We were supposed to meet at eight-thirty in the dining room. Deacon had told me to go ahead and order breakfast if I beat him. We’d leave at nine and be at Strafford’s office by nine-fifteen.
It’s now nine-twenty and Deacon is still nowhere in sight. Three calls to his cell all reach his voice mail. When I ask the front desk to try his room, it rings indefinitely.
I debate whether I should go for it alone. This was supposed to be an experience trip for me, just tag along and learn the ropes sort of thing. I had spent a lot of time on the Strafford account in the past month but I was still nowhere near the expert Deacon was. Chances are, I’ll be a complete waste of Strafford’s time.
In fact, he’ll probably hate me for it. I remember our first introduction was on my third day on the job. He called our office late in the afternoon while the rest of my group was still in a meeting and asked if I had the latest numbers we’d run for him on a potential solar panel investment.
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t have that information,” I said.
In the expletive-filled minute that followed, he first explained that “Don’t” was not an answer, secondly, that I shouldn’t pick up a phone if that was going to be my answer, and finally, that there had to be a bleeping manager nearby.
“I’m sorry, there isn’t.”
He swore at me one last time and hung up. In the sixth months since, the only words he’s spoken towards me have been a variation of “Get Deacon.”
I check my bag to see if I still have the presentation for the Madison project. Sure enough, it’s there. Frayed around the edges and in need of a new staple, but it’s there all right. I’ll probably look like an idiot referencing it every other second, but with this in hand I might stand a chance.
Either way, I can’t let a lapse similar to my first unfold again. At the very least I owe Strafford an explanation. At best, I might even be of some use.
Feeling slightly more sure of myself, I make my way past the revolving doors where one of the doormen hails a cab for me—a me that’s wearing a brand new, two-button navy suit. I look like a man of business. If only I felt like one.
By the time I arrive it’s a few minutes after ten. When I introduce myself to the front desk in the lobby, I half-expect to hear that Deacon had already checked in. The attendant explains he hasn’t, hands me a visitor’s pass, and points to the row of elevators behind her. “32ND floor,” she says.
Upstairs, the elevator opens to a small entrance hall which is entirely empty except for a gigantic black vase in the center leading to a double glass door behind it. The actual lobby is next—an even smaller room with ruby red carpeting, polished wood tables, and a secretary guarding a second set of double glass doors at the end.
“You must be James,” she says.
“I am, nice to meet you,” I respond, holding out my hand.
“You’re late and Eli’s tied up in another meeting. He’s requested that you come back at one-thirty,” she directs, ignoring my hand.
“I’d be happy to,” I say, almost too cordially, before making a one-eighty towards the exit. Through the doors again, the black vase in the first room now looks more like an urn. I wonder if that’s where Strafford will dump my ashes later.
Once safely outside, I turn my phone back on but I don’t even bother to reach Deacon. Across the street is a Dunkin’ Donuts where I can wait it out and regroup. Inside, I order a doughnut and hot chocolate just to call myself a paying customer and make my way to one of the open bar seats by the window.
There used to be a time when I could call my Dad for things like this. He’d pick up the phone, listen intently without saying more than a few words at once, piece the situation together carefully, and then after he’d run it all through his head, he would start with, “Okay, now here’s what you do,” followed by a simple plan of attack.
Now it’s just me. What is the right thing to do in this situation? Showing up was the right thing. Staying is the right thing. What to say to Strafford if I really don’t know the answer to something, though? Would he actually curse me out in person?
Then there was the question of what to say if he asked about Deacon. Deacon had dug himself enough of a hole already, and as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t throw him under the bus. Should I lie and say he’s sick? He’d woken up with strep throat?
It’s too much to think about without talking to someone and before I even realize what I’m doing I’ve hit send on Julie’s number.
“Hey James!”
“Hey Jules.”
“How’s Chicago?”
“Good,” I say, waiting for the right moment to share my misery.
“That’s great. We can’t wait for you to get back.”
“Me, too.”
“Did I tell you I’m making dinner?”
“Not yet.”
“Yea, I went to the store today and got ham and I’m going to make this cheese and potato dish Maureen showed me and a—wait, do you eat spinach?”
“Sure.”
“Good, Matt likes creamed spinach.”
“Okay,” I say, sensing my moment’s passed. She sounds happy. I don’t want to bring her down with my problems.
“We’re going to have a lot of food. I don’t know if anyone’s around on Christmas, but if you have someone that you want to invite…”
“No,” I say, not having anyone.
“Okay, that’s okay. We’ll still have fun. Matt can’t wait to see you. He has a surprise for you, too, so keep Christmas night open.”
“Alright.”
“I should have told you sooner. Do you have plans already?”
“Just to be with you, Jules.”
“Good, that’s great. You guys are going to have a lot of fun. And I was thinking, too, maybe if you could get him something while you’re in Chicago, nothing much, but he’d appreciate it.”
“Already have,” I say, not sure why I suddenly felt the need to lie.
“Great!”
To my left, a man in an oversized hunting jacket sits down on one of the stools beside me and immediately cradles his arms around his coffee cup like it’s the last sustenance in the world. Seconds later, he plops his face down towards it, nearly dunking his moustache in the process. Dunkin’ Staches.
“You’re still getting in tomorrow afternoon, right?” Julie continues.
“Yea.”
“Awesome, I’ll pick you up. I might have to run for work right now, though. Did you have your meeting yet by the way?”
“No, not yet.”
“Okay, well I hope it goes well!”
“Thanks, Jules.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Yay. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
“Sweet Jesus,” says the man.
“Sorry,” I say.
He tilts his head sideways towards me so that his ear grazes the top of the cup. His eyes are slightly off balance, the left a touch higher than the right, and apparently he’s using both to size me and my suit up.
“Well, someone’s gotta love you, I guess.”
I let out a nervous laugh which only causes him to roll his uneven eyes before he dips his nose back into the cup. Following his lead, I make my own first go at the hot chocolate. It’s smooth and creamy and the warmth it sends down my insides has a nice calming effect. The idea of being back home with Julie sounds nice all of a sudden—to be home with a real meal for once with absolutely no work and no Strafford or Deacon to worry about for at least a few days.
“You ever drive a bus?” Asks the man, talking into his coffee.
“What kind of a bus?”
“Does it matter?” He snaps back, causing me to jump. “A school bus,” he continues.
“Never tried.”
“How’d you like to?”
“Could be fun.”
“Hell of a lot of fun. Just stay between the lines and try not to hit anything bigger than the bus.” He reaches into his pocket and slams a giant set of keys on the counter between us.
“Field trip?” I ask, seeing the Day School logo on his hat.
“Yea.”
“Where to?”
“Art museum.”
“How was it?”
“Museum-like.” He starts to clear his throat. It motors like a garbage disposal designed for phlegm. By reaction, I feel something catch in my own throat. I’m afraid if I try to cough it up he’ll think I’m mocking him so I nearly choke on my own spit trying to swallow.
“Oh great,” he says. “Here they come.”
Through watered eyes, I watch the class of uniformed students walk towards us from down the block. They’re passing by a sculpture that looks like a pair of twenty foot tall bronzed onion straws. Either that or a crooked chromosome.
“You see the big kid, Dick Butkus at eight?” The driver continues.
I spot him. He’s a full head above his peers, sports a buzz cut, and happens to be the only one without a jacket.
“Five bucks says he tries to climb that thing and falls.”
Nearly on cue, the boy sprints towards the mega onion straw and dives at it like he’s going to tackle it. The two ton sculpture easily wins, spinning him around to the opposite side. Moments later, he’s back on his feet, trying to climb between the two separating strands. It’s horrible to watch, with his feet grossly outpacing his hands as he grabs and pushes his way higher without any tact whatsoever. At about six feet up, his arms give out from under him and he falls head first to the ground.
“Oh-oh-oh Lord, I could watch that all day,” laughs the bus driver.
All of little Butkus’s buddies start to point and laugh, too. It’s no matter, though. He comes up howling and even throws two punches at the sculpture for good measure. Immediately, three of his classmates try climbing it themselves but they don’t have the same reach as Butkus and none of them can make it off the ground before one of the teachers comes barking over to stop them.
“Dang it, Martha. Let ’em go and bust themselves,” the driver says before turning my way. “They’re going to be like chimps in a zoo now.”
He grabs the keys and spins off the chair.
“Sure you don’t want to take a crack at it?” He asks. “You saw how durable they are. You can even slam the breaks on them a few times and they’ll never know the difference.”
“I’d better not.”
“Oh well. Can’t blame for trying. Good luck to you, then.”
“You, too.”
“Christ, I’ll need it.”
The bus driver manages to reach the opposite corner at the same time as the class does. Seeing him, little Butkus breaks from the line and jumps into a boxing stance. The driver follows suit, feigning his head back and forth before tossing a hook that purposely misses high. In counter, little Butkus fires back with four or five jabs at the driver’s hanging gut. The driver humors him with an exaggerated yawn until he walks forward, bumping Butkus sideways to the pavement with his belly. As the class turns the corner and out of view, the last I see is little Butkus charging for a second attack.
I check my phone again. There’s still two hours to go. I spend it tallying up three Boston Kremes, a powdered donut, and two iced teas just to keep calling myself a paying customer. At one o’clock, with stomach curdling, I head back across the street.
• • •
The secretary only makes me wait five minutes this time before explaining that Shirley will lead the way. Seconds later, a petite woman in a black suit yanks open the doors and spotting me says, “Come with me.”
The inner office of The Strafford Group is a maze of wood panels and fogged glass, seemingly designed to disorient anybody. I feel like a mouse in a suit and somewhere at the end of this is Strafford with a giant yellow block of bitterness. As my guide, Shirley marches from one door to another with her hands straight down at her sides.
Finally, she stops at an unmarked door, knocking twice before creaking it open.
“Mr. Haskins here to see you,” she whispers inside. I never hear a response, but she opens the door fully now and removes herself with a scowl in my direction.
Strafford’s corner office has a panoramic view that faces the John Hancock building straight in front of his desk and Lake Michigan out to the right. All of this is lost on Strafford, however, as he sits with his face planted in front of a pair of monitors.
“Sit down, be one second.”
I do as I’m told. He’s younger than I expected, not by a lot, but I doubt he’s crossed forty yet. All the same, he has more lines of gray in his hair than brown. It suddenly strikes me that he’s a dead ringer for a younger Bob Hope, with a pointed nose, slicked brown hair, and a round protruding jaw.
“Get in all right?” He says, still facing the monitors.
“I did, thank you.”
“That’s good. Got a beast coming in tomorrow, you’d better beat it.”
“We leave around noon, I think.”
“We, huh?” He says, stressing the eee, his nose clenching up.
“Yes,” I say, trying to skirt the Deacon issue.
“Well that’s exciting.”
“How are you?” I ask.
He shifts his eyes my way without turning his head, staring me down with a sneer.
“You’re just a baby, James,” he says, a little too excited. “I thought you’d at least be twenty-five or so. You wearing diapers?”
“No,” I say, remembering I have the Madison presentation in my bag. I try to keep my head up while I shuffle for it. When I find it, I notice that in addition to the curled corners there’s a tear on one side I hadn’t seen earlier. It looks bush league. I should have had it properly bound.
“What you got there?” Strafford says, talking to the screens again.
“The Madison deal. Thought it’d be good to have as reference.”
“Oh, that’s right, the Madison deal. The Madison deal we dropped two weeks ago. Deacon didn’t tell you?” Stress this time on the Deee.
“Oh,” is all I can reply as my stomach locks.
He finally leans away from the computer, placing his full attention on me.
“You ever walk into a flaming building before?” He says, smiling all of a sudden.
“I’m sorry?”
“Or maybe a street fight? A dog fight, really. You ever see something really bad about to happen but you have to walk towards it anyway?”
“Not sure.”
“James,” he says, leaning forward now. “What are you doing here, James?”
“We had a meeting scheduled.”
“I know we had a meeting scheduled, James. We had a meeting scheduled with Deacon. And since he’s not here, and now’s when you’ll have to begin to excuse me, why the fuck are you?”
“I don’t believe in no-showing for appointments.”
His head falls forward in apparent disbelief. I’ve heard that tall buildings are designed to sway in the wind. I feel like we’re swaying.
“You don’t believe in no-showing? Are you serious? Wait, don’t answer that. Let me ask you this instead. Imagine this was like a hockey game, only, as you put it, you showwwed up, only without skates or a stick. Technically, like you said, you showed up, but on the other end you’re going to look like a retard out on the ice with just a pair of sneakers and your bare hands chasing the puck.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry about? You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. You’re just a kid, you’re doing the right thing!”
“Well I am sorry.”
“James, you realize that your firm is fucking me, right?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your firm, Bab-cock and Associates, is literally, fucking me. Like a big, fat cow in a field.”
“Is there something I can do to help?” I say, fighting a rising feeling of nausea.
“Seriously? Is there something you can do to help? Do you honestly want me to ask you, for starters, how we can clear up my collateral from the Dayton deal so I can start kicking tires on the bridge loan I need in Indy? Yes, that’s Indy, as in Indianapolis, Indiana, not Madison, fucking Wisconsin.”
I spend three seconds trying to remember what a bridge loan is.
“Exactly, and I’m guessing you don’t even know where Dayton is.” Ohio, I think to myself. Dayton Flyers. Strafford rolls on. “So I repeat, why the fuck are you here and why the fuck are you wasting my time?”
“It seemed like the right thing to do,” I say, searching for a grip around the armrest like I’m back on the plane and waiting to fall from the sky.
“There you go again. Don’t be a cub scout, James. Take this as a lesson that the ‘right thing’ is fundamentally reserved for those of us that have the capacity to determine if they’re physically capable of performing the ‘thing’ at hand. You’re not even sure if you can tie your shoes. In layman’s terms, that means at this juncture you’re about as useful to me as a hemorrhoid and I don’t give a fuck if you’re right as rain to have shown up.”
I stand up to go while I still have feeling in my feet. “I apologize for wasting your time,” I say. “I didn’t expect it to have been an issue.”
“Wait, wait. You’re just going to walk out on a customer like that? Come on, cub scouts can’t do that. Cub scouts don’t walk out on customers. You got stones, I bet. Use them.”
I fall back down, thankful the chair doesn’t flip backwards.
“And level with me here, how did you think that coming here would ‘not be an issue?’”
“Well, truth be told,” I quiver, “I did expect to have Deacon here.” The second I say it, I regret copping him out.
“What do you mean you expected him here?”
“I thought…” I’m stuck. I can’t badmouth Deacon, even if he is already screwed and I’m on the verge of spewing doughnuts.
“You thought what?”
“I’m sorry, I just thought Deacon may have been here already and I missed him,” I say, feeling immediately ashamed for trying to lie myself out. Strafford rolls back in his chair.
“Hold it. Are you serious? No one fucking told you?”
Told me what, says my paper blank face.
“Your pal Deacon quit last night. Left me a message saying I could kill myself, too. Any idea?”
Still blank.
“Jesus Christ. Don’t get me wrong, that cunt-bastard’s going to cost me a ton of money, which has me pissed off at a level that you cannot imagine, but somehow I actually feel bad for you right now.”
Why’s that? Asks my dribbling face.
“Your fucking firm just flew you naked out here. Are they even thinking?”
“Well, they…”
“James, don’t bother. Just please, get the fuck out, and when you get home to New York, tell your boss-man Frank Healey that I’m through with you all.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Get out.”
“Alright. Well nice meeting you.”
“Kill yourself.”
I trip out of his office and bounce down one hall to the next. Walls and walls of impenetrable fogged glass met by tall wooden doors. I accidentally walk into a meeting and then another office. In the hallway I bump into an executive and practically beg him to show me out. “Shirley!” He shouts. Shirley swings in front of me from nowhere. “Show this kid how to get out of here.” I look back at her face. She’s smiling for the first time, like some sort of demon pooch that can smell fear and take pleasure from it. Now, when she walks, her hands not only stay glued to her sides, but her shoulders fire back and forth like tiny hammers. “Here it is,” she says as the last set of doors open again to that hideous black vase.
“Thanks,” I whimper as she hits the button for me to go down. She actually waits, with feet tapping, for the elevator to arrive. I keep my head lowered until the door dings open. Stepping inside, I hesitate to hit the “L” button thinking she might insist on pushing it, but when I look up she’s still tapping. I nearly break my finger slamming “L.”
The metal doors shut like a sideways guillotine and soon the car falls like one. I grab for the side handle as the red digits spin downwards towards nothing. Only this could be worse than an airplane crash.
The guillotine springs open, daylight is thirty feet away. I rush past security and nearly clip myself in the revolving door. On the sidewalk, I gasp for air and the swallow stings like a gallon of ice water rushing through.
• • •
Barely coherent, I zigzag my way north and east, double-taking at each corner so I don’t inadvertently step in front of a moving bus.
That had been bad. Awful really. Maybe even fire-worthy. Pathetic in every sense of the word.
Pathetic past Ontario St., pathetic past Erie St, and pathetic some more past Superior St. At the castle-like Water Tower, I turn right onto Chicago Ave. I need an actual lake that can expose my level of patheticness.
I remember when Matt first told me he had gotten me the interview for this job, it had sounded pretty exciting—the chance to be at the forefront of the next energy revolution.
“There are a million ideas floating out there,” Frank later explained to me in that interview, “a thousand of which are useful and could be profitable, and then just a few dozen that might one day change the world. Our job is to find them and give them a home—find someone else willing to take a chance with us and build something that works. That’s what we do here. We bring all the great minds and dreams together and we introduce them to the enablers, the people or organizations with the capital and know-how to make the best ideas a reality.”
What he hadn’t prepared me for was that one of those enablers might call me a hemorrhoid. I suppose this is what John Bart had meant when he said at least I’ll get paid for my troubles now, but even that’s starting to seem like a questionable bargain.
At the end of Chicago Ave., there’s an underpass for crossing to the lakefront side. In the middle of the tunnel underneath, a blanket lies over a cardboard box with a pair of Pop-Tarts wrappers beside it. I stop to listen if anyone’s around but there’s only the drone of the cars above so I continue on through.
The lakefront walkway is deserted. I step down the giant concrete blocks to the slanted path and stand by the water’s edge where small clumps of ice beat against the wall six feet below. Further out, the horizon cuts a thin line separating two shades of gray, the water only slightly darker than the sky. In the distance, a single boat inches its way into view.
I wonder if Strafford or Deacon actually believe in any of that big picture stuff. Frank does, I know that. There have been more than a few whispers recently about how his last couple of projects have soured.
One was a shot at the mythical everlasting battery, powered by nano-sized magnets eternally spinning, while the second involved creating a synthetic algae for biofuel that could self-replicate faster than any found in nature. The battery failed because the nano-parts weren’t small enough and while a computer simulation grew enough algae to power all of the automobiles in the United States, not a single batch large enough to power a lawnmower ever survived in reality.
As a result, it’s been patchwork projects like the ones we’ve done with Strafford keeping us going—solar cells on factory roofs and windmills decorating farms, oceans, and lakes; mostly existing technology being widely dispersed thanks to hoards of capital surging after good intentions. Not to suggest that any of those aren’t useful, but something tells me Frank has a bigger vision in mind than picturing Lake Michigan lined up and down with windmills.
With the thought of stiff breezes rolling through my head, I take a step back from the edge. It might be months before anyone spots a floating tourist.
I start to head north along the slanted path, watching the Hancock building weave in and out from behind lakefront condos to the left while a small flock of seagulls enjoy their icy oasis to the right. Far ahead, a brave cyclist makes his way towards me. So somebody may have found me after all.
Out on the lake, the single boat on the horizon finally crests. It’s a full three-deck yacht, the front end streamlined like the tip of a fountain pen, shining bright white amidst all the gray. It looks completely out of place, sitting by itself in the dead of winter, but it seems to be an enviable position all the same—a gorgeous boat, the view from a half mile out, no one to bother.
My mom had sailed yachts like that. Along with actual sailboats and catamarans. All the things that float. At an age younger than I am now, she’d sailed up and down the East Coast several times over.
Of course, Julie and I never knew any of this until months after she passed. Rummaging through the attic we found a cardboard box of hers markered “Shelton” for the Connecticut town she’d grown up in. Inside were mementos of her youth. A yearbook that listed her, Alice Taff then, as “Most Friendly,” a ceramic piggy bank painted with the black spots of a cow, as well as a box of letters her grandmother had later returned to her (“I feel bad for you. Mom must have been a mean kid. Because she is a mean Mom!”). In total, it was the perfect assortment of keepsakes to piece together the child version of the Mom we knew.
And then we opened the scrapbook. We couldn’t remember if we’d ever seen Mom on a boat before, but here she was in over fifty Polaroids, looking young and tan and freckled and totally at bliss. The rest of the pages—sea charts, copies of manifests, beer coasters, torn pages from a diary—all provided the proof that she had helped man great ships from New England to Bermuda and back.
We called our Uncle Nick that night. “She probably sailed at camp a few times but she really learned in middle school,” he explained. “She had a friend whose family summered over in Saybrook Manor. Anyways, they had a boat out there, too, and since they knew Alice liked it so much they kept on inviting her. Mom and Dad never minded, they were always working and they knew Alice was happy. Well she got pretty good at it and by the time college rolled around she pretty much lived up that way all summer long. Couple years later she was being asked to go to Bermuda.”
We’ve kept the scrapbook in the living room and from time to time I’ll still flip through it when I’m home. There’s one picture in particular I’ll always open to. She’s sitting with her legs dangling overboard, chin resting on arms held by a cable railing, sunglasses pulled above her forehead, staring out towards the distance.
Years ago, while on vacation at the beach, she caught me doing the same.
“What do you see out there?” She asked.
“Nothing,” said proud me.
“Nothing,” she repeated. “Wow. Really, nothing?”
“Nope.”
“So you don’t see the heavy chop out there, the low ceiling turning over the sea? Not even the diving osprey?”
“Nope.”
“Hmm. That’s pretty interesting,” she said, bumping her shoulder into mine.
“How come?”
“Well a friend of mine once told me that everyone sees something different when they look out there. For example, a lot of people see the beauty of life on Earth, like every time the sky meets the surface of the water it’s more brilliant than anything you or I could imagine. Then there’s those who have eyes for adventure, the kind of people who can’t sleep until they’ve seen the view from the opposite shore. But nothing at all? I mean I’ve heard of it, but I think you’re the first person I’ve known to actually say so.”
“So.”
“So I’m not sure what to make of it. Because what you’re supposed to do, I’m told, is recognize what it is you’re seeing and let that help guide you later. But if you’re not seeing anything, what kind of guidance can you draw from that?”
Too young to show my cards, I flipped the question back to her.
“Well, what do you see?”
“Oh, I used to see all sorts of things,” she said, stopping to rub her hand through the back of my hair. “Now when I look, though, all I see is you and Julie.”
Today, from the shore of Lake Michigan, I see that boat. I see Alice.
The bicyclist zooms by with a whoosh, following the path further down towards a small beach area. The jolt’s enough to pull me back to the present and I can feel the entire exhaustion of the day begin to settle in along with it. It’s only three o’clock which means I still have another six hours until The Green Room with Amy. Shivering, and still emotionally beaten, there’s really no sense in not getting any rest, so I turn back for the underpass, towards the warmth of The Frohman and my king-sized bed.
Walking back, I realize I’ve caught myself doing that more and more lately, imagining what my parents were like before Julie and I were born. Specifically, what they were like at my age now. I’ve seen pictures and can imagine them as children—running through the motions of adolescence, adhering to the world around them. At the other end, I’ve also seen firsthand what they were like as parents—selfless and every word that describes loving. But what about the time between? When they were free to peruse the world to their liking, without their own parents deciding for them or children to consider—what else had caught their eye, where else had they been? What did they choose to dedicate themselves to when they had no one else to fulfill? My mother liked to sail but I never learned of it until she passed. I would have loved to have seen her sail.
Stepping into the hotel, the heat of the indoors hits me like a warm blanket. When I finally make it upstairs to the room, I fold my suit up as quickly as possible before diving beneath several layers of the real thing.
Lying there, feeling the cotton sheets rub against my legs like hot coals, I remember the second half of that conversation with Uncle Nick. “Didn’t they ever tell you how they met?” He asked.
“They were on a sunset cruise together,” we responded in tandem.
“Yea, she was working it,” he said. “Between expeditions out of Newport, one of her gigs was sunset cruises. Your Dad was supposed to get liquored up with all his buddies and instead he spent the whole time wooing Captain Alice. She had to go back to Bermuda two days later, so she told him to meet him at sunset on the same dock five weeks later. Well, good thing for you, they both made it and that was that. From then on, her seafaring was done, as they say. They really never told you?”
“No.”
“Geez, I’m sorry, you know I loved them both to death, but how did they not tell you all the basics. As good a story as I’ve ever heard anyway. Brenda and I, we met standing in line at the meat counter at Grand Union for God’s sake. I don’t even remember half of what was said. Man, those two were a trip. They did love one another, though. The both of you, too.”
I think of my own situation. In a few hours I’ll be waking up to meet Amy downstairs. Mom would have loved this story so far.
“How was your trip?” She would have asked once I’d flown home and gotten the work talk out of the way with Dad.
“Good,” I know I would have said. Then I hope I would have been proud enough to tell her about the flight and the movie, the late night at Corrib that followed. The Green Room and everything else to come.
“Is she cute?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like her?”
“Yes.”
“Aww, James. Let’s fly back so I can meet her!”
We’ll be on the next flight, Mom.
• • •
The legendary Green Room doesn’t appear to be all that legendary. The namesake carpets are worn thin and seem resigned to have given up green for gray many years ago. On the walls, old black and whites of Chicago cover also-graying wallpaper that bubbles at the seams. Like New York, Chicago had instilled a smoking ban some years ago, but with no ventilation to speak of, the time since has done little to remove the stale odor of old ash trays and carpet cleaner.
To the left of the entrance runs the long, ancient bar. Behind it, an aging bartender with a red tie and black vest stocks glasses while he talks to an extravagantly dressed older woman. She looks like a former First Lady sitting there, dressy hat and all. While she listens to the bartender, her jaw locks itself into a rigid smile that seems to have been etched on her bony face through many years of appearing gracious.
Far to their right, a middle-aged couple sits together but doesn’t speak. He runs his eyes over the liquor labels across the bar while she looks downwards with her palm against her forehead.
The rest of the room is filled with empty, white-clothed tables surrounded by dark leather chairs. Only one table in the back corner is occupied by a group of five that’s held in rapt attention as one of the men tells a story.
“What can I get you?” Asks the bartender, breaking away from the First Lady who now stares at me with the same skeletal smile. When I smile in return, her eyelids retract even further until the full orbits within practically dare to fall out.
“Jack and Coke, please,” I say, focusing back on him.
“One Jack Daniels and Coca-Cola coming right up.” He twirls around, picking up his conversation where it had left off, and in a series of routine maneuvers mixes my drink without even a glance down. “That’ll be five Washington’s or one Lincoln.”
I give him a Lincoln and a Washington and move my way to one of the tables so I won’t have to deal with the First Lady’s glare again. It’s nine-fifteen and still no sign of Amy.
The drink is heavy on the Jack and I cough up the first big sip I take. I consider asking the bartender to balance it out a bit but think better of it. Smaller sips will do.
I still don’t have Amy’s number so I can’t call. In this room that seems fitting, but annoying all the same.
At the bar, an older gentleman enters wearing a thin gray suit. In fact, looking around I realize I’m the only male not wearing a blazer or suit jacket. No one seems to care but I feel out of place. I watch as he and the First Lady exchange glances. Once again, her eyes dare to fall out of their sockets. I look away.
There’s a covered piano in the corner gathering dust. I wonder if they still ever use it. Modern white speakers in the corners of the room play an old record instead. Turning back, the man in the gray suit is now walking towards me. Even at seventy-plus years old, he stands tall enough that his head seems to graze the low moldings of the ceiling.
“Would you mind if I joined you?” He asks, his voice just above a whisper.
“Please do,” I respond.
“Thank you, kindly,” he says, pulling out the lounge chair across from me. “I prefer to sit back here, myself. The boys at the bar can get pretty heated, and besides, it’s easier to see all the ladies from here.”
I look around to see if I had missed anybody, but I hadn’t.
“A pretty good crowd tonight, not like it used to be, but good none-the-less. Where are you coming from?”
“New York,” I say.
“You live right in the city?”
“Just across the river. Hoboken.”
“Ah, New Jersey. I’ve dated two different women from New Jersey and to give them credit, they both knew what they wanted. That’s the difference between New York and New Jersey, as the women go, anyways. A woman from New York will demand everything in the world and want none of it. A Jersey woman, on the other hand, she won’t ask for much, you’d just better be prepared to deliver once she does.”
“What do they say about the women in Chicago?”
“Chicago women? They’re the perfect blend of independence and grace. Find a woman that can stand toe-to-toe with you at any one moment and then drop you to the floor the next just by offering her hand—that’s a Chicago woman,” he says, his eyes wandering away as he fingers the bony arch of an oft-broken nose.
“Oh, they’re all beautiful in their own little ways,” he picks back up with a sigh. “You know, I once had my eye on this astoundingly beautiful girl from Alabama, when I was, oh, I’d say about your age. In New York, actually.
“You see, I was working for RCA at the time, appliances, not the televisions you see today, and they flew me out to New York to work for three weeks. Well imagine a young kid from the Midwest getting an all-expenses paid trip to New York City for three whole weeks. You certainly can’t beat that, now can you?
“So I finally get to the New York, and well I don’t have to tell you, that’s one of those places where your jaw just hits the pavement right away. I mean, world-class type girls on every corner. Literally, I fly in on a Sunday afternoon and I see these girls right out the gate, strutting outside while I’m in the cab, and buzzing all around the hotel. Everywhere I go, nothing but beautiful women. Really, I think I’m in for the time of my life.
“Sure enough, next morning comes around, I head into the office, right across from Rockefeller Center, and the first person I see when I get inside is this one girl. Now when I say she was a knockout, I mean it. She wore this tight navy skirt that cut off just below her knees, opening up in full view just the nicest calves you’ve ever laid eyes on. She also had on this red turtleneck sweater that wasn’t too tight, but if she ever pulled her hand up to her hair, it would pull everything up with it just right. And that hair—that thick brown hair that I’d be lying to you if I didn’t spend half my days just dreaming of combing my hands through. Believe me when I tell you, this girl was that special.
“Now the only problem was that she was a few years older than I was. To her, I was just this young, fresh on the job brat from the Midwest. She wanted nothing to do with me. The thing was, though, God bless her, was that she was too darn sweet to say anything. Most other girls in New York would have put me in my place right then and there, right?
“Of course, being naïve and stupid, I can’t make two cents of the situation. All that I know is that for some reason, God had placed in front of me, for a stay of three weeks, this blessed angel of a girl, with a pure as sin, deep southern Alabama accent that would melt your ears if you heard it, and there was no way I wasn’t going to do everything in my ability to get her to say yes to one date. Just one. That was all I wanted.
“So day by day passes and I try every damned thing I can think of, but eventually the whole trip passes me by and I’ve gotten nothing from her—barely a smile and no more than a few words out of her at a time. But I was in love and that wasn’t going to stop me. Literally, the entire three weeks pass by and I don’t remember seeing a single sight in New York City or laying eyes on another girl or doing anything close to work. I had spent the entire three weeks focused on her and now it’s time to go.
“So my very last day comes and I can’t even find her in the office. I ask around and no one knows where she is. She may be sick or something. I manage to keep a smile on my face and take care of my last duties, but inside I’m just a wreck all day long. I can literally feel the entire city just crashing down on me as I walk out for the last time.
“Now that night, the office throws a going away party for us trainees. Nothing extravagant, just at a local spot not too unlike here, but a nice gesture all the same. So everyone in the office goes and of course they’re all in high spirits over the idea of an open bar for the night and then there’s me just totally and utterly dejected. People are coming up to me left and right trying to lift me up, telling me I’ve done a good job, this and that, but absolutely nothing could break me from this funk. As far as I was concerned, my flight the next day couldn’t come fast enough.
“Just then, though, someone throws on “In the Still of the Night,” and at the same time I get a tap on the shoulder. I turn around to see who could possibly be bothering me now and would you believe it, there she is, my girl, and she’s looking straight out of this world. I can still picture her when I close my eyes. She had on a yellow and white sundress, with her brown hair all bundled up, and fresh make-up, oh, boy, the whole nine.
“So I’m standing there with this look on my face as if Marilyn Monroe herself had just stepped out of the movie screen and into the theater and all she does is stand there and smile at me for a minute, letting the surprise soak in. And then you know what she does? Would you believe it, she asks if I would dance with her.
“And that, my friend, is when you believe. In anything and everything. That wishes come true and someone is up there looking down at you.
“Before I even know what to do, she sticks her hand out high in the air and drops it by the wrist, inviting me to take it. I’m literally shaking now, but I manage to grab a hold, grasping onto those buttery soft fingers as she pulls me towards the dance floor. I feel like I’m already in a dream world at this point, but it only gets better when she stops in the middle of the floor, reaches for my other hand, and pulls them both down to the sides of her sundressed hips. Finally, she reaches up, and can you believe this, manages to wrap each of her arms all the way around this tall, lanky neck of mine.
“I’m telling you, son, for three full minutes, she was all that existed. Her arms wrapped around my neck, her perfume like moist daisies, her chocolate brown eyes looking into mine, and a smile that understood just how special you could make someone else feel. Those were it, son. Best three minutes of my life.
“Eventually, when the song ends, she pulls back, gives me another smile and says, ‘Roger, one of these days I’ll make it out to Indiana, and when I do, you’d better be prepared to take me on a date.’ And then she kissed me on the cheek, smiled one last time, and walked away.
“When I eventually come to, I look around and realize the entire office is in on it. I’d later find out that they even had her work on a different floor that day just to set it all up. It turned out to be the highlight of their night, as well. The whole time we were dancing, the entire party was focused on the two of us. I didn’t care, though. I’d gotten my dance.
“To this day, I’ve never lived that down, there’s still one or two people traveling around that will bring it up. ‘The summer Roger fell for Leslie.’ I’ll tell you something, though, the truth of the matter is, that probably earned me more points than anything else I ever did.
“I don’t know if you could get away with something like that nowadays. I’m not sure the world today has room for the romantic. All these boundaries. But I’ll tell you, in all my years and all my relationships, nothing ever sparked me the way that one dance and kiss did. Not even close. And that was just on the cheek remember.
“You get a kiss like that one day, my friend, you’ll know why life’s so damn worth living. Even today, hanging in an old place where the memories seem more real than you do. This is worth living for if you can take yourself back and remember that a love like that did exist, and it was inside of you, right here,” he says, leaning forward and tapping his heart.
“So next time the opportunity presents itself, and you’re standing there, across from some wildly beautiful girl who’s completely stolen your heart, do something for me, would you? Before you get all excited, just once, pull back and ask her to dance. There’s a lifetime to be lived in those three minutes, son. I promise you. She’ll be everything you’ll ever need.”
He holds his gaze towards me to make sure he’d gotten his point across and then leans back to examine the room. Absorbing it all, he allows himself another small sigh as if to recognize that for all those memories, this is the present that’s been left to him. It’s only for a moment, though, as his eyes fall once more on the First Lady and he abruptly straightens up to tighten his tie.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, my friend,” he says, turning back towards me, “I’ve kept that lovely woman over there waiting for far too long. I’d better buy her a drink before a younger fellow like you steals her. You’ll realize that, too, when you get to my age. Time’s ticking on all of us, you can’t keep them waiting. That’s good advice however old you are. Best of luck, and when you find that girl one day, don’t forget about what I told you.”
I watch Roger approach the First Lady with a familiar smile he’s probably used a thousand times before on other women. Though she’s likely seen the same greeting from plenty of suitors before him, as well, it doesn’t make this encounter any less fresh or exciting. They hit it off immediately and their eyes never wander, like two fading ghosts who have lost the sense of touch but still find comfort in the reflections of the past they see within each other.
As they drift into another era, I feel myself drifting, as well. For the second time today, I’ve been stood up. Amy isn’t coming and there’s no use in staying up waiting. Seeing Roger and his new girl together has me feeling lonely all over again but there’s nothing I can do about it now. Sleep will bring tomorrow and maybe some new adventure for my own.
I head to the lobby which at eleven P.M. reminds me of O’Hare with its cold tinted glass absorbing the nighttime lights. It’s empty except for a clerk clicking away at a computer. By the elevator wing, a floor buffer sits unmanned. I’m tempted to take it for a spin until the ding of an arriving car sounds and I step away.
Inside the elevator, the door is about to shut when a girl’s voice shouts out, “Wait!” Before I even have time to react, she’s diving in to stop it.
As the doors aim to slice her lying torso, two more of her companions enter. This time it’s another girl reaching backwards to stop the door while the man she’s straddling has his face planted to her clavicle. When the door re-opens, he blindly steps over the fallen girl as if it were part of a routine. Both girls are in cocktail dresses and as the one on the floor stands up, her dress falls completely beneath her right breast, revealing a strapless bra that’s millimeters from rendering itself insignificant.
“That’s gonna hurt like a bitch tomorrow!” Screams the half-nude girl as she reattaches a heel.
“Serves you right you fucking lush,” the man rips back in between other sucking noises. With his back to me, he now has his girl partially rested on the brass rail.
“You’re the lush,” the first girl murmurs while looking herself over in the reflection of the door. She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that she’s still hanging out of her dress because all she fixes is a drupe of hair. That’s when she spots my reflection in the corner.
“Hello,” she says in a clever way. Holding her mirrored stare for a moment, she continues, “What floor are you going to?”
“Fourteen,” I respond, pointing to the lit number.
“That’s really the thirteenth, you know, since they don’t have a thirteenth floor. Which means you’re bad luck,” she says turning to me. “That’s too bad, too, ‘cause I could have had some fun with you.” With that, she steps to my corner, stretches both of her hands against the mirrored walls beside me and kisses me, holding for four or five seconds.
“Wow, that really is too bad,” she repeats. “Hey,” she says, tilting towards the other two with her left arm still pinned over my right shoulder, “are you going to be able to kiss me like that?”
“You’re going to tell your fucking grandkids about tonight,” the man replies, turning his head around at the same moment the voice clicks for me. It’s Deacon.
He spots me, as well.
“Jamesie. You’re probably going to tell your grandkids about this, too!” Just then the elevator stops. I wonder if I’m supposed to move or not.
“Goodnight sweetie,” says the girl, making the decision for me. She rubs my chest once and steps away, giving me room to leave. I shoot a quick glance to Deacon who can do no better than grin back and nod.
As soon as I step out, the party of three releases a collective sigh and starts to laugh over being free again. I’m nearly to the corner when I hear the closing ding suddenly followed by Deacon shouting, “Hey Jamesie!”
I turn around. He’s leaning halfway out with both arms raised in the air.
“What’s up?” I ask, wondering if my night is really finished.
“Twenty-seven,” he mouths, bouncing his fingers in childlike succession before rolling back inside with a roar. Seconds later, the door shuts for a final time, leaving me back to my lonesome.
At the turn of the hallway, there’s a small mirror placed above a decorated table. I stop to look myself over. I look like shit. Worse, I feel like shit. Here I am on my big adventure in the city, with a million fresh faces to talk to, and I’m headed straight back to my room all by myself again.
Once inside, I flip on all the lights. Everything in this room seems like a total waste. Two couches, two desks, two TV’s, enough space to fit a small family. At the very least, enough space for two people.
I start to get ready for bed, tossing clothes I won’t need again in a pile by the suitcase before throwing on gym shorts. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth next to the second empty sink and finally, after turning out the lights, flip open the bed sheets wide, but still only reaching half way across. That’s when it hits me.
It’s not that I wish just anybody were with me. I wish Liz was here.
Here in this city. Here in this room. Here with me.
Worse, there was a time when she had wished for this, too, wished for us to travel together on our own.
“Let’s go someplace we’ve never been before,” she would say. “It’ll be fun.”
“But there will always be plenty of time,” I would respond, feeling newly grown up and mature and responsible, “there will always be us.” Now there wasn’t any more time and there wasn’t any more us.
I’ve tried to piece together the various different where’s and how’s and why’s we drifted. There’s always a million excuses, a million reasons. None of them good. The worst of all being the one I can’t throw away. It’s the easiest excuse, the most obvious, and as much as I’d like to believe we were more than that accident, the more history tells me otherwise. I knew it that day as well I know it now—there was a before and then there was an after.
All I need to do is close my eyes and the details come pouring back: I’m standing outside the hospital, calling Liz to give her the news. It’s sunny. When she picks up, she sounds excited. A van backs up in front of me, beeping. That was another reason to come outside—to escape the beeping, monitors incessantly beeping everywhere. The party this weekend, it’s going to be great, she says. Lauren and Steve are coming. Beep. Mom’s inside. The dancing lines on the screen tell us she’s fighting, but none of the bandages move. So many bandages. Without the wedding ring on her unscathed hand, I wouldn’t know it was her beneath. Beep. Is there anything you want, Liz asks. I bought a case of M’s for you. She always has something for me, always had me in mind. Now all I have for her is the news that’s going to split our world in half. No, I say. All that I want right now is something you can’t give. Beep. The van’s just sitting there, parked in reverse. I don’t know where Dad is. They didn’t need a machine to see if he was fighting or not. Beep. What’s that noise, she asks. Nothing, I say. Tell me more about the party. Tell me about shopping for it. Tell me about anything and everything you did or thought today, everything that seemed like nothing because your nothing is everything I still have. And then, when you’re done, and you’ve told me all that you could about life before this, I will tell you. Beep. Julie’s still inside. Still signing papers, still answering questions. I haven’t been asked to sign or answer anything. Beep. Everything all right? Liz asks. The moment’s coming, I know it is. Hold on one more moment. You were the before, Liz, now this is the after. Don’t let me break our peace. James? She repeats.
“I’m at the hospital,” I say. The world splits. I choke up for the first time. I hadn’t felt any of this. The present is easy. Responding is easy. Explaining, reliving, reflecting, piecing one shock together with the next—impossible. I try to stick to the major details. One car, one tree, my parents.
The other end of the line goes silent for nearly a minute before the I’m sorries flood in: I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s okay, I say. The truth is I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry I can’t take you back to before. I’m sorry we couldn’t be before again. We were good before.
If only I had been better after. We were capable, I know. Still are, I think. But for all those million reasons we never gave ourselves a chance. Reaching over to the empty side of the bed, I wish we had.
My phone buzzes, jarring me awake. Liz hasn’t texted me in two months. I flip the sheets open, shuffling towards the blinking red light.
“What room number r u?”
And the present masks the past.
“1426”
I race to put some clothes on and my phone buzzes again while I’m swishing a shot of mouthwash. “Get ice,” it says.
The leather-wrapped bucket’s just above the mini-bar. I grab it along with the keycard and make my way out to the silent hallway.
As the cubes barrel into the bucket, I wonder if this is even a good idea. Should I really go from wallowing my way to sleep thinking about Liz to late night drinking with a girl who’s just crazy enough to make a hotel visit after midnight? But I also realize that’s not fair to Amy either. Had she just given me an address, I would have raced to her, too.
“Give them a chance,” Liz had said of all the other girls I was afraid to meet. Here’s me chancing, Lizard.
Backing out of the machine closet, I half-expect to cross Amy’s path, bucket in arm, but I’m still ahead. Inside the room, I try to tidy up by remaking the bed and tossing clothes in a bag, but before long everything’s in place. It’s just me in a chair and the door.
• • •
She knocks twice.
The first thing I see is a Santa hat, secondly, her biting down on her lower lip as she smiles, and finally, ominously, a bottle of Vishnevsky held my way.
“Merry Christmas,” she says, before walking straight towards the lounger, finding and taking the ice bucket along with her.
“You know tomorrow’s only Christmas Eve, right?” I respond, making do with the desk chair across from her.
“Santa always does his warm-up in Chicago.”
“Is that so?” I ask as she takes her coat off, revealing flannels and a sweatshirt.
“Yes, now pass over those glasses.”
When I walk over I see she’s come well prepared. “Cranberry or tonic?” She asks.
“Cranberry, please.”
“I was actually thinking of leaving a bottle for Santa but that would be a tough mix with the cookies and milk.”
“Maybe he could save it for Mrs. Clause.”
“Good point—I’ll save the last glass for her. This one’s yours, though.”
“And a happy New Year’s, as well,” I propose, taking the glass pushed my way.
“That’s twenty toasts away. Enjoy this one first.”
“To the first,” I say, eyes locked in her direction.
“To the first.”
The first sip starts cool and warms in my stomach. I notice it’s a Dayton Flyers sweatshirt she’s wearing and start to laugh thinking about the meeting with Strafford.
“What’s so funny?” She asks.
“You go to Dayton?”
“My brother did. Why?”
“Just came up earlier today. Funny to see it twice.”
“That’s random,” she says while sizing up the room. “Do you remember where you were last Christmas?”
“New Jersey. You?”
“Toledo.”
“Family there?”
“No.”
“What was in Toledo, then?
“I found a good tree. What’s in New Jersey?”
“My sister.”
“You missing her tonight?”
“A little.”
Her face warms up like she’s touched by the fact I miss my sister. An ‘aww’ without words.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it earlier,” she says.
“It’s alright, it’s nice to have you here now.” I raise my glass to change the subject, “To night two.”
“Are you always this forgiving?” She asks, ignoring me.
“Why hold grudges? Like I said, you’re here now. That’s as good a thing as any.”
She turns her head sideways as if to call bullshit. I hold her stare. The truth is the truth and for all my doubts before, I realize that having her here right now is the best thing that could have happened.
“To night two,” she concedes.
The second sip is just as cool but disappears in the stomach.
“You enjoying Chicago?” I ask.
“It’s like a dream.”
“Think so?”
“I don’t really fall for places. Where I’m going just happens to be where I’ll be.”
“There’s no place you’re especially fond of?”
“I’m fond of here. A hotel room, this bottle, and you.” It’s her turn to play the flatterer. I give her the same sideways look and manage to coax a laugh from her.
“To finish answering your question, though,” she says, “it’s the people I associate with the places I guess. My family moved around a lot when I was young, so depending on the friends I had, I’ll like one place more than another. After college, for example, I moved to Boston for a guy. He made me hate living there but I made some great friends. Now it’s three cities later, there’s parts I like more than others of each, but like I said, it’s not the places I remember so much as the people.”
“Well except for work, I like it here so far.”
“That’s cool, would you stay?”
“Maybe one day if the opportunity came up. Not now, though.”
“Why not now?”
“My life’s in New York. That’s where I belong right now. If something new came up here down the road, though, I’d be okay with leaving.”
“How much could you possibly be tied down by?” She asks.
“Well I’ve got my job. And my sister would want me there.”
“How old’s your sister?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Trust me, you don’t need to stay on her account.”
“I guess. I don’t know.”
“So otherwise you’re staying for your job.”
“More or less.”
“Well that’s good of you. That’s good that you’re focused.”
“I guess.”
“I probably wasn’t focused enough when I first started. Those were the days, though.”
“You like that better?”
“Like what better?”
“Starting out, not knowing everything?”
“As opposed to now, having more responsibility and still not knowing?”
“Yea.”
“Hell yes, I like the starting out part better.”
“Really? I’m the opposite.”
“How so?”
“I wish I could just skip forward, not have everything be so new. Not always feeling like I’m vulnerable for not knowing something. It’d be nice to be the go-to person for a change.”
“Really? What for? So you can lock yourself into some position of authority for knowing some useless piece of information?”
“It’d be better than being trampled on all the time.”
“No way. At least there you’re protected. I mean seriously, what’s asked of you? When you’re starting out, all you have to do is show up and do whatever they tell you to do. Everything’s clearly laid out with bullet points and little yellow to-do lists. Sooner or later you’ll figure out the further you go, the vaguer it gets.”
I think of this morning. I’m not sure how it could get any vaguer but I get her point all the same.
“So I take it you’re in no hurry,” I ask.
“Hurry for what?”
“To grow a bit older, a bit wiser.”
“No way. I’d rather go back.”
“How far back?”
“All the way back. Back to playing house. Back to wearing my mom’s dresses to imaginary tea parties and full days at the swimming pool. That’s what I want. No cares at all. Just a different adventure every day and the peace of mind of getting tucked in every night. Just that feeling of home, you know. Knowing that everyone you care about in the world is under one roof. Knowing that they all care about you, too.”
“I care about you.”
“Please. But you know what I mean. You move to this place with thousands and thousands of people. You think it’ll be so easy. But if anything, it’s harder. Everyone has a distraction, some place they’d rather be. And the thing is, it seems like it goes with the territory. Young adults, big city. We’ve got to be free. We’ve got to embrace our independence and do our own things. And most importantly, let’s not forget, there can’t be any strings attached. None.”
“No strings?”
“Oh, yes. No strings attached. It’s like one of the first things you learn when you move on your own.”
“Really? I don’t remember anyone telling me about strings.”
“Exactly. And here’s my point. What happens when we cut all of those strings? Then we’re just a thousand people colliding into each other. We stop connecting and trying to understand one another because we’re too stubborn to do anything else. Then at the worst of it, after we’ve locked ourselves alone into some random apartment fifteen stories up because we’re too tired of just getting bumped around all the time, that’s when we realize that all those strings that were holding us down before were the same strings that kept us together. They made us feel safe, made us feel a part of something. When we stop expecting things, you know, that’s when we feel apart. That’s when we feel alone.
“So I guess my point is, why can’t right here be good enough, you know? Why can’t people just come out and say they’ll be there for you and allow you to say you’ll be there for them. Or better yet, how could they make me believe it?”
“I’m here for you.”
She looks at me and sighs. “You douche. That how you get all the girls into your hotel room?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, I sure as hell can’t make fun of it ‘cause look where I am.”
“Exactly.”
“You think that’s all just B.S., though? No strings attached?”
“It serves a purpose, I guess. People want their freedom. Like you said, though, how else can you get a random girl to come into your hotel room after midnight with a bottle of vodka and a Santa cap? Strings would hate that.”
“You do think it’s all B.S., don’t you?”
“Not entirely.”
“Alright, well anyway, here’s to getting some random girl, or hopefully in my case, guy, to come to your hotel room, looking like a Christmas card, and coming prepared with enough liquor to hospitalize twelve elves.”
“To all that, and maybe in the end, to keeping a few strings attached.”
“Cheers,” we say together.
The night rolls along with dozens of more cheers—to Chris Farley, to the first blizzard of the season but not to any of the ones that follow, and even once to the phone book in the bedside table. Afterwards, she throws a pillow at me and I of course throw it back causing her to spill her drink on the floor. We rotate around the room. From separate couches to the desk chairs and even the windowsill. At certain points she seems a mile away and we have to practically yell across, at others she’s just a whisper’s distance.
Eventually, she makes her way to the bed. Not really in a provocative way, though it crosses my mind, but more so in a way that recognizes that it’s almost two in the morning—first lying sideways and then backwards as she starts to walk her feet up the headboard, one foot carefully in front of the other to the top, where she pauses, deciding where to go next, and then finds the answer in a sudden two-step.
“Nice dance,” I say.
“I’ve been practicing.”
She sends her feet straight up in the air, toes wiggling. A minute later, she drops her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around her legs, curling into a small, gently rocking ball.
“Have you ever played tent?” She asks through her knees.
“Like under a blanket?”
“Exactly.”
“As a kid.”
“Turn off that light and come on in,” she says, rummaging herself beneath the covers. I do as I’m told and am soon lifting the sheets. She’s already pressed herself towards the base of the bed so her head only reaches the middle. She had taken off the sweatshirt earlier and now her loose tank top exposes the small rise of her breasts as I slide down beside her.
“You gotta get lower,” she tells me.
I follow suit, pushing myself down as far as I can.
“Now kick it up with your feet and pull the end down behind your head.”
The tent expands. It’s three feet high, five wide, supported by flannelled legs. A crack of light develops on my side and she shouts for me to close it down. I do my best.
“I used to do this all the time,” she says. “Covered like this, you can pretend that you’re anywhere in the world. It doesn’t matter where you actually are, either. You could be over in London or all the way down in Sydney, and it would be just like this. Just the two of us and this blanket. Anywhere you want to go.”
“I wouldn’t know where to go.”
“Come on. Have you ever been to Paris?”
“No.”
“We’ll go to Montmartre, it’s on the north end of Paris. During the day we’ll visit all the nearby cafés and when night comes we can sit on the steps of the Sacré-Cœur, look out over the entire city.”
“Honestly, I don’t think I can handle flying over the Atlantic.”
“Alright then, we’ll go to San Francisco. I’ll head out to Napa tomorrow and pick a wine out while you’re in your business meeting. We’ll drink it by the window of our hotel room, watch the headlights curl back and forth down Lombard Street.”
“Where else?” I ask.
“Everywhere.”
We tour the U.S., crossing the continent in flashes. In the morning we’ll wake up early and catch the sunrise off the coast of Maine and later watch it set behind the Rocky Mountains west of Denver. In between, our meals are all laid out at the finest chains—a Waffle House in Ocala for breakfast, a return to San Fran’s wharf for In ‘N Out Burger, then right back here for stuffed pizza at Giordano’s. Have I eaten there yet, she asks. Not yet. We will, she says.
Our tent grows warmer. My eyes adjust to the point that I can make out the shape of the window through the sheet.
“Have you really been to all of those places?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Must be nice. Really,” I add so as not to sound condescending.
“Yea,” is all she says.
“What about living?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you moved a lot. Where have you lived?”
She runs through the different beds she’s slept in, the places she’s called home. As a kid it was following her family from one house to the next, starting with Dayton and then on to Dallas, Arizona, San Diego and finally Maryland. When school started, South Carolina sounded nice and afterwards there was that boy in Boston. Another boy in Portland, a job in Denver.
“Is it hard moving all the time?”
“It’s kind of like this,” she says, motioning her hands across the blanket. “A house is just a bigger tent, is all. There might be boxes piled up all around and different sounds and smells to go along with it, but at night, I lie back down in the same bed, feeling the same sheets, the same pillow against my head. Then I look up and realize that if I stare up close enough at that same bare ceiling, I can be anywhere I want to be. That’s when I realize nothing’s really changed. I might be a bit worn or disheveled, but I’m there in one piece all the same. I’m still there, I’m still the same, and so is everything that’s ever happened to me, I’m just in a different spot is all. Then I know I’ll be okay and I can sleep.”
“What about the next day?”
“That’s when you make sense of it, organize it. But by then it’s okay. By then you can start to make it your own because you’ve embraced it. Eventually this house will become a part of you, too.”
She yawns.
“It’s been all me so far,” she says. “Where would you like to go?”
“Honestly? Like you said, I’m okay right here. Chicago, this bed, you, and this view down your shirt.”
She tucks her head down briefly for a look of her own.
“Little smaller than the Rockies.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Bet you don’t.”
I try to imagine what this might be like back in New York. Her in my bed and my sheets around us. She’s right, it would look the same pitch black, with the slight whir of her breath the only noise. I wonder if it’s possible. To actually be with her again in New York and not have to pretend like this, but I don’t dare ask. I’m not sure where the weights sit, but I know this is all a delicate balance that I don’t want to tip. New York can wait, this is far too rare and I want to hold onto Chicago as long as I can.
“I remember when I used to do this,” I say, “it was sort of to protect me. As long as I was in here I was safe.”
“What were you afraid of?”
“Everything.”
“Really?”
“Well, back then, it was mostly things I couldn’t see. You know, what’s behind the door or hiding in the corner kind of thing.”
“What about now?”
“I guess you see enough things happen that you don’t need your imagination to be afraid anymore.”
She doesn’t respond. I know it’s rolling in her head what I mean so I ask if she’s afraid of anything to move the subject along.
“Yes,” she says.
“Are you going to say what of?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Let’s each keep it to ourselves,” she responds, switching the crossing of her legs so now her left foot is towards me, causing the right side of our tent to collapse.
“You have nice feet,” I point out.
“I broke this toe twice playing soccer. Same with my left ankle.”
“I broke my leg racing up the wrong end of an escalator once.”
“You serious? My mom got her sandal caught in one of those one time.”
“That was the worst of it. Coming down with my leg in half and having to hop over the teeth-things at the base. Thought I’d lose a finger,” I hold up my hands to show that they’re still there.
“My mom did lose a toe that way.”
“For real?”
“Yea, it’s just a toe. She got over it. Now she thinks it’s funny. Whenever she gets mad she’ll start yelling that she’s going to run over with her four toes and kick some sense into us.”
Suddenly, Amy starts to do a bicycle kick at the sheets, bursting out laughing and shaking the bed along with her. I’m able to control myself until she starts snorting, then I lose it. It only encourages her to spasm more.
“Four toes!” She shouts.
“You. Sound. Like. A. Pig.” I manage to piece together.
“No I don—snort!”
She buries her face into my shoulder, rubbing a mixture of snot and tears into my shirt. “Sorry,” she says, her heavy breaths landing like whiffs of steam against my arm.
The tent feels uncomfortably hot now but I’m not about to be the one to break it. That especially becomes the case when she tilts her head up slightly more and the fumes of her vodka-laced breath begin to waft over—a toxic scent when sober, but undeniably quenching when not. I turn my head closer.
“I could do this forever,” she says.
“You wouldn’t get bored eventually?”
“Never. Like I said, reminds me of being young.”
“You still are young.”
“Not young enough.”
“Say you could go back, would you miss being older?”
“I doubt it. You think one day you’ll miss all this?” She asks, penning loops into the sheets with her finger.
“Tomorrow,” I respond, signing my name alongside her. When I reach the final “s” for Haskins, she leans over to dot the “i.”
“Does it really have to end so quickly?” She continues a minute later.
“What?”
“You leaving.”
“Yes.”
“Another few days would have been fun.”
“Maybe in New York.”
Her hand drops and we lay in dark silence for several minutes. When our legs grow tired we cross them this way or that, the dimensions of the tent changing each time. My mind wanders. I’m in Chicago, I’m in New York. Amy’s breath whirs on.
“You hot?” She asks.
“Should we break it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, we are in the Sahara. It’s just as hot out there as it is in here.”
“Maybe we should fly to the mountains and cool off.”
“Which mountains?” I ask.
“Andes, of course.”
“I hate the Andes.”
“Find your own mountain then.”
“Okay.”
“Find it and you can tell me about it later,” she says, the last words struggling through another yawn. “I’ll meet you in a pub in Dublin.” She rolls over on her side, whether to feign sleep or to actually fall asleep I can’t tell.
I turn my head all the way. It’s dark but I can make out the outline of her back and the length of her hair stretched across the pillow. What would happen if I put my arm around her right now? Would all the lights in Paris dim and the sun refuse to set in Portland? Would we, and all that we could possibly entail after only two days, suddenly be as bare as the two of us, lying in a hotel bed in Chicago? Even in a best case scenario it’s too much truth to face. Let the dream continue, I decide. With her beside me, let night fall all at once in the places we’ve traveled to and be replaced by a single constellation above us—that same cotton ceiling following us wherever we might lay.
“I should get going,” she says, dropping her legs and tumbling down our make-believe tent along with any hopes I had that she might stay. A rush of cool air dashes its way in as she flips the covers open from beneath her head. I open my side, as well, shielding my eyes from the light she turns on.
“When do you leave tomorrow?” She asks.
“Around eleven.”
“Can I come with?”
“If you’d like.”
“Okay.”
She works her way around the room, gathering her things. “Thanks for being awake,” she says finally, picking up the Santa hat last.
“Thanks for keeping me awake,” I reply.
She smiles, drops a quick curtsy, and exits without another word.
I turn out the light and make my way back to bed for the second time. I think about what she’d said last night about people colliding into one another and then tonight about the strings. All the various theories she’d built up in her mind to make sense of the world. I’m not sure if I believe them or even entirely understand them, but after living so long in the company of loved ones, I’m still intrigued.
I like her world of strangers. The freedom of no expectations; opening up for once instead of worrying about keeping some fragile image intact. Maybe too much of it is dangerous—it made Amy nervous for sure. But there’s a certain comfort and beauty in it, as well, that there are many others with their own stories to tell, each as intricate and as happy and as sad as my own.
If only Liz and I had realized that. We probably made too much of our very own concept that one person can make the world rise and fall. “At least you had it,” Amy had said. She knew how lucky we were. She knew that the world rises and falls on its own, the game is in finding someone to keep you steady regardless of what the world does.
And presently, the world has me lying across the center of a hotel’s bed, alone but for Amy’s lingering perfume, realizing for the first time that, in my life, there is now most certainly a before-Chicago and soon to be an after.