Based Upon Availability

by Alix Strauss

  I hate this room. It’s small and because it resides over the kitchen, it smells of something fried. Even I have to admit I look terrible. But the more I stare at my reflection, the more I see traces of Dale, and I smile because it’s the only time I feel connected to someone and for a moment all is calm and something inside me rests.

  This is my third search today. Though the hotel is completely overbooked because of the holidays, hardly anyone is in their room. Rather they’re racing about the city: tourists trying to grab a piece of the Big Apple while Manhattan-bound New Yorkers are hoping for a last bit of holiday cheer. Everyone seems to have somewhere to be: a party to attend, a romantic dinner to eat, a relative or old friend to visit, a tree to hang an ornament on.

  I shut the closet door and scan the room, making sure I’ve left it as it was fifteen minutes earlier. The two Flexeril pills I took from Mrs. J. Beere have started to take their relaxing effect. The room is cloudy and my eyes feel heavy.

  I exit, make it to the first floor, and find myself a comfy seat in the lobby. Too sedated to move, I sit like a rag doll slumped into one of our leather-bound chairs and watch people move blissfully in and out of the hotel.

  Four days later the large clock on our flat screen blinks 11:47 in neon as our guests stare at it, each waiting for the ball to descend over the drunken and uncomfortably squished crowd that presides over Times Square. Dick Clark and Ryan Seacrest are making uninteresting banter as they try to create false excitement for the midnight hour. Snow is falling. The people outside are wearing colorful, silly themed hats, shaking rattles, blowing paper noisemakers into the ears of the unlucky people standing next to them.

  The bars inside the hotel aren’t much different. Though the group is clearly more upscale, they too don the hats and hold the holiday paraphernalia. In the restaurant part, it’s an entirely different scene. The women wear evening gowns. The men are in tuxes. Toasts are being made, champagne filled flutes are lifted, music that’s upbeat but not too loud is being piped throughout the lobby. Every person here knows that tonight, at this moment, they’re part of an exclusive club—just one of the promises we make. A silent deal is understood when a guest purchases a room for the night or makes a reservation.

  The dinner is a five-course prix fixe that costs $450 per plate. In this room the necklaces and rings shine and glisten like the ball that’s due to drop any moment. Our other two dining areas, the Thai Lounge and the Garden are also packed with paying people. For many, this is the perfect way to say goodbye to Father Time and hello to Baby New Year. Past and present, old friends and ex-lovers meet for a second at the magical moment when both hands collide on the clock.

  I watch waiters remove half-eaten or picked-at plates of duck confit knowing that earlier lobster risotto and mushrooms, baby lamb loin wrapped in a mint chickpea crepe had been ingested. The last course is just being set down: fromage and raspberry-infused chocolate soufflé. Fresh fruit and special fortune cookies wishing everyone a Happy New Year are set in the middle of the table.

  In the past three weeks Lou has been resurrected, perhaps not her career, but her body is clean and momentarily drugfree. Bernard, I’ve been told—accidentally by a friend we have in common who thought I knew—is dating someone. My parents are on the first vacation they’ve taken in over fifteen years, which means they will be flying over the Western Hemisphere when I turn thirty-three next week. My calendar is relatively blank for the month of January with the exception of Trish’s gallery opening, which, ironically, falls on the date that Bernard and I were supposed to have moved in together.

  Like a reenactment from a month and a half ago I head into the restaurant, smiling warmly at the filled tables. I nod, greet a few guests, ask how their evening is or if they’ve enough champagne. I then push through the swinging doors that open into the kitchen, which is a mess of plates and food and trash. I mentally greet the moist heat, welcome the familiar banging of the pots, clanking of plates and glassware, nod an inconspicuous hello to the steam from the scorching water and the wet heat from the dishwashers. Our new chef winks as I pass by him. My eyes adjust quickly this time to the light, my body almost instinctively understands how to move to the culinary dance the kitchen is doing.

  It only takes a few seconds to find Renaldo. And I’m so relieved, so very relieved to see him standing by the sink area, his white apron on, a black basin in his hands. He is cute and young and still exudes the innocence that drew me to him. He smiles knowingly, almost seems happy to see me.

  I slide up to him, whisper into his ear that I need help reaching a jar of jam kept in the dry pantry. Would he lift it down? At this his smile widens. He rests the heavy plastic basin on the counter, then willingly follows me, as if we are old friends, which, by now, we are.

  This time there is no flipping on the light, just the dimming of it, and the sealing of the door behind me. This time nothing is hurried. There’s no tearing at buttons or the abrupt lifting of shirts over one’s head. No pulling at the strings of an apron, no look of confusion or the waiting for understanding to register on one’s face. There is, however, the gentle cupping of breasts. Of Renaldo’s hands on my ass. Of my fingers running up and down his smooth back. Of his salty-tasting tongue in my mouth. And the comfort of his familiar yet unique smell: olive oil and sweat and a hint of Old Spice. I close my eyes and breathe as if I’m wearing the brace, easily and deeply. He lifts me up onto the elongated cutting board. I have no belt, no pants that need to be unbuttoned since I’m in a black sequined dress. Special for the holiday. I run my hands under his shirt and remember how good he felt up against me. How good he feels now. How much I want to be held and touched. Bernard disappears and Trish, my mother, Lou and Honor, Vicki, Anne, even Dale momentarily say good-bye. It is just me and Renaldo. I undo his belt, undo his pants, push them down, hear them drop to the floor, feel the elastic band of his boxers. And then he’s inside me. Our bodies are moving back and forth, slowly. Easily. Yes, I think. Keep going, I mentally encourage him. I grasp his face, hold his chin, feel for his cheeks and lips to see if he is smiling. He twists his face to the left and kisses my hand on the palm side, just like before. He is so gentle, so kind. All fear is gone. I don’t care if I get caught. I don’t care if I get fired.

  My mantra is different this time, too. I will be happy. I will get better, I say under my breath. I swear to God I will. He pauses for a moment, tightens his grasp and brings me close to his body. He kisses my cheeks. I know he notices the wetness. I know he can feel my chest heaving up and down, feel me shaking. He tries kissing away the tears. I feel his tongue at my cheek as it rides up my face, as if licking away the salty sadness. He holds me like this, my arms wrapped around his neck, my legs wrapped around his waist, my dress riding up on my ass, my thong on the dirty floor.

  For a moment we hear the distant muffled hooting and shouting emanating from our tipsy guests. The sounds of the bustling kitchen, of clapping and hollering coming from outside.

  Renaldo rocks me, whispers in Spanish, and I imagine he’s sharing the story of his life, or that he’s telling me not to cry, or maybe he’s wishing me a happy fucking New Year, it doesn’t matter. His smell and voice and soft yet firm body up against mine is like a healing balm. It’s all I need.

  When we exit the pantry I walk past the kitchen staff, who are so busy they don’t notice me or that I’ve tossed my underwear into the trash. And by the time I’m back in the restaurant nodding once again to guests, and smiling like a sly fox, it’s already a New Year.

  Caterers in crisp white shirts and black pants pass out mini hors d’oeuvres. A bar has been set up by the entrance, which is already being visited by guests. A DJ is spinning electronica remixes of Billie Holiday and Sarah Vaughan off to the side at the reception desk. Trish’s gallery is filled with artists, hipsters, and Upper East Siders who mingle with fans anxious to see her famous parents and those who want to meet the artists. Heads are nodding, people are laughing, their hands holding wineglasses o
r bits of food on small black plates as they look at the purposefully placed artwork, each aligned perfectly on the white walls.

  This is the first post–New Year’s event I’ve been to. It was part of my resolutions/goal list: Meet more people. Get a full physical, put on more weight, cut back on coffee, stop drinking Red Bull, quit smoking—had a cigarette on the way over so I’m still working through that one—become more artistic and educated, and try to put my life together were part of the top ten. I’ve not spoken to Trish since my uncle died, so I’m feeling a little disconnected from her.

  As the invitation promised, three artists are being showcased at her opening. Their bios and project summaries hang on Styrofoam signs. Price sheets are available by the DJ.

  Trish looks elegant in her black dress with silver outlining the edges. Her hair is swooped up and held together with a large silver clasp. She flutters through the space greeting each guest, handshaking and grinning, looking as if she’s running for office.

  “I’m glad you came,” she says, hugging me warmly, quickly. I want to stay in the embrace a moment longer, let my body register what it feels like to he held and I remember why I like her. How sisterly and familiar she looks, even smells.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, choking back a tear. And I make a note to add “Build stronger relationship with Trish” to my goal list.

  A woman asks if she can take my coat while another offers me champagne, wine, and sparkling water.

  “You’ve done a terrific job. The place is amazing.” I say as we both reach for a glass of wine.

  “Thanks.” Her attention is fleeting as she waves to someone over by the bar. “Do you want me to introduce you around or roam on your own?”

  “I’ll take an introduction.”

  I follow Trish through the swarm of people, catching bits of dialogue here and there as the music fills the airy, spacious room. Loneliness washes over me as I look at the other guests, all of whom seem to be here with someone. “Is your friend Olive coming?”

  “She’ll be here later.”

  I nod. “And your folks?”

  “They’re being interviewed in the corner.” She points to a trendy couple talking to a man scribbling feverishly in a small notebook.”

  “Hang here for a moment, okay? I’ll be right back,” she promises, slipping away behind one of the freestanding walls and leaving me to check out the work on my own.

  Displayed on the first wall off to my right are black-and-white photos of mannequins—some are dressed, others are naked. Each is faceless and arranged in an array of positions. Some are of tan, faceless busts who sport wigs. Pieces of masking tape with someone’s name written on it with a Sharpie are placed over the mouth area.

  The second artist has done a collection of people impersonating celebrities, though men are dressed as women, women portray men. Here, a black Britney is masculine and thick. A girly Bill Clinton smiles shyly at the camera, a bunch of wilted daisies in her hand.

  The third artist commandeers the most space, consuming the two half walls that have been built specifically for the showcasing of work.

  In one of the pieces, a screaming woman’s face is in the center of the canvas. A ring, money, a miniature groom, a house made of Legos, all of which have been attached to the painting, surround her. “I want” is spelled out using pennies. I think of Bernard, that today would have found me moving in with him. That we would be leading the life most New Yorkers want: a rent-controlled apartment on the Upper West Side, both of us working at good jobs, weekends spent reading the Times in bed or at the kitchen table followed by brunch with other happy New York couples. I think about all the things I want for this year and wonder how I can possibly achieve them.

  Another collage is of two boys, perhaps brothers, who are facing one another. Medals from high school sporting events have been placed around their faces along with badges from camp or Boy Scouts, college acceptance letters from Yale and Harvard, a report card or two, and CPR certificates. Underneath, the words “Mother’s Favorite?” have been spelled out using stickers in the shape of newborns.

  I finish my glass of wine and trade it for a fresh one when I see the caterer pass by. Goals are easier to achieve drunk. While waiting for Trish to return, I read the artist’s bio: Gage Paulson uses objects he’s found on the street, oil paint, and photographs he’s taken along with other material to create disturbing, yet character-like versions of people while making statements on society.

  I twist around and find Trish and a broad man dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and leather jacket standing behind me.

  “What do you think?” he says. His face is leathery, like Lou’s, and I think perhaps I should have called and invited her to this. Or Anne. She’s been on my list of people to reconnect with as well. His hair is thick and wavy. He’s got a few days’ worth of stubble and he seems to take up a tremendous amount of space.

  “Morgan, this is Gage, the artist.”

  When we shake hands, his grip is forceful and tight. His eyes are dark and there’s an inner nastiness about him that penetrates through his artistic persona. He smells of arrogance and narcissism.

  “Your work is really dimensional,” I say.

  “Most people find it disturbing.”

  “Sure, it’s disturbing too.”

  His smile widens. I glance at Trish, who rolls her eyes.

  “I’m going to keep lapping,” she says. “Pontificate amongst yourselves.”

  “So,”—I continue, draining my glass, annoyed that Trish would leave me with him—“how long does it take to complete one of these?”

  “A few months. I work on several at a time. The hardest part is finding the right concept, followed by the exact objects that depict the person or situation.”

  He points to the photo closest to the window. “This one’s my favorite.”

  I step up a notch to champagne, switching glassware once more, as I give my attention to painting number three.

  The piece is of a woman screaming. Ghoulish and ghastly, her face is twisted, her dull eyes are exaggerated, her mouth is open, and it looks as if she’s screaming. A Sweet’N Low packet and straw, personal e-mail ads, and a bottle top from a beer are stuck to a painted canvas. The leprechaun from the Lucky Charms cereal box and the letters from the word “lucky” cut up in pieces have been glued and the words “A charmed life” are written in green. Pennies and horseshoes and other superstitious items are stuck to the painting as well. And then I see it. Anne’s bracelet. The one she feels naked without, the one she lost. I look at Gage. He’s smirking, eyes squinty. Then I glance back at the photo, see the words “Anne’s Achilles’ heel” written underneath. I’m flushed with confusion. My mind races as I try connecting how he knows her. I reel back to the concierges’ meeting with Julia, Cecile, and Anne when she told us about the Internet guy. I think about how devastated she was at the loss. Anger seeps through my thick disorientation. Doesn’t he know how much she loves that? How dare he take that from her. My head feels as if it might explode with questions. The air has left my mouth and I can feel my heart throbbing. A dizzying effect takes over. The electronica music is pumping in my ears, loud and stifling. I search for Trish, want to physically move away from the man leering at me. Want to leave the party.

  I retreat from Gage and head toward the front door with the intention of getting my coat when I see Anne enter the gallery. She’s trailing behind a man who’s introducing her to a group of people. She’s already shaking another guest’s hand, her mouth already forming the words, “Nice to meet you, too,” when she sees me.

  I keep moving toward her while scanning the room, this time faster, desperate to find Trish when another figure catches my eye. Slim with soft features and long hair and I know from the body, from the very cut of her shadow, it’s my sister. I swear to God it’s Dale. Suddenly, Marty is here, too, standing next to her in a suit and tie. And I can’t tell who’s real and who’s not. I find Trish but she’s talking to a group of
people who look important. I gaze at the photo of Anne, then back to the woman who entered just to make sure it’s the same person. I want to move faster but the room is spinning. I want to run to the real Anne and tell her not to look. I want to save her from the work, the way I wanted to save Lou, the way I wanted to save my sister who, after several glasses of liquor, seems to be following me. And I want my mother. I want my mother like I’ve never wanted her before. I want to apologize for everything. Everything that was her fault and for the things that weren’t. For them not going to every doctor. For not trying every possible medication. For them waiting too long. And I want Bernard here, too. Want to tell him it was me. He wasn’t too much man, but perhaps I wasn’t enough woman.

  I stare at Anne. Recognition starts when she glances my way. But then I see her eyes move from me to the wall. Her eyes grow wide. Her mouth drops open as her face contorts into sheer horror—mirroring herself in the photo. We both look to Gage and it clicks, he’s the one she dated from the Internet. The finder of objects.

  Gage begins to clap. Loud and sharp. “Well, well. What a surprise. One of my muses has shown. Ain’t it a small world.”

  The room becomes silent. The music stops. People turn their heads toward her, their hands filled with mini plates and champagne glasses. Their eyes swell, their expressions register an array of different emotions: confusion, surprise, fright, pity. Then Anne is screaming, gut-wrenching and injured. “I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.”

  They are the same words Honor used several weeks ago in Lou’s room. They are the same words I utter every fucking morning of my life when I hit the alarm and realize another day is ahead of me.

  She begins to walk toward Gage, tears streaming down her cheeks, when something bright reflects off her face. She turns away from him and looks out the window to see where the light is coming from. A loud booming sound of a truck or something whooshes by outside. And then she’s moving. Running. And I no longer want to stop her, but join. Want to follow, freefall with Anne. Tell her not to leave without me. I want to beckon Dale to grab hold of my arm and sail out the window with me as well.