Faking Life Page 19
Young women like her walked around with a sense of entitlement. Like he should be grateful if they allowed him to buy drinks. Frank was man enough to laugh at those silly girls who spurned him. They were the ones who'd end up single and desperate by thirty while all the guys his age would be dating lithe models and nubile young debutantes. They'd be done up in their Prada and their Dior, trying to use the same archaic moves they'd used ten years ago, back when they had the bodies to pull it off. All that blue mascara and sickly sweet perfume didn't mean anything except that they were old. Frank didn't need to give them their comeuppance. He could just smile when it came.
And Esther.
He tried to picture her as an older women, walking the way older women walk, tentative yet trying to exude confidence. Showing off their Pilates-shaped bodies, hiding stretch marks under layers of cover-up. He tried to picture Esther touring modern art exhibits and sitting at martini bars, trying to make everything seem glamorous while anyone with half a brain could see how sad it was. But he couldn't line the image up; her face didn't want to stay attached to any of the wrinkled bodies he conjured up. He shrugged it off and kept walking.
Frank knew next to nothing about her personal life. Nobody called her at the office, she didn't giggle at flirtatious emails from secret lovers. No, she came to work and buried herself in mountains of paper. That was fine with him. If she wanted to be alone, then she deserved to be lonely.
Frank turned the corner and opened the door to Slappy's Slop House. He set his cell phone to 'vibrate' and unbuttoned his suit jacket. It was just after five o'clock. He counted a dozen diners and a few old men at the bar, all staggered evenly with one empty seat between them as though they might catch a disease by being close to the gloom that dripped like a leaky faucet.
Gillis was behind the bar, wiping down the wood with a grimy rag. A stocky Mexican with a couple of frightening tattoos on his neck and forearms was dumping ice on a mound of beer bottles. An attractive waitress with cherry-red lip-gloss walked back and forth between the tables taking orders. Maybe he'd get her number later. He noticed a man, exactly like Nico described, sitting near the kitchen, chatting through a hole in the wall. He was obviously the owner. Artie. Nico was gonna be so fucking pleased…
All this crap about changing his shift, getting him to quit…well, that was bullshit. They needed to go a step further. Why all the pussyfooting around? They were the ones in charge, not Artie. They dictated the terms. Nico really wanted to shake things up? Frank would show them how it was done. Artie, like a big ass sausage sitting there cooking on a spit. Ready to be eaten.
Frank approached him, his shoes treading softly on the floor. He nonchalantly shielded his face from Gillis, trying not to laugh at the man's pale bare chest. Nico, you're the fucking king.
“Help you?” Artie said, standing up. Frank noticed a figure in the kitchen back away from the serving window. He smelled grease. Frank remembered why he didn't eat in places like this.
“Arthur Graves?” Frank said, reaching for his wallet. He imagined himself on one of those cop shows from the fifties. Just the facts ma'am, just the facts. Frank smiled. He would have made a great detective.
“Yes?” Artie said warily. Frank handed him a business card. Frank Menegaro, Literary Assistant. Not an assistant for long, Frank thought.
“Mr. Graves, I'm Franklin Menegaro. I work with Nico Vanetti.” He thought it made sense to introduce himself as working with Nico as opposed to for him. It made him sound that much more authoritative. Artie examined the card briefly, then put it in his pocket. He smiled and shook Frank's hand.
“Can I get you a drink?” Artie asked. “On the house, of course.”
“I'll have a Bud Light,” Frank said. He put his hand on Artie's padded shoulder and leaned in. He could smell cheap cologne. “Now, do you have somewhere we can talk in private?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Paul rang the doorbell three times, then put the groceries down and groped for his key. He propped the door open with a D'Agostinos bag and carried in the other two. He navigated a path through a dozen bottles of Andre and open magazines strewn across the apartment, which now resembled a failed Alcoholics Anonymous waiting room.
The fridge was packed front to back with Andre. Paul cursed under his breath and took out four bottles. In their stead he put the milk, orange juice and a jar of pickles. The rest of the items were squeezed in anywhere he could find space.
As he squeezed the fridge shut, he noticed a clicking coming from John's room. He shook his head. It never stopped. It had woken him twice last night alone. He'd managed to grit it out, accepting it as penance for the many nights he'd kept John awake in college. Paul had a high threshold for that type of abuse, but this time it was different. Now that John was unemployed, the noise might never stop.
He rapped his knuckles on John's door. He heard a distracted “come in”.
“Hey, how's it going?” John was sitting on his red chair, the room dark save the backlight of the computer screen. John swiveled around to face Paul. Three empty bottles of champagne cluttered the desk. The one in his hand looked half finished. John had a silly look on his face, probably aware of how he looked sitting in his underwear in the dark at seven o'clock at night drinking a $4.99 bottle of champagne.
“I picked up the groceries, thought I'd make some omelets for dinner. I got fresh mushrooms and cheddar,” Paul said.
“No thanks, I already ate.” John swiveled back and resumed typing. Paul could see dark circles under his eyes, veins webbing out that hadn't been there a week ago.
“Did you order in? I didn't see any dishes out there.” Without removing his eyes from the screen, John picked up an empty bottle of Andre and shook it. Paul had counted at least four empty bottles in the recycling bin every night this week. Not once had he seen John consume anything that wasn't at least six percent alcohol.
Everyone goes off a little bit, Paul told himself. Hell, he'd done the same thing the first time he was fired. He didn't return to the apartment for three days, spending all of it raging drunk and cavorting with a girl named Kendra he'd met—while drunk, of course—at a book signing. He still had the book. The inscription was in blue sharpie and read “To Paul, a fellow writer. Drink some coffee and seek help. Richard.”
But of all the shitty luck, getting fired a mere week after getting busted down to lunch duty. John said it came out of nowhere, that Artie had just pulled him aside and said, “Sorry kid, but studies show new blood brings new business.”
The money issue hadn't yet been broached. Paul couldn't afford to piggyback him for long, especially since he hadn't received any word from Carol Joyce about his story collection. She said they needed to be meticulous in their presentation due to the soft market. That was a month and a half ago. And until that call came, he was just another working class schmo living paycheck to paycheck while his jobless roommate typed half naked in the dark.
Motioning towards the screen, Paul said “Have you backed up any of your work?” John gave him a blank stare and shrugged. Paul sat down on the unmade bed. The room had a grimy smell. He opened the window, then picked a bundle of covers off the floor and heaped them on the mattress. “It's a good idea to back up…whatever you're working on. You know these buildings, the wiring is so old that if you run a hairdryer while the TV's on you'll blow a fuse.” John stayed silent.
“I'll back it up when I get a chance,” John finally said, eyes glued straight ahead. Paul snuck a quick peek at the screen as he did. He could only make out one sentence.
You're only lost if someone wants to find you.
John's body blocked the rest of screen.
“So what are your plans tonight?” Paul asked.
“I'm gonna shave soon and clean up a bit. Then I'm going to Slappy's.” Paul coughed.
“Slappy's? Uh, you do realize they fired you, that you don't work there anymore?”
“Of course. What'd you think, I missed the part where Artie said, 'sorr
y kid, gotta let you go? No hard feelings?' No, but he did tell me that if I ever happened to be in the neighborhood, I was welcome to stop by and drink on the house. Well, I'll happen to be in the neighborhood in an hour, so I'm gonna call his bluff.”
Paul pointed to the translucent green bottles. “How many of those have you had today?”
“I don't know, three I think. Maybe four.”
“Maybe you should stay in tonight. We can go drinking tomorrow, when you're not already tanked.” John turned around, smiling.
“Hey, you wanna come with? I don't know if Artie'll extend you the same courtesy, but I'm sure Stacy can smuggle us out a bottle if we don't stay.”
“I have a better idea. Why don't rent a movie, order up some Chinese food. I'll do omelets another night. I just renewed my Blockbuster card and my next one is free. There's a new Kirsten Dunst flick out, I hear she almost gets naked in this one. Besides, you've got enough Andre here to sit through a triple feature.” John shook his head.
“I'm definitely going to Slappy's. You're welcome to tag along.” Paul cringed at the words 'tag along'.
“Ok, how about I rephrase. I don't think you should go tonight. Not so soon after they fired you. No offense man, but you're a mess.” John kept on typing. “And right now you're in the rebellious phase of post-losing your job syndrome. Soon after that comes the self-loathing phase. Trust me, I've been there, and I think that the rebellious phase is one best spent reasonably sober. Definitely not drinking with people that pissed you off.”
“How are the kids?” John said flatly, his eyes riveted to the screen.
“What kids? What are you talking about?”
“Your kids. The ones you teach, remember?”
“What do they have to do with anything?”
“Well, I figure you must love them so much that now you're bringing your work home with you. I haven't been taught this lesson since college, so go ahead professor, lecture away. Pardon me if I tell you to take your assignment and shove it up your ass.”
Paul stood up and walked to the doorway. He flicked the light switch on as he left.
“Ow, the fuck'd you do that for?” John said, shielding his face.
“Better for your eyes,” Paul said. “I'll pretend I didn't hear that, but I won't take much more of this passive-aggressive bullshit. You want to get it out of your system, fine. Just let me know when you're done. But in the meantime, think about what you're saying. And I empathize, I really do, but there's a fine line between empathy and pity.” He paused. John stopped typing and looked his way. Paul couldn't help but smile. “Now take a fucking shower, you smell like my grandmother.” John laughed, a true laugh that seemed like it had been bottled up for days.
“Pants it is. But I'm still going to Slappy's tonight. Self-loathing be damned, I deserve one night to get really fucking hammered before I start scraping burgers for a buck fifty an hour. The invite still stands.” Paul thought for a moment, then shrugged.
“Fuck it, why not? I'll shower after you're done, but let's at least eat something. I don't want you seeing your friend Jack Daniels on an empty stomach. I spent a hundred and nine bucks on a pair of Diesel jeans the other day and if you puke on them I'll kill you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
When they arrived at Slappy's Slop House, Paul was amazed at how cordial everyone was to John. It was as though he'd never worked there, had never been fired, and had in fact been the life of the party so often that the mere sight of him sent the entire bar into a tizzy of joyful camaraderie and binge drinking. John had worked at Slappy's for nearly seven years, and in the last few months had been suspended, embarrassed and fired, yet was now drinking like a Saturday night regular. Artie was sitting with him, hand clamped firmly on John's shoulder, toasting to a wonderful six-plus years of employment. Stacy, looking slightly uncomfortable having been put on bar duty full-time, poured them three shots of fluorescent-green liquid. When John and Artie finished chugging their beers—people actually chanting chug, chug, chug like they were at a fraternity kegger—Stacy handed them the shots. She cleared the empty glasses four seconds later. John let out an audible burp and tried unsuccessfully to repress a hiccup.
Paul was observing this from the other end of the bar, choosing not to participate in the night's revelries. He was sure that at some point he'd be dragging the dead weight of John's body up several flights of stairs, only to plop him in front of the toilet. He decided to play it safe until then.
Even Enzo, whom Paul had never seen so much as look longingly at a drink, had downed two shots with the crew. He knocked the drinks back like water, nixing any chasers. Wherever Enzo was from, they were probably used to drinks a hell of a lot stronger than anything served at Slappy's; stuff probably made from rare plant extracts and bat wings like on the Discovery Channel.
“Hey Paul, Paul. Paul come take a shot. You're sitting there like…like…a slug or something.” John looked at Artie and nudged him in the ribs, not as gently as he meant to from the look on Artie's face. “Artie, you hear what I said to him? I called him a slug. Pretty funny since he's got a job and I don't.” Nervous laughter from Artie, but another shot eased the tension. It looked like straight Jack Daniels. When Artie left to mingle, John stood up, pushing away groping arms that were trying to aid his stability. John stumbled over to Paul, resembling a bum out of a 1930's flick. Paul snickered. All he needed was dirt on his face and a bowler and he'd be Charlie Chaplin.
“So what's the deal now? You and are Artie best friends suddenly?” John slapped Paul on the back hard enough to make his teeth hurt.
“Friends?” He yelled, “Artie, Paul wants to know if we're friends.” Artie raised his drink. John raised his empty hand, spilling a woman's martini glass all over her shirt. “Oh, sorry there. I'll pay for it. Not. Shit yeah, we're still friends. You think I'd let something silly like Artie firing me get in the way of our friendship? Hell, Artie's been like a brother to me. You know, that brother who sleeps with your wife.” He took Paul's shoulder and turned him away from the others, whispering into his ear. John's grip on his shoulder was tight as a vice and he sounded like he was deliberately trying to enunciate every syllable.
“I know what you're thinking. I mean this guy just fired me and now he's giving me drinks and shit. Well I don't buy it either. You know what I think? I think he's trying to alleviate his guilt for firing me. Did I just use the word alleviate in a sentence? Christ I'm drunk. All-e-ve-ate. Anyway, I'm taking advantage of it now, and then I won't come back here again. I've had enough of this fucking place, the fucking wood, the fucking dance floor, the fucking fuckers who come here every fucking night. Except for Stacy and Lisa, they're cool.” Suddenly John stopped and a look of utter disappointment came over his face. “Aw hell, wouldn't you know it. She comes here the one night I can't see straight.”
Paul followed John's gaze to the door. That girl—Esther, the one who'd read his stuff—was standing there. She was wearing a camel-colored overcoat with leather gloves, a gray shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
“Wouldn't you know it,” John said softly, leaning heavily against Paul. He had to brace his foot against the bar stool to prevent John from toppling over.
When Esther saw them she gave a shy wave, then took off her coat and hung it on an empty hook.
“If I say or do anything stupid, you'll cover for me, right?” He looked at Paul with pleading eyes, like he knew he was bound to screw something up and was relying on Paul for damage control.
“I'll take care of everything,” Paul said, his mind running through vivid scenarios where he might be forced to make an awkward apology or, in the most vivid one, asking Artie for a glass of water to wash vomit stains off Esther's blouse. He could feel John's body swaying gently next to him, trying to keep balance. He could see why John was worried. She had a sweet smile, a friendly gait, and eyes that didn't seem to hide anything. It was all there, wrapped in a delicate package, and it was walking towards them without any hesitancy.
“Hey you,” she said. John stood up to allow her his seat. Paul offered his chair to John, hoping his friend would realize that standing was tempting fate. John declined and braced himself on the bar with an outstretched arm.
“Funny seeing you here,” John said, making an effort to sound sober.
“Why funny?” Esther said. “Don't you, you know, work here? Although I am used to seeing you on the other side of the bar.” A small hiccup interrupted John's laugh.
“Funny you should ask,” he said. “Actually I don't work here anymore.” Esther looked confused. She turned to Paul for an answer. He shrugged. She turned back to John, her lip trembling.
“But…what happened? Did you quit?”
“Nope,” he said, shaking his head as if casting off fleas. “First I got demoted, then I got fired. Within a week of each other. Kinda strange, isn't it?”
“I don't understand,” she said, her voice disbelieving. “Why would they bother demoting you if they were just going to fire you?”
“You know, I'm not really sure. I don't think they planned on firing me when they demoted me. But hey, c'est la vie.” Esther's mouth remained open, her breath coming in short bursts. Paul wondered why she was so affected by John's firing. It wasn't like she knew him that well. Maybe all women reacted that way when someone got fired. Maybe she cried when the guy at the bagel store lost his job or a cabbie's license expired. Finally she seemed to notice Paul.
“Oh, hi,” she said, a metallic coldness in her voice. “How are you?”
“Not bad. I still have my job, in case you were wondering.”
“That's good.” They both looked at John.
“Hey, don't mind me,” he said. “What, just 'cause I needed to put my tab on layaway you're gonna get all weird on me? Come on, have a drink.” John put his fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill whistle—since when could he whistle like that?—and Stacy came over, looking annoyed. “Stace, let's get two shots of Jack and, what would you like Esther? Is Jack okay? Three shots of Jack hun, thanks a bunch.” She returned with four glasses of brown liquor.