You Are Here (10 page)

 

W
hen Janet pressed her palms together, “besides,” and clasped her hands, “my bed is much larger than yours,” the lights in the restaurant were dimmed a notch. “How would you know that?” James asked. She smiled with palpable anticipation, “I think it's a safe assumption,” while assessing his appearance, “and wouldn't it be more interesting,” as if for the first time, “for you to find out for yourself,” when looking up from the remaindered copy of
The Satyricon
in her hands and acknowledging his attention with a discreet nod, “Mr. Intrusive?” He swallowed hard, “let's leave at intermission,” before mirroring her appraisal with a warm smile.

They stood next to each other on the crowded sidewalk as he looked down the street for an approaching cab. James had commented on how beautiful the evening was as the stoplight above the intersection changed from red to green. Janet stated that her lamb was much better than Eric Asimov claimed it would be. Three cabs sped past his outstretched arm as she added that her potatoes had been perfectly seasoned and that she shouldn't have eaten all of them. A cab finally pulled up to the curb and he opened the rear door for her.

She nudged his ankle with the tip of her pointed shoe, “you know, I really liked that story you gave me.” Furrowing his brow, “You don't think it's too melodramatic?” “No,” shaking her head, “not at all,” without taking her eyes off his mouth, “it's quite sad and really advanced for someone your age.” He delivered the next line with the confident ease, “you're only saying that because you like me,” that had evolved out of their rehearsals. “Well that, and because you are so
profoundly
objective,” she ended her line with an exasperated sigh. “You think so?” When she suggested, “but you might have that backwards,” the striking hostess seated an elderly couple at the table beside them.

Janet told him that she was very happy they were able to have such a pleasant dinner together and added that the wine the waiter had recommended was perfect although they should have ordered a bottle instead of allowing him to refill their glasses whenever he walked by. James nodded in agreement as another block passed by in a blur of neon and glowing florescent storefronts.

“My story isn't too episodic?” She wanted to tease him about the questions he pressed on her after she offered him generous interpretations of his fiction, “you're quite fond of that word,” but didn't want to risk hurting his feelings. He jerked forward in the metal seat that creaked beneath him, “What do you mean?” At times the coddled boy seated before her seemed so hopelessly young, “that's the third time you used it tonight.”

The driver made a left onto Houston.

He frowned, “I'm being serious.” She regarded his expression with half-hearted concern, “I'm just kidding,” then realized that when she was his age this self-obsessive task he had fretfully tied himself to would have been dismissed as absurd. He clutched the napkin in his clammy fists, “Well is it or not?” “Isn't fiction episodic by definition?” He shook his head, “you know what I mean.” She wanted to encourage him to inch further away from this all-encompassing and profoundly claustrophobic task, “Do I?” “Come on,” looking closely at her eyes, “I'm being serious.” She conceded his question with a shrug, “the story could be read as sensational because the event was,” while the small flame burning faintly in the frosted glass candleholder wavered in a draft.

He thanked her for dinner and then kissed her on the cheek as the cab swerved into the center lane. She told him that her ex always made a huge production out of going to expensive restaurants, that he had the ability to ruin every meal with his petty demands on unlucky waiters and how his obnoxious behavior inevitably summoned the attention of a soon to be flustered maitre d' whose own hand-wringing attempts at placating that jackass of a man meant that every meal they had together became an excruciating exercise in humiliation.

The waiter crossed in front of the audience on cue and presented her with the bill. James slowly reached for it, “I've got it.” She took the wallet out of her black purse, “don't be silly,” that had been hanging over the metal chair, “remember this was my idea.” He leaned back in the chair, “How much is it?” She examined the bill, “it's a bit pricey considering the quality of the ingredients,” in her right hand and then muttered, “but don't worry about that,” without looking up from the narrow columns of handwritten numbers.

She continued damning her ex, who had just married some Long Island whore, with a scathing description of his shortcomings in bed. James asked for more details and Janet promptly listed the number of ways she had been accommodating and then described how quickly their sex became routine. He squeezed her hand while asking if they ever watched porn together. Janet said that she found pornography to be unimaginative as three fire trucks with sirens blaring raced past. She quietly asked if he liked to smoke marijuana as the cab came to a slow stop. James shook his head while claiming that it made him really paranoid. She mentioned that she had some really good pot stashed away in her freezer and perhaps if they smoked it together he would have a better time.

He began to blush, “I'll pay for the play,” as a sheepish grin covered his face.

She dutifully closed her eyes just before he kissed her on the mouth. Headlights briefly filled the cab's interior as they clutched each other in the backseat.

“And the wine was…” she looked at him closely, “How many glasses did you have?”

She removed the silver compact from her purse and inspected her mouth as he reassured her that she was very beautiful and that he was very lucky—extraordinarily lucky in fact—to be this close to her. She thanked him while slipping the compact back into her purse.

“I had as many glasses as you did,” he rubbed his nose with the back of his right hand before adding, “it was very good wine.” She placed her gold American Express card beneath the bill, “it was twelve dollars a glass.”

The driver lay on his horn as they sped through a long yellow light.

“Usually I don't drink wine,” he drummed his fingers on the table, “but that was great,” then looked around the dining room before asking, “Why would he give you the bill anyway?”

James slipped a ten through the slat in the bulletproof partition and told the driver to keep the change.

He frowned, “Don't you think that's rude?” “No, not really,” Janet wondered how he would thank her for dinner, “I was the one who asked for it.”

James stood between two parked cars and admired her stockinged legs as she slid out of the cab. He reached into the breast pocket of his dinner jacket to reassure himself that the short story was still there. They held hands while walking toward the cluster of people by the door who were stepping on their cigarettes and removing money from their wallets.

She pursed her lips, “it may be a French restaurant but we're not in France.”

A large black and white photograph of Rainer Werner Fassbinder wearing aviator sunglasses and brandishing a pistol had been taped to the gallery window.

He nodded, “I guess we should—” As she interjected, “—Are you still…”

Copies of the October issue of the
Brooklyn Rail
were stacked on the floor by the door and the Kim Jones drawing on the cover caught Janet's eye.

“I'm sorry, what were you going to say?”

He paid their admission and then they found a pair of chairs in the center of the gallery.

“No, you go ahead.”

The lights faded to black and in the darkness the actors got up, crossed to the sliding door leading to the gallery office and disappeared behind it.

I stood up when the house lights came on and walked toward the door. When Cindy turned around, alarmed that I had left so quickly, she noticed Janet sitting two rows behind her. The audience looked engaged and I realized that the actors had gotten the scene across. Cindy quickly turned around as Janet smiled in surprise. A live version of Roxy Music's “If There is Something” followed me onto the sidewalk. Cindy faced the two empty metal chairs as a rush of contradicting emotions threatened to overwhelm her; in just a few weeks she had hollowed out what human elements Janet possessed and her superficial façade had been honed into an angular caricature that was tormented by an insatiable loneliness as she suffered the disastrous results of her impulsive judgments. I lit a cigarette while walking to the bodega on the corner. Cindy didn't know how to respond to what she hoped would be a compliment, but how could the scene possibly be interpreted as a passionate testament to the enduring power of their relationship? The sidewalk beneath the streetlight glistened in a broad pool of pale light and my silhouette was cast upon the windows of the parked cars. Or would the pain and anger over Janet's betrayal steep this bizarre coincidence in cynicism? The radio behind the counter at the bodega was tuned to the World Series and Boston was up by two in the bottom of the third. The sound of Janet's voice filled her head as a familiar hand rested on her shoulder, “I had no idea that you were so talented,” she was standing above Cindy with a bright smile on her painted face, “And how have you been?” A large black and white cat ran down the bodega aisle as I walked toward the refrigerator. Cindy stood up, “I can't believe that you're here,” and when Janet kissed her on the cheek she managed to whisper, “what a surprise,” as they embraced. I slid open the glass door and removed a tall cold can of Ballantine. Cindy opened her eyes and noticed the young man standing beside Janet in a thrift store suit, “Hello, I'm James,” as he extended his right hand. The man behind the counter placed the beer in a brown paper bag and I slid it into the front left pocket of my black corduroy jacket.

 

S
tephanie sat on the edge of the bathtub with the phone in her left hand and waited for a wave of nausea to subside. The empty blue and white box was on the edge of the tub, the unfolded illustrated instructions lay on the tiles by her bare feet and water from the bathroom faucet was dripping on the narrow plastic stick in the bottom of the sink. The dark blue cross that appeared almost immediately in the tiny indicator box signified her positive results and relieved almost as many fears as it created. Her ears were ringing as she bounced her knees up and down while drawing deep breaths through her nose. The smell of the new shower curtain mingled with the lavender scent of hair conditioner. She hadn't been this aware of her body since breaking her collarbone when she was seventeen. Her then boyfriend's Honda Civic had been sideswiped by a pickup and in slow motion the car careened off the road and rolled twice before plowing into the trunk of an oak. After they had been pried away from the shattered windshield and haze of smoking engine fluids, one of the EMS attendants informed her that their seatbelts had saved their lives. The shock of the crash and the throbbing pain in her chest was tempered by the wonderment of being alive.

A toilet flushed upstairs and that was followed by the sound of someone taking a shower. Her nausea gradually subsided as she stared at her unpainted toenails on the beige floor tiles.

Alan had given her a check for three thousand dollars the same night the condom broke. He had been too drunk to realize that it had shredded around his erection; their orgasms had been nearly simultaneous. As she rinsed herself out in the tub, he stood in the bathroom doorway and assured her that it had taken his wife at least six months to get pregnant. After drying herself with a blue bath towel they returned to her candle-lit bedroom. Alan gradually dispelled her anxiety by assuring her that he would never leave her.

The realization that his wife's difficulty to conceive had nothing to do with him accompanied another wave of nausea.

Last night Stephanie had considered calling her mother to tell her that she was probably pregnant. While lecturing Stephanie about the importance of always practicing safe sex her mother never failed to mention having to get an abortion when she was in high school. The idea of telling her mother that she had to get an abortion was crushed by the depressing realization that she was becoming just like her; the long string of failed relationships and her emotional dependence on deeply self-destructive and emotionally detached men, dropping out of college after her sophomore year, her excessive drinking— especially over this summer and her inability to hold down a steady job all mirrored her mother.

Thinking of the cold cans of ginger ale in the refrigerator and the half-eaten roll of Tums on the dresser calmed her stomach.

She took a deep breath and exhaled while dialing Karen's number. She imagined Karen grappling with the ringing phone just before she answered. “It's positive,” Stephanie cleared her throat, “I'm sorry did you have a late night?” She pressed her knees together while listening to Karen's groggy response. The resolve in Stephanie's tone, “I am going to call Planned Parenthood after I get off the phone with you,” underscored her terse conviction.

Weeks ago Stephanie and Alan had spent an idyllic Saturday at the beach and that night he launched into her without the slightest provocation. Alan had drunkenly picked her apart with an entire catalogue of her meticulously collected faults. She finally called him on his abusive behavior on Sunday morning while they were having brunch at The Laundry. Alan simply claimed that she was needy and hypersensitive. She went for a long walk along the shore afterwards, as the bay turned the same shade of gray as the sky, and concluded that their relationship was finished.

“Yeah but I'm not his victim,” Stephanie tugged at her lower lip with her thumb and forefinger, “this just
happened
, you know.”

She returned from her walk just in time to overhear him placating his wife over the phone. Alan berated Stephanie for wandering off alone and claimed that she couldn't possibly appreciate all of the things he had done for her. The three-hour drive back to the city in the pouring rain was spent in sullen silence—broken only by his furious outburst at other drivers. He left her in front of her building and drove off without a word.