Hotel Living (14 page)

“Gawel didn't make it?” I asked Andrea, relaxed.

She kept looking at the screen, enchanted. Rotating pictures of west Chelsea mixed with quotes from activists, actors, and politicians identified as “High Line supporters.”

“You're almost on what I call a flying carpet. It's a completely different vantage point.”

“It's up in the clouds.”

“A demiparadise.”

“It really works for everybody. Because this is, in fact, going to be one of the coolest places to live in all of Manhattan.”

“I didn't invite analysts,” Andrea bothered to answer me at the end of the slide show.

Then footage from a public hearing I had attended during one of my New York weekends, back in 2003, played. It showed an artist sobbing, explaining to Erik's community board that the High Line was the first thing she looked at when she woke up in the morning. In the video's background I made out Erik, with a microphone, facilitating the hearing.

Then I spotted Paul, sitting pretty at the table to my left. When we locked stares he motioned to the screen—where Erik was still visible—and threw a piece of bread my way, which I caught before it hit Andrea.

“I hope you
do
realize that we are here for a
number of reasons
,” she said with a
what-the-hell-do-you-think-you're-doing
face.

“There's sauce in your hair,” I said.

The lights came up and the New York attorney general presented awards to a fashion designer, an actor, and the City Council speaker, all of whom were honored for “their early and continued support of the High Line project.”

“I did
exactly
what Josh and Robert asked me to do,” opened one of the honorees.

I stood up to go out for a cigarette.

“Don't leave yet!” Andrea grabbed my wrist. “I want to take a picture of all of us in front of the High Line.”

“Sorry?”

“Oh, they do that every year. Everybody has their picture taken in front of a life-size High Line poster.”

“I'll close my eyes,” I said, and wiggled my wrist free.

Outside, Paul was smoking, holding a gift bag with a beach towel in it. I motioned for his lighter as I noticed the flags on the Museum of American Finance across the street: “The Money. The Power. The History.”

“I need one of those,” I said, pointing to the towel, but Paul turned and looked at the flags.

“I thought all you wanted was a beach shack back home.”

“That, too. The
gift
bag.” I pointed again. “My towels are all white, stolen, and stained by Erik.”

“So, you don't come.” He passed me the bag. “Take it. Let's get out of here.”

“A partner-bitch is inside.”

“Fuck her.”

“Someone has to,” I murmured. “For everyone's sake.”

Paul was on his cell phone throughout our cab ride to my place. “I enjoyed working with you, I learned from you, but you were born to apologize! It's 2006 and privacy is getting redefined . . . No, no,
no
! We are not stalking them, we are
accosting
them . . .”

Once home, I got two beers from the fridge, turned the music on, and walked out onto the patio. It was a clear June night, and I could still hear Paul inside: “. . . thank you for your administrative . . .” mixed with Jamiroquai's “. . . this corner of the earth is like me in many ways . . .” when the sound of Gawel's incoming text went off.

“How's the benefit?”

I had a moment of low-oxygen dizziness, mixed with an about-to-get-busted rush. I sat down, loosened my tie, and thought of Gawel, wondering how it would feel to be twenty-three again. I remembered the years right after Stanford, working in Redwood City. I went to the supermarket and cooked. I had routines, for Christ's sake. I wasn't exactly Gawel, but I was less jaded back then. If I had an affair or got promoted, I was childishly proud. I believed in myself. And what if I'd met Erik
then, prior to all the EBS and Command decay, when I had a real job and real friends? Would I still have fallen for him? Followed him to New York? Or, better, would I be equally obsessed with him if I had real problems, like making rent or getting a job? Maybe not. But there I was, not twenty-three any more, not middle-aged either, in a smart suit and loosened tie, on my patio, gazing at the Big Dipper and the North Star, replaying my juvenile habit of making sure I knew where Polaris—my grandfather's compass during the war—was in the sky above.

Fucking Erik was my war. A craze, a luxury excused by the circus that otherwise surrounded me. We had time to “stand up for our favorite type of font,” address “the nonsmoker's identity at work,” or text each other the ridiculously obvious while,
because
, our Alkises could “fire clients.” We had legitimized our silliness, we
were
silly, so why not make a war for Erik, Grandpa? I was still within my social standard deviation.

“On the Andrea side,” I began texting my work-nonwork response, when Paul walked onto the patio.

“I'm heading to Soho House. Do you care to join me?” Paul asked as I heard Erik jogging up the stairs to my apartment.

“No can do,” I replied. “It's Erik's brother's party tonight. An uptown thing.”

My apartment door squeaked open and Erik dashed to the patio, where he came to a halt. He glanced at me, then at Paul, then back at me.

“Erik!” Paul waved. “It's been a while.”

It took a second.

“Right,” Erik said, and ducked back in. I heard his beer cap hitting the dirty dishes in the sink.

“Good day?” I asked Erik when he surfaced again.

“So far.”

They bumped shoulders as Paul stepped inside, his phone ringing madly.

“What's this jackass doing here?” Erik asked while marching to his tomatoes.

“We ran into each other at Andrea's High Line thing.”

“Of course you did,” Erik said over his shoulder. “What the hell was he there for? Stalking the romantics, or helping them out?”

“Watch it,” I said. “You're supposed to be High Line impartial, remember?”

He turned and looked at me with narrowed eyes.

“I'm just saying,” I added quickly. “We don't want the district manager to be cited in blogs with funny HL quotes, now, do we?”

Erik shook his head. “HL? Seriously?”

I smiled, confused, like I'd missed his point.

“Does the towel on the coffee table say
High Line
?” Erik went on.

“It does!” Paul hopped back before I had a chance to speak. “It's from a princess turned fashion designer,” he said, rowdily. “You wait. Five years from now you can make a killing with your towel on eBay. Just don't mark it.”

I almost fell from my chair. “What the
fuck
, Paul?” I said, and tried to laugh it off.

“Hey, I just used the bathroom and wanted to dry my hands—”

“That's cool.” Erik gestured to me. “I can wait to make a killing, but you don't have to, Paul. Why don't you build a kiosk on Seventh and Eleventh that sells maps with actors' addresses in the Village?”

“Actually, we're doing that online,” Paul said smugly. “You and I, Erik, define privacy differently. Stathis is from the Balkans, he understands.”

“No, he
doesn't
.”

I felt busted. Like my balancing act, my having it both ways, was coming to an end.

“Transparency is not a crime,” Paul said. “We chronicle trivia, details, in real time.”

“Since when does acknowledging that you're doing something shitty actually legitimize it?”

“Since people are fed up with hypocrites,” Paul answered calmly, and I put my cell in my pants pocket. “I have to run. I'm meeting friends from London,” he continued, checking his Timex. He turned to me: “I'll leave your name at Soho House.”

THE BUZZ FROM KEVIN'S PENTHOUSE
got louder and louder as we cruised up, making the elevator operator less and less audible
until he was practically muted. Still, Erik laughed at the guy's joke about the Mets.

The door opened onto a hallway that led to a crowded living room. Most of the women were in flowery dresses, the Madison Avenue–goes-Nolita type. Guys wore work suits or Patagonia shirts, and Lance Armstrong wristbands. They were all tan, and they mixed like they knew one another. Catering staff in bow ties served the decades-younger guests, which was bizarre in New York—uncomfortable, almost. I lost Erik to his Exeter schoolmates—“Hi . . . yes . . . been a while . . . good to see you too”—and looked for a vodka rocks.

“I'll take care of you,” a waitress, who'd have long been retired had she lived in Europe, said to me.

With my drink firmly in hand, I crossed the living room and stepped out to the balcony, with its Spider-Man view. My eyes hopped from skyscraper to skyscraper before they laddered down to Park Avenue, which was covered with streams of red and yellow car lights. “Me and My Monkey” came on. I lit a cig and smelled Andrea's perfume.

“Stathis!”

I saw Helen, Erik's brother's girlfriend (sort of), showing off her brown hair and white teeth to me. She was in a black dress that turned into jewelry around her neck, leaving her tan shoulders naked. Northeastern, beautiful, early forties, she looked older and more together than the rest of the women there.

“Hi, Helen,” I said.

“So good to see you.” She kissed me slowly on the cheek. “How are you? How do you like New York?”

“I'm good. And the city looks pretty steep and steely from here. Kevin's view is unstoppable.”

“It sold him on the penthouse. Adore!” She waved her hair as she bummed a cigarette. “So, how is the love these days?” she asked teasingly.

I lit her. “Tested?” I said.

She took her time exhaling. “Then you'll learn something.”

“I usually don't.”

“I like this,” she said, feeling the cotton on my shirt, but I wasn't sure if she was talking about the fabric.

“Thank you.” I smiled at how comfortably I accepted her compliment. “And coming from a fashion executive . . .”

Helen gave me a plotting stare. “I don't learn either.”

“How do
you
feel in your ignorance?”

“Wonderful!” Helen laughed. “I just focus on sex. You should try it,” she said.

I felt my phone against my ass and remembered Gawel's text, which I hadn't returned yet.

“And I stay busy,” Helen continued, playing with her glass of champagne. “We are moving our offices to the Meatpacking District. You'll come to the party.”

“Is that an invite?”

“Oh, Stathis, stop flirting. You know I can't compete with a communist in bed.”

“Ha! Erik's not a communist. He's an independent, he
says
.” I rolled my eyes. “And how's sex with the family's fund manager?” I tossed back, and looked away at the Citigroup building.

I sensed Helen leaning toward me. “I wouldn't know,” she whispered.

I had to think about this, so I turned strategically, covering my surprise with casualness, when halfway around I saw Erik through the window, talking to a news anchor inside.

“Unlike his brother, Erik loves contradictions,” Helen said, picking up on my sighting.

“Tell me about it,” I murmured, glued on Erik.

“But they are both surprising,” she said, before kissing me and stepping back into the living room.

“Hey! I need more,” I shouted after her, wanting more of her allusions. A couple on my right turned. I rattled my ice cubes their way till they looked elsewhere.

An hour later, things had slowed down. Erik, seated on a buffet table, held court among the ten or so guests left at the other end of the living room. He was talking with his hands about technology and globalization. I caught bits and pieces: “. . . didn't reduce the gap between haves and have-nots . . . the incestuous connectivity . . . a perverse interface . . . believe it or not, they gave business class a high out of disruption . . .”

I stopped listening and squatted by the fireplace. Most of the furniture had been removed, which made Kevin's living room look ridiculously large for New York. One of the framed photos above my head, on the mantel, showed their family
with the Clintons in Chappaqua. Hillary looked at Erik's father—her signature you-got-me laugh on her face—while Kevin, on his knees, petted a Lab with Chelsea. Then I turned to my left and saw Kevin in the flesh, seated by himself, taking his right shoe and sock off, and I thought of the coincidence of two people taking their socks off in front of me within twenty-four hours.

“Marathon training is killing me.” Kevin massaged his foot.

Even though he was seated, you could tell that he was six-three, six-four. I saw Erik in him. “What time do you run?” I asked.

“Before work. I'm in the park by seven,” Kevin said.

“And what time do you go to bed?”

“I try for elevenish.” He stretched his toes. “But these days I am not that good at it. We're in the middle of an Avastin me-too due diligence, and it's running us around the clock.”

Two bow-tied women asked Erik to move so they could clean the table.

“Stop showing off your foot size,” a guy from Erik's circle yelled to Kevin from across the living room. “It doesn't work!”

“Hey, try training on triple-E 13,” Kevin shouted back at him.

“I bet they're broken in by now.” Kevin's friend walked over. He looked at me: “He's been in the same stinky sneakers since Wharton.”

“He's been in the same pleated pants since Wharton,” a woman joined in. “And they have to go.”

“I need the pleats, Kimberley. Need the space. Otherwise I feel constricted,” Kevin said, and winked.

I grabbed the lion's head on the fireplace and pulled myself up. “It's been a long day,” I told Kevin. “I gotta head home.”