Brief Chronicle of Another Stupid Heartbreak

by Adi Alsaid

  We exited the park at Sixtieth Street, walking past that monument of a dude on a horse. “What’d be your ideal job, then?” I asked Iris. “International business sounds worldly and stuff, but I don’t actually know how the real world works and what kind of job you’d end up in.”

  “To be honest, I don’t really know either. I’m kind of picturing a job that pays me to travel the world. I know it would be a lot more corporate than that, but I’ll let future Iris worry about that part. For now I think I’m allowed to dream of a more idealized version of the job market.”

  “Dude, I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to say ‘job market’ until you’re twenty-five.”

  Another throaty laugh from her. “Don’t you have a job?”

  “Two, technically. But that’s totally different than discussing the job market. Hang on to your youthful innocence, new friend. The world will rip it away soon enough.”

  “You’re a bit of a cynic, aren’t you?”

  “Depends on the subject. I totally believe in aliens, ghosts, and that the world is slightly more good than bad. But I’ve got serious side-eye toward the Illuminati, karma, and anyone who’s not a fan of cilantro.”

  “You talked shit about being alone with your thoughts, but you’ve clearly spent some time mulling this over.”

  “Exactly! And look at the disastrous nonsense that comes from it.”

  She reached over and gave me a light smack on the arm. We went on like that for about an hour, making our way vaguely downtown. We snaked our way around Times Square, because no matter how much love one had for New York, it never quite extended to those few hellish blocks.

  My mom did call about half a dozen times, but I managed to get permission to call this a free night out on the town. They happen rarely with Mom, who still has memories of New York in the crime-ridden eighties when she moved here. But I’d been feeding her a steady stream of statistics and some guilt-tripping tirades about how if she doesn’t let me have some freedom I’ll overcompensate as soon as I move out and she’ll only ever see me during major holidays or familial crises.

  When we hit Union Square I realized I’d forgotten to text Pete back, so I sent him a quick, apologetic message then put my phone away, leading Iris quickly past the Barnes and Noble. It was dark by then, and in the distance we could hear thunder rolling in, the occasional flash of lightning visible between buildings.

  Iris didn’t seem too worried about oncoming rain, and that kind of confidence about your possessions’ impermeability is really contagious. There’s a certain momentum to walking through Manhattan with someone.

  “I’m hungry,” Iris said, when we were deep into NYU territory. “You know anything good around here that’s not insanely expensive?”

  “Oh sure. Are you a souvlaki girl like myself, or are you more into hot dogs?”

  “Definitely souvlaki, but I’m feeling something a little more special today.” She stopped walking when we were in front of the Comedy Cellar, nearly colliding with a group of college-looking bros on their way to a nearby bar. I cringed, waiting for them to turn around and say something gross. Thankfully, they spared us. “What about this place?”

  Coincidentally, she was pointing at Mamoun’s. “Ah, it’s fantastic. But I just ate there the other night.”

  “Don’t like repeats?”

  “I would eat at Mamoun’s every day of my life. But I went half-insane on the hot sauce and I think my digestive system probably needs a break.”

  “Respect,” Iris said. She looked around a little longer, then pulled out her phone. I would have done the same thing but I was relishing the fact that my mom hadn’t texted or called in an hour and I decided to let Iris do the Googling.

  “Comedy show, ladies!”

  I looked behind us. The door guy at the Comedy Cellar was sitting on a bar stool, looking bored. He had his hands on his knees, a tight V-neck showing off his biceps, a diamond stud in his nostril. “Ten bucks, two hours of comedy,” he said, already looking away from us, directing the pitch at anyone who happened to be nearby. Probably wasn’t working off commission.

  Iris looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “The internet says the food here is surprisingly good. Could be fun to have a comedy show with dinner.”

  “Oh sure, laughter is a fun thing. Easily top five on my all-time hobbies list. If I could laugh every day I would.”

  “You’re such a weirdo.”

  “I just love to laugh, Iris, what can I say,” I deadpanned.

  We approached the doorman, who very quickly requested our IDs, since apparently you have to be over twenty-one to laugh when you’re in the proximity of alcohol. I was about to turn away, thinking maybe Mamoun’s again wouldn’t be too bad. Then Iris touched my forearm and gave me a look, mouthing a few words that I didn’t understand. She pulled out an ID and confidently handed it over to the buff doorman. I tried to act chill about this so as to not ruin our chances, though I had no idea how I was about to get in. Maybe Iris was so cool she didn’t have just one fake ID, but a whole slew of them, for everyone she’d ever met.

  That’s an extraordinarily stupid idea, which proves that I was right to shut up. Iris managed to convince the doorman that I was visiting from out of the country and had not thought to bring my passport along for dinner. He eyed us suspiciously, but halfheartedly, as if he was only doing it in case someone else was watching. Then he said, “Ten bucks,” again and waved us through after we handed him the money.

  Between the cover charge and the food, I ended up spending way more than I ever should have on dinner. But I realized during a bathroom break why I was so happy to keep the night going, why I could shrug off the financial irresponsibility: I hadn’t thought about Leo in hours. You can’t put a price on that kind of inner peace (and if you could, forty bucks seemed like an okay deal).

  We watched a pretty great lineup of comedians, a couple of which were marginally famous, and one of them a little more famous than that. We got a few weird looks from the other customers and our server kept eyeing us as if we were planning to run out on the bill, but the food was, as the internet had predicted, surprisingly good for a comedy club. When we left, I was a little sad that the night would be over, but thankful that I’d met up with Iris, and that I’d decided not to push the subject of her and Cal so I could have this night. A wave of panic started to build over the fact that I hadn’t. Back on MacDougal Street, we could hear a rowdy crowd at Mamoun’s, one girl’s voice carrying over the street noise.

  “This was fun,” I said. “I’m glad we met up.”

  Iris smiled, but then furrowed her brow. “I’m not ready to go home. Stay out with me.”

  I looked at my phone to check the time. I still had a couple hours until my curfew, and going back home might mean having to face thoughts of Leo and my still-unwritten article. “You make a very compelling argument. Where to next?”

  11

  SPEAK EASY

  Iris and I were crammed into a phone booth at a gourmet hot dog restaurant.

  “We might get lucky, since it’s a weeknight,” I said. I’d read about this spot on Misnomer’s nightlife section. At the time, I’d felt it was the most asinine idea for a speakeasy that I could think of, but now that I was standing in the phone booth waiting for some unseen voice to grant me permission inside, I couldn’t help but feel like the gimmick was working on me.

  The phone rang on my end a few times. Iris was so close to me I could smell her, something fruity and almost musky, covered up by a sheen of cigarette smoke from the comedy club. A hostess picked up the line from somewhere unseen.

  We were told in a very snooty voice that it’d be a twenty-five minute wait at least, so we went out to the street and talked about some TV shows we’d binge-watched lately. Three minutes later a text message told us to go back to the phone booth and dial 1, after which the wall gave way to reveal an asto
undingly attractive Asian girl in a high ponytail. She eyed us up and down, then grabbed two leather-bound menus and walked us over to the tiny bar. A food menu with secret hot dog options was hanging over the bottles of alcohol, the writing on which was hard to make out in the dark. A few candles in glasses flickered on the bar, casting a pale glow around the closet-sized room. Only a handful of other people were at the bar, their conversations carrying over the lounge techno music playing from the speakers.

  “I’m confused as to why hip twentysomethings choose to hang out here,” Iris said to me. The hostess looked at us over her shoulder. “Er, fellow twentysomethings,” Iris added.

  “It’s all about wanting what you can’t have. This place has room for about seven people, so they’re always sold out and it’s super hard to get in. Which makes everyone want to be here.”

  “That’s so transparent though. How do people fall for it?”

  “Dude, we’re here. We fell for it.”

  “Well,” Iris said, looking around. “I’ve never been to a speakeasy. I was picturing something a lot more...”

  “Like a gangster from the ’20s?”

  “Exactly. I wanted to drink out of a bathtub.”

  Two napkins landed in front of us. “Lucky for you we serve our gin in tiny bathtubs.” We looked up to see another astoundingly attractive employee, this one a Latino bartender. He looked like he was about to burst out singing a deeply romantic ballad and then star in a Mexican soap opera as a doctor with an evil twin and illegitimate quintuplets or something. “What’ll you have, ladies?”

  This was Daniel, who became the love of our lives. For the night anyway. Especially when he served us without asking for ID, then kept the drinks coming without ever letting his gorgeous smile falter.

  “Seriously, how is he doing that? He’s been smiling nonstop for an entire hour and it doesn’t even look like he’s faking it. He must have the strongest cheek muscles of all time.”

  “I think they just call them cheeks,” Iris said, trying to get a hold of the curly straw in her tiki drink while not looking away from Daniel, so her tongue kept feeling around blindly for it. A couple times she went face-first into the glass.

  “They can call them whatever they want, those bad boys are muscles.” I looked into the bottom of my glass, scooping out a piece of fruit with my straw. “Leo has great cheeks,” I mumbled. “I liked rubbing my face on them.”

  “Who’s Leo?”

  “Oh, right, you don’t know him.” I sucked down the last few drops from the bottom of my glass, feeling light-headed when I tilted my head back. “It’s a pretty astonishing feat that I haven’t brought him up until now. Pete would be proud.”

  “Girl, who is Pete?” Iris giggled, then motioned for two more drinks.

  “I don’t know if I should have more. It’s late and I have to work like two and a half hours to pay for each of these.”

  “It’s on me,” she said. “Anyway, I’m not ready to leave Daniel yet. Now tell me about these boys.” When Daniel had acknowledged her and started working on our drinks, she leaned her elbow onto the bar, turning her body so she could face me. The place had filled up as the night went on, every seat taken by überhip people in unseasonable leather jackets and plaid shirts.

  I told her about Pete first, thinking I’d avoid mentioning the fact that I think of him as a wise, old uncle, but almost immediately saying that. “I don’t even know how his advice is always on point, because the dude is technically younger than me and doesn’t even seem to have a life outside of me and books. Which should make him smart, sure, but just book smart, right? You can’t learn everything from those wonderful papery bastards.” I took a breath to accept another drink, thinking it was a really bad idea but also kinda hoping my fingers would brush Daniel’s. “There’s just no one I feel more like myself around than Pete,” I went on. “I’m funnier around him, completely unembarrassed.”

  “Are you into him?”

  “You shut your goddamn mouth,” I said. “No. Didn’t you hear me say the word uncle to describe him a second ago, you freak? Plus, I don’t think Pete is really attracted to anyone. We have this game we play at the theater called I Would Bone That Person, and... Well, the details don’t really matter. No, Pete’s a friend, and he’s been my moral compass in this whole Leo thing.”

  “Still don’t know who Leo is,” Iris said. The woman sitting next to me shifted in her seat, accidentally bumping me with her elbow and making me take heed of the moment. A subdued pop song played on the speakers, competing with the din of conversation at the bar. At a glance, I could see how Iris and I could fit seamlessly into this crowd. Iris was stylish enough anyway. She was smiley, her eyes glazed over with booze and newfound friendship. For the first time since my breakup, I felt the possibilities of being out and about with strangers, the strangeness of where your life could go, and how easily.

  “Leo’s my ex. The one who dumped me for the same reason you kind of broke up with Cal.”

  “Right! You’d mentioned him.” Iris pushed herself away from the bar, straightening out and then stretching a little to get her back to crack. “Tell me about him.”

  I looked down at my drink, rolling little snowballs out of the napkin Daniel had set beneath the glass. “He’s a prick and I love him.”

  “Great, now with a little more nuance.”

  I bit my lip and kept rolling snowballs. “He’s not really a prick. But I do love him.” Bits of conversation from the lady who’d bumped into me kept floating over my shoulder, and it took a lot of effort not to chase after them. She’d used certain words that usually promised a rich eavesdropping session, especially when used within the same paragraph: cheated, shotgun, and, most notably (though I have to admit that I hadn’t ever heard this particular string of colorful words used together), that stripper from Alabama. I turned over my shoulder to get a glance at the woman and whomever she was with, but there was nothing particularly interesting about them, and their conversation got too quiet to overhear.

  My pause was excessive, I knew, but I did mean to go on and be open with Iris. But then I took a long gulp from my drink, and then another, and before I knew it the moment had become this awkward avoidance of a topic I was more than happy to talk about. Just, not then. I wanted to enjoy the night.

  Thankfully, Iris was better at being a human person, and instead of dwelling on it, she changed the topic, asking me if I’d heard what the people behind me had just said. We finished our drinks right as it was about to turn midnight, which meant I’d have to pay for a cab to get home, even though there was zero chance I was going to beat my curfew. Like clockwork, Mom called just as we left the bar. I didn’t want to answer because I was afraid of the background noise and my voice slurring from Daniel’s magical elixirs of booze and sexuality, so I let it ring, then texted back.

  LU

  sorry! at the subway but train’s running late. :/ don’t be mad.

  MOM

  I’m mad. Ur grounded until yur 21. 23 if I have trouble waking up in the mornng.

  LU

  Har har. You can go to bed now. I’ll be home soon, promise. I’m okay, with a friend.

  MOM

  Can’t sleep. Wht if I Wake up and ur dead?

  LU

  Mom.

  MOM

  Good night, Lucinda.

  I sighed with a semblance of relief, hoping she really would go to bed so she wouldn’t smell the booze on me when I got home. There were a few other notifications on my screen, but reading them made my eyes hate the world, and the fact that it contained things other than me and Iris and this lovely night, so I tucked my phone away.

  “Was that a sigh of relief I just heard?” Iris did a little shimmy where she stood, raising her eyebrows up and down repeatedly as if she was saying something suggestive. “Which means your mom’s probably not going to wait up for yo
u, which means you’re in the clear to hang out a little longer.”

  I groaned. “How are you that smart? Such powers of deduction. I’m gonna call you House.”

  “What? Is that a weight joke?”

  “No, like the TV show about the doctor. You never watched that?” Iris shook her head and shrugged, pulling out her own phone and typing out a message. “I binged three seasons and then had a bunch of dreams that I had cancer.”

  “Sounds like a blast,” Iris said, still looking down at her screen. Then her phone vibrated and a smile spread across her ruby-red lips. “C’mon, I’ve got a cool spot we can go to.” She started walking away before I could protest. Although I guess that’s not quite true. I could have protested at her retreating back, or maybe protested louder than my initial instinct would dictate. But anyway, I decided to hold my protest and just follow her because inertia or psychology or some other science told me it was easier to do so.

  I rushed to catch up to her, noticing that she was smiling as she was walking. Her hands were in her dress’s pockets, and she had this absolutely serene look on her face, like she was exactly where she needed to be in the world. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that in my life, much less the same day I was weeping about the heartbreak of a relationship I knew would be over in August.

  The way Iris Castillo walked through New York City made me envious. I’m not sure exactly of what. Just her, I guess. Or maybe not envious. I was in awe. Which is why I followed her back up Broadway toward Madison Square Park, avoiding puddles from a rainstorm we’d apparently missed while at the speakeasy. It almost looked like we were heading to the park, which made me wonder if I should tell her about how I’d met Cal on that bench. Then she made a turn and started knocking on the front door of the Flatiron Building. I’d lived in New York City my whole life and had admired the hell out of this particular landmark’s aesthetics, but I had absolutely zero knowledge about what went on within its diagonal walls. For all I knew it was a factory where they pounded iron into flat sheets or something. All I knew then was that it probably wasn’t a place two buzzed eighteen-year-olds belonged after-hours.