Faking Life (4 page)

“I think I'm gonna hang out here, catch up on some me time. I have a date with Mr. Bubbles, and he's quite a gentleman.”

“Well, enjoy, and make sure he doesn't stiff you on the tab and run off with the Brawny towel guy. I'll try not to wake you when I come in.”

“Don't you mean when
we
come in?”

Courtney giggled. “No way. After this buildup, Ken'll be lucky if he
ever
sees the apartment.”

Esther nodded and watched the television episode play out for a few minutes. She'd seen this one several times, all of them in fact, but always pressed stop feeling happy, satisfied. If these people, with all of their problems, could find happiness so easily and on such a regular basis, shouldn't she be granted a single moment of it?

Esther went to the fridge and took out a Corona, the cold cutting through her skin life a blade. She took a sliver of lime and popped it into the mouth of the bottle, holding her thumb over the top and inverting it. The lime slowly rose to the top, soaking the beer in. Releasing her thumb with an effervescent fizz, she took a long, satisfying sip and wiped her mouth.

She slipped on her pink terrycloth bathrobe, picked up a tattered paperback and carried the bottle and book into the bathroom. She ran the water until it was a few degrees over lukewarm, then disrobed and slipped in. As her skin heated up, she sprinkled bath salts underneath the faucet, the crystals tickling her skin like champagne. She took another long pull from the bottle.

I deserve this
, she thought.

It all made perfect sense. It should have relaxed her into submission, except that during the forty-five minutes Esther sat in the warm water she didn't once open her book. She let the beer grow warm on the tile next to the tub, soapy water spilling onto the floor.

John Gillis.

She couldn't get him out of her head. She could feel blood in his pages that she'd never felt before, a life speaking to her, waiting to pump through her veins. For a brief moment, she felt an urge to grab a taxi and head down to Slappy's Slop House. She just wanted to see him, to feel him near her. But she pushed it away and squeezed her eyes shut, forcing other images, irrelevant, unkind images into her head in his place.

Little girl stuff
, she thought, thrusting the idea from her mind.
I'm too old to have crushes. Besides, I've never even met the guy.
He could be just like the rest of them. Personal and professional feelings cannot be one and the same. I won't let them.

Esther sat in the bath until her fingers were wrinkled and scaly, dumping the untouched beer into the sink. After drying off, she collapsed on her bed, rearranged the pillows until she was comfortable, and turned on the radio. Soft rock. Sting maybe. They all sounded similar, but right now she needed to feed her emotions even in spite of quality music.

Courtney had already left to meet Ken. The apartment was silent. Car horns bleated outside the window. Life went on without her. The sounds had become as common as the feeling she was failing to tune out, that had struggled to get out for years. She wouldn't let them in,
couldn't
let them in.

Esther sipped her beer and read, her mind slowly drifting away from the world that stood still outside her window.

I
n recent weeks, John Gillis had spent less and less time picking out clothes, often grabbing whatever jeans and t-shirts lay crumpled around his apartment, just confirming they didn't need to be washed before submitting to the nightly bombardment of liquor and beer. John's wardrobe used to be the only facet of his day that he controlled. Now even that had lost its appeal.

“Scotch and soda, and don't make me ask twice,” he heard from the man with a sawdust-colored ponytail who smelled like he'd been sautéed in Paco Rabanne. He was tempted to sneak behind the man and lop his ponytail off at the scalp. These men John had learned to tolerate, every night thrusting twenty dollars bills in his face like feed at a petting zoo. He was used to being treated like shit for the sake of making an impression.

“Ten piece wings, fuckin' ready,” a raspy voice called out. That voice was the one thing John
couldn't
get used to: the new short order cook. Sal Marvio had been working at Slappy's for three weeks, the longest tenure of any chef since Seamus Hallahan. Artie had fired four others—each in under a week—for infractions that ran from drinking on the job to picking their nose with a turkey baster. Sal Marvio had been an assistant chef at a Chili's branch and walked bowlegged like he'd been riding a horse bareback for a month straight. Yet despite the man's rancid language—last Thursday he'd told a naval officer to stick his stars and stripes up his mother's ass—his buffalo wings were the only ones that held a candle to Seamus's. Seamus. He couldn't get the man out of his mind. What a fucking horrible way to go. That was the thought running nonstop like a stock ticker.

He could still smell the sweet odor. He'd mistaken it for burnt chicken. Until he saw Artie sprinting panicked from the kitchen, calling 911. John had stumbled over, seen Seamus's body prone on the floor. The smell was Artie's hand. He's tried to break the fall, instead burning it on the hot stove. The skin was fraying, pink muscle exposed underneath. The EMT—some kid who looked fifteen—puked as they loaded Seamus into the ambulance. Seamus. That's why he needed things to change. John saw himself forty years from now, dying behind the bar serving a mimosa to some smarmy broker. Enjoying none of it. Leaving no legacy. It wasn't until Seamus died he even thought about any of it.

John had worked at Slappy's Slop House for nearly seven years, almost from the day he finished college. A lack of funds—and no job prospects to bolster them—had led him to Artie Graves, the owner. A small, porcine man who wore his hair in shiny ponytail, Artie spent half his time outside admiring the long lines snaking outside the bar. John could understand Artie's fascination, though. Ever since Travis Barker had his picture snapped with his hand on that girl's ass, Slappy's was a veritable hotbed of New York's finest drunkards.

He took a cloth, ran it under the tap, and wiped down the bar. Not much to clean this early, but something about the glare of the track lighting reflected in the glistening wood conjured images of sunlight glinting off of a clear blue ocean. If he squinted at just the right angle, John had to shield his eyes. He loved that, his mind creating an artificial sense of beauty in a setting where most of the grace was manufactured.

“Hey, lighten up John. You look ready to jump off a building.”

John snapped to attention.

“Oh, hi Stace. No, I'm just thinking is all.”

“Well think happier thoughts, will you? I'm getting depressed just being around you.” John gave her a big, toothy grin.

“That better?”

“Much. Now I can sleep tonight.”

Stacy Tompkins was the evening waitress and sometime bartender. An attractive redhead, Stacy had unfortunately taken a liking to John at the precise moment he'd finished sowing his wild oats. Her phone number was printed in eyeliner on a cocktail napkin that lay forgotten in a drawer at John's house. Her gaze fixated on him, she drummed her fingers against the bar.

“So what's new?” she said. John shrugged.

Stacy frowned and tapped her fingers louder. When he didn't respond, she sighed and picked up a steaming tray of wings, carrying it to a pair of customers at the bar. They tore into the meat and ordered another pitcher.

Though his trusty Seiko was John's most constant companion during the early evening hours, the relative silence gave him more time to think. More time to reflect. And over the last few months, that seemed like all he'd been doing. Like reverse time-lapse photography, the days played out in his mind in a matter of seconds but never seemed to change. The same food being eaten. The same drinks being poured. The same customers and the same greasy tips.

John was swirling his finger in a small puddle of beer when he heard the familiar whistle of the first few bars of Billy Joel's “Piano Man” drift across the bar. The whistling grew louder until the chorus ended and a thin man wearing an ill-fitted blazer and maroon turtleneck slapped his palms down and leaned forward theatrically.

“Now John at the bar is a friend of mine,” he crooned. “And he gets me my drinks for free…” He held the 'e' in free until John had a chance to make sure Artie wasn't looking. Then they sang the rest together, in perfect off-key harmony. “And he's quick with a joke, and to light up your smoke, but there's some place that he'd rather be.” John filled a glass with dark beer and set it in front of an empty stool.

“Too bad Bloomberg hasn't banned shitty singing,” John said. “And you came in a beat late on the third line.”

“Bull
shit
, you were a beat fast.” Paul Shrader sat down and took a long, healthy sip. Paul and John had been roommates going on ten years, dating back to the tiny room freshman dorm room. After graduation they'd moved into their current four-story walkup in alphabet city, which, despite the occasional drug sting and millions of Chinese takeout menus mysteriously finding their way under the door, had been a more than adequate dwelling for six years.

Paul took a look around the bar and jerked his thumb in the direction of Mr. Scotch and Soda.

“Ponytails are the new mullet. Nobody wears them anymore except pretentious artists and flashback-ridden hippies.” He sipped his beer and licked his lips.

“Unfortunately I can't refuse to serve anyone based on hairstyle.” Paul shook his head as if to say
well, you should.

“Guess I should drink up before the cattle call starts.”

“Maybe it's time you settle your tab before you drink up.” Paul dug into his pocket and produced a ball of blue lint that he carefully placed on a coaster.

“Keep the change,” he said.

“Well,” John said, inspecting the specimen. “Now I can finally afford to buy you that tool kit so you can go screw yourself.” They noticed Artie walking by, his leather jacket making ripe noises. Paul raised his drink.

“Arthur, good to see you again. Fine establishment you're running here.” Artie gave him a smile and kept walking. Paul waited until he'd left, then rummaged in his pocket. “Found these in the shower this morning.” He held up a plastic lunch bag containing three black hairs. John groaned.

“Still think you're going bald?”

Paul shook his head. “I don't think I am, I
know
I am. This proves it. Pretty soon you'll be using my head to buff this countertop.”

“Man, if you're so concerned go on Rogaine or something.”

“No way. Only people I know on Rogaine are bald.” Man had a point.

“Hey stranger,” Stacy said, balancing a plate of wings on her hand as she gave Paul a quick peck on the cheek.

“Hey yourself,” he said. “So when are we going for that dinner you promised me?” Stacy put her free hand on her hips and smiled slyly.

“I don't remember saying I'd have dinner with you.”

“Oh, you must have been drunk,” Paul said. “Yeah, I'm pretty sure you were. Don't try and weasel out now, you already said yes. I know a great steak place on Houston. It's impossible to get a reservation but,” he shot his cuffs, “they know me there.”

Stacy snapped her fingers. “Ooh, that's a shame. I'm a vegetarian. Anyway, I'd better run. Some asshole got on me before for letting his burger drop below 600 degrees.” She hustled off. Paul took a sip of his beer.

“Care to join me in a shot?” he said.

“Not right now,”

“Why not? I doubt Artie'd fire you for getting a little sauced on the job.”

“I know that, but if I fuck up any more he'll probably fire me and hire one of those skinny European bartenders. You know, the ones who fit into the Armani t-shirts where you can actually see their rib cage through their clothing.”

“This isn't Armani?” Paul said, rubbing John's shirt between his fingers.

“Nope. The Gap, nine ninety-five. But it's Armani to anyone who asks. The customers can't tell the difference as long as the lights are dark and the shirt is tight enough.” Thankfully John had been blessed with good genes, a fats metabolism. But now in his late twenties, he couldn't drink like he did at twenty-one. The calories would eventually catch up with him. He needed to start running again, maybe join a gym. Despite his recent shortcoming, Artie had ample reason to keep John on the payroll.

One such reason was Lisa, a statuesque blonde and sometime ballet dancer who worked four nights a week when not starring in off-off-off Broadway plays. Her eyes were exotic, heavy on the mascara, giving her a look like the bitchy girl hated by the heroine in chick flicks. She and John had extraordinary chemistry, or, in business terms, they were worth more money together than they were apart.

Three times a night on weekends—more, depending on the size of the crowd—John would boost Lisa onto the bar where she would shimmy like a Scores employee while John did his slow white-boy grind, pouring weak lime-flavored shots into customer's gaping mouths. Lisa's moves got the guys hot and sweaty, and while they were busy gazing at the scorpion tattoo that snaked below her beltline like a seductive drawstring, John would sate the women with free drinks. When the act was finished, the girls were sufficiently buzzed, their inhibitions worn down, and they permitted the men to buy them more. Paul could grub all the free booze he could handle until Lisa came on duty, but once the place filled up Artie didn't like comps going to anyone other than women wearing pleather and guys with authentic Rolexes.

“Cheese-fuckin'-burger, medium well,” Sal yelled from the kitchen. Stacy sped by and brought the plate to a young man with an impeccably tailored suit.

“Look at that,” Paul said. “I bet those duds ran him close to a grand. Ten bucks says there's a ketchup stain on it in less than five minutes.” Sure enough, during one large bite, a glob of sauce squired out onto his tie. He casually wiped it with a napkin and kept eating.

“John,” Paul said, nudging his friend with his elbow. “Check it out.” Strolling into the bar, clearly alone, was an attractive brunette wearing a black v-neck sweater and painted-on Levis. She took an empty stool and signaled for John.