Based Upon Availability

by Alix Strauss

  My arm is still extended, waiting. “Maybe you’d like to have a cocktail sometime. I’d be happy to drop off a drink coupon for you.”

  He inches the packet closer.

  “I’d hate to drink alone. Maybe I could bring my wife?”

  “Sure.” I keep my eyes locked on his. Just give me the fucking film. “Two it is.”

  The girl standing next to him, who barely looks old enough to ovulate let alone drink slaps him in the arm.

  “And one for Kristen. After all she was the one who…”

  “Right. One for Kristen.”

  He looks at the packet before handing it over. “I’m here until eight p.m. tonight, Sally Mulligan.”

  “Great.”

  I grasp it tightly but move my arm away slowly, nonchalantly. He smiles revealing a set of yellow teeth. “That’s eleven dollars for the film, eight fifty for the smokes.”

  I hand him a twenty dollar bill and watch him ring it up. The sound of the register seems loud and I bite down on my tongue to stop from squirming when he puts the fifty cents in my hand.

  Once in my office I remove the glossy five by sevens, eager to see what happened before we got there. Each is of Vicki in slightly different positions taken from various angles: up close, far away, some slightly blurry, as if someone were doing it very quickly. The last one is of two girls whose faces are pressed up against each other: one a monster, one a victim. I stare at it looking for clues. Friends? Lovers? Sisters? Though the hair and eye color are different, there is a similarity in their expressions even though only one is smiling. Yet too much of Vicki’s face is camouflaged by makeup, blood, and goo to know for sure.

  I pick up the phone. The receiver feels cumbersome in my hand. I reach forward and put my finger on the hook to quiet the sound of the dial tone since I don’t yet know who I want to talk to. I look at Dale’s photo, wish my fingers had her number to press. And since I don’t, I reach out to the one person I hope will answer.

  “Fresh Art. Trish Hemingway speaking.”

  “Hi, it’s Morgan.” There’s a pause so I add, “from the Four Seasons.”

  “Hey. How are you?”

  “I thought I’d call and say hi, see how things were.”

  “I’m glad you called.” There’s a break in the conversation. “I wanted to say I was sorry to hear about your uncle.”

  Relief whooshes through me. “I wanted to say something to you that night, but I didn’t know…I didn’t know what to say exactly, or what your relationship was, or if it was even my place to say anything at all.”

  “It’s okay.”

  I hear the sound of feet and heavy grunting in the background; then Trish tells me to hold for a second, tells someone else to put the artwork over there while an intense buzzing from a fax machine follows.

  “Sorry about that,” she says, returning to me.

  I want to ask her how she knew. Who told that he was my uncle. If she was one of his patients. I wonder how long they’ve been seeing each other and if that’s why she chose this hotel to have her party for Olive, and if she asked for a discount because maybe Marty said he gets one from me.

  “Morgan.” There’s something about the way she says my name that makes me feel sad and understood at the same time. “Are you okay?”

  Relief is momentary because sadness steps in and bullies it away. If I open my mouth all that will leak out is a loud moan or a sob. Tears drip quietly onto the photos in my hand ruining the perfectly glossy coating, smearing the faces and blurring them into a blob. I know she’s waiting for an answer, but I don’t know what to say. I want to tell her about the clock I’m desperately trying to turn back. I want someone to tell me how much longer I’m supposed to feel this alone. I want her to help me without my having to ask for it.

  “Everything is fine,” I say.

  “Are you sure? You don’t sound it.”

  “No, it’s all good. I thought maybe we would get drinks or something. Maybe your friend Olive wants to join us. She could see the space you’ve reserved at the hotel, we could show her the food list for her party, or even sample the appetizers…”

  “I’d love to but it’s crazy here. The gallery event is only a few weeks away, and I’m still trying to finalize the artists I’ll be repping and the whole thing is a bit overwhelming right now.”

  “Of course. Another time. It’s an open invite so whenever you want to get together you let me know.”

  “Absolutely. I—” Someone calls for her, and I know it’s only seconds before she’ll be hanging up. “Okay, then I’ll call you soon. And I’m sorry about your uncle. He was…”

  “You don’t have to say anything nice about him. I know what he was.”

  “Helpful. I guess.” Her name is called again, this time with more urgency.

  We both say good-bye and then it’s over.

  The magician waves his magic wand and poof—all gone.

  Chapter 10

  Anne

  The Front Desk

  These are Anne’s top fears—in random order, rather than by importance.

  1. Vomiting.

  2. Having her teeth fall out.

  3. Getting cancer.

  4. Falling down a flight of stairs, head first.

  5. Roaches.

  Her biggest concern is a situation that would encompass all of the above. For example, she’s at a party in a stranger’s townhouse, and because of an undetected brain tumor, she loses her balance and falls down a flight of stairs and knocks her teeth on the floor—which crack and fall out. Because of the tumor, and blood from her broken teeth, she vomits. She is in mid-retch when, out of the corner of her eyes, she sees a roach approaching. All this causes her to faint. An ex-boyfriend from college, who she hasn’t seen in years, would stumble across her accidentally while trying to get into his apartment. He would call for help, and only after covering her with a blanket—so that she didn’t go into shock—would he do a double take and say, “Oh. My. God. Didn’t we date in college?” The only reason he’d recognize the crumpled-up person was her is because it would be a reenactment of a past experience when she was drunk and actually fell down the steps of a fraternity house. When he tried to help her up she retched all over him. Luckily no roaches were involved and her teeth-fear didn’t metamorphose until several years ago.

  Then there are the rules—all of which change as the list becomes more extensive and complicated.

  1. Objects that have lost their glow, or upon bringing them home, have instilled some kind of unhappiness, must be thrown out or returned.

  2. Pennies heads up must be picked off the floor or street. If not, luck is passed on to another person.

  3. Sleeping in her nightshirt inside out insures a night of sound sleep.

  4. No wearing black on Mondays.

  5. Her takeout menus must be piled in size order. If not, she might get sick from eating the delivered food.

  She doesn’t know how the fears and rituals started. She just knows it was there one day, sitting heavy on her chest as if something was wrong. As if she had forgotten to do a task of major importance. She checked for her reading glasses, leafed through her calendar, called her machine, and retrieved her messages. Nothing.

  Anne went through a second list of possibilities. Did she take her vitamins? Had she left the keys in the door? Did she turn the coffee machine off? Her smoke alarm needed fresh batteries, the red light no longer flashed, and because it began making that ear-piercing scream she’d taken the whole contraption down. Left it sitting next to her coffeemaker. She could visualize the fire starting in her apartment, moving swiftly to the unit next to hers, traveling upward to the newly renovated floor above. Anne felt her body shutting down as she dialed her doorman. She was about to ask if he’d send the handyman up to check, when she hazily saw a picture of herself turning the device off and putting her mug in the sink. She hung up before he said hello. Then innocently, she tapped the top of her desk. A knock-on-wood kind of motion, as if to say
, “There—thank goodness.” Like a pill taking effect, the panic went away. All was fine.

  That was five years ago.

  It didn’t take long for the tapping to become a thing she needed to do, like breathing. If she didn’t tap, something terrible would happen for sure. Then came the touching of doorframes followed by the waiting for the digital clock to change from an odd number to an even one before she could start her day. Now she couldn’t drink her coffee unless all the pink, blue, and white packets were facing upward in a straight, neat row, like dominos. On bad days, the same number of each was mandatory. But these rituals were livable. They were merely inconveniences. It’s the voices in her head, the ones that force her to hold her breath in elevators, wear her nightshirt inside out, and count red cars (a sign for bad luck) that she can’t stand.

  She would like to blame this on her parents. Find some genetic way to prove this was their fault. She knows they have weird idiosyncrasies. Once, a matter of switching office spaces with a co-worker caused her father to break out in hives a week before the transaction took place. A mere eight feet brought on red bumps to which calamine lotion had to be applied for days. And then there’s her mother. Anne has seen her count to five each time she lines her underarms with deodorant, brushes her teeth, or combs her hair.

  Anne goes through a list of other people’s odd behaviors to convince herself she’s normal. She would ask someone about them, but is afraid they would institutionalize her like they did her brother, who resides overmedicated in a hospital with other overmedicated men who do nothing all day but watch TV and roam the hallways. Anne is the normal child. The one who cannot disappoint her parents. The one who didn’t have a breakdown. The one who doesn’t have a love affair with sharp objects.

  She blasts Unlimited Lou’s Greatest Hits and lets the singer’s signature raspy voice and melancholy music pour through her apartment. Anne has found this particular CD is unexplainably lucky. As if Lou’s lyrics are cleansing the air and inviting only good into her dwelling. She lights sandalwood incense to ensure negative energies are removed. She opens the window, walks counterclockwise around the room reciting a little prayer, just as the Good Luck book instructs.

  She waits for the clock to read 10:00 a.m. and walks out the door. She’s meeting a man whose name is Gage, which sounds like an automotive part rather than a thirty-seven-year-old whom she discovered last week, thanks to an Internet dating service. Gage’s bio states he’s an artist who works with paint and “found objects.” “Random things discovered on the street,” he told her in an e-mail. She likes that he works with his hands, that he’s tall, six foot two, that he has hazel eyes and a full head of hair. That he has a master’s in anthropology but doesn’t use it and claims to speak to both his parents, who are divorced, and his younger sister, who is married to a politician. Her favorite trait is the found objects. The ability to collect what others have lost or discarded.

  Gage was the sixteenth person to respond to her personal ad. And sixteen feels lucky. She has a good vibe as she shuts her door, taps three times on the frame, and waits for the elevator, which comes immediately, another positive sign.

  They meet for coffee at Chester’s, a small, secluded, artsy hangout in the East Village. Gage’s suggestion. She’s a Murray Hiller, East Thirties, and according to her grandmother, the only bonus to living in her area is that it’s near several hospitals. Useless since she never gets sick and her brother’s hospital is in Westchester.

  She walks the thirty or so blocks, counting the red cars that pass her, and enjoys the fall foliage. It’s her favorite time of year. The air is crisp and moist. Leaves are everywhere: on the sidewalk, on top of cars, caught in sewage drains, and collecting in garbage cans. The Good Luck book says if she can catch a descending leaf, it will bring her fortune. She must look ridiculous reaching for the falling leaves, but she’d rather look stupid than be luckless.

  Gage is already waiting outside the café, smoking a cigarette and looking like a softer version of the Marlboro man. He’s exactly what she expected, right down to the leather bomber jacket and worn-in jeans. All that’s missing is his motorcycle, but that would be too much of a cliche. His body is meaty, but fit. His hands are cracked and rough, large and chapped. His grip is firm and his two day’s growth of beard gives him a manly appearance. His skin is tanned, like leather.

  Even on a Sunday the shop is a buzz of morning action. She eyes the other customers, takes mental notes of their body language, their outfits. No one looks especially artistic. The men have wet hair, paint-smattered oxford shirts, their feet in sandals. Some women are in sweats and sneakers, their hair pulled back in high ponytails. Newspapers are strewn everywhere, tossed carelessly on stout wooden tables while loose sections cover the floor. Sketchbooks lay open revealing charcoal drawings and portraits, the creators aching to be asked about them. Random art fills every available wall space. The artist’s name, title of the piece, number in the series, and the price is placed to the right of each creation, typed neatly on white index cards.

  Anne’s job is to secure two seats, which she snags by the window, while Gage orders the drinks. This plan allows her to prearrange the sweeteners according to color before he returns. When he does, both his hands are filled with identical-looking paper cups.

  “Aren’t artists supposed to sleep late, especially on Sundays?” she jokes as he slides into the rickety wooden chair.

  “These guys are more Mark Kostabi than Jackson Pollock. They like to talk about their art rather than actually produce any.”

  She nods and smiles as Gage leans forward with his right arm outstretched, a cup within reach. As she comes to meet his hand, he recoils and extends his other one instead.

  “Which do you think is yours?” he asks.

  This game reminds Anne of her boss—a slick, twice-divorced Italian whom she dislikes.

  “Several envelopes have your checks,” he said two months ago. “One has a weekend getaway, and one is empty. Who wants to play?” He was sucking on a fat cigar and leaning back in his chair looking like a character from the Godfather sagas. She was tempted to kiss his hand and reach for any of the similar-looking envelopes. The other girls, all hotel concierges from her department, were amused. They had husbands and boyfriends, looked forward to last-minute escapes to balmy islands and frosted drinks with plastic animals that hung off the edges of the glasses. She just wanted her check. She was never late, did her work, covered for co-workers. This was dumb. Even though Anne knew he wouldn’t really withhold anyone’s pay, she didn’t want to play. She was buying time by appearing as if she was really trying to choose, when she caught her reflection in the small mirror that sat on his leather padded desk. This vision made her wince. She could color her mousy hair or add rich blond highlights like the other women. Get her frizzy, wavy locks professionally straightened, wax her eyebrows, whiten her already-ivory teeth, wear color contacts instead of clear, get a makeover, but what would that change?

  The Four Seasons had insisted grooming was a must. After all, she was a guest’s first introduction. “Who wants to book a room from an unkempt person with smeared makeup, dirty fingernails, and a hairy upper lip?” her boss said during training week four years ago. She was just starting out as a front desk agent, taking reservations and organizing room cards. Her mother encouraged her to accept the free treatments the hotel offered. But when the day was over, and people were clocking out, it would still be her. A different, slightly more polished version of herself. She’d still tap the glass on the revolving doors upon exiting, carry her paraphernalia of lucky charms, and count red cars in the street. She’d still need to attend anti-anxiety classes in dreary hospitals or old church basements.

  That day in her boss’s office she was third to guess, and muttered the words “Katta Katta” before pointing to the envelope on the far right. She didn’t know what the word meant or why it emerged from her mouth except that inside was her check, plus a $500 bonus. Now she utters Katta Katta
only for extremely important events or in times of crisis.

  Gage is still waiting for her decision. She feels foolish and he looks stupid with outstretched arms and two cups of whatever’s inside. His hands are now equal distance, left rising up as the right drops down, the right ascending as left declines. He looks like he’s milking a cow. If she chooses correctly, she bargains with herself, they’ll have a second date. He’s cute and charming, and Anne wills herself to relax, to play along and look like she’s a good sport. She chooses left, and Gage’s smile widens. He waits for her to pop the lid off and as she does he says, “They’re both the same. I ordered a cappuccino, too.”

  She reaches for a Sweet‘N Low, rips it exactly halfway through the large red musical note, and pours the entire contents into her drink. Then she sticks the ripped piece inside the packet and folds it in half. She stirs and lays the tiny plastic straw on top of the packet. She looks up at her date, watches his rough hand move toward the packets, fingering them absentmindedly. She contains her impulse to knock his hand away. The packets are in perfect order. Doesn’t he realize messing them up will ruin their date? Gage removes a sugar. Now there’s an uneven number. She would add a sugar to her coffee but then it would be too sweet, undrinkable, and he would ask what was wrong. He would mistake her not drinking the cappuccino as her not liking him, or her being difficult. Either way the date is ruined, the odd number will certainly make it so, and she likes this guy. Likes the way he sips his froth. The way he leans on his elbow, his thumb holding up his chin. She opts to take the extra packet and will choke down the sweet drink if it kills her. What if he judges her two-packet choice? She can hear him recapping the evening at some random bar with his artist friends making sure to highlight her sweet tooth. Someone will crack a joke about her putting on weight later on in life; maybe his mother would point out this flaw. She sits on her hands to stop the tapping, bites down on her lower lip to prevent the muttering, tells her head to stop listening to the voices.