“Jake Dunn.”
He glanced at the door in approval.
I rolled my eyes and entered. The place resembled a cross between a professor’s library and an opium den. Couples lounged about in various configurations on the pillow-strewn floor. A midriff-bearing waif with a swan’s neck balanced a tray of drinks with Hindi-painted hands. The scene was quintessential Jake. His coolness barometer was so precise he couldn’t even hang out at bars anymore—they were too passé for him before they even opened to the general public. For the past year or so, he had taken to organizing “social spaces”(as he would call them) in abandoned apartments or buildings. That way, he could quickly change venues before “the wrong crowd” (read: anyone who lived—or would consider living—above Fourteenth Street) caught on. This wasn’t a Jake event, but I could only assume it was the work of one of his acolytes.
Through the clouds of smoke, incense and various vapors of the illegal variety, I saw Jake’s profile. Not surprisingly, he was the center of a swelling crowd.
How could I sum up Jake? Physically, he is tall and lean with dark wavy hair and deep blue eyes, which he knows how to use to full effect. More simply put, however, Jake is just cool. He knows it, I know it, and just about everyone who enters his orbit knows it, too.
Now don’t assume he’s just another snide hipster who chooses to define himself by his Alphabet City address and perpetual lack of employment. Jake, I long ago decided, sees it all for the game that it is—and he’s the one to beat. The world is his to mock. I tell him he’s so far ahead of the rest of us that he has to work to keep things interesting. He kind of likes that explanation.
So what, you may be wondering, does he see in me? Honestly, I’m still not quite sure. We shouldn’t fit together, but somehow we just do.
I took a seat on a leopard-print chaise and quickly put on my studiously nonchalant “I’m alone at a party, but that means I’m independent, not dorky” face. A strung-out guy wearing entirely too much crushed velvet sat across from me. I began to ponder this point: Should a man ever wear crushed velvet? (I’m leaning toward no).
“Hey, sexy, you look thirsty.” Jake slid his arm around my shoulder and handed me my drink. And yes, I do mean my drink. At the moment, it was Absolut Currant with cranberry juice. Jake has counseled me that a signature drink is a crucial element of one’s personal style. I humor him (but of course it’s Jake, so I also follow his lead).
“Oh…my…God.” Jake fixed his eyes on a wide-eyed couple huddled at the door. “Honestly, pressed khakis? This place is dangerous. I shouldn’t have lured you here.”
“Don’t worry about it. It was either this or face the artist colony that is my apartment right now.”
“What? Nick the Dick?” he asked with bemusement. “Time to give that artist a chance to struggle.”
Jake says that there is no such thing as a regretful relationship if you get a good story from it. With Nick, I had my starving-artist story all set, not to mention a nude oil painting of myself to drag out when I got really drunk.
“So, what are you doing later? There’s a group of us going down to Ursula’s to hear the latest self-styled, Dylan-esque knockoff. I’m sure it will be very earnest. Lots of corduroy.”
“Ooh, I don’t know. I don’t want to run into that bartender I had the thing with. I still feel guilty about it and—”
“Guilty about what? About not calling him back after you had sex? You just did what every man does on a bimonthly basis—it’s your right. You should feel proud in your womanhood. You’re advancing the cause, Lena.”
“Okay, you made your point.”
“Besides he hasn’t been there in months. Unless he morphed into a Latin lesbian with a spider tattoo on her stomach. She’s the one working there now.”
“Stranger things have happened,” I joked, but couldn’t help but feel relieved. Jake reached out for my hand and pulled me to my feet.
“Come to think of it, I don’t think you have a tortured-musician story yet, do you?”
Ursula’s was, and very likely would forever be, permanently stuck in the year 1993. It had all the elements of the grunge era down perfectly—the perpetually pot-smoky air, the basic beer and hard liquor, and, of course, the sullen alt girls and boys wearing every shade of faded denim and worn leather. The walls were covered with tattered flyers announcing the next march/benefit/protest rally. Personally, I couldn’t imagine anyone here mustering the required energy to stand up straight, let alone rally against the Man, but it was a nice touch. And of course the music was predictably angst-ridden and mournful enough to make Eddie Vedder proud. I half expected to see Winona and Ethan hashing it out in a dark corner somewhere.
Jake had run into his girlfriend du jour, Miranda, at the door, so I went in search of a free table. I glanced over at the bar just to make sure Jake wasn’t tricking me and was relieved to see the spider woman herself pouring a generous drink for a Kim Deal look-alike.
I spotted a table next to the stage and motioned to Jake.
“Excellent work, Lena,” Jake said as he approached the table.
“Hey Lena,” Miranda said, looking past me.
It is often like this with Jake’s girls. In the fruitless endeavor of trying to get a firm grasp on Jake’s roving affections, I am the enemy. Of course, I always try to temper the situation by keeping my distance, making overt references to any current boyfriends, etc. But Jake usually throws a wrench into my efforts with a subtle touch to my face, an unnecessary story of “that time we had to spend the whole night in the car together.” Yes, he loves the game.
“Oh, Lena, do you know if I left my cell phone at your apartment the other night?” Jake couldn’t help smirking as Miranda visibly bristled. I half expected her perfect little head to spin off of her perfect little body.
“Oh, Jake, you’re so funny,” I started to say, but a piercing noise erupted from the speaker that was, apparently, faced directly at us. So that’s why the table was free.
“Maybe we should move,” I mouthed to Jake. And for once, Miranda appeared to be on my side.
But before Jake could answer, the crowd rushed forward toward the stage, surrounding us as the band started in on their own variation of melodic melancholy. Oh well, at least I wouldn’t have to make chitchat with Miranda.
I sipped my Guinness (ordering “my drink” in this place would be akin to donning a hot-pink boa) and settled in.
I had to admit the band was pretty good, and one of them, the bass player, caught my eye. I watched him bend over his instrument, his shaggy hair obscuring his (undoubtedly soulful) eyes. And like any perfectly sane person, I imagined how our life together would be.
Let’s see—after going on the road for a few club tours and collecting a slew of zany stories as two young free spirits, “Ben” (a sensitive yet masculine name, I think) and I would settle down in a brightly painted Brooklyn apartment filled with funky art and mementos from our touring adventures. Our adorable toddler named…Coda, or something similarly eccentric, would be along soon enough. The house would be teeming with pets and plants, signifying our thriving fertility and life-breeding spirit. I’d attend PTA meetings wearing the latest frock from my collection of cutting-edge hand knits that I sold at my hip Williamsburg boutique (which was frequented by all the major fashion editors and constantly featured in the pages of underground European fashion magazines). At night, we’d laugh and talk as a family to the strains of Ben’s latest composition for the film score he was working on. Coda would, of course, grow up to be a critically acclaimed filmmaker of socially and artistically progressive films, never failing to credit his parents for their loving and “creatively liberating upbringing” while giving interviews or delivering Academy Award acceptance speeches. It was so clear to me now.
And then, my beloved fantasy mate pushed his shaggy locks away from his eyes and…James?
I swiveled around so fast, I nearly spilled my beer. Jake looked at my fearful “Oh my God!” express
ion and instantly put the pieces together.
James the bartender, the one that Jake had promised me wouldn’t be here tonight. He was a former quasi-flame whom I had abruptly and, I’m ashamed to say, not too gently let fall by the wayside when Nick and his lusty lips had hit the scene. I wanted to die.
I looked around at the swelling crowd. I was trapped. I kept my head turned toward Jake and prayed for the set to be over so I could make my frantic exit. Finally the last irritatingly soulful song was played.
Jake leaned over, sensing my panic. Miranda stiffened. Jesus woman, this isn’t about you! I thought to myself. I wanted to throttle her little neck.
“Am I to assume that your evening is over?” he smiled. My panic impulses always amused him.
“Um, yes,” I said sharply.
At that moment, I felt the brief stillness that you feel when a private exchange suddenly becomes public.
“Hey man, haven’t seen you in a while.” Jake had slipped into his low bass voice and Miranda ran her fingers through her hair. Clearly a heterosexual male was present. I turned to face the inevitable.
“James!” I tried—and failed—to sound surprised to see him.
“Hey, Lena, how’s it going?”
“Oh, you know…” I said. Um no, he doesn’t know, you moron, I thought to myself. You conveniently disappeared from his life nine months ago.
“Hope you enjoyed the show, glad you came by.” Of course, I’m sure what he really wanted to say was, Glad you came tonight when I look totally hot and you’re bloated with Guinness and playing third wheel to the Jake and Miranda show.
“Oh, I did. You sounded great.” Such conversational skills, no doubt he was thinking, How did I let this one slip by?
“Well, we’re going to leave you two alone.” Jake winked at me and guided Miranda over to the bar.
“I’m exhausted. Mind if I sit down then?” James asked.
“Oh, of course, please…sit.”
So there we were, James and I.
“I didn’t know you joined a band,” I said, simply to distract my brain from concentrating on ways to kill Jake. “You were really good.”
“Oh, thanks.” He seemed genuinely flattered. No discernible bitterness—what was going on here?
“So, no more bartending, huh?”
“Oh no, had to grow up sooner or later and get a real job.”
“Really? What’re you doing?”
He looked around the room cautiously and whispered, “Investment banking.”
We laughed conspiratorially.
“Can’t say that word too loudly in this place.” I smiled.
What the hell had I been thinking? I dropped sweet sincere James for Nick the Dick? I could feel my heart racing. It was fate—it must be. Nick was clearly the “temp,” a harmless distraction until I was ready for James, otherwise known as “The One.” Suddenly the chaos of my life made perfect, divine, joyous sense. We chatted some more—such a subtle, sophisticated sense of humor he had! And those sparkling brown eyes!
We would live in SoHo, no scratch that—the West Village, far west, near the Hudson. In a charming little town house with red shutters, a spiral staircase, and a beautiful garden in the back where I would grow herbs and James would barbecue. We’d take our time decorating the place together. There would be weekend trips to Vermont for antiquing, dinners at Tartine around the corner, summers at our beach house in Bellport (still fabulous, but not so “sceney”). After all, we were low-key, with an elegant understated sense of style. Definitely not one of those plastic Upper East Side couples dripping designer labels and angling for a Patrick McMullen shot in Hamptons magazine. No, James and I would be—
“Lena?” James was talking to me. For God’s sake, I thought to myself, pay attention to the conversation or he’s going to think you’re totally spacey!
“Yes?” I said brightly.
“I want to introduce you to Madeleine.”
Madeleine? My perfect Village town house had just been invaded by a willowy redhead with a Fendi bag. Home wrecker.
“Great to meet you, Lena.” She slipped her hand around James’s shoulder, and smiled at me warmly. Well, of course she was happy—she was dating my husband!
“Hey, I love your skirt,” Madeleine said, as if she actually meant it. The sincerity of these two was really beginning to annoy me.
“Madeleine’s a fashion designer. She just opened a shop on Crosby Street.” Was he actually beaming with pride? It was beginning to make sense to me now—James had found “The One,” a discovery that had left him so giddy that he had enough leftover glee to happily embrace any former flames with nothing but goodwill.
“Yeah,” Madeleine said. “You should stop by sometime.”
“Oh definitely,” I said between gritted teeth. This needed to end—now. I found myself getting out of my chair and, I’m sure, overexplaining how I really would love to chat more, but had to get home and…stick my head in the oven.
I elbowed my way through the crowd, searching for the sweet relief of an exit.
Once outside, I hailed a cab and headed home, mentally licking my wounds. Another night, another chance lost, I continued to pity myself. The city had won its hand.
The next morning, I had a ten-o’clock “progress meeting” with Nadine about the Sienna Skye segment. When I got to the conference room, however, I was surprised to find her already seated, chatting away with Chase Bolton.
Chase, or “Cheese,” Bolton as he was more widely known, was a self-styled media mogul in waiting, a runt Rupert Murdoch if you will, who was biding his time answering phones for a VP until he had snagged his rightful corner office. Cheese had been my intern the previous summer, but after just one week of memorizing my Rolodex and vigilantly working his smarmy way up the ass of half the higher-ups, he had been whisked off to become an assistant in the executive suite.
“Hello, Lena,” Nadine said, clearly disappointed that I had interrupted their conversation. Cheese gave me a cocky half smile and eyebrow-raise—a look that I’m sure he had rehearsed repeatedly in his bathroom mirror.
“Okay, so back to work,” Nadine said, but of course offered no explanation as to why Chase was present. She looked at me briefly and then at Cheese, letting her gaze linger. He gave her his best half smile, but with a wink this time.
Oh…my…God. Were they flirting? The very idea made me sick to my stomach. Was Nadine attracted to sleazy Cheese? Sure, Nadine and I had our issues, but as a human being, as a woman, I wanted to grab her by her Claire’s Boutique earrings and shake some sense into her—he’s practically twelve years old! His feet barely graze the floor when he sits down! He wears his sweaters tucked in with pleated pants! He listens to Tony Robbins tapes! Don’t do this!
“So,” Nadine chirped in her blissful delusion. “The Skye segment is coming along pretty well….” I relaxed a little, sensing that at least this wasn’t going to be one of her hour-long bitch sessions.
“And there’s been a really interesting development.” She paused dramatically. Nadine loved to pause dramatically.
“Sienna has agreed to let us film her—” another pause, and then in one breath “—while she shops for her People’s Choice Awards dress.” Nadine leaned back as if the weight of her announcement had left her exhausted. Cheese slammed his hand on his knee, in the most masculine form of giddy approval that he could muster.
I spoke up just to pierce their shared bubble of joy. “Great, so I’ll start rewriting the lead and I’ll notify the crew for the shoot.”
Nadine turned to me with her silly grin still pasted on her face. “Oh, Lena actually there’s been a slight change in the lineup.” She loved to use sports talk. She thought it made her sassy.
I knew it. She was going to pawn off sleazy Cheese on me to help with the segment, so she could indulge her latent schoolgirl hang-ups. I started to formulate my diplomatic yet inarguable defense as to why this could never ever happen. And then…
“I’m putt
ing Chase in the producer spot for the second half of the Skye segment.” She shared a look with Cheese. I think the word “nausea” would have best summed up my feelings at this point.
“Nadine,” I tried, in vain, to sound composed. “I’ve spent the last two months on this story and I really think it’s best if I see it through.” I was appalled at my sudden inability to argue and humiliated by the dawning realization that I was now groveling for permission to continue work on a Sienna Skye profile. This had to be some kind of professional nadir.
“Lena, it’s part of my job to match my staff to their strengths and…” She glanced at the ceiling searching for just the right inflated language to explicate her lofty sense of professional mandate. She continued, “While you can be quite the worker bee, you’re more of a serious Sally and this segment needs someone with the right…” Eyes to ceiling, searching, searching…
“Je ne sais pas!” Cheese exclaimed, now perched on the edge of his seat.
“Yes!” Nadine exhaled with a postcoitalesque finality.
“Quoi,” I seethed.
“What?” Nadine asked, distracted. Her eyes were still locked on her little lover.
“Quoi! It’s Je ne sais QUOI!”
The two of them looked at me blankly. And then back at each other.
At this point, I could distill only two coherent thoughts: Can a regular Bic pen puncture skin? And should I get these two a cigarette?
“Why don’t you two switch research now, so we can get the ball rolling.” Any further discussion was clearly over as far as she was concerned.
Chase handed me a hardcover book and a manila folder.
I was still confused. “What do you mean switch research?”
“You’re going to be working on the project that Chase was doing.” She looked down at her notes. “Colin Bates.”
Now, I’d been to every agonizing editorial meeting under Nadine’s regime and not once had I heard mention of such a thing.
“I don’t understand. Who’s Colin Bates?”
“Well, he is a…” Nadine stalled.
Live from New York, It's Lena Sharpe Page 2