The Perfect Manhattan

by Leanne Shear

  “God, we’ve only been sleeping for three hours. I feel like shit.”

  “So do I.”

  “I can’t do that ever again,” she groaned.

  “Me neither.”

  She sat up in bed, grabbing her own bottle of water. “My head hurts.”

  “So does mine, and my back aches, and my arms are sore.”

  “I feel like I’ve been beat up.”

  “Me too.” I took another sip of water. “You know, it’s not just the working,” I said thoughtfully. “It’s the drinking. If you think about it, we’re doing all this strenuous work, lifting cases of liquor, bending down a million times, running around like maniacs, and on top of that I feel like I’m constantly doing math problems in my head all night long, you know—adding up all the drink prices? And keeping track of all those tabs—sometimes I have fifty credit cards at once. And then on top of all that, we get wasted. As if our bodies aren’t getting enough abuse. No wonder my muscles hurt.”

  “I know,” Annie agreed. “It’s awful.” She reached into her backpack and pulled out the train schedule. “I think I’m just going to go back to the city now. I have to clean my apartment and do some laundry, and I have some serious catching up to do on my sleep. If I stay here, I’ll end up at the beach with a beer in my hand.”

  “Okay. I think I’m going to stick around tonight and try to get some writing done after all the boys leave. I told James I’d show him my screenplay when he stops by Finton’s on Wednesday.”

  “Good idea. The house should be pretty quiet,” Annie said, sitting up and pulling her curls into a chaotic ponytail. She rolled out of bed and started shoving her things into her backpack. “Is James staying out here today?”

  “No, he’s going back early for work, so I won’t have any distractions,” I said. But secretly I was still mulling over everything that had gone down at the polo match. I was 90 percent certain that James really did have to make it into the office that afternoon, as he’d said. But after yesterday, my doubts had resurfaced. I worried that he was thinking I wasn’t right for him. I hoped he wasn’t thinking about Amanda Hearst.

  I’d set up my laptop, spread out my notebook, along with a bunch of crumpled bev naps that contained scribblings of my late-night wisdom, and had written about six words when I heard a knock at my door.

  “Come in,” I said.

  “Hey,” Travis said, standing in the doorway.

  “Oh, hey, Travis, I thought you went back to the city.”

  “No, I decided to take tomorrow off. How was your weekend?”

  “I made good money, but I worked my ass off.”

  “I was thinking about going to Montauk tonight for some dinner. Do you want to come?”

  “I really shouldn’t,” I said, staring at the blinking cursor on my computer screen. “There’s no way I can go out and drink again.”

  He laughed. “Come on, it’s gorgeous outside, and I want to go to Duryea’s. Have you ever been there?”

  “No.”

  “Then you have to come. It’s amazing, it’s right on the water in Montauk Bay, and it’s bring your own, so we can pick up some beers on the way. Do you like lobster?”

  “I love lobster,” I said, tempted, biting my lower lip.

  “Then you’ll love this place.”

  “Travis, I can’t. I haven’t been able to get much writing done because of work, and . . .”

  “That’s okay, I understand,” he said, and started to go.

  “Wait!” I said. “I’ve always wanted to go to Montauk.” Montauk was the farthest point east on Long Island and was a famous old-world fishing town that retained a lot of its original rustic flavor, unlike the rest of the East End.

  “Then get in the car.”

  “Okay, just give me a minute to change.”

  “You can go in what you’re wearing.”

  I looked down at my faded tank top and khaki skirt. My hair was unwashed and piled on top of my head. “I can’t wear this.”

  “Trust me, it’s really casual. Just bring a sweatshirt, ’cause it gets really cold down by the water when the sun goes down.”

  I shut down my laptop, grabbed my bag, and twenty minutes later, after picking up some Budweiser at the Amagansett IGA, we hit the road. Cyril’s whizzed by on my left as we traversed Napeague Stretch on our way to the tip of the South Fork.

  I flipped through the radio stations and started singing—admittedly a little off-key—along with the Rolling Stones. You’re just a memory . . .

  “Did you know that Mick Jagger actually wrote that song at the Memory Motel in Montauk?” Travis asked me.

  “Really?”

  “Yup. The Stones used to come out to visit Andy Warhol’s place in Montauk all the time.”

  “Look,” I said, pointing to the bumper sticker on the car in front of us. “It says ‘Montauk: a drinking town with a fishing problem!’ ”

  Travis laughed.

  Montauk was by far the least pretentious of the Hamptons towns. There were no swanky stores or women walking around carrying Malteses in $3,000 handbags. There were lots of families wandering around eating ice cream and fudge, and the atmosphere was like a big carnival.

  “That’s Mr. John’s Pancake House,” Travis said, pointing to the left. “Best breakfast. You have to go before the summer ends and order a number two.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Two eggs, two pancakes, two pieces of bacon, two pieces of toast, and homefries.”

  “Yum,” I said.

  We pulled off the main road and onto a rocky, hilly path that ran parallel to the shore of Montauk Bay. Seagulls circled over the rocky beaches of the bay and quaint summer cottages dotted the bucolic landscape.

  “That’s the Montauket,” Travis said, pointing to a divey-looking hotel and bar off to the left. “It’s a great bar. Local spot.”

  Finally we pulled into Duryea’s parking lot. There was an expansive wooden deck facing the bay framed by rock jetties and covered with no-frills white plastic lawn furniture and picnic tables. The sun, a fireball in the distance, had just started its final plunge below the horizon, and there was a slight breeze wafting off the water. We approached the tiny ordering window, and I happily placed my order for a two-pound lobster, which Travis assured me was the best in the world. We sat down at a table and cracked open some beers. Travis went to get us some napkins and plasticware.

  “It’s beautiful here,” I said, taking a long sip of Budweiser and looking out at the choppy water breaking on the rocks and lapping up against the deck.

  “Montauk’s my favorite place out east,” Travis said. “Most of the locals out here are fishermen. It’s not as Hamptony as the rest of the East End.”

  “Yeah, James was telling me that because it’s the farthest away from the city, it’s the least developed.”

  Travis took a swig of his beer. “So, when am I going to meet this James I hear so much about?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, trying to imagine the two of them meeting. Somehow I wasn’t sure if they would get along. I didn’t know what Travis would make of James’s rarefied world. “Soon.”

  They called our number, signaling our food was ready, and after a full hour of claw-cracking, tail-dipping, and beer-sipping, we were messy, happy, and delightfully stuffed.

  “That was the best lobster I’ve ever tasted,” I said, ripping off my plastic lobster bib.

  “I told you you’d love it here,” Travis said as we bused our butter-soaked paper plates. “You want to stop by the Montauket for a beer?”

  I only thought for a split second. “Sure,” I answered.

  The Montauket was dark inside, and the girl who was tending bar looked like a real seafaring “broad”—she had a leathery face and chapped lips, smeared with coral lipstick that bled into the tiny cracks around her mouth. She was wearing a T-shirt tucked into high-waisted denim shorts, and her dried-out, bleached blond mullet was pulled halfway back into a ponytail.


  “What can I get for you, honey?” she asked in a raspy voice.

  “Two Buds, please.”

  Travis and I took a seat, and I looked around at the all-male faces of the motley crew that had settled on the other stools. They looked like they belonged in Richard Avedon’s vagabond portraits. Their wrinkled faces, dirty fingernails, and worn flannel shirts told the tale of the toll life had taken on them. Their skin was deeply tanned, and when they moved their faces, I could see white skin inside the creases of their wrinkles. One of them, a particularly dog-eared fellow, kept looking in my direction. It was a few minutes before it registered who he was.

  “Pat?” I asked uncertainly.

  “Jake’s friend, right?” he said, swigging a Heineken.

  “Yeah. Cassie,” I said. “And this is my friend Travis.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Travis said, offering his hand, which Pat accepted with a hearty shake. “You work over at the Talkhouse, right?”

  Pat nodded.

  “I go there a lot. Great bar,” Travis said.

  “Do you live out here?” I asked.

  “Yup. Born and raised.”

  “It’s my first time in Montauk,” I said. “We just had dinner at Duryea’s. I really like it out here. It’s different from the rest of the Hamptons.”

  “Not anymore,” Pat said in his gravelly voice. “It used to be. Every time I drive to work I see more construction. They’re selling these tiny little houses on no land for millions of dollars. It’s gotten so none of us can afford to live here anymore.”

  I thought back to our drive out to Montauk. Almost the entire stretch of highway between Amagansett and Montauk had been an eyesore of construction sites or brand-new mammoth homes made of not-yet-weathered blond wood. Unless the land was earmarked as federal or state property through the park systems, it was up for grabs.

  “I grew up in Smithtown, and every summer we’d rent a house out here for a week. It’s definitely a lot more built up than it used to be,” Travis agreed. “But the good news is, you can now sell your house for a minimum of two million dollars.”

  “I don’t give a shit. I like my little house, and it’s been in my family for three generations. It’s still a great place to live,” Pat said. “But the traffic gets worse and worse, and it feels like the Hamptons eats into Montauk a little more each year.”

  “Can I buy you a beer?” Travis offered noticing Pat’s empty Heineken.

  “No, thanks. I’m meeting some friends over at The Point. You guys should swing by.”

  “Okay,” we said.

  Pat negotiated his large body off the bar stool. “Nice seeing you again.” He tipped his hat to the bartender and walked out the door.

  “So you want to check out The Point?” Travis asked.

  “Why not?”

  We climbed back into Travis’s ’97 Mitsubishi Galant and drove the quarter mile to The Point. Inside it was slammed. “Paint It Black” was blaring from the speakers, the bass so strong you could feel it in your chest. We tried to claim some real estate at the bar, but no stools were available and I couldn’t get the bartender’s attention. Finally I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I turned around to see Pat struggling to hold three shots, two Buds, and a Heineken.

  “Thanks!” I shouted, grabbing two of the shots in one hand and the two Buds in the other. The three of us hollered, “Cheers!” and downed the shots with little hesitation. As I smiled at Travis, I realized I was well on my way to yet another night of inebriation. The lights were streaking when I turned my head, and my teeth felt numb. I was about to ask Pat to get me a glass of water when AC/DC’s “You Shook Me” started playing.

  “I love this song!” I shouted happily, throwing my body into an energetic dance.

  “Then get on the bar,” Pat said.

  “No way,” I said, shaking my head dramatically.

  “Come on, Cassie,” Travis encouraged. “I’ll help you up.”

  Before I knew what I was doing, Travis was lifting me up onto the bar. The crowd started cheering like crazy, and something came over me—all of a sudden I felt like I was Beyonce. I thrashed my head and hips in rhythm to the strains of Knockin’ me out with those American thighs . . . I felt a complete sense of reckless abandon. For the first time in the Hamptons, I wasn’t worried about anything. As long as I could swing my hips, bash my head, and sing along, everything would be just fine.

  Like almost every other morning that summer, I woke up on Monday with a massive hangover. I checked the clock on my phone and couldn’t believe it. I had slept until two in the afternoon. I forced myself to get out of bed, brushed my teeth, and went to the kitchen for some water. On the refrigerator was a note from Travis. “Went back to the city. Had a great time last night. There’s some orange juice and a bagel in the fridge. See you next weekend.”

  I smiled as I poured myself some juice, thinking about the lobster dinner and the dancing on the bar. Then I grabbed my bagel, went back upstairs, and climbed back into bed with my notebook.

  After last night, I’ve decided I’m blue collar, I wrote. A perfect match for James’s blue blood? I had more fun at a dive bar in Montauk than I did at the Bridgehampton polo match. . . .

  My rambling thoughts were interrupted by my cell phone ringing and a 631 number I didn’t recognize flashing on the screen.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Cassie? It’s Chris from Spark.”

  “Hey, what’s up?” I said, wondering if I was in trouble for something.

  “Not much. Listen, tonight’s industry night, and I’m short a bartender. I was wondering if you were still in town and if you could work.”

  “How are industry nights there?” I asked. I wasn’t about to give up my free night for nothing. Especially since I had to be back in the city in time to work the Tuesday day shift at Finton’s.

  “Pretty good. It’s a party just for people in the restaurant industry, bartenders, waiters . . . It’s a great night to make money, because everyone tips really good.”

  I mentally considered the offer. If I stayed, I’d have to take a really early train out of Amagansett in the morning. I hadn’t been getting enough sleep, my apartment back in the city was a mess, and I definitely hadn’t been doing enough writing. On the other hand, the offer was seductive. The weekend had already been incredibly lucrative, even with my little shopping spree, but I certainly wasn’t in a position to turn down more money.

  “I can do it,” I said.

  “Great. Show up at nine-thirty. Oh, and you can wear whatever you want. I’m the only one there tonight.”

  “Okay. See you then.”

  As I hung up the phone I wondered if I was a glutton for punishment—or if I was becoming addicted to making money or to alcohol, or to both.

  A night at Spark without Shalina and Teddy and the zillion other promoters and managers reminded me of the one glorious occasion when Laurel had been out sick and there was no manager on duty at Finton’s. I could actually relax at work.

  Only one bar was open on Monday nights, the front bar. I was working with Andy, my new friend from the Talkhouse, and the entire energy of the place seemed different. It was really laid-back, and as Chris had promised, all the customers were patient and friendly and huge tippers. I couldn’t help thinking that everyone should work in the service industry at least once in their lives in order to appreciate how hard it could be.

  I was wearing my navy blue Pumas, jeans, and a wife-beater, and for once I felt like myself at Spark. It made all the difference in the world not to be wearing Shalina’s offensive uniform.

  “Hey, wanna see a trick?” Andy asked me. His eyes were bloodshot and the distinct smell of weed wafted off his clothes.

  “Sure,” I said.

  He opened up a fresh bottle of Grand Marnier and stuffed a bev nap in the neck. Then he took out a book of Talkhouse matches and lit the napkin. “This is sick!” he exclaimed. “Watch—in a minute, the bottle’ll be like a torch.”

&nb
sp; I watched for a moment, before getting distracted by a customer in need of six kamikaze shots. I was reaching for the bottle of triple sec when I heard a loud explosion and felt a rush of heat behind me. Instinctively I hit the deck, saturating my jeans and shirt with bar sludge. Shards of glass rained down on my back as Andy screamed, “Oh, shit!” His little trick had backfired. Literally.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, laughing, extending a hand.

  “What the hell just happened?” I cried.

  “The bottle exploded. Sometimes that happens if the bottle’s too full,” he explained casually.

  After helping him sweep up the mess, I finally got back to work. Mondays certainly were different. Andy’s experiment could have killed someone, and no one had said a word about it. In fact, Chris looked amused.

  “Hey, Chris!” Andy shouted suddenly. “You feeling dirty?”

  Chris smiled widely and grabbed two unopened bottles of Jägermeister from a shelf behind the bar and handed one to Andy. “I think we need a Jäger bath,” Chris concluded solemnly. At that, the two of them simultaneously unscrewed the tops, clinked the bottles, took a long swig, and then proceeded to pour the rest of the black syrupy liquor over their heads until the bottles were empty. I watched on in disbelief as they guffawed, then turned back to the customers, shaking my head.

  “Cassie!” Andy called. “You can keep all our tips tonight if you do a bar mat shot.”

  “What’s that?” I asked suspiciously.

  Andy grabbed a soaking bar mat off the bar and filled a plastic cup to the brim with the brownish sludge that had collected on it over the course of the night. He held it out to me.

  “No, thanks.” Even though I needed money, I had to draw the line somewhere.

  “Hey, you look familiar,” a greasy black-haired man said after I fixed him a Patrón on the rocks. “You’re Martin’s friend, you came into my restaurant looking for a job.”

  “Hi.” I smiled. “Tony, right? You work at Saracen?”

  “That’s right, beautiful. Thanks for the drink,” he said, slipping me a $100 bill. “That’s for you. But next summer, I want you behind my bar.”

  I smiled again and then turned to Andy. “I think we’re going to make some cash tonight. That guy just gave me a hundred dollars for one drink.”