I’m sitting at the table closest to the window at Good Thanks, one of my favorite cafés in the Lower East Side. This sunny little landmark is just a hop, skip, and a fifteen-minute walk away from Leila’s. It’s also owned and run by hot Australian transplants. I don’t know if this is a universal truth or just a New York bubble belief but hear this: Over the past five years or so, Australians have absolutely dominated the Manhattan brunch scene. Seriously, every trendy late-afternoon hot spot scattered across this island is an Aussie haven—minimalist meccas filled with altars of acai bowls, overpriced avocado toast, and ridiculously handsome Australian exports sporting deeply bronzed tans and rugged denim button-downs.
On Saturdays, they wear those little beanies that barely cover their ears, and I lose my mind.
The light is pouring out of Orchard Street and bouncing off my laptop screen, causing a glare. I shield my eyes and grin.
It’s a beautiful late-September afternoon. The leaves have yet to turn, but the town houses between Park and Madison have decorated their stoops with cobwebs and the Union Square farmers’ market has begun selling pumpkins. The sun sets slowly between 6:00 and 8:00 p.m., and its colors melt together like eye shadow pigments or a Monet canvas. New York in the fall is so goddamn beautiful. It’s sad August’s hot cousin, so to speak. The glow-up is real.
The Lower East Side is home to one of New York’s most shameless people-watching populations, the Scum Bro (a gender-neutral term, but I digress). Brother to the Williamsburg Hipster and son to the Soho Gallerist, Scum Bros are a mixed bag of freelance photographers, stylists, models, and struggling artists with expense accounts. They dress like Goodwill and Intermix just had a baby—high-end labels tossed in the trash. Baggy, dexterous fabrics. Leather that’s been intentionally worn. Intention. That’s the best word to describe their aesthetic. They are so intentionally unintentional. “Gentrifiers,” Leila always sneers when she sees them. I, of course, remind her that, technically, we are gentrifying Chinatown, but she just ashes off the comment by emphasizing how little money we have (sometimes, I don’t think she actually understands how capitalism works). I could watch them pour in and out of the gallery across the street for hours, rolling their eyes as passing tourists stop to take photos of the art. They would never be caught dead Instagramming someone else’s masterpiece. A Scum Bro would much rather Instagram their bloody knee and parse it down with a caption about capitalism. Now that’s artistic integrity.
Updating NoorYorkCity on Saturdays is partially a ploy to push back my “Sunday scaries” by forcing me to reflect on my week with a yawn. On the flip side, it gives my weekends structure and purpose. I used to look forward to sitting down with a cup of coffee and getting to respond to readers’ comments, taking their feedback in stride. But ever since I started working for Loretta, that’s fallen a bit by the wayside. Each time I find five seconds to sit still, my phone rings, and I have to get back on my feet again. I hope my followers know how much I miss them, that I’d rather be spending every waking second I have writing and creating for them. When I’m at my most anxious, I wonder if they think I’ve abandoned them. But I lock those worries in a box and hide it away. There’s no time for second-guessing myself. Not now, not ever.
My posts are usually a motley mix of mirror selfies taken in Leila’s foyer and street-style shots captured by my trusty personal assistant, the self-timer. You haven’t lived until a stranger has caught you posing all alone in an empty subway car. I like to juxtapose those snapshots with existential thoughts and musings, competing philosophies that shouldn’t pair well together but somehow do. Today, I’m writing a soliloquy about the history of racialized responses to natural disasters. It’s both evocative and depressing as shit. Alongside my discounted GANNI cowboy boots, it’ll read like an apocalyptic runway show come to life on the page. No doubt my readership will eat it up. This is the content the internet so desperately craves. It’s messy but real.
I’m just about to dive into my breakfast bowl (God bless Swiss chard and chest hair), when my phone starts to buzz. I absentmindedly turn off the volume and go back to scheduling my posts for the week.
I feel at peace. Ever since the New York Fashion Week debacle and Liang-gate (RIP, 2019–2019), Loretta has been in a suspiciously pleasant mood. She’s been walking around the office manically smiling to herself, taking only a single smoke break each day. Just last Thursday, she literally told me my hair looked very nice (I had tied it back with a black velvet bow). I’m pretty sure it’s the first time she’s dealt me a superficial compliment.
Additionally, Saffron told me she was seen holding the door open for a couple of maintenance workers. This is beyond troubling. Loretta once told me that whenever she approaches a new space, she expects the door to be wide open, waiting for her. Anything less is, according to her ideology, a mark of disrespect. Now she’s going around opening doors not just for herself but for others? What the flying fuck is going on?
Regardless, I never say no to a gift. And over the past few weeks, I’ve felt like an Oprah audience member.
My phone buzzes again. I let out an audible ugh and turn the screen over. Sure enough, I have two new text messages. But surprisingly, they’re not from Loretta.
Cal (1:07 PM): Hey little light.
Cal (1:08 PM): Doing anything tonight?
I practically spit out my oat milk latte all over my oversize tweed blazer from the Break.
The last time I had a real conversation with Cal was in Loretta’s office, almost two months ago. Since he’s been somewhat MIA, I had written him off as a certified fuckboy with great arms. (Note to self: Stop objectifying Cal.) What is he doing reaching out now? Does he need help filing paperwork or picking out an outfit? Or did he actually lose my number by accident? The possibilities are endless.
My mind runs faster than Buzzfeed pumps out listicles. I resolve that the only way to find out what he wants for certain is to—wait for it—respond to his text.
Noora (1:13 PM): Hey there!
Noora (1:13 PM): Got a few things in rotation but nothing set in stone. Wbu?
What a stupid attempt at sounding nonchalant. Of course, I have no real plans for tonight, unless you count staying in, nursing an eight-dollar bottle of merlot, and binge-watching The Bisexual on Hulu (written and directed by and starring Desiree Akhavan—we stan a strong, female Middle Eastern artiste). But Cal doesn’t need to know that.
I wait for a few minutes then check my screen. He still hasn’t responded. I knew I should have waited longer to text him back. I fucking hate the politics of flirting, of acting chill. It rocks me to my core that women are expected to strike the perfect balance between uninterested and readily seduced. I’m tempted to throw my phone all the way across the restaurant, but I manage to calm myself instead. That would probably result in having to get up and walk all the way to the kitchen, not to mention getting banned from the premises for life.
The next time I look down, he’s typing. Thank fucking God. I hold my breath and lower my expectations. I prepare myself for the most mundane, disappointing text message of all time.
Instead, he asks if I have dinner plans.
Did you get that?
Cal-Howard-Tech-Man wants to go on a date with me, Noora, glorified “that bitch” and frizzy-haired seductress!
Forgetting the lessons of the past, I quickly text him back and accept his invitation. I suggest we meet at J. Payton’s, a charming little eatery and bar in Nolita, right off Spring Street. It’s romantic in a nonsensical way, considering I once saw a rat run across a patron’s table. But it has that quintessential New York charm. I’m picturing us at an outside table, laughing, my foot casually brushing against his calf. We’ll order East Coast oysters and roasted brussels sprouts, and I’ll make a subtle joke about aphrodisiacs, and he’ll lean in to kiss me, and all will be right in the world. Then we’ll spend the rest of dinner and our lives together planning our wedding on a remote Greek island and naming our unborn kids. They’ll need to have Farsi names. Maybe Yasmine and Rostam.
We set the time for 8:00 p.m., which gives me approximately six and a half hours to freak out, die, revive myself, panic, comme des fuck down, and get ready.
I shut my laptop and rise. NoorYorkCity can wait. Hell, New York City can wait. The rest of my life cannot—that begins right now.
I leave twenty-five dollars on the table, thank my server, and rush out the door. A gust of cutting autumn air slaps me across the face then delivers a light peck on the forehead. It’s time to seize this day by the pantaloons.
My first stop is No Relation, a vintage shop on Thirteenth and First with a giant selection of vintage denim, rogue slogan T-shirts, and retired motorcycle jackets. I enter the store with my sleeves rolled up high, like Lizzie McGuire about to go bargain hunting with her mom for a second pair of hip-huggers. My chest is huffing like a prize bull, ready take down anyone who gets in my way. Normally, when I go thrifting, I drop off a bag of clothes to donate too. I’m constantly at odds with how to shop sustainably and ethically, trying to figure out how support small business and designers with a fast-fashion budget. For now, thrifting is the only solution—and a passion—but I never want to take more than I can give. So I try to cycle out my closet like the seasons, keeping things fresh and provocative with the racks fully stocked.
I float with ease through a sea of sequins, five-dollar price tags, railway jumpsuits, and ’90s Adidas track jackets. This terrain is one I’ve traversed and conquered before, so I rarely need to stop and gather my bearings.
After hauling a big-ass pile of treasure into one of the tiny changing stalls covered in band stickers and signs that caution against walking out with merchandise stuck up your hoo-ha, I narrow down my dinner looks. I’m between a floral prairie dress with a fitted waist and pointy shoulder pads and a pair of paint-splattered, high-waisted Lee jeans. I would wear the former with a pair of white sneakers and hoop earrings and the latter with a scarf tied around my torso, worn as a top. Since each outfit is priced under twenty dollars, I decide to buy both and decide later. Besides, I’ve got bigger fish to fry—namely, my hair and makeup.
Now, this may surprise you, but I literally know nothing about beauty. In fact, I’ve been using CVS moisturizer and a hand-me-down mascara wand since I was in the fourth grade. No, I don’t have a morning routine and I just learned what primer is, like, last week. Saffron practically punched me in the face when I asked if jade rollers were a type of drug “the kids were doing.” You’re, like, 12, they’d reminded me.
I call Leila, but she doesn’t answer. I was hoping she’d be around tonight to help me get ready, but she’s been strangely distant lately. She goes out on weeknights and hooks up with rando strangers, opting to stay over instead of coming home. I’ve seen her take calls at weird hours of the day and get angry over tiny, insignificant things. The other day, she freaked out because an old elementary school friend unfollowed her on Instagram. They hadn’t spoken in over a decade.
I check the time. 3:22 p.m. Shit.
There’s no time to wait for Leila to resurface. Instead, I give Saffron a call. They live in Bushwick, which is probably just a little too far to haul ass for an entire makeover, but still, worth a shot.
Before I can start to stress about crossing professional boundaries, Saffron answers on the first ring. I knew I could count on them.
“What’s up, honey buns?!” they shriek into the phone.
I recap my day in one fell swoop. When I’m done, my story is met with a round of applause on the other end of the line. Saffron is so good at gassing me up. I ask if they want to come over to Leila’s and help me get ready. They tell me they’re planning on taking a Reiki class at 4:00 p.m. but could come over after. Classic. Saffron lives with their partner, a tattoo artist, in a loft-style studio space. I’ve never seen it in person, but they’ve shown me about a million pictures on Instagram.
“I’ll bring over a million products and paint your face,” they reassure me. “Cal will feel like he was hit by a taxi.”
My phone feels hot against my cheek. I look down to see my screen flashing.
“One second, I have a call waiting. Lemme put you on hold.”
I’ve got so many shopping bags in my hands that I have to use my pinky finger to swipe up and change the line.
“Hello?”
“Oh, good, you answered,” Loretta says.
I stop dead in my tracks. It’s still Saturday right? Time hasn’t magically fast-forwarded two days, correct? Why, oh, why is Loretta James calling me midday on a weekend? I feel brunch coming back up my esophagus.
“H-hi Loretta, is everything okay?” I use all my might to will her to reply, “Wrong number!” and hang up.
“Sweetie, I’ve decided to take a last-minute trip to Los Angeles tomorrow.” I can hear her twisted smile formulating in her vocal nodules. “Then I’ll be staying to visit friends and take meetings. I’ll be out of office for about a week, so I’ll need you to reschedule in-person appointments as soon as possible.”
My shoulders shrug in relief. Honestly, this could be a good thing. A week of Loretta-free bliss sounds too good to be true.
“I’ll also need you to book me a first-class round-trip ticket using the company system,” she continues. “Which, of course, you’ll check me into then send over my boarding pass and add all the info to my calendar. As well as the car that will take me to and from the airport, which, by the way, you must book as well. Also, can you call all the usual spots—the Beverly Hills Hotel, Chateau Marmont—and see if you can get me a media rate? I do hate to pay for hotels, love. Can you get this all done within the hour?”
I look down at the spoils I’m still carrying. It’s probably around 3:30 p.m. If I run home now, I might have time to fulfill all of Loretta’s requests before Saffron arrives with the goods.
“I’ll certainly try.”
“Good, make sure to try hard enough, because when you’re done, we’ll pack,” she exclaims, giddy.
“Pack?”
Is she allowed to use me, an executive assistant, to help her pack a suitcase on a Saturday? I’m not getting paid overtime for this. I’m barely getting paid undertime. The only reason I can afford to shop and eat is because I take the subway everywhere, don’t pay rent, and have virtually no friends to hang out with other than my sister.
“Meet me at 32 Eighth Ave.” She hangs up, leaving the dial tone buzzing.
I’m about to call Saffron back and give them the bad news. Then it hits me.
32 Eighth Ave. That’s not the SPP Tower’s address.
I’m going to Loretta Jones’s town house in Park Slope. Straight into the den of the devil.