Faking Life Read online

  “John,” Paul said, nudging his friend with his elbow. “Check it out.” Strolling into the bar, clearly alone, was an attractive brunette wearing a black v-neck sweater and painted-on Levis. She took an empty stool and signaled for John.

  “What's your poison?” he asked pleasantly, slipping a coaster in front of her.

  “Gin and tonic,” she said.

  “My grandfather's favorite drink,” he said with a smile. He set it in front of her and changed a twenty.

  “Hey, bartender,” Paul said, beckoning him, a lascivious smile on his face. John walked over to his friend, cringing. He knew what was coming. “I'm going for it. You remember what to do?” John sighed. Out of the dozens of times Paul had attempted this ruse, he'd only gotten two phone numbers and a one horrendous date that ended with an appendectomy.

  “Right-o. So what kind of beer will Mr. Hemingway be drinking?”

  “Hmm…give me something imported. But not something you can get for five bucks a six-pack. You got any specialty beers back there?” John thought for a moment.

  “I know just the thing.” He went behind the bar, rummaged around, grabbed a bottle, popped the top, and set it on a coaster. The beer was European and retailed for ten dollars a six-pack. They charged seven a bottle at Slappy's.

  “Ready?” Paul whispered.

  “Ready.” John waited until the brunette was taking a sip of her drink, then slammed his fist down on the table. “Hey, I know you!” he shouted, jabbing his finger at Paul.

  Paul put down his beer and tried to look surprised.

  “Yeah, you're that writer fellow, aren't you? You're what's-his-name.” John snapped his fingers as he pretended to search for the answer. He hoped he didn't look as ridiculous as he felt. “Paul something, right?” He paused, then slapped his forehead. “Shrader, that's it! Paul Shrader.” John put on his best self-congratulatory smile.

  “That's right,” Paul said, brushing imaginary lint off his jacket. He extended his hand. John shook it with vigor. “Pleasure to meet you Mr….”

  “Gillis, John Gillis. Man, I love your stuff. That story you wrote about the girl drowning in the well? I cried like a baby. And I haven't cried since I was a baby.” John caught his breath. The brunette had taken notice. She swiveled her stool to face them.

  “I actually have one of your stories right here. I keep it behind the bar in case I get bored.” John continued, rummaging behind the bar. “If it's a slow night sometimes I'll read it. I just can't get enough.” John finally emerged with a tattered copy of a paperback magazine called West Marion Quarterly. He flipped to page 107, a story titled “Indiana Winter”. The author was Paul Shrader.

  “Is that you?” John asked, eyes hopeful, a laugh building in his chest. He coughed and stifled it.

  Paul nodded. “One of my earlier works. Quite amateurish if I must say.”

  By now, the blonde had inched closer and was trying to look over Paul's shoulder. John noticed and realized that holy shit, it might actually be working.

  “Mr. Shrader…”

  “Please, call me Paul.”

  “Alright, Mr. Paul. Would you autograph your story for me?” John handed him the book. The story was in fact written by this Paul Shrader, purchased by West Marion Quarterly in 1999 for the tidy sum of twenty-five dollars, three free copies, and a coupon for all-you-can eat fried steak at Josie's Chow Bar in Pennsylvania. The book in Paul's hand was one of those copies. Another was in a shoebox under Paul's bed. The third was with his parents in Michigan. And little did the brunette know, but the book in question was available for newsstand purchase in just 13 states—New York not being one of them—and the odds of a random bartender in New York owning one were about the same as being hit by lightning while being eaten by a shark.

  Paul scribbled his name on page 33 (he'd already signed every page between 1 and 32) and John tucked it back under the bar. “Thanks so much Mr… I mean Paul.”

  “Don't mention it,” he said, taking a sip on his rare, imported, impressively labeled beer. John then walked over to the brunette, now seated just two stools away from Paul.

  “He's a writer, one of my favorites,” John whispered. She listened intently, all the while eyeing Paul like a scientist judging a rare specimen. “If you'd like, I can introduce you.” She looked at John and nodded.

  “That'd be nice.”

  “One second.” John retreated to Paul and babbled a stream of nothing into his ear. When they finished, Paul stood up, took his drink (label facing outward) and slid onto the stool next to her.

  “I'm Paul Shrader,” he said, extending his hand. She blushed, and John had to smile. He glanced at the ragged book as he refilled his soda and watched the mating dance commence.

  Ever since John had known him, Paul's dream had been to write full time. Yet aside from a few stories published in small local magazines, he was waiting for society at large to take notice. It was no secret that with each failed attempt Paul was becoming more and more indignant. He wasn't even a blip on the artistic landscape. Hundreds of mint business cards with the title “Writer. Artist. Dreamer.” lay untouched in his closet. Currently ninety-nine point four percent of his income came from teaching third grade at a tony Upper East Side private school. Kids whose weekly allowances could nearly pay his share of the rent.

  At the end of the day, Paul would slink home, grade all the tests and papers he could without going blind, then sit down at his laptop and type. Sometimes he'd work on his long-suffering novel, which meant he'd be lucky to squeeze out half a page before calling it a night. The novel, Paul said, would finally bring him the recognition he deserved.

  It was for this reason that John made no mention of Nico Vanetti.

  It was on a whim that John had picked up Paul's ragged copy of Writer's Market, dog-eared to death. Waking up off a hangover one morning, he'd run off a dozen copies of his manuscript and sent them to various agents, expecting nothing but a smile and polite “No thanks.” He'd begun writing the story the night Seamus died. The night that slapped his life into focus, the night he realized there was no focus. The book was a map to plan out the following years. He'd never envisioned it as something other people wanted to read. Curiosity, in this case, might have opened up a door he never even knew existed.

  After sending the letter out, John was fully expecting to empathize with Paul over their shared rejection. A month later he'd received eleven signed dismissals. And one phone call. Now he had to keep his deal with Nico Vanetti quiet. Paul wouldn't stand for it, and John knew it. Paul would lose it, literally and figuratively. Paul had been trying to hard for so long, it would kill him to see even a modicum of success from his roommate in the same field. John would tell him eventually, when the time was right.

  Sure. Like the time would ever be right.

  By ten, the brunette's legs were wrapped around Paul like two drunken crazy straws. John watched them with amusement until the crowd forced his attention back to the job. Yet for every beer he poured, for every highball he mixed and every Cosmo he served to a girl wearing shiny lip-gloss, all he could think about was the file crying out to him from his computer at home. Sitting in the bar kept his life on pause. Something about that file might allow him to fast-forward, to skip to the next scene.

  “Hey, buddy, two screwdrivers,” a shiny bald man in a Versace shirt commanded, tickling a twenty until John's nose. John resisted the urge to smack the guy and burn the money. Instead he took a breath and poured the drinks. He went light on the Vodka.

  “Twelve,” John said, tapping his feet to the bass-heavy rhythm. The man whistled contemptuously, as though twelve dollars could put a dent in his salary. He took his change and left a dollar in a puddle of beer on the counter.

  Lisa showed up forty-five minutes late and went straight to the ladies room. Two minutes later she emerged wedged into a midriff-baring top that pushed her breasts so high up that John wondered if they inhibited her breathing. As soon as she sauntered behind the bar, hair flowin
g like an erotic shampoo commercial, business literally began to heat up. Sweaty men who had been standing idle migrated to the bar, ordering stiff drinks while trying not to drool on their loafers. As the men swooned, the women made their way to John. They giggled and chatted, making fun of the easily amused men, a hint of longing behind the smug smiles.

  The orders came fast and heavy, and John found his mind beginning to wander. He forgot—or was it on purpose?—ingredients for easily mixed drinks, ducking beneath the bar for the refuge of his mixology chart. He was cursed off by a gay couple that claimed he was a homophobe for serving them fuzzy navels instead of gin and tonics. Lisa scolded him under her breath.

  “What are you doing?” she seethed. “People are gonna leave if you keep fucking up.” John blushed and gave himself a mental slap on the wrist.

  As he was serving mimosas to a trio of bubbly sorority girls, John noticed the lithe redhead sitting in front of him. He was sure she'd been sitting there for at least 15 minutes, and hadn't yet ordered a drink. When his eyes locked with hers, he knew why.

  “I'm Jennifer,” she shouted, extending a creamy hand with bright red nails.

  “John. What can I get you?”

  Jennifer put her finger to her lip in mock thought and said, “whatever red wine you have back there.” John nodded and uncorked a bottle of Merlot. “And why don't you pour one for yourself too.” John stopped and looked at her. She offered a lascivious smile. “Go ahead. It's on me.”

  He held back a laugh and brought the bottle up for her to see. “You want to buy me a glass of wine in my own bar?” She shrugged.

  “Can't hurt for a girl to ask.” John shook his head and poured her drink, recorking the bottle and putting it back on the shelf. “Not interested?” she said, a disappointedly flirtatious smile on her face.

  “Actually, I don't drink wine,” he said. John took a shot glass and filled it with Jack Daniels. He raised the tumbler and knocked it back, to Jennifer's evident disdain. He gestured to her wine. “That'll be seven dollars. And my shot's on the house.”

  “That wasn't very nice of you,” she said, a harder edge to her voice.

  “I don't get paid to be nice.”

  “That's a shame,” Jennifer cooed. She leaned over the bar, the vortex of her cleavage opening up to him. She took a thin red straw from behind the bar and flicked it between her teeth. John felt his libido stir. “Because I can be nice when I meet a nice boy.”

  John stared at her for a moment, then broke into peals of laughter.

  “That's it? That's your pickup line? 'I can be nice?' I bet that reels 'em into bed.” Jennifer scowled.

  “Who said anything about going to bed?”

  “Oh come on. I've seen you here before.”

  “Actually, this is my first time at this bar.” John poured a Sam Adams for a mohawked guy in a suit, then turned back.

  “Not you in particular, but girls like you. I see you here every night.”

  “You don't have to be so rude. Besides, isn't it like part of your job description that you have to be nice to customers?”

  “Rude?” John said. “I'll tell you what's rude. You come up here and think your money gives you free access to my underwear? You dance for a while. You pour me a few dozen drinks. Then maybe I'll take you home.”

  “Promise?” Man, there was no quit. John had seen some driven women in his day, but most of them took the hint if he wasn't interested. For whatever reason, Jennifer wouldn't. John shook his head, laughed incredulously. She smiled, the straw spinning faster. She leaned over more, purposely letting her loose-fitting shirt fall a little further.

  “Tell you what Jennifer. Stop by at three-thirty and we'll see how drunk I am.” Her eyes brightened.

  “John, you've got a deal. I'll see you at three-thirty.” She peeled off eight crisp singles and left them on the bar.

  John laughed to himself as he chased the Jack Daniels with a glass of beer.

  He watched a wobbly Sal Marvio dancing in the crowd, his limbs flailing like timber lost amidst a stormy sea. Marvio fell down twice, knocking a drink off the railing, tripping a couple slow dancing in the corner. His cheeks glowed bright red. Either he'd made good use of his time or he'd snuck a few libations while working. John could tell the guy was trouble. He hoped Artie would come to his senses and fire him. Sal was an embarrassment, a fact made even worse since he was Seamus's successor.

  “Hey buddy. Buddy. You still working?” John turned and saw a hand holding a hundred dollar bill out to him.

  “Yeah, I'm still working.”

  Twenty-five bucks in tips. On a Friday night. Absolutely fucking pathetic.

  Despite numerous warnings from Lisa, he'd screwed up almost a dozen orders, ignoring who knew how many more. Finally the customers wised up went to Lisa when they needed a refill.

  Standing outside the bar, Paul gazed at a yellow Post-It note, the brunette's phone number written in smudged red lipstick. He kissed the paper and folded it into his wallet, then flagged down a passing cab. Normally John walked home from the bar, but on nights where Paul stayed until closing he didn't mind shelling out a few bucks for the companionship.

  “Get me home,” John said to Paul. “Far away from this place.”

  “Will do. Just don't get run over in the meantime.” Paul opened the door and climbed in, holding it for John, who stepped to the curb.

  “Hey you, bartender. Hellooo!” John turned. The redhead, Jennifer, was running towards him as fast as her pumps allowed.

  John sighed. “I thought I got rid of you.” She ignored him.

  “It's three-thirty,” she said.

  “So?”

  “You said come by at three-thirty and see how drunk you were.”

  “No I didn't.”

  “Yes you did. You specifically said three-thirty. Well, here I am.” John looked at Paul.

  Paul shrugged and said, “Hey man, it's your call. There's room for one more back here.” John gave him a look.

  “Go home, Jennifer.”

  “Hey, you remembered my name.” Sad world, John thought, where remembering a girl's name got you points in the game of courtship.

  “I know. Now go home. This isn't happening.” He expected her to be disappointed, but instead she shrugged and whipped out a cell phone. She held it up to her ear, blew John a kiss, and walked away.

  “Your loss.”

  “Right. I bet you say that to all the guys.” John slid into the cab and closed the door.

  “What was that about?” Paul asked.

  “Nothing. You know these girls.” John lowered his window, letting the cool air wash over his face. “So what happened with that brunette? You two seemed pretty close.”

  “Her name's Kendra. She asked to see some of my stuff,” Paul said after he'd given the driver the address. He smiled and looked at John wistfully. “I think she might be the one.”

  “Well Lothario,” John said, tugging at his shirt, his mind and body like an overheated engine. “Just get through the first date and then you can start naming your children.” Paul shifted in his seat to face him.

  “Did you see the way she was leaning into me, the way she had her legs wrapped around mine? If I weren't such a gentleman she'd be in this cab right now coming home with me. Us. Coming home with us.”

  “Yeah, just what I need. Another night with my head stuck under a pillow while you jabber on about writing instead of having sex like a normal person.” Paul shrugged.

  “Hey, I need all the flattery I can get. I'm twenty-eight, John. I only have two years to make the hottest 30 under 30 lists. If I miss that, I'm fucked.”

  “Why not just enjoy yourself? What's with all these self-imposed deadlines?” Paul scratched his neck and leaned back against the seat, the leather squeaking under him.

  “Come on, John. Let's be honest.” John laughed. Honesty was not what he expected in a half-drunken conversation at four a.m. “Teaching pays the bills, but if I really want to make it, not just
live on a renewing lease like some blind painter, I have to make it big, get noticed. I can't expect to break out unless I get the big one done.”

  “And how long have you been working on the 'big one'?”

  “Three years,” Paul said with a sigh. “And I'm still stuck on page forty fucking eight. I feel like the ghost of James Joyce should leap up and kick me in the ass.”

  “What's holding you back?”

  “I'm not sure,” Paul said, sagging into the cushion. “Every time I try to write more, you know, to further the plot along, I get a great idea for a short that distracts me. And I can't stop that until it's finished. It's just frustrating.” John looked at him, then down at the floor. A lump rose in his throat. Paul's troubles felt so close. They were somehow familiar, yet light years away. “Maybe I'll run for congress, then sleep with one my interns. Seems like a surefire way to get publicity.” Paul paused, turned away. “Anyway, I don't expect you to understand.”

  As they pulled away, Paul turned and stared out the window, the humming lights and intimate shops of downtown New York fading into phosphorescent blurs as they neared home. John watched Paul's reflection in the window, his eyes closed but fluttering as he tried to stay awake. Even though his body was ready to fall asleep at a moment's notice, John had an itch he needed to scratch. Something that if not taken care of might prevent him from ever sleeping again.

  The taxi pulled up in front of their brownstone. John gave Mr. Singh six dollars and told him to keep the change. He found it was bad karma to stiff people—like him—whose livelihood depended on the gratuity of others.

  They trudged up the stairs, one battle-weary solider tired from a night of serving the good drink, the other from drinking it. They passed the graffiti that they'd long ago given up trying to decipher, and unlocked the heavy black door to the apartment. The ceiling fixture sputtered dramatically before deciding to turn on.

  Although John and Paul had similar tastes, their rooms coined the term 'polar opposite'. John kept his sparse, with only a few picture frames atop his small cherrywood desk. A small red carpet was the only sharp color; contrasting nicely against his gray comforter and bare white walls. Paul's room was a smorgasbord of posters, prints, and pictures that covered all but a select portion around his closet. Famous actors and actresses with their million-dollar grins stared at him as he slept. They were accompanied by an assortment of prints: Salvador Dali, Ansel Adams—and a Norman Rockwell whose price Paul refused to divulge. He had a nightstand of Yaffa blocks with piles of books three feet high strewn about haphazardly. Many were stuffed with crinkled bookmarks, indicating his inability to finish before moving on to new, perhaps more engaging material.