by Tash Skilton
I shut off Clifford’s message (right after I hear him say, “Ruh-Roh! Mayday! Mayday!”) and pace the length of my $4,000-a-month room. I only take six steps before I’m forced to turn around.
This is bad. This is really bad.
I scroll through my address book, and pause at Aisha’s name. I need to vent about Clifford, and who better? She’ll understand like no one else. But then I hesitate.
A) It’s Friday night; she’s probably out.
B) If I let on what a big pile of fail I am at my job, she’ll never refer me to her other company.
I scroll further and tap call.
“Starry Eyes Retirement, Ruby speaking.”
“Hi Ruby,” I say, trying to sound cheerful over the lump in my throat. “Is my grandma around? It’s Zoey.”
“It’s Friday, so she’s at karaoke bingo tonight. Want me to have her call you back? It won’t be until eleven . . .”
“No, that’s okay . . . Tell her I hope she wiped the floor with Doris.”
I hang up and stare at the walls of my apartment. My eighty-year-old grandmother has more of a social life than I do. I’m happy for her—she deserves it—but I miss her and I miss my old self, the self I used to be, when things made sense and my schedule never deviated.
Wake at six, breakfast in front of the TV, take the 10 to the 405 to the 101, work with Mary all day, take the 101 to the 405 to the 10, home, dinner in front of the TV (unless I stayed late and had dinner with Mary), asleep by eleven, repeat.
If I didn’t get out much, it didn’t matter; in Los Angeles, there were always people around. I never had to think about it. Nick the weed dealer and I could sneak off alone whenever he dropped by Mary’s, so it wasn’t like I needed to date. Mary herself threw house parties constantly, and included me as a guest, not an employee. I was always welcome. Part of the group. Never looked down upon.
Maybe that’s what my fear of NYC is all about. Here, I feel unwelcome.
Now I have way too much time on my hands and no one to share it with.
Okay. Let’s think. What would Mary say about tonight’s events?
There’s one surefire way to find out. It’s only six p.m. in California, not that that’s good or bad; arbitrary concepts like “time” don’t mean much to Mary.
A voice picks up on the fourth ring.
“Mary, Fuck, Kill, how may I direct your call?” says a smooth male voice.
Stunned, I hang up. My heart beats triple time in my chest. I feel light-headed, and my arms and fingers tingle, the way they always did after a ten-hour day typing. I’m having phantom tendinitis pains from a job I haven’t held in months.
Tears fill my eyes. I’m so stupid. I should have known.
She’s replaced me.
She’s replaced me with someone who doesn’t choke on the name of the company.
I wipe my eyes and shake my head. She told me I was the best assistant she ever had, and I guess I thought that meant she wouldn’t be using an assistant anymore. That after me, she’d just, I don’t know, muddle through or something. Focus on adapting her memoir for the stage like she’d always planned to.
Talk about ridiculous. I was her assistant, not her partner, even if she did ask my opinion on the scripts and let me pitch jokes. Just because she gave me an associate title, just because she sent her car service around to pick me up when I had the flu so she could look after me in her guest room and feed me matzo ball soup from Canter’s Deli, and just because she took me and Nana to Catalina Island for Nana’s birthday, and just because I thought . . . I thought . . .
Okay, get a grip.
After answering her correspondence for eight years and editing her dictation, you know her almost better than you know herself. So. What would Mary say about Bree? Probably something along the lines of, “When life hands you lemons, make Amaretto Sours.”
Preach. I don’t have the ingredients for that, but I do have half a bottle of week-old Riesling. I yank the fridge open and take a fortifying chug straight out of the bottle. It shivers sweetly all the way down. Mask of bravery in place, I FaceTime Bree. I feel no shame or guilt. It’s after hours, so I’m not bothering her at work, and she owes me an explanation.
Bree appears on my screen, looking chagrined. “I’m sorry,” she squeals. “Hiiiiii.”
“Hi,” I answer, stone-faced. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“Are you in trouble? I’m sorry about the survey, but it kept popping up on my screen and the only way to get rid of it was to fill it out. Besides, it was the truth! That date sucked complete ass.”
As opposed to partial ass? “You know, Bree,” I say slowly, so I don’t explode, “I’m honestly surprised to hear that. Can you walk me through it, please? I want to understand what went wrong.”
“He doesn’t eat. He only wanted to drink, which you knew was a deal-breaker for me. It could not have been more awk. And he didn’t even, like, register the frigging unbelievable accuracy of my hair. I DON’T DO IT FOR EVERYONE, YOU KNOW.”
“Yet I can’t help but notice you seem to have put it up that way again.” My teeth are clenched so tightly it’s a miracle she can tell what I’m saying.
She sniffs and lightly touches her coif, half of it off-screen. “There’s a Blu-ray party at midnight tonight,” she responds huffily. “It’s a re-release of the director’s cut with eighteen seconds of never-before-seen footage.”
“Okay. I’m sorry it went poorly, I really am. Did you . . .” I close my eyes briefly. “Find another ghostwriter?”
“No,” she says. “I didn’t know that I could.”
“You can’t,” I say quickly. Not until next week, Clifford said. I still have a chance to turn this around. “I get that you’re mad, and I apologize profusely for misjudging what would happen. Was there anything you did like about him? Anything we can work with?”
“He’s ripped,” she admitted. “And he’s got great eyes, and a killer accent . . .”
I can’t help smiling. I bet he does. “Oh, yeah?”
“I think he felt bad that he bombed so hard because he sent me something this morning.”
I brighten. “Was it flowers? A note? Can I see?”
“There’s nothing to see. You can hear it, though. It’s an audio file. I only listened to the beginning, because it looks long.”
“Doyouwantmetolistentoitforyou?” I sputter.
If she says yes, I’m still her ghostwriter. If she says yes, I can still make rent. Besides, I’d like to hear his “killer accent” for myself.
She shrugs. “I guess . . .”
“I’ll report back in the morning, okay? Send it over and have fun with your . . . um, new eighteen seconds of film—oh, and you might be locked out of Game, Set, Match for a while, but I’m on top of it.”
“Should we maybe just start over? Find a new match? This is exhausting.”
I pretend I don’t hear. “I’ll fill you in first thing tomorrow—or, should I give you until noon so you can sleep in?”
“Noon’s good.”
“ ’Kthanksbye!”
The file arrives and I download it to my phone and put my earbuds in.
There are so many ways of communicating online. Facebook, Twitter, IMs, DMs, chatrooms, match services, IG, text, and all they seem to do is increase the distance between us. In that respect, recording one’s voice for a private listening session seems almost . . . quaint.
I love it.
* * *
“Right. Okay. So, I’ve always been a fan of those articles in airplane magazines, the ones that do a spread on a city, with an article about ‘Three Perfect Days in Toronto’ and that. I don’t fly often, mostly just to Glasgow and back every other year, but I always take the magazines home with me. I like to think I’ve amassed a collection so if I ever do find myself in certain cities, I’ll have a plan in place, a perfect three days. And I got to thinking, in New York City, every neighborhood, every single one, has its own vibe, something about it that’s unli
ke any other neighborhood. I wish someone would put together a guide to them, a microcosm version—one perfect day. But so far, I don’t think anyone has, so I thought I’d take a crack at it. My contribution to this is a walking tour that starts in Hell’s Kitchen but takes you to my favorite place in all of New York. If all goes well, I hope it shows you something that you haven’t noticed before. And if you end up loving this place as much as I do, maybe we could check it out together sometime.”
Oh, mama. His accent IS delicious.
It’s my second time listening to the recording. I’m lying in bed, lights out, eyes closed, window open a crack, letting Jude’s words pour over me as night envelops the city.
“So, without further ado”—he chuckles endearingly—“welcome to Hell’s Kitchen. Let’s start our morning with a trip to Holey Cream on Ninth Avenue. What better way to begin the day than building your own doughnut, right? Don’t skimp on the toppings—that’s the best part. And be sure to order some ice cream on the side . . .”
His voice lulls me into a sense of peace. It’s after midnight and I’m drifting on a cloud of contentment.
For the first time since I arrived in New York, the tear that slides down my cheek is one of happiness.
* * *
I’m still glowing the next day, Saturday, because Jude’s favorite place in all of New York is close to my apartment, only ten blocks away! The High Line apparently runs along the Hudson River, the area I’d made a mental note to explore after my taxi went past it on the way to Porchlight the other week. With a “companion” guiding me, this’ll be a snap.
It’s seven a.m. and I’m dressed in yoga pants, a sports bra, and a tank top, the unofficial uniform of LA. I’m pumped. I’m elated.
I’m out of shape.
I learned from listening to Jude last night that the High Line park opens right now, and it’s invigorating to know I’ll be one of the early risers taking advantage of it. After exiting my apartment, I stretch my arms and legs out, and head toward Gansevoort Street in the Meatpacking District. Jude claims that’s the best entrance from which to experience the High Line.
Eventually, it dawns on me I’ve gotten turned around. In fact, I’ve walked in the complete wrong direction and now I’m on Avenue B. The place I’m supposed to be is now eleven blocks away, not ten, and it’s eleven avenues, not blocks. Turns out avenues are not the same as blocks. Turns out avenues are about the size of five blocks. I’ll have to walk an hour just to get to the beginning of the tour!
I curse at myself, then take a deep breath and remember it’s my first time actively exploring the neighborhood, and that anything I see today is more than I’ve seen since I came here, which can only be good. I grit my teeth and march up to Fourteenth Street. I pass Union Square Park and the New School, and I’m glad I take a moment there to stop and catch my breath because the windows look like rippling liquid. I snap a photo—my first tourist photo!—take a big swig of water, and continue on my way, renewed.
At last I’m at the “proper” entrance to the High Line, and Jude’s voice is waiting for me there, like armor protecting me. I pop my earbuds in, fire up the recording, and tune out the noises and chaos. Jude regales me with a brief history of the elevated railway, and the effort to “save” it in 2000 and turn it into a public space in 2009. The history fascinates me. From its beginnings as a train line to an elevated promenade, this place speaks highly of the locals and their desire to preserve a worthy piece of history by renovating the industrial area into a mixed-use park.
The biking and jogging trail widens or shrinks along the water, depending on what else shares the space. It’s relaxing and breathtaking all at once. I’m not impressed with the Standard Hotel (LA’s is better), but I’m pleasantly surprised by all the artwork along the walk, from sculptures to murals and mosaics. No need to go inside art galleries when so much is free and visible to those of us passing by. There’s even a project called Mutations scattered on video screens throughout the walk that warms my LA heart.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever have kids, but if I do, I’m taking them to the Pershing Square Beams,” Jude’s voice intones, leading me on a detour. “In fact, the Pershing Square Beams might be the only reason to have kids. Basically, they scooped out the concrete deck so people can see the original steel beams and frames and walk on them.”
It’s impossible to resist, and soon I find myself taking part, testing my balance along the beams of the sunken, rectangular gridwork, between which sit little gardens.
It’s delightful, and I’m so enthralled by Jude’s voice, his calm reassurance and the effort he put into the tour, that I don’t even notice I’ve walked a mile and a half by the end of it. Now I’ve got to walk back, ugh . . . Yet the smile on my face never drops.
I’m rewarded by a snack he suggests at an Israeli joint called Seed + Mill at the Chelsea Market. They specialize in Nutella halvah, aka my new favorite dish.
When I get home, I shower and check the time—it’s only eleven thirty, so I can’t call Bree yet. I’m antsy, waiting for the minutes to pass. I’m also unnerved by how much I enjoyed listening to Jude, and pretending his tour was for me, and not her. How on earth could Bree abandon it after just a few minutes? Why wasn’t she riveted? Or at the very least, more appreciative?
12:01 p.m. and I’m FaceTiming her again. She looks tired when she answers; want to bet she watched the new eighteen seconds on a loop all night? (Like I’m one to talk, having listened to the walking tour on repeat . . .)
“You’ve got to give him another chance,” I tell her, cutting to the chase.
“Are you sure? Because, like, the part I listened to was a tour of my own block. I mean, it was fine, but I live here. I know the area well, I don’t need a—”
“But the effort! The time! You have to admit that someone who goes to all that trouble deserves a second chance.”
She purses her lips and wrinkles her nose, and for a split second of insanity, I pray that she’ll disregard my advice. She really doesn’t deserve him, if she’s that uncertain.
But then she smiles and nods. “Okay, you’re right. Let’s set up another meet.”
“Great! Yes.”
We chat a little more before I end the call. I flop backward onto my couch bed, knowing I should be happy, I should feel relaxed, rejuvenated, and recharged, but the truth is I’m experiencing my own version of the three Rs: relief, regret, and resignation.
CHAPTER 11
MILES
I can pretend that Leanne’s memo is the main reason I went so many unpaid hours beyond Jude’s TITMH package to write that walking tour. Or that I felt threatened that Stella would take over the only staff writing position Leanne can afford right now. But the truth is I started working on it before the memo even came through.
The day after that disaster of a date, I took myself to Bree’s neighborhood and self-assigned a leisurely stroll, making a voice memo of places of interest as I did. I kept my eyes peeled because that was exactly the point: to show her something she might not have noticed before the tour. Not because I was keeping an eye out for the recipient of the tour herself. Of course not.
But I was a little unnerved at how intently I seemed to not be looking for her. Or how every flash of blond hair made me do a double take. Which was why once I had a solid idea of what I wanted to include, I took myself to Café Crudité to write out the actual script.
It took me two days to do it, mainly because I was interrupted by another new client—Clark—and had to go through his questionnaire and set up an initial meeting with him. Though at one point, another flash of blond hair at the café distracted me too.
But it wasn’t Bree. It was my nemesis au lait, whose hair isn’t even fully blond at all, but a confounding mixture of dark and light which—given the very little I know about her—actually seems somewhat appropriate. It was starting to get weird that I didn’t know her name, since she had become such a fixture of my time here. But I couldn’t very well go
up and ask her now. “Hi, I’m Miles. Would you mind telling me your name? My inner monologue is running out of clever nicknames for you. By the way, has anyone ever told you your dimples are an exact fifty-fifty ratio of sexy and sweet? Thanks!”
She did, unknowingly, give me a little motivation for the tour though. I thought of how she didn’t know the city at all, about how disdainful she seemed of it in our brief interactions, and I got inspired to make it lead to the High Line. It was my absolute favorite place in the city, the place I thought could make even Legend fall in love with New York. Especially once Jude got his hands on it. Or, er, tongue around it. Together, we really were the perfect man. Perfect for Bree, anyway.
Jude was a pretty good sport about the tour. He delivered the file back to me within a few hours and I got the honor of sending it along to Bree.
And then we . . . waited. I figured it would take her a while to listen to it. Maybe she wouldn’t have time during working hours. But then five o’clock rolled around. And then six. By midnight, Jude’s Game, Set, Match inbox was still empty.
Hmph.
I wasn’t super panicked about Leanne’s new policy of docking our pay if a second money-back guarantee comes through.
But, by the next day, I’m a little panicked about it.
Especially when I get home in the afternoon to a notice taped up on Dylan and Charles’s door. At first, I think it might be a take-out menu (which, I admit, I get a little excited about. I’ve been in a bit of a rut with my dinners lately). But then I see it’s yet another classified section of the Metro newspaper, with every available apartment circled in a particularly violent slash of thick red marker.
Honestly, now I’m pissed.
I get it. I’ve been invading Charles’s space. But I feel like I deserve a little credit for trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. And it’s not like I want to be here. It’s not like it was my choice to get kicked out of the apartment I shared with my ex-fiancée. Or to find my job in such a precarious position. Has Charles truly never been down and out? And if he has, hasn’t he had some kind person—maybe even what some would call a friend—help him get back on his feet?