by kj lewis
“Thank you. You are very kind.”
His eyes unreadable and jaw rigid, he nods in acknowledgement before watching me walk away.
“What was that all about?” I ask harshly while closing the leather-clad door to Kyle’s BMW.
“Uh, you’re welcome,” Drew replies, like they were doing me a solid.
“I’m welcome? I’m welcome?” My sheer disbelief in Drew’s statement has me repeating myself.
“Yes, you are welcome!”
I glare at Russ next to me in the back seat. Then I direct my glare back to the front passenger seat.
“Seriously, Drew! He was completely nice, and you basically peed on me right in front of him!”
We pull onto the Queens expressway, and I catch Kyle’s eyes bounce from me in the rearview to Drew sitting next to him, a confused look in his eyes like he’s trying to catch up.
“What is she talking about? What did you do Drew?” Kyle asks like he’s talking to a child.
“I didn’t do anything. I simply thanked the guy and told him we had her from here.”
“What guy?”
“The plane guy.”
“What?” Kyle inquires in an exasperated “help me understand” tone, looking at Russ next to me.
“This guy that was on James’ flight was being a little too possessive, so we took care of it,” he explains without prejudice and a shrug of his shoulders, like he’s speaking only the truth, and I or anyone else would be irrational to think any differently.
“That is ridiculous!” I say with enough feeling for the both of us, since they want to play this one off like I’m the idiot for being mad. “He was very kind and very polite. His intentions were…”
“To get into your pants,” Drew speaks over me.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m ridiculous?”
“You’re ridiculous!” I state with more force.
“I’m ridiculous?” He’s riled up now.
“Yes! What are you a parrot? Did you fall down today and smack your head on the pavement? I don’t need you, or any of the dwarfs for that matter, to step in and pee on me in public.”
“What does that even mean, James?” Drew grunts, unable to hide his irritation.
“It means, Drew, that I don’t need y’all to stake claim to me like I’m something that needs protecting.”
“You guys know James doesn’t like to be handled,” Kyle interjects, trying to contain the situation.
“We didn’t handle her Kyle,” he argues. “We showed her the same courtesy we’d show our sisters. And stop calling us dwarfs James. It’s not very manly.”
With a deep sigh of frustration, I shake my head and lay it against the head rest. “I am living with baboons.”
We’re coming across the Williamsburg Bridge now, and the exhaustion of the day has taken the fight out of me.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’ll see him again. I don’t even know his name. I’m just ready to be home,” I say a little deflated. Even with my eyes now closed, I can feel them watching me. Drew’s the first to break. He always is.
“How was your trip?”
“Long and stressful.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“How about some Doughnut Plant?” Kyle always knows the way to my heart. Food. Especially my favorite doughnut place in the city.
“Crème Brulee and Manhattan Cream. Your favorites,” he entices. Not that I really need it. I love all things food.
A dozen shared doughnuts later, we are finally home. Home is a classic, white cast-iron facade building, typical of the area. Our apartment is a three-bedroom, one-bath, fifth-floor walkup on Greene St.
Matt, the head dwarf, has been renting this apartment for a few years now. He lived here with his wife while finishing medical school at Columbia, and she was in her first-year internship at New York Presbyterian Hospital. Becca is now an attending physician in Boston, while Matt is in his last year of residency. When he’s finished, he will be moving to Boston. Actually, all six of my roommates are doctors at New York Presbyterian. Matt kept the apartment and took on five roommates for extra income.
By Manhattan standards, our apartment is large, at a little over a thousand square-feet. The entry is a small hallway leading into an open kitchen, dining, and living area. The bones are what you would expect from a SoHo apartment. High, open ceilings with cased windows across the front. I place the mail I grabbed on the way up on the kitchen counter as I make my way to my alcove.
Off of the living area are two bedrooms with our only bath in between. On the other side is the larger bedroom and a small, three-sided alcove, two inches smaller than a twin bed. It opens to the living room. The guys stay two to a room, and I sleep on the couch.
The alcove is all mine. I have smartly utilized the square footage to get the most out of the space. Sliding back the curtain I installed, I turn on the small table lamp that sits on the four-drawer teal dresser I found at the Chelsea Antiques Garage for a steal. Its slim profile made it the perfect piece for the space. The back wall houses my closet. It’s only three-feet wide, but the shelves above the rod extend the entire height of the twelve-foot wall, some holding clothes, others with decorative boxes, framed pictures, and items from my childhood. A full-length mirror hangs on the wall between the dresser and the closet. Opposite the dresser and mirror is an overstuffed, comfy, white cotton chair, large enough for me to curl into, with a soft, colorful throw across the back. It sits at an angle, leaving just enough floor space to maneuver the closet and get dressed.
I come in here to read and have some alone time when I need it. Even though the curtain doesn’t block out noise, the visual barrier is really all I need. I like to still hear the guys. It reminds me that I’m not alone, that I have loved ones near.
Matt and Russ are both married to wonderfully strong women whom I adore. Tim is engaged, Kyle is one step away from engagement, while Drew and Ryan have made an art form out of being single. All six men are smart, capable, and sexy as hell. It’s like living in a GQ magazine. Except that the place was a hazard area, and their living habits were atrocious. How they made it before I moved in, I’ll never know.
I am closest with Matt. We met at Junior’s in Brooklyn during my third year living in the city. We were sitting next to each other, waiting for our cheesecakes, and struck up a conversation. His wife Becca and I became fast friends. At the time, I was living in the Bronx, and Becca always thought I should be somewhere safer and actually in Manhattan. But living in the Bronx was all I could afford, and I was having a hard enough time making ends meet.
Jackson has always paid me a generous salary and would pay me more if I would let him, but I won’t take what I don’t earn. So, I picked up a couple of night jobs and with my financial responsibilities in Memphis, I was still struggling to make ends meet.
After Becca moved to Boston and the dwarfs were on their own, she called me and asked me if I would move in, rent-free, in exchange for “overseeing” the apartment, make sure it stayed livable and the guys actually ate a green vegetable at least once a week. She felt like it was the best of both worlds. It’s been the seven of us ever since. Some days are more trying than others, but mostly it’s like living with six brothers. I get a free place to live, and they get a wife/mother/sister/friend in exchange. The day and need dictate which hat I wear for each of them.
Grateful that it was a one-day trip and I don’t have a bag to unpack, I throw on a tank and some sleep shorts and make my way to the kitchen. One of the ways I earn my keep is making sure they each have a healthy meal. I look at the calendar on the fridge and see that four of the guys are working tomorrow. Their shifts are a minimum of sixteen hours. Grabbing the Sharpie, I write their names on their individual brown paper lunch bag with twine handles. I make each of them two healthy meals and a snack to take to work. I put a little note in each bag. I am adding the last orange to the bags when Kyle comes in for a sn
ack.
“The guys picked up an extra shift, so they won’t be in tonight. You should crash in a bed instead of the couch.”
“I think I will. It’s been a long day and I am bone tired.”
“Sweet dreams, James,” he says as he kisses me on the forehead.
“Thanks. Love you.” I start the nightly John-Boy ritual with whomever is awake. Experience has taught me to never miss an opportunity to tell the ones you love that you love them.
“…love you, too,” he slurps biting into an apple.
Pulling the covers over me, I sink in and think about the day from hell. I feel like each trip to Memphis is the same. I’m not accomplishing anything. I have the same arguments with the same people. I’m just not sure what the next step is and how much fight I have left in me. My mind moves to the stranger on the plane tonight, and how out of character our conversation was for me. Was it because the day was so horrible that my mind needed idle conversation to decompress? Even as I wonder, I know it was more than that. It was him. Conversation felt easy and safe with him, but also necessary. Like it was expected.
Morning comes earlier than I had hoped and based on his language and the pillow Drew throws at my head, I must have slept through my alarm going off. God bless whoever put the old car horn alarm on cell phones. It’s the only noise that wakes me. So maybe it takes a while for me to hear, but what can you do?
I sit on the edge of the bed, allowing my body time to acclimate to my mind giving it commands. I hate mornings. I am not a morning person.
Grabbing a Diet Coke, my first thought is of him. I wonder what his mornings are like, who he spends them with, what it would feel like waking up next to him? I start the coffee for the group, and the carousel begins. Food, coffee, and an endless stream of people in and out of our only bathroom. We have our routine worked out pretty well. If you get up when I do, you get breakfast. While I cook and clean, the guys start their shower rotation. Once food goes on the table, each person is responsible for loading his dishes in the dishwasher and I’m free to take my shower.
Sharing a bathroom with six guys is pretty interesting. I have learned that they care not if they smell like peaches and cream. If it’s in the shower and it looks like something to clean yourself with, they will use it. It’s a running joke at the hospital that my guys are the best smelling residents there. I have trained them well. Their wives, current or future, all owe me a debt of gratitude for teaching these men to put the seat down. Now, if I could only teach them to replace the empty roll on the toilet paper holder, I might feel I’ve accomplished something.
The bathroom is a decent size with a glass shower, a toilet, and, thankfully, a double vanity. We installed a curtain over the outside of the shower door, so one person could be taking a shower in private while others use the bathroom or the sinks. Not ideal, but necessary when sharing a bathroom with seven people.
As I said before, I am not a girly girl. It doesn’t take me a long time to get ready. This morning is holding true to the routine. I’m bathing to The Killers, when a movement catches my eye from the corner of the shower. A water bug. Also known as a cockroach. Also known as my arch enemy. My kryptonite. I can pick up a snake, hold a mouse, bait a hook, but do not put a roach anywhere in my radius. Slowly, I start backing up to the shower door never taking my eyes off it. I can hear my heart beating in my ears, my stomach starting to churn. This is worse than flying. This is a full-on panic attack of fear.
Three things happen at once. It shoots towards me at lightning speed. I scream like Norman Bates has thrown back the shower curtain. I run. One second I was in the shower, and the next I am in the living room. Thankfully, somewhere in between my subconscious grabbed a towel.
Matt comes out of his bedroom, walks to the bathroom, and closes the door, like he is out for a morning stroll. Kyle is at my side telling me to take a deep breath and slow my breathing. The door opens and Matt comes out.
“Taken care of.”
I can count on one hand how many bugs I have found in our apartment, but the guys know the scream. They don’t understand the rationale or the reasoning behind my fears, but they realize the seriousness of it. The first time they encountered what they thought was just a girl being a girl over a bug, they did what guys do. Tease. Act like they are going to toss it on you or run their fingers over your arm like it’s crawling on you. One complete meltdown and brown-bag hyperventilation later, they learned I am not that girl. Since then, they have only been my white knights when I encounter a bug.
“Jesus, James. You scare the shit out of me every time.” Drew pulls me back into the present when he enters the living room. “You ever going to tell us why?”
“Why what?”
“No one has that kind of reaction without a story.”
“There’s nothing to tell. It’s just an irrational fear.” As I say it, I know they aren’t buying it, but I am grateful when they let it drop.
Matt touches my shoulder forcing my eyes to him. “You’re ok.”
I let out a long deep breath. “I’m ok,” I affirm.
“Actually I don’t think you are,” Drew says, turning me around and looking me over. “You’re bleeding.”
“What?” Matt asks, taking a step back and looking me over.
“She’s bleeding. There’s blood on the floor.” Drew points down at the red spots.
“Here.” Kyle points to the back side of my hip. Sure enough, there’s a coffee-can size circle of blood on my towel and drops on the floor. “Let me see.” He begins to pull the towel back.
“I don’t think so,” I say dubiously.
“James, you’re bleeding. We’re surgeons. We’ve seen it all. Now, let us look.”
I roll my eyes and turn my towel so the opening is in that area and pull back the edge just enough for them to see where the blood is coming from while keeping all my girly bits covered.
“Damn, James! You sliced it open. It’s deep, too. Didn’t you feel that? Wonder what she cut it on?” Kyle checks out the damage while Drew looks around the bathroom.
“She caught it on this metal piece.” He points to the strike plate that is connected to the door jam.
Matt is holding the towel to the cut, absorbing the blood. “She’s gonna need stitches. Who has their work bag here? Anyone have a suture kit?”
“Really? Stiches? Is that necessary?” I ask.
“Yep,” Matt nods once in confirmation. “When was your last tetanus shot?”
“Two years ago.”
“At least you won’t need that,” he says grabbing a sealed tray from Drew.
“Lay down on the couch,” he instructs as he drapes a blanket across it, “and I’ll suture you up.” The living room has two club chairs that are anchored by a couch on each side. The rectangular coffee table in the middle is currently housing three laptops and bag of chips that, most likely, is empty and needs to be thrown away.
Me and my stupid fears. How do I get myself into these messes? I lay on the couch with the cut side closest to him. Matt leaves the room and comes back with a towel for my dripping hair and one that he later uses to cover me as much as possible while he begins prepping me.
The guys were right. They could care less who is attached to the ass or what the ass looks like, they are have a pissing competition over who is the best man for the job.
“Let me do it,” Drew insists.
“You’re Ortho. You don’t care what scars look like,” Kyle says.
“That’s true, man,” Matt agrees.
“Dude, you’re trauma,” Kyle says to Matt, like it’s a no brainer. “I’m Neuro. I stitch up brains. I should do it.”
“I did a stint in Plastics. I’m doing it,” Matt argues. He is already gloved and ready to go.
“Now, you’re going to feel a little pinch, Emme.” Matt puts on his doctor tone. “This will numb the area. After that takes effect, we can have you done in no time.”
Twenty minutes later, he’s done.
“Hell, Matt. That took fucking forever!” Both of the guys lay into him.
“Well, it took twelve stitches, and I don’t want her to have a scar,” he pushes back.
“That’s true,” Drew says. “I’d hate to mess up that luscious ass. My God, James. Your ass…” he trails off. “I can’t believe I’ve been living in the same apartment as that all this time”.
Matt and Kyle both slap him across the head as I tighten the towel around me and make my way to my closet to get dressed. “Dude, not cool.” I hear them chastising Drew as I close the curtain. The wound is tender to the touch, so I opt for cotton underwear to let it breathe a little.
Every Friday I bring home my outfits for the following week. One of the perks of working with Jackson is the wardrobe he provides. He expects his employees to represent the image of his company. Instead of a clothing allowance, we have a closet of designers that we have full access to. It’s the most amazing closet I have ever seen, and I have been in some pretty spectacular closets.
This whole fiasco has me running late, so I go for the easiest outfit: a Missoni Mare striped one-piece. I’ve wanted to wear these adorable shorts since summer started, and the wound gives me a practical reason. Since the back is cut out in the jumpsuit, I grab a blazer to complete the ensemble. I throw on my favorite long necklace I picked up at a street fair and slide on a pair of Louboutin pumps. I put my hair into a messy bun, add a little mascara and some lip gloss, and I am out the door in less than ten minutes.
Sliding on my sunglasses as I exit our building, ready to haul tail to the subway, I am pleasantly surprised to see Jackson standing with a coffee in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other.
“Hello, beautiful.” He kisses me while handing me my drink.
“Hello, beautiful.” I return his greeting and his kiss. He twirls me around looking at the day’s chosen outfit.
