Live from New York, It's Lena Sharpe

by Courtney Litz

  “Do you come here a lot?” I asked.

  “Most days,” he said with a dry laugh. “Old friends around here,” he muttered, glancing around the bar. “But you shouldn’t. You’ve got too much in front of you to start looking backward.”

  “That’s all I ever seem to do these days,” I said, and tried to think of something else we could talk about. Caulking, perhaps? More silence. I reached for his Scotch and poured half of it into my soda.

  “A drink’s only gonna make it worse, Lena,” he said.

  “Who says anything’s wrong?” I said, maybe a little too quickly given the fact that he’d had to help Parker forcibly enter my apartment to check on me just a few days earlier.

  “What’s his name?” he said finally.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “You know who,” he said, not missing a beat.

  “Colin,” I said flatly. It felt so odd to sum up all my problems in two syllables.

  “I’ve seen him around, I believe,” he said, in a not entirely approving way.

  “Well, what did you think?” I was curious now. I was obviously not a good judge of people, but something told me Si would be. He took his time with an answer.

  “My guess is…”

  “Yes?” I said, anxiously.

  “He’s a firefly,” he said decisively.

  “A what?”

  He put his drink down now. “You know how when you were a kid, you would chase fireflies all over the yard. And just as soon as you got near one, it would turn off its light and disappear?”

  “Yeah…” I was beginning to wonder if Si had been to a few other bars before this one. “I mean, I guess.”

  “And then, every now and then you would catch one in your hands and you could see it up close?” These were the most words I think I had ever heard Si utter at one time. “And then you realize when you’re sitting there with this insect between your hands that that’s all it is. An insect. Like an ordinary housefly. Or a mosquito,” he said as if he had come to this realization a long time ago but was still amazed by it.

  “But, I don’t—”

  He stopped me midsentence. “Stop chasing fireflies, Lena.” He looked me in the eye. “Trust me on this one.” Si folded his arms as if to indicate there would be no further discussion about it. I wanted to argue with him, but the more I turned the idea over in my head, the more it made a strange kind of sense.

  Fireflies. My whole life had been full of them I now realized, swarming around me elusively, baiting me at every turn. In my mind’s eye, everything was newer, better, more glamorous just around the corner. The next party, the next job, the next guy. The present was a waiting room, a holding pen, a moment to be gotten through. I had convinced myself that things were always about to change at any minute, and then my real life and my fantasy one would instantly meld into one.

  “Lena, why did you want Colin to love you?” I could hear Sheila’s voice in my head now.

  Why did I want Colin to love me? Because I loved him. Or I had thought I did. Because he was handsome and smart and mysterious. Because he was a writer, living his life the way he wanted to live it, on his own terms. Because he was part of another world, a better world, the inner sanctum. He had the key to the apartment on the top floor of the beautiful building facing the park with the huge terrace and the white-gloved doorman, the one I had imagined on my first day in New York. And then I saw myself on the balcony, Colin’s Easthampton balcony. My imagination had come to life.

  And this is where it had led me.

  Si picked up his Scotch and finished the last swirl. “Well, I better be going.” He got up from the booth and pulled his hat down over his forehead.

  “Si,” I said, not looking up at him.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who.” I looked him in the eye.

  He paused for a second and I thought he might not answer.

  “Shirley,” he said finally. “Her name was Shirley.” And with that, he patted my shoulder and turned to leave.

  Soon enough, the heavy wooden door began to creak open more frequently, delivering a gasp of cold air and a sprinkling of nine-to-fivers with each motion; administrative assistants, systems analysts and marketing managers recently released from their workday obligations, ordering up colorful cocktails and jamming quarters in the glowing jukebox.

  I sat there for a while thinking about Si and Shirley, Tess and Marcel, Parker and Brad, me and Colin, all these couples searching in the darkness, grasping at the air, like kids chasing…fireflies.

  The next day, I had an idea. An irresistibly alluring idea. All I needed was an irresistibly alluring name with a fake e-mail account. I sat down at my computer and got to work. The name: Samantha Seabrook. The e-mail: Sammygirl@hotmail.com

  Dear Mr. Bates:

  I just read “Simple Girl” and I had to write. It’s amazing. Your description of this simple, naive girl is just so moving, so evocative. I’m in awe. If only my writing could be so inspired.

  Yours,

  Samantha

  I felt better just having my deception out there, floating its menace throughout cyberspace. Samantha, my suitably seductive alter ego, was in charge now, and I had full faith that she was up to the task.

  I was busy reading an e-mail from Parker about floral arrangements when I realized that I had already received a reply.

  Samantha,

  I am so touched by your kind words. You know what they say though—every great writer requires a great reader. Perhaps I’ve found one in you. Tell me, what sort of writing do you do?

  —cb

  I wanted to vomit. The gauzy veil of self-delusion had been successfully—and completely—lifted, that much was now painfully clear. How had I ever fallen for this guy? I could barely manage to type out the following words.

  Mr. Bates,

  Oh, I couldn’t even begin to talk about my writing with you. I hardly get the time to devote to it that I’d like, what with my full-time modeling schedule. I must be content to learn by your example.

  Samantha

  Samantha,

  Nonsense! I think it is my responsibility as a published author to encourage new voices. I’m pretty good about sensing when an artist is serious about their craft and I have to say, Samantha, I get that sense about you.

  —cb

  p.s. Tell me, what kind of modeling do you do? I dabble a bit in photography myself….

  I could not believe what I was reading. It had been so easy to deceive him. How on earth did this moron manage to fool me for so long, I wondered? I let a few days pass before I responded. Finally I wrote to him.

  Mr. Bates,

  I’m so very sorry for the delay. I was away on a shoot in Mustique. Gisele got a nasty case of food poisoning and I ended up having to do both the swimwear and the lingerie layouts. But I’m sure this all seems so shallow to you! How I would love to live the life of the mind like you do.

  Samantha

  Colin’s response came within a matter of seconds. He was so predictable, I sighed.

  Samantha,

  First of all, I insist that you call me Colin. I must tell you I spent many of my boyhood summers in Mustique. Is it too much to say that I can see you in my mind’s eye, sunning yourself on the beaches of the Caribbean?

  —cb

  Colin,

  Oh, you’re so very charming. I’m blushing terribly right now, if only you could see me.

  Samantha

  Samantha,

  I would love nothing more than to see you, in fact. Bring your writing and I’ll give you a critique. When are you free?

  —cb

  I was physically ill. I deserved so much better than him. Hell, Cecily deserved so much better than him. For God’s sake, even Samantha deserved better. It was almost enough to make me stop this charade entirely. Almost. I continued.

  Colin,

  I’m so moved by the generosity of
your spirit, but remain much too timid for a face-to-face meeting. Maybe if I sent you a sample of my writing, you could decide if I’m worth your time….

  Samantha

  Sam—

  With great haste, please send it to me.

  —cb

  I gathered myself together for the pièce de résistance.

  “City Boy”

  Pen poised, he sat at the grand, mahogany table, his framed degrees boldly announcing his esteemed pedigree on the wall behind him like a peacock’s proud display of plumes. He was the peacock—the favorite son, the grand inheritor, the vessel of hope, the receiver of every privilege and luxury. He read the greats—Bellow and Roth, Fitzgerald and Faulkner, their first editions lined his shelves. Their spines gleamed in triumph, peering over his slumping shoulders, mocking his inertia and the limp wrist of his writing hand. He fancied himself the next Franzen and amused his audience with his bravado as he ran his fingers through his brittle, thinning hair, his signet ring gleaming, his talent withering.

  When I finished, I quickly highlighted Colin’s e-mail along with the list of Juxta-prose contributors’ e-mails, and, without a hint of reluctance, hit the “send to all” key and closed my computer. It would end as it began—in a flirtatious, misleading, altogether unfortunate e-mail exchange.

  chapter 13

  Of course I called Tess immediately to share the news.

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe you wrote that!” Tess giggled after hearing about my e-mail exchange with Colin.

  “Yeah, it felt pretty liberating, I have to admit,” I said. “I can’t believe I never thought to Google him before.”

  “I know, that’s such a necessary dating step these days. Although I think it can be detrimental.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because it rushes the natural evolution. You just shouldn’t know too much about someone before you can get to know them.”

  “I see your point. Oh, and guess what else I found out?”

  “What?”

  “I looked up Nadine and it turns out she used to be a bleeding heart liberal!”

  “What? I don’t believe you,” Tess said.

  “I didn’t believe it either at first, but it’s true. She used to make documentaries about poverty and homelessness.”

  “Are you sure it’s your Nadine?” She seemed skeptical.

  “I’m positive. I guess you just never know about some people.”

  “Yeah, who would have thought she was actually…interesting,” Tess said. “I wonder how she became such a bitch.”

  “Maybe she met one too many Colins in her life,” I said, wryly.

  Tess was right, though. Nadine’s life was a lot more intriguing than I had ever thought. I wasn’t the same person that I was ten years ago—or even three months ago—so why did I assume that she had always been the person she was today? I had never really stopped to think about her life at all or the idea that her past could have been as circuitous and unpredictable as my own, full of disappointing relationships and lost idealism. And then I started to think about everyone else around me—the kindly superintendent, the sniveling co-worker, the New-Agey “life coach”—they were more than just bit players in my life’s drama. They had lives of their own. They had stories of their own.

  And then I had an idea.

  Apparently, it was a cold day in hell on Tuesday morning. Because that was the morning that I negated every declaration I had previously made and once again crossed the threshold of Nadine Bollinger’s corner office. This time, however, I had a mission. Today was the day for the black Armani suit.

  As expected, Cheese was stationed out front at his lieutenant’s position. As I approached, he was busy extricating his headset from the hanging plant it had somehow entangled itself in.

  “Good morning, Chase.”

  “Well hello, I don’t think we were expecting you today.” He looked surprised, almost fearful. I was pleased. “What can we do for you?”

  “You, Chase, can’t do a thing for me I’m afraid. I do have a meeting with Nadine, however.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m just checking our schedule here, Nina.”

  “Lena.”

  “That’s right, of course, Lena. And I don’t believe we have any time for you just now, but if you’d like to reschedule, I believe we might have something on, let’s see—” he began flipping pages of the calendar rapidly, interminably “—March twenty-third.”

  “It’s October, Chase.”

  “That’s right. How’s two-ish for you?”

  “Sharpe.” A disembodied voice barked my name. Nadine. I was almost nostalgic. Almost. “You can come in now.”

  I winked at Cheese and sailed past him.

  “Close the door,” Nadine instructed me once I was inside her lair.

  She looked the same, I noticed, except for what appeared to be the aftereffects of an unsuccessful session with a bottle of Sun-In.

  “I was surprised to get your call, Sharpe. I don’t usually keep up relationships with people I’ve fired.”

  “And to be honest, I didn’t expect to find myself calling you, Nadine.”

  We stared at each other, waiting for the other to blink first.

  “So, why did you agree to see me?” I said finally.

  “I’m not sure. I was intrigued, I guess. I’m becoming less so each second we sit here. The clock’s ticking. What’s your pitch?”

  I inhaled sharply and did my best to channel Parker. “You run a good show here, Nadine. It’s slick, it’s entertaining, it’s well produced.”

  “Thanks, Sharpe, I’m so glad you approve.”

  “But it could be better…much better.”

  “Oh yeah, educate me.” Nadine sat back in her chair, her arms crossed.

  “Your show offers sixty minutes of celebrity worship. Pure and simple. In those sixty minutes, the viewer is treated to an inside view of the lives of the most privileged and pampered people in the world. We learn what toothpaste they use in the morning and how many stomach crunches they do in the evening. And do you know what that viewer is left with at the end of your show?”

  “What?” Nadine asked dryly.

  “A big, gaping, yawning void.”

  “So what are you saying, Sharpe?”

  “I’m saying, Nadine, that your show—your viewers—are yearning for something more, something meaningful, something relevant to them and their lives. Your show, Nadine, is missing a heart.”

  “A heart?” Nadine guffawed loudly. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about giving this show ‘heart.’”

  “I think you do.”

  “Well, what the hell do you know?” She reached for her intercom. I was just an index finger away from being yanked out of her office by a vaudeville cane-wielding Cheese.

  “I know about the documentaries.”

  She froze.

  “I know you used to care about real people. I know it.”

  “Who have you been talking to?”

  “This business has hardened you, but I know there’s a heart down there somewhere. Isn’t there, Nadine?” I moved in closer. “This show doesn’t need another ten minutes devoted to celebrity grooming practices. It needs real people.” I felt positively evangelical.

  “What do you want, exactly?” she asked as if she were bargaining with a mugger.

  “You need a correspondent. I need a job. I’ll give you a ten-minute portrait each week profiling an average person, a real person, with the same exhaustive detail and loving care we give the celebs. It will work. And it will make this show better.”

  She was quiet for a moment and then she raised her head slowly. The two of us, eye to eye again.

  “Okay, Sharpe,” she said, but her voice had softened. I had her. “Keep talking.”

  chapter 14

  “Sex with Tom Cruise,” I said.

  “When?”

  I swallowed, deliberating for a moment.

  “Definitely post Top Gun…but also pre Mission Impossi
ble.”

  “Mmm…those were good years,” Tess said with a smile.

  The bakery assistant looked at us with bewilderment.

  “I’m going to say Jerry Maguire,” Parker chimed in.

  “Wow. That might win it,” I said, impressed.

  Parker surveyed the scattered detritus of half-eaten cake slices around us. “Which one was like Richard Gere?”

  “The chocolate mousse layer cake,” I said.

  “Okay, so we’ve got Tom, Mel post Braveheart, Richard Gere pre Pretty Woman and Marcel.”

  Parker and I looked at Tess. She shrugged, “I’m sorry. Movie stars just don’t do it for me.”

  “God, I’m stuffed. I’m never going to be able to fit into my dress for the engagement party,” Parker said, stretching out her legs.

  “Stop it, you’re going to look gorgeous,” Tess said.

  “I’m just so stressed out. Do you have any idea how time consuming it is to plan a wedding?”

  Tess and I exchanged a look.

  “And Brad is no help at all. Somehow work always gets in the way.”

  “He’s working hard for your money,” I teased. Parker didn’t smile. Next topic.

  “So, Tess, how is Marcel?” I asked.

  She smiled. “He’s doing really well.”

  “I can’t wait to meet him at the engagement party,” Parker said.

  “Oh, I’m not bringing him to the party.” She looked startled by the idea.

  “You’re not?” Parker and I responded in unison.

  “No, it’s not like he’s my boyfriend.” She took another bite of cake, chewing with downcast eyes.