Faking Life (20 page)

“Just keep plugging away,” Nico said, now aware of the sluggishness in his voice. “Everything will work out just fine.”

“I know,” John said. “It's just the getting there that has me scared shitless.”

Me too
, Nico thought. He threw back the rest of his drink and filled another glass.

E
sther and Jeremy Friedkin had taken an immediate liking to each other. Her comfort level with him was extraordinary compared to most guys she met, mostly due to her misguided belief that he was homosexual. They'd met the summer after their senior years in college and, despite spending nearly every waking moment together for several months, Jeremy hadn't shown one iota of sexual interest in her.

They'd met at a poetry slam, both of them caffeinated beyond belief and eager to dissect the poet's esoteric ramblings. Esther quickly grew to like Jeremy and his crowd of friends, yet while his friends would take every opportunity to compliment her clothes and taste in literature, she'd often catch them gazing longingly at the slightest bit of cleavage. It was the naughty teacher fantasy, Esther thought. She allowed them to indulge forgotten adolescent fantasies of seductive high school substitutes who might suddenly interrupt math lessons and ask them to stay late to help clean the erasers.

Esther was shocked when, after months without a single mention of her, Jeremy introduced his girlfriend, a beautiful redhead named Heather who clung to his arm like a Velcro koala bear. At first glimpse she felt something was wrong with Heather, the way her fingers clutched him so tight her knuckles turned pale. Whenever Jeremy left Heather's side, even to get a drink or chat with a friend, she looked like a child lost in the middle of a huge mall. That was the first time Esther had ever taken a mild interest in Jeremy. The notion that Heather could love him so desperately made Esther wonder what it was that made a girl feel lost when not by his side.

At first Esther was insulted he'd kept her in the dark, but when the relationship ended a month later and he divulged the details, Esther understood why Jeremy had been hesitant.

Heather wasn't attached just to Jeremy, but to her Zoloft as well. At first Jeremy had pledged to see her through thick and thin, but the ceaseless beating his heart took from her emotional peaks and valleys had become too much. The last straw had come on their two-year anniversary when, right after he gave her a dozen roses and a silver ring, Heather unplugged his microwave and threw it through his window.

Esther and Jeremy had remained friends since, their respective love for good books and better gossip keeping them close despite work schedules that confined their correspondence to online chats and platonically flirtatious emails.

Jeremy worked at a publishing house where he'd been recently promoted from assistant to associate, still struggling to make his mark. The promotion had been much needed. Esther was happy for him, knowing that if he hadn't gotten a raise soon he might be inclined to use his corporate AMEX to pay rent. Given the ludicrously low pay and minimal job security in publishing, especially at his level, Jeremy was finally satisfied that his job was secure.

His instant messenger name—IH8BOOKS—was hidden from his coworkers. Esther's moniker, NYHAG86, was inspired by a furious argument with her mother one Saturday night when she said, “Esther, baby, you're turning into one of those New York hags. You should leave now before that city sinks its claws into you any deeper.”

Despite the pithy intimacy of the Internet, Esther felt good to know that a real flesh and blood person was on the other end, enjoying her company.

IH8BOOKS: So what're you up to tonight? I figure even you must go out on Fridays.

NYHAG86: Courtney's trying to get me to meet her new guy whom she “claims” has a friend in the insurance biz that he wants to introduce me to.

IH8BOOKS: Insurance? Ah, the industry of adventure and mystery. Thank god you don't smoke, I don't think he'd give you a good “policy”. ?

NYHAG86: God, your sophistication amazes me.

IH8BOOKS: Actually, I just burped. How's that for sophistication?

NYHAG86: You know what scares me? That I have no problem staying home on Friday nights anymore. I think I'm turning into a hermit as we speak. I've been out exactly three times this month and all to the same bar.

IH8BOOKS: Well I think I've been out exactly once this month and that was for a pub party at Rivertown. The party sucked, but you have no idea how impressed New York women are by editors. It's probably because they don't know how much money we make. If they ever asked what kind of car I drive, I'd tell them it depends on which one my parents weren't using that week.

NYHAG86: You ever get tired of it?

A full minute passed without a response. Esther worried Jeremy might have been disconnected. It wasn't like him to keep her waiting. Still in her bathrobe, the interruption made her debate whether to get up and get dressed. Either that or face another guilt trip from Courtney. For some reason Courtney
really
wanted Esther to meet her new beau. She was absolutely convinced he
might be the one.
Well, at least for this month. As she stood up, prepared to hit the closet, a message flashed on the screen.

IH8BOOKS: I get tired of the political bullshit sometimes, but never the end result. Unless something miraculous happens the money will never be that great. But how many people can say that love that they do for a living? Probably the same with you, right? Except you'll be raking in a lot more cash when you move up the food chain.

NYHAG86: I don't really think about it like that.

IH8BOOKS: So anyway, speaking of money, I hear Vanetti's got something big on the stove. I got word the other day, some kind of inspirational memoir for slackers. Sounds kinda cool. Why haven't you mentioned it to me?

NYHAG86: It isn't really up to me, but trust me, if it was up to me you'd be the first person to see it. I think a book written by a dissatisfied New Yorker would be best edited by a cynical New Yorker.

IH8BOOKS: Why am I cynical?

NUHAG86: Gee, I'm not sure, Mr. IH8BOOKS.

IH8BOOKS: Touché, Esther.

“Est? Are you almost ready?” Courtney yelled. Esther could smell lilac perfume wafting through her door. She was still in her bathrobe and a half hour from being anywhere near ready to go out. Not that she was even sure she wanted to. Part of Esther ached for a night on the town with Courtney, even though the double-date aspect did nothing for her. It was a bad sign that even Courtney, who was usually as fickle as a personal ad when it came to men, was wary of Esther's potential blind date.

“He's not what you call 'good-looking' contemporarily speaking,” Courtney had said. “But he's funny in kind of a self-depreciating way.” Of course in non-bullshit terms, that meant he was ugly and knew it and he dressed like a slob to 'rebel' against the fashionistas. Yet for all the posturing, all Esther really wanted to do was see John Gillis.

She hadn't been back to Slappy's since he was suspended. Based on what Brian had said, John was to be reinstated the day after tomorrow. She was hesitant to return on his first day, didn't want to seem
too
eager.

It wasn't fair. Courtney never worried like this, never worried about how she was perceived by men. They lined up for her. Sweaty clubs, filled with lascivious boys whose free spending made it unnecessary for her to carry her wallet. Courtney attracted the crème de la crème of New York males: slicked back hair, gold jewelry that looked like it was lifted off the set of “Goodfellas”, and steady jobs enabling them to treat her the way a girl deserved. Esther didn't get those men, instead catching the runoffs, the friends, or the cousin of a friend of a neighbor. The ones who were too timid to make a move on their own, siphoning their friends' courage as though it was their duty to keep Esther occupied while their counterparts made their move on Courtney.

It was easy to feel sorry for herself. Courtney was a beautiful girl, the kind most boys wouldn't dream of picking up in a bar. The kind that always had an Abercrombie boyfriend waiting at home. When Esther looked in the mirror, she saw a pretty girl. Not beautiful the way Courtney was, but the kind you settled on when you'd exhausted all the girls who were too pretty to take home to your family. Boys looking for real relationships didn't spend ten dollars on a vodka tonic for girls they'd never met. Esther was safe for real life, but Courtney was the girl every boy dreamed about.

When she saw John Gillis, she knew he was different. He wore that tight black shirt to play a role, like an actor or the front man for a band. He pushed others guys in the bar to dress better and buy classier drinks because, after all, who wanted to appear frumpier than the guy serving their tequila?

She loved John's restlessness. She wished she'd followed him the day he bolted from the bar, to observe him without being observed, to witness inspiration in its purest form. She needed to be proactive. She needed to find her own inspiration.

Her inbox blinked with four new messages from Jeremy. She typed an apology and said—holding her breath—that she'd be leaving soon to go out. She considered inviting Jeremy along, but decided against it. He hated anything remotely trendy—the antithesis of Courtney—which was partly why Esther had remained close with them both. But while separately they gave unparalleled friendship, together they were like frustrated lovers in an endless spat. Jeremy was too cynical for his own good, and Courtney was too naïve to fully understand his barbs. Not that they disliked each other, and in a different world Esther thought their childish banter would be mistaken for misplaced affection.

IH8BOOKS: So where's Satan taking you tonight?

NYHAG86: Some club in the meatpacking district, I forget the name.

IH8BOOKS: Well say hi for me. Tell Court she's lucky you're there to protect her from the evil scourges of lower Manhattan.

NYHAG86: Maybe you should say hi for yourself. She'd be happy to hear you're looking out for her well-being.

IH8BOOKS: No thanks. The last thing I need right now is Ms. Haute Couture telling me I have the dress coordination of a garden slug.

“Esther? We're going to be late!” Esther scowled from behind the closed door. Courtney was always worried about being late, as though the club would suddenly be closed forever and the scores of SOHO dwellers would relocate to dives and movie theaters. Besides, men didn't mind waiting. They automatically assumed their dates were taking their time for a reason, arriving like they'd spent years primping as opposed to sitting around in fluffy pink bathrobes typing on an iMac.

NYHAG86: Jer, I gotta run. I think she's gonna break my door down if Marvin has to wait any longer.

IH8BOOKS: Well, don't let me keep you from meeting Courtney's mailman boyfriend Marvin. Does this Marvin have a workshirt that says “Marvin” on it?

NYHAG86: Actually, I think it's supposed to be a double date deal, some guy named Seymore or Simon. I didn't officially agree to it.

IH8BOOKS: Well between Simon, Seymore and Marvin I think you have the silly name directory monopolized. Have fun, Est. Give me a ring tomorrow if you get a chance. And slip me that manuscript too.

Esther signed goodbye, straightened the folds in her bathrobe and went into the living room. Courtney was watching the news—an immediate clue that she wasn't paying attention to the tube. When she saw that Esther was still wearing a bathrobe, Courtney scowled like she'd been left at the alter by Russell Crowe.

“Esther,” she said, seemingly on the verge of tears. “I asked you to be ready fifteen minutes ago. Marvin said we should meet them there at eleven and it's already eleven fifteen. I can't be this late. I'm
never
this late.” If Marvin knew, Ether thought, what Courtney looked like wearing that cashmere v-neck (was she even wearing a bra?), he'd be willing to wait quite a bit longer.

“I'm not sure I want to go,” Esther said. Courtney's face turned dour, her mouth fluttered open and shut. She stood up and turned off the television.

“Est, you promised me you'd come out tonight. We haven't had a girl's night out in weeks. I'm starting to feel like you're a boarder instead of my best friend.”

“Court, this isn't a girls night out. You're meeting a guy and trying to set me up with his friend, and I'm willing to bet that at the end of the night I'll end up taking a cab home alone.” Courtney sighed.

“I'm just saying we haven't hung out in like forever. I feel like I'm losing you, Est. What's wrong? You used to like going out. Now having a Corona in your pajamas is like New Year's Eve. I spend my nights wondering if you're at home drinking in the bathtub and hoping you haven't drowned or something horrible.”

Esther's eyes fell to the floor. She was right. As much as Courtney enjoyed living the life of a cute, single, sophisticated New York woman, Esther knew she bore the weight of her best friend's thoughts on her mind. Men who watched her dance, swinging her hips in somber rhythm, eyes smoldering like flame, they assumed she was careless. But if they looked closer, they'd see that beneath Courtney's glassy surface was a camera that remembered everything. She was an incredible friend, but her one fault—if you could reasonably call it one—was that she never forgot.

Esther looked up, her eyes moistening. She sniffed and wiped her nose. “Court, you ever feel like you need a reason to go out? Like, your body is all ready, your clothes are on, your makeup is done, but you're just not sure why you bother?” Courtney looked at her like she'd asked the world's most rhetorical question.

“Hon, you go out to have
fun
. There doesn't need to be a deeper meaning. I think being cramped in that office all day with that creep Frank has gotten to you. You go out to pretend you don't have to work, to meet people, you know, to socialize. I don't know. Do whatever it is you do when you're not Little Miss Librarian poring over mounds of paper all day. Not every drink has to be an existential crisis.”

Esther sat down on the couch, elbows resting on her knees, supporting her heavy head. She felt her fingers sink into her skin and looked up longingly at Courtney, hoping for some kind of solace. She could see in Courtney's face that she wanted to help, wanted to take Esther's head and place it gently on her shoulder, to stroke her hair and tell her everything was perfect. Yet Esther knew that any such act would be superficial. The only way she could be happy was to help herself. There was no magic elixir, no crying over spilt milk. Esther could feel herself slipping into quicksand, avoiding the rope that dangled above her.