You Are Here (6 page)

Peter unlocked the door and set his newspaper on the windowsill before turning on the lights, “here we are.” The gallery had a high ceiling, a polished hardwood floor and rows of framed black and white photographs hanging on the walls. He crossed to the rear of the gallery, “let me get you some chairs,” and slid open a tall white door. I stood before the photograph that had been reproduced for the postcard and noticed three crows in the overgrown yard. He came out of the office with two metal chairs and asked, “So this is your set?” Cindy unfolded both chairs before sitting down. He crossed the gallery, “I'm meeting some collectors for lunch,” took his paper from the window-sill, “so I'll leave you to your audition.” “See you around,” I said as the door closed behind him.

Cindy removed her copy of the script and a manila file filled with headshots from her purse. I walked across the gallery and sat in the opposite chair, “we can rehearse here anytime after seven.” She was thumbing through the pictures in her lap, “How much is that going to cost?” “Don't worry about it.” “Why,” with a grin, “did you just win the lottery?” “No, I'm tapping into my trust fund.” She crossed her legs, “I bet you say that to all the girls.” “Only the ones I'm trying to sleep with.” She handed me a photograph, “here's that picture of Elizabeth,” of an attractive middle-aged woman with shoulder length brown hair and dark brown eyes, “she's the one I have in mind for the woman in the first act.” I turned the picture over, “Whoa…” and skimmed her extensive resume, “she was Petra in
The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant,”
then looked up at Cindy, “I wish I could have seen that staged… the film is in my all time top five.” “I spoke to her yesterday and she said that she'd be here early,” Cindy smiled, “she's probably on her way right now.”

Elizabeth hailed a cab on the corner of Broadway and 13
^th
street. She opened the rear door before the cab came to a complete stop. She gave the driver the gallery's address while pulling the seatbelt across her chest. The rear windows were halfway down and the warm air blowing through them smelled faintly of the ocean. The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror after they sped past two black men wearing tuxedos riding a tandem bike. The cab slowed before the intersection at Houston and then made a left after the light turned green.

“I was thinking about your script on the train,” Cindy frowned, “about the way people consume others simply for the sake of the experience.” I looked at her closely, “You mean as an extension of themselves?” “Just for the experience,” she nodded, “and then they just get cast aside when it's over,” before looking intently at the floor, “I was in love with a woman a lot like the one in the first act.” “Me too,” I admitted before asking, “Was she an actress?”

 

“I
haven't been out here in years,” Alan parked the Range Rover, “no it was decades ago,” then pulled the key out of the ignition. Stephanie turned to him, “On a field trip?” He glanced at his watch, “exactly,” and decided that at that moment his wife was either nursing Olivia or looking on while their new West Indian nanny changed another diaper, “it might have been in the fifth grade.” They opened their doors and stepped onto the pavement while he added, “when the dinosaurs were still roaming the planet.” “You're only five years older than me,” Stephanie closed her door, “I don't know why you need to make such a big deal about it,” and fixed her bangs in the tinted window. “That may be true,” Alan activated the alarm before pocketing the keys, “but it seems like ancient history.” She was wearing an orange summer dress, “oh you poor baby,” and her new blue satin heels, “Did you sneak out of work just to feel sorry for yourself?” His anxiety dissolved with the realization that the chances of being discovered at the Queens Museum on a Friday afternoon with this beautiful young woman, “I'm not begrudging your, so called freedom,” were almost as great as being struck by a meteorite, “and I'm honored that you're willing to share some of it with me.” She took his hand while saying, “let's make the most of the time we have together,” as they began walking across the parking lot. The sound of her heels on the pavement and the sight of her beautiful pale feet offset by the sparkling iridescent blue polish on her toenails, “I remember having a lot of fun,” and her exquisitely turned ankles had eradicated the host of implausible explanations coursing through his head, “on that field trip,” in the unlikely event that Elaine would interrogate his secretary after being unable to reach him on his cell phone. A group of adults in matching green T-shirts and grey sweat pants were being helped aboard an idling bus by a heavyset black man wearing a Mets cap. Stephanie looked at Alan with a smile, “I come out here on my bike all the time,” as the sunlight reflecting off the nearby unisphere caused her to squint, “I really love this park.” They walked along the sidewalk as starlings filled the air with their mimicry. Alan held the door for her, “after you,” and watched her hips sway before him as they entered the museum. Stephanie greeted the elderly female attendant behind the counter while fishing a few quarters from her purse. The woman handed over two small green stickers and told them to have a good visit.

The desk fan on her dresser cast another wave of cool air, “I came home one afternoon,” over their bare bodies, “right after they'd had another fight… their final fight,” as they lay facing each other, “and the house was really quiet,” with their heads resting on a pair of pillows, “in a weird way,” and the white sheets, “like the way the sky is charged before a thunderstorm,” were crumpled beneath them, “like if you breathe too deeply it might shock you.” The drawn blinds and the late afternoon sun, “I'd usually go to the movies then… and I saw so many crappy ones,” created broad streaks on the wall above her double bed, “sometimes I'd just sit in the theater and wait for the movie to start again,” Stephanie turned onto her back and studied the cracks on the ceiling, “but I stayed in my room.” Alan suppressed a yawn before closing his eyes. “I heard a car door slam so I went to the window and watched my father driving away.” An ice cream truck slowly passed on the street below her window. “My mother started dating a few weeks later. She would bring these young guys from her office home or married men she'd meet in bars.”

Alan and Stephanie stepped onto the wide, glass-bottomed balcony as the model of the city, depicting every building and roadway constructed in all five boroughs before 1992, lay sprawled before them. Thousands of multicolored building blocks rose above the vast grid-work of streets, alleyways, avenues, boulevards, and highways, dozens of skyscrapers punctuated the meticulously replicated Manhattan skyline, tiny piers jutting into the deep blue Hudson, the various shades of green plastic turf representing the city's parks and infrequent vacant lots, while the Harlem River and the East River, both painted the same unlikely deep blue, were spanned by the bridges that connected Manhattan to faithfully rendered reproductions of the Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn—and from Brooklyn to Staten Island via the replica of the Verrazano Bridge—thousands of streets and avenues, seemingly endless expressways, all bordered by thousands upon thousands of blocks of houses, storefronts, tenements, factories, housing projects, scaled mile upon mile of hilly green parks coated in various shades of green, headstone filled cemeteries, long stretches of elevated subway lines and their faithfully rendered stations, two airports, a wildlife preservation and the narrow stretches of the city's sandy beaches were all contained in this vast air-conditioned room. Stephanie was happy to be sharing the view from one of her favorite places in the city with Alan, “I'm going to kiss you all night,” and squeezed his hands. He drew her closer, “I'd like that.” They shared a passionate kiss as the overhead lights gradually dimmed and tiny streetlights constellated the replica of the city beneath them.

She cleared her throat, “Are you still awake?” Alan opened his eyes, “of course,” and blinked twice, “it's nice just to lie here with you.” Her palms were pressed on the mattress, “I thought maybe you were taking a nap.” He yawned before saying, “I'm not getting very much sleep at home,” and rubbed his eyes. “Because of Olivia?” He yawned again, “she has yet to sleep through the night.” “I was afraid that,” Stephanie turned toward him, “that I was boring you,” and traced her fingers along his chin. He smiled, “no not at all.” The blinds rocked in the breeze as the horizontal shadows swayed on the wall above the bed. “Yeah, but I shouldn't go on and on about my dysfunctional childhood.” Alan shook his head, “it's always helpful to compare notes.” She kissed his chin, “well you can come over and take a nap anytime you want.” “Are you close to your father?” She thought of her father, “he's been helping me out a lot lately financially,” who was most likely planted in his cubicle, “I really wish he'd remarry or at least start dating again,” and working through an endless series of calculations, “What about you?” Alan yawned again before saying, “he's dead.” “Oh,” Stephanie clutched his arm, “I am so sorry.” He was touched by her impulse, “it's okay,” while thinking of the long days and nights he spent, “he lost a long fight with cancer,” bedside in a private room at Sloan Kettering, “and died two years ago,” eyeing the narcotic drip that invariably followed another round of chemotherapy. “Were you very close?” And after a few weeks sitting bedside at a hospice, “it was his firm,” the final rainy afternoon at Union Field Cemetery with a few hundred mourners. “Do you miss him?” Alan thought of the panorama they'd strolled around a few hours ago, “he was very good at what he did,” and recalled the replica of the cemetery where his father was buried, “and took pride in his work… as clichéd as that sounds.” She shook her head, “it doesn't.” “Most of my achievements, to a certain extent, all of my achievements are a result of his hard work… and with the exponential growth the firm is experiencing right now I can't share it with him.” “Well,” she quietly suggested, “he'd have a granddaughter now.” “He never had time for his children,” Alan concluded, “I studied architecture to be closer to him and all I've done is inherit his success.”

The overhead lights came up as she whispered, “it's morning again my dear and time for me to get on the subway,” then kissed him on the ear, “and go to work.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, “Why don't you call in sick?” She said, “Again?” with a smile. He anticipated the rest of the afternoon in her Jackson Heights apartment, “you can do that everyday.” Stephanie felt as dizzy as she sometimes did just before falling asleep, “you're going to get me fired.” Alan repeated the offer, “I'll pay your rent,” he had made yesterday on his cell phone while pushing Olivia in her stroller through Prospect Park. “I like my job,” she squeezed his hands, “and besides I don't want a sugar daddy.” He shrugged, “just for a few months.” “I think you should see my place before saying that.” Alan placed his hands on her shoulders, “I didn't think you were going to ask,” and kissed her on the forehead. She nodded at the city behind him, “it's right over there,” and pointed at Queens, “but you can't really see it from here.”

Stephanie lived in a small one-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a five-story walk up on 76
^th
Street near the corner of 37
^th
Avenue. Their shoulders were resting on the headboard as she asked, “Would you like a glass of wine?” He raised his eyebrows, “sure.” She swung her bare legs off the bed, “it's probably not as good as what you're used to.” “I'm no snob,” Alan admired her body, “and a glass of wine would be really nice,” as she walked across the bedroom. “There is a liquor store around the corner,” as she passed through the open door she added, “and they have a beautiful dog.” “Not a great selection,” he called after her, “but a beautiful dog?” She opened the refrigerator, “the selection is okay,” removed the bottle of Saint-Veran from the top shelf, “I guess…” pulled out the cork, “I mean I'm no expert,” and filled two juice glasses with the straw colored wine, “but the dog is very beautiful.” “Hey Stephanie,” he called again from the bed, “does this dog have a name?” She stood in the doorway, “yes,” and took a sip from her glass, “the dog's name is Ali,” before re-crossing the bedroom, “it's a German Shepherd.” Alan took the glass from her and asked, “Like Mohammed Ali?” Stephanie sat on the side of the bed, “it happens to be a she.” He grinned, “that's strange.” “The owners are Asian,” she leaned back, “so I'm sure it means something else.” He tasted the wine, “this is nice.” “Well,” she raised her glass in a toast, “happy Father's Day.”

 

“I
t's been such a gloomy week,” Janet had her hair and nails done the day before, “it's like the entire city is in mourning again,” when the maid came to clean the apartment, “not that I blame them one bit… I was so depressed on Wednesday as well.” James couldn't find anywhere to put his hands, “this week has been like one long hangover,” was at a loss for the right words, “before the next nightmare begins,” and was annoyed that all of the things he had prepared to say evaporated just after she buzzed him into her building and he began climbing the carpeted stairs with the bouquet in his right hand, “You know what I mean?” His political banter had been tailored by time-killing conversations with his left-leaning coworkers and customers who lingered by the cash register bending his ear with impassioned attacks on the half-witted president and the neo-con goons who were running the country into the ground. He swallowed hard, “I guess I should say before the nightmare continues.”