New York Stories

by Bob Blaisdell

  Her apartment was smaller than theirs. One room and a kitchen. It was furnished just like theirs: a hard brown sofa from a cheap Russian furniture store, a scratched coffee table and a chest of drawers retrieved from the trash, heavy lamps bought at a garage sale. Delicate Russian tea set and books in a dark cabinet with glass doors. Misha read the titles of the same books they had brought from Russia—Chekhov, Pushkin, historical novels with dark, gloomy covers, Maupassant and Flaubert translated into Russian, thick dictionaries, Russian-English and English-Russian. Some titles were obscured by two big photographs. One showed two serious, curly-headed girls, both older than Misha. “My granddaughters,” Elena Pavlovna said with a sigh. “They live in California with my son.” On the other picture, in black and white, was a smiling young man in a uniform. “Her son,” Misha thought, but Elena Pavlovna said that it was her husband.

  Elena Pavlovna had a braid, a thin gray braid coiled on the back of her head. Misha had never seen an old woman with a braid before. The hair coming out of the braid framed her face with a crown of fluffy grayish-white curls. Her skin was dry and thin, with neat little wrinkles that looked as though they were drawn on her face with a pencil. Her eyes were small and dark. They misted over as she read them her sister’s letter from Leningrad. “Everything is the same: the Neva, the embankment, the Winter Palace; only you, Lenochka, are gone.” The grandfather patted her hand when she said that. She wore a blue woolen dress with a high collar covering her neck and a large amber brooch. “Want to look at my brooch, Misha?” she asked, unpinning it. “My mother said that there was a fly inside.” Misha held the large, unpolished piece of amber in his hands. It was cool and smooth on top, rough on the edges. There was a strange black mass inside with thin sprouts looking a little like an insect’s legs. “I am not sure myself, maybe it’s just a crack,” Elena Pavlovna said. “Do you know, Misha, what amber is?” “Yes,” he answered eagerly, turning the piece of amber in his hands. “It’s hardened tree tar; flies could get stuck in it while it was still soft and gluey. Yes, I think it is a fly, only a deformed one.” Misha raised his eyes off the brooch and blushed, seeing that both Elena Pavlovna and his grandfather looked pleased with what he said.

  Outside, everything was wet and brightened by the rain. The trees released showers of raindrops on their heads when they passed under them. They walked very fast, close to each other, their wet shoes squishing on the black, wet asphalt. They had left Elena Pavlovna’s apartment as soon as the rain ended. Their shoes were still damp, but they took the sodden newspapers out and put the shoes on. Elena Pavlovna didn’t protest, didn’t say that they must wait, that Misha might catch cold from wearing damp shoes. On the staircase, she took his hand in her dry, small one and said: “Come again, Misha.” But Misha doubted that he would ever see her again. He also knew that she wasn’t to be mentioned at home. They would probably have to say that they waited until the rain was over in the hallway of some building or inside a deli. Elena Pavlovna, a woman with a gray braid and an amber brooch, would be his and the grandfather’s secret. For some reason, Misha felt an urge to take his grandfather’s hand, but then he thought that nine-year-old boys don’t walk holding their grandfathers’ hands. Instead, he began talking about the formation of amber, about volcanoes, about chameleons, about dinosaurs that swallowed big rocks to help them grind their food, about crocodiles that did this too. He talked nonstop, breathlessly, sputtering, chuckling in excitement, interrupting one story to tell the next. He looked at his grandfather, whose eyes were focused on Misha, who nodded in amazement and muttered from time to time: “Imagine!” or “Imagine what living things have to come up with to survive!” And Misha wanted to tell him more, to hear the “Imagine!” again and again. Close to their building, the grandfather suddenly stopped, interrupting a story about comodo dragons. “Misha,” he said, sounding a little out of breath. “You know what, my class won’t be over on June fifteenth. I mean it will, but I’ll find another class, then another. Misha, there are a lot of free English programs in Brooklyn. You have no idea how many!” A big raindrop fell on the grandfather’s head from the tree. It ran down his forehead, lingered on his large nose, and hung on the tip. The grandfather shivered and shook his head like a horse. Misha laughed.

  SIRENS OF GOWANUS (2013)

  Simon Rich

  Simon Rich (b. 1984) was raised in New York City, where he continues to live. While a student at Harvard, he began publishing humor pieces in The New Yorker; he has written novels, screenplays, collections of humor, and a book of short stories.

  BRENT WAS WALKING home from band practice when he heard a girl singing. He recognized the song immediately; it was that new Arcade Fire song, his favorite track off their new album. He put down his amp and listened as she belted out the chorus. It was a busy night on Smith Street but her crisp, clear voice pierced easily through the clatter.

  He heaved his amp over his shoulder and headed toward the singer. She had moved on to another tune by now—a b-side by Big Star. The streetlamps grew sparser as he neared the Gowanus Canal, but he was able to spot her in the moonlight. She was under the Carroll Street bridge, sitting on a round, smooth rock. Her silky eyelashes fluttered as she sang. And whenever she hit a high note, she playfully splashed the water with her feet. She was naked from the waist up, two large breasts protruding from her slender, birdlike frame.

  Brent was trying to figure out what to say to her when she called out his name.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Do I know you?”

  She bashfully turned away, her pale cheeks crimsoning in the moonlight.

  “Not exactly,” she said. “But I’ve been to a couple of your shows. You’re in the Fuzz, right?”

  Brent’s eyes widened with amazement. His band had only formed a few months ago. No one had ever recognized him before. Even when he headlined at Club Trash, he’d had to show his ID at the door.

  “I can’t believe you’ve heard of me,” he admitted.

  The girl let loose a high-pitched musical laugh.

  “I haven’t just heard of you!” she cried. “I worship you!”

  She took a deep breath and broke into one of his songs—the final track on the Fuzz’s self-released EP.

  Brent moved closer to the water. He knew the Gowanus Canal was filthy. He’d read once online that its water was so putrid it had somehow tested positive for gonorrhea. But it looked so lovely in the moonlight, a solid strip of blue, weaving elegantly through the city.

  Brent talked to her for hours that night—about music and art and “the scene.” When the sun started to rise, he gave her his cell phone number and wobbled off toward the F train. He’d barely walked a block when she texted him: “I hope U come back 2morrow!” Brent shook his head, laughing with giddiness. He could hardly believe his luck.

  “Dude, that girl’s trouble.”

  Brent scoffed.

  “What are you talking about?”

  His roommate Rob turned toward him, muting the TV to emphasize his words’ importance.

  “She’s a fucking siren,” he said. “She lures people out to that rock and, like, eats their flesh.”

  Brent rolled his eyes.

  “I’m serious,” Rob said. “Remember Stanley? The bassist in Dustin’s band? She ate his face off.”

  “You can’t judge someone by their past relationships. Like, okay, she killed Stanley. But how do you know what was going on between them? You weren’t there. Maybe if you heard Thelxiepeia’s take on what happened, you’d side with her.”

  Rob sighed.

  “It’s your life,” he said. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  Brent decided to invite her to Bar Tabac. It was a great first-date restaurant: not too expensive but classy enough to show a girl you were trying. It was also convenient—halfway between his apartment and her rock.

  “I’d love to see you!” she cooed over the phone. “But I’m not super into French food.”

  Brent suggested a few alte
rnatives—Thai, Italian, Mexican—but she balked at all of them.

  “Where do you want to eat?” he asked.

  Her breathing grew strangely thick.

  “At my place,” she said.

  Brent couldn’t believe it; he’d only known the girl for two days and she was already inviting him over! He called his drummer to cancel band practice. He needed to go buy a swimsuit.

  “How’s this one?” Brent asked Rob, holding up a purple Speedo.

  “If you swim to that rock,” he said, “she’s going to kill you.”

  Brent ignored him and turned to his other roommate, Jeff.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re going to die,” Jeff said.

  Brent threw up his hands in frustration.

  “Why do you guys always have to be so negative?”

  “Just tell me this,” Jeff said. “That rock she was sitting on. Did you see any bones on it?”

  Brent sighed. There had been a few bones.

  “Okay,” Rob said. “I take it from your silence that you saw bones. Did she say anything about where they came from?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Brent admitted.

  “Why not?” Jeff asked.

  “I just met her!” Brent said. “I don’t know what kind of food issues she has! I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. I’m trying not to blow this.”

  He walked in silence to the checkout line. How could he explain his situation to those cynical morons? How could he explain the way this beautiful girl made him feel? They’d only met once and he already caught himself daydreaming about their future. He could easily picture them moving in together someday. His apartment was tiny, and so was her rock, but maybe they could find a bigger place? Brent visualized their wedding. They’d have it outside, on the shores of the Gowanus. He was pretty sure Thelxiepeia was a gentile, based on her hair color and the number of times she’d mentioned Zeus. But he didn’t care about that kind of stuff.

  “Do you need a bag?” the cashier asked him as he paid for his purple Speedo.

  “That’s okay,” Brent said. “I’m going to put it on right now.”

  Brent hurried toward the water, his roommates both struggling to keep up.

  “There’s still time to cancel,” Jeff said.

  “Yeah,” Rob said. “Just text her saying you’re sick. The three of us can go get wings.”

  Brent spun around swiftly, his cheeks flushed with rage.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m not an idiot, okay? I know the odds are against us. I know she’s a siren. I know she’s eaten people. I know she’s five thousand years older than me. But I really like her.”

  His eyes grew moist.

  “I think,” he said, “I might even be in love with her.”

  Her voice sounded in the distance. She was singing a Magnetic Fields tune—something off 69 Love Songs. She was almost up to the chorus when two more voices suddenly joined her. Brent’s roommates looked out onto the Gowanus. Apparently, Thelxiepeia had invited some friends over.

  “Holy shit,” Rob whispered as the three topless girls sang on. “Those girls are hot.”

  Jeff said nothing; he just stared at the water in silence, his lips slightly parted.

  The girls finished singing and waved hello, playfully splashing the water with their feet.

  “Are you Rob Swieskowski?” the one on the left asked. “I love your YouTube comedy videos.”

  Rob blushed.

  “I can’t believe you’ve seen those.”

  “And you’re Jeff Selsam!” the other siren interrupted. “Actuary of the Month at Chapman and Chapman Life Insurance.”

  Jeff’s eyes widened.

  “How did you know?”

  The sirens nodded at each other and then broke into a Beatles song, their voices braided perfectly in harmony. They smiled at the men, beckoning them closer.

  And closer.

  www.doverpublications.com