Ghosts of Manhattan (8 page)

He seems to have picked up that Janice isn't happy, so he addresses this for the benefit of the table. “Janice doesn't mind. She knows I have an Asian fetish. The best part is, she actually likes my Asian fetish.”

I don't know if William is curious or if he's awkwardly trying to help. “Is that right, Janice? It turns you on that Conrad has yellow fever?” William is laughing along with it and misses an angry glare from Jen.

Janice doesn't know how to respond but Conrad answers for her anyway. “Oh, she digs it.” He takes another sip of his drink. “Trust me.” His voice gets deeper and more southern.

Jerry's wife, Alison, chimes in. “I have a theory about guys with an Asian fetish.”

“Oh?” says Conrad.

“The guys who develop an Asian fetish are the guys who can't get laid any other way.”

Jerry and I laugh out loud. Conrad isn't laughing but isn't taking offense either. He's thinking over the merits of the theory.

“No,” he says. “That's a lot of bull. Some guys just like Asians. It's that simple.”

Janice looks fully embarrassed. I don't know if she's embarrassed
about this absurd conversation or if she really does dig his fetish and she's embarrassed that we now know about it.

“Jen, where are you and William going for your honeymoon?” Julia tries to get the table talk back under control. I hope it's a trip anywhere in Asia.

“We're thinking about Hawaii or Turks and Caicos.”

“Fantastic.” Julia tries to keep it going. Jen looks stunned and can't seem to get a thought together to participate further.

“Turks and Caicos.” Conrad slaps his hand on the table. His buzz is huge. I don't think it can be cured with food or coffee and we're stuck with it for the night. “What a place.”

We all nod, waiting for the story Conrad obviously wants to tell. “Janice and I went last year right after the bonus check came in.” He pans around the table, giving each of the guys a look. “It's the last windy I got. The next one will probably be when I get the next bonus check. The only time I ever get a windy is with a big bonus check.” Conrad starts laughing like it's part of the joke and should make it funnier for us.

Jen picks the wrong time to get curious. “What's a . . .” She gets the euphemism for fellatio before she finishes the question. “Oh.”

I look up at Julia, who has her nose in her wineglass taking a sip. I can tell she's in disbelief that a night like this can be part of her life. I hear a thud from the other end of the table. Janice's fist has hit the table top and her hands are now pressed against her ears.

Conrad puts his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, babe.”

She smacks his arm away. It isn't just a leave-me-alone smack. It has real rage. “You're a bastard! A sick bastard.”

“What the hell?”

There's about thirty seconds of silence. This is pretty accurate because after a pause I actually start counting and get to twenty.
Then Janice straightens up and composes herself and looks around the table as though she just arrived and is greeting us all for the first time. “Excuse me.”

William, Jerry, and I all do a half stand, then sit back down. Like a gentleman, Conrad gets all the way up and helps her with her chair and she goes to the bathroom.

Conrad sits back down and exhales a big breath. “She can get like that.”

“I wonder why.” Julia looks at me wide-eyed and I realize I said this out loud.

The silence is making everyone fidget and stare at their plates, so Julia tries to break it. “Jen, this is a great apartment. How long have you and William been here?”

“About four months.”

“You've done a nice job with it.”

“Thanks.”

Silence again.

I look at William and give him a nod to get us out of this, which he understands. “Why don't you all take your drinks into the living room while I clear the table and bring out coffee? Also, if you're interested, the elevator can access the roof and there's a great 360-degree view of the city.”

Since the living room is also the dining room, I'm tempted to go to the roof but it's too cold out and I'm sure it's windy as hell up there. I stand and take Julia's hand and we walk a couple steps to a sofa and sit down. Jen and William are clearing plates and Alison decides to make herself busy and helps. Jerry comes to join us and Conrad doesn't move from his seat. He seems to be getting into the tired drunk phase, which is better for the rest of us.

Jerry, Julia, and I have a decent conversation about benign things like the subway and tunnel congestion. It's talk for the sake
of talk but we all rightly have the attitude that we just need to get through this.

It's probably twenty minutes before Janice is back. William turns on music and serves coffee and port. We might salvage a half-decent hour before the end of the night, but I need a break first and I excuse myself for the bathroom. I don't need to use the toilet, I just want to kill a few minutes, so I wash my hands and splash my face. I'm drying with a hand towel when the door behind me bangs open and Jen steps in. She looks everywhere but at me and she looks determined. Still not looking at me, she steps to the shower and yanks. All the curtain rings screech to a bunch at one end. We both look into the empty shower, then finally at each other.

It's her apartment, but at the moment the bathroom feels like my territory. I dry the last of the water from my face. “What's up?”

She looks hesitant for the first time. “Where's William?”

This is not a question I expect. “He's definitely not hiding in the shower while I go to the bathroom.”

“I think someone brought cocaine here tonight.”

I can neither confirm nor deny this, so I don't say anything and I hang the hand towel back on the bar.

She looks at me until she's sure I'm not going to say anything, then walks out angrier than before. I close the door, reclaiming the bathroom for a moment of peace. I decide to take a seat on the toilet and count to sixty. I'd count more but I can't abandon Julia that long. Before I'm halfway I hear Jen shouting from the living room. It's time to find Julia and get out of here, so I open the door.

William has his palms up like he's trying to signal oncoming traffic to stop. “Jesus, Jen. I just showed Conrad the roof deck.”

“And you stuffed cocaine up your nose while you're at it.”

“No!”

“Don't lie to me!”

Conrad looks guilty as hell and is too drunk to hide it. He won't be any help, but he tries. “Hey, Jen. What's the big deal?”

“Shut up, Conrad. You're an ass and I want you out of my home!”

If William hadn't been doing coke on the roof, he would put a stop to that. Instead he raises his eyebrows to Conrad in apology, which is the same as pleading guilty and throwing himself on the mercy of the court.

“William, we need to get going too.” I glance at my watch as I say this, which is pointless since I don't even see what time it is. Julia is at my arm instantly. We say quick good-byes, get our coats, and are in the elevator even before Conrad can get kicked out.

If this night were a freak occurrence, we'd both be bent over laughing in the elevator, racing home to retell the evening so we each make sure the other caught all the subtle, sick moments. If we were twenty-two years old it might be okay.

“Nick.”

“Yeah.”

“I can't have another night like that.”

November 23, 2005

THE FOLLOWING WEEK WE'RE OUT TO THE DINNER WITH
Oliver and Sybil that puts Julia and me far down the wrong path. Julia had let me know the plan to meet at the 21 Club in Midtown, a favorite with investment bankers for decades. Like all of these places with tradition, the older and uglier the waiters, the nicer the place. When the wealthy bankers aren't out at their clubs in Long Island getting served by the ugly waiters there, they're having cocktails at places like the 21 Club.

The restaurant is an old speakeasy and they still have the trapdoors and secret rooms where Hemingway and others would drink during Prohibition. From the sidewalk we have to go down a few steps to get to the unassuming front door that leads to a restaurant much bigger than you would expect from the outside.

The coat check closet is the first thing you come across. I help Julia off with her coat. She was in a great mood on the way over. If this holds, the night could actually be tolerable.

“There they are.” I hand over the coats and turn to see Oliver return Julia's wave. She has the presence of mind to wait until I
get the coat check stub rather than strand me there to go make her hellos across the room in the cocktail lounge, which is a bunch of old sofas and chairs next to a club bar. From there a hallway winds around to the actual restaurant in back.

We start over hand in hand to where Oliver and Sybil are seated in the lounge. Oliver has a slight build with pretty, feminine features and small round glasses like Harry Potter. It crosses my mind that his eyes need no prescription and that he just likes the look. He could be as tall as five ten but seems smaller. It's not that he slouches but that his manner gives the impression that he's always sneaking around corners and it shows up in him physically.

Sybil is pleasant enough. She's quite pretty and quite plain. It's as though Oliver picked her out based on a written resume of her appearance. Pretty blond hair, pretty blue eyes, perfect lips, cheekbones, and a little button nose, with a nice build. Above-average features everywhere, but when you put it all together and animate it, it is inexplicably plain.

Oliver stands to kiss Julia's cheek and shake my hand. We cross-pollinate cheek kisses and handshakes all around. “We just put in a drink order,” Oliver tells us. “But they haven't arrived yet. I'll have them send the drinks to the table and we can go sit down.”

I resist letting Oliver direct traffic to start the evening. “Don't bother, there's no rush. We'll have a drink here with you first.” I abruptly pull a chair to the back of Julia's knees and move to sit down myself. It's a reasonable enough gesture on my part but I can feel it comes from a need to get into a pissing contest. I know Julia sees my pettiness by the way she sits down.

The chairs seem as old as Hemingway too, with worn and fancy fabrics around wood armrests, and wide enough that you have a few spare inches on either side of your hips. They look like the
kind of chairs you see in an old Newport mansion. The whole room looks unchanged from when they legalized alcohol.

“Well, I'm so happy this worked out,” Sybil says, smiling as she brings a hand down firmly to the top of her knee for exclamation. “I've been telling Oliver what fun it was spending time with you and what good new friends you are. I was so delighted to hear about getting together again.”

So delighted to hear about it? Did Julia set this up with Sybil or Oliver? Maybe I misheard or misinterpreted. Maybe it doesn't even matter. She could have called the house and Oliver picked up instead of Sybil. Christ, why am I even thinking of this? We just sat and already I'm down a path.

I order a gin and tonic. The other three each have a glass of sauvignon blanc. I don't know why people stopped drinking chardonnay but it seems to have happened in the last couple years.

“Now, Julia, where are you from?” Sybil seems to be the mistress of civil small talk. This type of person is always useful to have around when you have no interest to engage in anything more meaningful than the time of day, like listening to golf on television while taking a nap.

“Locust Valley.”

“Oh, how nice. Oliver grew up on Long Island too. Just near you in Old Westbury. So beautiful out there.”

“It is. I miss it. My parents are still there and I try to visit as much as possible.” I know this to be patently false. I avoid the pompous Mr. and Mrs. Pembroke like the Black Death, and Julia's not so hot on them either. At most they get half our major holidays each year, and one of our best arguments for having kids of our own is so that we have an excuse to stay at home on some of these holidays and get the number of visits down even further. But Julia is just trying to be friendly to Sybil.

“I love it out there.” Oliver smiles knowingly. God, he's smug. “The North Shore is the most beautiful place in the world.”

“I'm from New Canaan.” Sybil jumps in the middle. “Oh, what about you, Nick?”

“Bryn Mawr. Near Philadelphia.” My drink arrives. I manage to block the ice with my upper lip forming a tight seal around the bottom rim of the glass so I can suck down about half the drink in one pull without making a slurping sound.

“Oh, the Main Line. How lovely.” I nod. I'm now keyed in on her annoying habit of starting sentences with the word “oh.”

I realize I can't get away with just a nod. “Thanks, it was a great place to grow up. A lot like New Canaan, I guess.”

“Yes, I suppose.” There's a lull now that we've completed the round of city of origin. Julia leans forward and I can tell she's looking for a toehold in the conversation to regain momentum. She knows she can't rely on me.

“Oliver, where did you go to college?” I already know the answer. Oliver somehow finds a way to let people know within five minutes of meeting him, with all the energy and unabashed praise of a proud parent except directed toward himself. Julia has just saved him the conversational maneuvering to get there.

“New Haven.”

Christ, here we go. This clown is right out of a Salinger novel. There's nothing worse than people who say New Haven and Cambridge, pretending to be too modest to say Yale and Harvard when all they're really looking to do is draw the whole thing out. The false modesty is irritating and shows a total lack of self-awareness of what an insecure snob he really is. Just say Harvard or Yale and move on. Don't invite additional questions so you have to put on your uncomfortable act when pressed to answer the name of the school. Loser. Hasn't Oliver accomplished anything
more in life to be proud of than a high SAT score when he was seventeen?