Live from New York, It's Lena Sharpe

by Courtney Litz

  “Hey, Lena…omigod, do you realize that you have the most hideous run down the side of your fishnets?” Parker had arrived.

  “I know. Keep your voice down! Everyone will notice now.”

  “For God’s sake—do you realize where we are?”

  Parker may not be very religious, but she did hold some things sacred.

  “Forgive me almighty Bergdorf for I have sinned.”

  “Can’t you just go buy another pair and change in the bathroom?”

  “Hose cost fifty dollars here!”

  Parker looked at me blankly.

  “Hey, guys, sorry I’m late.” Tess breezed in, wearing jeans and a beautiful pale yellow peasant blouse; her hair hung in loose waves.

  “Are you wearing jeans?” Parker shifted her attention from me to Tess. Tess never wore jeans.

  “Stop it, Parker! You look fabulous, Tess.” And of course she did. It was even more depressing to see her in an outfit that I could actually afford to wear, because I could no longer fool myself into thinking that she always looked beautiful because of her exquisite clothes. “I love that shirt.”

  “Thanks, I bought it on the street.” Tess beamed with delight.

  Parker inhaled. “For God’s sake. Keep your voice down!” She looked exasperated. “What is wrong with you two today?”

  “I’m starving. Let’s order,” I said, ignoring Parker as I opened the menu. I quickly shut it again.

  “What’s wrong, Lena?” Tess looked concerned.

  “Oh, I guess I’m just not craving an eighteen-dollar salad for some reason,” I said.

  “Oh honey, I’ll pay for it,” Tess offered.

  “No, absolutely not,” I said firmly.

  “What about a sixteen-dollar grilled-vegetable plate?” Parker offered ever so helpfully.

  “No really. I’m fine.”

  “Listen, I’m buying you a six-dollar scone. No buts,” Tess said with finality.

  “She can’t eat that scone! Are you crazy? These dresses don’t have a millimeter of wiggle room,” Parker said.

  The dresses. Tess and I had spent months participating in an elaborate charade of Parker’s design. She had encouraged us to snip out pictures we liked, held countless quorums on color and cut, and spent entire weekends presiding over grueling try-on sessions. We had weighed in with our opinions—black yes, lilac no; simple sheath yes, shoulder straps no. Parker had tried—she really had—to include us, please us, and not to bankrupt us. But when Dot the wedding planner had called with the news that three bridesmaids dresses identical to those chosen by Marie Chantal for her story-book wedding to Crown Prince Pavlos had been delivered to Bergdorf’s, well, all hope was lost. The dresses were chosen. It was the way things should be. So that was the way things would be.

  “Lena, how are things with Sheila?”

  “Who’s Sheila?” Tess asked.

  “You really don’t want to know,” I answered.

  “So?” Parker ignored my sarcasm. She wanted details.

  “It was fine. Love that tunic of hers.”

  “Yeah, that is pretty dreadful, isn’t it,” Parker said, making a face. There was nothing like the reminder of a bad fashion choice to throw Parker off the scent. “That’s not the point though—how was it?”

  I paused. I didn’t want to think about Sheila and all the sad drama that had brought me to her sad purple office.

  “Will someone tell me who Sheila is?” Tess was perplexed.

  “Lena’s life coach,” Parker said.

  “You have a life coach?” Tess asked innocently.

  “It’s more like a therapist,” I said.

  “It is nothing like a therapist. Sheila helps people reengage with their lives,” Parker snapped, and then quickly retained her composure. “Tess, speaking of reengaging with life. What’s going on with you and this whole casual vibe?”

  “What do you mean? Nothing’s going on,” Tess answered, so self-conscious that one couldn’t help but assume something was definitely going on.

  “What do you mean, ‘what do you mean?’ The jeans!”

  Parker could not let go of the jeans.

  “Well, I am very engaged with life right now, I would say.” She smiled dreamily.

  “Are you talking about your latte-lord-a-leaping? Lena mentioned him. That was an unexpected move,” Parker said with one brow raised.

  “But a good one,” I quickly rejoined.

  “It’s just a fling, really,” Tess demurred.

  “Of course it is,” Parker said, perhaps a bit too quickly for Tess’s liking.

  Awkward silence.

  “So, here’s three dollars,” I said. “Anyone want to split a scone? That’s a dollar a bite.”

  The Internet is an amazing invention. Staring at the blank box of a search engine, fully intending to begin your job search in earnest, it’s virtually impossible not to be gripped by the compulsion to enter your name, your friend’s name, a relative’s name, a sworn enemy’s name, or even a group of nonsensical letters.

  Out of nowhere, I suddenly found myself typing Nadine’s name. Wasn’t she how I ended up in this mess in the first place? I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t thought to do a background check on her before. I mentally scolded myself as I greedily waited for the Google gods to deliver to me the dirt on Nadine’s past. Just where had Satan’s spawn honed her witchcraft? I waited, hungrily…and then it was revealed: A nonprofit film cooperative producing documentaries on social issues? Huh? There was even a quote attributed to her in an old New York Times story entitled “Filmmakers Making A Difference.” She said, “Changing people’s lives with your work is a greater reward than anything Hollywood has to offer.” What? Nadine? How had this idealistic young woman morphed into the haggard, power-hungry, morally challenged person that she was today?

  I was shocked, confused, and totally fascinated. And I was hooked.

  I looked down at my desk and caught a glimpse of Sheila Sunshine’s card. Let’s just see exactly who Ms. Sheila Rosenberg really is, I thought, as I typed in her name and excitedly waited for my wish list of secret information to appear before me. I quickly narrowed down the selection to those in the tri-state area.

  She had run a manicure salon! In suburban New Jersey, of course. She had two kids, was divorced, and ran the Montclair Thanksgiving Day 5K race. It was beginning to be clear to me why Sheila Sunshine wanted my attention on the future, not the past.

  I typed my own name.

  Lena Sharpe.

  Three references to Face to Face appeared along with a link to my college alumni page, and several mentions of an altogether different Lena Sharpe who appeared to be a competitive high-school swimmer with a keen interest in ceramics, who had recently made an unsuccessful run for president of the Young Democrats Club. Lena Sharpe just can’t get a break, I thought, pitying our collective disappointments.

  And then, quickly and covertly, I typed his name. It was inevitable, I reasoned. I might as well get it over with. My heart hurt as I saw the reality of his name staring back at me on the screen. Immediately I set to work, my pulse racing as I quickly clicked on each entry. All of them appeared to be his—there seemed to be one and only one Colin Bates. With just a few clicks of the mouse, I uncovered new strands of information—he had played lacrosse, ran for student council president (and won), was a Fulbright scholar, and attended the wedding of Ryan and Christine Maythorpe. There were also the mentions of his book, several reviews as well as a few brief profiles. Several of his poems were listed on smug literary journal Web sites with knowingly silly names like “Rhyme Time.” Further evidence of his emotional shallowness, I thought. This was disappointing—I had almost reached the end of the list. I didn’t know what I had expected to find, but I certainly didn’t feel any better. The Internet version of Colin Bates seemed to be just as overachieving and inscrutable as the real one. The last entry caught my eye and I clicked on it. It was from a Web site called “Juxta-prose” and read:

  �
�Simple Girl”

  Her name is Lena. A simple girl. Uncluttered by knowledge, she moves through the world quietly, unnoticed. Her bright eyes grow brighter at the lights of the city, the thrill of its energy, its rhythms delight her, though she knows not why. Her pleasure is pure, her wonder immeasurable. She looks at me, her devotion unwavering, unquestioning. Her future a blank page, she eagerly hands me a pen and begs of me to write it for her.

  My first thought was What a truly awful piece of writing. My second thought was I am the dumbest person on this planet. How could I fall for such a complete jerk? There could be no rationalization now, no way to speculate that maybe—on some level—he loved me. I didn’t know Colin Bates and it appeared I never had. That safety net had vanished and I felt like an alcoholic on her first day toward sobriety. I sat down on my bed, hugging my knees, letting the tears spill down my bended legs. I couldn’t believe that I felt worse than before, that it was possible to feel worse than before.

  The next few days were a blur of sleeping, listening to sad CDs and aimless, lonely walks. I had just gotten back from a matinee of Love Story at the revival movie theater on my corner when I noticed a note from Parker stuck to my door with an adhesive that was imprinted with, “Your soul has something to say. Are you listening?—From the office of Sheila Sunshine.”

  The note from Parker read:

  “I was in your hood for a meeting. Glad to see that you’re out and about! Call me—I need to talk to you for a sec.”

  I picked up my cell phone and a nail file. I called Parker while I set about chipping off Sheila’s pseudo-spirit-lifting nonsense. She picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey, Parker. Sorry I missed you. I was out at an…interview.”

  “Oh, that’s great. What was it for?”

  “Oh, you know, it was at a company that makes…nail files.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Yes, it’s a multinational conglomerate specializing in the cosmetic industry.” I was trying to bullshit The Bullshitter. I had better shut up and fast.

  “Well, that sounds great,” she said encouragingly.

  That sounds great? That was weird. She just totally let that slide. Parker didn’t let anything slide.

  “You’re coming to taste cakes with me and Tess this Saturday, right? Don’t forget.”

  “Of course.” Now I was suspicious. “Anything else you wanted to tell me?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s about Sheila.”

  “Oh yes, I got the lovely adhesive on my door. Thanks so much.”

  “But it’s a really beautiful sentiment, don’t you think?”

  “Well, yes—and it better be, because I’m having a lot of difficulty scraping it off my door.” I dug the nail file in more deeply.

  “Well, anyway…what I wanted to tell you is that Sheila might—”

  At that moment I heard my landline ring.

  “One sec, Parker…hello?”

  “Lena, dear?”

  Sheila Sunshine.

  “You gave her my number, Parker?” I put the cell phone to my other ear.

  “Lena, you need to talk to someone,” Parker said.

  “Would you please leave me alone?” I begged.

  “Which one of us are you talking to?” Parker asked.

  “Both of you.”

  “Just talk to her,” Parker pleaded.

  “Lena, could you just talk to me?” Sheila pleaded.

  “Honestly, both of you. Can’t you just let me mope in peace?”

  Parker: “Give her ten minutes.”

  Sheila: “Give me ten minutes.”

  “Parker, I’m hanging up on you. I will see you at the tasting.” I closed my cell phone. “Sheila, you have one minute and then you have to promise that our paths will never cross again. Deal?”

  “Okay, that’s fine,” she said reluctantly. Thank God, I thought. I wondered if she was this pushy with all her clients.

  I slunk down in a chair at the kitchen table and set about examining the nutritional information for a box of Lucky Charms.

  “Lena, I’m concerned,” Sheila began.

  “Really.”

  “Your behavior is troubling and toxic.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Lena, why did you want Colin to love you? Or better yet, why do you think Colin was able to deceive you?”

  “It’s hard to say.”

  “Weren’t there ever times when you questioned his motives, his intent?”

  I didn’t respond. I sat very still, but I felt my hands start to quiver a little.

  “Lena, what do you want for yourself?”

  “Sheila, why don’t you tell me what I want? All I’m hearing are questions,” I challenged her. “You know, never mind, I have to go now.” I hung up the phone before she could answer.

  My phone rang again almost immediately after I placed it on the handset.

  “Jesus, Sheila. This has to stop,” I answered.

  “Lena?”

  I immediately tensed. It wasn’t Sheila.

  “Lena, it’s Chase.” He had me on speaker.

  “Cheese?” New rule: Do not answer the phone.

  “Did you just call me Cheese?” He picked up the receiver. “Did you start that?”

  “What do you want?”

  “You know, all the interns keep asking if I’m Swiss…” I could almost hear the pieces clicking together in his head.

  “I’m hanging up in three seconds.”

  “Do you know where Colin is?” he asked.

  “What? Why?” Now he had my attention.

  “Because I’ve tried him at home and I can’t find his cell number.”

  “No, I mean—why do you want to talk with Colin?”

  “We’re supposed to have dinner tonight, but I need to reschedule.”

  “You’ve been speaking with Colin?”

  “That’s right. Quite a bit, actually.” I’m sure he must have been enjoying my confusion, but I was too stunned to cover myself.

  “Yeah, Nadine’s thinking about having him come on the show as a part-time correspondent.”

  “Oh please! He would never do that…” But then I caught myself. Of course Colin would do something like that. Why could I not accept the fact that Colin was not the person I thought he was?

  “Really? Because it was his idea. I’m just so surprised he hasn’t shared any of this with you, Lena. You two seemed so…close,” he said.

  I caught my breath and hung up the phone.

  I lay down on my bed and closed my eyes tightly until all I could see were psychedelic swirls. And then, without thinking, the image of Colin’s frantic eyes, begging for my questions at the sit-down interview, popped into my head, refusing to be ignored. I had pushed that moment aside, just like I had the evening at Vanessa’s when he had paid as much attention to me as he did the coasters on the coffee table. Then there were those late nights with Knox. My eyes were still shut, but suddenly I saw things more clearly. Why had I been so blind before?

  A few hours later, I forced myself to leave my apartment. A winter chill had crept into the air and I pulled my coat tight around me. I trudged down Houston watching my feet take each step, with no idea where they were headed. I wondered vaguely when I would know it was time to go home.

  When I saw the glowing red sign as I glanced down Essex Street, however, I immediately found myself walking toward it. Part of it had burned out and I couldn’t read what it said, but it kept pulling me forward.

  Finally I was upon it. “B-A-R” it read.

  I pushed the heavy wooden door open and walked inside. It was dark and the air was thick and moist. It felt safe. I gravitated toward a corner booth next to the bar and the vinyl cushion crunched as I sat down. Someone had etched “Jason & Crystal 4-ever” into the table. I wondered where Jason and Crystal were right that moment. Did they come back to this table every so often to visit their names and toast their everlasting love? Did they still feel the kind of passion that inspired the defacemen
t of property? Or were they long separated, flung out in different parts of the world, each scratching out their new unions on new bar tables as if for the first time?

  I looked around the nearly empty room. In one corner an elderly man sat alone in a chair next to the jukebox, resting his hands on a cane. At the end of the bar, two younger men sat on bar stools side by side, each staring silently at their respective beer bottles, motionless.

  This is the place where loneliness lived, I thought. The air felt crowded with daydreams. Lost loves, missed connections, moments of happiness, and even more moments of regret. At night, the tenor would change, of course. The space would swell with people and a desperate, hungry searching would take over, with bodies jostling for space and attention, forcing connections, drowning inhibitions. Still, the loneliness would be there, lurking just under the aimless chatter and drunken shuffle.

  A bartender with greasy gray hair gathered in a loose ponytail approached my table and wiped it down with a dirt-streaked towel.

  “What’ll it be?” he asked gruffly, without a glance at me.

  “Uh, a Scotch and soda, please,” I said timidly.

  He looked satisfied with my answer. This was no place to order a pink drink.

  “I’ll have the Scotch. She’ll just have the soda,” an unseen voice countered. The bartender and I both turned to see Si, newly arrived, his cheeks red from the cold.

  “Hey, Si, coming right up.” The bartender made his way back to the bar.

  “Didn’t expect to see you down here,” Si said as he took off his non-ironic trucker’s hat. It was odd seeing him outside of my building. I felt nervous, but I wasn’t exactly sure why.

  “I didn’t really expect to be here myself,” I said quietly.

  “This place has a way of luring you in,” he said more to himself than to me.

  “There you go, buddy.” The bartender made a clicking noise with his tongue.

  Si grabbed our drinks from the bar and slipped into the seat across from me.

  He took a slow sip of Scotch. We sat in silence for a while, long enough so that the peculiarity of sitting in a window booth of a dingy bar in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon with my sixty-something super began to dissipate somewhat. My thoughts drifted past my present pain and I wondered what had brought Si here. I pictured him as existing only in my building—stupid, I know—as natural and necessary as the front door and the fire escape. He lived alone, that much I knew. And he seemed lonely—lonely in a quiet way that seemed to indicate he was prepared to be that way for a long time. He belonged in this place.