“You didn’t violate my person, Timmy. I’m fully intact,” I said as I saw Nate coming out of the building.
“You still here?” Nate asked as Timmy sobbed into the phone.
“I need to see you and apologize,” Timmy begged.
“Is that your friend?” Nate asked. “I can drop you off at home. Where do you live?”
I suddenly had an idea.
“You live in Coney Island?” Nate asked as we drove across the Brooklyn Bridge.
“Yeah. I guess I do. Sorry about that.”
As we drove all the way out to Coney Island with Alex’s belongings in the back seat, I just wanted to curl up and die. This super nice guy had taken the time out of his day to drive me all the way to Brooklyn. For what? Absolutely nothing. I felt horrible. And I felt even worse as we drove down the street and I tried to pretend that everything was absolutely familiar.
“Which building is it?”
“Hold on,” I said as I rummaged thru my bag pretending to look for something, all the while keeping an eye out for Timmy standing on the curb. About halfway down the block, I spotted Timmy waving frantically in the air.
“Right there,” I quickly pointed out.
“You mean the little guy with the big head?”
“Yeah, just pull up here.”
We got out and took the suitcase and box out of the back seat as Timmy looked on with concern.
“Hi, I’m Nate,” he introduced himself to Timmy who was clearly intimidated by this other man. “Are you Dorrie’s roommate?”
Timmy, clear on his instructions, looked to me for the answer.
“No. He lives down the hall. My friend Timmy.”
“Hey,” Nate shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, as well,” Timmy said lowering his voice a bit in an effort to appear buff. “I’ll take that, little lady,” he said as he grabbed the suitcase and then toppled under its weight.
“Well…” Nate seemed as confused about Timmy’s sexuality as I was, “are you okay from here?”
“Yeah, perfectly fine. Thank you so much for your help,” I said as I leaned in to give him a friendly hug. Timmy did not seem pleased with this development at all and simply stood quietly at the curb with a blank look on his face.
“Well, let me know if you need anything else. I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow,” Nate said as he got in the car and drove off.
“Who was that?” Timmy asked.
“My building manager. Here,” I said as I picked up the suitcase. “I’ll carry it. Let’s make this quick,” I said as he opened the door to his building and followed me inside.
“Can I get you a drink?” Timmy said in some sort of weird, deep, sexy voice as he waved a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps in front of my face.
“Peppermint Schnapps?” I said in disbelief. I don’t think I’d seen a bottle of that since freshman year college.
“It’s really yummy with hot chocolate!” he immediately reverted back to his usual chipper self. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to get you drunk and take advantage of you. I’m not that kind of a guy.”
“No. Thank you,” I declined. “A glass of water is fine.”
While Timmy went into the kitchen, I took the opportunity to take a look around the place, hoping it might to lead to some clues as to what kind of a guy he really was. Not that I doubted for a second the kid was gay. But the question then becomes: Does he not know he’s gay? Or does he simply think others can’t tell and he’s still in the closet? There could be some odd third possibility, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what that could possibly be. At my advanced age of thirty-five, I was used to being around people who were gay, straight, bi or transgender. And there was no mistaking this for metro-sexual. At thirty-five, my Gaydar was pretty finely tuned.
Nevertheless, as I looked around Timmy’s bachelor pad for clues, I was pretty lost. Nothing suggestive in the décor to indicate a preference. In fact, not much at all in the way of furnishings. Typical, I suppose, for a young boy who’d packed his suitcase and come all the way to New York to pursue his dream. But I could certainly see where all his spare money went---photos. Of Timmy. Everywhere you looked, Timmy’s big head was staring you in the face. The place was practically a museum dedicated to his giant head and his dream.
A moment later, Timmy bounced back in, handed me the water and began apologizing and declaring his undying love. What was going on here? For a brief moment, I began to wonder if I had perhaps been so sexually overpowering that I’d turned the boy straight. And then I laughed. Not out loud. Just a little inside. Because that was funny. My own private little joke with myself. If that big head of his needed a beard, it was going to take more whiskers than a thirty-five year-old, poorly-paid temp.
“Dorrie,” he ended his plea, “all I’m asking for is one date. Please. Just give me a chance.”
I promised him I’d think about it and hauled Alex’s suitcase and his box-o-shit to the train station. An hour and a half later, I finally got back home and made my way to Apartment 3A.
“You must be Dorrie. I’m Tanya,” she said in what sounded like a Russian accent. “Come in.”
“That’s okay. I just wanted to drop this stuff off before…”
“Don’t be silly,” she said with an odd little smile. “Come in.”
It felt a little strange being invited in by the other woman. I had no desire to make friendsies with Celia’s rival. Just didn’t seem proper. But I figured I could at least help haul the stuff in. After all, she was taking a roommate off my hands.
As I carried the box into her apartment, I couldn’t help but notice the difference a lease seemed to make. Wow. Her apartment was actually nice. No hole in the ceiling. No paint peeling off the walls and crumbling dry wall. No scratched and rotting wooden floors that occasionally poked splinters into your bare feet. This place was pretty posh. A full-sized, self-defrosting refrigerator. Dishwasher. And then, as we walked thru the hallway, she said, “Sorry about the mess. But they’re installing my washer-dryer.”
The Holy Grail of New York City apartment dwellers was sitting there right before my very eyes. A washer-dryer combo. I almost felt the urge to kneel down before it and pray.
“Wow. A washer and dryer. That’s… Wow. You’re so lucky.”
“Yes,” she said with that little smile again. “I’ve seen you in the building. About a year now, right?”
“Yeah. About a year,” I said nervously.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked as she pulled a bottle of Russian vodka down from a shelf.
“No. No, thanks.” She poured two shots of vodka anyway. Why did everyone suddenly want me to drink?
“It’s Alex’s favorite. I always keep a few bottles for him. Za zdorovje, ” she said as she clinked my glass and watched me closely while I took a tiny sip just to be polite. “So, I understand that you’re friends with the other one. The Celia woman.”
“Yeah. I guess that’s why I feel a little uncomfortable right now. Nothing personal.”
“I understand. You’re close with her. You probably talk a lot. You probably give her advice.”
“Not really…”
“It’s a shame about the man down the hall,” she said abruptly, as if she were suddenly bored of our conversation.
“What man?”
“3C. I thought you knew. He was evicted. Illegal sublet. Somehow the building found out. Nice man. Such a shame,” she said as she looked at her reflection in the glass of her washer-dryer combo. “I’ve always wanted one of these,” she continued as she ran her manicured hand over the dryer buttons. “But they’re so expensive. And you have to get permission from the building to install them. So much red tape,” she smiled.
I took a big sip of my vodka. I suddenly realized that I was possibly face-to-face with the building spy.
“It’s funny because Alex and I were talking marriage. Then suddenly he needed a break. You can understand how upset I was.”
“Oh sure.”
“I broke up with him, yes. But sometimes you have to let the man know who is in charge. You have to lead them like little dogs,” she said with a laugh. “Women are more sensible. Like your friend. I’m sure she’s a very rational woman.”
“I guess so.”
“I think it’s best you advise her not to see him anymore.”
“Well, they broke up…”
“Yes. But sometimes these things change. I would hate to see things change. But, if they did…” she thought to herself, “I’ve always wanted a rooftop garden. Now that they’re fixing the roof, if I were alone again, it would be such a comfort to me in my pain,” she said as she reclined back on her washer-dryer combo. “I understand you’ve become friendly with our Nate. Such a sweet boy. I’d hate to see him lose his job. Wouldn’t you?”
A few minutes later, I was back home trying to make sense of what I’d just been told. Keep Alex away from Celia, or she would rat me out to the management. I’d lose my apartment and Nate would lose his job. However, the good news was that Celia had already broken things off. And I certainly was in no hurry to get them back together. Especially now that he was out of my apartment. Frankly, I was more worried about getting caught just being in the apartment.
That weekend, I crept in and out of the building to do my errands. Although I quickly learned that creeping out of the building unseen with two loads of laundry in your arms was pretty much impossible. I was constantly on the lookout for Nate, and always tried to have a story prepared, just in case I ran into him. I felt like a prisoner in my own home. And then my mother called.
“Hi sweetie. I haven’t heard from you so I figured you didn’t get your ticket to come home.”
“No, not yet.”
“Well, it’s so close now and we’re trying to make our holiday plans. We sort of figured you weren’t going to make it this year.”
My poor family. Every Christmas I put them thru the same thing. Will she or won’t she? I quickly went online to check on ticket availability and prices. Wow. The price had tripled since I last checked. The cost of the ticket and a few cheap, token gifts would completely clean out the little bit of money I had in the bank. Let alone cover next month’s rent. If I still had an apartment. Going home didn’t seem like the most fiscally responsible thing to do. I was officially a fuck-up.
Merry Christmas. I’m not coming home.
14
“Everything okay?” Sunshine said as she handed me the Christmas Blend.
“Great. Really great,” I said half-heartedly.
“Really?” she seemed genuinely concerned.
“No. Not really.”
“Awww… Wanna talk about it? After all, I am a barista,” she tried to tempt me.
“I thought that was just bartenders.”
“You’d be surprised the stories I hear back here.”
“Well, yesterday my boss said that she wants to talk to me today.”
“Oh no! You think you’re going to get fired?”
“Worse. A promotion.”
“But that’s good!”
“Not really. I don’t want to take it.”
She leaned in and whispered,” I was offered a promotion, too. I don’t know if I’m going to take it, either. We’re just like twins!”
While I doubted that we were separated at birth, I was surprised that Sunshiney Day and I were on the same life track.
“Well, it’s just….” I tried to explain. “It’s not even a respectable job. I mean, it’s not porn or anything. But it’s pretty close. It’s sales.”
“Ewww….” she scrunched up her face.
“Exactly. It’s not really me. Not what I want to do with my life.”
“I know what you mean. I’ve been asking myself, do I really want to become an assistant manager and be doing that till I’m like old and twenty-five?”
Frankly, Sunshine’s impending old age at twenty-five was the least of my worries that morning. At work, my immediate concern was a little boy named Irving who was all dolled-up for his Christmas shoot for ABC Their Eyes All Aglow. But I don’t care how adorable he looked in his snowman sweater, no kid is cute when he’s hitting you in the head with a balloon. Apparently, he thought this was funny. His mother, sitting right next to him, saw everything, but the conversation on her cell phone was apparently more important than telling her child not to hit the nice lady. I took my mental revenge. Imagining this young boy ten years later, stealing money out of her pocketbook, taking the keys to her car, having unprotected sex with fourteen year-old girls, smoking pot on her sofa and mouthing back to her, “You can’t tell me what to do!” Because the bitch never did. Should’ve started with the balloon incident, lady. Eventually, I could only hope, she would pay the price.
Finally, through some miracle of parenting, the mother paused her phone conversation and leaned over to speak. It was about time that kid got a what for.
“Excuse me,” she said, “aren’t you the woman who jumped into the Thanksgiving Day Parade?”
“Um…yeah. But…”
“What kind of example is that for the children?” she said and went right back to her call as her son continued to pummel me. A few seconds later, I pulled a safety pin out of the ripped hem of my skirt and popped his balloon.
It felt good.
Having documented the ill-mannered conduct of this particular family, I will say that most of the mother-child combos were fairly well-behaved. Some of them even seemed to be having fun and enjoying the shoot. There were always a few stage mothers at these things, stressing their kids out with numerous instructions and demands that even an adult would find difficult to fulfill. But mostly, the studio resonated with the usual cries of mothers watching their children pose for a photo: Smile! Sit up straight! Don’t put your finger in your nose! Look over here! Smile! Don’t hold your pants! We’ll go to the bathroom in a minute! Don’t hold your pants!!!
Deb and Jamie stood off to the side, occasionally giving instructions to Natasha, the photographer; but mostly just watching the money roll in. The shots went quickly. A line of children took their turns playing with three different toys. A toy for girls. A toy for boys. And a toy for babies. Then each child was photographed opening a gift. Later, while the mothers were getting their children all bundled up in their winter gear for the snow scene shot, Jamie called me into her office.
“I’m starting to sense that you’re not on board, Dorrie.”
“It’s not that I’m not on board…” I paused, trying to come up with a better analogy than Shipwrecked at Sea. “To be honest, I’m just really happy being the temp here. I like my job!” I said with loads of good cheer and holiday spirit.
“Look. The truth is, things haven’t been going so well. The rent is going up in January and we need to generate more profit. And a temp doesn’t bring in revenue. An agent does. I can’t promise you more salary, but you’d get a commission on your sales. We’re offering the Smiling Class again in January. You could talk it up with your actor friends. We really need to bring actors into the ABC family. Dorrie, this is a big opportunity for you. And frankly, if you’re not generating income, we’ll have to let you go in January. So let’s put our heads together and start selling that class on character building!” she enthused. “Or character models. Whatever it’s called. Hey---how about a class called ‘Character Acting’? That would bring in the actors, don’t you think?”
Just North of Whoville Page 16
