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I heard footsteps and someone calling my name. I couldn’t tell who it was over the traffic and I didn’t turn around. Instead, I ran all the way up to Houston where a couple was getting out of a cab. I leapt in and slammed the door.

“Where to, sister?”

“Uptown. No. Rivington Street. No. Shit.” My voice was starting to crack. “I’m sorry. Can you just go around the block, a couple of blocks actually, please, thanks?” He put his foot down on the accelerator about the same time that I felt the first bursting sob break out of my throat.

Chapter 33

We drove around a little, circled Tompkins Square Park, while I sat in the dark and tried to get myself under control. Every so often, the cabbie would look in his rear view mirror and say, “all right girlie?” in the kind of accent I thought didn’t exist anymore. The last time I’d taken a cab, late at night, drunk, I managed to snap out of my delirious state long enough to be surprised that the driver was a Muslim woman wearing a head scarf. She literally rolled her eyes when she asked me how much change I wanted back and I burbled out, I don’t know. She looked a bit disgusted. I felt bad. She was probably a math professor, doing this because she had to, and some drunken fool couldn’t even add up a tip.

But this guy, with his growly voice and sad brown eyes, reminded me of a cab driver from a movie. Which one? Which one? I couldn’t believe I was thinking about it. My life was in shreds, and I was trying to work out which fictional character he reminded me of. I laughed, a little too loudly. He looked back at me, startled.

“Look, lady, I could drive you around all night and use up your money, but it’s the end of my shift and I need a beer. You should go home. Or,” he hesitated, “can I buy you a beer?” He tried to meet my eyes as often as he could in the mirror. “No funny business, I promise. Look, I know a decent bar right near here. One beer. Then you can get someone else to drive you around, ok?”

I was torn. Don’t go out with strangers. Especially not ones who have been watching you cry in their cracked vinyl backseat. But all the alarm bells going off were irrational, and a bit late, I thought. Where were you when I was busy storming out of the restaurant and ruining my life? Ringing off the wall, but I had been too intent on destruction to listen. I opened the window all the way and let in some cool night air. The light changed. Deadlines. 3, 2, 1, green. I forced myself to speak, stabbing at the switch to close the window at the same time. “Ok. Yeah. Why not? Near here?”

“Yeah, right near here. One of the last decent places left.” He drove more energetically now, and pulled into a loading zone that had passed its hours of limit. “Nice. Come on.”

I got out, a little unsteady. I looked around, nervously. We were still in the neighborhood of my outburst. I scanned the street. No vivid shirts. No dark cars. No one I knew. Good.

The driver looked at me oddly, as he locked the doors. “Are you on the run from somebody? Did someone hurt you?”

I glanced at him. I wasn’t sure I was in the mood for sharing. “Yeah, well, sort of. And no, I’m fine. I just don’t want to see…someone.”

“Ok, that’s your deal. No fights though, right? I just want a drink. And you look like you could use one.” He laughed. “Or another one, maybe, huh?” He seemed to find this very funny, and we walked along the street, with him laughing to himself. I tried to surreptitiously wipe away the tears and smudged makeup from my eyes, I hoped I didn’t look too bad. It was one thing to curl up in on yourself in the back of a car, another to go out on the street with pain and suffering etched all over you. Loser, sad case drunk. No.

He held the door open for me, and we went into the long darkened room, simple and straightforward. Some stools. Some red sofas towards the back. The centerpiece—a big old fashioned wooden bar facing the oversized clear glass windows. They were unexpectedly clean. The bartender looked up when we came in, and finished what he was doing and came over. The two shook hands across the bar. “Frank my man. What’s new? The usual? And who’s this?”

“Steve, this is my new friend. I’m buying her a drink. What do you want, sweetheart?”

I hesitated. “What are you having?”

Steve answered for him. “A Brooklyn, and a shot of Jack. Right, Frank?”

“You know it.”

Frank looked at me. “Anything you want. Glass of wine?”

I shook my head. “No, same for me if that’s ok. Thanks. Really.”

Steve adjusted the plastic strap on his trucker hat meaningfully—some garish white and yellow thing proclaiming 24/7 happiness in New Jersey—and went over to grab glasses for the beer. I hoisted myself up on one of the stools, took off my jacket and scrunched it up on my lap, not really wanting to talk. At least I didn’t have to pretend anything. Whether they liked me or not, it didn’t matter. I breathed a sigh of relief, and mumbled “fuck it all anyway.”

The beers arrived and I was about to pick up my glass, when the cab driver stopped me. “Hey. You gotta do things right. First, the shot. And before that first, first I don’t drink with people I haven’t been properly introduced to yet. I’m Frank.” He stuck out his hand. I grabbed it, and shook it. Not sweaty, not polished. Just a hand. Good.

“I’m Lily. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise. Now isn’t this better than driving around?” We raised our shot glasses and cheered. I chucked the burning stuff down my throat and put the glass down, grabbing for the beer. His eyes widened a little. “Huh, done that before, yeah? I guess you needed one.”

I didn’t say anything. We sat there for a while, not speaking, listening to the weird mix of music on Steve’s iPod. He came over finally and stood in front of us. “You two are sure quiet. You want another beer? On the house. It’s late. Frank here, I’m sure the bar owes him a beer. And you’re here with him.”

I laughed. “Yeah, sure. Why not? Thanks, thanks a lot. I mean it.”

Frank looked more relaxed when he heard me speak. “Yeah Steve. You owe me one. That’s right. You got that right, for once.” They both laughed, a kind of matching ridiculous half snort that made me laugh. “What’s so funny Lily? You cheering up now?”

We clinked glasses again. “Yeah, I guess.”

He put down his glass after a long slug of beer and frowned at me. “So what happened, Lily? Was he chasing you? Did you turn him down? Prick. I’m sure he deserved it.”

I swallowed another gulp of beer. God this felt so normal. Yes. Fuck them. “Yeah, they were both acting like jerks.”

“Both of them?” Frank put down his beer abruptly on the wooden bar. “I can’t fight off two of them, girlie, and Steve here, well, Steve, he doesn’t fight anymore. You get my drift? Are they both after you? Do you owe them anything…?” Steve gave him a look that cut him off. His tone was light, but there was a slight worried look in his eye, like he hadn’t been expecting to hear complications. And didn’t want to, either. He had played Good Samaritan up to a point. And this was the point.

“No, no. Don’t worry,” I said, expansively. “One’s my boss. He just wants to run my life. And sleep with me. The other one, well…” I trailed off. My throat had closed up again.

“Oh, now I get it. The other one, huh? You love him? Is he good looking? No, don’t answer that.’ Steve had come over now, and was resting his elbows on the bar, listening. “They’re all good looking, aren’t they? You’ve seen a couple of fights in here over the ladies, haven’t you Steven?”

The bartender groaned affirmatively. “Oh yeah. Oh yeah. I keep out of it. I pour. I don’t pour. That’s it.”

Frank was warming to his subject. “Remember the time those two guys started slapping each other, and then the girl threw down and punched one of them in the face? Shit that was funny.”

“You didn’t have to clear it up,” said Steve, mournfully. “Idiots. I don’t want ’em in here.”

Frank turned to me. “You sure no one is chasing you?”

They’d probably never be chasing me again. Wasn’t I at the age I’d been warned about? I suddenly realized they were both staring at me, waiting for an answer. “No.” They didn’t look convinced, so I repeated myself, a little more loudly. “No. No. Really. I think I blew it. No job either. Turned down the boss. And the boyfriend. Who wasn’t a boyfriend. I know. I know. I thought I loved him…” I stopped. I didn’t want to say it out loud. It sounded too true, too dangerous. I was just drunk enough to start talking. And not stop. Or texting. Texting. That was an idea. Trevor. Yes. No.

Frank cleared his throat. “Well, at least you’re not crying. Anymore.” He glanced up at Steve. “She was upset, Steve. In the cab.”

He rolled his eyes. I thought I saw him mouth “sucker” in Frank’s direction. Damn. Was this going to be one more someone else who wanted something else from me? They’re just being nice. Play nice. I tried to smile. “No, I’m ok. Now. It’s fine. Really. The beer’s great. I like this place. I just need to think, that’s all. I’m sorry I’m not very good company.”

“Sweetheart, when you look the way you do, talk is optional. You’re decorating the place just sitting there. Here.” He turned his back on us, and took down the bottle of Jack. “Come on, the good stuff. On me. One for each of us. Life’s hard enough.”

He poured, and I tried out a small smile, quickly wiping away another tear. Drunk, sentimental fool. They just want something in their lives, a bit of fun. Can’t I even do that? Sit here and drink their liquor. Make some small talk. So generous. I thanked them both, and tried to think of something to say. But I had nothing. There was nothing. Everything I’d thought I was, I wasn’t. Anymore.

So I turned towards the window and looked out at the street while they discussed the basketball season and the upcoming games while Steve, the bartender, went off every so often to serve the few remaining customers. I drifted away a bit, letting the rhythm of their sentences stuffed with unfamiliar names wash over me as I watched the people on the street walking by. It was a constantly changing view, still moving, but we were heading down the slope to where being out late became another cold, empty night turning into another grey morning. I was past being upset. I wasn’t even angry anymore. They—Dave and Tristan—they hadn’t done anything out of character. I’d just wanted my freedom. And fucking piece of luck, I had it. So I sat there and watched more people go by. Hell, it was a Tuesday. Didn’t these people have jobs? So what was I doing there? I didn’t have a job anymore. Perfect. Or I’d be demoted. And then I’d leave on my own. That’s probably what would happen.

Frank said something and I nodded. What? Yes, I’d go home soon. No, not yet. Yes, he could call me a cab. But not yet. Not yet. I kept repeating it, as if it meant something. It was all kicking in now, the stress, the tears, the various forms of alcohol. Dave wasn’t wrong; I did need someone to look after me. But they wouldn’t. Not without conditions, conditions that I seemed to be unable to accept. So I would go it alone. For as long as I could.

The iPod switched songs, like it’d been doing the whole time, but I hadn’t been listening. But this one made me notice. I tried to tune out all the other noise in the bar, staring half-focused at my beer glass clutched in my hand. This song was going right through me. Who was it? Bowie. I knew it, of course I did, one of those classics in your blood. But my brain wasn’t working. “And she’s hooked to the silver screen…” The line kept repeating itself over the others in my head. That song. All the operatic suffering. I was in an opera, and this was the soundtrack. And I had been told to go, and I had seen it before. Now which stock role was I playing? The foolish girl who couldn’t make up my mind? Or the tormented lover who wanted it all, or nothing? I shut my eyes to stop the prickling. No more tears. I couldn’t cry anymore. Fuck it all, I loved him. I did love him. I wanted to understand, and I couldn’t, couldn’t even figure out why I wanted it to make sense or if it should. My head started to spin again when Bowie’s voice cut through the haze, and the keyboards spiraled downwards. I quickly put down my glass and grabbed the edge of the bar to keep myself upright on the stool.

I loved him. It was all crazy. I was crazy. I shut my eyes tightly and wished, just wished I could explain it really, and Tristan would know, would understand. Maybe he really would listen to me. I could text him. We could meet up. Even as I thought it, I knew it was one of those moments you get when you’re drunk, one of those great ideas that keep you running, but that crumble like your smudged soul the next morning. But maybe…maybe this time it would remain intact. I opened my eyes very slowly, and continued watching the street; all these people had their own problems and lives. We weren’t alone. Right? There was some kind of reason to all of it.

I watched people go past, pairs and groups and loners, without really paying attention. Every so often one group was so loud you could hear them through the window. But it was a mostly muted show, black and blue and red and green, the lights changing with indifferent repetition. A very tall, dark haired man in a leather jacket caught my eye, as he stood at the corner, waiting for the light to cross the avenue. I stared at him through the window, and he turned, the way people do when they feel someone looking at them, and glanced in my direction. It took him the same amount of time as it did for me to understand who we were watching. And with the recognition, he walked very slowly, across the street and up to the window and simply stared at me through the glass. Neither one of us moved. His face was half in shadow and half lit by the orange haze of the street light. His eyes had their own energy, and they were burning into me. Everything I’d feared was there. I was mesmerized by his stare. Everything else fell away. But then he shook his head, a bit of dark hair falling across his eyes, and he began to move away.