Sweetbitter(47)

I smiled. “Well I’ll come say hello. And I will let Chef know you’re here. Please, let me show you the restrooms.”

I walked him over and he seemed to understand that it was time for me to return to my glamorous life as an artist who was accidentally polishing knives in a stripy pirate’s blouse.

He started to leave but turned back and said, “Hey, do you think you could be our waitress? That would be so fun!”

So fun! If only I knew how to tell him I wasn’t even a fucking waitress.

—

I NEVER WOULD HAVE recognized him. I didn’t belong to his world anymore. We called them the Nine-to-Fivers. They lived in accordance with nature, waking and sleeping with the cycle of the sun. Mealtimes, business hours, the world conformed to their schedule. The best markets, the A-list concerts, the street fairs, the banner festivities were on Saturdays and Sundays. They sold out movies, art openings, ceramics classes. They watched television shows in real time. They had evenings to waste. They watched the Super Bowl, they watched the Oscars, they made reservations for dinner because they ate dinner at the normal time. They brunched, ruthlessly, and read the Sunday Times on Sundays. They moved in crowds that reinforced their citizenship: crowded museums, crowded subways, crowded bars, the city teeming with extras for the movie they starred in.

They were dining, shopping, consuming, unwinding, expanding while we were working, diminishing, being absorbed into their scenery. That is why we—the Industry People—got so greedy when the Nine-to-Fivers went to bed.

—

“YEAH, you in the marge now,” said Sasha. He had watched the whole interaction with unconcealed delight. “What, you think you like your friends? You never be like them again, honey pie. Look at you—you think you dip your toe in the pool? No bitch, you in the pool. You drowning in the pool.”

“I’m in the marge.”

“Yeah, like you in the marge with the fatties and the fags and the freaks and that guy that sleeps on the bench.”

“You mean I’m in the margins of society?”

“Yeah, what you think I fucking mean? Well, whatsoever, you an old hag now, just like me.”

—

I SAW HIM that night at Park Bar. When I looked at the schedule I saw that they were both off for the next two weeks. Flower-Girl was there in a turtleneck dress and tights and riding boots, looking fresh from some polo match, but otherwise it was just us. Everyone else was filmed in oil and dust. I ignored him bowed against the wall talking to Will. I went to join Ariel and Vivian at the bar and as soon as I sat I felt it: he was gone. Every beautiful animal knows when it’s being hunted.

I sat down next to Terry—it wasn’t busy enough for two bartenders. Ariel and Vivian were bickering so I turned to him. He was drunk. He leaned into me, winking, his voice as fuzzy as his stretched-out cotton sweater.

“Hey, new girl. You know the straw that broke the camel’s back? Is that the same thing as the last straw?”

He touched his fingers to mine. I don’t know if he meant to. I put my hands in my lap. My beer was flat but I knew I would drink all of it.

“Absolutely. It’s absolutely the same straw.”

He nodded, impressed that I knew.

—

NOT BEING ABLE to swipe into the subway when people are backing up behind you. Waiting for him at the bar. Leaving your purse open on a stool with a mess of bills visible. Mispronouncing the names while presenting French wines. Your clogs slipping on the waxed floors. The way your arms shoot out and you tense your face when you almost fall. Taking your job seriously. Watching the sex scene from Dirty Dancing on repeat and eating a box of gingersnaps for dinner on your day off. Forgetting your stripes, your work pants, your socks. Mentally mapping the bar for corners where you might catch him alone. Getting drunker faster than everyone else. Not knowing what foie gras is. Not knowing what you think about abortion. Not knowing what a feminist is. Not knowing who the mayor is. Throwing up between your feet on the subway stairs. On a Tuesday. Going back for thirds at family meal. Excruciating diarrhea in the employee bathroom. Hurting yourself when you hit your head on the low pipe. Refusing to leave the bar though it’s over, completely over. Bleeding in every form. Beer stains on your shirt, grease stains on your jeans, stains in every form. Saying you know where something is when you have absolutely no idea where it is.

At some point I leveled out. Everything stopped being embarrassing.





Winter





I


YOU WILL KISS the wrong boy. It was an easy prophecy. They were all the wrong boy. The night before Thanksgiving was a drinking holiday you didn’t know about until you moved to the city. The streets in the Village were clogged with people, server people, the shops closed, orange-and yellow-papered windows darkened. No one had anywhere to go. A celebration ensued, mildly destructive, mildly bored—it was a night of driftings and nowheres.

—

YOU THREW UP and kept drinking, pulled the trigger and doused the trigger. Throwing up was effortless, like nothing, kissing like nothing. Your head full, then emptied, ready to be kissed.

—

YOU WERE ON Will’s lap, staring at his buttery lashes. You knew you shouldn’t be but his arms enclosed you while he told you about the latest movie script he had written. He modeled the superhero after you. You: in red patent-leather boots. You: able to jump buildings and shoot lightning out of your eyes. Sunrise came like an undisclosed verdict. The wind was salient, persistent, and you shivered. You were blown out on cocaine, sitting on a rooftop and he tasted like a malt shop. Every time you pulled away, his eyes were welling like puddles in his face. You opened a beer warmer than the air, spilled your beer on your shirt. The sky rushing up now, anxious, and you knew you were doing something wrong. You kissed him harder and the sky abated. When you had sex you were totally dry and it felt like scratching. For one second, every face you’d ever seen, you forgot.