On the weeks that we worked nights it was a mad hurry of doing laundry, going to the bank, and it was the one week that we actually had to buy groceries. The rest of the time we’d simply fill our backpacks and Tupperware containers with lasagna, baked ziti, and everything else in the pasta family that the creative craft services could think of to feed us. We’d say to ourselves that we would have time to spend with ourselves, that we would go to museums, get some culture, read a book, but usually, starting around two in the afternoon, we’d find our way to the Holiday Cocktail Lounge.
The Holiday was the diviest of dive bars. It was always dark in the Holiday, no matter what time it was. Sad, dingy Christmas lights hung year-round over the big mirror behind the bar, plastic palm trees from a celebration that was long since forgotten were still pasted on that mirror, their corners lazily peeling off over the years. The big oak bar took up the entire right side of the establishment, a few cocktail tables littered the left, and, in the back, were two tattered red vinyl booths, and a jukebox. The same people sat at the bar day after day, lonely men and women who were older than they looked, hands shaking as they lifted that first blessed drink of the day, extras from a Bukowski book, perfectly cast for their own never-ending dramas. The bartender was nice enough; he looked the part with his shocking white hair, passing his days polishing glasses.
John and I would duck in, a dark respite from the brutal heat of a summer in the city. It was always cool in the Holiday, in here, time crawled. We’d stop at the bar to order $2 watered down vodka cranberries in tall, thin glasses with even thinner straws. We’d stand side by side at the bar, our shoulders touching, and even that faintest touch bringing back the electricity. Then we’d head to the back, again side by side, and each time our legs touched it was a surprise. John would play the jukebox, the same songs over and over. Satellite of Love by Lou Reed and Blank Generation by Richard Hell were my favourites and to this day they both take me back there.
We’d talk and laugh and make plans for the next movie we’d work on, John always promised to take me with him. It was in the Holiday that we first kissed. John took my hand, running his thumb back and forth over my palm, his touch inspiring me. He pulled my hand close to him and leaned in and kissed me. His lips were strong and his breath tasted faintly acidic like cranberries. We held that kiss for as long as we could and when it was over he pulled back and we looked at each other. We had wanted this for so long, skirted around it for so many days until the tension itself had become palpable, sexy. I bit my lip and lowered my eyes and he lifted my chin with his hand. He smiled at me and we kissed again before we were interrupted by Dee and two brothers, Jorge and Mikey, who worked with her as grips. They slid into the booth with us, unaware of what had just happened.
We were all excited, that night we were shooting on top of the Brooklyn Bridge. I had never been up there and couldn’t wait to see a new view of the city. John and I had to pick up the generators so we took off early. Once we had them we met everyone at the staging location at the base of the bridge. It was a strange day, the air was quivering with tension, in California they would have called it earthquake weather but in New York it is a rare feeling for summer. It was more like Halloween; that spooky impending feeling you can’t explain yet you can’t shake.
The entire crew and all of the actors started walking up the ramp to the bridge two by two, like the animals ascending into Noah’s ark or little children attached by that invisible bond of the buddy system. Low conversations drifted back to John and me as we pushed the generators ahead of us. Dee and Mikey each took a corner and laughing we made it up the ramp, calves aching as we pushed one leg in front of the other. Finally we made it to the top. New York, alive and buzzing, a million lights each promising a million stories shone back at us, on the other side was Brooklyn, darker, it appeared almost naked – the strong silent type compared with its dazzling show-offy sister.
Like the starter pistol at a race, or the quick snap of a finger, the director clapped and off we went, struggling to get light stands and lights set up, an impromptu make-up station and the director began preparing the actors. John and I were working as one, passing tools back and forth without asking, exchanging meaningful glances and laughing at nothing. When you work together in a situation like this, where every second counts, and often where one of you can’t move, it’s important that your partner feels confident that if he asks you to do something it will get done. We had that relationship. We depended on each other implicitly.
We had gotten off the first shot when the rain started. It was a light drizzle at first, nothing more than a fine mist. By the time we had set up the second shot the sky opened and the world began to cry. It sobbed, bawled and with the first huge crack of thunder, it was as if Zeus himself was shaking a gigantic rattle in the holiest of temper tantrums. We were out in the open; there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. People were screaming, panicking, worried about getting a little wet but John and I were the ones dealing with live electricity. There is nothing like the heaven-splitting strike of that first lightning when you are high above a dark body of water, hundreds of cars racing right beneath you, and live wires at your feet. The director, producer and P.A.s began ushering people off the bridge. John and I started taking down the lights. The thunder and lightning were getting closer together, and we were moving as fast as we could. Other people were taking our disassembled lights and stacking them on dollies, like lined of dismembered heads on gurneys. I ran over to unplug that last cable and the largest bolt of lightning I had ever witnessed crashed across the sky. The hairs all over my body stood up and I could feel the shock passing through me. It wasn’t bad, I was lucky, but I still felt it. I pulled my hand back and John was right behind me, holding my arms. I turned to him, shaking and he kissed me, hard.
‘We need to get these generators out of here,’ he said, stroking my hair.
I nodded but pulled his head back toward mine. John and I were the only two left on the bridge and we were already soaked; my T-shirt was stuck like a second skin, my nipples were hard. It was thrilling; kissing on the top of the Brooklyn Bridge, John pushed me down and rolled over on me. We were kissing as raindrops rolled down my face like tears. With one hand he reached up and held my face, he slid the other hand up my shirt, lightly rolling my nipple between his fingers. I moaned and arched my spine. I put my hands on his strong back and pulled him down closer. He pushed his leg between mine, applying pressure on my cunt. I wanted him, wanted him inside me, filling me, completing me.
The thunder, lightning and rain kept coming. A boat blew its horn, the low and terrible moan of a lost and tortured ghost and the rushing cars blended into the frantic wind. There was something otherworldly about it all. Something so far from normal. I hurried to unhook his belt and pulled down his shorts. His dick was hard, rock hard. I wrapped my hand around it and stroked it, over and over. He unbuttoned my shorts and pulled them the rest of the way down.
I pushed him down on his back and kissed a soft line down his chest to his stomach. He shivered beneath my gentle kisses, slightly arching his back up to meet me. I continued down, breathing hot breath against his crotch, I kissed the inside of his thighs, lightly, and was answered with a happy moan. I kissed up the shaft of his cock, kissing the head before taking it in my mouth. I sucked it long and hard as his feet clenched and his body tightened. He leaned over, trying to yank down my shorts without interrupting my mouth. I helped him, getting my shorts and panties down. His finger found my clit, circling it faster and faster, I could feel my pussy dripping as my body responded to his attention. I pulled my mouth up and slid my hot, wet pussy down on his dick.
‘You’re so tight,’ he moaned as I began pushing myself up and down, faster and harder. He reached up and pinched my nipple, twisting it until I felt the most exquisite pain. Then he flipped me over so he was on top, expertly he moved me around until I was kneeling and he was behind me, his hand snaked in front to t
ease my clit.
‘Yes,’ I groaned, ‘harder, fuck me harder.’
He did, he was pounding his cock into me, and his finger was working diligently, moving faster and faster until I felt myself beginning to come. My body was tightening, my cunt squeezing and contracting around him. He pulled my hair back, pulling my head up; I opened my eyes and saw the blood-black water beneath me and all of New York before me. It was beautiful, being up so high, the entire world laid out beneath us. I wanted to hold on. I didn’t want him to stop but I couldn’t take it any more. I pushed back against him. ‘I think I’m coming,’ I said. ‘Don’t stop.’
He pushed into me harder and faster until I let go, my body exploding into spasms, he pushed once more, deep, and I felt his body go tight before he stopped, collapsing onto my back. We stayed like that for a moment, connected.
We lay naked on top of the Brooklyn Bridge, the rain pouring over us. He took my hand and held it for a moment. Another bolt of lightning shocked the life back into us.
‘We should go,’ he said, then rolled over and kissed me.
We got up and began pulling on our wet clothes. There is almost nothing worse than putting on clothes that are already soaked. The temperature had dropped drastically. It was now freezing and I shivered each time a new breeze blew. We pushed our generators down the ramp, careful not to let them go too fast or too far ahead of us.
When we finally got down to the bottom Dee and Mikey were there waiting. ‘Oh, thank God you’re okay,’ Dee said. ‘We thought you might have been electrocuted.’
John and I exchanged smug looks. ‘Then why didn’t you come to help us?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘If you had been and there was still live electricity we could have gotten electrocuted just walking up there.’
We all laughed because she was right; there was no point to all of us dying. Not when there was the promise of so much light.
About the Story
Parts of this story are true and writing it brought up many memories, both good and bad. The true parts include: having so much trouble actually finding an apartment and the horrific apartments that we did find; working as an electrician’s assistant on independent films in New York in the mid 1990s; pushing a generator up the Brooklyn Bridge for a film shoot and being up there during a spectacular thunderstorm. Most of the characters and the sex were fiction.
To me, New York is a city of life. It’s the energy: the desires, ambitions, hopes and dreams of the people who live there. When I lived in the East Village and Lower East Side it was full of junkies, impoverished people, squatters, and punk rockers. I remember going to work in the early dawn, and seeing it as a city of living ghosts. The longer the day went on, the more alive the city became. However, the New York I know has changed and I was shocked when I went back recently. The entire city has been cleansed; it’s brighter, shinier and more hopeful. Some of the places I remember are still there, but most of them have been replaced with trendier restaurants, gourmet grocery stores and chic cafés.
To me, New York represents a time in my life; a time of beginnings and new discoveries; including discovering who I was meant to be. It was the first time I was on my own, the first place I moved by myself, the first apartment I had with my name on the lease. It was also the first time I was mugged and had a car stolen; my first-time experiences encompassing a darker, more violent, side of life. But most importantly, I met new people, inspiring people doing innovative and artistic things. Overall, it was an exciting time in my life and, because of that, New York will always represent the frenetic energy of change and exploration, the breathtaking wonder of possibilities, and the overwhelming sense of limitless freedom.
Cell
by Ira Miller
I’m the kind of girl boys don’t keep. Pretty face. Thick, dark hair. Decent curves, in a full-figured sort of way. Smart enough to want the best out of life. Demanding enough not to settle. Attractive enough so that men consistently try to pick me up at a club, or on vacation, but not traditionally alluring enough so they want to stay for breakfast. Truth is, I look a lot like Monica Lewinsky.
I sit in Au Bar, or Au Club, or Au Pair for all I know, one of the latest, trendy, places young, Manhattan, professional singles go to for drinks after work. My best friend, Chloe, sits next to me on a couch. Her role has been to discover places like these and talk me into going. My role has been to resist, to trash them, to complain about all the phonies, wannabees, momma’s boys, players, and lawyers who come to places like these. But I always go. She knows I will go. The last five men I dated I met in a place like this. It beats staying home alone and being depressed … just barely.
There is a nearly imperceptible rise to Chloe’s chin, which causes her nose to point towards the corner of the north bar. There is a group of four men: one sitting with his back to the bar, the other three standing around him. I understand that Chloe is pointing specifically to the man sitting. He has the light around him, is the one the friends seem keen on impressing: black, shiny hair combed straight back in one thick wave, expensive suit, tie already loosened, muscular, athletic body balanced perfectly on the bar stool, gestures comfortable and fluid, drink in his hand as he points to one friend and laughs. My nod is as imperceptible as Chloe’s rise of the chin, but it communicates just as much: yes, our type, which is rarely good news.
It is later, after Chloe orders drinks for the second time by the corner of the north bar and is finally able to strike up a conversation with Mr Big and his buddies – and I am debating as to whether I will get up from the couch if Chloe waves me over – when a voice by my left ear says, ‘Come here a lot?’
I turn. It is a woman, now on the couch behind me. I laugh and say, ‘Bet you hear that one a lot.’
‘Actually,’ she says, ‘I use it a lot and I do.’
‘What?’
‘Come here a lot.’
I take her in full for the first time and realize there is something about her that is quite striking, exotic. She has thick blonde hair, cut short, parted to the side. Her teeth are perfectly straight and brilliantly white. It could be the high cheekbones and the boyish smile, Brad Pitt sort of cheekbones and smile when he was skinny and muscled in Thelma and Louise. Then I realize what it is. Though she is all young woman, probably early to mid-twenties, just a few years younger than me, and nothing specific about her is actually masculine, one could almost think one is looking at a very pretty boy.
‘I’m here on a blind date,’ she says. ‘It sucks. She’s in the bathroom.’
‘I’m here with my friend,’ I answer.
‘She seems to be making headway.’ We both look over at Chloe, who is in the middle of buying the next round for her new buddies. ‘Can I get your number?’ She glances quickly towards the back bathroom, a bit of urgency in her voice, the return of her blind date surely imminent.
‘Chloe is just a friend,’ is all I can say.
‘I know,’ she says. She looks over at the bathroom again and we both see her date heading this way. She discreetly presses something into my hand. I look down. It is a silver cell phone. ‘I’ll call you.’
‘No, really.’ I try to give it back. But she is already a step away, heading back to her couch.
It is not much later – the mystery girl and her date gone – when I am doing my own chuckling and drink buying with the group at the north bar. Not Mr Big, but the one who seems like the second lieutenant, graduated from Brown as well, just a year ahead of me. It makes the evening go smoother; whenever an awkward lull threatens, one of us asks if we know so-and-so.
Chloe and I share a cab home. The lieutenant’s number is in my bag next to the silver cell phone. I tell Chloe the mystery girl story and she laughs, soundly drunk, and mumbles, ‘Only in New York’.
I fall asleep in my bed wondering if second lieutenant is any different from the last few guys I met. I leave the girl’s cell phone o
n, in my bag on the floor. If she calls, it will be awkward again, but I feel obligated to leave open the possibility of returning the phone.
It is deep into what remains of the night when the silver phone rings in my bag. Dazed, harpooned back to semi-consciousness, I crawl along the floor on my hands and knees, find the bag, the phone, flip it open, say hello.
‘Sammi there?’
‘No, he’s not. I think you have the wrong number.’
‘Sammi, two m’s and an i. She’s right next to you isn’t she? The bitch.’ Then she laughs, says good-naturedly, ‘Did she do that thing with the tongue twist and fingers?’ Her voice is suddenly all rapture. ‘Damn, I miss her. Tell that boi Loriel called.’
Confused, still half-asleep, I mumble, ‘Thought you said Sammi’s a girl?’
‘B-o-i. Did you just get off the boat?’
I flip the lid closed, back track to bed, drift into slumber, no motivation at all to figure out tonight’s spelling lesson. It is very early in the morning, a Saturday morning, when the silver menace rings again.
‘Hi, sweetie,’ an older woman’s voice says to me.
‘It’s not Sammi.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Sammi’s mother.’
‘Sammi’s not here. She, uh, lent me her phone.’
‘She’s always doing stuff like that. Gave away everything as a child. Please tell her Mom called. I need her help again at the house.’
Mmmm, a generous hottie who dotes on her mother. If only the second lieutenant showed some of these qualities.
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