by Ashley Pullo
“Good afternoon,” the man says.
“Hey,” I say, exiting the elevator. “Sorry ’bout that – I heard a churning noise.”
Sarah rolls her eyes as she walks past us and continues down the main hall.
“Oh yeah? I’ll take a listen.” The man props open the door and shines a flashlight around the interior.
“Not really a churning noise, more like a ripping sound. Like Velcro. Riiiiipppp.” I cross my arms and nod my head convincingly – damn my Texan tendency to over-talk. I should just shut up and move on. “From the floorboard. Or maybe the walls.” Jesus, shut up.
“Uh huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.” He steps in and closes the door. He’ll probably just write it off and ignore my complaint . . . holy shit, my complaint? I just complained that Gremlins were destroying the elevator.
“Christopher? Are you coming?” Sarah stands seductively in the open doorway to my new apartment. Her hand moves slowly between her thighs, lifting her skirt and revealing her tights.
Hot damn, it’s kinky sex time.
I join her at the door, and this time, I put my hand inside her tights. She removes her coat and drops it to the floor. I glance behind her to access the best spot to have – “Holy shit.” I shout.
“Mmm, I know,” Sarah purrs.
“No, I mean the apartment. It’s fucking pink.”
Sarah leans into the apartment and laughs. “Mrs. Spiegel loved floral and pink – wait until you see the bathroom.”
I remove my hand from her tights and pick up her coat. “Nah uh. I don’t do pastels.”
Having no furniture yet, I place our coats on the kitchen counter and turn clockwise to evaluate the space. The wood floors are awesome, but every fucking wall is a shade of pink. Cotton candy-pink, Amoxicillin-pink, old lady lipstick-pink – and on the wall that’s to be the future home of my flat screen TV, a nice shade of douchey-pink.
“Calm down, Chris. Paint can easily be changed – all you have to do is submit a request to Phung Thi Thanh Phuong on the Co-op board. Come look at the view!” Sara takes my hand and leads me to a large window flanked by pink bookcases.
“What’s a Co-op board?” I ask. “And you’re telling me there’s a person named Fung Ti Ti Fong that grants me permission to paint the apartment I pay for? That seems very archaic.”
Sarah pushes me against the window and sighs. “Look out the window – do you see what you’re paying for? This is not an apartment with pink walls, this is Manhattan.”
The expression on Sarah’s face is unusually wistful. The entire time she was in Texas, I never once saw her look at the wildflowers of Hill Country with any sort of romantic opinion, but she obviously loves the bare limbs of trees set against the backdrop of cement. All I can see is brown – brown buildings, brown streets and brown snow.
“Let’s fuck against this window – I want to experience this fantastic view,” I announce randomly. Sarah continues staring hopelessly out the window, so I move behind her and grab her hair. I pull her head back and breathe into her ear. “Now.”
“Some other time . . . we need to finish the lease agreement and the checklist.” She squirms beneath me and sets herself free. Sarah doesn’t even look at me when she rambles on about business and shit. “Do you know how hard it was for me to close this quickly?” Sarah walks to the kitchen and I follow behind her, waiting for her instructions – I’m the client now.
I lean against the island and watch her take the paperwork from a drawer. “Sarah, you’ve told me a dozen times and I’m grateful.”
She fans the documents on the counter and places a pen on top. “You know how contracts work . . . sign the green arrows and initial the yellow. I negotiated a deal for an extra 15% to be collected and escrowed into a Co-op account for a buy option, so sign and initial the purple.”
I sign all the necessary flagged boxes and cringe at the monthly fees. Why the heck do I need to pay for landscaping – there’s no fucking grass. It’ll take a few months to get used to the exorbitant cost of living in such a palatial pink apartment.
“Done. Let’s screw before the moving truck gets here.” I remove my sweatshirt and push her against the counter. Sarah trails her manicured nails over my chest as I squeeze her hips. I lift Sarah onto the counter and bury my face in her chest. Sex on the countertop will have to do.
Sarah runs her hands through my hair and sighs. “You need a haircut. I’ll call Marcus at my salon.”
I remove my face from her chest and sternly say, “Sarah, my hair is fine. My boots kick ass and my suits are from Brooks Brothers. Please don’t treat me like your pet project.”
She smiles politely as she pushes off the counter. “You’re right. I’m sorry – it’s just that I’m responsible for your move.”
Oh really?
I take a step back and narrow my eyes. “And how long do you think you would be responsible? I mean, I’m pretty stubborn, and I could milk pity sex for months.”
Sarah bites her lip and hesitates – but I know where this is headed.
“C’mon, Sarah. I’m not an idiot.” I place my hands on her shoulders and smile.
“I know you’re not – and Austin was an amazing six months. I had no idea you would actually make the move. But – I have . . .”
“You have someone else,” I answer.
She nods her head and bites her lip. “Actually, you’re someone else. I’ve been in a relationship for two years. Oh shit, Chris, I’m so sorry!”
“Wow, I’ve never been the piece ass on the side. Well, the boyfriend thing sucks, but I think we both knew this was just a casual thing.”
“But it’s not – you moved here to be with me.” Sarah places her head against my chest and sniffles.
I wrap my arms around her and stroke her back. Sarah is a great girl, and I’ll really miss the wild sex and intelligent conversation – but I’d rather end this crap now before the dramatic shit starts. But, I’m always a gentleman. “Your boyfriend is a lucky guy.”
Sarah hugs my waist and mumbles into my chest. “Oh Chris, I wish things could be different.” She takes a step back and wipes her eyes. “That’s it – I’m breaking up with him! Can you give me a few weeks?”
“Sure. You want me to rough him up?” I tease.
Sarah slaps my arm and laughs. “Uh, no. Just give me some time to break things off and then we can be together.”
“I can live with that. But Sarah,” I say, stroking her cheek.
Sarah runs her hand down my chest, stopping inside my jeans. “Yes Chris?”
“You owe me a pity fuck for these pink walls.”
January 19, 2004
GROWING UP, THE first day of school was always exciting – showing off my new Nikes and black JanSport. Even in law school, I always loved the first day class – making an impression with new professors and showing off my navy JanSport.
But the first day at a new job is a fucking nightmare.
I woke up at exactly six a.m. I dressed, had some orange juice and Pop Tarts, and made it the lobby by eight a.m. The apartment lobby is quiet this time of the morning but outside, the city is roaring alive. Several yellow taxis stop outside, idling for a moment and then zooming off. Do New Yorkers really take taxis to work? In Austin, cabs are reserved for drunks and people heading to the airport – not so much a sign of luxury but rather a means of transporting some sorry ass.
The doorman, Declan Fitzgerald from Riverside, hands me a NY Times. “Good morning, Mr. Brooks. Would you like me to call a car?”
What the fuck is a car? That’s a new one . . . yes, call me a car, preferably Kit from Knight Rider.
“No thanks.” I take the paper and stuff it in my briefcase. “The subway’s fine.”
Declan nods while opening the front door. “Have a good day.”
It’s fucking awesome having a doorman – it’s kinda like a mix between a fraternity house mother and a butler. Sarah informed me that Declan gets paid very well and with all the tips a
nd bonuses, probably hits a six-digit salary.
I shove my hands in my coat pockets and start walking in the direction of the nearest subway stop. The 4/5 will take me to 42nd Street and then there’s a short walk to 5th. Grant and I did a test run on Saturday and the commute only takes twenty minutes.
I descend the subway stairs at Lexington, almost slipping on an icy patch – oh fuck, I slipped. I hobble to the turnstile, bumping into a few people in the process. They shoot me evil stares as they push past me. I dart to the tunnel, rumbling from an incoming train. It’s a 4, fantastic – but the doors are closing. I hurry to the train, only to be pushed to the side and left standing on the platform.
Another twenty minutes pass and I finally hear the roar of a train. As it screeches to a stop, I measure up my competition. One guy looks pretty tough, and one woman is holding an umbrella like a weapon. Holy shit, the train is packed! No one can squeeze in there . . .
Oh, except that guy. Fuck. The subway rockets through the tunnel, leaving me stranded on the platform once again. Jesus, this sucks. I wait another fifteen minutes when a man approaches me at the yellow line. He nods politely, but this shit is war – I keep my game face.
A train rolls slowly into the stop, not nearly as crowded as the others, but the man next to me starts his engine. The doors open and I slam against the opening, banging my shoulder. I look down at my gimp ankle for one goddamn second and the car starts to fill. Shit! I push my way through, shoulder bumping and tripping some dude in a bigass hat. But I made it – I fucking made it.
It takes me nearly five stops to realize that this is a Local 6 train and I debate whether I should get off and catch a 4/5. But the idea of being packed like a sardine . . . the train stops. The lights flicker and the fucking train stops in a tunnel.
The intercom announces, “Frome blah tinker tat, mekky pa rinca minutes.”
I turn to a teenager and ask, “What’d he say?”
“He said you’re fucked,” he growls, placing headphones in his ears.
After thirty minutes, the train slowly starts to move. Slowly. Slower. Shit. Finally, the conductor announces 42nd Street. I move to the door, but once again I’m being elbowed by a dozen people for no reason. We all wait anxiously for the doors to open, a group of tired straphangers, wanting desperately to be released from underground captivity. One minute, two minutes, three minutes – the doors open ten inches. I turn my body sideways and squeeze through the opening. Stumbling to the platform, I grip my briefcase and then raise my elbows. I take the stairs two at a time, darting past all the 6 train survivors. When I reach the final set of steps, I watch a woman struggling to get her stroller up the stairs. People run past her, ignoring her frustration. The little girl in the stroller swats her hands and kicks her feet, clearly as annoyed as I am.
But my mama raised me to be a gentleman, no matter how late I am to my new job. “Let me help. Why don’t you carry the baby and I’ll take up the stroller.”
She smiles, relieved and delighted by the chivalrous act of a stranger. “Thank you! Come on, Libby,” she says. The woman removes the cute little girl and climbs the stairs – I follow behind her, cursing at the lazy assholes bumping into me and rolling their eyes. We reach the top and I place the stroller on the sidewalk.
The woman places the baby back in the stroller and smiles. “Thanks again, so nice of you.”
“No problem,” I say, dashing off toward Fifth.
I finally make it to Jenkins, Shaw and Davis at 11:35 a.m. – two and half hours late. Sixteen blocks, a slower than fuck subway train, a bruised shoulder, and a new understanding of why New Yorkers are perceived as unfriendly assholes, places me disheveled and flustered in the lobby of my new job.
I hurry to the visitor’s desk to get my ID card and security code. The paperwork and photo were taken last month when I was here, so there shouldn’t be any delay. “Good morning, I’m Christopher Brooks – a new hire for JS&D,” I say.
The woman behind the desk scans a clipboard and shakes her head unapologetically. “You might be a new hire, but you’s late. Franklin took all non-issued ID cards to the fifth floor,” she barks.
This can’t be happening – not now.
“Tammy,” I say, reading her nametag. “Is there any way we can get that ID card? Or maybe I can have a visitor’s pass for today?”
“You ain’t gettin’ that ID today! Gimme your license and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Yes ma’am!” Fuck . . . where’s my wallet? “Shit,” I mumble, patting down all my pockets.
Tammy narrows her eyes and frowns. “Is there a problem?”
“My wallet was stolen – damn, this morning keeps getting worse.”
Tammy picks up the phone and taps at the buttons with her long red nails. “This is Tammy Martin from security – there’s a Christopher,” she pauses.
“Brooks,” I answer.
“Christopher Brooks – a very late new hire with no identification . . . um huh . . . yes . . . I’ll do that.” She hangs up the phone and smiles. “Why didn’t you tell me you’s from Texas? I got family in Houston.”
“Oh? Well, Tammy – I’m Christopher Brooks from Texas, and I’m very late to my first day.”
“Yes you are! Poor thing.” She removes a label from the stack and writes my name on it. “Wear this today and come see me in the mornin’.”
I’m not sure if this is one of those times when I should offer a cheek kiss, so I just smile and slap the sticker on my suit. “Tammy, darlin’ – you’re an angel.”
She brushes me off and laughs. “Go.”
I rush to the bank of elevators and wait impatiently. Maybe my city smarts have kicked in because when the doors open, my elbows go up and I push my way in first. I stand quietly in the corner and watch the floor numbers light up.
By the time it reaches the 15th floor, the elevator empties. I pound my head against the wall, breathing deeply. Today is a test, one that I’m failing. The elevator opens to the first floor of JS&D – the associate level. Marcia Phillips from HR waves me over to another set of glass doors.
When I reach her, I extend my hand and flash the charm. “Ms. Phillips, please accept my apologies for being so late. It wasn’t my intention to end up on the Local 6 train, nor did I plan to get robbed and tackled. I can assure you, it won’t happen again.”
She smiles and shakes my hand. “Mr. Brooks, it’s fine. Let me show you your office – and then you can join Mr. Shaw and Mr. Ford in Conference Room Seven.”
I exhale when she’s not looking and follow her to my office.
“We’re very excited to have you working for us.” Marcia looks at me over her shoulder while moving to the wall of offices. “The firm prides itself on having a diverse attorney base, and you’re quite an asset,” she adds. Huh. I’ve never been congratulated for being late.
“Okay, so here’s your office and your key. Don’t lose it,” she warns. “Jimmy will be by later to set up your computer and issue your company Blackberry. Don’t lose that either.” Funny.
“Thank you, it all looks great,” I say.
“You should get to that meeting – I’ll introduce you to your secretary and paralegal staff this afternoon. Welcome to JS&D.”
I toss my briefcase on my empty desk and race toward the conference rooms. Number Seven is immediately in front of me – I pause, and then knock on the door.
“Come in,” the deep voice bellows.
I open the door to be met by Mr. Shaw, the equivalent to a Confederate Colonel, and a tall guy with the confidence of a cocky bastard. Great.
“Chris? I’m Adam Ford – welcome to JS&D.” Adam extends his arm and shakes my hand firmly. His eyes quickly dart to my stickered nametag and he smirks – noticeably amused.
“Thank you. I’m honored to be a part of this firm,” I say.
“Mr. Brooks, Adam is a junior partner and will help you transition into the firm. He doesn’t talk much and he’s not very friendly – so good luck.” Chu
ckling, Mr. Shaw pats my shoulder and waddles out the conference room. Adam’s stoic face doesn’t change – he doesn’t find much humor in the introduction.
“Is he joking?” I ask.
“No. Let’s get lunch.”
JASPER’S CHOPHOUSE IS the shit.
Adam and I took a cab to an Irish pub a few blocks from the office, and I thought that was pretty cool. Back in Austin, lunch usually consisted of a can of Dr. Pepper and Snickers, and on the rare occasion some Whataburger.
I was pulling out a chair to sit down at a table when Adam shook his head and said, “Come on.” He kept walking toward the back of the pub and then stopped in front of a red door. Adam knocked once and the door opened. We followed a maître d’ down a spiral staircase and into something resembling a speakeasy during the Prohibition.
Jesus Christ, this place isn’t just a restaurant, it’s a fucking time capsule. The floor to ceiling mahogany makes it dark and shady, and the smoke and quiet chatter could almost be described as sexy – if it weren’t for the two dozen men in suits throwing back martinis and smoking cigars.
We’re led to a booth made entirely out of leather, even the tabletop is leather. The green lamp barely emits enough light to see the drink menu, but the drink menu has three options: gin, whisky, and bourbon.
“This place is different.” I take my coat off and hand it to the maître d’. He gives Adam a ticket and then takes our coats back to the secret entrance.
“Yeah, I had a client meeting here a few months ago. It’s like an old-New York supper club – there’s even a cigarette girl,” Adam says, motioning to the only woman.
Adam is cool. And in two seconds, I’m going to reveal how un-cool I really am.
Embarrassed, I say, “I don’t have my wallet. Actually, I think it was stolen.”
Adam hides his amusement by looking down at the menu. He asks, “How’d that happen?”
“In my defense, I think it was stolen when I was helping a lady with a stroller get off the subway.”
