastard. “So you, Paris Geller, have come to me for advice,” Jess rejoiced over the phone. “This ought to be good.”
“Jess, I’m broke,” Paris spat out, wanting the gloating over with already. But Jess just had to pull another dramatic pause. Then: “Okay, I was just kidding before but I really need you to repeat that.” Paris groaned. “I’m poor, Jess. I have become financially destitute. A fallen aristocrat. I don’t have any money.” “What happened? Did Daddy Warbucks cut you off or something?” Jess asked, ever the kind to joke through tragedy. Paris replied: “No, him and Mommy Warbucks decided to pick a fight with the IRS and lose.” “Shit.” Paris sighed. “Yep.” “I’m not gonna lie, I usually laugh when I hear about tax evaders getting what’s coming to them, but I’m sorry you got caught up in the mess.” Paris felt the corners of her mouth tugging upwards. “That is a terrible attempt at comfort, but thanks for the sentiment.”
“What’ll you do?” Jess asked. Finally they were getting somewhere. “I paid Yale through the year before the bankruptcy, so I’ve got a year to save my education,” Paris started. “But I have no way of covering day to day costs, and I really need to find a way to fund that last year.” “Okay…” Jess mumbled. “Where do you require my expertise though?” Wasn’t it obvious? “You’ve been broke before,” Paris argued over the phone. “So? I’ve always been broke, you’ve had a fall. A pretty big one, actually.” She couldn’t understand how he didn’t get it.
“Yeah, but you’ve also been at rock bottom,” Paris continued. “Actual rock bottom. No money, no home, no prospects, nobody to save you or take care of you. You were completely defeated and completely alone.” Jess’ silence gave Paris time to think about what she’d just said. Damn it, she really needed to work on her tone. “That was mean, even for me,” she tried to backtrack. “Sorry for being a jackass.” Would you look at that, she thought to herself. Paris Geller apologizing to a boy. Terrence would be proud. “It’s all good,” Jess finally replied, and Paris could breathe a sigh of relief. “So,” Paris started shyly. “How did you get out of rock bottom?” “Good question, let me think on it…” Jess muttered.
“I guess it started with realizing I wasn’t all that alone,” he said. Paris frowned in confusion, but she didn’t say anything. “Lane calling me ended up meaning a lot, oddly enough. Not to be a complete sap but keeping in touch with you two kind of kept me going. And Luke… I guess realizing I had people in my corner made me wonder if they might be there for a reason.” Paris listened intently, oddly warmed by Jess’ confession. Then he audibly grimaced: “Ughh, this is too cheesy.” Paris grinned. “It’s pretty after-school special of you,” she commented. “Shoot me,” he moaned in a reply.
“But you’re not alone either,” Jess continued. “I suppose not,” Paris mumbled, not sure how much that helped her situation. “You’ve got your boyfriend, right?”
“Yeah, Doyle has been very supportive so far. He’s covering me for the week.”
“That’s good. And you’ve got me, and Lane.”
“A great deal of help you are in each your town.”
“Hey we make great cheerleaders… And you still have Rory?” Paris could hear how hesitant he’d been to even say her name. Ever since the big blowout of fall 2004, Paris and Lane had made good on their promise to not mention Jess to Rory – ever. When Jess heard about the deal, he decided to make it a two-way thing. Paris was pretty sure it was a spur of the moment decision fueled by bitterness and a wounded ego, but for every time she thought he’d ask about her, he’d still kept quiet. They were each other’s unmentionable. But Paris supposed he was a little happy to finally have a good excuse to mention her.
“I’ve still got Rory,” she replied short, not feeling like opening the door to more high school sweetheart angst. “Good,” Jess exhaled. “Then you’re not alone.” “I don’t see how much that helps though?” Paris asked. “That’s because you haven’t reached actual rock bottom,” he argued. Paris rolled her eyes. “Jess, how do I make money?” She heard him chuckle on the other end. Paris felt like a child, asking how babies are made or what taxes do to some amused grown-up. She hated it. “You get any gig you can.”
Seriously? “You can do better than that. I hate to stroke your ego, but you’re smart. You’re resourceful and creative and whatever you’re doing at this frat boy publishing house is obviously making you tons of money,” Paris argued. She knew he wanted to stay on the compliments, but she mentally thanked him when he didn’t. “What makes you think I’m earning such a pretty penny?” “You sent me a photo of yourself with a clean shirt and jacket.” “Ooh, harsh.” Paris threw her head up. “Give me specific advice! Some secret hustle! What’s the code and how do I crack it, Jess?” He sighed.
“I just did whatever I could. I’ve been a waiter, bartender, pizza delivery, supermarket employee, forklift-driver, the guy at the till of any hole in the wall knick-knack shop you can imagine. You just find what’s available and what you can do, and you do it for as long as you can stand it or as long as they’ll have you.” Paris took it all in. It felt disappointing. It was disappointing. “What if I can’t do anything?” she asked. “What if I get fired on the first day everywhere and I never make enough and I never get funding for the rest of Yale and what if I have to live under a bridge in Central Park feeding doves like a crazy dove lady and only get a snippet of culture by breaking into an opera-house and listening to rehearsals from the roof-” “Did you get your idea of homelessness from Home Alone 2?” Paris blushed. “No,” she muttered.
“You’re not gonna become a hobo, Paris,” Jess declared. “That’s a bold assumption, you don’t have a crystal ball, do you?” Paris argued. What could she say, stress made her a contrarian. “You’re not. Not to stroke your ego too, but you’re a tough cookie.” Paris scoffed. “You’ve got experience with organizing from the papers and your student council, right?” Crap, he was getting somewhere. “Maybe,” Paris mumbled. “And you do well with writing assignments.” “I do,” Paris replied, a little prouder. “So find a copy editing job, or see if somebody needs a research assistant for something. I mean, fuck, you’re at an Ivy League, there’s tons of that flying around.” Paris tilted her head. “You seem to know a lot about this scene for a high school dropout.” Jess chuckled: “That’s what happens when you work at a frat boy publishing house.”
“And what if all the research jobs are taken?” she asked. “You become a car salesman. You’ve got the arm-twisting chops for it.” Paris fought the urge to giggle. He did have a point. “You should’ve seen how fast I could make Brad Langford pee his pants in high school,” she boasted. “Just what Hummer needs.” That actually made her laugh. “You’re gonna be fine Paris,” Jess assured her. “You just have to take it one day at a time.” That was easy to say. Paris held the phone closer to her ear: “Taking things just one day at a time goes against every fiber of my being.” “Too bad for your fibers.”
Paris kicked the ground. Terrence would reel over this. “Thank you,” she said, voice a little too shy for her taste. “For being in my corner.” There was an awkward silence. “You’d kill me if I wasn’t.” Ever the jester. “I would,” Paris played along. She sure as shit wasn’t going to be the one fighting for sincerity in this friendship. Ugh. Friendship. “Have fun with whatever Kerouac-wannabe you’re editing,” she said. “I’ll try,” Jess groaned. “Talk soon.” “Yeah, bye.”
-
Jess put the phone down on his desk and stared at the stack of papers in front of him. He let out a heavy sigh. Well, shit.
Matthew and Chris’ stares burned the side of his face. He turned it to look at them bent over each other, staring right into his eyes. “So?” Matt urged with an expectant gaze. Jess shrugged. “What,” he muttered. Chris raised his eyebrows. “You’ve read through the thing five times in two days without a single change. You spent the last three hours just staring at the stack.” Matthew nodded: “It’s ready, Jess.”
Jess looked back at the manuscript in front of him. Certainly a Kerouac-wannabe. Way too wordy. Too self-important. Too obsessed with sounding different, and burying the meaning under five layers of symbolism and three layers of sarcasm. Too personal.
Not a single thing he could find it in his heart to change about it anymore.
Jess stood up from his chair, grabbed the final draft of The Subsect and dropped it on Matt’s desk. “Do whatever you want with it,” he said, and stepped outside to have his first cigarette in a year.