Faking Life Page 16

  NUHAG86: Gee, I'm not sure, Mr. IH8BOOKS.

  IH8BOOKS: Touché, Esther.

  “Est? Are you almost ready?” Courtney yelled. Esther could smell lilac perfume wafting through her door. She was still in her bathrobe and a half hour from being anywhere near ready to go out. Not that she was even sure she wanted to. Part of Esther ached for a night on the town with Courtney, even though the double-date aspect did nothing for her. It was a bad sign that even Courtney, who was usually as fickle as a personal ad when it came to men, was wary of Esther's potential blind date.

  “He's not what you call 'good-looking' contemporarily speaking,” Courtney had said. “But he's funny in kind of a self-depreciating way.” Of course in non-bullshit terms, that meant he was ugly and knew it and he dressed like a slob to 'rebel' against the fashionistas. Yet for all the posturing, all Esther really wanted to do was see John Gillis.

  She hadn't been back to Slappy's since he was suspended. Based on what Brian had said, John was to be reinstated the day after tomorrow. She was hesitant to return on his first day, didn't want to seem too eager.

  It wasn't fair. Courtney never worried like this, never worried about how she was perceived by men. They lined up for her. Sweaty clubs, filled with lascivious boys whose free spending made it unnecessary for her to carry her wallet. Courtney attracted the crème de la crème of New York males: slicked back hair, gold jewelry that looked like it was lifted off the set of “Goodfellas”, and steady jobs enabling them to treat her the way a girl deserved. Esther didn't get those men, instead catching the runoffs, the friends, or the cousin of a friend of a neighbor. The ones who were too timid to make a move on their own, siphoning their friends' courage as though it was their duty to keep Esther occupied while their counterparts made their move on Courtney.

  It was easy to feel sorry for herself. Courtney was a beautiful girl, the kind most boys wouldn't dream of picking up in a bar. The kind that always had an Abercrombie boyfriend waiting at home. When Esther looked in the mirror, she saw a pretty girl. Not beautiful the way Courtney was, but the kind you settled on when you'd exhausted all the girls who were too pretty to take home to your family. Boys looking for real relationships didn't spend ten dollars on a vodka tonic for girls they'd never met. Esther was safe for real life, but Courtney was the girl every boy dreamed about.

  When she saw John Gillis, she knew he was different. He wore that tight black shirt to play a role, like an actor or the front man for a band. He pushed others guys in the bar to dress better and buy classier drinks because, after all, who wanted to appear frumpier than the guy serving their tequila?

  She loved John's restlessness. She wished she'd followed him the day he bolted from the bar, to observe him without being observed, to witness inspiration in its purest form. She needed to be proactive. She needed to find her own inspiration.

  Her inbox blinked with four new messages from Jeremy. She typed an apology and said—holding her breath—that she'd be leaving soon to go out. She considered inviting Jeremy along, but decided against it. He hated anything remotely trendy—the antithesis of Courtney—which was partly why Esther had remained close with them both. But while separately they gave unparalleled friendship, together they were like frustrated lovers in an endless spat. Jeremy was too cynical for his own good, and Courtney was too naïve to fully understand his barbs. Not that they disliked each other, and in a different world Esther thought their childish banter would be mistaken for misplaced affection.

  IH8BOOKS: So where's Satan taking you tonight?

  NYHAG86: Some club in the meatpacking district, I forget the name.

  IH8BOOKS: Well say hi for me. Tell Court she's lucky you're there to protect her from the evil scourges of lower Manhattan.

  NYHAG86: Maybe you should say hi for yourself. She'd be happy to hear you're looking out for her well-being.

  IH8BOOKS: No thanks. The last thing I need right now is Ms. Haute Couture telling me I have the dress coordination of a garden slug.

  “Esther? We're going to be late!” Esther scowled from behind the closed door. Courtney was always worried about being late, as though the club would suddenly be closed forever and the scores of SOHO dwellers would relocate to dives and movie theaters. Besides, men didn't mind waiting. They automatically assumed their dates were taking their time for a reason, arriving like they'd spent years primping as opposed to sitting around in fluffy pink bathrobes typing on an iMac.

  NYHAG86: Jer, I gotta run. I think she's gonna break my door down if Marvin has to wait any longer.

  IH8BOOKS: Well, don't let me keep you from meeting Courtney's mailman boyfriend Marvin. Does this Marvin have a workshirt that says “Marvin” on it?

  NYHAG86: Actually, I think it's supposed to be a double date deal, some guy named Seymore or Simon. I didn't officially agree to it.

  IH8BOOKS: Well between Simon, Seymore and Marvin I think you have the silly name directory monopolized. Have fun, Est. Give me a ring tomorrow if you get a chance. And slip me that manuscript too.

  Esther signed goodbye, straightened the folds in her bathrobe and went into the living room. Courtney was watching the news—an immediate clue that she wasn't paying attention to the tube. When she saw that Esther was still wearing a bathrobe, Courtney scowled like she'd been left at the alter by Russell Crowe.

  “Esther,” she said, seemingly on the verge of tears. “I asked you to be ready fifteen minutes ago. Marvin said we should meet them there at eleven and it's already eleven fifteen. I can't be this late. I'm never this late.” If Marvin knew, Ether thought, what Courtney looked like wearing that cashmere v-neck (was she even wearing a bra?), he'd be willing to wait quite a bit longer.

  “I'm not sure I want to go,” Esther said. Courtney's face turned dour, her mouth fluttered open and shut. She stood up and turned off the television.

  “Est, you promised me you'd come out tonight. We haven't had a girl's night out in weeks. I'm starting to feel like you're a boarder instead of my best friend.”

  “Court, this isn't a girls night out. You're meeting a guy and trying to set me up with his friend, and I'm willing to bet that at the end of the night I'll end up taking a cab home alone.” Courtney sighed.

  “I'm just saying we haven't hung out in like forever. I feel like I'm losing you, Est. What's wrong? You used to like going out. Now having a Corona in your pajamas is like New Year's Eve. I spend my nights wondering if you're at home drinking in the bathtub and hoping you haven't drowned or something horrible.”

  Esther's eyes fell to the floor. She was right. As much as Courtney enjoyed living the life of a cute, single, sophisticated New York woman, Esther knew she bore the weight of her best friend's thoughts on her mind. Men who watched her dance, swinging her hips in somber rhythm, eyes smoldering like flame, they assumed she was careless. But if they looked closer, they'd see that beneath Courtney's glassy surface was a camera that remembered everything. She was an incredible friend, but her one fault—if you could reasonably call it one—was that she never forgot.

  Esther looked up, her eyes moistening. She sniffed and wiped her nose. “Court, you ever feel like you need a reason to go out? Like, your body is all ready, your clothes are on, your makeup is done, but you're just not sure why you bother?” Courtney looked at her like she'd asked the world's most rhetorical question.

  “Hon, you go out to have fun. There doesn't need to be a deeper meaning. I think being cramped in that office all day with that creep Frank has gotten to you. You go out to pretend you don't have to work, to meet people, you know, to socialize. I don't know. Do whatever it is you do when you're not Little Miss Librarian poring over mounds of paper all day. Not every drink has to be an existential crisis.”

  Esther sat down on the couch, elbows resting on her knees, supporting her heavy head. She felt her fingers sink into her skin and looked up longingly at Courtney, hoping for some kind of solace. She could see in Courtney's face that she wanted to help, wanted to take Esther's head and place
it gently on her shoulder, to stroke her hair and tell her everything was perfect. Yet Esther knew that any such act would be superficial. The only way she could be happy was to help herself. There was no magic elixir, no crying over spilt milk. Esther could feel herself slipping into quicksand, avoiding the rope that dangled above her.

  “Are you thinking about that guy, that John?” Esther nodded.

  “I think about him all the time now. Maybe too much for my own good. It's just that…I've never felt like this before.”

  “Well I'm sure he feels like same about you, sweetie.” Esther laughed through her tears.

  “You don't really mean that.”

  “Of course I do. Why wouldn't he? If he's as special as you say he is, he's got to feel something. But if you drag yourself down like this, pity yourself all the time and act like the world's gonna come crashing down any second, he's not going to want to think about you cause you'll bring him down too.” Esther looked up, the tears slowly stemming.

  “You're right.” Courtney nodded , eyebrows raised, as if to say of course I am. “Give me a minute,” Esther said. “I'm gonna finish getting ready.”

  Courtney popped up like a Jack-in-the-Box. “Now you're talking, babe. Look out world! Ladies and gentlemen, lock your men at home, here comes the fabulous Esther!”

  Esther laughed. She was happy to please Courtney, happy to see her friend so exuberant. But inside, she had never in her life felt less fabulous.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “So what gives Artie?”

  Per Artie's orders, John had dragged himself out of bed at 9:00 in the morning, showered, shaved and was at the bar by ten. Artie had conveyed the meeting time in a gruff, one sentence message. John, assuming a kiss-and-make-up session prior to being given his job back, held back any complaints about the early hour. With the trip to New Haven behind him, John's peace of mind had grown exponentially. He was willing to put up with a little crap. Artie knew how inconvenient it was for him to be up at nine and starting a shift ten hours later. Must be a test, John thought, to see if he was still reliable. If he flaked or wasn't able to keep his shit together, Artie would be sure he was bartending at Starbucks next week.

  When John arrived, Artie was dressed in a navy blue suit, a distracting yellow tie, and polished black loafers with neat little tassels tied to the top. John was tempted to jibe Artie about his newfound taste in clothes, but held his tongue. Hell, insincere flattery for one day wasn't such a bad deal if it meant getting his job back.

  “Those're some nice duds, Art. Brooks Brothers?” Artie smiled.

  “Barney's, actually.” John whistled.

  “Must've run you quite a bit.”

  “I can afford it.”

  “Guess so,” John said, awkward pleasantries finished. “So what's up boss?”

  “Welcome to your new shift John,” he said. John watched Artie rub his fingers together. He couldn't detect any bullshit in his voice.

  As if reading his mind, Artie said, “I'm serious. Starting now, you're on the eleven a.m. shift. Brian and Lisa will work evenings. The lunch crowd is all yours.”

  John's brain shut down. His mouth flapped like a fish gasping for air. Finally he managed to speak.

  “You're shitting me, right Artie? The fucking lunch shift?”

  He wasn't sure, but it looked like Artie was holding back a smile. John glanced around the bar, expecting to see someone hiding behind a newspaper. Maybe he was on Candid Camera or something.

  “Artie, I can barely afford rent as is. You put me on lunch and my tips get cut in half.”

  “I understand that, which is why I'm raising your base by $1.00 an hour.”

  “Artie, that's a fucking joke. I'll lose at least ten an hour on lost tips and you know it.” John said. His mouth felt like sandpaper. If this was a test of his resolve, it beat the hell out of the SATs. “Artie, I can look for another tending job any time I want. You know I make this place money. I could easily find work at another bar.” Artie shook his head and clicked his tongue.

  “John, you apply for another job and you'll need references. The last place you worked and former employers and all that. They'll come to me, and then what do I tell them? That you consistently bailed on me and left work without warning? That you insulted the customers and when I gave you a chance to work your way back you quit? No, that won't look good John.”

  John struggled lamely to comprehend Artie's logic. John was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and to make it worse, Artie seemed to know it. Even if John could find work—a big if—he doubted he'd find a similar-paying job on such short notice. With the unemployment line growing every day, he didn't want to compete with the gym-buffed bodies coming out of college.

  It hadn't occurred to John until now, but working in a bar for nearly all his formative years had left him with pitifully few marketable skills. Not many companies recruited employees based on their qualification to bartend the company picnic.

  “So what do you say John?” Artie made it sound as though he had a choice in the matter. The only good thing that might come from the demotion was rejoining the world before noon. Those people looked so stable, so comfortable in their lives, and here he was having his turned upside down by a simple shift in time. He'd need to make the most of it. Besides, a change in scenery might do him some good until he could land on his feet.

  “Artie you know my answer, but you also know I'm worth a lot more to this place during nights than I am during the day. So you want to punish me, go right ahead. Not much I can do. But you're screwing yourself as much as you're screwing me. Brian doesn't know dick about talking to customers. His idea of being social is to mock anyone wearing the color black.”

  “Maybe he'll learn,” Artie said. “It's not like you were a dazzling conversationalist when you started here. Give him time and he'll work it out.” John took a step back.

  Christ, he'd doing this too long. Analyzing another bartender's social graces as if dined with Queen Elizabeth. Before he turned twenty-one, John would mercifully chide any bartender ignorant enough to serve him. He'd been known to attach a string and paper clip to dollar bills, which magically 'disappeared' when the bartender turned his back. He never gave a shit who served him—unless it was a female wearing dental floss for a top—as long as the drink had plenty of alcohol and he got it in a timely fashion. So what was different now? When did he become such a…bartending elitist?

  “How long are you planning to keep me on the eleven to seven shift?” John asked. He tried to add an edge to his voice but couldn't make it click. Edge would only work if he had the ability to put Artie in his place. Artie had his balls in a vice and no reason to let go.

  “We'll see,” he said. “I want to see how Brian does, give him a trial run so to speak. Try not to think of it as a punishment. If you can pull in some repeat business on the day side, maybe I'll move you and Brian both to nights, see if that works out.”

  John knew that was bullshit. John knew Brian didn't have what it took to keep pace with the evening rush. As well as hurting the bar, it would hurt Lisa and Stacy as well. If he couldn't keep up then their tips would suffer. John couldn't help but wonder whether Artie was mortgaging their lives just to spite him.

  “So when do you want me to start?” John asked. His body was aching for another cup of coffee, gravity tugging his eyelids to the floor.

  “Noon,” Artie said, checking his watch as though to make sure noon was still a part of the day. John nodded. He was hardly dressed for work. A gray flannel over an NYU tee was hardly proper attire, but maybe the dress code was different this time of day. He could see it working in his favor. NYU-ers might come around after class for a quick buzz; maybe tip well if an alumnus served them. Hoping karma might keep them from turning out to be him some day.

  “Go clean up if you need to,” Artie continued, playing with the buttons on his sleeves. “Stacy comes in at one, so if Sal needs a little help with his orders between now and then give him a hand
.” John cursed under his breath. Sal Marvio, whom he could barely tolerate to begin with, was sure as hell not going to go out of his way to make John's transition any easier. He prayed the hour before Stacy showed up would be slow. He wanted to save customers the sight of Sal waddling out of the kitchen covered in grease with nails that hadn't been trimmed since New Year's.

  “When you get off tonight, go home and get some rest,” Artie said. “Be ready to go at eleven tomorrow.” He checked his watch again. “I have a meeting in an hour, you have my cell if anything comes up.” John nodded.

  Artie put his hand on John's shoulder, closing his fingers in a display of affection that felt dishearteningly insincere. “Don't worry about this. I've always taken care of you in the past, right? Sometimes a little shakeup is good for everyone. Maybe you'll even like the new shift, ask me to stay.” John felt like laughing in Artie's face, but deference was the best path as long as his job was in limbo. As Artie was walking away, he turned back to John, scratching his head.

  “John, one more thing.”

  'What's that?”

  “I want you to bartend topless.” John laughed.

  “Yeah, sure. Maybe Lisa and Stacy will want to join me. And you too, what do you say Enzo?” Enzo shrugged and lifted a case of bottles over his head.

  “John, I'm serious. I've been heard studies show that a little skin gets the crowd going. Plus if I ever put you back on nights, you'll be used to it.”

  “Artie,” John said, desperation in his voice. “It's gonna be winter soon.” Artie glanced about the room and breathed into his hand.

  “What, it's not warm enough in here for you? I didn't say you had to come to work topless, just when you get here. Tell you what, I'll throw another buck an hour your way. Start working out more, maybe go for a jog when you get off. Lift a few weights. Just keep in mind the recommendation, or lack thereof.”