131 Different Things Read online

  Who was I to blow against the wind? I knew I was mostly mad at myself. I spun around a couple times, something I’d done since I was a child so I could be dizzy instead of upset. I needed the old breath to be gone, so something new and cold could replace it. I was grateful for the winter air.

  Sara Seventeen ran out of the bar. “Sam, I almost forgot. When you see Vicki, can you give her this? She left it behind.” Sara wrapped a long red-and-white soccer hooligan scarf around my neck. She kissed me on the cheek. I almost asked about my phone, but what was the point? It was dead and gone. Useless, like me. Two peas in a pod, my phone and I.

  Sara ignored Francis’s outstretched arms and went back inside.

  eight

  women

  in their

  apartments

  1 san luis obispo 2016

  2 brooklyn 2001

  3 los angeles 2015

  4 brooklyn 1997

  5 berlin 2003

  6 los angeles 2014

  7 New York 2010

  8 amsterdam 2013

  seven bars

  one nightclub

  one loft

  & a diner

  5

  We went around the corner to 9th and C. There was a tourist S&M-themed bistro there and Vicki was friends with some of the doms. The doorway was an elaborate renassiance-fair pastiche: dragons, mead, whips, and witches in thigh-highs. I gripped the iron bar door handle with both hands. The door gave a satisfying whoosh as it opened against the cold. Francis followed closely behind. I asked him how I looked. He rolled his eyes but fixed my hair.

  The bar was packed. Tables full of men in suits and women in red and black dresses pointing and cackling. The entertainment was the waitstaff and the slaves chained by ribbon and leather to the waitresses. The waitresses were uniform fetish models in red pleather. The slaves were paunchy men exposing enough skin to laugh at but not so much that a tourist would be put off their escargot and old-fashioneds.

  On the walls were velvet tapestries with light pornography of the vaguely Asian variety. Kimonos and chi-fueled erections. In between awnings were more men, faces to the wall, entirely still.

  Francis and I got our eye rolls out of our systems by the entrance and made our way to the back, where Francis’s bouncer friend was working. Daryl greeted us with midlevel-complicated handshakes and half hugs.

  “Francis, you got my text about Vicki. Always happy to be of service. Welcome to hell, gentlemen.”

  “Is that what you guys have to say or are you just talking about, you know, work?”

  “Pick your poison, Big F. Hey, Sam, how you doing? You look like you got slapped.” He pushed the you so it was a play homosexual/homophobic put-on. Bouncers. So confusing.

  “Hey, Daryl. Naw, it’s the wind. Bracing. Thanks for hitting us up about Vicki. Buy you a drink?”

  “No thanks, Sammy. Two years sober this week. Feel great and check this shit.” He grabbed my hand and made me feel his stomach.

  “Damn, Daryl.”

  “Damn STRAIGHT.” Daryl flexed a bit more. “But lemme hook you ladies up. Yo! Lady Charon!”

  A waitress in a too-tight bustier strutted over, groveling man in tow. “I’m slammed. What’s up?”

  The slave sniffed at her shoulder and she slapped him hard.

  “Hey, Becky, sorry. Two Jamies and a soda water for myself. That okay with you?”

  He didn’t sound like he cared whether it was okay with her or not.

  She grunted and left. I scanned the room. I didn’t see Vicki but there were back rooms.

  “So you saw the girl?” Francis asked.

  “Oh yeah, came in and did a couple shots. Gave me a hug too. Sam, no disrespect, but that girl feels good up on a man. Never should have let that go. Not to mention she’s really come up in the world. Her credit card was nice. Not that we took it. I said, Girl, your money is no good here. Sam, I’m telling you. You fucked up.”

  He didn’t mean harm. I said, “Yeah, trying to fix that. Hard to maintain a relationship in the bar industry when the lady no longer drinks.”

  “Vicki quit drinking? I was wondering why I hadn’t seen her in like a minute! Girl could drink. Looks like it didn’t take.”

  “She was in AA too. You never saw her? Or are you just being anonymous?”

  Lady Charon came back. She took our tips. Her hand lingered on Francis’s but not on mine. Then she turned and screamed at one of the men at the wall: “WHY IS YOUR NOSE NOT TOUCHING THE WALL, WORM? WHY?”

  The table nearest the slave started clapping.

  “I never seen her at a meeting. But, you know, there are a lot of meetings. I’ve seen so many church basements it’s like I found the Lord. So me not seeing her? Don’t mean a thing.” Before I could ask if Vicki had told him where she’d go next, Daryl said, “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  One of the customers had taken the show too much to heart and thrown a handful of stirring straws at the chastised wall slave. Daryl loomed over the yuppie to give him his first warning. The women and other men at the table tittered. A surprise humiliation, on someone they knew, how exciting.

  Francis disappeared; scanning the room, I found him at the waitress station, leaning in on Becky. I suspected he was using Vicki as an excuse to show some interest. Francis could multitask.

  I was troubled. Not being seen at the better-populated Alcoholics Anonymous meetings wasn’t the same as cheating, but it felt similar. She’d started going to meetings when we were still together, leaving me reeling in an empty apartment over a bar we’d loved, with no one to drink with but my friends, who I hated. Had she been lying? Was she never going to meetings at all? Was Daryl lying? How strict could “anonymous” be? Did he have other reasons? He seemed real familiar with how attractive Vicki was.

  Francis was suddenly next to me and handed me a shot. It was more lime juice than vodka.

  I shout-whispered in Francis’s ear, “Do you see Daryl and Vicki together? Like, biblically?”

  Francis jerked his ear from the vicinity of my mouth and looked at me like I’d been insane for a while and he was tired of humoring me.

  “Sam, that’s insane. Or, whatever, if we’re going down that road, then yes, sure, definitely.”

  “Don’t mock me. You know how AA is. They all fuck and lie all the time. It’s part of the deal.”

  “No, Sam, they all fuck and tell the truth way too much. And Daryl has no reason to lie to you. He’s huge.” Francis shook his head again. “I’m your boy, but come on, dude. Let’s get out of here before your weirdness makes things at the S&M tourist trap weird.”

  Francis left a ten on the bar and we bullied our way to the exit. We were blocked by Daryl, who was throwing out the yuppie, gently but firmly. Yuppie’s date was behind them, hopping up and down and trying to hit Daryl on the head with her shoe. Francis grabbed her shoe and threw it to the side of the room, where it beaned a slave in his head.

  “Oh shit! Sorry, uh, worm! Thanks for your help, Daryl!” Francis elbowed me hard so I’d thank Daryl too, but I wouldn’t do it. I felt jealous of Daryl’s alcoholism.

  But weather behind us gave way to the weather in front and we were out on the street.

  fifteen

  women

  working

  at night

  1 los angeles 2015

  2–3 los angeles 2016

  4–10 ho chi minh city 2016

  11–13 los angeles 2016

  14 new york 2009

  15 New York 2011

  16 cleveland 2015

  seven bars

  one nightclub

  one loft

  & a diner

  6

  I popped my collar against the winter wind and wished I didn’t look so good. A nice snowsuit with panda mittens, maybe a butt flap, would have been grand. It was insanely cold. We waved at a couple cabs but Saturday was catching up to us and none were empty.

  Not having a better idea, and the FDR being one direction and the no-man’s-lan
d above 14th Street being another, we walked west to Avenue B. We saw Steve and Young Steve smoking cigarettes across the street so we ducked into a bodega to avoid them.

  The bodega was shockingly well lit. Maybe I was drunker than I thought. The man behind the counter was most likely from Yemen and I almost greeted him with an “As-salāmuʿalaykum” but I never knew if I was being condescending or friendly or if I had the region/religion right, so I muttered a mishmash like I always did. I thought good intentions should telegraph themselves but Vicki had expected me, being eight years older, to know things. But I was always too afraid to offend to show off.

  A couple Puerto Rican youths were standing up against the Little Debbie shelf. Their eyes were at half-lid, like they were extremely stoned or had seen enough videos to know what looked threatening. They were bobbing up and down as if to music. I didn’t see any earbuds or hear any music besides the soft freestyle coming from the bodega radio. Teens and their unheard music made me nervous. I was scared of anyone, of any ethnicity, under the age of twenty. I avoided them and asked for the cheapest pack of smokes. Francis was oblivious and reached over one of the youth’s shoulders. The sleepy-eyed kid jerked to the side.

  “Ayo!”

  “Sorry. Want a Cosmic Brownie.”

  “I got your cosmic brownie, faggot.”

  The other kid covered his mouth and doubled over laughing like his puffy vest was made of lead.

  Francis backed away with his snack cake.

  “Naw. This Cosmic Brownie. Little Debbie.”

  “You a little Debbie, bitch.” He gripped his crotch and swayed toward us. We didn’t budge and he stopped just in front of Francis. He was a few inches shorter and looking at Francis’s chin. His Yankees cap pointed in the direction of the door.

  I paid ten dollars for the generic cigarettes and ninety-nine cents for the Cosmic Brownies while Francis and Sleepy Not Sleepy looked at each other. I could see Francis weighing his options: can’t hit a kid, scared to die, really want to hit the kid, scared to lose and look like a pussy in front of bodega worker, me, and God. I’d been through this a million times. I gripped Francis’s shoulder.

  “It’s Saturday night. Cops everywhere and no one leaves the Tombs till Monday. Let’s do this another time, hey?”

  The kid responded in Francis’s stead: “Yeah, yeah, another time. Or now. I don’t give a fuck, grunge faggot motherfuckers.”

  Francis shrugged and laughed. “Fair enough.”

  We exited and lit cigarettes. The kids didn’t follow.

  “Wonder how many dudes those retards are gonna have to obstruct before they get the fight they want,” I mused.

  “I’ll give it to them . . .” Francis turned around.

  “Leave it. They’re sixteen. You and I were the same way. Less fighty maybe. Just as retarded.”

  “Maybe you. I was awesome and polite. New Brunswick’s sweetest.”

  I still liked to tease him about his very short-lived straight-edge past. “You wore an Earth Crisis hoodie and punched dudes for wearing suede.”

  “Ha-ha. Nailed to the X, Sam. Let’s go find drugs.”

  “Vicki.”

  “Oh yeah. Love. Let’s see what the magic eight ball says.” Francis touched his phone. I huddled closer for warmth. “Castle Takes the King is having an open bar in back. That’s as likely as not?”

  Despite the fact that hardly anyone we knew paid for drinks, an open bar always instilled a quickening of the pulse. Even on the borderlands of 14th Street, what we jokingly referred to as “Uptown.” Really It was Midtown we all feared: money and real jobs and bad shoes. Manhattan, it could be argued, was all Midtown now.

  “Vicki did love an open bar. That guy from what-the-fuck still own Castle?”

  Castle Takes the King was a rocker bar that, despite being horrifically out of fashion, had maintained a pricey location by Avenue A. It was near Stuytown and was financed by the singer of a New Jersey gothic-inclined pop punk band that had gotten enormous in the wake of Green Day. Francis and I pretended to never remember what they were called even though we’d worn their shirts in our tweens.

  Cabs were still impossible so we double-timed to 14th and were actually sweating when we got there. There was a crowd of smokers in front of the place and a wait to get in while the burly doorman checked IDs with an electronic scanner.

  Luckily, even though we didn’t know the bouncer, we looked the type that rocker bars want on Saturday nights to offset the squares, so he let us cut the line. At most places, we’d be scumbags at worst and haphazardly dressed bros at best. But at a place like Castle, men and women with obscure patches were desired. A bar owner never knew who was taking pictures, and wouldn’t want their Saturday nights represented by off-weight Midwestern girls in tiaras. We weren’t as good as attractive women, but we’d do. A manager who vaguely recalled our faces ushered us to the bar and bought us shots.

  “Thanks for dropping by, guys. It is INSANE in the back. In. Sane.” The manager had shoulder-length red hair and a well-tended beard.

  We were shoved up against a face-sucking couple. I searched the crowd, making small leaps to gain some clarity. Helpfully, Francis shouted, “Thanks for having us! Seems crazy up front too! Good for you guys! Hey! Have you seen Vicki?”

  The manager raised his arms in an exaggerated fashion. His eyes were back on the door. It was his job. “No! Sorry! Madness!”

  “Do you know who Vicki is?”

  The manger shrugged and shook his head. “Mad! Ness! Go in the back! Patterson would LOVE to see you! Can’t hang!!”

  The manager thought we were someone else. Aging rockers all looked the same. We all have thin jackets and crow’s feet around the eyes.

  Francis winked at me and we followed the guy through the crowd. Closer to the VIP room, the hair got longer or more sculpted. The T-shirts became more threadbare. There were cowboy shirts. Tattoos meant to be asked about. It was like a retirement home for guys who had dated Suicide Girls. Mötley Crüe was blaring at a volume well beyond irony and beer was spilling everywhere.

  Francis yelled into my ear: “I thought this was a rockabilly bar! This is hella unrootsy!”

  “Saturday night! Concessions!”

  At the curtain protecting the back room the manager pointed to us and gave the bouncer a thumbs-up. The bouncer, like the manager, was wearing a metal T-shirt from a band I didn’t know. He waved us through.

  It was an older crowd. I didn’t see Vicki but there was a waitress I recognized. She must have texted Francis. She wasn’t an ex, just on his to-do list. Next to her, Patterson Childs was holding court. When he laughed, everyone around him laughed. The waitress was extremely busy. She was passing orders to the bartender and making whatever drinks were within reach. New York licensing required a waitress for some establishments, so some bars sidestepped it by just having two bartenders, with one on each side of the bar.

  Francis put an arm around the waitress and said something in her ear. She laughed and rolled her eyes. She was wearing a band T-shirt too: Lydia Lunch. Walking that fine line between obscurity and canon. I imagined that some of her pillow talk consisted of complaining about customers who thought she was wearing Joan Jett.

  At the bar we were in danger of getting hit by Patterson Childs’s expansive arm motions. I could smell his patchouli. He was wearing a three-piece black wool suit. His tie was also black. He had a wallet chain. His hair was peroxide blond and standing straight up. He had knuckle tattoos that he hadn’t had in the nineties. His band was called Artemis Mine Artemis. Their shirt I wore as a baby punk showed the death of St. Sebastian but with a hot girl in the saint’s place, pierced by arrows up to her bust. Patterson Childs might have half nodded at me, but he was so animated I couldn’t tell for sure.

  Francis was introducing me to the waitress though I didn’t catch her name.

  “I know Sam,” she said. “Nice to see you again!”

  I smiled too wide. She knew I was blanking. “Hi! Hey! Good to
see you! . . . So! Is Vicki here?”

  She yelled in my ear that some frat guy had spilled an entire beer down the back of Vicki’s dress. So she poured a drink over his head and went home to change. My heart at once sank and vaguely soared. A near miss. I wanted so badly to see Vicki but I wanted her full attention when I did, not to be a bit player in her screwball antics. My organs raged against each other till my skin felt taut and damp. Apparently, the altercation had been hilarious. Apparently, Patterson Childs had found it particularly hilarious.

  Francis ventured off to the bathroom so I held both our drinks. I was in the way of the waitress, with everyone trying to get drinks, and Patterson Childs’s storytelling, but there was nowhere to go. The couches were taken and there were go-go dancers on every table. I stared at one’s ass for a while. It stirred nothing but further anxiety. I remembered Vicki and I once being at another of Patterson’s parties, another borderline-ironic hard rock night, where Patterson had extravagantly bought two shots at a time, even though the three of us were ostensibly talking. Vicki had whispered that I was being “silly” and unfriendly. Maybe I was.

  The beer smell was now getting to me and I worried that when Vicki and I reunited, I would slur or tell an obvious lie. I felt heat rising. I was sweating.

  Someone tapped my shoulder and I almost spilled my drink on Patterson Childs’s beautifully pressed suit. He mock-jumped back and put his hands up. He laughed. Everyone around him laughed. Was I laughing? I was. But there was a sour tang coating my tongue.

  “Dude! I know you! You work at Pym’s Cup! Man, that place is wild!”

  “That’s right, man.” We’d met over a dozen times.

  “Man, I haven’t been there is a minute! I did some dirt there, man. Holy shit! What’s your name again? Sorry! I meet a lot of people!”

  “Sam! I’m Sam!”

  Patterson couldn’t hear me.

  “Never mind!” I shouted. “It’s not important!”

  “That’s a crazy attitude! Every soul is important, motherfucker! I am SERIOUS! Every soul!”