by J. J. Murray
Do I get back on the horse? Do I put myself back into circulation? I’m sure I’d get some sympathy tonight. “She took my microwave! She took the tortillas! She even took all my condiments! Can you believe that? My condiments! All my leftover ketchup packets are gone on an airplane to the Dominican Republic!”
He went into the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and washed his hands. He turned to dry them.
Where’s the—
He braced himself on the sink, gripping its cold white edges as water dripped off his chin.
She took all the towels and left me a thin, almost see-through white washcloth. Don’t they have towels in the Dominican Republic? I’m sure they do. Those towels weren’t that special, and they weren’t even a matched set!
Who takes the freaking towels after a breakup?
He looked at his reflection in the mirror, seeing familiar lines sneaking away from his eyes and creasing his forehead, his brown hair still thick though beginning to recede. You’re not getting any younger. In fact, at this moment, you look older than thirty-five. Maybe you are an anciano. Joy aged you. She’s still aging you. You are older.
But not wiser.
Matthew thought he was a good judge of character. He thought he knew Joy inside and out. He thought he had a lasting relationship with Joy. He thought that all dedicated teachers at P.S. 319 stayed in their classrooms until well after midnight to work on their lesson plans and grade papers, even on Saturdays and Sundays.
He also wondered how he could possibly dry himself without the benefit of a towel.
As these random thoughts collided in his head, he abruptly remembered what Joy had actually said this morning: “This isn’t working out, Matthew. Where’s my passport?”
“Where’s my passport?”—the global village’s ultimate breakup line. It’s not a bad line as lines go. The next time I break up with someone, I’ll say, “I’ll just get my passport and be off then.”
And to think that I told her where she could find her passport this morning before she left for school.
And for the Dominican Republic.
With Carlo, his orange scent, and his chest hair.
He returned to the refrigerator, as if looking inside would magically make leftover baleadas and his condiments reappear.
They didn’t reappear.
The red blobs hadn’t moved. They even seemed to glisten more brightly.
Despite his anguish and tangled thoughts, Matthew had a sudden lucid moment. How could Joy even afford the plane ticket? She barely paid one-third of our bills. Luckily, we had just paid all the bills . . . this . . . month . . .
He dropped his chin to his chest, whispering, “I will pay the rent this month, mi quequito. Do not worry about a thing. You give me the money, and I will take care of it.”
Joy has been planning her escape from me for a while, maybe even from the moment she saw Carlo step off the plane.
He checked his old-fashioned answering machine on the kitchen counter and saw two messages. One was from PS 319: “Miss Rios, you do not have any sick days left, and if you don’t come tomorrow, you will be out of a job.” The other was from Matt’s landlord: “You’re late with your rent . . .”
Joy didn’t pay the rent.
That’s how she bought her ticket.
And then some.
It can’t possibly cost eighteen hundred dollars for a one-way plane ticket to the Dominican Republic. She probably had to buy a cooler for all the food. I’ll bet she had to ship the microwave, too. She probably stuffed the bathroom towels inside to keep the glass carousel tray from breaking. That’s what I would have done.
He wondered how much he would have to dip into his IRA again to restock his refrigerator, get a new microwave and towels, and pay his rent.
And the ten percent late fee.
He wondered if there were women in the world who were single, sane, and wouldn’t run off on him to the Caribbean bare-assed, packing towels, and carrying salty snacks, condiments, and a bottle of champagne.
He also wondered if he should go ahead and defrost the refrigerator since it was already empty.
It’ll make the job easier. That ancient thing is a beast to clean.
He shook these foolish thoughts from his head.
I don’t need to clean the refrigerator. A man does not defrost and clean out the refrigerator after his love has left him.
He sighed yet again.
If she ever were my love at all.
No more sweaty, caliente nights. No more long, black hair. No more tan-as-sand skin.
No more bean soup.
I need to find a woman I can have fun with, a woman I can laugh with, a woman who has the proverbial heart of gold, a woman who doesn’t smell like vanilla ice cream twenty-four hours a day, a woman who doesn’t talk to herself in Spanish all day. I need a woman who doesn’t listen to Garifuna music as “the only music worth listening to,” who only dances the punta while flapping—not snapping—her fingers, and who can’t be bothered at all whenever she watches Ugly Betty because her girl America Ferrera, of Honduran descent, is her favorite actress. I also need to find a woman who doesn’t say she’s at the school grading papers when she’s shacked up somewhere with an exchange teacher, who doesn’t take raiding the refrigerator to the extreme, and who would have the decency to leave at least one usable towel behind!
I also need to find a woman who doesn’t have an ironic name. Joy never truly brought me any. “Pain” would have been a more appropriate name for her. “Pain Rios,” middle name “Full.”
He slumped into his easy chair, certainly the oldest living easy chair in Brooklyn, its lumpy cushion comforting, its springs moaning, each coffee, pizza, and food-stain marking his progress from NYU undergrad to successful litigator to occasionally paid Internet lawyer. He had originally wanted a love seat, but even that wouldn’t fit into his tiny apartment.
Whom do I know who is fun and has a heart of gold?
No one.
Matthew decided to take it one little step at a time.
Whom do I know . . . who is fun?
No one.
Matthew posed a better question. Whom did I know once who I once thought was fun?
Monique.
He smiled.
Monique Delicia Freitas.
Yes.
He closed his eyes and saw the sculpted calves, thighs, and hips of one of the many paralegals carrying case files and rushing through Brooklyn Legal Services Corporation, his most recent “real” employer. Eventually he moved up her slender body to her face and found a smile and a pair of smoking-hot hazel eyes. As a matter of personal policy, Matthew didn’t date anyone at Brooklyn Legal, but if he had, it would have been Monique. She had done her best to entice him with her long brown hair, her huge hazel eyes, and her too-silky long legs she never hid even if it were ten degrees and snowing outside.
She told me her people were from Bushwick by way of Trinidad. She said she loved to dance, loved to party long into the night, and loved to let it all go. “Any time you want to lose it with someone, Matty, just give me a call,” she has said. She called me Matty “McConaughey-hey” because I have a, well, passing resemblance to the actor. If you squint. And if you don’t compare his picture too closely to me. I think I’m taller. He has a chin. I have more facial hair and a dimple on my left cheek. He has a hot Brazilian wife and two adorable children. I have Joy and Carlo’s DNA on my sheets. The real Matty “McConaughey-hey” has millions.
I have . . . to mine my IRA again.
Monique Delicia Freitas had been the Brooklyn Legal seductress, the paralegal every male lawyer and several female lawyers had wanted to work with.
She was always flirting with me, her eyelashes reaching out from her perpetually dark eyelids to tickle my—
I am seriously hungry. I can’t think straight. Eyelashes do not reach out and tickle anything.
He looked through rain-streaked windows into the Williamsburg night and saw La Espanola Meat
Market, the graffiti memorial for Lil Rich, the now closed and graffiti-splattered New China Restaurant, and garbage bags piled as high as the parking meters casting their shadows over cracked and festering concrete.
Matthew was sure there was a metaphor out there somewhere on that chilly night before National Freedom Day.
Since he seemed to think more logically whenever he sat in his easy chair, he took complete stock of his present situation.
I’m a free Willyburg man now. I’m free. I am single again. I am unattached to anything but this easy chair, where I will be sleeping until I can remedy the bed and bedding situation. I’m thirty-five, relatively handsome, currently healthy, and occasionally self-employed. I have a profession considered honest and ethical by a whopping eighteen percent of the American public in a city that once sued itself a few years ago, and I have no towels.
I should call Monique so I can have some fun.
And I can get something to eat.
But would I do that so soon? Joy left today. I should be having a pity party fueled by copious amounts of alcohol. I should be calling Michael to come comfort me in my hour of need. I should be writing a malicious Internet blog about the dangers of dating Honduran schoolteachers who smell like vanilla. I should be removing that malevolent mound of DNA from my apartment.
Matthew knew that it was necessary in this human condition to be miserable every now and then because misery made the rare good parts of life seem even better. He knew he should simply stay in his comfortable easy chair and listen to his stomach rumble while worrying if he had enough paper towels in the apartment to dry his body if he took a shower.
But why would I want to put myself through all of that misery?
It’s Friday night, and I am a man in the prime of his life.
I live in a somewhat hip and trendy section of Brooklyn.
Joy has just dumped me in the most blisteringly bizarre way.
I need a blisteringly bizarre night to complete this absurdity.
I also need to see if Monique’s middle name is accurate. If my grasp of Spanish is correct, delicia means “pleasure or delight.”
I could use some pleasure.
And something to eat.
Chapter 2
But Matthew didn’t have Monique’s number.
He couldn’t call a Trini Bushwick babe without her phone number.
This is why someone invented WhitePages.com.
There were eleven online listings for a “Freitas” but only one Monique.
Will she even remember me? Let’s find out.
To save his dwindling cell phone minutes, he used the apartment phone.
“Hello?” said a sexy voice.
“Hi, Monique. It’s Matthew McConnell.”
“Who?”
The sexy voice sounds confused. What did she call me? “Matty McConnell. I used to work at Brooklyn Legal about three years ago.”
“Okay.”
The sexy voice is still confused. “You used to call me Matty McConaughey-hey.”
“Oh yeah,” she said. “I remember you. What’s up? You coming back?”
“No. I have my own practice now.” Not really. My Web site isn’t even on the first five pages of Google or Bing if you type in “cheap lawyer.” I never should have named my Web site CheapBrooklyn Lawyer.com. “Monique, are you doing anything tonight?”
“Are you asking me out?”
Wow. Her sexy voice can get even sexier. “I guess I am. If you’re not too busy.”
“I’m not busy at all, Matty.”
I like the way she says my name. Hate the name. Like the way she purrs it. “We could get some dinner and then . . . see what happens. Does that sound good?”
“Yeah.”
Now where can I afford to take her? If I had a microwave, we’d share some popcorn. “Can you meet me at Lovin’ Cup Café on North Sixth?”
“Oh, I love their tortilla soup,” she said. “When?”
I’m hungry. I had no baleadas tonight. “How soon can you get there?”
“In maybe an hour.”
“Great. See you soon.”
“Bye, Matty McConaughey-hey.”
Matthew used the washcloth and some Dial soap to freshen up, drying his arms, chest, and face with several paper towels. He didn’t shave.
I shall be hairy from now on. Is the “rough look” still in? Williamsburg has plenty of Dominicans. I have to keep up with the competition.
He opened the bedroom closet expecting to see a row of empty hangers and the floor.
The hangers were full. Joy’s shoes covered the floor, crowding his shoes into a corner.
Joy didn’t take her clothes or her shoes. Why didn’t Joy take any clothes or her beloved shoes? What am I supposed to do with them? Is she going barefoot and naked?
He stepped over to the dresser and opened the drawers on her side. She took all her Burberry and Longchamp purses, her underwear, and her bras. I hope the Dominican Republic has an epic cold snap for the next few months.
He returned to the closet and thumbed through a row of skinny jeans. Why did I ever agree to wear these? They put my package in a bunch. He found a pair of baggy Levi’s and ironed them on the kitchen table. He rummaged through his dresser drawers until he found a heavy red wool sweater that only had a few pulls. Finally, he stared at his shoes.
It’s all about the shoes. It’s important that I wear something that says “fun.” The gray and white suede Adidas? No. My black Clark desert boots? Well . . . The black Dugo slip-ons are nice, but... The brown Cole Haan loafers and a. testoni Oxfords look a little too classy. My gray Alfie’s?
Why do I have so many shoes?
Then he saw a pair of black and white high-top Chucks. These will work. These say I have old-school style and I know how to have fun.
Donning an old, cracked, brown-leather bomber jacket, he left the apartment and stood among the garbage on Havemeyer—Greenpoint to the north, Bed-Stuy to the south, Bushwick to the east, the East River to the west.
Hello, Billyburg. You miss me? I’m back from my hibernation.
As he walked north and somewhat west, he smiled at his increasingly multicultural neighborhood. On a four-block chunk of Havemeyer, he could eat Vietnamese at Nha Toi, Mexican at Buffalo Cantina, Venezuelan at Arepa Arepa, Japanese at Sumo Teriyaki and Sushi, and Italian at Mezza Luna Pizzeria. His neighborhood was an eclectic mix of Hispanics, Italians, Puerto Ricans, Jews, Catholics, hipster artists, and Dominicans.
Carlo would have felt right at home here. He smiled. We might have even become friends.
Well, maybe not.
If Cornelius Vanderbilt could see his supposedly hip hometown now. Billyburg is hip, or at least that’s what real estate agents are telling people thanks to the plague of artists around here. You can add just about anything to Williamsburg, and it will never truly be hip. All the indie rock in the world won’t change this place for the better—or for the worse, for that matter. Williamsburg just is, take it or leave it, and some people can’t handle that.
People are always leaving Billyburg. Corning Glass Works went upstate and created its own city. Pfizer, once the largest producer of penicillin in the world, left Brooklyn first for Manhattan and now has plants in New Jersey and Pennsylvania.
Oh, and Joy, originally from Staten Island, is off to the Dominican Republic.
And to think Williamsburg used to be wealthy. Times have sure changed.
He looked west toward the area bordering the East River, where ten percent of the entire nation’s wealthy people once built mansions and the plants that made them wealthy. The Domino Sugar, Esquire Shoe Polish, and Dutch Mustard warehouses were now overpriced factory condominiums ordinary Williamsburgers couldn’t afford. When the Williamsburg Bridge opened in 1903 and let Manhattan’s Lower East Side spill across the river, Williamsburg became the most densely populated city in the United States. It was so dense that when the novel A Tree Grows in Brooklyn came out in 1943, Williamsburgers could pass
around a single copy of that book hand-to-hand without moving more than a few steps in any direction.
And a few years ago, someone counted all 1,588 trees in Williamsburg. That must have been a fun job.
Matthew crossed Driggs Avenue, where supercop Frank Serpico was shot before Matthew was born. Yeah, this place can be dangerous. Some community development group called Billyburg “the most toxic place to live in America.” Red Auerbach, Joy Behar, Peter Criss, Zoe Kravitz, Barry Manilow, Henry Miller, Gene Simmons, and Barbra Streisand didn’t seem to mind.
He looked toward the bridge, shaking his head, wondering why Coming to America, supposedly set in Queens, was primarily filmed on South 5th Street in Williamsburg. It made me laugh to see Billyburg in that movie. Eddie Murphy is really trying to find his queen in Williamsburg, not Queens. Billyburg has always been cheaper, I guess. He rolled his eyes. We may be cheap, but we’re not easy. That CBS TV show 2 Broke Girls allegedly takes place here. Only two broke girls? CBS should have called it 170,000 Broke People Who Can’t Afford the Trendy Condo Upgrades. Try fitting that title in TV Guide. The only reason anyone in Williamsburg watches that show is to see how badly we’re misrepresented.
But I love Williamsburg. It’s what Manhattan used to look like before Manhattan went suburban.
When he saw Monique standing outside Lovin’ Cup Café, his heart skipped several beats. Monique was brown as coffee with cream and two sugars. She was tall, with a pierced navel shining out from under a loose purple top, silver bracelets and necklaces glinting, and a pair of the tightest jeans allowed by law almost painted on above a pair of stiletto heels. She had long straight black hair, thin black eyebrows, red lips, and a smile that filled her somewhat wide mouth. When Matthew considered Monique from head to toe, he immediately thought of sandy beaches and skimpy bikinis.
I have chosen my fun date wisely.
Monique skipped over to him, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. She clung to his arm and whispered a single word: “Matty.”
Matthew decided at that moment that he didn’t mind her calling him “Matty” at all.
“Hi,” he said.
