Based Upon Availability

by Alix Strauss

  “Room 906.” The words fell out so hurriedly and softly she wasn’t even sure she’d heard the girl correctly.

  “Thank you.” Franny smiled to herself. She was taking charge, leaving the subservient, polite, barely noticeable Southern girl behind. The fire had burnt her outer shell and left a new, bolder, smarter creature to emerge.

  Back in the elevator, she pressed the ninth floor instead of the Thompson’s. She needed to see him.

  She knocked on his door, but received no answer. Perhaps he was there and didn’t want to see her. Maybe Anne called him after she left and alerted him a visitor might be coming up. She visualized him thanking the nervous girl for the heads up. She bet he was secretly standing by the door staring at her through the peephole snickering.

  She waited a moment longer, anger burning a hole inside her belly, and for a brief second thought she heard the sound of a woman giggling coming from inside. Frustrated, she went back to the Thompson’s room.

  After breakfast, which was done picnic style with one of the hotel’s comforters on the floor—just as she had envisioned—Joy and Franny decided to walk the few blocks back to their apartment building for an update. By now several inches of snow blanketed the sidewalk and cars, while mounds gathered on top of anorexic-looking tree branches. Franny’s shoes were unsalvageably wet. Her feet were numb in some spots, felt like ice in others. Her teeth chattered and she was sleep deprived. Joy was pale and tired.

  “You know, it’s only been about thirty hours since we’ve been gone, but I swear to God I feel as though I’ve been through a small war,” Franny said.

  “Childbirth wasn’t this exhausting,” Joy added.

  They looked at each other and laughed to keep from crying.

  “Our first mistake was being sober through all this,” she said. “If this had happened back home, we’d be drunk on my cousin’s moonshine so we wouldn’t have remembered a thing.”

  Joy laughed, her lips curling up slightly at the sides of her mouth. Franny could tell she’d just scored bonus points for funniness. With or without Wes, the fire, for her, had been good. New friends, possible new job, and a bolder, funnier personality.

  They walked hesitantly down their block and were greeted by huge orange and white barbershop cylinders that sprang up from three potholes. At twenty feet high they were more than an eyesore. Plumes of gray steam poured into the air. Their lobby smelled like a bus terminal. The carpets had been removed, and large industrial machines that cleaned the air hissed loudly. The electricity was back on, but there was still no heat or hot water. The elevators were also out of commission.

  “There’s one on each floor,” the super said, turning his head in the direction of the noise. “The apartments are really cold so most people haven’t moved back in,” he added, handing them each a stapled packet of paper assessing the damages, a letter from the board, emergency procedures, and numbers for the fire department, police, and nearby hospitals.

  “This doesn’t seem very safe.” Joy stated. “Did Con Ed even fix the problem?”

  The super shrugged. “They said they’ll be back after the holiday to actually fix the electrical system. What they’ve done now is only temporary.”

  Joy turned to her. “I have a feeling I’ll pack a few more items and sleep at my aunt’s again tonight. We’ve got a car coming to pick us up in the morning, so if you’d like, we can drop your belongings off here before we head up to the country for the weekend.”

  Her heart sank. She was hoping for another night with Joy. “Sure. That’s extremely kind.”

  The two moved slowly, carefully up the stairs pointing out burnt spots and water leaks. At the eighth floor Franny stood in the doorway of the stairwell not knowing what to do. “Well, call me if you need anything.”

  “You too,” Joy added, her brown eyes big and blinking.

  “Seriously. In this situation we’re stronger in numbers.” She looked at her neighbor, at the sparkling ring on her finger, the diaper tote slung over her shoulder, her Gucci handbag in her grasp, and wondered if she’d ever have her life. Wondered why she didn’t already have it. She wanted to kiss her good-bye, almost leaned forward, but the moment passed and all she could think of to say was thanks. “Talk to you tomorrow. You know, about claims or whatever,” anything to keep conversations going, keep the chain in motion. Joy nodded and continued to climb the stairs.

  From the moment she pushed open her door she was hit with a scorched, sulfur scent. She set her bag down, eyed the plastic mask that lay on her dining room table. She hated her apartment. Wished it had burned down.

  Her couch was done in a needlepoint-like stitch and revealed a pattern of swirly flowers of some sort. Her carpet was a depressing nubby brown, her table and chairs were lightwood and glass and belonged in some else’s living room rather than her city studio. In her attempt to urbanize herself, she bought black florescent floor lamps and a black coffee table from Pottery Barn. Copies of the New Yorker, New York, Vogue, and Elle lay upon it, making it resemble a doctor’s office. Fluffy, puffy decorative pillows were stacked neatly on the floor next to the couch, which was pulled out every night to sleep on.

  The windows had been left open and the room was dusty and cold. Black and gray specks covered her once-white windowsill, which looked like ants had invaded. Her mirrors were foggy and everything felt damp, like it had rained inside the apartment. The fridge needed emptying, clocks resetting, clothing put back, and items unpacked.

  She tried her aunt, got their machine, then checked her own.

  “Hi sugar. Shame to have missed you. Hope you’re alright.” Her aunt always spoke in short choppy sentences, like a telegram. Shame to have missed you. Stop. Hope you’re all right. Stop. “We were at friends’ for dinner. Wish we’d have known. Bad timing I guess. Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. You’re in my prayer box tonight. Maybe it’s time you think about coming home. Your mother misses you somethin’ awful.”

  Hearing her aunt’s accent coated with memory made her suddenly ache for Mississippi. For her mother’s cheese mashed potatoes, her friends—who had a habit of swimming naked in the lake, drunk on gin—for the simple, sweet sound of the Southern cricket-infested night air.

  She opened a bottle of wine, lit candles, acknowledged how empty the apartment seemed while looking for a place to put herself. It was odd being here alone. She felt as if she’d been with the same people for a month in a confined space and now that it was over, had forgotten how to be by herself. Almost didn’t know who she was without them.

  Franny looked out the window onto her quiet, snow-covered street, which had been reopened. The commotion was gone. The fire trucks and police cars were also gone, as if it had never happened. In a few hours Thirty-fourth Street would be swarming with adults and children all waiting to catch a glimpse of massive Snoopy, Garfield, and Underdog floats. Across the park at West Eighty-first Street by the Museum of Natural History people were watching the balloons get fatter, sipping hot chocolate and coffee from Starbucks cups, and munching on homemade cookies. It was events and activities like these that broke up the daily monotony, added a level of excitement to life.

  Joy’s aunt lived on a high floor, which overlooked the park. If they had stayed another night, Franny could have stood out on the terrace and seen the floats getting prepped for their big day. She could have held Simon or one of the twins while pointing to the larger-than-life characters. She could have pretended she was one of the power people who have stood there, smokes in one hand, champagne flute or martini glass in the other. All over the United States people were cooking and setting tables. Guests would be filling themselves with succulent turkey, overcooked stuffing, every traditional, generic Thanksgiving dish one would expect. The train to her relative’s seemed like a torture chamber, the dinner a death sentence.

  She eyed the area where she and Wes had had sex less than forty hours ago. She took off her clothing and crawled over to the spot, put her face to the nubby carpet and
inhaled the lingering, burnt smell that had gotten trapped in the fabric. She breathed in deeply and took another whiff, held it tightly in her chest, like a big hit of pot. She put her ear against her hardwood floor to hear if Wes was home. She did this from time to time, when she was bored, or wanted company for dinner. Usually he’d be on the phone, probably talking to friends or random women who had crushes on him, high-pitched laughs, and talked in questions, never ending a sentence with a single period.

  Where was he? Shouldn’t he be knocking on her door, asking if she wanted to go out for a bite after each had settled back in and unpacked? Didn’t he owe her that?

  She was surveying her apartment from this position when a hat caught her eye, lying haphazardly under her console. She remembered being hit by it as they kissed, and as she reached for it with her left hand, her right rubbed the spot on her head. It was still slightly sore. The cap was faded blue from wash and wear, an exclamation point was embroidered on it. She tried it on, wanted to know what it was like to be him. She lay back down—the hat on her head, the carpet scratching at her skin—and tried to picture his apartment: She saw a bike and minimal but expensive, high-end furniture decorated by some woman from Bloomingdale’s while he was at work. She closed her eyes and pretended he was here, resurrected his rich, prep school voice. Suddenly, she heard a door click open, then snap shut. Heard his feet, the sound of keys dropping on a table. She lingered for five minutes waiting for him to come up and see how she was, then ten. Stayed in the same spot, as if she couldn’t leave, needed to know what he was doing. She heard him pick up the phone. Waited for hers to ring, and when she caught him mumble something to someone else and hang up, she still gave him another five minutes before pulling herself off the carpet. She walked loudly on the floor to see if that would spur any change. Nothing.

  He wasn’t coming up to see her.

  She missed the hotel. Missed the glossy, luxurious, exciting feeling it offered. It was seductive, like a lover. She wanted to go back. Almost needed to.

  When she couldn’t stand the silence any longer, she threw her laundry into a basket. She stripped her sheets, removed the pillowcases, collected the towels, and went downstairs. At least she was getting exercise.

  She was shocked at how terrible the basement looked. The newly laid blue freckled tile was ruined. The floor was wavy and bubbled, having melted from the heat. Much of the ceiling had caved in and large chunks of dark gray matter covered the floor. All seven machines were turned off. The dryer doors had been left open so dust and God knows what filled the insides. A cockroach, which ran over the rubble, was the breaking point.

  She knocked on the super’s office door to find out when the machines would be fixed, and when she received no answer, turned the brass knob and entered.

  The place was a mess, smoky and moldy, though Franny got the feeling this was its original state. The only light came from the back room that held supplies and tools. Static poured from a walkie-talkie, which drowned out the Spanish music coming from an old radio. There was a TV, VCR, and a desk piled with papers. As she turned to leave, something silvery caught her eye. She thought of Catherine’s earrings as she walked back to the desk. A metal toolbox lay open, a pair of pliers stared at her, as if they had been waiting for her all day. They felt cool on her skin, solid in her grasp. She ran her fingers over the raised, metal ridges. Put her left index finger in the contraption’s sharp teeth and pressed. She watched the tip turn red before pulling it free, scraping her skin enough for it to bleed. A feeling of power raced through her. A celebration of her new, savvy self. She turned her attention to the ceiling. Con Ed had carelessly taped several unruly wires to the wall, which ran from the laundry room to the super’s office ending at the storage room. Franny followed the messy trail with her eyes, finally settling on a place where the tape was coming apart. Wires hung down imitating week-old sun-dried-tomato-flavored spaghetti. All it would take is one, maybe two tugs on the tape to produce some damage, help push the wires together so that they could touch, then create a charge or spark.

  Back in her apartment, she peacefully repacked a bag, as if she were doing a reenactment, and waited for the sounds of sirens, for the hurried voices. She smiled as she thought about the Four Seasons’ ultralarge tub, the soft bed, the fluffy carpet. She was calmed knowing it wouldn’t be long before there was a knock at her door. She bet Joy was still upstairs, packing and tidying up before heading back to her aunt’s apartment. Franny might even see her in the lobby. Or better yet, she could ring her bell. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” she could say. “Looks like they’re evacuating us again. Can you fucking believe that?”

  A bottle of champagne was in her hand. Her overnight bag, plastic face mask, and flashlight rested by her feet. Comfort moved through her as the wailing, piercing cry of fire trucks got louder and louder.

  Chapter 16

  Louise

  Suite 2410

  Stats

  Birth Name: Louise Cantezara.

  Occupation: Rock star.

  Age: 44.

  Bands: Me, Myself & Eye, Horse House, Zsa Zsa, Hit Me Harder.

  Solo Albums: Neon Personality, Too Much Is Never Enough, Wish I Was, Unlimited Lou’s Greatest Hits.

  Top Awards: Grammy—Album of the Year, Record of the Year; two platinum records.

  Tattoos: A mini bottle of tequila located at the small of her back, a platinum-colored record the size of a quarter on her left ankle, “love thyself” in French over her right wrist.

  Rehab Stays: Three.

  Drug of Choice: Coke.

  Drink of Choice: Anything but scotch.

  Smokes: Camel Lights, a pack a day.

  Famous Friends: Other aging rock stars like herself—Mick, Lou, Iggy.

  High Points: Fucking Bowie, accepting Grammy, signing record contract with Sony.

  Low Points: ’82–’89, ’04–present.

  Years She Can’t Recall: ’82–’89, ’93–’97.

  Relationship History: Unsuccessful.

  Born: Fort Lee, NJ.

  Lived in: Seattle, ’77–’94; New York, ’95–present.

  Instruments: Gibson guitar, drums, lead vocals.

  It’s 3:00 a.m. at a bar. There’s still another line to do, another song to perform, another party to crash, another autograph to sign, another line to do, another drink to swallow, another song to sing, another, another, another…It never stops. Not the shaking in her hands, not the coke she puts up her nose or the vodka that slides down her throat or the chords that play monotonously, continuously in her head or the lyrics that fill random bar napkin after random bar napkin, the ones she can never read once she gets home as the sun is coming up to greet her and the drugs are wearing off and the throbbing in her chest is starting and her eyes are heavy. Her cell phone is ringing. Who the fuck is calling so early? Unless it’s her drug dealer. He promised to meet her at the apartment, but she’s late and can’t remember what time she told him to arrive and doesn’t know what time it is now or if there are keys in her bag or if there’s anything in the refrigerator and wouldn’t it be so nice, so very, very nice if someone, anyone, was waiting with a large spicy Bloody Mary. And a joint. She’d gladly offer up any of her platinum records for a big beautiful Mary and some weed. She deserves it. She worked hard. Sang several songs last night. Performed just as the contract stated. She did the tricks they requested and now she’s tired. And thirsty. Who the hell are they to tell her what she can and can’t have? She’s a rock star. She’s Unlimited Lou. She’s special, even if no one’s told her that in a long time. She can still party with the best of them. Her mother told her to leave her mark on this world and goddamn it, she has. She slept with Bowie once for Christ’s sake. Was almost married to one of the Eagles. And if she wants a goddamn Bloody Mary, she should fucking have one.

  Day 1: Waking

  Lou’s not exactly sure where she is except that she’s not in her apartment on Elizabeth Street. She doesn’t know the time or how
she ended up here.

  Last night is sort of hazy and she slightly remembers her publicist, Honor, going through her bags in another room. She packed bags though. She was brought here? Yes. Yes she was. By Trevor and Knox. She needs a drink. She needs a drink and some coffee and a cigarette and a shower. She needs all of this right now.

  She lifts her pounding, heavy head off the pillow, feels a pull in her neck. A crack in her lower back. Her mouth is dry and her nose is stuffed and her eyes are having trouble focusing. The bed is soft and warm and someone has drawn the curtains. She flips on the lamp to the right of the bed, the bed with so many fluffy pillows. A sea of them. Lou could lie here all day.

  The light is blinding to her and once dimmed, she can see a robe is folded over the chair, slippers are underneath it. The room is decorated in blond, tan, and beige wood and every sedate blah color you can imagine. She searches for a clock and finds it on the other side of her where another lamp resides. A matching pair. The only places that have matching lamps like this with rooms decorated in blah are rehab clinics and hotels.

  She stands, which proves to be a mistake because the room is still spinning and causes her head to throb harder. She stumbles to the window and as she pulls back the curtains, which reveal a beautiful New York skyline, she remembers. Ah, yes. The Four Seasons. She was brought here by her publicist, Honor Kraus. Brought here to dry out, yet again.

  She reaches for the open pack of Camel Lights, her hands shaking. Her breath is offensive, even to her, and her skin feels crispy. Crackly. She can’t find any matches or her lighter and she has to pee and stumbles from the bedroom into another room, a living room. Her guitar, keyboard, and sketchbook are leaning up against the couch. A Discman, pile of CDs, packs and packs of gum, bags of Tootsie Pops, a carton of cigarettes, pens, colored pencils, and headphones are scattered on the coffee table. A week or two’s worth of clothing is piled on the couch exactly where she left it several hours ago or maybe a day ago. Perhaps she’s been asleep for a week. Wouldn’t that be fantastic if she’s slept through her entire detoxification?