You Are Here (4 page)

A breeze from the open window chilled the sweat on her chest and thighs as the cab sped away. The yellow glow from the streetlight pooled on the pavement and on the hoods of the parked cars. Janet turned away from the window and discovered Esther on the end of the bed diligently licking her bushy tail. She took her camisole off a pillow and put it on while walking into the living room. After turning the locks and sliding the brass chain onto the door, she removed her makeup in the bathroom mirror. Two damp cotton balls smeared with pale foundation were tossed into the empty metal garbage can beneath the sink. Sitting on the toilet seat and wiping off his semen with a wad of toilet paper before peeing. She looked down at her pale feet and dark red toenails on the black and white tiles.

Janet pulled back the top sheet and lay on the bed before pointing the remote at the television. As she adjusted the pillows behind her shoulders a terse male voice recounted the three-day hostage crisis in Beslan accompanied by a video clip of a lifeless girl in the arms of her weeping mother. She turned to a beach-front infomercial pitching energy boosting vitamin supplements, then to a music video with synchronized animated torsos gyrating in time to pulsating techno, then to handheld video footage of a massive RNC demonstration interspersed with scenes from Bush's acceptance speech, before turning the television off.

 

“Y
ou know my roommate is out of town,” he shifted in the seat, “So maybe we can skip that play and go back to my apartment?” She placed her napkin on the table, “you said that you wanted to see it.” He raised his hands, “it's probably going to be very,” and flexed his middle and index fingers back and forth to quote the word, “experimental.” She giggled, “Don't you mean pretentious?” “Exactly.” Her thin pale arms were resting at her sides, “Is that why it's in a gallery and not in a theater?” “Most likely,” he stuck out his chest, “I really just wanted to meet the writer because he edits the fiction for a monthly magazine and I wanted to give him a copy of that story I gave you last week.” She nodded, “that will help him put a face to your name so—” “Yeah,” he interjected, “but what if the play is terrible—” “— It's important that we go and put in an appearance at the very least.” While scratching his chin, “we can always sneak out during the intermission.” She pressed her palms together, “besides,” while interweaving her long thin fingers, “my bed is much larger than yours.” The couple seated across from them had just been served dessert. “How would you know that?” With a smile, “I think it's a safe assumption,” as she placed the tip of her pointed shoe along his ankle, “and wouldn't it be more interesting for you to find out for yourself … Mr. Intrusive?” He nodded, “let's definitely leave at intermission.” She looked at his eyes while saying, “You know I really like that short story you gave me last week.” The story of the married architect (played by their waiter) who is having an affair with a young woman (played by the striking hostess who seated them) that he met on a Friday afternoon in early June of '01. She blinked twice, “Is it true?” They were on their lunch hour. “Sort of,” he shrugged, “I mean I took the idea from something that,” then cleared his throat, “almost happened to someone I didn't know very well.” The young woman was treating herself, with her first real paycheck in months, to a new pair of shoes. Raising her eyebrows, “Who?” The married architect was on his way to the bistro on the corner for a light lunch. Placing the napkin on the table, “the close friend of a friend of my,” then rubbed his clammy palms on his knees, “ex-girlfriend.” Sunlight warmed her legs as she sat before a broad storefront window on Mercer Street. She sounded both defensive and jealous while asking, “That actress?” The architect pocketed his wedding band while pacing the worn granite sidewalk. The waiter crossed in front of the audience on cue and presented her with the bill, “here you are,” before returning to his seat in the front row. Her long auburn hair fell onto her shoulders as she leaned forward to try on a pair of shoes. “I've got it,” he claimed. She walked out of the store with her purchase beneath her right arm. Taking her wallet out of the black purse, “now don't be silly it's on me,” that was hanging over the back of the metal chair, “remember this was my idea.” He had spent hours crafting the concisely written dialogue between the architect and the young woman as he convinced her to join him for lunch and their conversation over a shared salad niçoise and a bottle of Alsatian pinot blanc. “Well,” leaning back in the seat, “how much is it?” She gave him her phone number as they walked back to the building on Broadway where she was temping. She examined the bill, “it's a bit pricey considering the quality of the ingredients,” in her right hand while muttering, “but don't worry about that.” The affair was passionate and lasted until the end of August. He began to blush, “I'll pay for the play,” as a sheepish grin covered his face. Dinners in posh restaurants, afternoon rendezvous in her Jackson Heights apartment and one weekend in East Hampton. “And the wine was,” she looked at him closely, “how many glasses did you have?” She discovered that she was pregnant in mid-August. “As many as you did,” he held up the first three fingers of his right hand, “it was very good.” The second act of the play
An Older Lover
portrayed their last meeting on a Friday afternoon in early September. Placing her gold American Express Card beneath the bill, “it was twelve dollars a glass.” On a bench in Bowling Green Park, she offered her pregnancy and their relationship as a solution to his unhappy marriage. “Usually I don't drink wine,” he drummed his fingers on the table, “but that was great,” and looked around the dining room before adding the rest of his line, “Why would he give you the bill anyway?” He refused her proposition and she decided to get an abortion as soon as possible. She wondered how he would thank her for dinner, “because I was the one who asked for it.” She made arrangements to get to the office a few hours early the following Tuesday in order to leave by noon for her one o'clock appointment at Planned Parenthood. He frowned before asking, “Don't you think that's rude?” She died in a cubicle when the American Airlines flight-number eleven from Boston with eighty-one passengers and eleven crew members aboard was flown into the north tower of the World Trade Center. Cindy's wire-bound notebook was closed on her lap and the ballpoint pen was tucked between the pages. “It might be a French restaurant,” she admonished him sweetly, “but we're not in France.” I nudged Cindy with my left elbow. He nodded, “I guess we should—” As she interjected, “are you still…” Cindy returned my smile with a wink before looking back at the stage. “I'm sorry, what were you going to say?” While the lights slowly faded to black. “No, you go ahead.”

 

S
tephanie and Karen were drinking Frascati while seated at Karen's kitchen table. She lived in a railroad apartment across the street from the Greenpoint branch of the Brooklyn Public Library. Karen was a painter who'd just been dropped by her gallery and that disappointment had nagged at their conversation over dinner. Stephanie and Karen were close friends, partially because Stephanie wasn't an artist, and she was one of the least cynical people that Karen knew. What was left of the grilled chicken and asparagus pasta remained on the mismatched plates before them. The yellow linoleum floor glowed beneath the circular fluorescent light in the center of the high ceiling. A framed reproduction of Bruegel's “The Tower of Babel” hung on the wall above the green Formica table. “So what was he like,” Karen placed her glass on the table, “your architect?” Stephanie winced with a grin, “he was really charming,” and her enthusiasm was still blushingly obvious. Karen nodded encouragingly, “that sounds like a lot of fun.” “And smart…” Stephanie didn't need much encouragement, “not self-consciously smart, but
really
smart.” Karen was tired of listening to her own litany of complaints, “Was it romantic?” Stephanie thought of the man who had chatted her up on a Soho street corner, “we had a bottle of wine with lunch as well,” closed her eyes and claimed, “he is so, like, drop-dead gorgeous,” then picked up her glass, “but it would be just too weird,” and sipped her fruity white wine. Karen leaned back in the chair, “you just said that you liked impulsive people.” Stephanie exclaimed, “I said I liked spontaneous people,” with a forced laugh. “No,” Karen pointed at her,
“you
said impulsive.” “Well,” Stephanie was still a bit tipsy from her lunch with Alan when Karen opened the bottle of Frascati, “I meant to say spontaneous…” and her initial conversation with Alan, “in a Cary Grant kind of way…” reappeared in vibrantly contrasting fragments, “besides he's married.” Karen shook her head, “men can be so fucking stupid.” Stephanie frowned, “of course he's married,” while examining the strands of pasta, “and it was all pretty brazen on his part,” slivers of garlic and blots of greenish olive oil on her plate, “as well as mine for going along with it,” then looked over at Karen and quietly asked, “Are you feeling any better?” The water dripping from the kitchen faucet had filled the saucepan in the bottom of the sink. Karen ignored her question, “Do you think he'll call you,” while thinking about the video artist that she had been dating for a month, “or do you think that,” and who had stopped returning her calls last week, “seeing him once is going to be enough?” Stephanie noted her sullen expression, “I take it that you don't want to talk about it any more.” Karen topped off her glass with the rest of the wine before asking, “How old is he?” Stephanie hadn't been involved with anyone since her fiancé abruptly ended their five-year relationship the year prior, claiming that he needed to be closer to his family, and moved back to London. Since then she hadn't met anyone interesting and hadn't really been dating. “Your age I guess,” Stephanie considered Karen's reaction before quietly adding, “and his wife just had a baby.” “Ewww,” Karen made a face, “he's just another creep!” “I know,” Stephanie held up her hands, “I know,” and grinned, “that was when it got really weird!” Karen prodded her, “A boy or a girl?” Stephanie sighed, “a girl… she's three-months old,” with a skewed smile, “and no he didn't break out the photo album.” Karen nodded, “and he's loaded,” then coolly concluded, “unhappily married and rich.” “He didn't seem all that unhappy to me,” she defensively stated. Karen regarded Stephanie's dark brown eyes, “well,” bordered by long black lashes, “there's obviously something seriously wrong with him,” her full unpainted mouth, “or it's just some weird Oedipal thing,” and her thick wavy hair that she dyed with henna at least once a month, “So why did you go along with it?” “He made me laugh a lot,” Stephanie scratched her upper left arm, “and besides, the kid thing was initially left out,” then studied her fingernails before asking, “And how is that Oedipal when he is older than me?” Karen shrugged, “maybe you look like his mother when he was a boy,” as her speculative tone grew condescending, “and he was jealous of his younger sister.” Stephanie rolled her eyes, “I can see those therapy sessions are finally starting to pay off,” and rested her elbows on the table. “It's good to know that I'm finally getting my money's worth,” Karen grinned, “you know I heard a really funny joke in therapy yesterday.” She tried to remember Alan's last name while asking, “Oh really?” “I'll tell you later,” with a dismissive wave of her hand, “You're not going to call him are you?”

A block of diffused sunlight warmed Stephanie's legs as she sat before the broad storefront window and removed the pair of blue satin open-toed heels from the black shoebox. “No,” she took her glass off the table, “no way,” and finished her wine. Her long auburn hair fell onto her shoulders as she slid her bare feet into the shoes and then carefully buckled up the thin ankle straps. “It would make your summer a bit more interesting,” Karen prodded her with raised eyebrows, “and how many months has it been since…” She blushed again, “you're terrible,” before quietly conceding, “nine months.” Stephanie stood and walked toward the full-length mirror, “but maybe all this means is that,” the shoes looked even better on her than they had in the window, “something good will finally happen.” “You're looking fine with the weight you've lost,” Karen smiled, “and as far as distractions go this one would rate pretty high.” “Would you ever get involved with a married man?” Stephanie asked. She was framed in the tall mirror, wearing a knee-length black cotton skirt and a light blue blouse that was almost the same color as the shoes. The crowded showroom with thumping techno served as an animated backdrop. “I might now that, that video boy, has unofficially bitten the dust,” Karen grinned mischievously, “What was the architect's name?” A Deer Park truck came to a grinding stop alongside the curb just outside the window. Stephanie noticed the man staring at her in the mirror, “his name is Alan,” as he stood on the sidewalk, “he's Jewish as well…” and smiled at his reflection, “tall and dark with beautiful skin.” Alan turned away from the window to remove his wedding band and watched a wiry Puerto Rican load four eighteen-liter water bottles onto a hand-truck.

Karen placed her elbows on the table,
“And
you got new shoes?” Stephanie removed her purse from the back of the chair, “the shoes are on my Visa,” took a check for two-hundred dollars out of her wallet, “and this is for you,” and handed it to Karen, “thanks again for the loan.” She studied him in the mirror and decided that he resembled a younger version of that actor who became famous by playing the role of a successful surgeon on television. Karen looked at the date on the check, “Do you need me to hold this for you?” Alan sunk his hands into the front pockets of his black jeans as the water bottles were wheeled down the street. The money Stephanie owed Karen and the two thousand dollars she owed her father had been accumulated over her three-month stretch of unemployment. “I can hold it for a few weeks.” “No,” Stephanie shook her head, “thanks though,” and smiled, “you know that the only good thing about working again is getting paid.” The crunching sound of the credit card machine processing her purchase accompanied the realization that she had just charged a months worth of groceries and that yesterday she had fourteen dollars left in her checking account. Karen frowned, “but this job is only going to last for another six weeks.” “Mid-July,” Stephanie sighed, “don't worry,” before wondering, “they really like me at the agency,” if Alan would call her, “and besides I really needed a new pair of shoes.”