A Taste of Fame (11 page)

“I am having a bit of a struggle,” I admitted.

Evie barely managed her baggage through the doors before they closed. “And I’m not?”

We snagged one of the hard orange benches and settled our bags before us as the train lurched forward. I took a moment to size up the people around us. Honestly, they looked like ordinary, everyday people with books and newspapers. The only thing unusual about them was they all seemed on the younger side of forty, making us the “elders” in the car.

A few riders stood holding on to the occasional silver pole that speared the center aisle. These commuters stared absently at the advertisement posters above our heads or out the windows at the high wooden walls that flanked either side of the track. As we clackety-clacked toward Brooklyn, Evie leaned into me. “So far so good,” she said under her breath as if to congratulate us for a job well done. “But you need to stop staring at everyone, Lisa Leann. It makes you look like a tourist.”

“I am a tourist.”

“Trust me, you don’t want anyone to notice.”

“Don’t you think our luggage gives us away?”

“Not necessarily,” Evie said, slightly indignant. “Just don’t make eye contact, and whatever you do, don’t blurt out any of your Texas witticisms.”

I nudged Evie with my elbow. “Now I might not be the brightest crayon in the box, but I do know how to act in public.”

Evie nudged me right back. “See, that’s what I’m talking about. You’re going to blow our cover.”

“So?”

“So, don’t you know that the subways are full of pickpockets and people who molest tourists?”

“Who told you that?”

“Vernon. He gave me the lowdown with instructions.”

“Instructions? Like what?”

“Don’t leave your purse open. Don’t let anyone carry your suitcase; you’ll never see it again. Don’t show off your diamonds.” She held her hand out to reveal she’d twisted the diamond in her wedding set so as to hide the glitter inside her palm. “Don’t gawk with your mouth open, especially under a skyscraper, or you might have to swallow pigeon droppings.”

“Heavens!”

“Don’t talk to strangers, and whatever you do, don’t tell them where you’re from. But in your case, your accent will do that for you, so just keep your mouth shut, okay?”

“You’re kidding me, right? And how did Vernon get to be such an expert on New York?”

Evie grabbed my hand. “I’m not kidding. Vernon’s been to law enforcement conferences here. So, let’s just play it safe, at least till we get to the hotel and put our luggage away.”

I nodded, still feeling a bit heated from Evie’s “keep your mouth shut” remark. I swallowed and said, “You’re as jumpy as spit on a hot skillet. Trust me, we’ll be unpacking in our SoHo hotel room then dining in Little Italy before you can snap your fingers.”

“Shhh. Keep your voice down.”

“What did I do now?”

Evie sighed deeply. “Never mind. Just tell me, what’s our next stop?”

I reached into my unzipped purse and checked my notes. “We’re going to the Broadway station, where we’ll catch the J-train.”

Our train finally clattered out of the walled-in track and onto the streets of Brooklyn. Evie and I sat in silence, watching the buildings increase in height. After what seemed like hours, our train finally rocked over the East River, where the Manhattan skyscrapers seemed to loom right out of the water’s gray ripples.

Evie leaned in. “What a view!”

“Hotter than a two dollar bill!” I blurted.

“Don’t
do
that!” Evie whispered.

“What?”

She interrupted her scolding with, “Is that the Brooklyn Bridge?”

I gazed at the long span of steel, wire, and concrete and said, “Yep. It’s a beaut, isn’t it?”

“You’re talking Texan on purpose.”

I laughed. “Sorry, Evie, I’m only doing what comes natural.”

We sat in silence, admiring the view as we crossed the river before our now-elevated track cut between the tall buildings, then slowed down for yet another stop. “Is this where we get off? ” Evie asked.

“Not yet, though we’re close.”

A sudden high-pitched squeal interrupted us as a Middle Eastern voice squawked from the public address system somewhere above our heads. Honestly, his voice was so heavily accented and muffled I could only make out about half of what he said between the static. “End of the line …
buzzzzztt
… Get off now …
scrichhhhhffft
.”

Evie looked startled. “Are we supposed to get off here?”

“I think so. He said something about repairs and the next track.”

“So what do we do?”

“Follow the crowd,” I said as our traveling companions exited the train.

We pulled our luggage out the door and were hit with a blast of summer slow-broil. But more stifling than the heat was the narrow metal stairway that loomed over us.

I gasped. “Where’s the elevator?” I stared down a policeman who I hoped would provide an answer. Instead, he turned and looked away, telling me with his body language that he would not soon be helping me get my luggage up the stairs.

Evie slowly shook her head. “I don’t think there is an elevator.” She began to bump her large suitcase up the stairs. “Come on.”

I took a step up, then carefully lifted my stacked cases and placed them one step above me while I pulled my carry-on up the next step beneath me. It was slow going, and by the time I’d made it up six of the twenty or so steps, Evie was at the top. She called down to me. “I’d help you, but I can’t leave my suitcase.”

“I can do it,” I said, not really believing my words. The steps were just too narrow to properly balance between my teetering loads. In a flash, I saw what would happen. My carry-on bag, with my computer inside, would slip from my grasp and crash to the bottom of the stairs. Then, I would tumble down behind it, with the rest of my luggage hurling down to crush me. My feet rocked unsteadily as I swayed between my bags.

A mob of people were clambering up the steps around me, and I couldn’t get my bearings. Suddenly a young man’s heavily accented voice surprised me. “I’ll take this up for you, okay?”

I turned to look into the dark eyes and olive complexion of a Hispanic teenager, who grabbed my carry-on. My breath caught in my throat; I didn’t have time to think. I said, “Okay,” then winced inwardly.
Good-bye, computer
.

As I managed my remaining bags up the stairs, I was surprised to enter a brightly lit station painted in sunshine yellow. Its walls were covered with lovely mosaics that I would have loved to admire if my heart hadn’t been pounding so hard. But even more surprising than finding sudden beauty was to see the teenager who had carried my suitcase up the stairs still waiting for me. “Thank you!” I gushed.

His dark eyes glittered. “No problem. Do you need help going back down?”

“Back down?”

He pointed to another narrow flight.

I looked at Evie, who was already accepting help from yet another teenage boy. “Thank you, dear,” she said as he carried her large bag down the steps. My new young friend picked up my suitcase and followed them. When I arrived at the bottom of the stairs, Evie opened her wallet. “Can I give you a tip?” she asked the young man who had helped her.

“No, no. You don’t need to do that,” my helper said. He then turned to the other teen. “Man, why you take this lady’s money like that?”

“I told her no, man!”

Evie spoke up. “Take it. Please.”

I smiled. “Tell your mothers you are exceptional young men and they should be proud.”

The young men smiled back, then darted up the stairs, pocketing their pay.

The crowd at the platform grew, and soon we lost sight of our guardian angels. There were so many young people surrounding us, I wasn’t sure how we were going to fit, plus our luggage, onto the next train. Furthermore, I wasn’t sure how I was going to continue to pull my luggage through the belly of New York City.
Do you know how, Lord?
I silently asked.
I’m exhausted and now I’m afraid of what’s next.

Our train soon roared into the station. When the doors opened, I tried to follow the crowd inside, but the wheels of my carry-on fell into the space between the train and the platform. The crowd behind me grew restless as I blocked the entrance. I jerked my luggage, but instead of breaking free, my suitcase caught on the corner of the sliding metal door.
Ugh
.

“Move it, lady; we’re all trying to get in,” an angry voice called out. With a mighty pull, I broke free from my trap, then scurried (as best I could) across the aisle and fell into the seat next to Evie. I noted the wild look in her eyes as a teenage girl began to mock someone nearby. I was too traumatized to pay attention as to who was being tormented until the girl punched my arm. “I
said
: are you fools going to Chicago?”

Suddenly my mouth went dry. “No,” I replied meekly as one of my hot flashes, or perhaps fear, exploded through my body. “We just got off the plane from Denver.”

The girl narrowed her eyes and placed fists on her ample hips that stretched out her white tee, which she wore over a pair of jeans. “What’s wrong with you?”

I fanned myself and managed to stammer, “It’s hotter than a burning stump in here.”

“Say what?”

Evie looked away, obviously trying to appear as though she didn’t know me. The girl’s eyes flashed with recognition. She smiled. “Hey, aren’t you one of those cooks on that TV show?”

My head bobbed, and the words flew out of my mouth. “Yes! That’s why we’re here. We’re trying to get to our hotel.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” the teen asked. “Where you staying?”

“SoHotel,” I said. A quick look at Evie and I saw her face go white as a sheet from my mama’s laundry. “Then you don’t want to miss your next stop. Bowery is coming up next.”

I thanked the young lady as the clacking stopped and the doors slid open. Evie and I rose, and the crowd magically parted as we pulled our luggage out of the train and into the scantily occupied station.

We headed for yet another flight of narrow stairs as Evie asked me, “Why did you have to go and tell our business?”

“Just practicing a little Southern hospitality, that’s all.”

Evie snorted one of her “humphs” and started to pull her luggage up the long flight of stairs while I stared after her. A question began to sear my brain: why had I packed my favorite pots and pans? They had pots and pans in New York, after all. At least that’s what Henry had said the one day he’d even spoken to me.

Evie called over her shoulder, “Can you make it?”

I shook my head no but said, “I’ll try.”

“Take your time.”

I lifted my stacked cases to teeter on the step above me, and started what was becoming a familiar but dangerous dance; one step, plop, plop; another step, plop, plop; another step … This climb, like my failing marriage, would never work. I was going to fall flat onto my kisser. And by the time I got back home, the kisser I left behind might have flown the coop, maybe even for good. I mean, I needed to get away from all the stress of our marriage, but I didn’t want to return to abandonment.

Help, Lord,
I prayed for the millionth time that day, that week.

I stopped to steady myself. Evie was now at the top of the stairs, and I cried, “Now, why didn’t we take a cab?”

“To save fifty bucks,” she called back.

I swayed between my luggage, still only a third of the way to the top. “Didn’t we realize our lives were worth more than fifty bucks?”

“We do now,” Evie called back.

Suddenly a man dressed as though he was about to go cycling ran up the stairs. “Can I help you?” he asked. “Yes,” I said, suddenly too tired to care if he stole my computer, my pots and pans, and even my underthings. What I really wanted was to still be alive when I reached the top of the stairs.

The man swooped in on my carry-on and ran up the flight. To my surprise, he plopped my suitcase at Evie’s feet. “Thank you!” we called after him.

When I managed the rest of the stairs, I told Evie, “I always heard New Yorkers were rude, but they seem to know a thing or two about Southern hospitality.”

“So it seems,” Evie said with a tired smile.

I looked around at the concrete jungle that now surrounded us and felt dismayed. “I sure hope this is a safe neighborhood.”

“Are we almost there?”

“Let me check.” I opened my purse, which still hung around my neck, and pulled out my notes. “It’s only a few more blocks.”

“Blocks?”

I breathed in the heat that had already dampened my body with sweat. “ ’Fraid so. This way.” We turned to cross Kenmare Street.

“What street are we looking for?” Evie finally asked.

“Broome Street.”

“We’ve got to be getting close. Right?”

“You’d think.”

Evie stopped and watched a Chinese man sweep the sidewalk in front of his vegetable stand, then walked over to him and said, “Excuse me. Where is Broome Street?”

The man smacked his broom on the sidewalk and pointed up. I saw the street sign. “Here,” I said. “He means we’re here.”

We hurried our luggage across the street, taking in the bakeries, sushi shops, as well as the aroma of garbage that came from the cans and black garbage bags that lined the street.

“Is it far still?”

“Just a couple of blocks.”

“I’m so tired I can hardly pull this bag.”

“Me too.”

“Just promise me that the hotel will have an elevator. Okay?”

“Of course it will. There are laws.”

“Then your promise gives me the strength to go on,” Evie said with a soft laugh.

After four blocks we stopped in front of a fire station. “I think we missed it,” I said. “Let’s turn around.”

About a block later, there it was: the SoHotel. A glass door led to a narrow staircase filled with golden light that spilled onto the concrete sidewalk. The staircase was in the middle of a darkened lamp store. The scaffolding that laced itself above the entrance had somehow hidden the signage from us on our first pass.

We crossed the street, and Evie squealed. “Lisa Leann Lambert, you promised me, no stairs!”

But before she could say more, the bellman swept down and lifted away our burdens. With rubber for legs, we climbed upward, massaging our aching arms, which must have stretched out a good two inches along our journey. Soon we had our plastic card keys from the front desk, and the next thing we knew, we were painfully climbing up three more flights to our room.