Mark would probably run screaming once he woke up and got a good look at me in the sunshine. That was fine with me. I had a Law & Order marathon to watch and wine to drink. No need for him to linger and ruin my Sunday.
“Good morning,” he cooed with a big smile when I walked back into the bedroom. My God, his teeth were straight and lightbulb white. He reached his arms over his head, stretched the length of his body, and moaned in a way that seemed awfully comfortable for a guy in a total stranger’s bed. Where were confusion, shame, and the signature male impulse to get the hell out? With this guy there was no scrambling for his clothes or fumbling his way to the front door. Instead he looked at me with the cozy face of a man who was perfectly happy right where he was. “How are you?” he purred.
“I’m fine,” I answered, still standing in the doorway. I’m fine. It was astonishing how many times a day that lie tumbled from my mouth.
Mark pulled the covers away from my side of the bed and patted the mattress. “Come back to bed,” he said.
Was he serious? The place smelled like a hotel suite after a bachelor party, and I looked like the hooker who’d forgotten that her shift was over.
“That’s OK,” I said with a shrug. “I’m kind of awake now.” Should I say I need to run to the drugstore? If I don’t come back for a couple of hours, will he take the hint?
“OK,” he said, still smiling. Wow, he was happy in the morning. To my relief, he sat up and started pulling his jeans on. I was dying to ask how old he was and what he did for a living, but he must have told me that the night before. Anything told to me after five o’clock blew from my mind like jet fuel from an F-14.
As he pulled on his navy blue polo shirt, he said, “I could really use some coffee. Do you want to grab breakfast?” He did another big stretch, arms overhead and back bent. He was shorter than I remembered.
“You know what? I’d love to, but I have to work today and I really should get started. It’s already nine-thirty!”
“No problem. I’ll get going,” he said, pulling on his Puma sneakers. “I’ve got stuff to do for school today, too.”
Oh my God. A fucking student? Please let him at least be a PhD candidate who came late to education.
“Oh, what are you working on?” There was a good chance I should have known the answer, but it was more reasonable to forget about a project than the fact that he was a student. Why was I starting a conversation when I needed another drink?
“Just an assignment for one of my finance classes. I’m working with a group, so we’re going to meet up later at the Baruch library.” Yes! Now I know where he goes to school. But why is he still in school? Drop it.
“Sounds good,” I said, moving toward the apartment door and hoping he would follow. How weird that he was now going to return to his fourth-floor apartment and not even leave the building to go home. This was a new achievement—creating an embarrassing scene with a guy without even having to step outside.
When we got to the door, he wrapped both arms around me and gave me a bear hug. “I had so much fun with you last night. I’m really glad we met, finally,” he said with a little laugh. Oh shit. Another memory came trickling in. I’d admitted to calling him “the cute guy from the building.” Somebody please shoot me with a rhino rifle. He released me from the hug and stood back with his hands still on my arms. “I want to take you out on a real date,” he said. “Can we do that this week? What night’s good for you?” he asked.
What was wrong with the guy? He was cute and nice and way too young for me. What could he possibly want with me?
“Sure,” I said. “Tuesday is probably OK.” Just leave, I thought, already working on my cancellation excuse.
“Great. Give me your number.” He followed me into the kitchen where I turned my back to hide my shaking hand as I wrote my number on a pad. “Did you just get back from a trip or something?” he asked.
“No, why?”
“You have a ton of mail on your counter. Looks like a couple of months’ worth!” Thanks, Inspector Clouseau. I barely opened my mail in those days, instead letting it pile up until I “had time” to go through it. Seeing the pile with fresh eyes, it was ridiculous.
“Oh, that’s just accumulated crap,” I said. “I pay my bills by phone mostly.”
Mark gave me a curious look, and we both stood there until he realized that I wasn’t going to offer any further defense of mail mountain. Then he gave me a quick kiss on the lips and headed to the door. “I’ll call you about Tuesday. Thanks again for last night!” he said and bounced down the hall.
I triple-locked the door behind him and went straight for a cabernet. Just holding the bottle gave me comfort. Soon it would be open and I’d be able to start forgetting the little bit I could still remember about last night. With a large glass in hand, I lit a cigarette and turned on CNN, wondering how much coke I had left for today.
Remarkably, Mark didn’t go away. He hung around my apartment as often as I’d let him. On those nights, we ordered in Chinese food, sushi, or pizza. We used cheap plates, paper towels for napkins, and my glass coffee table for dining in front of the television.
A sneak look at his driver’s license revealed that I was ten years older than he. What was the appeal for this guy, other than the fact that getting to me was as easy as pressing the elevator’s “up” button? Sure, I had a great job and a nice apartment, but I was also divorced, smoked like a European, and drank like Ernest Hemingway. Not to mention that while killing a night watching cop shows, I was as likely to blow a line of coke as I was to each a chocolate chip cookie.
Mark drank the way normal people did. On a weeknight, he might have a beer or two. On weekends, maybe a little more, and then he’d cut himself off. And no drugs. Why didn’t he ever say anything about the coke?
What I learned was that my apartment had become a kind of refuge for Mark. He had roommates downstairs, an annoying couple who sat around smoking pot all day. Turns out that I looked like a real self-starter just for having a job that didn’t require a paper hat.
“Hurry up!” I screeched at Mark as we stumbled over snow and ice on East 18th, heading to Pete’s Tavern for brunch one Sunday morning in December, a couple months after we met. I flailed my arms at him. “Let’s go!” It was five minutes after noon, five minutes after restaurants could start serving liquor. “There aren’t going to be any booths left!” My heavy work boots and old Levi’s were half-covered in snow.
The first major storm of the year had just hit New York and the city looked like a postcard. In no time that sparkly white snow would be dirt-brown-and-pee-yellow slush, so running around in it now seemed like an urban responsibility. But I had a goal. Mark, however, seemed happy to be out in the fresh, cold air and in no particular rush.
“I should have brought my camera,” he said. “Black and white pictures of this would be so cool.” He was hunting the clear spots on the sidewalk to plant his feet, careful not to skid in his sneakers. I stopped ahead of him and stood with my hands on my hips, and he said, “Just go ahead if you’re that anxious.”
“OK, I’ll meet you there,” I said. I left him navigating the street like an old lady trying to keep her precious Pradas out of puddles. “It’s just that I’m freezing!” I yelled back at him, taking the next two blocks at double speed.
Sunday brunch at Pete’s was my favorite, mostly because it was one of those bars that always made you feel respectable for drinking, even if you were the first one to dash through the door and belly up to the bar. The added festivity of the holiday season seemed to make getting tanked an obligatory act.
Pete’s, one of the oldest bars in the city, had two large windows facing Irving Place, both of which had “PETE’S” written in an arch of gold letters outlined in black. For the holidays, the windows were framed from within with strands of little white lights. Outside, strands of multicolored lights hung above the front entrance, and two giant wreaths hung above those. That morning seemed particularly festive
to me, with little snow piles teetering on the top of the metal gates that surrounded the empty outdoor seating area.
I pushed open the heavy dark wood door, giddy with anticipation of the bustling crowd and the long, dark bar that reflected the bright glow of the red lights that lined the ceiling. But something was off. There couldn’t have been more than ten people in the front of the restaurant. It was already ten after twelve! The booze should be flowing. Where was everybody? In the back room? Home having their cocktails in bed? And it got worse. Some of the people weren’t even drinking. They were there for the food. I felt like a birthday girl, sure that she’s throwing open the door to her surprise party only to find that she’s interrupted a Bible study.
The room smelled of spilled beer and the soap they’d tried to clean the floor with. “Just one?” the waitress asked, appearing in front of me with a single menu in her hand. The waiters and waitresses at Pete’s were indifferent when a party of one showed up. Every day they must have seen people get hammered on their own. Some of those waiters and waitresses probably did the same thing when they weren’t working. The most welcoming places were the ones that employed functional drunks, and functional drunks knew where to find all the most welcoming places.
“Two, actually,” I said. “We’re going to be two.”
“How about this booth right up front?” Like all the furniture, the booths were a heavy, dark wood with lots of scratches, and the tables were covered with red-and-white checkered plastic tablecloths. I had a picture in my office of my dad and me clinking glasses over one of those tablecloths on the day I was admitted to the bar. After the swearing-in ceremony, we’d gone straight to Pete’s to celebrate.
“That’s perfect,” I said, flopping down as if I hadn’t sat in hours. The TV over the bar was tuned in to the football pregame show. I was sure that by kickoff, the place would be standing room only. “Can I get a Bloody Mary, please?” No sign of Mark yet, so I added, “Can you make it a double?”
“Sure thing. Only the one drink comes with brunch, though. I’ll have to charge you for the second vodka,” the waitress said, taking her pencil out of her hair to start the tab.
“Not a problem.”
“I’ll grab you another menu.” As she walked away, I rubbed my hands together for warmth and in anticipation of that fat cocktail. I was shaking badly because with Mark hanging around in the morning, I hadn’t been able to take more than a couple of quick belts from a vodka bottle while he was in the shower.
Mark appeared. He stood over me and unzipped his puffy, down coat, peeled off his knit hat, and shook his hair. I could feel the cold that hadn’t yet melted off of him. “Good thing you risked cracking your head open to get a booth,” he said, looking around at the empty bar.
Without lifting my head, I said. “I told you. I was cold.”
The waitress reappeared with my Bloody Mary, served in a pint glass with a grinning lemon on the side and a crisp stalk of celery standing at attention in the middle. She set it in front of me, and I tried not to grab it immediately. “Right, you were cold,” Mark said as he sat down.
“What can I get you, hon?” the waitress asked.
“Diet Coke, thanks,” he said. Fuck you, I thought, rolling my eyes. He couldn’t seriously want a Diet Coke at noon on a Sunday. You’re not going to make me feel bad. Tomato juice with vodka is normal on a weekend, Your Honor.
Mark ordered a bacon cheeseburger, extra bacon. He felt about pork products the way I felt about martinis. There were never enough. I ordered a chicken Cobb salad, no bacon, no blue cheese, dressing on the side.
I picked at my salad and debated how long I’d have to wait before ordering my second drink. Mark was always a slow eater, but he seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time with his burger.
“So that movie was great last night,” Mark said. “It’s so much better hanging out at home than running around the city freezing your ass off between bars.”
What did we watch? What did we watch? I couldn’t recall a thing about the movie, so I changed the subject. “You’re twenty-eight years old! You should want to go out and party on a Saturday night!”
“Nah,” he said, swirling a long French fry around in ketchup. “It’s OK sometimes, but it’s different when you don’t have a ton of cash. You’ve never lived in the city on a budget.” True.
“I’m meeting Jerry to watch the Jets game downtown after brunch,” I said.
“You’re not going back to the apartment? I have my stuff there,” he said. “You know this would be a lot easier if I had my own keys.” He wasn’t looking me in the eye.
“To my apartment?” I asked.
“Yes, to your apartment. I sleep there practically every night.”
“I don’t have a problem opening the door for you.”
“But if I had keys, you wouldn’t have to. Plus it would be kind of cool for me to work from up there sometimes. You know, without the idiots getting high in the next room all day.”
This was a genuine dilemma. Giving him keys to my place was a big deal. There was a lot that went on in my space that was not just private, but illegal. What if he walked in when Henry was delivering drugs? Actually, it was Henry I was worried about. If Mark walked in on a drug deal, Henry would freak out and disappear. And then we’d have a problem.
Mark had a point, though. His roommate situation sucked, and I was in a position to help. And I did love spending time with him. But unfettered access to my apartment was out of the question.
“Well, it’s not really a problem, but you know, I like living alone. Even though it’s great when you’re there. So if I give you a key to use the place during the day, you could come over only if we’ve actually spoken and it works for me.”
“That’s fair,” he said.
“Alright. We can try it.” Right away I felt a stomach surge of worry that I’d made a mistake. “Oh, and also you still have to leave in the morning when I get ready for work.”
“Why? What’s the problem with mornings? Do you not shower or something?”
“No!” I answered. “I need my space to get ready privately and get my head together for the day. I’ve told you that. Besides, you’re just getting keys. You’re not moving in.”
He nodded. We had an agreement.
13
I should have known it was too good to last.
“You know, most people don’t party like that by themselves on Sundays,” Mark said while I was watching CNN one Sunday afternoon. As far as he knew, I was on my second glass of wine. And there was only a small amount of coke on a compact mirror in front of me. It seemed reasonable to me, even restrained for a Sunday.
“How do you know what most people do?” I asked, lighting a cigarette. The air was heavy with smoke and stale wine despite all the odor-eliminating candles I often burned. I was still in my boxer shorts and t-shirt. “It’s Sunday. Most people have been sitting in sports bars drinking since noon.”
“Are you serious?” He was perched on the edge of the couch looking at me as if I’d just said that the Kennedys were killed by other Kennedys. I slid down the couch, farther away from him. The navy blue slipcovers were filthy.
“Absolutely. Maybe not everyone’s drinking right now. I mean, some people have kids, but most people …” I said, as I tried to think of another rationale he’d go for. “Especially anyone with a job like mine with huge stress all week. Sunday is when everyone with a real job is staring down the barrel of Monday.” Mark’s thick eyebrows furrowed like a cartoon villain’s. I could hear my tone becoming belligerent. “You’re a student at twenty-eight years old. You have no idea what it’s like to work a job like mine. If I want to blow off steam on a Sunday, I’ll do it however I like.”
I didn’t need some little college kid telling me what was normal. Isn’t normal whatever you’re used to? My hands had been shaking for ten years. This was my normal. And I knew how much drinking and using I could handle and still keep my job, so things were under co
ntrol.
“OK, I’m just saying, most people don’t drink so much and don’t do coke all the time,” he said.
“I don’t care about what most people do. Maybe if I were just taking some classes and day trading like you, I’d be different …”
“Have you ever thought of going to rehab?” he asked. What? Has he not been listening?
“EXCUSE ME? Rehab? No, I have not thought of going to rehab.” I took a long slug from my wine glass. “And even if I did need it, it’s not like I could tell my office, ‘I’ll be out for a month at a FUCKING REHAB.’ I can’t believe you just said that.” The balls on this kid. He didn’t really know me anyway.
“OK,” he said, sinking his fingers into his hair and dropping his head into his hands. “I’m sorry I brought it up. Don’t be mad.”
“Don’t ever bring that up again. Ever.” I said. We sat there quietly for a minute and I felt myself sweating. “I think you should probably go downstairs. I kind of want to be alone now.” It was Sunday! I needed to be out of my head for as long as possible before Monday rolled around. And I was about to fill my glass again.
Mark didn’t fight me and he left. Too bad I was going to have to get rid of him. He was nice to have around.
Late the next morning, Mark called me at work and acted as if nothing had happened. “Hey, what’s up? You want to eat dinner tonight?”
“Not if you’re going to give me a hard time,” I said.
“No, no. I’m sorry about all that. I was just worried about you.”
“Well don’t be. I’m fine,” I answered. “I’ll call you when I’m leaving.”
As cool as I thought Mark was about my using, I should have seen it coming. He was around a lot, and even though he saw relatively little, he saw enough to make a healthy person wince. Having him around helped me sharpen my sneak skills; as he sat right there on my couch, I was managing to ingest at least twice what he witnessed. The glass bullet filled with coke was tucked into a lipstick case and sat on a shelf behind my bathroom mirror. Lipstick cases were tailor-made to accommodate the one-gram vials that a coke-addicted woman needed to carry or hide. Who would suspect it to be full of blow? A glass of wine in a tumbler was parked in the cabinet underneath the kitchen sink. During an afternoon of slowly sipping wine in front of Mark, I would steal off to the bathroom or the kitchen to bump up with a couple quick blasts of coke or slugs of wine. I knew it was fucked up, but I was good at it, so it made me feel kind of proud.
Girl Walks Out of a Bar Page 15