Cosmo's Deli

by Sharon Kurtzman

  “She should sleep in her own bed,” he’d grumble, stalking off with his pillow stuffed under his arm to go sleep in the guestroom.

  In the morning, Sara teased, “How was the downstairs hotel?”

  But Bart’s stony response made it clear that he didn’t find being forced out of bed amusing at all.

  It seems that since he left, the only times Sara sleeps soundly are the nights Megan comes into bed with her. Is it the feel of a warm body occupying Bart’s spot, she wonders, snuggling closer to Megan. Their breathing falls in sync. Sara prays that her own emotional waffling isn’t at the root of Megan’s nightmares.

  She wonders if Renny went home with the guy at the bar. Sara noticed him before the drinks arrived. She hates admitting that at first she thought he was looking at her. It’s ridiculous, after all she is—the thought sticks before she can finish it. Is she still married? Legally and yes, the ache in her chest tells her she is still in love with Bart. But how could he abandon her like this? And how could she have even considered the fellow at the bar? The moment she would’ve stood her pregnant-self up, he’d have locked himself in the men’s room.

  Sara gently slips out of bed so as not to wake Megan. She opens Bart’s closet and turns on the light. Stepping in, she pulls the door mostly closed, so not to disturb her daughter. Stray shirts and pants dangle amidst dozens of empty hangers. They are the sad castoffs that he hastily left behind.

  She fingers a shirt sleeve. “I know how you feel,” Sara whispers. She looks around the empty closet as if searching for a clue as to why he left or where he went. They were having problems, but to most people their life was like a fairytale. They met at a party six years ago. She, Renny and Gaby all flirted with Bart that night, but it didn’t matter because his focus was on Sara.

  Renny often teased her. “It is only fitting that beauty should beget beauty.”

  They married a year later. Two years after that they had Megan. As a book editor, Sara went back to work after maternity leave, but her heart and her head were at home with her child. At six months old, Megan came down with RSV. “It’s the equivalent of the common cold in you and me,” the pediatrician had explained. “Only with infants it can be more serious.” Megan had to spend three days in the pediatric unit at Margate Hospital. On day four they brought her home and on day five, Sara gave her boss two-week notice, confident that Bart would support her decision.

  That’s when things started to change between them.

  Bart didn’t understand that Sara’s love for Megan was all consuming and that the baby came first. They fought about everything. Bart always wanted to go out and Sara didn’t. He wanted to travel and leave Megan with his parent’s housekeeper, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Their fights usually ended with slammed doors and Bart spending the night at his parents’ penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue. In the morning, he’d be back and they’d make up, until the next eruption.

  When Sara became pregnant again they played connect-the-dots and moved from the city to the suburbs. Settling into their four-bedroom Greenwich house, Sara carved a life out of swatches and paint chips, new mommy friends and “play dates.” Bart walked around the house emitting heavy sighs that would have blown the house down if there wasn’t beautiful terra cotta brick holding it together on all four sides.

  The fights finally stopped, but mostly because they barely spent any time together. Soon after the move to Greenwich, Bart began leaving for work at dawn. “The traffic into the city is a nightmare. I’ll be sitting there for hours otherwise,” he’d explain. “If I get there early, I can come home earlier.”

  But he rarely did. “I’m swamped with work,” he’d say when she complained.

  When they did find time to talk, Sara wondered if he was even listening. He’d look at her and nod, but he never seemed to really hear her. It got to be that when she opened her mouth, his eyes would glaze over and she’d stop, figuring why bother? But, after months of being invisible, Sara was fed up. “We can’t go on like this forever,” she told him. “We need counseling.”

  “I’m miserable,” he said, pouring out more than she ever anticipated. “Each day here, a piece of me dies.” They were in the living room sitting barely six inches apart on the sofa. Bart was hugging a silk throw pillow to his chest while Sara wished he would hug her. Finally, she asked the obvious, was he seeing someone else? His tears dripped on to the pillow, the water spot spreading outward as he told her, “I wouldn’t do that to you. I love you and Megan and I swear there’s no one else.” It was what Sara wanted to hear, but then he continued, “I have to go. I’ll suffocate if I stay.”

  The words stung like alcohol on a heart already rubbed raw from months of indifference. Then it dawned on her—he’d already given up on their life, walking out months ago, only forgetting to take the corpse she’d mistaken for a husband.

  A note of jumbled thoughts and this empty closet were what she found a few mornings after they talked. For a brief moment she felt an odd calm, a relief, because after all, she wasn’t happy either. But that was immediately supplanted by the panic at being left as a single pregnant mother. As Sara sobbed on the floor of Bart’s closet, pain oozed from the ends of her hair to the tips of her toenails. Through her tears, she saw Megan sitting crisscross applesauce on the bed, her face a mix of curiosity and worry. Crawling from the closet, she popped “Barney, Live at Radio City” into the DVD player, and only after turning up the volume to drown out her anguish, did Sara go back in the closet to weep for her missing husband.

  Since departing, Bart had called only once, about a week after he left. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he had mumbled. Never once did he ask about Megan or tell Sara that he loved her.

  “Where are you?” she’d asked.

  “I’m on my way to California,” Bart told her.

  “Why California?”

  “I don’t know.” Then he whispered another, “I’m sorry,” before hanging up.

  Sara leaves the empty closet and slips back into bed next to Megan. I’ll suffocate if I stay. His words ring in her head as she turns over in their king-sized four-poster bed.

  Chapter Six

  The Tuesday Q92.7 Morning Jungle show is doing the eight o’clock weather and traffic update. Georgie sips his fourth cup of coffee of the morning, waiting to be back on air. Rockin’ Ron, his morning partner, bites one of his nails while leaning back in his chair.

  Rhonda, the traffic reporter, gives her final analysis. “The turnpike and tunnels have mild delays. But if you’re on the LIE, give up and go home. Due to a jack-knifed tractor-trailer, it’s a parking lot. Now back to the Jungle with Georgie and Rockin’ Ron.”

  Rockin’ whistles, “I am so glad I don’t live on Long Island. No offense people, but I don’t know how you fight that traffic every day. And if you don’t drive, you’re packed into one of those trains.”

  “They have no choice, people need to get to work,” Georgie chastises.

  “You know what I’d do?”

  “I can’t wait to hear.”

  “I’d get myself a big truck and hum along the road.”

  “I thought you’re always looking for a hummer.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Your own little truck?” Georgie asks.

  “Hey, there’s nothing little about my truck. Anyway, in my truck, traffic would be no problem. I’d just drive that baby up and over everyone.”

  “You might hurt somebody that way.”

  “Who cares, just as long I get to where I’m going.” Rockin’ pushes his mangy hair out of his face. The difference in their appearance is a battle of ying and yikes, Georgie’s good looks against Rockin’s Heavy Metal garb, multiple piercings and long hair.

  “You are the Me generation. Okay; let’s hear five in row, starting with Pumpkin Rush on Q92.7.” Georgie starts the song and the on-air light goes off.

  “I’ll see you guys in a half hour.” Rhonda waves and leaves them alone in the booth.

  Ro
ckin’ turns to Georgie, “So I guess you and Tawney never hooked up last night.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Cause I saw her at Margin’s for the London Style party.” He pokes Georgie like a schoolyard bully, “And I didn’t see you.”

  “So that’s where she was.” Georgie and Tawney have been playing this emotional cha-cha for the last two years—break-up, meet a few weeks later for ‘the dinner,’ fall into bed and back together again. They were supposed to meet for dinner last night before Tawney left for a photo shoot in Paris the next evening, only she blew Georgie off.

  “She was so hot. She had on this hot pink dress that was slit on the sides. It was so tight you could actually make out the outline of a nipple. You could make out the bumps on the nipple. I’m pullin’ wood just thinking about it.” When it comes to women, Rockin’ has the mentality of a twelve year-old in a locker room with a dog-eared copy of Hustler.

  Georgie knows Rockin’ is enjoying jabbing at him, displaying his jealousy of everything Georgie is and has like an extra piercing. He tries not to let the comments get under his skin, but Tawney promised not to wear that dress unless they were together. “Damn her!”

  “She was with some director. You know the douchebag with the goatee?” Rockin’ adds.

  Georgie nods. “He’s been sniffing around her all year, going on and on about how he should coach her. Then Hollywood would take her seriously. The only thing that guy is serious about is getting into her twenty thousand dollar a day body.”

  “He was covering more of her skin than the dress. He told me he was flying out to Paris this morning for some play he’s directing over there. Isn’t Tawney supposed to leave tonight?”

  Georgie’s head snaps up. He’d waited around for her for over an hour at Volume, finally calling her service to track her down. That’s when he noticed Renny. She looked fun. And he was right, as their nocturnal acrobatics confirmed. That’ll teach Tawney. He’ll dump her for good this time. Renny was into him and maybe a relationship with a regular chick will be good for a change. Someone to put him first, the way Tawney used to. Granted Renny is no supermodel, but she’s above average in the sack.

  Rockin’ is clearly pissed that his report has failed to produce the usual Georgie explosion. “What’s with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You blew it with Tawney,” Rockin’ needles. “And what I wouldn’t give for one night with her. I’ve got an idea. If you guys get back together, how about you throw me a bone. You blindfold her one night and I slip in. That would be awesome.”

  Georgie looks over their morning outline, ignoring him.

  “Okay, if you won’t do that, how about when you have your make-up fuck, you let me watch. I betcha she’d like it. Give it some zip.”

  “Fuck off.” Georgie would like nothing more than to dump Rockin’, but unfortunately they are good for each other’s careers. The station and the public like them together. The same could be said for Georgie and Tawney. They hooked up four years ago when she was starting out as a catalog model and he was the hot new deejay in town, fresh from DC. The tables of fame turned two years ago when she did the swimsuit cover of SI. The hotter she became, the more his star grew, too. Then things got hinky. He couldn’t remember who cheated on who first, because by now they were both to blame.

  Rockin’ yanks Georgie back into the conversation, “Without her, you’re just another schmuck on the radio. Hey maybe if I sleep with a supermodel the station will put my name first. We can call the show The Rockin’ Ron and whats-his-fucking-name show. No one’s gonna remember you without her.”

  Georgie hears the echo of Tawney’s parting shot. “You’ll be back,” she screamed. “I’m a supermodel and you’re just a goddamn loser. You’d never have gotten mornings without me and you know it.”

  Screw them both, he thinks. And then Georgie comes up with just the way to do that. “I don’t give a damn about Tawney,” he brags, “I hooked up last night.”

  “Really?” Rockin’ asks.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Was she any good?”

  “Shit yeah! I’m wrecked today. This chick was hot in and out of the sack. After the show, I’m going home to crash.”

  “Man, you are the luckiest son of a bitch. Why couldn’t I have been born with your looks instead of my wit? Chicks don’t want to fuck wit.” Rockin’ checks the clock. “Hey we’re back on in fifteen. Start with a mention of the bachelor’s auction.”

  Perfect. Georgie adjusts his microphone, ready to resume their on-air repartee.

  Rockin’ announces, “One lucky lady will get the honor of escorting yours truly, Rockin’ Ron, to the Q92.7 holiday bash at Meltdown. Pablum will be opening for Mourning Breath. So ladies if you don’t want to talk to me, you can listen to the bands. And remember to ignore my roving hands; they have a mind of their own.”

  Georgie jeers, “We’re all waiting to see what kind of man, woman or beast would actually pay for a date with my buddy Rockin’.”

  “Ouch, that hurts my feelings.”

  “You know we have a pool going. My money’s on beast.”

  “Come on ladies, someone’s got to defend my honor.”

  “You must feel so cheap being sold up there like a piece of meat.”

  Rockin’ throws Georgie a menacing glance and pushes their outline aside. “Not as cheap as the baby doll you went home with last night.”

  Just as planned, Georgie thinks. “That’s not nice. The girl I was with last night is not cheap.”

  “Oh ‘that’ kind of girl! How expensive is she, and does she charge by the night, the hour or in your case, the milli-second?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Okay, okay, just tell me this.” Rockin’ leans close to the mike. “Does she have big breasts? Or better yet, are they bigger than you know whose?” Rockin’ hits a sound effect of Tawney whining.

  “I’m not going to answer that.”

  Rockin’ pushes another button sounding a warning signal and alters his voice, “This is a station advisory. If there are any small children in the room, get them the hell out! The show is getting good. Now, let’s get to it. Did she touch your manhood, your cucumber of love, your high-speed stick shift? Small dirty minds want to know.”

  “The FCC is gonna kick us off the air,” Georgie warns.

  “Let ‘em try, those pussies. Now speaking of pussy.”

  “How about a song?” Georgie kicks the show to music and the on-air light goes dark.

  Rockin’ throws down his headset. “You cut me off!”

  “You were taking it too far.” Georgie pushes back lazily in his chair. He knows Tawney always listens in the morning and she’d be sure to listen today, wanting to hear how pissed he must have been at being blown off. The stuff about Renny would make her nuts.

  It takes a moment for Rockin’s slow gears to catch up to Georgie’s trap. “Damn you! You set me up didn’t you? You wanted me to do that?”

  “You’re such an easy target.”

  “You and Tawney with your mind whacks. They should ship you both off to the land of fuckin’ misfit toys.” He storms out.

  An assistant sticks her head in. “Georgie, Tawney’s on the phone. She sounds awful, I could barely tell who it was. All the screaming and crying. You better talk to her. And Rockin’ is screaming that he’s going to quit again.”

  “Let him, I’ll throw a party. How long ‘til we’re back?”

  “Four minutes.”

  He nods. His mind wanders to Renny, as he waits for Tawney’s call to be transferred. When he grabs the phone, Georgie isn’t sure whether he wants the call or the girl that comes with it.

  Chapter Seven

  Renny sweeps into the office with her laundry bag slung over her shoulder and a wide smile stretched across her face. She sips her coffee and stops at Lucy’s desk, where the assistant sits perusing the Post. “Good morning, Lucy. Any messages for me?”

  Lucy doesn’
t bother looking up from her reading. “It’s ten to nine. I don’t start until nine. This is my time, come back in ten minutes.”

  “Lucy, if there’s one thing you are, it’s funny,” Renny says as she walks away.

  “Wait a minute!” Lucy calls. “What are you doing here early?”

  “I have a lot of work. Big pitch. Besides, you know what they say about the early bird catching the worm.” Renny giggles at her hidden entendre and goes in her office. She drops the laundry bag in a corner and slips out of her sneakers. Pulling a pair of Nine West micro fiber black pumps from the bottom drawer of her file cabinet, she slips off her Adidas sneakers and deposits them in its place. Renny can’t help noticing that the drawer smells like feet as she slams it shut. At her desk, she powers up her laptop, unwraps her breakfast and takes a hungry bite, savoring the creamy butter as it melts deeper into the warm Kaiser roll with each chew. Taking a big swig of coffee firmly plants Renny in breakfast heaven and she wonders how Elsay can call this boring. The thought of heaven triggers her hand on the speed dial to home, in the hope that Georgie left a message during a break in his show.

  “You have no new messages,” her machine announces over the speaker.

  Renny disconnects. “You don’t have to rub it in.” She giggles and turns her attention to her e-mail.

  Six deletes and four replies later Lucy walks in. “Okay, enough,” she announces. “What gives and who is he?”

  Renny doesn’t take her eyes off the computer screen. “He who?”

  “Yeah, okay, you think I was born under a dump truck? You’re in early, already checking for messages and, not to mention the little giggles I hear coming from in here. I can always tell the freshly-laid look, so I’ll be specific. ‘He’ is who you slept with last night. That is, assuming it was a he.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Very funny.”

  “So give it up. Oops, I forgot you already did.” Lucy plops in a chair.

  Renny is busting to dish with someone about her night. She called Sara, but Megan was throwing her cereal on the floor, so she couldn’t talk. Gaby was still sleeping off last night and told Renny to call back later. She eyes Lucy’s eager expression. What the hell, she thinks, ignoring the consequences of blabbing her sexcapade to the office yenta, “I met a guy last night.”