by TL Gehr
It’s a tiny place under a bright red awning, squeezed between a cellphone repair shop and a hairdresser. I spot her immediately, in a booth opposite the counter. It has to be her because the only other people here are a Mexican family at the back, conversing enthusiastically in Spanish. My mother is blonde now, with tightly curled hair that just covers the tops of her ears. She’s got a narrow face like I do, and is wearing a ton of makeup even this early in the morning.
She stands when she sees me, with so much gusto she nearly tips over her coffee. “I didn’t think you were coming. You hit the morning rush?”
It’s Saturday but I guess in the city that doesn’t mean anything as far as traffic is concerned. “No, I took a wrong turn.”
I slide into the booth opposite her. My place is set, with a plastic menu. I fight the urge to hide behind it like a child.
“Whereabouts are you staying?” she asks.
“Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Oh?” She nods, with obvious interest. “What are you paying?”
A bit of an odd question, but real estate seems to be a big deal here. “I lucked out. Rent control. It’s small, but it’s central. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here for, so…”
I move my attention to the menu. They have an array of breakfast foods in addition to the bagels. I’m not hungry, but I suppose I should eat something. “What’s good here?”
“You like pancakes? They have chocolate chip pancakes and pancakes with meat.”
“What’s the meat?”
“Who knows.”
The menu literally says with meat. It turns out to be bacon or something bacon like and I order that and a coffee. Even with my stomach in knots, I can manage bacon.
“Do they still have that little place on Main Street?”
“In New Paltz? There are like a hundred places on Main Street.” Okay, probably about ten but it feels like a hundred.
“The bistro with the green walls.”
“Yeah, it’s still there.”
“Your father and I used to go there. When I was pregnant, I craved their chicken waffles with gravy something fierce.”
And drugs. She also craved drugs something fierce. I don’t say anything.
“You must have a lot of questions for me,” she fills in the silence after a time.
I stare at my hands. “I guess, I just want to know why now? I’m twenty-three.”
“Your father got a restraining order—”
“Valid for two years.” I was prepared for that answer.
“He wanted me to keep away. He thought it would be best for you if I wasn’t around. He thought I’d be a bad influence.”
Anger spikes hot in my chest. How dare she blame Dad? I almost show her my arm to prove she was enough of a bad influence anyway, but I stop myself at the last minute with Gene’s voice ringing in my head: The only person responsible for you is you. Who knows what would have happened if my mother had been there? It might not have changed anything at all.
“So what made you think of me now?” I ask, stirring sugar into my coffee.
She turns her palms up. As she does, her sleeve slips back to reveal a tattoo around her wrist like a ring of thorns. “I got my life together. Is it so wrong for a mother to want to know her son?”
“So you want a relationship?”
“I know I wasn’t there for you growing up, but I want to be here for you now. I want to get to know my kid.”
I frown and drink my coffee. It’s dark and strong, just the right temperature, although it won’t do anything to steady my nerves. My brain will be more of a jittery mess than usual after this. Still, it should wipe the last vestiges of the sleeping pill from my system. They always leave a bit of a haze when I haven’t taken in a while.
“And I think you must want that too, or you wouldn’t have come here,” my mother says. “Am I wrong?”
Is she? I wish I knew my own mind well enough to say. “I guess…” I fix my gaze on my coffee, trying to find the right words. “I guess I’ve been feeling… incomplete.” I cringe.
“You want to know where you came from.”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m so different from Dad. I love him, and he was great, is great…”
“But he’s not you?”
“Yeah.” I stab at my bacon. “I’m not sure I can do a, like, mother-son thing, you know?” I still have a lot of resentment and the idea of her getting to know me, really getting close to me, makes my stomach turn to lead. “It might be too late for that.”
“Sure,” she leans back in her booth, “Yeah, I can appreciate that. Look, kid, all I’m asking for is a chance to get to know you a bit, okay? We don’t need to start talking family recipes and going for lunch at the MoMA or whatever shit it is people do with mothers.”
I snort at that, just trying to picture it. “Is that even a thing?”
“Who the fuck knows.”
We fall into silence again. I force down some food. Her eyes never leave me.
“It’s good to see you,” she says. “I wasn’t sure what you’d look like. Your father used to send me pictures when you were smaller, but I was worried I wouldn’t recognize you now. Soon as you came in though, I knew you. We have the same cheekbones, you notice that?”
Druggy cheekbones. I nod and shovel more bacon into my mouth.
“You look good,” she says.
I can’t quite stifle the laugh.
“Why, what’s funny about that?”
I swallow, the food feels lodged in my throat. “It’s funny because…” I swallow again. “Because I just got out of rehab.”
7
Brian
Thing is, if I do want to have any relationship at all with my mother, I have to tell her about my problem. It kind of underscores my entire adult life.
I started using when I was fifteen. There was a boy in my class—gorgeous, confident, alternative. I had the biggest boner for him. He let me into his group and into his bed and he also got me hooked on smack. Before I’d even finished school, I knew what my drug of choice was and how I enjoyed taking it. I flunked out, got in with an even worse crowd. Then prison. Then the cycle of being sober and binging over and over again until I finally checked into rehab. I spent three months in the center, and three weeks at extended care, and now a day and counting out on my own in a new city. It’s a bit difficult to answer what I’ve been doing with myself for the past few years without bringing up the drugs.
So, I tell her a little of my life story. By the time I’m done, I’ve finished my food.
“Did they put you on Suboxone?” she asks.
I don’t know what I’d have done if she’d been all emotional about it, but talking about addiction is something I know how to do, from group.
“For a little while, but my therapist was concerned about dependency.” Suboxone is a medication that helps with the cravings and blocks you from getting high from opiates. I don’t mention that I’ve been on and off it half a dozen times and that’s why Gene didn’t want me on it again for too long.
“You’re seeing someone?”
I know she means a therapist, not a lover.
“I was.” I look at my hands again. “I’ve only been here a day, haven’t set anything up yet with anyone new.”
I half expect her to recommend someone or invite me to her own group, but she leans closer and says. “You’ve worked the Steps?”
“Yeah.”
“Well this here,” she points between us. “This is Step Nine. There’s your answer, kid. That’s why now.”
Narcotics Anonymous Step Eight: Make a list of all persons we harmed, and become willing to make amends to them all.
Step Nine: Make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
No one who hadn’t been through The Program would understand, but I do.
“I’m sorry, kid, for everything. I know I wasn’t much of a mother, but if you give me a chance, I’ll make it up to you.”
&nb
sp; I know how hard Step Nine is. Maybe the hardest. I nod, hoping that she sees it for what it is: An acknowledgment of her effort and a willingness to at least see where this goes.
She clears her throat and changes the subject, “You said you weren’t sure if you were going to stay in the city?”
“Yeah. I mean, I want a new start. I’m just not sure it’s gonna be here.”
“You don’t like it here?” She seems surprised. Typical local.
“It’s…” how do I sum up everything that bugs me about Manhattan in one word? “Different. Very different from home. And expensive.”
“Well, I can’t help with the different, kid, but if you need work, I know a place that’s hiring?”
“Yeah? I mean, thanks, but…” But I haven’t even considered how I’ll find work yet. By all accounts, it’s nearly impossible here even when you’ve finished high school and don’t have a record. “I’m not the type most places are looking for.”
“No, I’m serious, kid. They hired me. It’s a bar, you have an issue with that?”
She’s asking if being around alcohol is likely to set me off.
“No, but I don’t know much about mixing drinks and stuff.”
“Not necessary. They need runners, wait staff. The place has exploded in popularity recently and we can’t keep up. I’ll put in a word for you?”
She sounds so keen. I can understand it. Being able to actively do something to help me now will go some way to assuaging her guilt. I press my lips together. “Okay… but I’ll probably suck at it.”
“Well, you won’t know until you try, will you? I’ll set up a meeting with the owner.” She’s smiling, delighted with the idea. I can’t say no.
As Dad said about this breakfast, it’s only one meeting. I can walk out if I want to. If they don’t want me, I can revert to Plan A and go home.
I nod. “Okay, thanks. That would be great.”
I tuck the phone against my shoulder with my chin while I tug the lobby door open. “And then she said she’s going to try to get me a job.” A chill breeze whips down the street, threatening to wrestle the door from my grip.
Dad sounds delighted, as I knew he would. I start to answer his many questions, but then I spot Cynthia on the stairs. She’s got four bright fabric grocery bags—two in each hand—and a large purse tucked under her arm.
“Sorry, Dad, I’ll have to call you back.”
I shove my phone into my jeans and hurry up the stairs. “Ms. Howard, let me help you with those.”
She lets me take the bags from her. “Oh, what a gentleman! The elevator’s been on the fritz for months. The landlord refuses to touch it. Did you know, this place was built in the ’20s? Apparently he needs permits to do work on it. I call that a load of bullcrap.”
“And you’ve been carrying your shopping up to the fourth floor since then?”
She gives me a small smile. “I’m not all that delicate, Mister—what did you say your surname was?”
“Rose.”
“Any relation to the singer?”
“Axel? No. Not that I know of, anyway.”
“Well, Mister Rose, I may be no spring chicken, but I’ve lived alone my whole life. I can manage well enough. Not that your assistance isn’t appreciated. I had to buy food for my boys today, that’s why it’s so heavy.”
I hope she has a car and didn’t haul this load all the way from the subway. Even my arms are aching by the time we get to the next landing.
“Your cats?”
“Oh, you’ve met them, have you? Or did Alex tell you about them?”
“I met Murdock.”
“Oh dear, I hope he didn’t… you know… well, he is a boy and boys will be boys.”
“No, he didn’t mark his territory if that’s what you mean.” I make a mental note to keep the window closed. “Although he did leave a… parcel for me on the fire escape?”
“He did? Oh, I’m so sorry. He’s a little ruffian. He had a hard start and he hasn’t forgiven the world for it yet. How did your meeting go?”
I forgot that I told her about it. “Fine.”
“Fine. That’s what the kids always say. How was it? Fine. Come now, give an old lady a little more than that.”
We have one more flight of stairs left. I’m walking slowly to keep pace with her. “Okay, it wasn’t quite as awkward as my first meeting of the day. But only by a narrow margin.”
She barks a laugh. “You should be grateful. That’s a story you’ll be telling for years.”
“Oh, no. I’m never telling that one.”
There’s a glint in her eye as she says, “I sure am.”
“How much do I have to pay you not to?”
She chuckles. “I’ll settle for a cup of tea and we’ll call it even.
I spend a pretty pleasant afternoon with Cynthia and her cats. Murdock isn’t around, but she has three others that take turns attacking my ankles or sitting on my lap. Her apartment is the exact mirror image of mine, although she’s lined the walls with shelves piled with trinkets and lined the floor with an assortment of textured rugs. It’s more like a witch’s den than a New York apartment. I tell her the bare bones of why I’m in NYC—including the part about my mom, leaving out the part about how thoroughly I wrecked my previous life.
When I get back to my own apartment and check my phone, there’s a message waiting from Mom. I have an interview on Monday at a place downtown called The Spindle.
8
Brian
After a sleepless Sunday night, I manage to find my way to the Financial District. Google tells me that The Spindle is at the site of our proud nation’s very first commodity futures exchange, which happens to be the New York Cotton Exchange. That explains the name.
It doesn’t explain why the place looks like a frickin palace. It’s a square caramel-colored building with tall arched windows, crowned by the most elaborate cornice I have ever seen and—I kid you not—Corinthian columns on either side of the entrance. It’s bougie AF. Google called The Spindle an “old Irish-style pub”, but I don’t think the old Irish ever saw somewhere this fancy. I hesitate on the sidewalk, much to the annoyance of all the bankers and stock exchange bros hurrying towards Wall Street, heads down over phones that probably already have the latest bitcoin or whatever readouts scrolling across them. This is a completely different world from mine. I don’t belong here.
I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. What’s the worst that can happen? They take one look at me and say, “No thanks”. That’s that. You’ve been through worse, Brian. Get over yourself.
I’m incredibly relieved that I decided to go clothes shopping yesterday. I got some gray jeans without holes in them, and a long sleeve t-shirt that was a bit tight for my tastes but on sale. At the time I felt confident. That was before I knew the pub had fucking pediments.
The Spindle isn’t actually through the main entrance with the fancy architecture. It’s down some steps, into a basement level. I only see the sign for it when I’m across the street and I have to wonder who would hide a pub under a historical monument.
Turns out it’s not all that hidden. Or maybe the obscure really appeals to financial types, because the place is pumping. How is a pub pumping at 8 am on a Monday morning?
A waitress swings past carrying a tray of pastries and coffee and that answers that. Mom did say they needed wait staff, but maybe I’m in the wrong place? Could there be two Spindles in Downtown Manhattan? This doesn’t look very Irish. I mean, I guess it could be. There is a shiny bar to my left. Even though it’s currently serving coffee, there’s a wall of alcoholic beverages behind it. Maybe they serve Irish coffee. Irish coffee and potato cereal. Nothing about this city would surprise me.
“Brian!”
I catch Mom waving at me over a line of investment brokers. She’s in a black turtleneck. With sleeves. My chest loosens a bit. I half expected them to put me in one of those tight t-shirts, which would put my troubled history on display for all to
see. There’s an ocean of suits and fashionable scarves between us, but she fights her way towards me, grabs my arm and tugs me along, weaving her way between round tables, past crowded booths to a doorway at the back.
“Hey, Philip, my son’s here. The one I told you about,” she calls into the room beyond. I hang back. This doesn’t seem like a good time.
A man comes out. He’s on the phone and my heart skitters and then sinks right down to my boots. It’s the Central Park Douchebag. No mistaking that square jaw and those curly blond locks. He’s wearing jeans and a white polo shirt, with the sleeves stretched tight over his biceps and some logo on the pocket that’s probably a fashion label.
He’s saying something into the phone, but he stops when he sees me. His mouth pops open. The roar of the pub seems to fade away, replaced by the roaring humiliation in my ears. Of all the people in this fucking city I had to lose my shit at, why did it have to be the one who might have given me a chance?
He blinks slowly, then says to the phone, “Yeah, I’m still here… No, it’s fine… Yeah, I’m sure… Okay. Get better.”
He ends the call, and we’re back at the staring game. I think I’m the one who’s supposed to speak, but how the hell do I ask him for a job now? He very clearly recognizes me.
“Something the matter?” Mom asks, because she’s many things but she’s not blind.
“Yeah,” the douche says. He scratches his ear. “Maxine just called in sick.” He turns his ice-blue eyes on me. “You have any experience?”
Try as I might, I can’t get my jaw to work. I shake my head.
His brow furrows. Here it comes, the rejection. At least he was nice enough to make up an excuse. That’s more than I would have expected, given the way he went off at that kid. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
Just say it. I can take it. I’m a big boy.
“Can I ask you to take orders? Malena, can you give him your pad?”
Mom fishes a wad of paper out of the green apron at her waist and hands it to me.
