It wasn’t the right time was all, what with the brassy-haired woman clicking open her cell phone, a blind man with his Labrador letting in a burst of snowy air, and the steam wand on the espresso machine blotting out the voices around us. I knew Ada didn’t perceive these things as disturbances; they were a diversion, a smoke screen. I let the foam prickle on my finger. I told her enough to convince her I had no secrets. She wanted to believe me and so she did. The stories, of course, were paper thin. I wasn’t actually giving her anything. I’d built a veneer over myself, changed the lightbulbs. I was still the same old Jamie. I just looked nicer from the street.
New Year’s Eve
I broke the pattern the night Ada stayed late at school, finishing a final paper for Chinese Literature. It was New Year’s Eve and, although she’d said she could come dancing with me, although she’d already agreed to be my lucky midnight kiss, she needed to be in the library instead. She was apologetic on the phone, but I could tell she preferred her homework. She didn’t like parties, it turned out, and hated bars, anything that meant leaving my apartment and spending time with other people. I was sick of it.
I tried getting drunk at home, but it didn’t work. The bottle she’d left at my place was barely enough for a shot on the rocks. I finished it off while I paced back and forth, getting more and more antsy. I hadn’t realized how fucking bored I was. I tripped over a pair of Ada’s shoes and kicked them out of the way; one flew into a corner, and the other under the bed. Fuck this.
I went down to the lobby and called my best friend Ted, who never made plans until the last minute. We had met a while back at Satyricon, which opened the year I was born. That night, Ted was wearing his pineapple-print collared shirt, tucked in, with a belt, and Top-Siders. I think his shorts had pleats in the front too. At a punk show. He looked like a complete asshole, which he kind of was, and I knew we were meant for each other. We’d been friends ever since. I don’t remember what band was playing that night; we saw a lot of acts there. Satyricon ended up closing in 2010. I was sober but I still mourn its passing. The bar was one of the last institutions from my old days to go: the longest running punk venue on the West Coast.
Ted was still an asshole, though.
“Ted,” I said.
“Jamie. When are you going to get your own phone?”
“Ted. I’m bored. I’m out of booze. Let’s go someplace.”
“Any old place?” he teased.
“The older the better. No hipsters. And likely to still be in business next year.”
We agreed to get together at Huber’s, which opened in 1879 and was still selling turkey legs, flaming mugs of Spanish Coffee, and mashed potatoes. The tables were crowded with the usual New Year’s partiers, middle-aged people wearing crowns, calling out the time as we got closer to midnight. Noise filled the place like a balloon, bouncing off the stained-glass ceiling and the cartoonishly large clock by the bar. In the back room, a piano player pounded the meaty chords of “Lady Madonna.”
“This place is the number one user of Kahlua in the U.S.,” Ted said, laying the bar menu flat. He eyed the bartender, a skinny girl with long bangs. She wore a man’s black vest; her shirtsleeves puffed out like angel wings. Huber’s was one of the only places where staff had to wear a uniform. For once, I didn’t mind. Too much was changing, these days; I craved any kind of tradition.
I said, “That’s disgusting. I hate Kahlua.”
“Too bad, because that’s what we’re having. Your resolution should be to try more new things.” Ted signaled and ordered two Spanish Coffees. With a flourish, the girl poured long plumes of rum, coffee, and cream into mugs and lit them with a match. The couple next to us applauded. I took my drink and rolled my eyes. Why were people so corny?
“I hate new things.”
“Quit sneering and let people have their fun. It’s the signature Huber’s drink,” Ted said.
“How do you know that?”
“Google.” He slid his credit card across the counter. “Keep that open, will you? Thanks.”
A few drinks later, I didn’t care as much that I was surrounded by straight people and crammed against the corner of the bar. The piano player switched to “Oh! You Pretty Things” and I sang along when he hit the chorus. I didn’t have a great voice, but it didn’t matter because Huber’s was packed to capacity and so loud that even Ted, whose ear was right by my mouth so we could half-scream at each other, could barely make out what I was saying.
People jostled behind me, and I caught a whiff of vanilla.
Ted pulled my sleeve. “Oh, hi, Alison.”
I tipped my head back.
“Hi,” I mumbled. “Happy New Year.”
“What’re you guys doing here?” she shouted over the roar of the bar. She was smiling. “I can’t believe they let you in.”
“Ted’s paying,” I said, enjoying the fact that I could still make Alison laugh. She’d changed her hair, but something else was different. I couldn’t decide exactly what. We hadn’t spoken in more than a year. And yet, she still made me dizzy. I saw all the instant signs of trouble, like the way I couldn’t make my eyes go anywhere except to her.
“I’m here with Stanley,” she said, waving to a man at one of the crowded booths. He lifted his hand hesitantly. I wanted to punch him in the mouth. “I can stay for just a second.”
“You look good,” Ted said. “Doesn’t she, Jay?”
“Always,” I said. The beads of her necklace swung close to my cheek. Her shoes were high golden heels with a cluster of imitation sapphires over the toes.
Ted gestured for another round of shots. “You sure you and Stanley won’t join us?”
She shook her head. “No, I’ve gotta go,” she said. “But the three of us should get together. Like old times.”
“Maybe next year,” I blurted, and it took her a moment to catch the joke. The shot glass in front of me wavered. Gotta make way for the Homo Superior.
“Next year, for sure. My number’s still the same,” she said, as if we both knew there was no way I could forget it. She bent, quickly, kissed my cheek. “Happy New Year, honey. I hope it’s a good one for you.”
“She didn’t kiss me,” Ted said.
Down the street, at the Tube, Ted kissed four girls and I kissed none. It was a straight bar, and anyway I was too drunk to do more than keep drinking. Alison’s lipstick smeared on my sleeve as I rubbed my cheek, trying to clear my conscience. I called Ada from a pay phone at midnight, but everyone was singing “Auld Lang Syne” so loudly that she couldn’t make out who I was. She hung up on me.
Ted gave me money for a cab, but I just pocketed it and decided to walk home. I went the wrong way for a few blocks before I realized I was going in circles. Downtown, three in the morning. The new year put a snap in the air, and across town I could hear the fireworks popping. I sat on the marble steps by the library’s massive doors and stretched out my legs. The sky was almost clear that night. The clouds parted to show jagged streaks of stars.
I tilted my head back, trying to make out a familiar constellation. The library was a white fortress engraved with the names of the great thinkers, but inside, they’d converted everything to data, all computers and machines. I suddenly missed my card catalog, the one we had at work. Inconvenient as it was, it had character. It made you slow down, think about what you really wanted. And if you knew how to ask the right questions, it could give you the answers.
My head drooped, and I snapped it back up. I couldn’t sleep here with the bums. I wasn’t too drunk to make it home—not tonight. I could manage it, I thought, if I was careful.
I’d been with Ada for five months. I’d waited for her to love me as Alison did, make me feel the way Alison did, step into the Alison-shaped hole in my life. It wasn’t working because it wasn’t the same. Time kept rushing by me, and everything I loved slipped away just as I sank my
claws into it.
I walked home long past two a.m., stumbling over the uneven sidewalks. I stubbed my toe on a tree root and yelled fuck at the sudden pain. There were no streetlights in these neighborhoods. Everything was gray. The leaves were long gone, and thin clouds now obscured the stars. I stopped at my building’s doorstep and stared. Was this where I lived? The strange light dulled it, making it look unfamiliar. I was relieved that my key still worked, that my bed was empty and cool.
Ada
Spring midterms, rain. Ada came home soaked. She wrapped her textbooks in plastic, but the rain still dampened them. She spread the dimpled pages in front of the heating vent. Though she still hadn’t invited Jamie to her apartment, it felt strange being there without her.
She turned on her radio, the volume low, and boiled water for tea. It had taken her over five years to do three years of work on this art history degree. She’d transferred twice. The student loans piled up. She was taking Chinese classes this year and, although she had no trouble with the characters, she’d learned that she was tone-deaf. Every exam was an exercise in humiliation. She practiced alone with her hand cupped over her ear so she could hear her own clumsy pronunciation. Her friend Arthur offered to tutor her, but it didn’t work. They always ended up talking about other things in English. He had a new job at a real estate company, photographing properties as they went up for sale, one by one. It was a good job for an artist. Houses were a hot commodity, even the tiny bungalows full of dry rot and bad insulation. He was suddenly making close to six figures, shooting homes and cars that he could almost afford to own himself. He invited Ada to work with him, take a cut of his fee, be his assistant, maybe dinner after, you should see some of these properties, they’re palaces, aren’t you curious?
He liked her. She let him.
Outside, it rained bullets. Ada knelt by the vent and started to study with a finger on each sound. Her phone waited by her elbow in case Jamie called. Jamie had been hard to pin down. She always had an excuse for why she was busy. She needed more hours this month, so she was working late, or Ted needed something, so they were going out for a drink. She and Ada spent fewer nights together than they used to, only once a week at best. Ada hadn’t had a chance to replace the last bottle of whiskey she left at Jamie’s. I’ll invite her over here soon, she thought, and she could make them both breakfast the next morning.
While she was puzzling through a workbook exercise, her cell phone rang. She was relieved to have a break.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” Jamie said. The caller ID: Pay Phone. “I’m out at the bar.”
“With Ted?”
“Yeah, with Ted.” Ada heard a woman’s voice in the background and laughter. An indecipherable rock and roll song pumped raggedly from a jukebox. “I’m heading back to my place late, but I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Well,” she hesitated. “I thought you could maybe come over here. Stay over.”
“Tonight? I don’t know. I’ll be out really late. I don’t want to wake you up.”
“But you’ve never been here before.” She cleared her throat.
“Well, maybe another time? I want things to be good between us, you know?”
“I never see you anymore.”
“Another night, I’ll come over. You saw me yesterday.” The woman’s voice again, her laughter. Was she with Jamie? Was she signaling to the woman, spiraling her finger around her ear, rolling her eyes, trying to get away from the phone?
“Who are you with?”
She sighed. “Ted. Remember? I invited you too.”
“I’m busy.” Ada bit her lips until she felt the fibers inside them crunch between her teeth. “You know I’ve got a test.”
“Then you’ll probably see me again tomorrow. It’s not a big deal, Ada.”
“It matters to me. Why can’t you come now?”
Jamie sighed. “Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”
But Ada didn’t hear from her for three days. Even though she biked to Jamie’s apartment, rang the buzzer, waited in the rain. Her heart ached. Her tongue thickened through her Chinese midterm. The professor shook his head.
“Is something wrong?” he asked in Mandarin.
“No,” Ada replied. “My life is very full.”
He switched to English. “If you wish, you may retake the exam next week. I would like you to do well in this class. I know you are trying.”
She thanked him and squeezed her book to her chest. Her eyes stung. At home, she stared at her cell phone. Her flashcards were neglected on the end of the bed. Jamie didn’t call and didn’t call. Ada slept through the night with the phone, silent, under her pillow.
Looking
When I woke up, I told Ada I wasn’t feeling well. It wasn’t difficult to convince her. I was usually sick in the morning, back then. I couldn’t shake my chronic, low-level hangover or cover the circles under my eyes.
I pretended to be asleep as Ada got ready for class. When she left, she kissed my forehead. I waited half an hour to make sure she didn’t come back for a forgotten book. It felt nice to lie to her. I never really felt like myself unless I was being a little bit dishonest. I’d been avoiding Ada long enough to get used to having my privacy again. If she complained, I doubled down with more nights out, letting Ted buy me lap dances and pay for my whiskey. Every time Ada asked me for more, I cut another trapdoor in the life I was building with her.
I lay back against the headboard, daydreaming. The comforter cocooned me. I was so drowsy. When we were still sleeping together, Alison used to press her nose against my ear. She talked in her sleep, and her words echoed in my skull. She murmured through my dreams. I hummed, shutting my eyes. I imagined her in our bed with one of her hands under my pillow and the other between my legs. I let myself remember the old days—when we thought it would last forever. As I touched myself, I pretended my fingers were hers, as though I could invoke her this way, and my sense of her made her feel real, even in this bed, where the pillows still smelled like Ada’s hair. When I came, it rattled through me like a train in a nightmare, gathering speed, bringing the past sickeningly close.
After, my skin was warm, and I fell asleep again, though I didn’t mean to. When I opened my eyes an hour later, I felt groggy and sad. I didn’t like waking up alone. In the shower, I felt guilty for the amount of time it took to rinse the shampoo out of my hair. What Ada didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, or me. The trick was, I didn’t give her a reason to suspect anything. She was so naïve; she believed everything I told her. She thought I was whoever I was pretending to be.
I picked out my lilac Breeders shirt. Alison always said it was her favorite. I combed my hair back and put on my sunglasses. Then I was out the door; my heart felt strangely tight.
Sweet-talking Alison into meeting me for coffee wasn’t easy, but I’d done it. Since New Year’s, I’d called a few times, just to talk. Time had passed, I said. I missed seeing her and I wanted to catch up. Just to check in. No hard feelings. It’s been forever. She bought my act and agreed to come to the east side on a weekday.
Only straight women think you can go back to being friends.
We met at the Stumptown on Belmont. It’s still there, but a decade later when Oregon legalized weed, the mural of purple dogs chasing a yellow, sun-shaped ball got painted over with an ad for a local marijuana purveyor. The establishment next door to Stumptown sells THC-infused mojitos now, and cannabis chocolate cake. They’ve invented new drugs since I got sober and it’s weird that I’ll never try them. Back in 2006, I stuck with hard liquor, coffee, and cigarettes. I’d never even heard of CBD back then. I just wanted to get fucked up.
Alison didn’t hug me when she said hello. She sat down across from me and looked me over, trying to assess what I wanted. I knew that look. Even our shadows leaned away from each other.
“I can’t
believe you’re married,” I said, keeping my voice light and friendly. I eyed her diamond ring, its edges cruelly brilliant. Fair trade, probably.
“The whole thing happened so fast.” She squinted at the sun. “You call in sick?”
“Every sunny day,” I said, and she laughed and finally relaxed.
I always used to call in sick when she asked me to. Back in the day, before my drinking got crazy, we spent afternoons in the Rose Garden with our toes in the grass. We counted tourists and ate frozen bananas. I proposed to her as a joke, because gay marriage had just been banned again but I still wanted to marry her. She’d laughed me off; she said, you don’t know what marriage is.
Apparently, Stanley had known.
“We’re close to your place, aren’t we?” Alison asked.
I nodded, tapping a new pack of cigarettes on my knee. “Want a tour?” I shrugged to show I wasn’t serious. I knew from the heft of Alison’s ring that it would be impossible to get her into my house or coax her into being alone together. Even coffee seemed too much for her, the way she jittered her knees and checked her cell phone.
She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Jay.”
“You didn’t quit, did you?” I asked. “Nobody likes a quitter.” The cellophane crumpled in my hand. I offered the pack.
“Well, maybe just one.”
I lit mine, then hers; the matchbook almost ripped under the pressure of the match. “Glad you’ve still got it in you,” I said, sitting back in my chair. The sunlight caught the smoke, turned it white and thick. On the wall above us, a blue beagle galloped through an atomic blast of vivid flowers.
“So, tell me about you,” Alison said. “What’s new?”
“Since the last time we had coffee? That’s not a lot of ground to cover.”
“A month,” Alison pressed. “Come on. Tell me how great things are.”
“Not much,” I said. I’d casually mentioned Ada on the phone, so Alison didn’t think I was fishing. “Still working at the library. Thinking about finishing my degree one of these days.”
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