Only In Your Dreams (12 page)

Dan Humphrey slipped into the disgusting employees-only restroom in a dank corner of the basement of the Strand clutching a tiny black tote bag emblazoned with the logo of the literary magazine Red Herring. Double-checking that the door was locked tight, he pulled his threadbare Bauhaus T-shirt over his head and unbuttoned his fine-wale Levi’s cords, dropping them to the floor. He paid no attention to the literary graffiti a generation of disaffected Strand employees had scrawled all over the walls—legend had it that some bitter former clerk had jotted down the actual New Hampshire home telephone number of the famously reclusive J. D. Salinger. He had only ten minutes to meet Bree in Union Square and he had to get out of his everyday clothes—which reeked of smoke—and into something cleaner and more exercise-friendly.

So he wasn’t the most athletic guy in the world. His relationship or connection or whatever with Bree was based on more than Lycra clothing and naked yoga sessions. Bree had opened Dan’s eyes, helped him think about the world in a way he never had before. Bending and posing in a hot room with a sweaty naked guy leaning into him wasn’t Dan’s idea of a romantic evening, but reading Bree’s favorite books was stimulating and thought-provoking. He’d done so much in his life already—had a poem published in the New Yorker, interned at Red Herring, sung his original songs with the Raves—but it was kind of thrilling to discover something deeper and more meaningful than fleeting fame.

Finding enlightenment in less than a week—it must be some kind of world record.

He pulled a clean, bright green American Apparel T-shirt over his head, smoothed out his tousled light brown hair, and laced up his ice-blue New Balances. He popped a piece of icy mint gum into his mouth and exhaled into the palm of his hand to double-check his breath: not a trace of tobacco. He wadded up his work clothes and stashed them in his employee locker, then jogged up the stairs and out of the store, toward nearby Union Square.

Bree was waiting for him near the statue of a placidly smiling Gandhi in the southwest corner of the bustling park near skanky-but-getting-better Fourteenth Street. “I like to go there sometimes,” she’d told him over the phone. “To read and reflect on Gandhi’s message of peace.”

Don’t we all?

Bree had braided her platinum blond hair and wound it tightly into a bun at the base of her neck. She was sporting a clean white T-shirt emblazoned with the Adidas logo and iridescent blue running shorts that were cropped short and showcased her well-muscled, lean, long legs. When she spied Dan, she stood and waved excitedly.

“Right on time!” When he reached her, she threw her arms around him in a warm embrace. “Namaste,” she whispered. “You smell nice.”

“Thanks,” Dan responded with relief as he inadvertently breathed in the bouquet of Bree’s organic sage deodorant and the patchouli oil she wore dabbed behind each ear.

“Let’s get warmed up,” Bree ordered. She released Dan from her embrace, turned, and put her right foot on the bench where she’d just been sitting, then leaned in, shifting all her weight to that leg.

Dan imitated her, wincing in pain as he tried to awaken the muscles in his legs. This was a lot more demanding than his usual workout: a walk to the corner for smokes.

“Feels great, huh?” Bree grinned enthusiastically while she stretched, as though a good stretch was better than a hot bath.

“Yeah,” Dan wheezed. “Excellent.”

“I thought we’d start here,” Bree explained, putting her feet back on the ground. She locked her knees, then reached down, touching the ground with both palms. “You know, head across Fourteenth Street to the Hudson and then downtown to Battery Park.”

Dan did some mental math. That was at least two miles, which was two miles farther than he’d ever jogged in his life.

What had he gotten himself into?

At first it seemed like he was going to be fine: the first block went by without incident. Dan followed the sexy wiggle of Bree’s ass as she jogged down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians and strollers.

This is fun! he told himself. It feels great.

When they reached the corner of Fifth Avenue, they paused for the light, and Bree turned to him. “Are you okay?” She furrowed her brow in worry.

Dan’s skin felt prickly. The sweat poured off of his forehead and down his nose, dripping on the sidewalk. The early evening sun was beating down on them. He was pretty sure he’d be dead by sundown.

“Sure,” he responded shakily. “I’m fine.”

When they’d been moving, the burn in his legs and the pounding in his chest had been somehow bearable, but as soon as they’d stopped his knees had felt like they might buckle underneath him.

The light changed and Bree dashed into the street. “Come on!” she called over her shoulder happily.

Dan took a deep breath and stumbled into the street, just missing running over an old lady in a big straw hat, pulling a shopping trolley.

“Watch it, asshole!” she shouted.

Ignoring her, Dan kept running, following Bree like a dog at the track chasing that mechanical rabbit. His heart pounded in his ears as they jogged down the sidewalk past Sixth, then Seventh, Eighth, and, finally, Ninth Avenues. Between Ninth and Greenwich the traffic cleared, so Bree ran in the street. Ignoring the hot blasts of exhaust from the oncoming buses, Dan followed behind, jogging toward the shimmering Hudson River, just two blocks away.

Hang in there, he told himself. Just make it to the river. Just keep going. He had no idea how he’d make it all the way down to Battery Park, on the tip of Manhattan, but first things first: he had to get to the river. His feet throbbed inside his not-quite-broken-in ice blue New Balance bought-for-ten-bucks-at-the-Paragon-Sports-sale running shoes. He’d wiped so much sweat from his forehead that he was scared that he might be completely dehydrated. He was dying for a drink of water. He was dying to sit down.

Maybe he was just plain dying?

They dashed across the West Side Highway and into Hudson River Park, where a wide, paved jogging/rollerblading/ bike path ran from midtown to Tribeca. They weren’t the only ones taking advantage of the clear, sunny day—hundreds of people were running and rollerblading, bicycling, and strolling hand in hand. Bree beat him across the street and wove through the crowd until she reached the chain-link fence that presumably kept people from diving right into the river. She kicked her legs up in front of her, jogging in place as she waited for Dan to catch up. Despite the heat, she was barely sweating.

Dan hurled himself in Bree’s direction. This is great, he told himself. He felt great! The sun was bright, the air was fresh, and there was a breeze blowing in off the river. He grinned wildly. He could do this!

Then his legs gave way underneath him and he landed on the rough pavement with a thud as he crumpled to the ground.

“Dan!” Bree cried, leaning over him. “Are you okay?”

Dan looked up to see her flushed face framed by wispy ringlets of flaxen hair. His vision started to cloud.

“Am I dying?” he asked out loud. “Are you an angel?”

“I better administer CPR,” Bree announced sternly, crouching down and pressing her mouth to his.

As if that wouldn’t give him an even bigger heart attack.

Wobbling uneasily, Vanessa Abrams gripped the wrought-iron railing and steadied herself on the low marble steps leading up to the ivy-covered mansion on Eighty-seventh Street. She burped noisily and jabbed at the illuminated doorbell four or five times before she finally managed to ring it. Maybe consoling herself with an ice-cold bottle of pinot grigio hadn’t been the wisest decision she’d ever made, especially since she was minutes away from a job interview.

After being unceremoniously thrown off the set of Breakfast at Fred’s, Vanessa had ridden the elevator with the possibly humanoid Blair-Waldorf-in-training Jasmine, who had informed Vanessa that it just so happened that her mother was looking for a highly qualified, energetic, and enthusiastic person for a very important job. Vanessa had been too upset to get the exact details, but Jasmine tore a page from her Louis Vuitton agenda and scribbled an address, urging Vanessa to follow up on it immediately.

After a few glasses of wine pilfered from Rufus Humphrey’s personal stash, Vanessa had started to see things more clearly.

Ken Mogul is a soulless sellout. He was making a run-of-the-mill Hollywood teen soap while she was an experimental auteur! She had no business wasting her time and her talent on that crap. She was bound for NYU, the best film program in the country. She’d have access to the finest professors, world-class equipment, and an entire acting program full of the most talented student actors around. Why should she be wasting her time as a hack, working on a project she didn’t believe in when she could be working her ass off and saving up the cold hard cash to produce her own film in the fall. She already had an idea for a feature, about a conflicted young artist forced to choose between following her muse or staying in a rapidly decaying relationship with her insane incense-and-herbal-tea-addicted writer boyfriend.

Sounds like a case of art imitating life.

A sour-faced maid in an honest-to-God black skirt with white apron and little white lace doily on her head opened the heavy glass door. “Can I help you?” she demanded suspiciously.

“I’m here about the job,” Vanessa slurred. “The mom’s daughter,” she paused momentarily fumbling with the girl’s name. “Jasmine! That’s it. She told me to come and see her mom about a job. So I did.”

The maid frowned. “I see. Come in then. The lady of the house will meet you in her office.”

Vanessa stomped through the marble foyer, past a sweeping staircase illuminated by a massive crystal chandelier, and into a mahogany-paneled room lined with bookcases and furnished with tasteful antiques. She had no idea what the job in question was, but clearly this was a very successful business-woman. She was probably a busy executive in desperate need of a competent personal assistant. It was sure to be shit work, but artists always had to suffer for their art, unless they wanted to make commercial shit like Ken Mogul.

“Please wait here,” the maid instructed.

Vanessa perched on the edge of an ornate Art Deco wood chair. The room was ever-so-slightly spinning, and she gripped the seat tightly. Just don’t throw up, she told herself.

“You my new friend?”

Vanessa looked up. There was no one there.

Great, I’m so trashed I’m hearing voices.

“You my new friend?” asked the voice again before dissolving into giggles.

“Wh-who’s there?” Vanessa called out nervously. The last thing she wanted was to be caught talking to herself in front of her new boss.

“Are you a girl?” another voice asked.

“Why don’t you have any hair?” asked the first voice.

Two voices? How much had she had to drink?

Vanessa held her breath and listened. She stood up. Where were the voices coming from? She knelt and pressed her cheek to the cold, perfectly polished wood floor, scanning the room from that vantage. It worked: under the gilded wood couch she could make out the figure of a skinny little boy with taut curly hair.

“You found me!” he cried, clambering out from under the couch.

“Yeah, hi,”Vanessa said.“Is your mommy home?”

“You smell like wine,” the boy announced, frowning. “I’m four. How old are you?”

“Find me too!” cried the other voice.

What could she do?

“Where are you?” she called out, propping herself up on her hands and knees. She looked under the other furniture.

“Find me, find me!” the voice called.

She followed the sound of the voice to the corner of the library, where a large globe stood on a round glass-topped table. She lifted the tablecloth, and underneath was a little boy who looked, and was dressed, exactly like the other kid.

“You found me!” the boy cried. He dashed out from under the table and ran over to the couch, where his brother was still bouncing. He leaped onto the couch and rammed into his brother. The two boys tumbled onto the floor.

“Boys!” called a voice. A tall, magenta-pink-Chanel-suit-clad redheaded woman strode into the library, clutching a Treo and a rolled up copy of Vogue.

“You must be Vanessa,” the woman observed in a clipped tone. “Jasmine mentioned you might be calling. I’m a little surprised you’ve decided to just drop by, but I suppose that’s fine. Shows initiative. I like that.”

Oops.

“Right,” Vanessa said, standing up and trying her best to appear completely sober. “You must be Mrs....?”She paused, realizing that she had no idea what Jasmine’s last name was.

“It’s Ms. Morgan,” the woman replied. “I didn’t take my husband’s name. This is the twenty-first century, after all.”

“Sorry,”Vanessa mumbled. This was the weirdest job interview ever.

“No matter,” the woman continued. “You’re clearly a hit with the boys.”

“The boys?”Vanessa asked. The twins came up behind her, pulling on her hands with all their might.

“Play with us!” they cried.

“So, you know, the job is fairly standard.” Ms. Morgan fiddled with her Treo for a moment. “A few days a week, just in the afternoons. You’ll fetch the boys from camp, run them to their therapist, accompany them on their playdates, the usual sort of thing. No doubt you know the drill.” She put the phone to her ear.

Camp? Playdates? Excuse me?

“I think there’s been some misunderstanding,” Vanessa stammered, struggling to stay upright with the wine in her system and the weight of two kids tugging her floorward. Suffering for her art was all well and good, but she was no Mrs. Doubtfire.

“Yay!” the twins cried. “Mommy, is Vanessa our new friend?”

“Yes,” the woman answered, her ear still glued to the over-size phone. “She’s your new friend.”

She was?

“It’s eighteen dollars an hour,” Ms. Morgan added as she clicked out into the foyer and up the grand staircase. “You can start right now.”

Oh yeah, she definitely is.