by TL Gehr
Then, the pinch of the belt around my arm, the kiss of the needle in a familiar vein, the rush of warmth as the drug hits my system. I can so nearly feel it; how I’d flop back on the bed, how the H would float me away to proper rest, proper peace, limbs getting heavy, eyelids closing, the sound of the traffic receding, every tension simply melting away.
I passed a homeless man just a block ago. My entire being wants to drag me back to him. I stand completely still, waiting for the urge to pass. I don’t know what brought it on. Maybe it was the way that woman yelled at me this morning. Maybe it was having my deep-seated inadequacies laid bare. Maybe it’s having the cash. Or maybe it’s just the neon lights that have triggered some half-buried memory of pleasure. It doesn’t matter. What matters is not giving in. I know the high will only last a few minutes, I know how terrible I’ll feel later, but it’s difficult to recall why that matters.
I’ve been clean for nearly four months. It was so tough getting here. At times I thought the withdrawal would kill me first. I’m so close to four months. I cling to that thought, but a voice inside me says that if I just shoot up once no one will know. Just once to feel the high and then never again.
I grit my teeth. I’ve been here too many times before. It’s never just once.
Right now, making it to four months feels impossible. So I tell myself, all I have to do is make it home. I can always find a dealer closer to the apartment if I still want to shoot up when I get there.
The fog doesn’t lift, but I manage to keep walking. The whole way, the images play on loop. Shooting up, lying back, floating away. I manage to get upstairs without incident. Then I make another promise to myself to last just one more hour without heroin. I set an alarm and I lie down, hoping that somehow, miraculously, sleep will carry me away. It doesn’t. I watch the clock for the full hour. I nearly get up twice, but I force myself to wait until my alarm goes off.
As soon as it does, I call Dad.
I can tell he was asleep, but he sounds happy to hear from me. I apologize, say I lost track of time. I don’t tell him about the craving, but I tell him everything else about my day. I tell him about the weird-ass place where Mom works. I tell him that I was a disaster, but that the owner was really nice about it.
“Just as well I’m not going to be working there, because I think I have a crush on him,” I admit and my stomach somersaults as I say it out loud.
Dad laughs. “Now would that really be such a bad thing, Brian?”
I’m flushed, once again, with gratitude for him. I’m not going to shoot up today. I refuse to disappoint him again, no matter how bad the craving is.
I stretch out on my back and draw a deep, steadying breath. “You know how many tragedies start with unrequited love, right? He probably has someone already. A white picket fence to match his white horse and a kid and a dog and a stable for the horse and a place out in the country where he plays croquet with his friend Jones.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Dad says. “The giving of love is an education in itself.”
“Who said that?”
“Eleanor Roosevelt.”
“You know Teddy cheated on her, like, multiple times, right?”
“I think that’s the point of the quote, son. The act of loving brightens our days, whether or not that love is returned.”
I don’t ask him when the last time he loved anyone was. It might have been my mother. Maybe he’s even talking about her when he speaks about love not being returned. All I’m sure of is that I’ve never known love to brighten anything.
Still, when I hang up, I’m no longer thinking about heroin. I’m thinking about Philip’s dimples.
There’s a missed call. It must have come through while I was on the phone. Unless I somehow missed it in the fog of my craving? I don’t recognize the number, but my heart rate kicks up a notch. I scroll back to earlier, when Philip called himself from my phone. I write down the number carefully on a scrap of paper and then check it against the missed call.
Same number.
It’s after twelve. I can’t possibly call him back now.
Why would he call me? Probably a misdial, but what if…?
I’m definitely not getting any sleep tonight.
11
Philip
Even though I don’t usually work on Tuesdays, Maxine is still feeling under the weather so I go in. Besides, I have a call to make.
It was stupid to try him so late last night. I didn’t think to check the time when I got in. I regretted it the instant I dialed, but Brian’s still going to see the missed call and I’m going to probably end up being saved in his phone as Central Park Douche. Or maybe Spindle Douche now.
Something in my chest responds to the thought of him saving my number all the same. What’s wrong with me? I’ve only met the guy twice and we didn’t even really talk.
Malena is already waiting outside my office. She smiles at me, but it’s more nervous than friendly. Her eyes dart to my coffee. Starbucks.
“I know, I’m a traitor. What can I do for you?”
She wrings her hands. “I was just… well I wanted to know…”
I fight back a smile. “I’m still thinking about it.”
I’m not going to tell Brian’s mother before I tell him.
When she leaves, I check the time. It’s just past seven. Probably too early to call him. I drum my fingers on the desk, then open the order book and manage to get lost in work until eight, and then I get swept up in another chaotic morning.
I finally call him after 11. My heart is in my throat, which is just nuts.
He answers on the third ring and there’s a lot of noise in the background—music and talking. Is he at a party? I check the time again as if it suddenly won’t be late morning.
“Hey, Brian. It’s Philip… uh from The Spindle. Central Park Douche.”
He laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, believe it or not I only know one Philip.”
There’s a voice in the background, but I can’t make out what it’s saying.
“Is now not a good time? I can call back later?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m just at the supermarket.” The voice cuts in again, this time I can tell it’s female and my stomach drops. Girlfriend? Wife?
Brian laughs again. “I’m sorry if you heard that.” The woman says something else. “Cynthia, please.” There’s a note of genuine distress in his voice there. Then to me, “Sorry, it’s my neighbor. I made the mistake of telling her about you—I mean about The Spindle and everything. I’m not sure how much of that you heard?”
“You’ll probably be relieved to know, not much. It’s very loud where you are.”
“Oh! Sorry. Hold on.” Shuffling and the noise recedes. “Better?”
He must be standing outside. “Much.”
“Sorry, I agreed to come shopping with her. I caught her hauling these heavy bags up the stairs the other day and she’s quite old so… but anyway, I’m sure you didn’t call to hear about that.”
No, but I want to. It sounds like he’s saying he took his elderly neighbor shopping so she wouldn’t have to carry her own groceries and I can just picture it. Brian, all tough in his leather jacket with his shorn head and a fierce expression, pushing a little old lady’s cart for her. My heart swells. I swallow.
“Um, yeah. Actually I was calling about the job. I realize I shouldn’t have called you so late. I’m really sorry about that. Sometimes I lose track of time.”
“Oh, no, it’s okay. I’m an insomniac so…”
“Your brain really doesn’t like you much, does it?” Damn, I probably should not have said that. I feel my shoulders tense as I anticipate his reaction. I wish I could see his face right now.
“You don’t know the half of it,” he says, clearly unconcerned. “So on the subject of my broken brain, I’m assuming this is a courtesy call to tell me I didn’t get the job I was awful at and in no way suited for? Don’t worry, I know the score.”
I try to sound seri
ous, as I always do when discussing business, but I can’t quite keep from smiling. “Actually, this is a call to tell you that you did get the job you were… untrained for? And valiantly attempted? I’m sorry, I had something better last night. At least, I think I did. It’s been another morning like yesterday, only you weren’t here so it was even worse. My own brain is a bit fried.”
“Wait, back up a bit. Did you say you’re offering me a job? I mean… how? Why? Did my mother put you up to it?”
I can just see those eyebrows drawn together in puzzlement. I spent about two hours last night writing a list of reasons I wanted him working for me that were not “I have the hots for you”, so I’m prepared to answer that question.
“No, your mother didn’t put me up to this. It may surprise you to learn there are a number of jobs in a pub that do not require writing lists, doing math, or having people yell at you. Alright, the yelling part… Maxine might yell. You mentioned that you’d be fine if you could learn the menu, right?”
Brian makes an affirmative noise, although he still sounds doubtful.
“Any way you could start tomorrow?”
“I can start today if you want?”
I do want. I very much do want. “Great, I’ll see you later, then.”
Hell, I might even stay for the night shift… No, that would be a bad idea. I should check in at home if I want to get away again tomorrow.
“I’m here until five,” I add.
“Okay, I’ll come downtown soon as I’m done here.”
When I end the call, I take a shuddering breath. I hope that I really am making a good business decision and not just following my cock. I need to prove to my father that I can run this place, which means I should be hiring based on skill and experience. But when I was reading about dyscalculia last night, one thing that kept coming up is how much difficulty people with it have finding work. If I were to turn Brian down based on his learning disability, that would be discriminating against him for something out of his control. When it comes to what is in his control, he was calm, polite and helpful. Isn’t attitude just as important as skill? Especially when it comes to service jobs? And the truth is, I’m not exactly skilled or experienced either. I had the opportunity to learn on the job. He should have that opportunity too.
12
Brian
“Soo…?” Cynthia asks as I join her again in the canned food aisle.
“So, I’ve got a job.” I can’t keep from grinning. Of course, her very loud comments when I first answered the call had nothing to do with the job and everything to do with hearing me say the name ‘Philip’.
I’m always nervous about revealing my sexuality to strangers, especially the older generation, but when I told Cynthia about yesterday, she somehow guessed.
“You like him,” she said. “The tips of your ears have gone pink.”
I shrugged noncommittally and she nudged me in the ribs. “You like him. It’s all over your face.”
So when he called, she yelled at me, “Ask what he’s wearing”, and then, “Are you single, Philip?”, and then finally, “Ask him on a date!” Thank goodness he didn’t hear her, or at least was kind enough to pretend he didn’t.
“Still don’t understand how I got the job,” I say to her now, “but I start today.”
“Today?” She pulls her watch out from her shirt—she wears it on a necklace around her neck—and peers at it.
“He said I should come through soon as we’re done here.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Get going!”
I take the cart with both hands. “Not until we’re done here. What else do you need?”
I get to The Spindle shortly after lunch. I could have been here earlier, but I had no desire to be thrust straight into another rush hour. If I’m going to convince Philip that he made the right choice giving me a chance, I need some time in a calm environment to get to grips with everything.
I’m feeling self-conscious because I’m out of neat outfits and this did not strike me as the sort of place for leather jackets and ripped jeans, but as I enter that’s exactly what I’m faced with. A whole table of them. A group of bikers is eating hot wings and drinking beer while sport plays on the television that was showing CNN yesterday.
“Brian!” Philip comes around the bar to greet me, smiling.
“I thought I’d walked into the wrong place.”
“Oh?” He follows my gaze to the bikers and laughs. “Oh! Yes. Turns out when you buy a place, if you don’t mess up too badly, you inherit the regulars from the previous owners.”
“The bikers of Wall Street sounds like it should be a movie.”
“It really does. Like The Wolf of Wall Street only with more outlaws and explosions.” He gestures for me to follow and heads into the office. It’s a square room with a big combination safe set into one wall and a big wooden desk against the other. The desk is piled with papers and a book is open in the center with lists that I couldn’t make out even if I wanted to. Philip sinks down into a leather chair behind the desk. He opens a drawer and takes out a clean apron, an order book and a pen. “I’m still getting uniforms made so I’ve just asked everyone to wear black in the meantime. Your mother probably told you.”
“Uh, no. She didn’t mention that.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Oh? Well, then stroke of luck I guess.”
“Yeah, lucky that everything I own is black.”
“See, that just makes you a true New Yorker.”
He’s different from before. He was the picture of calm yesterday, but now he seems jittery. It suddenly strikes me that he’s… nervous? No, that’s ridiculous. He wouldn’t be nervous about me. Unless he’s nervous that he’s made a mistake asking me back.
“So, how long have you owned this place?”
“Nearly two months.” He doesn’t meet my gaze as he says this, like it’s some sort of shameful admission.
“Mom mentioned it had exploded in popularity recently.”
That gets a smile. “I can’t take credit for that. I told you, imported coffee…”
“Which you were responsible for.”
“Another lucky stroke of luck.” He stands, puts his hands in his pockets then takes them out again—I do not look at his package. “Do you want a tour?”
Maybe I’m the first person he’s hiring and that’s why he seems so weird about it. “Sure.”
He takes me through to the kitchens where a chef is flipping burgers and his assistant is watching something on his phone. The assistant springs up and hides the phone when Philip enters, but Philip doesn’t pay him any mind. He introduces them, then we find Mom in the stock room unpacking coffee beans.
“Brian! You got the job!” She looks like she’s going to come in for a hug, but she stops herself at the last minute and folds her arms across her chest. Philip checks some things with her, then takes me back out into the main restaurant. He shows me the bathrooms and explains that there’s a roster for waiters to clean them. He seems embarrassed by that, so I assume that’s the reason for the odd look on his face.
Then he says, “If she’d told me about your learning disability I wouldn’t have thrust you into that situation yesterday. I’m truly sorry about that.”
Wow, he really is acting like it’s his fault I messed up. “She wasn’t keeping it from you, she just doesn’t know.”
Philip frowns, no doubt trying to figure out how I’ve hidden it from her all these years.
“We’re not exactly close.”
His expression doesn’t clear. It’s bad form to out another recovering addict, so I can’t tell him the whole story. Also, I really don’t want to make her look bad in front of her boss.
“Truth is, my parents split shortly after I was born. Saturday was the first time I’ve seen her in twenty-three years. That’s when she mentioned you were hiring. I, um, I actually came to the city to meet her. That, what you just witnessed, was our third conversation. In total, I mean.”
H
is eyes are almost round and bluer than blue in the dim light. We’re all alone together in the bathroom. I have a sudden urge to kiss him. Well, that would be a unique reason for getting fired.
He realizes he’s staring and looks away. “Wow. I had no idea. I… she didn’t say anything about that.”
“You literally know her better than I do.”
I wonder if he knows about her dodgy past and whether I should disclose mine.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll get to know her while you’re working with her. They say that’s a good way to get to know people.”
In any other situation, I’d consider a comment like that flirting, but in Philip’s case I know it’s just wishful thinking. I return his smile and he takes me through to the bar.
“I’d love it if you could take over here, but if you feel uncomfortable with it, there are a lot of other jobs that need doing.” He slides his hand along the row of liquor. “Mornings, you’ve seen. We’re a pub that serves breakfast. So, bar duty is coffee. Lunchtime it’s mostly beer—they’re in the fridge over there. Nighttime it’s more lively. Imana will take you through that. She’s been nagging me about getting in a new barman so she can concentrate more on management. I’m sure she’ll be happy I’ve found someone.”
I’m less sure. Just the sheer number of different bottles is giving me palpitations. I’m willing to try, though, if this is where Philip wants me.
“Maxine is the day shift manager,” he says.
“She’s the one who’s sick?”
“Yes and she knows this business far better than I do. She’s been working here for over a decade. I’m very fortunate she chose to stay on when I bought the place.”
My lungs squeeze. She’s also the one who he said might shout at me. “Does she know you’ve hired me?”
“Not yet.”
