by Sophie Davis
Shaking my head, I dismissed the sad thoughts and focused on the fact I had a whole weekend away from most of that. Looking up, I noticed a large chandelier made of twisted blown glass, the colors bouncing off the flawless white marble floor below, hung from the vaulted ceiling. Maybe it was totally dorky, but I whipped out my cell and took a picture with my camera phone. I loved art, and recognized a Chihuly when I saw one. It was a masterpiece, juxtaposing the fragility of glass with the strength of bold reds, yellows, blues, and greens.
I quickly checked in at the reception desk. The attendant smiled a little too brightly when I gave my name. I took the keycards, and discreetly passed the bellhop a folded bill as I asked him to take the bags to the room. Then, retracing my steps, I emerged once more into the sunny day.
“I’ve changed my mind, I’ll need that cab after all,” I told Mark. His eyebrows raised, and he looked quite smug, as if he’d caught me in a lie.
“Where are you headed, miss?” he asked surreptitiously. It was a common practice for a man in his position to tell a hailed cabdriver where to take the passenger, but I knew curiosity was the real reason he’d asked.
I’d have to be careful around Mark, I decided. He was too interested.
Three hours later, I was feeling frustrated and disheartened. Walking out of yet another posh lobby, I decided to walk for a bit instead of hailing yet another cab, my fifth in three hours. I strolled for a while with no concern for direction, and turned at random when I came to crossings. Row homes lined the majority of the side streets, but I was looking for something more modern. I stuck to the heavily trafficked roads, knowing that the urban feel was more my style. From the signs, I gathered that George Washington University was about half a mile ahead. There was a small park, and I stopped to look around. I couldn’t get over all the green space here, or how many people were gathered in these areas, reading books, playing chess, running around with their dogs. On the corner across from the park was a small café with tables outside, and my grumbling stomach led me there.
Following the sign’s instruction to seat myself, I settled in at a table next to two young guys holding hands and laughing at some untold joke. They seemed so relaxed, so unaware of who was around and paying attention. It was incredibly refreshing. In New York everyone – gay, straight, or otherwise – focused on appearance. Teenagers, or at least those who weren’t in a clandestine relationship, might demonstrate PDA, but not the adults. That was taboo among our sort, as my mother always reminded me. It drove me nuts when she said things like that. Our sort? Exactly who was our sort? It was as if she thought we were members of the royal family observing protocol, and showing affection in public was much too common for our kind. As I sat there, wishing that Blake and I could switch lives with the two of them, the young couple caught me staring longingly at them. I smiled, feeling my face flame with embarrassment, and then quickly began to rummage around in my purse. Normally, I would never carry such a large and heavy bag with me when wandering around, but today’s errands made it necessary.
The waitress came over and handed me a menu. “Can I get you something to drink while you look?” she asked.
“Um, I’ll just take iced tea and,” I quickly glanced down at the menu, “a turkey club.”
“Coming right up.”
I felt almost naughty ordering a sandwich, which I knew was laughable. At home everyone appraised what everyone else ordered when we were at restaurants, so salads were all anybody ever got. It was like shame dieting. Heaven forbid you ordered something with more than four hundred calories or with a single carb. Some girls even quietly competed to see who could order less, their victories a triumph unbeknownst to the opponents. Last week, when the rest of us ordered spinach salads with strawberries, almonds and balsamic vinegar, Lydia Gromsley had ordered last, requesting only iceberg lettuce with plain mustard. She’d worn a victorious grin for most of the meal. Inwardly, I’d worn my own smug smile because at least my salad tasted good, even if it hadn’t filled me up. Luckily she wasn’t part of the Eight, so Lydia didn’t eat with us frequently.
When my ordinarily shameful lunch was delivered, I took a large bite, delighting in the crispy bacon, crunchy lettuce, fresh tomatoes, and toasted sourdough bread. When a little bit of mayonnaise dripped on to my plate – I hadn’t even told them to hold the mayo! – I scooped it up with a French fry, as they do in Amsterdam. This was the first time I’d taken a trip without any of the Eight, without my parents, without anyone to judge me. It was the most freeing feeling that I could imagine. I watched a miniature poodle bouncing around on its hind legs, trying to grab a bone held above its head and laughed. If that wasn’t a metaphor for my life….
I watched the various people in the park while I finished my sandwich, thinking about how different life must be for those people. The people here were well dressed, yes, but it was more laid-back East Coast casual than Fashion Week at Bryant Park. I saw more Vineyard Vines than Prada, more J Crew than Chanel, more sandals and boat shoes than stilettos and boots. I knew it was the weekend, and most of the older crowd would suit up come Monday, but the weekends here were a time to kick back and relax. I really liked that.
With that thought, I pushed my plate away and pulled the folded newspaper from my purse. It was easy to get a copy of The Washington Post from any newsstand on the Upper East Side, and I’d done some recon before coming here with Blake this weekend. Now I turned to where I’d circled several apartment listings, crossing out the ones I’d already visited. My frustration returned, thinking of the places I’d seen and discarded. There were only two left circled. Looking back over to the park, to where the poodle was now playing with a miniature Schnauzer and a toy Pomeranian, I crossed out those as well. Neither was pet-friendly, and I suddenly loved the idea of maybe getting a dog. It would be nice to have a companion. I’d never had a pet before, unless you counted the single beta fish that my mother had given me when I’d begged for a puppy as a child. I knew it was a huge responsibility, that I alone would have to feed him, walk him, and care for him, but I at least wanted the option.
Looking around the area, I decided to just wander for a bit, burn off some of the superfluous calories from my lunch. Just as I was getting up, the young couple near me stood as well. One of the guys, the one with scruff on his face, glanced over at me. He wore a red and blue striped Rugby shirt with khaki shorts and Sperry loafers and looked every bit the part of New England preppy. His partner, who was clean shaven and sporting quite a bit of hair product, was checking the table for anything left behind.
“Looking for an apartment?” Rugby shirt asked, glancing pointedly at the paper in my hand. His boyfriend looked over in surprise, having not noticed me before. In his pink polo, he was definitely more effeminate than his rugged counterpart.
“Yeah, I’m kind of striking out though. I don’t know anything about the area, so it’s difficult to gauge the apartments from the paper until I get there.” I didn’t want to offend these guys and their city, so I chose not to remark on the areas that gentrification hadn’t reached yet. I’d vetoed one apartment from inside the cab, as soon as we’d turned on to the street.
“You poor thing. Some of the neighborhoods are ghe-tto,” he responded, emphasizing the syllables.
“Yeah, you don’t belong anywhere besides Northwest, and not north of Columbia Heights,” pink polo chimed in, unabashedly appraising me. “Let me guess, you’re from Manhattan?”
“Guilty as charged,” I said with a smile. “What gave it away?” I’d chosen Tory Burch flats – not the ones I’d apparently worn last weekend, but the same style in nude – white jeans and a flowy top with the designer’s trademark zigzags in coral, navy and white. I’d figured it would fit in anywhere on a Saturday afternoon.
“It’s not your outfit sweetie, though I love it. I’m not sure which I’m crazier about – the patent leather shoes or that coral pop in your Missoni. But it’s not that. I grew up on the island, I’d know a fellow New Yorker an
ywhere,” pink polo reassured me.
“Oh, nice! And thank you.” I was still trying not to giggle over his quick assessment of my attire. “How do you like living here?”
“Love it!” he declared. “There’s more power here, yet it’s somehow not as frantic. And I never would’ve snagged this hottie if I hadn’t moved.” Rugby shirt looked at polo with a smile, a slight blush creeping up his neck. He turned back to me and stuck out his hand.
“Sorry, I’m Zeke.”
“Hi Zeke,” I replied, shaking his hand. “I’m L– Lila.” You’re such a weirdo, I thought to myself. Sometimes I used Lila when I was out with my friends, in cases where I wanted to fly under the radar. My family was obviously well-known, and I don’t have the most common name, so it worked in those situations.
“Hi Lila, I’m Nick,” pink polo said. With his piercing blue eyes, chiseled face, and sandy hair, and Zeke’s chocolate eyes, almost-black hair, and broad build, the two really did make a striking couple.
“So, what kind of place are you looking for? What areas have you checked out?” Zeke asked. At this point, we were just standing in the entranceway to the café, blocking new customers.
“Um, I’d prefer an apartment to a townhouse or row home if possible. And obviously somewhere safe. Where do you guys live?”
“We live near here,” he replied.
“And where would here be, exactly?”
Nick smirked, not even trying to hide his amusement. “That’s Cardozo Park,” he said, gesturing to the park across the street. “We’re in the southern part of Columbia Heights, near the U Street Corridor.”
“Don’t mock her,” Zeke chided gently, pushing Nick’s arm in a playful manner. “You didn’t know anything about the District when you moved here either. Lila, would you like to walk home with us? We can give you a little tour of the neighborhood along the way, it’ll give you a chance to check out the area.”
“Really?” I asked, excited to have some assistance, but not wanting to disrupt their afternoon plans. “I would love that, but I don’t want to inconvenience you guys.”
“Not at all,” Nick responded, threading his arm through mine. “It’ll be fun, like a scavenger hunt.”
We walked around for over an hour, chatting easily the whole time. Zeke and Nick had clearly abandoned their plans to go home, and embraced their new roles at tour guides. The guys pointed out the best brunch spots, their favorite happy hour haunts, and the bars with good live music, and described how to get to the closest Whole Foods. There was a CVS on nearly every corner, and Nick explained how CVS is a convenience store here. New Yorkers use Duane Reade, but in D.C. CVS is the one-stop-shop; it’s way more spacious than our tiny markets. It’s where everyone goes for everything from snacks to toilet paper, first aid supplies to prepared dinners and desserts.
As we walked back up U Street in the direction of the park, we started to meander the side streets. Just two blocks past Cardozo, a building that was taller than the surrounding houses caught my eye.
The corner jutted out over the sidewalk, as if the square building had been turned slightly askew. The façade was entirely glass, with shiny struts delineating the apartments themselves. On one side of the front lobby door was an Organic Market, on the other was a restaurant with a small independent bookstore inside. Through the window of the latter, I could see a young guy with flawless cocoa skin strumming a guitar and singing into a microphone.
“What’s this place?” I asked, turning to the boys who’d stopped as well.
“It’s new, ultra-modern and coveted in this area. It’s the height of gentrification, sweeping through old decrepit buildings and turning them into luxury apartments. It’s called The Pines,” Zeke added.
“I think…,” I paused, contemplating the building and its surroundings. “I think I’m going to go check it out.”
The D.C. Public Library System has branches spread throughout the city. As luck would have it, the Howard branch was located just a mile from Lark’s place. I debated returning to the apartment to get my car, but decided walking was faster.
The building was not at all what I’d come to associate with public libraries. No, this place was modern, with a glass front and an art deco sculpture made from metal and neon green and red lights sitting out front. Approximately the width of two row homes and ten stories high, it was tall and narrow, and extremely out of place among the 7–ll on the opposite corner and Chinese/fried chicken and subs takeout across the street.
A bored-looking woman in her mid-thirties sat behind a circular reception desk. A flat screen monitor was on her left, and a copy of InStyle was open in front of her. She didn’t bother to glance up as I approached.
“Excuse me, um–” I looked for a name placard, but found only one that read, “Reception.”
The librarian flipped to a page depicting Anne Hathaway’s Ten Best Looks. “Can I help you?” she asked. A piece of long, dark hair fell forward from behind her ear, and she blew it back from her face with painted red lips.
“I’m looking for your microfiche machines,” I told her.
This seemed to warrant her full attention because large grey eyes appraised me with newfound interest. Apparently she didn’t get a lot of requests for the dinosaur electronics.
“Third floor. Elevators are right there,” she pointed to the metal doors not ten feet from where I was standing, “stairs are down the hall and to the left.” This time she indicated a short hallway behind her. “The Reference librarian will help you get set up.”
I thanked the woman, who’d resumed thumbing through the fashion magazine before the words could leave my mouth. Between walking the mile from my place to Lark’s and the walk here, I decided I’d had enough exercise for the day, and used the elevator. The reference librarian proved much more helpful than her counterpart downstairs. Since the library actually kept back copies of both The New York Times and The Washington Post from the previous year, I was in luck. After handing over my ID, the reference librarian, Jessica, handed me a copy of each publication from September 23rd of last year.
I wound through stacks of periodicals and old medical and legal journals until I found a row of five carrels against the far back wall. It was probably because it was a weekday and I was on the reference floor, but I appeared to be the only patron. That mean I had my pick of which graffiti-laden desk to sit at. The one in the left corner was as good as any, so I pulled out the hard plastic chair, slid in, and deposited my messenger bag and the newspapers on the desktop.
The chair was cold and uncomfortable with a rounded seat surrounded by a lip that bit into the backs of my thighs. When I tried to position myself so that nothing was embedding itself in my skin, my knee brushed against a sticky wad on the underside of the desk. Ugh, disgusting. Why people thought it was okay to stick their used gum on the undersides of desks, railings, and phone booths was beyond me. Seriously, what’s the point? So unsuspecting morons like me get grossed out when they end up with gooey masses stuck to their jeans, fingers, or hair?
Revolted, I quit my squirming and decided to get down to business so I could return home, to my own gum-free desk, before dinnertime.
For no real reason, I decided to start with The Washington Post. I flipped to the back section and found the clue for two across. Blank while you work, was the clue. I scrunched my nose and reread it out loud, “Blank while you work.” I smiled, thank goodness it was easy. Whistle. In my messenger bag, I found a small spiral notepad and pen and jotted the word down.
Next, I found ten down. Leaf or snow blank. Six letters. Um, the possibilities seemed endless. I made a list on my notepad: wet, fall, heavy, cold, white. Not only did few of my guesses make any sense, none of them were six letters.
Okay, think. This isn’t that hard, I gave myself a mental pep talk. Lark wanted someone else to be able to follow her trail, she wouldn’t have picked crossword clues that were impossible to figure out. I inhaled and gave the clue another go. When I remained st
umped several minutes later, I moved on to the cross clues.
Ten across started with the same letter as ten down. Maybe if I figured out that clue first it would help. Ten across read: Star of stage and screen, best known for Broadway roles such as Stanley Kowalski in A Street Car Named Desire and his Oscar-winning performance as Don Vito Corleone in The Godfather. I smiled broadly. This answer I knew off the top of my head. For as long as I can remember, I’ve obsessed with all things Mafia. Looking back, I believe my love affair with organized crime started shortly after my first reading of Gatsby. The twenties were romantic with beautiful clothing and lavish lifestyles, or so I thought when I was twelve. Soon I began to understand what paid for a lot of those lavish lifestyles – bootlegging. I bought into Hollywood’s romanticized notion of Mafia families and what it was like to be married into one. Of course, by the time I was probably fifteen, I understood just how sexist the Mafia really was. I mean, seriously, you can be a “made man” but not a “made woman”? Totally unfair. Anyhow, needless to say, I’ve seen The Godfather at least ten times. I know the lines by heart. And most importantly, I know who played Don Vito Corleone: Marlon Brando.
My smugness over figuring out the ten across clue was short lived. Even though I knew it was Brando for that clue, I still didn’t have the word I needed. I resumed making my list, this time trying to come up with six letter words that began with “B”. When I still had nothing more than blank lines twenty minutes later, I did what all those of my generation do when they don’t know the answer to something: Googled it.
My laptop was in my messenger bag, and I had it on the desk and booted up in no time. Of course, connecting to the library’s Wi-Fi involved finding Jessica and asking her for a visitor ID number, but after that I was good to go.
