You Are Here (2 page)

There were many days when she was unable to get out of bed and subsisted on whole-wheat crackers, warm mineral water, the fickle affection of her cat, Esther, and sleep as the afternoons dragged into late mornings while the shifting blue glow from her bedroom television covered her pale face and bare limbs like a warm muted blanket. He will later insist that this relationship was simply an exploration of the roles and preconceived notions of romantic love. The unlikely vow they took later that night, upon her faintly perfumed sheets, was to love one another with as few inhibitions as possible and without any emotional strings attached until the end of the year.

While placing her elbows on the table, “Don't you want to know what she is thinking right now?” “Sure,” he shrugged, “why not?” “Well she is hoping that everyone here will notice how beautiful she looks in that new dress,” before glancing over her shoulder, “although she is a bit disappointed that there aren't that many people here yet… which is odd especially considering that
Times
review,” then rested her chin in the narrow palm of her left hand, “but maybe if they linger over dessert she'll get a larger audience.” “Oh really,” he squeezed his knees, “and how do you know that?” During their first date last Thursday afternoon in the rear of a dimly lit Tribeca café, he had carefully floated the idea of his experiment past her. “She is a real type.” It happened after the first awkward pause in their conversation, after they had exhausted an extensive list of writers that he admired. He stole another glance at the couple across the restaurant as the skepticism in his voice, “I guess,” betrayed him. It was just after she had finished her second cup of chamomile tea. She shifted in the metal chair, “I was once very close to a woman like that.” As the opening strains of Bruckner's 6
^th
were piped in through the café speakers, he politely asked her if he could talk about himself. “Do you think you still have anything in common with the woman sitting across from us?” She batted her eyelashes while confessing that she found him fascinating and assured him that nothing would be more interesting than learning more about him.

What followed was a carefully prepared and well-rehearsed twenty-minute monologue that began with a detailed description of his unhappy childhood and concluded with his proposal concerning romantic love. He was an only child of divorced parents, he had endured a stifling upper middle-class suburban upbringing and attended a private liberal arts college in the northeast that was well known for its creative writing program. She was informed that his professional prospects were quite good and that although he was so young a few of his stories had already been published in quarterly journals and monthly magazines and achieved, to a certain degree, critical acclaim. He had recently made the acquaintance of the assistant to a highly sought after agent and believed that it was only a matter of time before his first collection of short stories would be picked up by a major publishing house for a hefty sum. He then speculated that, even though the major houses weren't publishing many short story collections from young writers, with the help of his soon to be agent and a handful of well placed and carefully tended relationships with powerful editors it could easily turn out to be a bestseller. With watery blue eyes widening behind fashionable frames, he wistfully described the power he would soon be wielding in the publishing industry. Claiming that he had everything he wanted, everything he hoped for in his young life had been attained and yet he had never experienced love. She stopped herself from remarking
that so few of us, especially people like us, ever do experience love
and simply nodded before gazing thoughtfully at the urine colored dregs in the bottom of her tea cup. He appraised her silent response before confidently adding that he was certain that with her—and only with her—a woman twice his age—could he truly come to understand just what it meant to be in love. This was because she had known love, as any woman as beautiful must have on countless occasions, and because, and here he paused long enough to prepare the delivery, she had thus far lived a full, and by her own acknowledgment, an interesting life. She was silently flattered by all of his false assumptions.

“It was just neglect that ended our relationship,” both hands were now cradling her chin, “and the less time we spent together,” as she sighed, “the more I realized how little we had in common.” He leaned back in the chair while asking, “And how long ago was this?” A slight smile creased her lips, “when everyone I knew had a ton of money and when you were just starting high school.” He wiped his palms on his knees before delivering the next question, “And how did you become friends in the first place?” She folded her pale hands on the table, “we were never really friends,” and tilted her head to the left, “we were lovers.” “I didn't know that you were—” “I'm not really,” a blush dimmed her powdered cheeks, “it was just a phase.” “Like the way you wore your hair?” “Exactly,” she smiled through his last line then quickly added, “the skirts that spring were very short.” The following Wednesday afternoon she called him at the bookstore because she had somehow managed to get early dinner reservations at that new French restaurant in Chelsea on the same day it was reviewed in the
Times
. He swallowed hard before placing both feet on the stage, “What was it like?” And then he briefly described a two-act play being performed that night on the Lower East Side and asked if she wanted to do that after dinner. “I prefer men.” She said it sounded more interesting than that movie she'd been reading so much about before brightly suggesting that they should go back to her place for a nightcap afterwards. Clearing his throat, “Physically?” He clutched the telephone receiver with both hands while being told that she simply loved the short story he gave her last Thursday, and then added that it was well written. “Physically I guess, but we can talk more about that later.” He leaned forward, “How many women were you with?” She asked, “Encounters or relationships?” and before he could respond she confessed, “I was either very lonely or deeply cynical.” He placed his elbows on the table, “Why, can't it be both?” They had met at The Strand three weeks ago. “I suppose it would depend on what day of the week you asked me.” They were standing on opposite ends of a display table when he caught her eye. “Isn't that how you described your second marriage?” She had been thumbing through a remaindered copy of
The Satyricon
before acknowledging his attention with a discreet nod. “Now be very careful you…” while waving a narrow index finger in front of his face, “young man.”

 

J
onny was awakened at seven-thirty by the travel alarm clock on the nightstand. After feeding the cats he prepared a large pot of coffee. The kitchen window overlooked an iron fire escape that ended a storey above the cement courtyard where a mourning dove was nested on the branch of a dead tree. The radio on the kitchen counter: a car commercial, stock quotes and then the weather, mostly sunny and a bit cooler than yesterday with an afternoon high around seventy-six and a low tonight around fifty-seven, followed by continuing coverage of the Marines' bloody siege in Fallujah and more on the story of that near fatal Long Island Railroad crash at Penn Station yesterday morning that injured one hundred and twenty-seven people. Jonny removed his pajamas in the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. His wife turned over in her sleep as he combed his hair with damp fingers in the mirror above the mahogany dresser. Jonny sat at the kitchen table drinking a large cup of coffee. The paperback on the table, Kenneth Chambers' illustrated biography of Bela Bartok, was opened to the chapter entitled “Portrait of a Girl 1907-'09.” The black and white photograph of almost a dozen peasants standing alongside a farmhouse as the young composer prepared a wax cylinder—
Bartok recording folk-song in 1907, in Darza, Nyitra County, now Drazovce, Slovakia
. He stirred a spoonful of sugar into the cup of coffee for his wife and carried it into their bedroom before kissing her goodbye. He took the book off the table and slipped it into his black canvas shoulder bag. The front door locked behind him as it closed. A bulging, semi-transparent shopping bag smelling of bacon grease was knotted up outside the neighbor's door. A diffused block of sunlight covered a portion of the dark blue-green and gray floor tiles as he walked down the hall. The long fluorescent bulbs encased in frosted plastic frames were humming along the center of the ceiling as the elevator appeared behind the shatterproof window. Jonny pulled open the outer green door as the inner steel door slid sideways to reveal the imitation wood-panel interior.

I had called him the night before to see if he would be interested in designing the sound for a two-act play that I had hoped to stage in the fall. He told me that he would be happy to and then wanted to know what the play was about. “The first act is a half-hour long conversation between a young man and an older woman who are on a date in a West Village restaurant, and the second act takes place on a bench in Bowling Green Park and that's another conversation, this time between a married man and the young woman he's having an affair with.”

Jonny slowly descended a flight of stairs at the subway entrance while removing the MetroCard from his wallet. He entered the car behind two elderly women and sat down as the doors closed. The man seated across from him unfolded his copy of the
Times
as the Manhattan bound N train pulled out of the station. The color photograph on the front page featured two rebels brandishing AK-47's while standing in front of a burning Humvee.

The bartender flicked through the static filled channels on the muted television with the remote in his right hand. Cindy stood up and walked toward the doors as the Q train slowed before the Atlantic Avenue station. The condensation from the brown beer bottle had created a circular watermark on the coaster. The male passengers looked at her as she inspected her reflection in the window— wearing a knee-length black dress, black ankle socks and black shoes with thick heels. Andrew had watched the occasional headlights streak across the bedroom ceiling while recalling Cindy's soundless sleep during the two years they had shared his bed. The female conductor listed the available transfers, “to the D, 2, 3, 4, 5, and the Long Island Railroad,” as the train came to a screeching stop, “please take all of your personal belongings with you and have a safe and pleasant day.” A reproduction of the red white and blue label on the beer bottle was printed on the damp coaster. She stepped out of the car and walked toward the exit indicated by the red arrow spray-painted on the wall. The bourbon in the highball glass was a shade lighter than the bar beneath it. Her steps were punctuated by the sound of sledgehammers demolishing a wall as she climbed a flight of stairs. Andrew wanted to nestle into Cindy's side and let the warm smell of her skin calm him to sleep. The broad intersection and low-lying buildings appeared before her. He fell asleep at dawn and had a series of violent, inconclusive dreams before waking up just in time to call in sick. The advertisement on the side of the bus stop for a new antidepressant featured an attractive brunette in her early thirties standing in the center of an elegantly furnished living room, dressed in a beige business suit and speaking on a cordless phone. The long mirror framed Andrew sitting alone in the empty bar. Swollen white clouds hung in the hazy blue sky as her black hair was blown off her shoulders by an afternoon breeze. A program devoted to the music Lester Young recorded with The Oscar Peterson Trio was playing quietly on the radio. Cindy's cell phone began to vibrate in her purse as she crossed the congested intersection. The hands on the Budweiser clock above the bar mirror indicated that it was five minutes till one.

An automated voice instructed me to leave a message after the tone. “Hey Cindy it's Donald, I called your apartment last night and Andrew gave me this number. I guess you've moved… anyway I was wondering if you would be interested in taking a look at … and maybe directing this play I'm working on… I've just about finished it and I think you'll like it… Also I think I might have a space to mount it in the fall. So give me a call sometime if you're interested.”

Andrew listened to Cindy's heels on the barroom tiles as she walked toward him.

 

“Y
ou just don't,” he backpedaled, “I mean… you just don't seem like that sort of person,” while searching the candlelit table between them for something to add, “I guess that—” “And what sort of person is that?” “You know,” he clenched his fists, “the sort of person who would just collect experiences for the sake of,” and allowed his voice to trail off into the multiple conversations surrounding them, “the experience.” She leaned forward to be heard over the restaurant noise, “but that's exactly what you're doing.” He crossed his arms over his stomach and frowned. “Well,” she was relieved by his sullen response, “perhaps I've misunderstood you.” He stared at the table in silence. She gently suggested, “but we might not have had that in common.” He glanced at her face before asking, “No?” She needed to dispel her suspicions about his underlying motives, “no absolutely not,” while acknowledging her insecurities, “all of the things that were important to me then seem so superficial now,” and added, “although all of those encounters became relationships,” while regarding the lipstick traces along the rim of her nearly empty wine glass. “Would you like to go somewhere else after dinner… instead of that play?” “No,” shaking her head, “why do you ask?” He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “Please don't mope,” she placed her left hand on top his right, “I find that so unappealing.” He examined the rings on her fingers, “all of my questions,” while wondering if they were gifts from former lovers, “some people think that I'm very intrusive.” She reached across the table, “no sweetheart,” and caressed his chin, “Besides how else will we get to know each other?” He gazed at the reassuring look in her eyes, “I just don't want you to think I'm using you.” “I don't,” holding up her left hand, “and I'm not,” as if taking an oath, “and I'll never,” while shaking her head from side to side, “I swear.” The clatter of dishes punctuated the pause between them as she noticed a portion of the dimly lit dining room behind her faintly reflected in the corners of his glasses.