Choose Your Own Disaster

by Dana Schwartz

  The next day, you and your friend Maddi meet Rory and his mate Cameron at Borough Market near the Tate Modern. Cameron is classically handsome, like that actor from The O.C.—Benjamin McKenzie. As he and Maddi shake hands, Rory makes eye contact with you and raises his eyebrows.

  “I think we’re meeting Jono and Claire in a bit,” Rory says as the four of you weave between tables laden with homemade nougat and gourmet kimchi carts. “We can meet them up by the National Theatre.” Rory and Cameron both consult a group text chain in their phones, labeled “The Gang.” You just follow, dumbfounded, as, in less than an hour, Rory materializes a group of friends on the South Bank of London.

  Claire is a graphic designer, with shiny hair and a round face that reminds you of a woodland fairy. “Oh, we’ve got to get Jono to come meet us,” she says while the now five of you browse DVDs in the gift shop of a small film museum you’ve ducked into. Jono, you learn, is a bit like the gang’s paternal figure, the benevolent force upon which friendships revolve. And so you’re a little surprised when he arrives—grinning and bearded, with dark shaggy hair and an infinite supply of witty things to say, less of a mob boss and more of a very, very friendly dog in human form.

  “You drink Pimm’s?” Claire asks. You’ve never had it. “We have to get Pimm’s. And then…hmm…what else is there for us to do?”

  “South Bank book fair,” Rory says.

  “Ooh, and Borough Market,” says Jono.

  “We’ve already been there,” says Cameron.

  “All right, so we’ll get some Pimm’s outside the Tate—you two have been to the Tate Modern already, right? All right, good—and then the book tables,” Claire says.

  “Does that sound okay?” Rory asks you.

  Yes, that all sounds really, really wonderful.

  You spend the rest of the afternoon feeling as though you’ve dropped into a sitcom, a British sitcom in which four best friends who easily meet up anywhere in the city go on endless adventures together and build up an endless supply of infinite jokes. That was always the most unbelievable part of television shows to you—not the comically large apartments in New York City, or the designer wardrobes, or the perfect hair, or the revolving door of love interests: It’s the friendships, that four or more adults can link their lives together so fully they become like family, never torn apart by moving away or someone getting a new significant other and spending the next six months in hibernation with them.

  It’s not as though you don’t have friends, but spending too much time even with your closest friends from high school sometimes leaves you feeling desperate for a retreat back into solitude. Your friends in college were diverse and disparate. You always had someone to hang out with when you needed it, but there wasn’t a group in which your inclusion was always a given. Rory and The Gang have been friends for years: Their anecdotes each have a different permutation of members involved but no one is the odd man out. They’re all fully carded members of this circle they’ve created for themselves. They are all in the group chat.

  At dinner that night, drunk on Pimm’s and the subsequent bottle of wine, and on attention and the feeling of unqualified acceptance, you attempt a British accent. Terribly. “It’s hard!” you say. “I feel like I can’t do just the normal British accent that you all have. It’s like in my head all Brits fall into one of two categories. There’s the”—and here you lapse into an almost offensive Dick Van Dyke cockney stereotype—“‘Oh, I’m a cockney chimney sweep! Tuppence, guv’na?’ and then there’s the fancy people, like ‘Oh, go sip your tea, Madam Queen.’”

  “SIP YOUR TEA, MADAM QUEEN!” the rest of the table shouts, and erupts into laughter.

  “Sip your tea, Madam Queen!” Claire roars.

  “Or is it a command?” Cameron asks. “Like, you’re telling the queen to sip her tea: ‘Sip your tea, Madam Queen, if you wouldn’t mind.’”

  “I think the thing we’re missing here,” Rory says, “is that no one actually calls the queen ‘Madam Queen.’”

  “I do,” you say.

  And you all start laughing again until your cheeks hurt and you wish you could spend the rest of the summer pretending that you’re one of them, that you share all of the memories and were present for all of the stories.

  You remind yourself that your admission into The Gang is only a visitor’s pass, as the girl that Rory went on a Tinder date with and her friend. Even if you stayed in London, it would only be a matter of time before you faded out and away. That’s the terrible thing about friendship, real camaraderie friendship that feels like family—it’s not something that can be achieved like a level-up in a video game. It’s something you constantly earn, over and over again, by virtue of just being yourself and somehow meeting the ephemeral criteria.

  But when you create your first inside joke with The Gang, you feel good enough. Claire changes the name of the group chat: SIP YOUR TEA MADAM QUEEN. All caps. It’s what she labels the album on Facebook where she’ll post the picture of you, caught mid-word but still smiling, because you had been smiling all day.

  You and Rory will stay in touch, and you’ll flirt and text and email your writing back and forth for months, a year, after you meet. Once, you will sing and play the guitar over Skype while he accompanies you on glockenspiel and secretly you’ll imagine a version of your story in which you and Rory end up together. You’ll imagine loving him, and you like how it fits. But you only talk in words on a screen anymore, and then, one day, both of you will meet someone else and fall in love for real and will have to tell the other person, a stranger across the ocean who you were never actually dating, that you’re actually with someone else now. Whatever flame you two had, whatever nonrelationship, will be quietly folded and put away in the linen closet.

  When you get back to the hostel that night, you have an email from someone at CBS. Remember that internship you applied for at The Late Show with Stephen Colbert? The one you wrote the gut-wrenchingly earnest cover letter for, practically prostrating yourself before the human resources intern assigned to sort through the messages from hundreds of similarly desperate college students?

  Well, you got an interview. Can you be in New York in a week to come to the studio?

  This internship, even the interview, is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But then again, so is this trip to Europe. How long will it be before you get the chance to see Florence? Or Istanbul? Or Edinburgh? You were going to Edinburgh next. You need to decide your entire future now, at eleven o’clock at night, in the lobby of a London hostel where a group of strangers are laughing and smoking and drinking in a foreign language on the stairs a few steps away. You could call home, ask your mom or dad for their opinion, or ask Maddi, but what is anyone going to say that’s going to be more important than the single most terrifying truth of all: You should do what you want.

  So make up your mind, goddammit.

  A. Book a flight back to the States for the interview. What’s another European city of cheap hostels and cheaper beer? Just find a corner in the hostel kitchen where there’s enough Wi-Fi to get you onto the Internet, and book a flight to New York City. You can stay on your friend Sarah’s couch—she’s still in New York for the summer. Your suitcase is already packed. What’s the point of being spontaneous if you can’t change your plans?

  Turn here.

  B. Finish your trip. You’re already here. When else in your life are you ever going to get the chance to tour through Europe with no commitments or responsibilities? If you go back and get a job now, that’s it; this part of your life is over. It means you have a job now (even if it’s a cool job) and you’ll have a job until you retire. Hope you had fun being an unproductive member of society while it lasted.

  Turn here.

  It’s a fairy-tale city, like there should be enchanted dwarves poking their heads out from beneath the sunny stones and iron banisters. Your taxi charges up steep inclines, weaving between ancient tilted buildings and sprawling parks and at every turn, at every
new vista, you and Maddi look at each other with disbelief, delirious with the beauty of the city, with exhaustion from traveling.

  The taxi sputters to a stop on a cobblestone street, just above the Royal Mile, where you can see the castle perched on a craggy hill in the distance. This is your hostel, with an iron entry sign hanging outside the door. Everything is already incredible.

  The boy at the check-in desk doesn’t look at you. He’s on his phone, floppy hair over his eyes. “You guys checking in?” he says when he finally notices two exhausted girls in front of him, towing suitcases. His accent is Australian, and he has the whitest teeth you’ve ever seen.

  “Uh, yeah,” you say. “Should be three nights, under ‘Schwartz.’”

  When he hears your accent, the boy grins like a fox. “Americans, huh?”

  “And you’re…Australian?” you ask. His looks and hostel job make it immediately obvious to you that this is a boy who frequently beds tourists. One of the perks, you imagine, of working in hospitality. Still, he’s very cute.

  “Right, so here’s your room key, third floor. Bring your laundry to the front desk if you want it done. We have a sitting room around the corner and”—he gestures to a poster—“there’s a pub crawl tomorrow night.” You and Maddi swipe your credit cards, take the keys, and head through the lobby, giving each other a look that says, He seemed kind of sleazy, but definitely cute, right?

  You wonder if all Edinburgh hostels look like this. Are there wooden benches that resemble props from Game of Thrones and suits of armor in the hallway? Is there a kitchen, and movie theater, and a massive living area with couches and pool tables? This seems to be a place where people stay long-term. Someone explains you can book your room by the week and that if you take on cleaning shifts, they discount your rate. You offhandedly wonder how difficult it would be to uproot your life and stay here forever. Nagging words like family and job and expensive flights keep the thought from nestling permanently in your brain.

  You and Maddi drag your luggage up two flights of stairs and enter your room. It contains about a dozen bunk beds, each in various states of use. A few people are napping; some are reading; some beds are still empty. The two of you find the beds you were assigned and wrestle your luggage into the corresponding locker. And then you look out the window and see the castle again, framed by the sunset, high on the hill that’s half greenery and half stone. You’ve never slept in a room with a better view in your life.

  The two of you head downstairs to the lounge area‚ where most people are engrossed in what appear to be personal and very important conversations.

  You and Maddi look for an empty corner to sit in, maybe to begin researching what exactly you’re supposed to do in Edinburgh, when you see one boy at an empty table, examining a bottle of whiskey.

  You can tell he’s American. You’ve picked up this skill after a few weeks of traveling, distinguishing between Australians, Canadians, Englishmen, Americans, Germans, based on the way someone stands or the way they’re dressed. This boy exudes an almost pornographic familiarity.

  “Where are you from?” you ask, already anticipating the answer: America.

  “Chicago,” he says, looking up from the bottle of whiskey at the two girls approaching him and smiling.

  “Us too!” Maddi says. It’s one thing to meet an American, with whom you immediately feel like teammates against the rest of the world, but someone from the same city, or even the same state, when you’re thousands of miles away means automatic family.

  “Where in Chicago?” you ask. You’re from Chicago, too, as long as whoever you’re talking to isn’t actually from Chicago, in which case you’re from Highland Park, a suburb some thirty miles north of the city proper.

  “Buffalo Grove,” he says. Another suburb.

  “We’re Highland Park.”

  “Oh, cool,” he says. “Hey, you guys want to try some of this stuff?” He gestures to the stout amber bottle sitting across from him. “My friend and I bought it up in the Highlands when we were touring there yesterday.” You can’t help but size him up—he would’ve been cute by hostel traveling standards, but knowing he’s American knocks that down a few points. He’s tall but broad, with fluffy hair that makes him look taller, and brown eyes. A tattoo peeks out from beneath one of his shirtsleeves.

  “My name’s Bill, by the way,” he offers.

  Who would choose to go by Bill if they’re not yet a thirty-nine-year-old divorcé? Bill is a name for car salesmen and stepfathers. If you have the choice to go by anything else, and you always do, you don’t go by Bill. Even—yes—Billy is better if you’re not a middle-aged man. But no. His name is Bill.

  He pours three small glasses and gestures for the two of you to take them.

  You take a polite sip. “I’m not sure I’m worth this expensive stuff because I almost definitely will not appreciate it.”

  If Bill was put off by your admission of ignorance, he doesn’t show it. He continues to sip his glass of whiskey like he’s taking Holy Communion, eyes closed, nose up, savoring every note.

  The Australian who’d been working at the front desk enters the lounge area and scans over you and Maddi, settling his eyes on your friend. She meets his eye contact, and then gives you a look like, What? He’s cute; we’re traveling. You become aware of the bulge of flesh around your waistband and wonder if you could have done something about your appearance to make the Australian desk guy look at you.

  You turn to Bill. “So what does your tattoo mean?” you say, invoking a Cosmo Sex Tip and gently touching the bird on his forearm to show him you’re interested. His build—tall and wide but not overweight, as if his natural resting state is building a log cabin by hand—reminds you of a boy in your literary fraternity who you loved for one day in college, a boy who spent the night in your dorm room smiling into your ear and the next morning told you he was planning on asking out someone else.

  Bill lets your fingers linger on his skin and smiles.

  “It’s a falcon. My dad has the same tattoo.”

  Maddi has already pulled out her phone, ignoring her glass of whiskey, foot tapping and ready to get out and explore the city, but you stay engaged for just a little bit longer. “That is really, really cool. Look, we’re going to go out exploring and stuff, but maybe I’ll catch you later?”

  He bobs his head, almost agreeing but not quite. “Sure.”

  As you and Maddi fling yourselves out of the hostel and onto the cobblestones of the Royal Mile, she rolls her eyes. “Leave it to us to travel around the world and still meet a random weirdo from the Chicago suburbs.”

  You spend the morning huffing your way up one of the winding dirt paths to the top of Arthur’s Seat, attempting to ignore the joggers high-kneeing their way ahead of you, swift and sweatless, while you drag your feet in what could only be described as a locomotive dirge while your lungs convulse for air.

  But you make it to the top, and you see the city sprawl out under a churning, overcast sky, and you take a thousand pictures and then exhale and begin your uncoordinated descent.

  The two of you dare each other to sip a single can of Irn-Bru a waiter laughingly brought to your table when he heard you were tourists who’d never tried it before. Through pursed lips, you identify the flavor: bubble gum. You leave the can, still full of bubbling orange liquid, on top of a trash can and follow a chalkboard sign to a restaurant serving a drink that appeals more to your American tastes: hot chocolate gelato floats.

  By the time you return to the hostel, your hair is a halo of frizz and your sports bra is cutting into the flesh of your rib cage. “I desperately need a shower,” you say.

  “I desperately need a twelve-hour nap,” Maddi replies.

  “Pub crawl tonight!” the Australian guy pitches in from behind the front desk.

  You and Maddi look at each other. You didn’t come all the way to Scotland to turn down opportunities to drink.

  Your memories of the rest of the night blink in and out
of your mind like a strobe light. There the two of you are, following the group of tourists down a few streets to a bar that promises five-pound drinks to those of you with wristbands. There’s Maddi flirting with the Australian. There’s the Australian flirting with another tourist girl. There’s you, shouting over the music that he’s a piece of shit and that she can do so much better than him, and she’s only attracted to him because he’s there, not because he’s actually all that cute. Then there’s a second bar—one half empty, with a live band playing ’80s rock covers, and then a third bar, this one outside and massive, with rows of long wooden tables like a biergarten. This one is crowded—you’ve lost Maddi but you’ve found a group of guys, all six foot or taller, all wearing kilts. And then you’re holding a vodka soda and you find Maddi again and she’s also found the group of guys who turn out to be a rowing team from Wales having a bachelor party of some sort, and then there’s Maddi making out with the cutest one, the best man, and making me promise I’ll be able to get back to the hostel safely alone because she wants to hang out with him a little longer, back at his place.

  The strobe light effect ends there, and you’re walking through the cobblestone streets, a map up on your phone but not really needing it—your hostel is at the top of the Royal Mile, just to the right of the castle. It’s easy to find from almost anywhere in the city once you get your bearings, even when you’re tipsy.

  Bill is still in the lounge, as if he’s never left. “Hey,” you say, and he understands completely. You are immediately sitting on his lap, arms around his neck, making out.

  “Let’s go somewhere more private.” His hand is around your waist and he leads you to the showers on the second floor—a white-tiled room that echoes only with the odd drip of water. He closes the stall door behind you and now, under the fluorescent lights, you’re struck with the awareness that you’re completely sober, and yet still here, with a stranger, in a hostel bathroom. “What’s your last name?” you ask desperately.