The Diary

by Julia Derek

  As she puts the bag with the bottle back between her legs, her oily, black hair falls into her eyes, annoying them. Huffing, she brushes the strands away from her face with the back of her hand. She sighs heavily. She should have cut her bangs short, shorter than the rest of her hair. What had she been thinking? Her hair used to reach her mid-back, but when she was fired from her job as a waitress in a diner, she decided to cut it all off to a chin-length bob. It’s a lot more comfortable to keep your hair short when you spend your days on the streets during the summer in New York. The summers here are not pleasant like they are in places like California. New York summers are sticky and humid, hot and disgusting, especially the latter parts of them, in July and August, and sometimes in September too. Few people truly enjoy these months and do what they can to get out of the city. The only good thing about them is that you don’t need to wear a lot of clothes. Small shorts and tiny tank tops are the best, loose ones that don’t stick to your skin when the merciless sun beats down on you. The same with hair—the less you have of it, the better.

  Jenny and Herman have never belonged to the lucky group of people who can just take off and leave the city until it cools down. Herman doesn’t mind the weather as much as Jenny, though, and solves his hair problem by keeping it tied together at the nape of his neck. Placing her long bangs behind her ears now, Jenny tells herself that, when she gets home later, she’ll cut them off. She’ll cut all of her hair off.

  “Hey pumpkin,” a melodious, deep voice says beside her suddenly and Jenny flinches. The greeting has brought her out of her head, the daze she had entered. She soon relaxes and turns her face in the direction of the voice. As she gathered almost instantly, there stands Herman, having appeared around the corner to get her. He grins at her, a toothy smile that appears white against his deeply tan skin. His bony face is covered in beard stubble and the brown hair on his head looks greasy, the way Jenny’s feel. Being underground all day in late summer in New York is no fun either, the AC mostly non-existent at the stations and in the trains. Still, Herman insists on wearing jeans and his T-shirt.

  He wipes at his sweaty forehead with a paper napkin that he has conjured up.

  “Hi Herman,” Jenny replies and smiles back at him, relieved that he hasn’t left her after all. Her gaze goes to the stained canvas fanny pack around his waist. “How did it go on the subway?”

  He sinks down next to her on the street and leans against the post office wall. “I made seventy-three and change. Less than I thought. But we have one more day to go. You?”

  He extends a hand in her direction and Jenny automatically reaches for the bottle in the paper bag between her bare legs. It feels lighter than she can remember. She swallows back the guilt that streams through her as she hands him the bottle. Herman deserves better; he has worked hard all day, harder than her, and has looked forward to his drink at the end of the day. It will be a small one today. Hopefully, they’ll find more alcohol after they get home. They usually do. Yes, of course they will.

  Luckily, he doesn’t seem to notice as he takes the bottle from her and brings it to his mouth, chugging the rest of its contents.

  She grabs her plastic cup that she put down earlier and peers into it. There are a couple more bills in it than last time she checked. She pulls out the top one. Her eyes widen when she sees that it’s a twenty-dollar bill. She looks around the street. Who could have put it there? It must have happened when she wasn’t paying attention. Did she fall asleep at some point? She can’t remember. But she is glad that there seem to be more money in the cup than she had expected.

  “Not bad,” she says to Herman and hands him the cup to see for himself.

  He nods appreciatively as he gazes into it, taking in its contents. He puts an arm around Jenny’s shoulders and squeezes them affectionately. “This does look good, pumpkin. Let’s go home and see how much it is.”

  Together, they walk the streets back to the rundown building where they’ll be living for at least two more nights. As they get closer, the pavement on the sidewalks is grimier and has more potholes. There is more trash lying around and the storefronts are more tattered. Some are boarded up. There is a general sense of poverty hanging in the air, visible on the faces of the people they meet. Dirt is everywhere. The smell of pot enters Jenny’s nostrils, but she hardly notices it any longer; someone is always smoking in their neighborhood, including her and Herman when they’ve had a good day out on the streets and can afford a joint. Most of their cash goes to alcohol, though. They like to get high while Herman plays his guitar. It’s broken, but he manages to get some decent songs out of it from time to time.

  In the next couple of nights they need to stay strong, though. Definitely no more pot, which is more expensive than booze. They really shouldn’t buy any of that either. Even if today seemed to have turned out better than she had thought, they should still save every penny so they can be sure to afford the rent this month.

  They walk into their building. A terrible stench meets them and when Jenny looks down, she sees that someone has thrown up in a corner. Holding their breaths, they hurry by the mess and up the stairs to their studio on the fourth floor. On their way there, they run into Elsa, one of the two prostitutes in the building. Elsa gives them a quick nod as she walks by with her head down. It seems she’s trying to hide the fact that she has a black eye. Jenny’s heart clenches at the sight of it; either Elsa’s pimp or one of her johns has beaten her up again. Herman would never do this to Jenny; he treats her well, as well as he can considering how little he has to offer any girl. And he is a fairly attractive man, too, with his sinewy body that has several large tattoos, finely drawn features, and brown, soulful eyes. She’s lucky to have him.

  As she watches him unlock the apartment door, she doesn’t understand why she worried that he would disappear on her even for a moment. This is the man who found her when she was huddled in a street corner in the middle of the night after she had been thrown out of her last boyfriend’s apartment and wandered the streets aimlessly for days. Finally, she collapsed from pure exhaustion and fell asleep while and leaning against a building somewhere in the depths of Brooklyn. He had known she needed someone and had taken her in to live with him. For as long as she has known Herman, he has come to get her on the street, made sure she is not lost on her own again.

  They enter their dark studio home. A smell of sour milk mixed with unwashed dishes enters her nostrils. Jenny walks into the small kitchen. A milk cartoon stands on the counter by the stove and piles of dirty plates, silverware, pots and glasses are in the sink. She frowns as she takes in the untidiness—didn’t she clean up here yesterday? She was sure she did. And the milk? How could they have just let it stand there and go bad all day? She tries to remember what they did yesterday.

  As she searches her mind, she finally recalls that they had scored two bottles of Absolut vodka for only six dollars on their way home from a day of solicitation. They had feasted on the liquor together with slices of pizza. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots two empty bottles of Absolut vodka next to the stove and no longer questions how come the apartment is in such a state. They must have gotten too drunk to do anything but have sex and sleep in the end. Even as she woke up this morning, she was still drunk she remembers now. She looks down at her leg and sees the nasty bruise on her leg. She got that when she fell and landed on her knee.

  She throws away the spoiled milk into a nearby trashcan and turns on a faucet to fill up the sink so she can do all the dishes. By the time she’s done, Herman has counted the money they have gathered and gone down to pick up some sandwiches for them to eat. She joins him on the couch where he sits, grinning pleased.

  “I think we’ll make it, pumpkin,” he says and pinches her cheek. He motions toward the upside down wooden crate that serves as their living room table. “154 dollars. And that’s after I paid for the sandwiches and the booze. I got us some whiskey. Not the best kind, but not the worst either. It’ll do.”

&n
bsp; Herman wiggles his eyebrows joyfully. He loves whiskey the best.

  She looks where he is looking. Next to the white bag with the sandwiches is a familiar brown bag. Feeling like she should be doing something, she walks into the kitchen to get them some plates and glasses and some water to mix with the whiskey, some ice from the freezer. That’s the way Herman likes it and this way the liquor also lasts longer. For him. Jenny will have her whiskey neat. She likes to get buzzed as soon as possible, and then stay buzzed. Get as much alcohol in her system as possible. She is buzzed more or less all the time, though not as bad as yesterday. She can’t remember hardly anything from yesterday. Her pain must have been worse than normal. She doubts Herman finished even one of those two bottles on his own; he doesn’t drink nearly as much as she does.

  As she gathers glasses and plates and water and ice on a tray, she notes that her buzz from earlier today is pretty much gone. She’d better hurry.

  She brings the tray over to Herman, who is leaning back into the old, ripped-up couch and has put up his feet on the big wooden crate. She knows he’d like her to fix them their drinks. She doesn’t mind. When they’re done eating and drinking, they’ll go to bed and they’ll have sex. Herman has a healthy sexual appetite. A little too healthy for Jenny’s taste, but since she is usually buzzed, it’s really okay. Tonight she is determined to lure Herman into the bathroom and take a shower with her before, though. He doesn’t always take showers and the way he stinks sometimes bothers her. But she doesn’t want to complain. It wouldn’t be right. The man has done too much for her and is tired. The least she can do is make it pleasant for him when he gets home after a hard day out on the trains.

  Besides, it’s not like she doesn’t deserve to suffer as much as possible.

  Chapter 17

  It’s almost too perfect. Jason texts me later that same day, informing me that he must attend a work dinner in the evening. I’m sure you must, I think after reading his text, instantly pissed again after having managed to get my feelings somewhat under control after entering the office and emailing clients.

  “When do you think it’ll be over?” I text him back.

  My phone buzzes. “I really don’t know, but don’t stay up and wait for me. It might go on until past midnight. These people are coming in from California, so they’ll still be on West Coast time.”

  “OK. That makes sense. See you when I see you then.”

  “Hopefully tonight. Love you.”

  I want to throw the phone into the wall, I’m so furious at seeing his last two words.

  That fucking hypocrite.

  I raise my hand and aim at the corner farthest away from where I’m sitting behind my black desk. But I control myself at the last second, realizing that smashing my phone would be a very stupid move. Not only won’t I have a phone any longer, but I’m not sure how I will explain it having gone into pieces to Jason. He’ll surely text me again later from the cab or something, pretending to be on his way to the dinner. I don’t think getting a replacement phone will happen that fast. Plus, someone here at the office might hear the phone break and that will be even harder to explain.

  So instead I lower my hand and type a text back to Jason: “I love you too.”

  At least I used to. As I press Send, I’m not sure what exactly I feel for my husband. Hate doesn’t quite fit. At the moment there is a mishmash of big emotions within me, going around and around, impossible to dissect. Maybe when I see him together with her later—or not, though I’m sadly finding that extremely unlikely—I’ll have a better idea.

  I call Capital Grille and ask the person who answers if Claire is working tonight. The girl—a hostess, I assume—doesn’t know and tells me to call back later.

  Irritated, I slam down the phone into its cradle and turn my attention back to my computer on which there is a tax document opened that I need to go through before emailing it to a client. What time is it? Five past three. That means I’ll have to wait hours until I’ll know whether Claire is on tonight or not. I can’t imagine that she starts working before, at the earliest six o’clock being a cocktail waitress. I inhale, frustrated. I might as well finish going through the document then. Placing my elbows on the desk and my fingertips at my temples, I stare at the computer screen.

  The minutes creep by and I keep checking the time. My brain gradually ceases to cooperate. It becomes impossible to focus on work now that I’m so close to finding out what Jason is up to. So I visit the bathroom several times, go to the water fountain and have a drink, make myself another cup of coffee, head over to Angie for a little chat. I marvel at how calm I am on the outside despite everything.

  Finally it’s six o’clock. I wait another few minutes, until it’s ten past six, before I call the restaurant again.

  “Hello, I would like to speak to Claire,” I tell the person who answers the phone in a deeper voice than my usual one. It sounds like a different girl this time. I hold my breath as I await the reply.

  “One moment, please,” the girl says and I nearly drop the receiver on my desk. She is working tonight? So Jason was telling me the truth about his work dinner then? How can my gut feeling be so incredibly off?

  As I keep squeezing the receiver, it dawns on me that I really do not want to talk to Claire. What would I tell her? I remove my ear from the receiver and as I get ready to hang up, the same voice speaks again.

  “Ma’am? I’m sorry, she’s not working tonight.”

  I snatch the phone back to my ear. “Excuse me?” I say, still not sure that I didn’t just imagine the words coming out of the receiver only because I wanted them to do so.

  “I’m sorry, but Claire is off tonight,” the person repeats.

  I block the gasp that comes out of me by pressing my free hand against my mouth. I can feel my heart pound like I’m a time bomb about to explode.

  I was right after all…

  “Hello? Hello?”

  I regain my bearings before the girl can hang up on me. Just to say something, I ask, “Are you sure she’s not working tonight? She told me she was on.”

  “Um, yes, I am.” Whoever I’m speaking to is sounding offended. “Would you like to speak to the manager?”

  “No, that’s okay. Thank you very much.”

  I hang up the phone and stare into the white-painted door in front of me. What will I do now that I know I was right? Should I just head over to the building where Jason works and wait outside until he leaves? I check the time. It’s almost six thirty, which means that he may or may not have left yet. Unless I ask the guard in the downstairs lobby, I can’t be sure if he has. Asking Jason doesn’t mean I’ll get the truth necessarily. But do I really want to call the guard and ask him? The guard will likely ask for my identity before answering me. He will surely find it odd that I’m probing him for my husband’s whereabouts. I don’t want him or Jason to suspect that I’m spying on Jason. Placing my elbows on my desk, I place my head in my cupped hands. What’s the best approach?

  I decide that I might as well leave and head for Jason’s office, take a chance that he is still there. By the time I find a cab, a better solution might have come to me.

  Grabbing my purse, I rush out of my box-like space and speed walk through the firm’s corridors, muttering good-byes to coworkers that I encounter on the way, a fake smile plastered to my face.

  Fortunately, it doesn’t take me very long to find a cab despite that we’re in the middle of rush hour. I give the cab driver my destination and then lean back into the seat, trying to think about my next move. I’m getting nowhere. Finding my phone in my purse, I send Jason a text. I have nothing to lose by asking him what he is up to, telling him that I’m on my way home myself. Maybe that will yield some useful information regarding his whereabouts.

  “Hi honey, in a cab home after long day of reading boring documents. What’s your status?” I press Send, wondering how come I didn’t think of this sooner. He will likely tell me exactly what he is up to, clearly not suspectin
g that I’m on to him.

  I hold my phone close to my chest as I watch the traffic zoom by outside the cab window. I jerk when it buzzes against me, even though I expect a prompt response. Slowly, I remove the phone from my body and check who has texted me.

  Jason, of course.

  “Good for you, babe. Still at the office, need to finalize a presentation before dinner.”

  Great, I think and throw another glance out the cab window. We’re only three blocks away from the building in which Jason works. I check the time. Still only six fifty. Chances are great that Jason told me the truth, so I might as well hang outside his office and wait for him to leave.

  If he hasn’t shown up by eight, I’ll reevaluate the situation.

  I pay the cab driver as we arrive at the street where Jason works, making sure I keep my head down as I exit the car on the off chance that Jason leaves right then.

  As the cab takes off, I walk hunched over toward his tall building, checking the area for a good place where I can hang out while waiting for him. It doesn’t take long before I spot a Duane Reade drug store with big windows that face the entrance to Jason’s building. I walk in there.

  Pacing in front of the area where all the magazines are stacked in long rows, I keep glancing out the windows toward the mirror-covered skyscraper, praying that my husband will come out finally. When I have been in there almost thirty minutes and feel like giving up, he actually does. I’m quick to leave the premises.

  I watch as he walks up to a street corner and raises his hand to hail a cab. One soon stops for him. Frantically, I look around for a cab of my own and find one shortly. As I slide into the backseat, I lean between the two headrests of the front seats and jab with my index finger toward the cab that Jason is in.