The Ramblers (28 page)

Saturday, November 30, 2013

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?

—Kahlil Gibran,
The Prophet

Client Name: Smith Anderson

Coach's Name: Laura Newman

D
ATE:
A
UGUST 21, 2013

Please list your conscious goals of our coaching relationship,
and
how you would define “success” by the time we finish working together.

CONSCIOUS GOAL #1:

I will move on from my breakup with Asad.

Success Defined:

1. I will give myself 6 months and then start dating again;

2. I will forgive Asad for the decision he made;

3. I will forgive my parents for the fact that they never approved of our being together.

CONSCIOUS GOAL #2:

I will take far better care of my mind and body.

Success Defined:

        
1. I will do yoga 1–4 times a week;

        
2. I will experiment with transcendental meditation;

        
3. I I will eat a mostly vegan diet;

        
4. I will be moderate in my intake of caffeine and alcohol; I will be moderate in my intake of caffeine and alcoh

        
5. I will not drink from plastic water bottles;

        
6. I will train for the New York Marathon;

        
7. I will read good books;

        
8. I will get at least 7 hours of sleep a night;

        
9. I will see a maximum of 12 clients per week;

      
10. I will watch a maximum one hour of reality television per week.

CONSCIOUS GOAL #3:

I will forgive my sister for getting engaged while I was at rock-bottom.

Success Defined:

1. I will help her & Mom with the wedding planning;

2. I will make a genuine effort to get to know Briggs better;

3. I will remember that life is not a zero-sum game.

CONSCIOUS GOAL #4:

Write a book.

Success Defined:

        
1. I will sit for 5 hours a week and write;

        
2. I will have a workable draft and query possible agents by May.

“It's you.”

S
mith opens her eyes. Looks around. Realizes that she's not home but at Tate's place downtown. It was his idea to take a walk after the rehearsal dinner in midtown. He snapped photos as they walked and walked. Even though she was wearing heels, and high ones at that, they never started to hurt as they normally do. Soon they were close to his place. He suggested one last drink at the White Horse Tavern, where she'd been once or twice before. He was full of stories about writers who'd frequented the bar in their day—Dylan Thomas and Norman Mailer and Jack Kerouac, who, per folklore, got kicked out a handful of times.

At one point, he sneaked her into the men's bathroom and showed her where it says “JACK GO HOME!” on the wall.

Tate ordered one of the famous bloody burgers for them to share. One drink became a few and it grew late and they were just around the corner from his place and he invited her up and even in her intoxicated state, she knew better, but then said screw it and up they went into his charming prewar building on West Eleventh between Bleecker and Hudson, up two flights of stairs into his newly renovated floor-through.

The space is modern but filled with prewar details—tall ceilings, a wood-burning fireplace, three oversized windows with traditional moldings overlooking Bleecker Playground. They stayed up late talking in his living room.

My parents are worried about me,
he said.
And I understand why. I'd be worried about me. You know, I've wanted to tell my mother about you. She'd like you a lot.

He poured them tall glasses of ice water and they sobered up some.

She looks over at him now, lying on the bed beside her. His eyes are closed, his lashes long. His pajama bottoms, a red Christmas tartan flannel, make her smile, and she suddenly remembers last night's drunken deal: she would crash here if and only if he promised to behave himself. He would, he promised, snapping the Lands' End tags from the drawstring pants, affectionately mocking his mother, who apparently loves sending him things. With just these pants slung low around his hips, he climbed into bed next to her. It was past four a.m. when he drifted off, just a few moments before she did.

So, less than five hours of sleep the night before Sally's wedding. Far from ideal, but the crazy thing is that she doesn't even feel tired. She thinks back on the week—it's only been a week—running into him at the game just last Saturday, and here they are, in bed together, on the verge of something maybe. She's vowed not to get ahead of herself, to take it a step at a time, and she believes she's doing a decent job of this. Sure, there was that highly erotic text exchange in the Hamptons, but it was really nothing but evidence of tension, a pulse, a possibility that they might at least click sexually.

She looks at him and marvels at the fact that he's the polar opposite of what she's always seen as her type: tall, dark, handsome, exotic, macho. Here he is, Midwestern and fair, with his artist's soul and his textbook rebellion tattoos. (She just saw for the first time his Walt Whitman
I contain multitudes
ink wrapping around his right shoulder.) She's only seen so much, but she can tell already that he's a thinker like she is, equally intent on finding himself and aware of how clichéd this search is. She studies him now, listens to the rhythmic purr of his breath, grows tempted to reach under the covers and stroke him awake, but she hesitates, resists. There will be a chance for this, she hopes.

She has to pee. She slips off her side of the bed and tiptoes into the en suite bathroom, a modern space blanketed in crisp white Carrara marble. As she sits on the toilet, she studies the mess: a razor and a stick of Old Spice deodorant and an odorous pile of dirty socks. There are books and magazines on the floor by her feet. She stacks them into a tidy pile. Flushes and washes her hands. She walks out into the living room and looks around. It's hard not to; she's curious about this guy and also, this is what she does, what she loves to do and is paid to do, imagine order by examining chaos, understand people through their physical places.

His photographs are everywhere, on every surface, in messy piles. She sifts through, studies them. The images are stark and powerful and, as far as she's concerned, stunning. Most of them are black and white, a tad grainy, with people in them.

She opens the shutters and the space fills with morning light. More details snap into focus. Precarious towers of photography tomes dog-eared with yellow Post-its, a stack of brochures for local photography programs, a few empty beer cans. The walls are neutral and bare.

In the kitchen, she opens the fridge. It's practically barren. A near-empty bottle of Heinz ketchup lies on its side. One last lonely beer stands upright in the back. She imagines filling this fridge with good things, fresh produce, organic omega-3 eggs, distilled water.

“Hungry?”

Smith turns. He stands in kitchen doorway, his hair mussed from sleep. She tries not to stare at his bare chest, slim, muscled, tan for November.

She looks at him and smiles. “Sweet dreams?”

“Yes, actually,” he says.

He squeezes past her and starts coffee. “So how do you like it?” he asks, his question faintly sexual.

“With almond milk and stevia,” she says, and his forehead wrinkles in confusion.

“I don't even think I know what those things are,” he says, and shrugs.

“You have a lot to learn,” Smith says, lightly flirting. “This place is great.”

He scoops coffee grounds into the filter. “Well, it's no San Remo classic six, but hey, gotta start somewhere.”

“It's
yours
, though. You can do what you like with it. No parents breathing down your neck, no doorman watching your every move, no sister next door. All of this sounds quite appealing to me right now.”

“It could use a little love,” he says. “I'm suddenly feeling motivated to get it together. Maybe you could help me?”

“I'd love to,” she says, walking into the living room. “You could definitely use some window treatments. Maybe three of your photos blown up on the wall behind the couch.” She walks to his desk. “What are these again?” she says, holding up a stack of pages with small images.

“Contact sheets,” Tate says, joining her. “Some of the most famous photographers argue that they're more important than prints because they show the actual process of getting to the final product. Cartier-Bresson said something great about how you can see the photographer in the contact sheets, how hardworking he is, how much effort he took to work the scene. He talked about the ‘decisive moment,' but the deal is that even the best photographers don't take just one shot but ‘work
the scene'—from different angles, perspectives, by crouching, getting closer, and using horizontal versus vertical orientations. Shit, am I boring you?”

“Not at all,” she says, and this is the truth. There's something wonderful about hearing the passion in his voice, how much he cares. “Are all your photos digital or do you develop some the old-fashioned way?”

“Both,” he says. “Come.”

She follows him and he opens a door off the living room. It's the apartment's second bathroom, but he's transformed it into a darkroom that has a distinct chemical smell. Basins of solution rest in a large sink. Photographs hang from the shower bar.

“Wow,” she says, looking around at the prints he's developed. She pauses when she sees something. “Wait. Is that . . . ?”

“Yes,” he says. “It's you. Last Saturday. At the game.”

She moves closer. There she is, standing in the grass, her face obscured by her giant tortoiseshell sunglasses. In the image, she looks down at the screen of her phone. There are several shots, a whole series of them, the differences between them subtle.

“I didn't notice you taking these,” she says, looking at him.

“I know. I'm getting better at the surreptitious portrait. I love these, though,” he says, admiring his own work. “And I love what they led to. I did it on purpose, you know.”

“Did what?”

“Spilled my beer on you,” he says. “I needed to find a way to talk to you. Pathetic perhaps, but it worked. I wasn't sure you'd remember me. I don't think I was on your radar in college.”

“You are now,” she says, and smiles, recalling that he did spill his beer. Not much of it, but enough to annoy her. It soaked her blue jeans but dried as she talked to him. Hours later, they were still talking and sipping drinks and she forgot all about the inaugural mishap.

They head back out to the living room. Tate disappears to pour their coffees, leaving her alone for just a few moments. She sits in his desk
chair and spins around in it, checks her phone, but it has died and she doesn't have a charger. “Do you mind if I quickly check my e-mail on your computer?”

“Go ahead,” he says.

She moves the mouse and the screen lights up. He has several windows open and she takes it upon herself to reduce them. She pauses when she sees Olivia's name.

An e-mail.

From Tuesday morning.

Smith peers back over her shoulder, sees that Tate's still busy in the kitchen. Furtively, she skims.

I'm worried I made a big mistake. I think I was going through something. 13 years. Are we really just throwing that away?

He lied to her. At Balthazar. He said he hadn't heard from Olivia, but he'd heard from her that very morning. A faint nausea takes hold and Smith feels light-headed. She closes the computer and stands.

She hears him approaching and looks away from the computer, meets his eye. He hands her a cup of coffee.

“Black today, but I'll make sure to snag some of, what was it, nut milk and . . .”

“Stevia,” she says, forcing a smile. “An all-natural plant extract.”

He's joking around. He's insinuating a next time. This is all good, but she can't shake this feeling, this foreboding feeling that she's jumped the gun, gotten her hopes up. She shouldn't be here right now. She should be in her own place getting ready for the day. What is she doing here? It's clear he's not ready to move on.

She takes a small sip of her coffee, places it down on the desk. “I should get going. I need to be at the hotel in just a few hours for hair and makeup and pictures. Big day.”

“That's right,” he says. “You ready for tonight?”

Smith nods, grabs her things.

“Everything okay?” he says, putting his hand on her arm.

“Sure,” she says, pulling away. “One too many cocktails. Not enough sleep.”

“Okay,” he says, retreating, concern plain on his face. “Let me walk you out?”

She lets him. Waits for him to pull on some jeans and find his shoes. In the landing outside his place, she waits some more as he pulls the door closed. They silently make their way down to the street. Outside, he hugs her. It's a friendly hug, platonic in hue, the kind of hug a brother would give.

“See you tonight?” he says.

“Yup,” she says.

She turns to go and walks to the corner and gets into a taxi. From the backseat, she looks through the window and watches him. He stands in front of his building, hands in the pockets of his jeans, his sandy hair blanched by sun. She tells herself a story: He didn't lie because he wants to get back together with Olivia. He lied because they were having a good time and he didn't want to get sidetracked talking about his past. She will ask him about Olivia again, make sure to figure out where he stands. She has plenty of time to get to the bottom of this. There's no rush. And if he's still hung up on his past, Smith will be fine. If nothing else, it's good to know she can feel hopeful again.