Gala and I have similar objectives when we go out. It’s not that we’re looking for anything in particular, but we both like to see how far the night goes. There is nothing better than having zero expectations and then the night leading somewhere you never thought of. Gala likes to stay out till daylight; she can party till 9 a.m., but I like to be in bed by four thirty. Nothing good can ever happen past four thirty. On the nights we don’t want to go out, someone is always trying to convince us it would be the best thing to do. People get all funny and start making plans for you. It’s sad because people here are quite lonely, and if you say you’re staying in long enough, they end up offering to pay for your cab. People like that never like to drink alone, and when you finally get to the place, to thank you for coming, they always seem to pay for your cocktails, too.
Michael Morgan, the owner of Enfin, called us up last week saying he had opened a new spot in the Meatpacking District. He said it was a little corporate, and he needed to inject some Downtown Flavour in order to keep his businesses “consistent.” He told us to invite our friends to the club, and whenever we’re there we get a bottle of whatever we want, and at the end of the night, Gala and I each get one envelope with a hundred dollars inside. Generally, we only have to be there for three hours. Michael likes us to come early so we make the club look full. Ten p.m. to 1 a.m. is the usual. We’ve been going when we have energy; Gala loves it, but sometimes I get bored of all those people. Michael says if we get suits to buy us bottles, we get 10 percent commission. We get a special booth in the club, and if people want to sit with us, they have to pay. I’m not sure how much, but I know it’s a lot. Michael says he thought of the idea when he visited Japan; he says the Japanese know how Business and Pleasure work.
Ardie and a couple other comedians came to the club one night after a show at the Cellar. Comedians don’t mind paying for bottles as long as you let them practise their jokes on you. Michael Morgan came over to the booth to introduce himself and bring over a bottle of champagne. He put his arms around Gala and me and said, “You have to be into stand-up to love these girls!”
I decided to ask Ardie’s protégé about the functions of a joke. “Well,” I wondered, “if you make a joke about me and I react in a certain way, and people laugh because of how I reacted, aren’t I the one that’s funny, not you?” People have a hard time knowing whether or not I’m being funny. Ardie said he was happy we’d found a successful gig in town because he had been worried. He said, “But aren’t ya’ll worried about these Wall Street types? I want you to eye your drinks. Those guys are always bound to slip something into them. If I were you girls, I’d be sick of all these rich folks.” Gala shook her head. “Isa’s good at talking to rich people. They like her ’cause she doesn’t admonish them.”
The next night Lilou brought in a bunch of skaters. I had to get them at the door because they weren’t exactly up to dress code. Michael waived the fee for them because he thought they were the epitome of Downtown, “what New York is made of,” and all that. Skaters are funny. They’re lauded not only because they’re handsome or alluring but also because they’re athletes. People don’t realize that’s why, but it’s true. Athleticism is pure in how you can only be very good and very bad at sport. And if you’re good, you’re good. It’s not like art or beauty, where everything can be argued. You either land a little trick or you don’t. People really thirst for that kind of truth in their lives.
The downside of having this booth at the club is that it’s not always possible to draw a crowd. Gala and I have stamina for going out back to back, but a lot of people don’t. That’s why it was so lucky that the other day I had been going up the elevator in a private members club to meet Lilou at the rooftop pool. When the doors opened at the entrance to the gym, a familiar face gawked at me. “What on earth are you doing here?” Cooper Fleming had a sweaty face and a towel draped over his shoulder. I laughed, kissing him on both cheeks. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work? Do you even work?” Coop was a close friend to that gin heir I dated when I was eighteen. He also briefly served as my benefactor in London. Similar to my ex, Coop came from a long line of Old British Money. He had the look of it, with his aristocratic blond hair and blue eyes. He would not seem out of place in a Victorian oil painting, and his family owns several. He was known for making a lot of risky investments, and I was one of his favourites. He asked if I was working poolside as the “resident demimondaine.” He said, “Whenever I think of you, which, by the way, is often, I think you would have done well during the fin de siècle.” I forgive the way he talks because people from Oxbridge are all this way. It’s a most expensive flaw.
When I told Gala he was in town, she said, “Benefactor for what?” And I said, “For me to make things.” And she said, “But you don’t make anything.” I told her I meant it in an abstract sense. For example, if I had an idea off the top of my head, he had licence to use it for something. People have been leeching off my ideas for years, so in this way I at least got some money for it. It’s not like I run out of ideas. Plus, the ones I think of off the top of my head are always the worst of the bunch. Coop and I were never romantic; it was always business. Gala couldn’t understand it. She said, “I never know if by ‘business’ you really mean ‘Business.’”
I invited Coop to the club, and he said, “That’s a good shout.” There were a couple of clients in town whom he had been hoping to entertain. Knowing the types of people Coop hangs around, it meant that maybe in the last quarter of the month we could finally make rent. Later on that night we met him and the girl he was seeing out in front of the club. Coop only dates blonds seven to ten years younger than he. When I brought Gala with me, he took note of her. The girl he’s seeing, Natalie, said, “Oh my best-best friend dates the owner.” Gala blew smoke in her direction. “Everyone is dating The Owner.” Natalie climbed the adjacent scaffolding mid-conversation. We looked up at her, bemused. That’s a dangerous way to seem free spirited. Coop looked at his watch. “Let’s just go in.”
As we waited for Coop’s friends, a server brought two mai tais to our booth. Gala said, “Who are these from?” The server pointed to an older man in a three-piece suit sitting at the bar. Coop briefly looked over and said, “You girls have quite the range.” Without taking a sip, and heeding Ardie’s advice from the other night, Gala beckoned the older man to come to our table. He focused his attention towards me and said I was “tropical” looking, and I said my usual line about how funny it is because “I’ve never been south of the equator.” He said how nice it was to meet a girl who looked like she was straight from the islands but with whom he could carry a pleasant conversation. Smiling sweetly, I told him, “I try hard to assimilate to Western Culture, or at least, what culture exists here.” He said I reminded him of his time in Malaysia, back when it was still called Malaya. Noticing that the conversation was strained, Gala motioned to a bouncer, who waved the man away. Gala called after him, “Isa’s allergic to juice. You better send some martinis instead!” I don’t exist for other people’s curiosity, but sometimes it does feel that way. One can be seen and then unseen just as quickly.
Coop’s friends finally arrived. They were British, so they felt compelled to discuss the weather right off the bat. They fanned themselves with their hands, saying, “I can’t believe it’s night-time and it’s still so hot.” Gala turned to me and said, “Love this crowd you’ve pulled together, Isa, real winners!” Coop introduced us. “Isa is an old friend of mine. You’ll find her reassuringly expensive and successfully cute. I only met Gala tonight but am quickly fond!” My and Gala’s opening bit when meeting new people was so refined we could jump in and out, borrowing each other’s lines, and know exactly when the other’s cue was. It went something like this, interchangeably:
“I’m Gala Novak. This is Isa Epley.”
“We’re not from here, but we’re not exactly from far away.”
“We stay in a friendly neighbourhood in Brooklyn. For some reason there are police towers every few blocks.”
“It’s the weirdest thing. We’ve never seen anything like it.”
“New York is so expensive. We’re trying to find little jobs here and there. Do you know of anything?”
“Preferably cash.”
“What do you do?”
“Where do you live?”
Some of Coop’s friends said they worked at Trident. Gala said, “The chewing gum?” And one of the guys said, stretching the words out in all the wrong places with his rather posh accent, “Oh, no no, for the UK government. The Ministry of Defence.” I clapped my hands together and said, “Oh my, really? How ever do you decompress?” He said, “I go to the gym quite a lot.” And I said, “Cardio must really help!” They were very handy at getting us commission; they drank like fish. It was only 1 a.m., and they had gone through three bottles. I will say, the more they drank, the more they “sputtered.” Another of Coop’s friends, Davey, worked as a political adviser in Washington, DC. Gala had been explaining how we needed to find a way to make money. Davey said, leaning forward with a drink in his hand, “What you girls really need to do is move to LA.” Gala said she’d love that, and I said, “What’s there for us?” Davey advised, “You need to move to LA and sell scenarios.” Gala asked, “Is that a job?” He shrugged. “You both seem to make work for yourselves. Why not?” I smiled, but really I was thinking, he must mean that I make work for myself, more than Gala, surely.
Routinely, the place we go after we leave the club is Al’s pizza place. Al said, “I thought you were both going on a diet. I’ve seen you girls three times in the past two days.” Gala said, “It’s a diet if this is the only thing we eat all day. Two cheese slices and a pop, and Isa will have one pepperoni.” Al shook his head. “This stuff isn’t good for you. You shouldn’t eat it so often.” I got my own straw and sipped at Gala’s drink. “What do you eat, Al?” He stretched his arms behind the counter. “I’m on a kind of pepper cleanse right now. It makes my head a li’l light, but hey, I can feel my body gettin’ Beautiful.”