New Yorked

by Rob Hart

  From the DJ booth stuffed in the corner, someone yells into a microphone, “Prophetnoise!” A guy in a silver and orange mesh outfit with a shock of tangled hair that makes him look like a homeless clown appears at the controls. He flips open a laptop, hunches over, and drives enough bass into the crowd to make everyone sterile.

  I push through the crowds looking for Quinn. It’s hard to see more than a few people in front of me.

  After fifteen minutes I’m getting frustrated and antsy from a lack of cocaine in my bloodstream, so I find the bathroom, and there he is, standing at a urinal with his back to me, wearing a white polo shirt, a Heineken perched on the ledge in front of him.

  There are two guys at the sink. I get their attention and point to the door. They leave, clearly unnerved by my appearance. Quinn hears the door and looks over his shoulder, then jumps. “Ash.”

  “Quinn.”

  He finishes peeing and heads to the sink, says, “You’re bleeding.”

  “I am aware.”

  He stares at me like he’s waiting for me explode. “Look man, I was hoping I’d catch you. After everything that’s happened, I don’t want this stuff coming between us, you know? It sucks that Chell’s gone now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make things right between us.”

  He finishes washing his hands, dries them, offers me his hand.

  I slam my fist across his jaw. He hits the floor like a car dropped from a plane, scrambles to get up, but I kick him in the ribs and put my foot onto his back. He coughs and sputters and asks, “What are you doing?”

  “You hurt Chell, this is what happens.”

  He tries to get out from under my foot. “I didn’t kill her, Ash!”

  “Stop lying and just admit it.” I pull him to his feet and throw my knee into his stomach. He lands in a pile at my feet. If he doesn’t want to tell me, that’s fine. There are plenty of hard surfaces in this bathroom that could convince him to tell the truth.

  And then he starts crying.

  “Ash please. I didn’t hurt Chell. I would never hurt Chell. Stop hitting me. Please.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Ash, I’m not that kind of guy.”

  I pull him to his feet. There’s a line of blood trickling out of his mouth. My heart is racing so fast I fear it might burst. I tell him, “I have known you nearly my whole life. Don’t you dare lie to me.”

  His body is wracked by sobs and he pulls away from me. Snot pours down his face as he chokes on his words. “I would never Ash. I would never.”

  I throw my fist into his stomach, hard, and he doubles over.

  All I see is red.

  I tell him, “You don’t hit women.”

  Reach back to hit him again.

  Then something heavy cracks across the back of my skull.

  Fade in, fade out.

  Things happen but I feel disconnected from them. Like watching a movie while doing something else. After a little while I regain enough cognitive ability to realize there’s a hood over my head. I try to pull it off but my hands are zip-tied behind my back. The plastic digs into the skin of my wrists. It hurts.

  I push myself up until I’m sitting. The hood comes off and the lights are so bright it stings. Someone grabs my arm to steady me, then cuts the ties. A door slams behind me.

  There’s a carpet underneath me. Shag, pink. The walls are faux-wood paneled. To my left is a small table with a Burger King crown on it. Stomped on and bloodied.

  In the middle of the room is a green easy chair. Sitting crossed-legged, regarding a book in her lap, is Ginny. Wearing a polka dot dress and an apron, a red wig tied back under a handkerchief. Thick red lipstick and rouge on her cheeks.

  She doesn’t look up at me, just turns the page in her book and says, “Good morning, darling.” She checks her watch. “Well, evening. It’s a few minutes to midnight.”

  “What the fuck am I doing here?”

  “I’m saving you from yourself.”

  “Where’s Quinn?”

  “On his way to the hospital. My people convinced him to blame his attack on a random mugger whom he could not accurately identify. He’ll be paid, of course. You are welcome.”

  I reach up and touch my head. My hat is gone. When did I lose it? Did Ginny take it? Doesn’t matter. I reach into my pocket and pull out the coke. I’m going to need more soon. I take a bump and Ginny looks at me from the chair, a condescending look on her face. I pull the vial away and it’s rimmed in blood.

  We sit there for a little while like that. Me on the floor, Ginny with her book. Finally I tell her, “You sold me out.”

  “Do you know what kind of mess you’ve caused me?”

  “I don’t give a shit. It’s true, isn’t it?”

  Ginny closes her book and sighs like she’s on a stage. “Yes. I sold you out. There were politics involved. It’s hard to explain, but I really had no choice.”

  “You sent me to get killed by T-Rex.”

  Ginny looks hurt by this. “I didn’t think they would kill a messenger. I just figured it would give you something to take your mind off this whole thing. As for the guy I sent to your apartment…”

  “Wait, the guy I chased? He was yours?”

  “Babe, I know the USB drive is practically impenetrable, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t give it a shot. Your apartment was already trashed anyway.”

  “And the hipsters?”

  “They’re not as powerful as I thought.”

  “But you still told them where to find me?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  She lights a cigarette. She still hasn’t looked me in the eye. “It was a business decision.”

  “Business?”

  “I deal in information Ash. It’s the most precious thing in the world. No one can take it from you and it never loses its value. You need to understand that what you did put me in a bad position.”

  “So this is your standard of friendship?”

  “Don’t be so foolish.”

  “And Chell?”

  “I still don’t know what happened to Chell. I tried my damndest to find out, because I wanted to give you that. I would have handed that information over to you and you would have been out of my hair. Instead, you’ve been doing nothing but causing problems.” She pauses. “I’m sorry, but it needs to be said. Chell didn’t love you like you loved her, Ash.”

  The back of my throat is hot. I choke back tears, vomit. “It wasn’t about that. She was my friend. Who are you?”

  “I’m your friend, Ash. I am. Chell is dead. And I am sorry. But people die. Why, why, why are you doing this to yourself? She wouldn’t even fuck you.”

  I climb to my feet. “I was a fucking shoulder to cry on. I was a sounding board every time she fucked someone and it went south. I gave everything to her and never asked for anything back. What was so wrong with me?”

  Ginny’s face goes slack. The words hang in the air between us. I feel like I’m standing naked in front of her.

  “Ash,” she says. “You sound like a child who had a toy taken away. Is that all you thought of Chell? That she was an object for conquest?”

  “I don’t mean… it just… it can’t all be so random. There needs to be a reason that she died. Somebody needs to pay for it.”

  “Ah.” Ginny relaxes. Then she laughs, a modest giggle, like she just understood a mildly clever joke. “There it is. I can’t believe it. Cannot believe I didn’t put that one together. It was obvious that this was about your father.”

  “This has nothing to do with my dad.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  I walk over to her and stand in front of her, and since she’s biologically a man, I don’t feel bad about this. “Ginny, get up.”

  She sighs again and climbs to her feet. “What are you going to do?”

  I don’t answer, I just swing at her, but all my fist feels is air. The next thing I feel is the carpet crammed into my face and my arm twisted behind me, ready to pop
out. Ginny keeps a hold on my arm but manages to crouch down next to me. “Ash, I love you. Despite everything, I do, and that’s why this is so hard.”

  I try and twist away. Ginny pulls harder and lights explode behind eyes. She’s not even breathing hard.

  Under my breath I mutter, “Fucking cunt.”

  She twists harder. “So you can’t hurt me with your hands, you’re going to hurt me with words? Is that it? You know me, Ash.” She leans close into my ear and yells, “I don’t have feelings.”

  Bone scrapes against bone.

  “Darling, going around and knocking people out isn’t going to bring her back. And it’s not going to bring your father back. I can see how establishing some sort of narrative might work to assuage your pain, but all you’re doing is chasing ghosts. And ghosts do not exist.”

  I stop struggling but she doesn’t let up. “I know what happened is terrible. It’s unfathomable. These things are bigger than us. They are devoid of meaning. And yet, you are no one’s dark rider of vengeance. You will find no answers. I am telling you this as your soon-to-be-former friend.”

  Ginny lets my arm go and I collapse into a pile on the floor, dive for her legs.

  She twists around me, puts her knee in my back, right between two vertebrae, and pins me to the floor. She says, “Here’s the truth. You are young and foolish. You do not know nearly as much about the world as you’d like to think you do. And you will not grow as a person until you realize that.”

  She gets close to my ear and drops her voice to a whisper. “No one knows anything. The first step toward recovery is admitting to that.”

  She gets off my back and I pull myself to my feet.

  “Go, while I’m still in a good mood, darling,” she says. “Or the next thing you’ll see is a ceiling. Of a hospital room or a pine box, it makes no difference to me at this point. Don’t expect a Christmas card this year, either.”

  I walk a few blocks and people give me a wide berth. I stand on a quiet corner and stare up and the sky like I’m going to find an answer there. My body is a sea of pain, waves crashing against my head and ribs and leg. Things move inside me that shouldn’t be moving.

  I need a drink.

  I need to be numb.

  Apocalypse will save me.

  The bar is so crowded I can barely get through the door. Dave isn’t bartending, which is good, because he probably doesn’t want to see me. Tony hands me my bottle of Jay without waiting, without asking. I considering poking around to see if there’s anyone I know, but the noise overwhelms me so I figure I’ll head down to the office. At least it’ll be quiet down there.

  The ‘out of order’ sign is already up on the bathroom. I wait until I think no one is looking and slip inside. The bookshelf is ajar. It’s not supposed to be. Against the rules. Otherwise anyone could find the back room.

  I step through the dark hallway and into the office and Margo is sitting on the leg of a couch, her friends from last night scattered around the room. But there’s no one from the old guard with them. No Lunette, no Bombay, no Dave. No one who is supposed to be down here.

  Everyone stops talking and looks up at me. I ask Margo, “What the fuck is this?”

  Her face twists in shock. “What?”

  “Why the fuck are these people in here?”

  “Lunette showed it to me. I thought it was cool.”

  “It’s not fucking cool.” I kick the coffee table so the wine glasses and beer bottles fall over. “Everyone get the fuck out.”

  The asshole, Eye-Anne, looks up at me and shrugs. “Do you own the building or something? Because if not, I don’t think you can tell us where we can be.”

  I reach down and grab his collar, pull him to his feet. A pair of arms wrap around me from behind. I throw whoever it is off. I shove Eye-Anne back down on the couch and turn to Margo. “You know what? Fuck you.” She freezes. “It’s your fucking fault. You brought all these dumb fucking gents here and now the neighbors want us out. And that’s fucking bullshit.”

  “Ash…”

  “No, just, fuck off. This space doesn’t belong to them. It belongs to us. We fucking earned it. And these fucking kids just showed up and took it from us.” I tell the crowd, “Get the fuck out, all of you, or there’s going to be a big fucking problem.”

  Eye-Anne gets bold. He stands up and gets in my face, says, “Don’t talk to a lady like that.”

  I nearly pick him up off his feet before I toss him into the wall. He falls to the floor and the room holds its collective breath. I tell them, “You know what? Fuck this.”

  As I’m leaving someone mutters, “Fucking hipster asshole.”

  I turn, make a noise that sounds like something ancient and angry, and dive at the door. Someone swings it closed and locks it. I bang on it until my fist hurts.

  Fine. Fuck it. It doesn’t matter. This place will be gone soon anyway. This whole place will be gone from us and it doesn’t matter. Let it sink below the sea. I crash through the hallway, out to the grate in the sidewalk, leave through there so I don’t have to go back through the bar. Light a cigarette.

  Considering kicking in the window.

  Considering burning down the building.

  Here’s the thing about living in New York City: Fuck this place.

  Someone calls my name. I turn and it’s Bombay. He’s looking at me like he’s never seen me before.

  I should apologize.

  And I try to, but the wrong words come out.

  “It’s because she’s gone,” I tell him. “It’s not my fault.”

  He drops his shoulder, rears back. Broadcasts the punch in high-definition.

  I don’t bother to stop it, and let his fist connect with my jaw.

  I remember what happened the night you died.

  I wish I didn’t.

  Maybe a chunk of my brain finally bit the dust after years of abuse and it’s hard to process memories. Maybe Bombay knocked it loose. Maybe I’ve been actively trying to block this.

  Doesn’t matter. Because now I remember.

  I finished up my shift at the office, sent the decoy and bodyguard out to try and catch that groper. I should have gone home, but I couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t stay inside so I wandered, smoking cigarettes and ducking into phone booths to blow lines of coke, and then I saw you and Quinn coming out of KGB.

  You were arguing. It was intense enough you wouldn’t look him in the eye, which for you meant that you were wrong about something but were too proud to admit it. I watched from across the street, peeking around a parked van, wondering what I should do, when I saw him shake his head. Then you kissed each other. A knife twisted in my gut, and he got in a cab and left.

  When a fight like that ends with a kiss it means there’s something there worth saving.

  You know what it was, Chell? I had convinced myself that you had made a promise that you wouldn’t see him. I know that’s not true, but it’s what I made myself believe. And I know now it was wrong of me to ask that, but I didn’t know it then.

  You were walking to the subway. I stopped you at the mouth of the station and asked you why you were with him. We argued. I don’t remember what we were saying. We were yelling and people were watching and you made me angry.

  And when you tried to get away from me, I grabbed you by the wrist, hard.

  Hard enough you twisted your face in pain.

  The kind of pain you never expected to feel from me. I held you there and yelled at you, right in the middle of the sidewalk, and some guy stopped to see if you were okay, and I pushed him and turned around and you were gone.

  The train pulled into the station as we were running down the stairs and you managed to get on just as the doors were closing. I was a few seconds too late, tried to pry the doors open, but it didn’t work. I watched through the window as you held your wrist, a red mark around it from where I squeezed.

  And I cried, in front of all these people pressing their faces up against the window.

 
The subway began to glide out of the station. I pulled a pen out of my pocket.

  And I wrote the wrong thing on my hand.

  It should have been: I’m sorry. That’s what I should have written. But I was stupid and angry and drunk and I wasn’t thinking.

  I wrote: You promised.

  Even as I was doing it, I felt like it was a mistake, but once I pressed my hand to the window it was too late. I held it there, walking alongside the train, picking up my pace as it went faster. You pulled a pen out of your pocket and you wrote something on your hand.

  I was running alongside the train at that point, trying to keep up, and just as you put your hand to the window, before I could read it, the train whisked into the tunnel and I ran full force into the wall.

  That was the last time I saw you.

  That’s why I made a half-hearted attempt to stop with the booze and the drugs. I didn’t like the person I was when I pumped myself full of poison. The way I grabbed your wrist, the way your face looked, it stayed with me, even though I didn’t realize it, and that’s the only way I can see you now.

  Twisted in pain, angry.

  You used the train to get away from me, and then you went to work and I went out and drank more until I went home and passed out on the floor. If I had been awake, maybe I wouldn’t have gotten to you in time, but anything would be better than this.

  I could sit here all day and come up with a million reasons for what this means and why I did it and why I’m after the person who did this to you, but no matter what I say it wouldn’t be the truth.

  The only truth is that I wanted you to know I was sorry and I don’t know how to say it without hurting someone.

  What would you say to me if you could see me right now?

  I wake staring into the sun. It intensifies the hangover stomping around my brain. My body feels heavy, like I’m being pulled into the ground. The thought of moving terrifies me. I’m not sure I’ll stay together.

  Buildings. There are buildings whipping by, like I’m being carried, and I figure maybe I’m dead and this is what it looks like. Maybe this city has decided that it’s done with me, that I don’t deserve it. And it’s sent someone to carry me away, far from here, to make a life somewhere else.