Broken Enagement

by Gage Grayson

  Waking up this morning, before even thinking about the day with Madeline ahead of me, my first thought was, That seems like a short ride.

  It never seemed fun to me, sitting in a car on the interstate. For anything beyond walking distance, I usually refuse to travel any other way but car—or first-class commercial if it’s thousands of miles away.

  Today is different, though. Today, I’m taking Maddie to Coney Island, and I want to get there the same way I did as a kid.

  I still don’t know where Maddie lives, and there’s a good chance that she has to take the subway every day, and she may even be put off by the idea of taking the train for fun.

  It’s not something that I expected to occur to me, either, but somehow the idea of sitting on the Q train with Maddie for forty-five minutes sounds like the best way to get anywhere in the city.

  I hope that it turns out to be okay in reality, since she already agreed to meet me at the station at Canal and Broadway. This may end up being the last time we spend together outside some regulatory agency-mandated ugliness.

  How did she even end up in New York? I could just ask her, but that’s not the type of question I think she’d respond well to at this point.

  The forecasts, even five days back, were right about today. It feels like the city time-warped to the middle of the summer—one of those perfect summer days in the mid-eighties without too much humidity.

  Of course, it’s only in the low-seventies today, but after that winter we’re just recovering from now, it sure feels summery.

  The temperature feels perfect for the linen shirt I’m wearing as I walk uptown on Broadway by myself, in a much better mood than I was just a week ago.

  This week, thanks to the weather, it seems like the entire tri-state area is out on Broadway with me, all decked out in t-shirts, sweatshirts and beige shorts.

  It’s not typically a mood-enhancer for me, but today I’m easily feeding off the collective, jubilant energy of the locals even as I fight through the masses, so it doesn’t take an hour to walk the ten blocks up to Maddie.

  It doesn’t end up taking that long, but the crowd’s so dense when I get to Canal that it’s almost enough for me to give up and go home.

  But she’s there when I get to the southwest corner of Canal and Broadway, across the street by the station entrance.

  Her shorts and brightly multicolored short-sleeve chiffon top are kind of in the same ballpark as the fashions sported by the big clumps of weekenders surrounding her.

  Yet, I can say confidently, she looks so much better than any one of them. The clothes fit her shape perfectly as she slightly leans to one side by the subway station railing.

  Her large white cat-eye sunglasses flatter her face as well—even if they do hide some of her most amazing features.

  After spotting me, Maddie shifts her stance almost imperceptibly. She doesn’t wave; what’s expected of me is clear.

  I ride the surge of pedestrians at the crosswalk towards Maddie. I don’t know if the light’s red, but any poor bastards trying to drive downtown today are out of luck at any intersection.

  Maddie stands up straighter as I approach, and her neutral expression, with a haze of annoyance—the standard waiting in New York face—softens just a touch.

  I get as close as I can. There’s a loud and obvious signal that I need to respect, and it’s telling me that we’re just acquaintances today. We know each other through a loose, contentious association, but we can be civil for now.

  No hugs, no handshakes. I need to choose a good greeting for this dynamic.

  “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” I say.

  “Just a few minutes.” I don’t know if Madeline’s telling me not to worry, that she’s only been here a few minutes, or that she’s vexed and being sarcastic.

  The train may have been a poor choice.

  “Shall we?” I gesture to the stairs underground like we’re at Per Se on a dinner date.

  Maddie nods affably and capers, almost prances, happily to the stairs. She keeps her happy gait as I follow her down into the station, digging out my MetroCard in time.

  For her, this is a daily routine, but she doesn’t seem to mind being here today in the slightest.

  I manage to swipe myself through after Maddie, finally catching up with her as we board the Brooklyn-bound train.

  It’s an older car, and we find a pair of bright yellow and orange bucket seats facing forward.

  I struggle to come up with a conversation piece, but she beats me to it.

  “I went to undergrad and grad school in Boston. I feel like I missed out on going into Brooklyn all the time as a young ‘un.”

  Maddie takes off her sunglasses and puts them in her canvas purse. I was wrong—I don’t know what mode she’s in, but we’re not in work-land anymore.

  I smile slightly. “You’re thinking of Williamsburg, probably.”

  “Am I?” Maddie turns to me as the train goes over the Manhattan Bridge.

  “That wasn’t Brooklyn when I used to go there as a young ‘un. That Brooklyn is the one we’re seeing today.”

  “Okay, Mister Barrett. Hope you can show me around your old stomping grounds.”

  I almost get whiplash, pivoting from a legitimate Maddie-joke, delivered with a smirk, to Madeline looking towards the front of the train with a dead expression.

  “Okay, young lady, we can hit up some real hip dive bars with microwave pizza on the way back if that’s what you want.”

  “I bet you’d enjoy that, too...” Maddie’s still facing forward, not looking at me, but her lips are trying to suppress a mild smirk, “...young man,” she mumbles, possibly thinking I can’t hear her.

  We’re going back underground into Brooklyn, one of those bleak parts of riding the train I’ve never enjoyed.

  But today, I don’t mind it that much.

  “I think I’d enjoy Tomasso even more,” I suddenly announce.

  Her brows furrow. “What the...what in the world is Tomasso?”

  “I thought you knew a lot about upscale dining.”

  We pull into the Dekalb Avenue stop, and Maddie’s face drops. I forgot that we weren’t discussing that part of our lives.

  “I don’t know where you got that idea,” she says flatly, but she still looks like she’s enjoying herself, while we zoom through the express stops to Coney Island as the scenery gets more interesting.

  “Okay, I see a rollercoaster out the window. Where are we again?” Maddie asks as the train’s making its final approach.

  “Not Williamsburg,” I reply.

  “Not Williamsburg. That’s an interesting name. Accurate, I think.”

  Maddie puts her sunglasses back on and steps past me on the way out of the train. I follow closely behind, but she’s walking with purpose now.

  “Look, there are the mermaids!”

  Maddie points at the beachside makeshift burlesque stage like it’s a long-lost civilization.

  She walks briskly there, and I follow her, eventually catching up after she chooses a spot from which to stand and watch.

  Maddie’s giving every iota of attention she has to the show, although it looks more like a dress rehearsal for the actual performance tonight.

  There are women of all types—over a dozen of them—with unique mermaid getups. The costumes look very professional, with a touch of individuality and care. They all designed their own costumes.

  The performers are all cavorting on the stage at the same time, with no music and a tiny audience. I think we both realize it’s a rehearsal, and, with a shared look, we’re both off to the nearby beer stand.

  The beach is hardly populated, and it stretches in front of us for miles, while we drink brown ale from plastic cups.

  I look down at my chocolate loafers.

  “These shoes aren’t coming in my apartment anytime soon.”

  Maddie studies my footwear with a confused expression that I think is sarcastic—though I don’t know for sure.r />
  “They’re not?”

  “Aren’t you thinking about sand in your shoes? What shoes do you have that are so unimportant...”

  Then, my eyes land on Maddie’s feet next to mine. She’s wearing her pink Chuck Taylors.

  “I guess you know how to take pretty good care of footwear,” I comment, leaving it at that.

  “Hey, if I’m gonna pay what Chucks cost these days, I’m gonna want them to last a few years. And I take the time to clean the sand out of my sneakers properly.”

  I’ve seen her wear those shoes on the beach before.

  “A few years for shoes at a low price range is pretty good.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot you were Rich Uncle Pennybags.”

  “Well...we don’t need to talk about that right now.”

  “Okay,” Madeline chirps in her cheerful way.

  This must be it—the old Maddie, the Maddie I know, coming out to enjoy a Saturday.

  “Hey, come on,” I hear her demand, and, the next thing I now, she’s doing that fast, purposeful walk again towards Luna Park.

  As she speeds up, I let myself lag a few yards behind.

  If her spirit’s coming out, I need to let it fly free.

  When she stops in front of the Sling Shot ride, I trot a bit to finally catch up.

  “Perfect choice after we both just drank two beers,” I declare while buying all-day park passes on my phone.

  “I know, right?”

  There’s only a smattering of other people wandering around the park, and the attendant gets us strapped onto the Sling Shot almost right away.

  “Have you ever been on one of these before?” Madeline’s face is aflame with pure glee. Her grin is almost maniacal, but I can’t take my eyes off her as I feel the ride start to move.

  Without warning, we start rocketing straight into the sky, and Maddie is bursting with delight. Her smile is wild and untethered as she screams and laughs.

  It’s the best fucking thing I’ve ever seen, even as my stomach flips and flops all the way down to the sand and straight up towards the stratosphere and back down again. The ride is over too soon.

  Maddie’s face doesn’t change as we work our way through most of the rides until just after we get off the Brooklyn Flyer, and her ecstatic beaming settles into a merely content smile.

  “That was fun, but I’m ready to eat,” she proclaims.

  “What are you talking about? We haven’t been on the Cyclone yet.”

  “Fuck...okay, we’ll check out that ancient coaster, but then I want to try that Tomasso place.”

  The Cyclone is the only crowded part of Coney Island today, and Maddie and I need to sit in the very last car.

  As the century-old ride starts powering up, Maddie and I start laughing in unison while we rattle down the wooden track.

  We climb up to the first drop. I’ve already prepared myself, but as my stomach’s violently jolted, Maddie and I suddenly lock lips.

  The kiss is over as soon as the drop ends, and the rest of the shaky ride is a blur.

  Dinner’s a blur as well, but a happy one over Maine lobster and ossobuco as a skilled tenor serenades us with the help of a pianist.

  There’s no more kissing, not much more talking. There’s a bit of laughing, but that almost completely dies down by the time the check arrives.

  But for a little while, I feel like I just got a glimpse into what life could have been like if things had ended just a little bit differently between us.

  Ethan

  The neighborhood outside of Tomasso is quiet on a Saturday night. We’re as far as you can get from “the city” while still being in the city, and I swear you can still hear the ocean—even here from this ugly-ass sidewalk.

  And Maddie’s barely even smiling at this point.

  And that’s probably because we’re both beyond stuffed.

  And that’s definitely because I insisted on ordering anything on the menu that Maddie showed any interest in.

  “What now?” I ask Maddie, echoing something I feel like I asked her recently—though my memory’s being stingy with the details. “Luna Park is closed, so…”

  “That’s fine.” Maddie barely finishes speaking before succumbing to a noteworthy yawn. “Oh, holy shit, what a day,” Maddie utters through another yawn.

  “Getting tired already?” I ask.

  Shit, I’m not good at being playful all of a sudden.

  “I can’t haul ass round the clock like I used to, uh, whatever that means.”

  “None of us can. That’s why I’m getting us a Town Car back to the city.”

  Maddie’s back is to me now, and she’s facing the beach entirely.

  I was that lucky motherfucker for a few hours. I’ll miss it, and she’s missing it already.

  We’ve got the rest of our lives to get used to it, at least.

  I find the car service number still saved on my personal phone. I hit the button to call, ready to put the phone up to my ear, not realizing it’s on speakerphone. A loud ringing slices through the quiet just as Maddie’s turning around.

  “Yeah, this is the dispatcher.”

  Maddie and I both hear the impatient voice clearly. I forgot how much I love the car service’s customer service.

  “Yo, dispatcher, how are ya?” Maddie shouts, coming back to life.

  “I hear you. What do you want?” This guy loves his job for sure.

  “We’re at 86th and Bay 8th in Brooklyn, and we need someone to take us home into the city.”

  Maddie just narrowed down some of her mystery while yelling at my phone, possibly.

  “What’s the destination?” the dispatcher questions flatly.

  I give Maddie an obvious look, waiting for her to finish her instructions, but she’s boomeranging the look right back.

  “Ten Barclay in Manhattan.”

  The instant I’m done reciting my address, Maddie jumps back in.

  “It doesn’t have to be fancy. A subcompact or whatever you have would be fine. Just...the sooner the better, that’s all.”

  Maddie can’t wait to get out of here. That’s understandable—she doesn’t need to live through this shit all over again.

  The dispatcher’s gets out a mumbled “five minutes” before hanging up.

  “That seems quick,” Madeline remakes, starting to clap her hands together as the temperature plunges.

  “It does seem quick. Too quick is what I think.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  Maddie’s taking a few slow steps in my direction, which is nice, because I suddenly don’t notice how cold it’s getting.

  The sound of a loud mechanical bang ricochets from around the corner. The sound of a loudmouth, needy car engine follows—an engine that probably hasn't been serviced since sometime during the Ford administration.

  This couldn't be our ride from the service—their cars are typically newer, usually from sometime in the twenty-first century, even.

  As I hear that engine round the corner and see the typical Town Car headlights coming toward us, I know that this is our ride indeed.

  The vintage livery cab pulls up to the curb, and I look at Maddie.

  What is she thinking? What will she say?

  Will she crack a joke? Or is she going to appreciate this uniquely old ride back to the city in a beautiful way that I know nobody else can?

  I wait for her reaction, and she just claps her hands with mild coldness a couple times.

  "This is us, right?"

  Maddie does not even wait for me to answer—she's already opening the back door.

  All I want to do is tell her that I’ll make it up to her, and I'll take her for a ride in any kind of car she wants any goddamn time she wants.

  She seems like she could care less, though, and now it's too late, as she’s already climbing into the back seat. And the driver could probably hear everything I say.

  Seeing Maddie looking tired and looking at me with an expression I can’t make heads or tails
of, I need to do something, something...funny.

  So I looked over at her, and I nod.

  It's a good nod—not my best, but it's polite, and I see her lips trying to fight a laugh again.

  And she nods back in the same way.

  And then, without warning, the driver hits the gas, and we take a rather violent U-turn around the wide, two-way street we’re on. And we are just shooting north like a rocket toward the BQE.

  Locally owned bakeries and bodegas and auto body shops on either side of us blur by too fast to see what any of them are.

  "This is worse than the Cyclone, I think," comments Maddie, her voice about a quarter fearful and three-quarters laughing.

  "Which one?” I ask smilingly, my eyes right on her as her eyes stay locked on the windshield.

  “Allow me to clear up any misunderstanding,” she begins, still looking through the windshield and still in that same tone of voice. “I am referring to the Coney Island roller coaster we were on earlier—not this roller coaster and not any sort of tropical storm or hurricane—even though we don’t call those cyclones here.”

  I pretend to consider my response as we merge onto the BQE and start approaching what must be sound barrier breaking speeds.

  “So, are you saying that this ride is almost worse than the cyclone at Coney Island, yet not worse than any of those other things?”

  “I just wanted to use the roller coaster exclusively as a comparison. I’m not trying to compare this to any of that other shit, and I don’t want to think about that right now.”

  “So, have you decided yet? Is this worse than the Cyclone?”

  We’re now in the left lane of the highway, at what feels like a comfortable cruising speed, but we might just be getting acclimated to this Fast and Furious shit. We are both watching the view through the left window, the Lower Manhattan skyline, and this rocket ride in a retro Lincoln doesn’t seem half bad.

  Sort of peaceful, almost.

  Sort of.

  “Not sure yet,” replies Maddie. “We’ll have to take a wait-and-see approach on that one.”

  “Don’t wait too much longer. The ride’s halfway over.”