New Amsterdam: Tess

by Ashley Pullo

  Outside on Pearl Street, the man with the peacock feathers waves in her direction. Feeling confident and bold, she makes her way to his alcove. Keeping a small distance from his impending cynicism, she asserts, “Love is bold.”

  The man smiles, sparkling white teeth rarely seen on the face of a vagrant New Yorker, but then he pulls out his journal and begins to write.

  Slouching her shoulders, Thessaly frowns. “Ugh, what a fucking riddle,” she mutters, turning to walk away.

  Summers in Manhattan mean casual dinners and cold drinks, so Thessaly is meeting Levi at a Seaport pub known for their New Zealand-inspired menu. Although she’s not a fan of lamb burgers or vegetables, or any establishment that doesn’t offer dessert, she’s excited to try a new restaurant on an actual date. But as she walks the three blocks to the pub in a dress the color of a traffic cone, Thessaly fidgets uncomfortably – slouching her shoulders and crawling back into her sweet shell of sugary honeycomb.

  “Tess!” shouts Levi.

  Following the sound of his deep voice, Thessaly crosses the street to find Levi rakishly leaning against a parking sign. Contrary to Thessaly’s loud attire, Levi’s dressed in a black T-shirt and dark denim jeans. Other than his expensive Tag Heuer watch and barber-fresh shave, Levi Jones is every drop of rugged masculinity.

  Levi runs his eyes over the curve of Thessaly’s slender hips, watching as her body sways like an African daisy in a field of Manhattan gray. Uncrossing his arms and walking toward her, he thinks, wildflower.

  “Hey!” Thessaly’s raspy voice is perkier than usual.

  Reaching in for a kiss on the cheek, Levi says, “Our table is ready. Do you like kale?”

  Faking a smile, Thessaly replies, “So, so good.”

  Levi places his hand on the small of her back and leads her through the large opened door to the restaurant. “You lie,” he whispers behind her ear.

  They arrive at a crowded table flowing with IPA beer bottles and buckets of peel-and-eat shrimp. Thessaly’s shoulders drop and her smile fades when she’s met with a group of seated urban farmers staring up at her – three men and two women, all dressed in the same quirky Brooklyn Soil T-shirt. The table holds six chairs, and Thessaly makes seven, so Levi steals an unused chair from the bar and offers it to Thessaly.

  Sitting at least three inches higher than the rest of the group on an elevated stool, Thessaly shrinks in embarrassment.

  Aware that she’s uncomfortable, Levi thinks, she’s wilting. So he leans into her and hums, “You look amazing.”

  The stress on the letter z buzzes through her ear and sends a cold surge down her neck. And whether it’s the sensual vibration of Levi’s voice, or the hope she may escape the lamb burger, Thessaly relaxes with a smile.

  “Guys, I’d like you to meet Tess. She owns The Hive on Fulton.” Levi’s friendly yet authoritative voice hushes the group.

  After a few hellos and I love that place from the table of urban farmers, Levi turns into Thessaly, causing the rough denim of his jeans to scrape against her bare legs. “So yeah, it’s a fairly monumental week for the rooftop farm – we needed to celebrate.”

  “Levi, I understand.” Thessaly nods, glancing over the drink menu placed in front of her. “I just assumed we were on a date,” she adds shyly.

  “Hey,” Levi interrupts.

  As soon as Thessaly looks up from her menu to answer Levi, two waiters approach the table with platters of lollipop lamb chops, grilled chicken wings, and stir-fried kale. They refill the water glasses and remove the buckets of shrimp exoskeletons.

  The shorter waiter hovers near Thessaly and asks, “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Oh, a pear cider would be great,” she answers.

  When the waiter leaves, Levi gently places his hand on Thessaly’s knee, allowing his pinky finger to trace small circles on her thigh. “Hey.”

  Overwhelmed by the heat of his touch and the intense gaze of his indigo eyes, Thessaly utters, “Ha-eye.”

  Locking eyes and counting the shared breaths between them, Levi finally emits a low growl. “Let’s get out of here,” he suggests.

  “But I didn’t get my cider, or the yum-my k-ale,” she says flatly, each syllable choppier than the last.

  Smirking as he stands from the table, Levi offers Thessaly his hand and then turns to address his employees. “Tess and I have plans.”

  “Levi, thanks for dinner, man,” the chubby, bearded hipster on the far left mumbles.

  “Thank you, boss!” the two women chime in unison while filling their plates.

  “Yeah, yeah. This dinner does not mean you get to come in late tomorrow. Eight a.m., folks.” Levi nods and then tugs on Thessaly’s hand. “Ready?”

  “Yes,” she replies, tucking her clutch under her free arm. Turning to look over her shoulder, Thessaly adds politely, “It was nice meeting y’all.”

  Levi leads Thessaly back toward the large door, stopping by the hostess stand to sign the credit card tab. “Can you email me the bill?”

  “No problem, Mr. Jones. Enjoy your evening,” the hostess proffers while returning Levi’s American Express card.

  Thessaly and Levi walk along the crowded sidewalk as a couple completely in sync. It’s a comfortable gait for both, moving to the sounds of the City while dissolving into the blanket of humidity. At the next block, Levi pulls Thessaly in the direction of a shaved ice truck and laughs.

  “What would happen if we ask for every flavor of syrup?”

  “Other than it probably being brown in color? We would experience the tastiest shaved ice on the planet!” she chirps.

  Joining the long line, Thessaly shifts her weight every few minutes, smiling through the pain of blisters forming from her unforgiving pumps. “We’re next,” she says in relief.

  “Do you like shuffleboard?” Levi asks randomly.

  Moving to the counter to order, Thessaly glances at Levi’s profile – watching as he tightens his lips and rubs his chin. “Sure,” she replies.

  Ringing a bell, the young man in the shaved ice truck asks, “What’ll you have?”

  Levi places his arm on the counter of the truck and replies, “You have quite the creative menu. Although, the oatmeal chai surprise sounds a little scary.” Tapping the stainless steel counter, Levi demands, “Here’s what we want – orange, strawberry, lemon, peach, pineapple, and cherry.”

  “So you want all the flavors? That’s our clusterfuck.”

  “Right, but what if we don’t want the blue raspberry?” Levi leans into Thessaly and whispers, “If the shaved ice ends up being the color of your dress, then you have to kiss me.”

  Laughing, Thessaly agrees. “Can we add cream? And gummi worms?”

  “Now you’re livin’, Tess.” Slapping the counter to the beat of the churning ice machine, Levi beckons, “Dude, add some cream. And gummi worms. And two umbrella straws.”

  The young man in the food truck shakes his head and rolls his eyes, clearly at his daily limit with the random demands of the Seaport yuccies (young urban creatives.) Before buying a used food truck, Kirk Diamond was a bartender. Not a very good one – often dropping bottles of top shelf tequila while performing the iconic scene from Cocktail. When he stumbled upon a funky truck at a decent price, he cashed in his savings and set up seasonal rotations in the Seaport. Summer is Kirk’s biggest season, followed by the hard cider frozen treats during the fall.

  As Kirk packs the massive mound of delicate ice into a Chinese food container, people in line start to clap – prompting him to do a few tricks. He drizzles every hue of red, orange, and yellow syrup over the ice while busting a few dance moves from the nineties. The addition of the cream comes last – the grand finale. Kirk cups his hand to his ear, begging for more applause. Once he’s satisfied with the gratitude, he flips the plastic bottle of cream syrup in the air, spins around in a full rotation, and then catches the bottle behind his back.

  The line forming at the truck goes wild and demands more. Kirk simply s
miles and places a huge tip jar on the counter. Returning to the icy clusterfuck, Kirk adds the final garnishes – a wedge of pineapple, two gummi worms, two umbrellas, one straw, and one spoon. “Ten bucks,” Kirk announces.

  With a cocky smile and the expression of a victor, Levi takes the carton and passes it to Thessaly. He gives Kirk a ten, and then drops a five in the jar of singles. “Thanks, man.”

  As Levi and Thessaly walk off in the other direction, Levi grabs her waist and spins her in front of him. “Lemme see,” he demands.

  “See what?” she asks.

  Using the plastic spoon, Thessaly scoops the delicate yellow-orange ice into a small bite. She slowly brings the spoon toward Levi, watching as he licks his lips and opens his mouth. Levi leans forward and eats from the spoon, allowing the ice to melt on his tongue while the drops of orange sugar dissolve inside his mouth. “I’d say the color is your perfect match,” Levi whispers.

  “Oh really?” Thessaly teases, parting her lips for a kiss.

  Raising his eyebrows, Levi leans in and kisses Thessaly’s cheek. He takes the carton of ice and moves ahead of Thessaly, dangling a gummi worm above his mouth before ripping it from his fingers.

  Trailing behind him with an annoyed grin, Thessaly shouts, “Hey, Jones, I don’t normally like to follow!”

  Slowing his pace with his elbows out and his chest puffed, Levi smirks. “Oh?” He stops abruptly and pulls Thessaly close to him, one hand on her waist and the other hand holding the carton of shaved ice above her head.

  She smiles and asks, “Can I have some?”

  Nodding his head, Levi lowers the carton to feed Thessaly the wedge of fresh pineapple. He places the yellow tip between her parted lips, quietly groaning as her red mouth pinches the fruity flesh. Staring into each other’s eyes while crowds of people move around them, they smile – a secret smile dedicated to the sensual foreplay of sweet, juicy fruit.

  As they continue their stroll along Front Street, the conversation spans from a television series on Netflix, to the recipe of IKEA’s Swedish meatballs. There’s no stammering or awkward silence – the dialogue seems to flow as if it were written just for them. Thunder rumbles over the river, and the humidity spikes uncomfortably, but the two are so engaged in each other that they fail to realize the scene is changing. Because Thessaly and Levi are simply characters within the bigger story – passing figures on crowded streets, assimilated residents of a vibrant city, and specks of color on a gray canvas.

  Squeezing through a crowd of young New Yorkers, Levi takes Thessaly’s hand and leads her to a row of registration tents. Once a month during the summer, the Seaport sets up an outdoor game night – complete with Pictionary, shuffleboard, Jeopardy! and a free movie. Tonight’s viewing features the witty dynamic duo of Wesley Snipes and Woody Harrelson in White Men Can’t Jump, but the organic popcorn and hand-crafted root beer cost ten dollars.

  Levi picks the middle tent without a line. “We’d like to play shuffleboard,” he declares, adding his name and cell phone number to a clipboard.

  “There’s a thirty-minute wait for a court.” Standing behind one of three podiums designed like the set of Jeopardy! is a young woman wearing rhinestone glasses and a ‘50s diner uniform. She takes the clipboard from Levi and says, “You can walk around or sit in the outdoor waiting room over there. You’ll get a text when the court is available.”

  Levi tosses the shaved ice carton in the garbage and leads Thessaly to the outdoor living room. They grab an empty plastic loveseat facing one of the Seaport’s original boat slips. Thessaly removes her shoes and as gracefully as possible, sits on her leg. Tugging at the hem of her knee-length dress, she catches Levi staring at her legs.

  “Hey!” Thessaly teases.

  “When we met, you were wearing pants – let me enjoy your long legs.”

  “I’m sure it’s obvious I don’t wear dresses much,” she reveals.

  Resting his tan arm on the back of the love seat, Levi leans in to whisper, “I don’t either.” He smiles, dropping his hand on her shoulder. “Although, Dani used to dress me up and call me Laverne.”

  Confused by his ambiguous admission, Thessaly squints her eyes and purses her lips. “Danny?” she asks.

  “Yeah, my older sister.” Levi matches Thessaly’s quizzical expression and then laughs. “Dandelion Jones?”

  “Oh, wow, you were serious?”

  “Yep,” he replies. “Long or short story?”

  “The entertaining one.”

  “Our mom was Amish – like rode in a horse and buggy and churned butter under the candlelight. When she was a teenager, she would sneak off with her friends through the Pennsylvania wheat fields to party with modern civilization.”

  “Like Leanne in season three of Orange is the New Black!”

  “Is she the drug-dealing lesbian?”

  “No, the meth addict that works in the laundry room,” Thessaly replies flatly. “Sorry for the tangent – finish the story.”

  “Fine,” Levi agrees with a sigh. “When she was sixteen, a group of Amish friends accidentally left her behind at a dive bar. That was also the night she met my dad, a drummer for an eighties psychedelic rock band. After crashing with my dad in a trailer for a month, she returned to her parent’s farm, pregnant and scared, and needing their help. A meeting was called with the elders, and without much consideration for the health of my mom, she was shunned. My grandparents gave her a few hundred bucks, a Bible, and then sent on her way.”

  “Amazing. I never realized the culture was so hard on teens.”

  “Right? Well, my dad was only eighteen at the time and completely broke, so he quit the band and got a crappy job in a small town outside of Lancaster. They rented a one-bedroom cottage on the property of a hundred acre farm.”

  “I can see where this is going,” Thessaly says with a smile.

  “Are you picturing me in suspenders and a big hat?”

  “Tossing the hay around with a pitchfork.”

  “You’d enjoy me tossin’ the hay, wouldn’t you?” Levi taps his forehead against Thessaly’s head and continues. “So the old couple on the farm didn’t have any kids, and they just loved my parents. Reba and Chester, I think were their names.”

  “Great names.”

  “Speaking of names . . . usually the first-born Amish child takes the name of an elder, but Mom still had that streak of rebellion running through her veins. So on a stormy spring night, Dandelion Moon Jones was born.”

  “But you got the name of the elder.”

  “Yep, Levi is my grandfather.”

  “So what made her use an Amish custom with you?”

  “A few months before I was born, my parents finally tied the knot. As a wedding gift, Reba and Chester gave the farm to the Jones family on the condition that it never be sold to Hershey.” Levi scratches his chin and stares at the dark clouds in the sky. “I think they moved to Arizona or something because I remember their Christmas cards with Santa and a cactus.” Shrugging his shoulders, Levi continues. “Believing it was a sign in the decency of humanity, Mom and Dad vowed to give that tired farm a new life while helping the people of the community. They even opened their doors to Amish runaways, teaching them how to incorporate the farm life in a modern world.”

  “Did you have a lot of runaways over the years?”

  “Dozens. Mostly young men with beards and very little personality – except Hannah.” Levi waggles his brows and smiles devilishly.

  “Naughty boy. So you lived on a farm just like me, and yet here we sit on a plastic couch on the tip of Manhattan.”

  “Not as long as you, though. We moved to Harrisburg when I was in high school. Dad got a job as an agriculture consultant for the state, and Mom finally fulfilled her dream of owning a small bakery. Looking at my parents now, you would never know that they led former lives as a drummer and an Amish girl.”

  “And what happened to the farm?”

  “Dani and her family live there now. They conve
rted the main estate into a bed and breakfast.”

  “Nice,” Thessaly adds dreamily, staring into Levi’s dark blue eyes.

  “They did a great job – my old bedroom now has a fireplace where I once plastered Hilary Duff posters. We should go sometime.”

  As the thunder booms and a mist leaves the outdoor living room covered in condensation, several couples and groups of friends begin to leave the Seaport. But not Thessaly and Levi, they inch closer to one another, engrossed in their conversation.

  “I’d love to go.” Thessaly places her head on Levi’s shoulder and asks, “So how did you end up in Brooklyn?”

  Levi grins, his teeth blindingly white but his lips slightly tinted orange from the shaved ice. “You first. How did a tomboy from Asheville end up in New York – Downtown even?”

  Thessaly lifts her head from his shoulder, extends her arms and clasps her hands. Cracking her knuckles, she laughs nervously. This is that moment – the one where the truth becomes a part of the story arc. Turning into him, Thessaly admits, “I followed a boy.”

  Levi moves his mouth inches from Thessaly’s lips and whispers, “You don’t like to follow.”

  Caught up in the sexual tension, Thessaly grazes his lips and hushes, “And you?”

  “I nudge.”

  Interrupting their moment, Levi’s phone buzzes with a text message. Frowning, he reads aloud, “Game night canceled due to impending thunderstorm.” Levi looks up from his phone and scans the emptied outdoor space. “Shit, Tess, we should probably go soon.”

  Standing from the plastic couch, Levi offers his hand to Thessaly. One foot at a time, Thessaly squeezes back into her pumps, wincing in pain as she puts weight on her feet.

  “Um, take those off.”

  “What? No, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  “Take them off, right now.”

  Thessaly’s eyes expand in horror as she screeches, “I’m not walking barefoot, Levi!”

  Another rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning approach the pier. And then the rain starts – buckets of warm water pouring from the heavens like a dunking booth gone awry. Thessaly quietly snickers as she watches the rain drip from Levi’s nose to his chin. His damp black T-shirt clings to his body, revealing a defined, muscular stomach. Thessaly snickers, realizing that her wet makeup must resemble a face of melting wax.