New Amsterdam: Tess

by Ashley Pullo

  Placing the jar on the island, Thessaly spins her laptop around in order to reveal the new template for the upcoming brand.

  “It’s brilliant – are these new labels?” Seth asks.

  Thessaly nods while maximizing the screen.

  Impressed, Seth adds, “That font is perfect. Is your family okay with this? Sinclair Wild Honey will move away from the current down-home feel.”

  “Ah, I knew you would bring that up, Seth. Sinclair Wild Honey is a division of Sinclair Honey – it’ll be like the Sprite to the Coke. Mama filed for the trademark this morning before I left – she loves the idea.”

  “So what’s the timeline? Are we doing a launch?” Meg asks.

  “Always on point, Meg.” Thessaly winks. “July seventeenth is the perfect weekend to launch Wild Honey. We’ll open the doors to a sidewalk party. Maybe even have a cooking contest?”

  “Eating contest!” Meg exclaims.

  Smiling in agreement, Thessaly says, “I’m sure I can convince the Salt Shop to hook us up with some honey beer ice cream.”

  “Do you want me to get started on the website?” Seth presses, being that graphic designer is his actual job title.

  “Turquoise, yellow, and black – modern and sexy,” Thessaly instructs. “Meg, you’re in charge of social media, and see if you can have your friend at Time Out New York give us some love.”

  “I’m having dinner with her on Thursday,” Meg offers.

  Thessaly glances at her watch before saying, “I’ve only got one final question.” She smiles at her employees – her friends – her visionaries. “Are y’all fucking excited?”

  “Oh, wow! Tess, the dirty-mouthed cheerleader from North Carolina – I’ve missed her,” Seth exclaims.

  Mocking her southern roots, Thessaly drawls, “Meeting adjourned, y’all.”

  The three stand from the marble island and gather their things. Thessaly returns the vase of sunflowers to the center, smiling at the promise of a vibrant summer.

  “Shall we celebrate with some libations? I’ll even buy a round,” Seth suggests as the trio file through the screen door. As he locks the main door, Meg hops on and straddles his red bike. “Meg! Cherry Bomb is not a toy,” he hisses.

  “Does your grandma know you stole her bike? And what do you put in this basket?” Meg asks, opening the lid to the wicker compartment.

  “Kittens,” he deadpans.

  Thessaly heaves her carryon bag over her shoulder and laughs. “You kids have fun – I’m burnt from the weekend.”

  The three say their goodbyes as they make their way toward Beekman Street, Thessaly rolling her suitcase, and Meg coasting along on Seth’s bike while he flicks her arm.

  “Here’s my stop,” Thessaly announces.

  “Get some rest, Draper,” Meg teases.

  “Later alligator,” Seth adds, steering the handlebars to the bicycle as Meg blows kisses.

  Thessaly catches the invisible kisses before heading north. Her apartment building is an easy four blocks from the shop, and on a breezy evening like tonight, it’s one of the many things she loves about living in the City.

  Popping into Starbucks for another dose of sugar, Thessaly weaves her suitcase through the maze of bistro tables. At the counter, Thessaly realizes she hasn’t eaten anything all day except the king-size bag of Skittles on the plane. She orders her usual, venti vanilla ice latte with skim milk and extra caramel syrup. And to ward off her hunger, she adds two double-chocolate chip cookies to her order.

  With an iced latte and cookies in one hand, and her rolling bag being pulled gracefully by the other, she continues to her apartment on Pearl Street like a seasoned traveler. As Thessaly approaches her building, she notices a man, tall and athletic, fitting a foam egg-crate atop a sleeping bag. She can only see his backside, but his cargo shorts reveal tanned, muscular calves, and his fitted T-shirt exposes his well-defined arms. She considers approaching him, confused by his purpose and current state of distress, but ultimately decides to wait until tomorrow when it’s daylight.

  But as the man slides his makeshift bed into the small alcove between two buildings, Thessaly catches a shimmering flash of indigo coming from inside a large jar atop a camping stool. She takes a few steps closer, staying in the shadows of the towering buildings so as not to be caught spying. Squinting, Thessaly can make out the outline of at least a dozen peacock feathers contained inside the jar. Puzzled by their entrapment, she furrows her brows while advancing closer.

  In an instant, the man returns to the sidewalk to gather the rest of his things. Startled, Thessaly emits a tiny squeal as she trips backwards over her suitcase. She maintains her balance, but winces in agonizing pain. Vulnerable, Thessaly flinches and retreats backwards as the man stares down at her – his gaze intense but genuine. Beneath the luminescent shadows glowing from the street lamp, stands a man with a set of eyes in the greenest shade of hazel – harmless yet penetrating.

  What does he want?

  He quickly glances at the Starbucks items in Thessaly’s hand, causing her to recoil even further in embarrassment.

  Maybe he’s homeless. “Hi. Would you like a cookie?”God, that’s insensitive. “Or a latte?” Oh for fuck’s sake.

  The man smirks – he’s amused by the blonde with the Starbucks and the kind heart. He bends over to grab his jar and a small leather journal, and then cradles his possessions in his arm. With one last look at Thessaly and a subtle nod, the man with the peacock feathers disappears into the alcove.

  He couldn’t be much older than me. He didn’t seem like a psycho. Maybe he’s not homeless – maybe he’s a European performance artist.

  Feeling comfortable with her rationalizations about the mysterious man, Thessaly heads into her building. After trading hellos with the lazy doorman and a neighbor whom she doesn’t know, Thessaly takes the elevator up to the third floor. Stumbling into her apartment lifeless and exhausted, Thessaly leaves her suitcase by the door, kicks off her fuchsia pumps, and crashes on her couch with her cookies, coffee, and laptop.

  Oddly, she doesn’t even own a television, much to the dismay of her friends and family, but there isn’t a need. Thessaly is frugal where it counts, opting to buy handbags and shoes instead of tossing away funds on a cable plan she never uses. The subscription to Netflix, high-speed internet, and an entire digital library of books and magazines at her disposal are enough to keep her preoccupied on an entertainment budget.

  Shoving large chunks of cookie in her mouth and chasing them down with her sugary latte, Thessaly returns a few emails to vendors. She then scrolls through Facebook and replies to a few messages on The Hive’s business page, deleting the ones that ask for money or sex.

  After devouring the second cookie, Thessaly stands from the yellow, velvet sofa and dusts the crumbs into her hand. She tosses her garbage and the crumbs, and then removes her clothes, dropping them somewhere near a laundry basket on her way to the elevated bedroom. Living in an L-shaped studio provides a tenant with room for creativity. So last year, after waiting six months for approval, Kip and Thessaly’s dad built a platform structure to house her queen-size bed. Constructed four feet from the floor and painted in a glossy white, the base features a built-in bookcase and dresser drawers. Thessaly refers to it as her stage – but unless she’s performing a one-woman show, that stage is rarely used for anything but sleep.

  Fishing out an old Duke T-shirt she stole from Mason, Thessaly quickly changes and lumbers to the bathroom. She washes her face, brushes her teeth, lathers on some Clinique face cream, combs her loose curls, and then heads back to the couch. She scoops her laptop and phone in one hand while flipping off the lamp with the other. Climbing the five steps to her stage, Thessaly crawls into bed, wishing she had remembered to turn on the fan.

  “Goddamn it,” she bursts, kicking the striped duvet off her legs.

  Following her nightly bed routine, Thessaly sets her alarm for the following morning, checks her emails, and then opens Instagram to scrol
l through Mason’s photos. He apparently had a busy weekend in the Hamptons as his most recent additions are cozy pictures of exotic women on a yacht. Skank. He was never attracted to brunettes – Mason loved Thessaly’s fair skin and light hair, but now his photos are a collection of women with olive skin and brown hair. And no filters.

  Skank. She’s pretty. Skank.

  A glutton for salting the wounds, Thessaly moves to Facebook to reread their last interaction from a few days ago. It’s one of many inside jokes shared between them – started during a road trip in which they imitated Peter Brady’s impersonation of Humphrey Bogart across three states. Nostalgia is a fickle bitch.

  Mason Andrews > Tess Sinclair

  I had the best pork chops.

  Tess Sinclair – And applesauce?

  Mason Andrews – Yes. Dinner was swell.

  Lonely and tired, Thessaly’s fingers hover close to the screen as tears fall from her eyes. She types several comments and erases them all – the easiest way to purge one’s feelings without any consequences.

  Tess Sinclair – I want you.

  Tess Sinclair – I need you.

  Tess Sinclair – We were supposed to get married.

  Tess Sinclair – One more fuck? LOL

  Tess Sinclair – You have my heart. And my tennis racket.

  Keeping it casual but with a slight push into a deeper conversation, Thessaly finally presses enter.

  Tess Sinclair – I miss you.

  And then she waits.

  “I don’t know what’s more discriminating – getting the apartment because we told the board we’re partners, or being asked to decorate the lobby for Chanukah.”

  Chapter Three

  {Oh, nice . . . oh, God, Meg. Mmm, yeah . . . suck it. Oh, shit . . . your mouth . . . deeper, mmm, deeper. Taste it. Oh, fuck . . . lick my balls, dirty slut. Want more? Beg me . . . mmm . . . beg for my cock, Meg, you like it. Mmm, I’m close, so close. I’m fucking your face. Mmm, ah, yes, yes, ah . . . }

  “Get up, asshole. You’re moaning.” A scratchy voice coughs, and then emits a sound that can only come from a throat full of phlegm.

  Awakened from his dream, Seth rolls off the bottom bunk, his knees slamming against the tile floor before he opens his eyes. “I’m up, dickhead.” Standing slowly and sporting a massive boner, Seth trudges to the tiny bathroom to take a shower.

  The living arrangements are not ideal for two men – like Bosom Buddies meets the East Village. Luckily their studio apartment is larger than most, measuring just shy of five-hundred square feet, but privacy is a luxury they can’t afford. Broke and desperate, the recent college grads were forced to get creative in order to secure a reasonably-priced studio that allowed two occupants. Exhausting all their options, Seth and his heterosexual roommate, Ben, scored a studio apartment by applying as a gay couple.

  Bending his long torso over the bathroom sink wearing only navy boxer briefs, Seth takes an electric razor to his fuzzy stubble. Although his blue eyes are bloodshot, a side-effect from too many whiskey sours with Meg, and his thick, apricot hair could use a trim, Seth is adorably sexy.

  Dressed in a shirt and tie, Ben presses his face against the door and jokingly flutters his eyes. “Bye, smoochie! Don’t wait up.” He disappears from the doorway, rummages for something in the kitchen, and then slams the front door.

  “Later, snookums,” Seth growls.

  Shutting the bathroom door with his foot, Seth stretches his mouth from left to right, buzzing the stubborn hairs on his chin. He’s never up this early, especially after a night of drinking, but he promised Thessaly he’d set up the New Amsterdam Market booth by nine.

  For Seth, peddling jam at a farmer’s market with a B.F.A. in Visual Communications is slightly embarrassing. Both Ben and Seth graduated from the Pratt Institute with competitive GPAs, interned with prestigious design firms, and then built similar work portfolios. Ben was offered a decent-paying job, and Seth had to borrow money from his grandparents just to pay rent. But on the exact day Seth accepted failure and made arrangements to move back to New Jersey, a rare opportunity appeared for a freelance graphic designer. He nailed the interview, got the job, and then gave the double-finger salute to the Holland Tunnel.

  Thrilled with Seth’s creative overhaul for her little company, Thessaly immediately offered him a full-time job. The starting yearly salary was twice what he was worth, and slightly higher than Ben’s salary, plus, he would have access to all the jam and honey he could eat. Thessaly and Seth collaborated on everything, expanding the business and building a friendship during that first year. And then something happened that’s unheard of in the business world, especially for a small business in a tight economy. On the fifteenth day of his fifteenth month of employment, Seth Adelman received one and a half percent of The Hive. No one had ever taken a chance on him, but then Thessaly buzzed in and welcomed him to her hive.

  Which makes Thessaly the Queen, and Seth the worker bee – gladly willing to schlep a wagon of jam to a farmer’s market.

  Showered and dressed in a black T-shirt, khakis, and gray Chucks, Seth unlocks his bike from the parking sign. “Assholes,” he howls, tossing the Dunkin Donuts garbage mistakenly stuffed in his wicker basket. He shoves a tech magazine and pantone color deck in the basket, sticks earbuds in his ears, and then starts his twenty-minute journey to the Seaport. During the winter months, Seth is forced to ride the subway to work, but now, speeding through Downtown using the bike lanes cuts his commute in half – even on his tight-chained piece of Americana.

  The red bicycle was an impulsive buy, a flirtatious gesture from a dude with no game. A few weeks ago, Seth was inquiring about a Giant Via commuter bike, sleek and conducive for city streets. He was prepared for a cycling snob to push a more expensive model, but he wasn’t prepared for a cute chick with a giant rack to shove something else in his face. The sales girl wasn’t as pretty as Meg, but she made him feel like the king of swagger – the Achilles heel to any geeky guy with low self-esteem. As a result, Seth left the store that day with an inflated ego, and a four-hundred dollar, vintage Schwinn bicycle with an insulated wicker basket.

  Arriving at The Hive, Seth props his bike against the window and attaches the U-lock to an exposed, unlabeled pipe. As he removes his earbuds and unlocks the front door, the confectionary smell and loud music coming from the small kitchen smack him in the face. It can only mean one thing.

  “Tess?” yells Seth.

  Seth stashes his things on the marble island and slowly pushes open the kitchen door. Standing in the doorway with a huge grin, Seth watches Thessaly stir a large copper pot to the thrashing electric riff of Heart.

  Using her wooden spoon as a lasso while rotating her hips, she delivers the chorus with sexy precision.

  Seth snickers as he approaches her from behind, strumming his awesome air-guitar high above his head. “Na-ah, ah-ah,” he hums.

  Startled, Thessaly screams and jumps. She spins around and whacks Seth with the spoon. “Seth!” she shouts over the music.

  Seth ignores the spoon and continues to whip his head up and down during the guitar solo. Dancing around him, Thessaly places her arm on his shoulder and the wooden spoon to her mouth. “This is not normal,” she screams through fits of laughter.

  When the song ends, Seth grabs Thessaly’s hand and thrusts it in the air. “Thank you, New York City!”

  Thessaly reaches for the remote to the Bose speaker and lowers the volume. “What are you doing here so early? Lover’s quarrel with Ben?” she teases.

  “Hardy, har har. I should ask you the same thing.” Seth peers into the copper pot bubbling with a liquid goo. “Blueberry jam?” he guesses.

  Rushed and hyper, Thessaly replies, “Correct. Sorta. It’s more of a compote to serve with honey cornbread. For tomorrow. That meeting with the wedding planner. Wanna taste?”

  “How much coffee have you had?” Seth glances around the tiny kitchen in search of evidence.

  “I only had a bottle of
Mountain Dew and a Twix – Starbucks and the Beanery were closed.”

  “Holy shit, Tess. How long have you been here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. Six, maybe five-thirty.” Thessaly lowers the heat under the stock pot and stirs. “Truth?” she whispers.

  “Always,” answers Seth.

  Exhaling as she turns toward her friend, Thessaly licks the spoon and then sets it on the counter. “I’m lonely, Seth.” She crosses her arms and raises her voice. “We live in a city with eight-million people but every night I go to sleep alone.”

  Lifting her chin with his hand, Seth smiles. “I’ll sleep with you.”

  Relaxing her arms, Thessaly leans toward Seth and laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “How about we get some coffee and chat?”

  Thessaly nods and then spins around to face the stove. “My compote!” She slides on whimsical dragon oven mitts with a ric rac of tiny teeth, and then chucks the pot onto a cold burner. “That should do it,” she adds, giving the fruity stew another stir.

  Offering his arm, Seth leads them through the kitchen, remembering to grab his keys from the island on the way out the door. They lock up the store and then pause on the sidewalk to play rock, paper, scissors. It’s their entertaining way to decide on the insignificant things, like a coffee house – Thessaly prefers Fulton Beanery, but Seth tends to steer toward the cold brew at Starbucks.

  “Rock, paper, scissors, and shoot!” they chant.

  Thessaly’s paper covers Seth’s rock. “Yes!”

  “Then you’re buying,” whines Seth.

  The two friends stroll the long block to the Beanery, stopping once to discuss the mannequins posed in the window of an upscale boutique.

  “Do you think the mermaid trend will catch on?” Thessaly takes a step closer and shakes her head. “The wigs are literally made from dry seaweed.”

  “I think it’s more of an ecological statement about the condition of our oceans and the decrease in mythical creatures. Three-hundred years ago, the East River was crawling with mermaids and killer squids.”