We Are Here

by Michael Marshall

  At a quarter to, she escorted David the final block, kissed him, and wished him luck—and told him he didn’t need it. She waved as she left on a lightning strike up to Bloomingdale’s, a wide, proud smile on her face.

  For a moment, as he watched his wife disappear into the crowds, David felt nervous for her. He told himself it was merely his own anxiety.

  At 11:55 he took a deep breath and strode into reception. He told the guy behind the desk who the hell he was and who the dickens he’d come to meet, speaking more loudly than usual. The receptionist made few bones about not giving a crap, but a few minutes later someone young and enthusiastic bounced out of an elevator, shaking hand already outstretched.

  David was whisked upward many floors and finally got to meet his editor, Hazel, a gaunt fifty-something New Yorker who proved fractionally less intimidating in person than via e-mail, though still pretty scary. He was given a tour of untidy offices and book-infested cubicles while a selection of affable strangers told him that his book was great, that he was great, that everyone was unbelievably excited and that it was all going to be just … great. A lot of hand-shaking and smiling took place, and people stood around with notepads clasped to their chests as if ready to jot down anything significant the moment it occurred, though evidently nothing of the sort happened, because nobody did.

  Then suddenly they dispersed like birds startled by a rifle shot, and Hazel took his elbow and steered him firmly toward the elevator. “Lunch,” she muttered darkly, as if warning him not to put up a fight.

  Dawn had just arrived back outside, and stood hurriedly. David’s agent, Ralph—another character he was meeting in person for the first time—was already in position at the restaurant two blocks away, an old-school grill and steak house that prided itself on serving cow by the slab in an environment of white linen, low lighting, and disconcertingly formal service.

  David realized how nervous Dawn really was only when he saw her beaming glassily at the waiter, unable to comprehend a query concerning her desired genre of mineral water (fizzy or not). David squeezed her hand under the table, realized he was smiling at Ralph in exactly the same way, and tried to relax.

  He’d told himself he wasn’t going to drink wine with lunch, but when it became clear that his editor sure as hell was, he relented, combating the effects with so much water that he had to visit the bathroom three times. Meanwhile, he and Dawn watched as the professionals gossiped about people they’d never heard of—feeling like a pair of venturesome kids, a Hardy boy and Nancy Drew on joint reconnaissance, ears pricked for intel about the curious new world they’d been told they would become a part of—if the capricious gods of market forces, key bloggers, and the zeitgeist willed it so.

  Eventually the stupendous check was paid with reference to some protocol David didn’t understand but knew wouldn’t involve him. Everyone reemerged blinking into the sunlight, to part on excellent terms. Graphic artists were at work on a jacket design. Cover copy would soon be e-mailed for David’s approval. David had never “approved” anything before and was looking forward to the experience. He thought he might wear a special shirt for it. Everything was going perfectly, he was assured, perhaps even a little better than that.

  “It’s all good,” Hazel kept telling him sternly, as if he were well-known for championing an opposing school of thought. “David, it’s all good.”

  By then he was in no mood to disagree.

  They wandered down Park Avenue until David had an idea and cut across to Bryant Park. Back in the seventies it had by all accounts been a place where, should you wish to score drugs, get laid on a commercial basis, or have the living daylights mugged out of you, the locals would have lined up around the block to oblige. By the time David spent his few months in New York, it had turned around to become one of the most amenable spaces in Manhattan—and he’d spent hours sitting in it with a notebook and dreams of a future that were only now coming true. The intervening decade had kicked it up further still. Not so much a park as a grassed plaza lined on all sides with trees, now there were coffee stands and walkways lined with planters, an upscale grill and bar to the rear of the reassuring bulk of the New York Public Library, and the only mugging going on involved the prices demanded for crab cakes and sauvignon blanc.

  They took glasses of the latter to a table on the terrace and spent an hour excitedly going back over lunch. A voice in David’s head seemed intent on convincing him it was a mirage, that there were twenty other authors having the exact same experience this afternoon and all would be back to working their day jobs (and bitterly grateful for them) in eighteen months’ time. He even glanced around the park, a little drunk now, in case he could spot any of his fellow hopefuls.

  He couldn’t, and this wasn’t an afternoon for doubt. It was for listening to the babble of conversation and to the warmth in Dawn’s voice as she told him how wonderful everything was going to be, and finally the muttering voice retreated to the cave in the back of David’s soul where it had lived for as long as he could remember.

  Eventually it was time to leave, and that’s when it happened.

  They were leaving the park and David maybe wasn’t looking where he was going—wrapped up as he was in the day and with yet another glass of wine inside him. The sidewalks were a lot more crowded now, too, as the end of the workday approached and people set off for home.

  It wasn’t a hard knock. Just an accidental collision of shoulders, an urban commonplace, barely enough to jolt David off course and provoke a half turn that had him glancing back to see another man doing the same.

  “Sorry,” David said. He wasn’t sure he’d been at fault, but he was the kind to whom apology came easily.

  The other man said nothing, but continued on his way, quickly becoming lost in the crowds.

  Penn Station was a total zoo, epicenter of a three-way smackdown between baffled tourists, gimlet-eyed commuters, and circling members of the feral classes that make transit depots their hunting grounds. Twenty minutes before departure Dawn elected to visit the restrooms, leaving David to hold a defensive position near a pillar. He felt exhausted, eyes owlish from unaccustomed alcohol, feet sore. He experienced the passing throng as smeared colors and echoing sounds and nothing more.

  Until he saw someone looking at him.

  A man wearing jeans and a crumpled white shirt. He had dark hair, strong features, and he was looking right at David.

  David blinked, and the man wasn’t there anymore. Or he’d moved on, presumably. He’d barely been visible for a second, but David felt he’d been watching him—and also that he’d seen the man before.

  “What’s up?” Dawn returned, looking mildly shaken by the restroom experience. David shook his head.

  They made their way toward the platform via which they’d arrived at the station that morning. This turned out not to be where the train was departing from, however, and all at once they were in a hurry and lost and oh-my-god-we’re-screwed. David figured out where they were supposed to be and pointed at Dawn to lead the way. She forged ahead with the boisterous élan of someone having a fine old time in the city, emboldened by a bucketful of wine, clattering down the steps to the platform and starting to trot when she saw their train in preparation for departure.

  As David hurried after her, someone appeared out of the crowd and banged into him—hard, knocking David back on his feet and getting right in his face.

  Untucked white shirt and hard blue eyes.

  The same man again.

  “Hello, David,” he said. Then something else, before stepping around the corner and out of sight.

  Winded and a little scared, David tried to see where the man had gone, but Dawn was calling him urgently now, and someone blew a whistle. He hurried along to where his wife stood flushed and grinning.

  “We made it,” she said, as they clambered onto the train. “See? The gods are on our side now.”

  Dawn started to crash within fifteen minutes, head on David’s shoulder, hair ti
ckling his neck. David sat bolt upright, trying to be distracted by the view as the carriages trundled over the river and out through urban sprawl. It wasn’t working.

  So he’d banged into some guy.

  And so that man had evidently then followed them to the train station, watched David from across the concourse, and tracked them through the crowds to bang into him again.

  Why would someone do that?

  Because he was crazy, that’s why. New Yorkers were famous for taking a hard-line approach. Even the well adjusted and affluent appeared to conduct human interaction as a contact sport. Insane people all the more so, presumably.

  That’s all it was. Big deal.

  And yet …

  As Dawn slipped into a doze and the train began to pick up speed into the hour-long journey to Rockbridge and home, there was one thing that David couldn’t get out of his mind. It was what the stranger had said before he melted back into the crowd. Not the fact that he’d known David’s name—he’d realized the man could have overheard Dawn using it, maybe.

  It was the other thing. Just two words. Words that are usually framed as a question but this time sounded like a command. Or a threat.

  “Remember me,” he’d said.

  Chapter 2

  When I stopped by the apartment to drop off the groceries, Kristina was still in bed. It had been a late night—they generally are, five nights out of seven at least—but I like to begin my days early, with a long walk. Kristina prefers to deal with them sprawled under the sheets like a pale, lanky spider that has been dropped from a very great height.

  I finished wedging things into the tiny fridge (all we had room for, in a kitchen that’s basically a specialized corner of the living room) and strode into the bedroom, an epic journey of three yards. The top of the window was open, proving Kristina must have groped her way out of bed at some point. It’s shut at night or we’d never get to sleep on account of the racket from drunken good times in the streets below. The heater was ominously silent. The unit had been ailing for weeks, wheezing like an old smoker. Though the fall had so far been mild, finding someone to take it up a level from my own feeble attempts at repair (glaring at the machine, once in a while giving it an impotent kick) was high on my list of things to do today.

  I put the massive Americano by the side of the bed. “Beverage delivery. You have to sign for it.”

  Her voice was muffled. “Fuck off.”

  “Right back atcha. It’s a beautiful morning in the neighborhood, case you’re interested.”

  “Christ.”

  “By the way. This woman later, Catherine. She gets that I’m just some guy, right?”

  Kristina laboriously turned her head and blew long strands of black hair off her crumpled face. “Don’t worry,” she mumbled. “I made a point of saying you were nothing special. Matter of fact, I went so far as to imply you were something of an asshole.”

  “Seriously.”

  She smiled, eyes still closed. “Seriously. No biggie. And thank you for doing it. And for the coffee.”

  “So I’ll see you there. Three o’clock?”

  “If I don’t see you first.”

  I looked down at her and thought it was disquieting how much you could come to like someone in only six months. Shouldn’t our hearts be more cautious? A child or puppy learns after straying too close to a candle to hold back next time. It seems that emotional calluses are not as thick or permanent as they appear, however.

  I bent down and kissed Kristina on the forehead.

  She opened her eyes. “What was that for?”

  “Because I like you.”

  “You’re weird.”

  “It’s been said.”

  “That’s okay. Weird is good.” She stretched like a cat, all limbs pointed in the same direction. “And you’ll think about the other thing?”

  “I will.”

  “Good. Now scram. I need more sleep.”

  “It’s ten thirty.”

  Her eyes closed. “It’s always ten thirty somewhere.”

  “Very deep.”

  “Really, John, I mean it. Don’t make me get up out of here and kick your ass.”

  I left her to it, jogged back down the five flights of stairs to street level, and stepped out into the big, strange city that lived—in all its train-wreck glory—right outside our door.

  The rest of the morning was spent covering Paulo’s shift at the restaurant’s sidewalk window, hawking pizza and bottles of Poland Spring to passersby. This task is usually reserved for someone barely able to stand unassisted on their hind legs (currently Paulo, fresh-off-the-boat nephew of someone or other and an earthling so basic it’s a miracle he can work out which way to face the street), but I didn’t mind. Paulo’s a sweet kid, eager to please, and was off trying to find somewhere to improve his English. Also, I kind of enjoy the job. There are only two styles of slice available—plain or pepperoni—and one drink. Each costs a dollar. It’s hard to screw that up, and it’s pleasant to lean on the counter exchanging banter with locals and making strangers’ days better in straightforward ways. When your life has been overly complicated, simplicity can taste like a mouthful of clear, cool water. Available, this lunch hour, from me, near the corner of Second Avenue and 4th. Price—one dollar.

  When my stint was over, I chatted with the owner, Mario, and his sister Maria—evidently the children of parents with either a sense of humor or a dearth of imagination—over a coffee at one of the sidewalk tables. The Adriatico has been holding down its patch—snug between a venerable Jewish bakery and a thrift store with pretensions of funkiness, a few minutes’ walk from the dives of St. Mark’s Place and side street legends like McSorley’s—for forty years, largely due to the family’s willingness to embrace change, however bad-temperedly. In the time Kristina and I had been on staff (me waiting tables, Kristina running the popular late-night basement bar), the owners had replaced the awning, repainted the picket fence around the sidewalk tables a (much) brighter color, and tried adding the word “organic” to everything on the menu: briefly offering an organic ragu with organic pasta and organic béchamel, oven-baked in the traditional organic manner—aka lasagna. I’d eventually convinced Mario not to pursue this (it made announcing the specials tiresome, and was moreover absolutely untrue), but I had to admire the ambition. It was certainly easier to understand why this restaurant was still in business than the last place I’d worked, on the other side of the country, on the Oregon coast.

  I left with the customary mild buzz. The Adriatico’s coffee is celebrated for its strength, to the point where there’s a water-damaged poster in the restrooms (badly) hand-drawn by some long-ago college wit, suggesting it should be cited in strategic-arms-limitation treaties. Nobody can remember why the standard cup has three shots in it, but I’d come to learn that’s how New York works. Someone does something one day for reasons outside their control and beyond anyone’s recollection—and then winds up doing it for the next fifty years. The tangle of these traditions floats through the streets like mist and hangs like cobwebs among the trees and fire escapes. Tourist or resident—and it wasn’t yet clear which I was—you’re forever in the presence of these local heroes and ghosts.

  I did my errands, including visiting the heater place. They promised they’d get to ours real soon. As both engineers were regulars at the bar I had reason to believe it.

  With an hour still to kill, I took a long stroll down through the Village. There’s always something to see in our part of town, and I liked watching it and walking it, and for the first time in some years I liked my life, too. It was simple, contained, and easy.

  But I got the sense that was about to change.

  What Kristina wanted me to consider was the idea of a new apartment. There was much about the East Village that we enjoyed. The remnants of the old immigrant population, their pockets of otherness. The leafy side streets and crumbling prewar walkups, the area’s determination to resist gentrification and order, forever tending
toward chaos like some huge silverware drawer. The fact that if you came shambling out of a bar late at night waving your iPhone around then you were likely to only get robbed, with brisk efficiency, rather than killed.

  At times, though—with roving hordes from NYU and Cooper Union, plus all the young tourists who wanted to show how cool and not just about Banana Republic and the Apple Store they were—it could feel like being shacked up in the low-rent end of a college town. There had been a spate of odd muggings recently, too—people having their bank cards stolen and their accounts immediately emptied at ATMs with mysterious ease.

  I never got a chance to do the student thing—having spent those years and more in the army—and I was open to a second adolescence. Kristina was wearying of the locale, however, perhaps because she spent her evenings at the sharper end of the Asshole Service Industry. I’m thirty-seven, old enough for sketchy to have a retro charm. She’s twenty-nine, sufficiently young for the idea of being a grown-up to remain appealing. She’d started talking about moving to SoHo or the West Village, for the love of God. I kept reminding her that she ran bar and I served circular food in a fiercely down-market restaurant. She’d counter with the observation that I had money from the sale of my house in Washington State after the split from my ex-wife. Feeling old and dull, I’d observe that we weren’t bringing in much new money, and nobody tied themselves to loft rentals under those circumstances, though I’d be willing to consider subletting somewhere tiny, as an experiment, if we committed to not eating for the foreseeable future—and anyway, it took less than half an hour to walk from our front door to the streets she was talking about, so what was the big deal?

  And so on and so forth. The subject would eventually fade into abeyance, like a car drifting out of range of a local evangelical radio station, and I’d be left feeling like the patriarch who’d decreed that instead of eating in the lovely seafood restaurant with an ocean view, the family was going to make do with sandwiches in the parking lot. Again.