Big Swiss(82)

No wonder people spilled their guts here—they were confused, blindsided by the casual opulence, by its contrast to Om, whose fleshy nipples were visible through his mesh shirt. He’d wrapped his lower half in… what on earth was it? A Turkish towel?

“Did you just get out of the shower?” Greta asked. “Or do you consider that business attire?”

“What’s wrong with a sarong?” he said irritably.

He looked like he might rip off the sarong and strangle her with it.

“Where’d all of this come from?” Greta asked, looking around.

Om gave her a puzzled look. “Have you not walked down Warren Street?”

“I guess I didn’t realize people actually bought this stuff,” Greta said. “I also didn’t realize you lived here.”

“I don’t. I live in Germantown.”

“Then what’s with the bed?”

“I’m a sex coach, Greta,” Om said patiently. “I deal with problems in the bedroom. My parents, on the other hand, deal with antiques, and are extremely established in that world.”

“You have sex with your clients? On that bed? Why didn’t I know about this?”

“It’s not your business, Greta,” Om said. “Not anymore.”

He led her into a smaller room with a desk, a love seat, and two stuffed chairs. This was more like it, or at least slightly more officelike, though it was still very more-is-more, what with the hand-painted wallpaper. The infamous brass gong stood in a corner, shiny enough to work as a mirror and, to Greta’s surprise, as tasteful and expensive looking as an Anish Kapoor sculpture.

“Sit,” Om said.

Greta sat on the puffy pink love seat. Om sat across from her without speaking.

“This couch is kind of vag-like,” Greta said. “Is that on purpose?”

“Do you feel safe?”

“No,” Greta said. “I feel very much in danger. Am I?”

“Well, you’re fired, if that’s what you mean,” Om said. “You probably won’t find work in Hudson ever again, unless it’s at a restaurant. Did you really expect to get away with this? I’m genuinely curious.”

On the coffee table between them sat a box of Kleenex for the wimps and crybabies.

“No,” Greta said. “I knew it would blow up eventually—maybe not quite so… flamboyantly—and I’m sorry about that, Om. I really, truly love this job—”

Her voice cracked. Christ, what was happening?

“Actions have consequences, Greta, like ripples on a pond. Your career as a transcriptionist is over. You’ll have to reinvent yourself.”

“I’m not sure I have it in me,” Greta said. “I’ll probably just kill myself.”

A strong breeze came in through the window, unsettling the papers on Om’s desk. The Kleenex waved frantically at Greta from its box. Bon voyage. Greta grabbed one and blotted her eyes.

“I feel a little relieved, to be honest,” Greta said. “I couldn’t maintain the charade much longer. Believe it or not, I usually avoid conflict.”

“Have you told Sabine?”

“No,” Greta said.

“Not that I want you to—ever—but I’m curious to hear how you’d narrate this to a third party. Where would you start?”

That was easy. She’d start with the trauma rant in Big Swiss’s first session. By that point, Greta had transcribed sixty-eight sessions for Om and was beginning to think that if everyone was traumatized, maybe nobody was, including her. And then she heard Big Swiss ranting about the trauma people, and comparing them to Trump people, and chastising them for using their trauma as an alibi for whatever, and Greta felt like Big Swiss was speaking directly to her, because Greta had been quietly crutching around on her own shitty history for over thirty years, and maybe it was time to put down the crutches. Maybe Big Swiss had something to teach her about living. About taking responsibility. About eradicating self-pity and perhaps replacing it with something productive.

But how would she narrate this to Om?

“It was a dark and stormy night,” Greta began. “At the dog park. My poor dog was being choked by a pit bull, and Big Swiss stepped in and saved his life.”

“Big Swiss?”

“Flavia,” Greta said.

Om snorted. “Then what?”

“I knew who she was—that voice—and when she asked for my name, I panicked and gave a fake one. Then she wanted to hang out, to be dog park friends, and I was too fascinated by her to say no.”

“Well, Greta, you’re not alone. Everyone knows who Flavia is. What happened to her—it was a big story around here. People still talk about it. And now they talk about you, too. You and her together.” Om coughed. “You’ve been seen in bars. You’ve been seen in cars. You’ve been seen on boats. You’ve been seen in… bathrooms.”

You’ve been seen at Swoon, Greta sang to herself. You’ve been seen at Half Moon. You’ve been spotted at Rev, again at Deb’s, on the patio at Red Dot, in the Stewart’s parking lot, in the bathroom of Spotty Dog— “You could’ve been more discreet, at the very least,” Om said.

“We were, until recently, and it hasn’t been all fun and games, trust me. Do you know how many bathrooms I’ve cried in? Thirteen. I’m coming apart at the seams, Om, acting out like a teenager. I nearly punched a guy for looking at her ankles, and I’m not even the jealous type. I’ve never felt so… activated.”