by Courtney Lux
Trip moves around as much as he can and tries to stay focused on the heat of the sun on his shoulders. It’s a bright enough day to require sunglasses, but the air is cold, and after nearly two hours of playing, it’s hard to ignore the prickling hurt of his toes beneath the water.
He’s singing “Baby, I Don’t Care” by Buddy Holly and wondering if certain toes would be worse to lose than others when he spies a familiar face in the crowd. He’s only there for a moment, but Trip would know that solemn face anywhere. He finishes his song, gathers his things and climbs back out onto the cement, ignoring compliments and questions from the people he passes.
Nate hasn’t made it far from the fountain. He’s dressed in a gray suit and is busily fussing with his briefcase. He keeps looking at a cardboard box parked on a bench in front of him as if he’s worried it might disappear if he doesn’t keep a close enough eye on it.
Trip steps in closer. “You want some help with that?”
Nate nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of Trip’s voice. He looks first at the sunglasses pushed up into his hair and then at the shoes hanging loose in his left hand before looking back at Trip’s face. He points at his bag in an attempt at casual recovery from his surprise. “Wanted to tip you for the entertainment.”
“Things are good today. Don’t worry about it.” Trip shifts his bag from his shoulder and onto the open bench space. “Looks like you managed to find me again without that phone number after all.”
“Yeah, I guess I did.” Nate turns his attention to the trail of wet footprints behind Trip. “Do people tip better when you play in there?”
“Sometimes.” Trip peers down into Nate’s box. “Crowded today. Had to get creative if I wanted anyone to notice me.”
The box holds a plant in a yellow ceramic pot, a few manila envelopes, some picture frames and some more things Trip can’t quite see. Everything is packed in tight and neat.
“You’re really good,” Nate’s voice chimes from beside him. He doesn’t say anything else.
Trip waves off the compliment. He puts his guitar on top of his bag and pulls Nate’s box from the bench. He sits on the cement with it in his lap and rifles through the items inside, destroying the carefully made arrangement. There’s more paperwork, another framed photo, a calendar, some pens and a plastic placard with “NATE MACKEY” printed on it in blocky white lettering.
Nate sits down in the vacated space on the bench. “I got fired today.”
Trip looks up. “Well, hot damn, Nathaniel, you and Tuesdays just aren’t friendly with one another, are you?”
“I guess not.” Nate looks caught somewhere between resigned and anxious. “They’ve been making cuts for a few weeks. We thought they were done, but I guess I was the last to go.”
Trip watches him for another moment before turning his attention back to the box. He pulls out the nameplate, most likely from the outside of Nate’s former office, and turns it over in his hands. “What’d you do this time?”
“Lacked passion… again.”
That gets Trip’s attention. “You’re lying.”
“Afraid not.” Nate rests his elbows on his knees and props his chin in his hands.
“Well, can’t say I blame them.” Trip drops the nameplate back into the box and pulls out a stress ball. He tosses it to Nate. “I’ve seen pigeons get more excited than you do.”
“Thanks.” Nate catches the ball and spins it idly in his palm. He looks at the crowd. He pulls at his collar with his free hand, squeezes the ball in the other.
He has clearly come here for a reason, and Trip doesn’t mind providing entertainment for Nate for a while. He tugs his shoes over his still-wet feet and pushes himself upright with the box balanced awkwardly between his hip and one arm. He holds out his free hand to Nate. “Be a dear and sling that guitar over my shoulder, would you?”
Nate lifts the guitar by its strap and slides it over Trip’s arm. He watches silently while Trip wriggles around, the box still in his arms, until his guitar is slung over his back.
Trip shakes his head until his sunglasses fall onto the bridge of his nose. They’re crooked, but he doesn’t make a move to fix them. “Lead the way, buddy.”
“Where are we going?” Nate reaches out to right Trip’s glasses, startling when Trip snaps his teeth at his outstretched fingers.
“Fine, I’ll lead.” Trip nods toward his bag. “You hold onto that. Lose it and I’ll break your goddamn neck, all right?”
Trip doesn’t wait for Nate to question him any further before darting into the crowds. Behind him, Nate mumbles apologies to those people whose shoulders he clips, and his shoes click against the pavement as if he’s desperate to keep up. Trip makes his way quickly through the crowd and then waits near the entrance of the park for Nate to catch up.
Nate emerges from the crowd only a few seconds later looking flustered. Trip’s bag is slung over his left shoulder and his right hand is patting his pocket; no doubt he’s worried he’s just been robbed based on what he learned about Trip during their last encounter. When he sees Trip, he relaxes.
Trip leans on a cement pillar and raises his eyebrows. “You stop to chat in there or something?”
“We’re not all small enough to weasel our way through giant crowds.” Nate shifts on his feet as if they’re bothering him, and Trip notices that his shoes don’t look very comfortable.
Trip hums in acknowledgment, but then he’s stepping into the street, one hand raised in the air, the other balancing the box against his thighs. A cab pulls up, so Trip waves Nate over. “Hurry it up, pal. This car’s not going to wait all day.”
Nate hesitates, but in the end he climbs into the car. Trip’s bag is on his lap and his body is pressed close to Trip’s so the guitar can take the space behind the driver.
Trip drops his sunglasses into the box on his lap. “Sugar, I know this has been a tough day, but do I really need to remind you how taking a cab works? The driver needs some cross streets.”
“You got the damn cab. How the hell am I supposed to know where to tell him we’re going?” Nate raises his voice in frustration. Trip can’t really blame him. He’s making this plan up as he goes and doing it so fast he barely knows what he’s doing.
“You’re a very angry person, Nathaniel.” Trip clicks his tongue. “Your address. We’re going to your place.”
Nate balks at him. “When did I invite you to my place?”
Trip stares at him. He’s found that the best way to get someone to take him home when they’re feeling uneasy is to say nothing at all.
Nate holds his gaze for a beat. He looks at the cabdriver and mumbles an address in the east nineties.
Trip turns his attention back to Nate’s box of personal items. He pulls out a photograph of a woman and man caught in an embrace with their foreheads pressed close so that they can stare into one another’s eyes. “Save the Date” is printed across the bottom in swirly, dramatic script. Trip squints to look more closely at the woman, who is no doubt Nate’s sister. She’s got his height and his ears. Her hair’s been dyed to a magenta shade of red that contrasts nicely with the paleness of her skin. “This Nora?”
Nate shifts closer to look at the picture. “Yeah. And Chris the UPS Guy.”
“Is that how he introduces himself?” Trip turns the photo over in search of more information on Nora and Chris the UPS Guy, but he finds none.
“No, I just can’t really think of him any other way.” Nate leans over Trip to roll the window down.
Trip tips his head into the breeze. “Is Nora a UPS Girl?”
“Hair stylist,” Nate replies. “Or a beautician. I don’t remember which.”
“Good brother.” Trip prods Nate in the arm with the invitation.
“She went to school for both, and the salon she works at does hair and makeup.” The vinyl of the seat creaks w
hen Nate shifts on Trip’s left. “I’m not an angry person.”
“What?”
“When we first got in the cab,” Nate clarifies. “You said I was an angry person. I’m not.”
“Sure you are.” Trip waves him off. He drops the wedding invitation back into the box and pulls out a pen with an Ashbury-Whiteman logo printed across the side. He doesn’t know much about Nate, but he does know a thing or two about monsters, and Nate has some right behind his eyes, which Trip has seen plenty of times despite their relatively few encounters.
“No, I’m really not.” Nate shakes his head. “It’s just been a rough couple weeks and I’m under a lot of pressure.”
“It’s not a criticism.” Trip turns to look at him. “I am, too.”
Calmer now, Nate looks from Trip’s smile to his eyes. “You don’t seem all that angry.”
Trip works at closing the lid on Nate’s box. “Sometimes I think I might be the angriest person alive.”
It’s not what Trip means to say and it seems to take them both by surprise. He considers taking it back, but he remains silent instead. In the sudden quiet between them, Trip is aware of a peppy television anchor on the monitor behind the passenger seat talking about Madame Tussauds Wax Museum. The speaker crackles loudly with the tinny background music that accompanies her enthusiastic tour around the museum. Nate punches first at the volume control and then the off button, but neither seems to work, so the rest of the cab ride is filled with the sound of unwanted information about tourist hot spots and Trip’s fingers beating out a pattern on the edge of the vinyl seat. Neither of them speaks.
When the cab pulls up to the curb, Nate doesn’t wait to see if Trip is going to pay. He swipes his card and shakes his head at the offered receipt. When he slides out of the cab, Trip is already standing on the edge of the sidewalk. Nate pushes his wallet back into his pocket and shifts Trip’s bag higher on his shoulder. “You happy?”
“I’m not inside yet.” Trip knows this neighborhood, or at least he thinks he does. He’s never seen it in daylight and it’s been a long time since he made it this far east.
Nate moves toward the doors, his keys in hand and Trip’s bag sliding down toward his elbow. “This is it.”
Nate nods hello to the doorman at the desk before going to a bank of mailboxes and fussing with another key, leaving Trip to study the lobby. The floor is dark laminate wood and bare, save for a black rug at the entrance with “The Stockton” printed across it in gray lettering. The mailboxes line the wall across from the doorman’s desk, and a few worn red chairs and a coffee table with a vase of flowers are tucked across from the elevators. It’s not the nicest lobby Trip has seen, but it’s an impressive space for someone as young as Nate to afford. Trip spins in a slow circle, whistles. “Hot damn, Nathaniel, I’d pay a pretty penny just to live in this lobby. Is your place this nice?”
Nate looks around, too, but offers no response. He pushes the up button for the elevator with the edge of his hand and flips through his mail during the ride to the ninth floor.
The doors open on a beige carpeted hallway lit with dim sconce lights. The smell of fresh paint and new carpet hangs in the air. Trip glances at himself in the mirror across from the elevators before following Nate to an apartment marked 9C.
Curious to see where Nate calls home, Trip follows Nate into the apartment. The entire space is immaculate. Every blanket is folded, the granite counter tops gleam and the windows are spotless. The whole place is decorated in cool neutrals that seem to only exaggerate the pristineness of the space. “Hot damn, boy, I had you pegged for a neat freak, but you really are something else.”
“Yeah, well.” Nate points at the box in Trip’s arms. “You can set that down somewhere, you know.”
Trip hikes the box higher in his arms. “You sure there’s not some special space for I-just-got-fired boxes of shit?”
“I’ll make one later.” Nate toes off his shoes and stoops to lift them. “Just… here, put it in the hall closet for now, I guess.”
Trip obediently follows Nate to the closet beside the front door and deposits the box inside along with his bag. He tugs off his shoes to leave beside the door before venturing back into the apartment. He walks along the edge of the breakfast bar and then deeper into the apartment to circle the couch and eye the bookshelves. He drags his fingers along the spines of the books as he keeps up his slow tour. He pauses between the sliding door to the balcony and the black metal of a spiral staircase. He raises his eyebrows. “Nathaniel, there are stairs in your apartment.”
Nate is refolding a dishtowel and hanging it from the handle of the oven. He looks over his shoulder at Trip. “My room.”
“Multiple floors in one apartment.” Trip shakes his head in silent wonder. He moves back into the kitchen and busies himself opening and closing all of the cabinets. Nate’s dishes and cooking utensils are as meticulously organized as the rest of the apartment. There is nothing out of place; not a knickknack drawer or so much as a randomly placed box of matches can be found.
Nate sits at the breakfast bar to watch him. “By all means, please go through all of my stuff. Totally acceptable behavior.”
“Thanks.” Trip winks at him before throwing open the fridge. He prods at a plastic container of spring greens and peers into the egg carton, but then he’s tugging a bottle out of the door. “What in the hell is this?”
Nate looks at the bottle. “Green juice. It’s, like, vegetables and stuff.”
Disgusted at the notion that this green sludge is edible at all, Trip turns the container to squint at the label. “Do you cook with it?”
“Probably could, I guess. Usually you just, like, drink it.” Nate scratches at a spot of something on the countertop, but he keeps his gaze on Trip, smiling as though amused with Trip’s increasing disgust as he studies the bottle.
“There is kale in this, Nathaniel. Kale and, God help me, collard greens.” Trip meets his eyes, and his expression is completely earnest. “Collard greens ain’t ever done nothing good for no one, and that is an honest fact. You should not be drinking them.”
“It’s a health thing. I don’t know!” Nate loosens his tie. “People swear by it, so I guess I bought in or whatever.”
“Do you like it?” Trip lifts the bottle up high to study it from the bottom. “Like none of that ‘it’s good for me’ bullshit. I mean, like do you like like it?”
“It’s not too bad. You’re being dramatic.” Nate takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of his seat. “Try it out. See what you think.”
“Nuh-uh. No way.” Trip points the bottle at Nate. “Like I said, all this dark green shit’s bad enough in solid form. I don’t want anything to do with it when it’s been liquefied.”
“Come on and just do it.” Nate rests his elbows on the counter. He looks decidedly more comfortable with the weight of his jacket gone. “One sip. It’s not going to kill you.”
Trip regards the bottle for another minute before twisting the cap off and tipping it to his mouth. He makes a choking sound and pulls it away from his lips fast.
Nate laughs. “Okay, so it’s kind of bad.”
“That’s god-awful.” Trip tucks the bottle back in the fridge. He scowls at it before turning a happier expression to Nate. “Know what we should do?”
Nate leans back in his seat and watches while Trip moves on to exploring the contents of the drawers. “What?”
“We should tear up the grass from all the neighborhoods in the city, juice it and then open up one of those stupid juice shops. We’ll call it Urban Juice or something tacky like that and market it by the neighborhoods we got the grass from. Like, charge more for Upper East Side.”
“Gotta up that price on Tribeca, too,” Nate agrees. “Probably Williamsburg, too, if we’re being real.”
Trip folds his arms on the counter across
from Nate, leans his weight into it. It occurs to him that he’s never seen Nate out of a full suit before this moment. His shoulders look broader without the jacket; the muscles of his arms are evident through the thin white material of his shirt. His face is closely shaven, his short blond hair is styled and his clothes are carefully tailored and ironed. Nate looks much like his kempt lofted apartment: meticulous and neat. The honey-tinted brown of his eyes, though, hold none of the cool clean of the rest of Nate; they are soft and warm and watch Trip with a content sort of quiet. Trip offers no further comment on the green juice or their budding business plans while they study one another.
When the silence stretches on too long, Nate’s ears turn pink and he has to drop his gaze to the counter. “You, um… you want a drink or something?”
Trip nods fast. “Yes, please.”
Nate moves to Trip’s side of the counter and sets to work pulling bottles from the cabinet beside the fridge. “You have anything in particular you like?”
Trip’s lost interest in the kitchen and has moved back to the living room to study the bookshelves some more. He shrugs off his guitar and leans it against the arm of the couch. “I’ll have whatever you’re having so long as that green juice stays far away from it.”
“I can manage that.” Nate is quick and sure as he opens cupboards and the fridge. No movement is wasted and not once does he have to check a different place or hesitate as he makes their drinks. “You’re kind of young to be drinking, aren’t you?”
“You stay sober ‘til you were twenty one?” Trip studies the titles on the spines of the books. There are a lot of them—autobiographies, memoirs, novels, science-y sounding things about genetics and running, books about things Trip remembers vaguely from history class and many books about business success. He pulls one from the shelf, points it at Nate. “You read all of these or are they just here to look nice?”