Friends of the museum, p.6
Friends of the Museum, page 6
—But the food was prepped in the Globe.
—Wake up, Nik. The Globe pulls in fistfuls of cash. Can’t attack Saudi Arabia? Invade Iraq. Close enough kind of thing.
Niko smiles placidly.
—What?
—No, it’s just. It sounds a little nuts.
—Not my decision… holding the cigarette aloft, Marjorie exhales a vicious stream of smoke… —Plus we’ve got a walk-in full of proteins that won’t live past Friday.
—So we’re not.
—Not what?
—Shouldn’t we throw out—
—We’re not throwing out shit… flinging the cigarette to the ground to mash it with her clog… —Let’s go… she swipes her pass savagely through the slot on the keypad and pushes through the door.
—Marjorie… Nikolic clears his throat as he follows her into the building, hoping a sagacious sound might bring his boss to reason… —I don’t want to, you know, step on any toes or whatnot, but if we get customers sick… letting the door fall closed behind him… —I mean, if the meat is contaminated—
—Try to keep up, Niko. With Emerson out you’ll be running the Globe.
—Sorry, I’ll be…?
—Get rid of the rabbit and do not, I repeat, do not take the mac and cheese off the menu or you’ll have a full-blown riot on your hands. With West closed we’ll need a café option, so prep a stack of baguettes, use the Taleggio but call it Brie. Price them around fifteen. From the café I can give you a chef, a commis, and two dishwashers. Stick the chef on prep, guy’s slow as fuck. From the Globe we have you, Otto, Ryan, Raheem, plus the pastry girl, what’s her—
—Vivian, her name’s… struggling to keep abreast of Marjorie as she races through the bowels, down the concrete hallway, past a row of golf carts and around the corner… —But if I could—
—Thank god none of you were pitiful enough to stay for—
—But Marj, when you say running—
—It’s a short day. Service ends at four… kicking a stray hazard cone out of the way.
—I don’t understand, why wouldn’t you—
—Because I have a little thing to manage called the motherfucking gala.
—The gala? Isn’t that Events?
—It was, Nikolic, it was. Until three months ago when Emerson lost his mind. Bitched about his name being associated with stuffed mushrooms. Head office threw him a bone, said he could oversee the department. Oversee. Meaning sign off on their menus. Like who has time to take crostini as a personal insult? But you know what a prince he can be. Could be… at the elevator bank she chooses up. The doors open, together they enter the elevator and Marjorie presses MEZZ… —Anyway, last night the boys in Events polished off three platters of shrimp, now the whole team is laid out, and guess who has to step up? Meanwhile, I’ve got deliveries arriving all morning and a couple of ding-dongs from West to prepare two thousand nibbly bits. I told HR this is not gonna work, not unless you give me some guys from Central America, but they refuse to close Central America, offered to truck in temps instead, caterers from fucking Long Island or some shit.
As they ascend, Marjorie stares at her reflection in the stainless steel door, eyes yawing back and forth as she solves problems further down the pipeline.
Nikolic smiles, pressing his lips together in case the screaming inside his head finds its way out. For nearly a year Niko refused to give it a name, the dark presence he lives with almost constantly, the pressure in his throat and stomach and behind his eyes. Finally he admitted it. He is afraid. Always. Afraid of failure but also of success. Of living in the past and of moving on. Of solitude, of company, of being too friendly or too aloof or the minefield that lies between. Anxious he’s eaten too much food from cans containing BPA. Terrified a rat will run over his foot, that his penis is hanging out of his pants, that he’ll accidentally shoplift, get caught in crossfire, or mortally offend a coworker. Almost every day he’s worried he’ll break down in tears at work. At night he’s afraid a meth addict will climb in from the fire escape and either murder him or fail to murder him entirely, leaving Niko so messed up he’ll have to write with his toes. He’s afraid he won’t wake up in the morning and afraid he will. Afraid of being this fat forever, of losing weight, of ever loving a woman again or never loving at all. And then the phobias arrived. Candles that smell like food, articulated buses, marshmallows, zoodles, child actors, a certain type of shoehorn.
—Hey… Marjorie is watching him… —I’m happy to ask Otto or M.J. You have seniority so I came to you first.
Shove the fear aside. Bury it, refuse it. You only get one shot. And as Nikolic repeats no, no, I’m good, I’m in, I’m your guy, the elevator doors open on the mezzanine.
7:41 a.m.
And that doesn’t account for his chronic indecision, Benjamin thinks as he unbuttons the shirt he’s just buttoned and returns to his closet.
Back in April, for example, he went to see a program of short films by young directors, who knows why, he was pushing himself to do new things after Caroline left. The show ended, taking with it several years of his life, and Benjamin bolted from the movie theater, diving into the cool spring air, delirious with relief. He took up a spot in front of posters advertising upcoming attractions. His apartment was empty, he was in no hurry to get back. From down the street came the thump of a basketball and the semeny stench of Callery pears. Benjamin memorized the posters, next month’s films were all foreign. I should really move to Los Angeles and start making movies, he thought, since it’s impossible to come up with anything worse than those five mind-numbing shorts. I could easily become the best of the worst filmmakers if I relocate to LA and move in the right circles.
It was a pleasant evening so instead of dipping immediately underground, Benjamin decided to stroll for a bit, east through the park and up to Union Square.
Spring was finally here. Giddy dogs sent up clumps of mud as they shot around the dog park. Green sprigs were starting to poke through. Winter had lasted ninety-three years. Everyone was beaten by the slog. Now people were venturing out, kicking up their heels, bolstered by the fresh air. And Benjamin moseyed among them, roused by his beloved city but at the same time captivated by the image of the successful director he could unquestionably become in Los Angeles. From visiting two years ago, he knew it was a place that could be fragrant and peaceful when you’re not trying to merge. By this point Benjamin was thoroughly sold on the West Coast, nodding at people he passed like a candidate for mayor, greeting children and petting dogs as he debated which books he should pack and which he should sell. Five minutes later, before he’d reached the other side of the park, Benjamin knew he could never abandon New York, it was the world’s best city. Turning up Broadway, he was once again in Los Angeles debating whether the Eastside or Westside was the best place to settle when factoring in expense, gridlock, and the restorative breeze that floats in from the ocean. In retrospect it was incredible that over the course of their five years together his dithering hadn’t driven Caroline completely insane.
Hunched over the bathroom sink Benjamin scrubs at a lentil stain on his favorite shirt, trying to ignore the intense sexual memories associated with it. In the background Bryan Ferry sings, “These Foolish Things.” Benjamin listened to the song on repeat the night Caro left. It will run through his head for the rest of the day, reminding him that at his core he’ll always be a bit of a shit.
He presses the wet shirt with a towel. No one will love him again. Not with that ferocity. There is time, perhaps, to form a new, more winning personality before he becomes entirely repulsive. This is not unknown, turning grotesque in middle age, for the Rippens. He’s seen it in his uncles, his father. The low paunch, set inscrutably low, as well as a kind of wet-lipped fatalism.
A cigarette that bears a lipstick’s traces
Well, he’s not going to let Ruben rattle him. It takes weeks to evict a tenant, even months, and by then Benjamin will have a paycheck.
Oh how the ghost of you clings
And he’s not going to let Bryan Ferry get to him either, not right now. He has to remain upbeat, keep focused on his new job. A man severely in debt, stingy with his affections and coping with hair loss. I’m not, he thinks as he buttons his shirt, about to add bathing in sentiment to that list.
Out the door, locking it, down the stairs, into the bright air, Benjamin heads to the subway station, semi-bathing in sentiment. He fishes out his phone and quickly texts Caroline so he won’t agonize about it for two hours. Lunch? He swipes through the turnstile, jogs down the subway steps and onto the platform where a rabbi, or a man dressed as a rabbi, this close to Halloween who can be sure, sits on a pickle bucket playing the cello.
7:49 a.m.
—That was Dominic… Chris, from her office doorway… —I said you’d call back. And Elaine Mensdorf left a voicemail last night around seven. Didn’t sound urgent.
—Put her down for tomorrow.
—And Dominic?
—Yup, I heard, I’ll call.
—Also, the website’s down again.
—Again?
—Back up by noon they’re saying.
Diane checks her phone for the time. Four hours. Ridiculous. The technicians will have to be replaced, perhaps the entire IT department. But Chris is speaking. She swivels… —Sorry?
—I was just saying, an idea I had, what if you met with the artists from 1072?
—Met with them? What for?
—Explain why we’re killing Made in New York. Or not explain, but like—
—Lie?
—Like a lying explanation.
—Unnecessary.
—But Diane, from a PR perspective, the optics of—
—I hardly think disappointing a group of young artists is going to, why are you hovering? Come in.
—That’s okay. I’m about to… Chris takes three noncommittal steps into her office… —All I’m saying is, you know, artists are sensitive. We selected the pieces, we promised a show—
—Not now, please.
—Messing with artists, Diane, it’s a bad road.
—Fine, set a time for next week… having no intention of addressing the 1072 situation next week or ever… —Has Conrad arrived?
—Half an hour ago… Chris checks in with his phone… —He sounded pretty upbeat.
—What else?
—Nothing.
—Something, because you’re doing, Chris, that thing with your mouth.
—Constance is reporting another twelve out with food poisoning.
—TWELVE?… sitting back, resisting the urge to compulsively straighten her desk… —But no one else in the hospital.
—No.
—Zero?
—Zero. Well, two. Barely any. Remember to call Dominic… Chris turns and slips out the door, closing it silently behind him.
Chris.
For a moment last summer Diane thought she was falling for him. They’d been working together for nearly three years. Diane had poached him from Publications where his talents, she thought, were being wasted. She hadn’t given Chris a second thought as he helped manage the installation of the funicular, wrangling the board and massaging the press. He had a gift for handling people. Then came the night they were working late. An electric moment in her office over pad see ew when the lights were low and their eleven-year age difference melted away. Oil from the noodles glistened on Chris’s lips; his cheekbones sliced the air. They couldn’t look at each other. The silence crackled. It was a frightening moment. Rules about employee fraternization screamed in her head. The next morning Diane checked Dom’s calendar and booked a romantic getaway. She brought home oysters and chocolate mousse, mixing up margaritas which you could always count on to get Dominic in the mood. Before long, any desire she had for Chris was safely in the past.
7:54 a.m.
Last night’s Rioja was deadly. Iona Moore stands in her kitchen struggling with the child-safety cap on a bottle of Tylenol. Finally she pops it open and shakes out three pills. Here come some terrible people, she thought when David’s new friends arrived. Evidently they were artists. Kent had a thick red face, a loose neck, and mean eyes. His restless wife sought her reflection in the silverware. The restaurant was too quiet. There were too many ampersands. The waiters wore long denim aprons and roamed around looking saintly and resentful. David trotted out his greatest hits and the couple laughed appreciatively, as if it were the price of dinner. Gail and Kent were not the type that usually gravitated to her husband, but there was a conspiratorial quality to their revelry, the three of them. No one paid attention to Iona, who was factored in as the audience.
David shouts for her from the bedroom. He prefers Iona to do the traveling, so he can talk while he pulls on his socks. But since his return, Iona’s hearing has become less and less acute.
Seven months ago, while Iona was lying in bed with a fever, David called from Grand Central. He admitted his timing was poor, then said I’m not sure if I’m up to the whole kids and marriage thing after all. After all!
Iona didn’t succeed in finding the remote while her husband spoke, in order to turn down the volume on the TV. Consequently, David’s cheery valediction was interlaced with a documentary about the tree beetle.
—Water pressure’s off again… tying his tie, narrowing his eyes at Iona as he passes… —You have grape jelly in your hair.
She does not, as some wives might, tell her husband to get fucked. No doubt life would be easier if she had the nerve to say it.
—Where… David is digging through the breadbox, batting away bags of dinner rolls and half-finished loaves… —No more bagels?
—Frozen.
The week he left was mild for late March. Once Iona recovered from the flu, she strolled over to Prospect Park to take a look at this nature people were always boasting about. The plan was to assess the general state of things, and maybe creatures without a poisonous agenda of their own would help with that assessment. Lying on the cold ground, Iona looked up through knobbly winter branches stretching to the sky like geriatric fingers. The earth smelled rich, ancient, and mysterious. She pressed her palm against the city grass, its striving futile growth, to feel the world’s pulse, to get at history, the leavening spirit, a correspondence. Or whatever. The music of living. The rock and hiss of growing things, nature’s furtive whisperings. She stared up at a squirrel’s nest, wondering if it might drop onto her face.
David tosses a sleeve of frozen bagels onto the counter… —I’ll get something from the cart at work.
—Bravo… no idea why she says this.
He disappears down the hallway. She hears him rustling at the coat rack and unlocking the front door before calling back… —Remember to clean your hair.
—I will… by which, of course, Iona means get fucked.
8:01 a.m.
Katherine nabbed one of the coveted end seats of the pitted wooden bench by arriving exactly as the previous train was pulling away, practically snapping a femur as she flew down the stairs and launched herself at the subway’s closing doors, crushing the evening gown that lay folded over her arm. She’ll have to spend lunch steaming it out.
No word yet from Giselle. On Gala Day she’s usually texted Katherine fifteen times before breakfast, long directives with semicolons. Often signing her name at the bottom.
Katherine takes out her phone.
On my way in. Everything okay?
But the text fails to send. No service below ground.
8:02 a.m.
Three weeks after David called her from Grand Central, Iona walked into the lobby to find him standing in front of the mailbox pulling out flyers and coupons, postcards advertising pest control. As Iona watched, he licked a finger and started sorting through the envelopes. She swore he was humming. When she finally said, David? he glanced up casually as if he’d popped out for a quart of milk. Now, look, he said, adopting the measured expression of a reasonable man faced with a hysteric. He always underestimated her antipathy for drama.
—You could’ve been dead.
Is what she said. But there was no time for bitterness. David needed her to be happy. Because while he was away he’d had an epiphany.
Epiphany.
In the hall mirror Iona uses a wet cloth to clean the jelly from her hair, hearing David’s voice from seven months ago telling her, Iona, explaining how it wasn’t marriage fatigue, but an exploration. He needed to write plays again, as he did all those years ago, college, some of the happiest days of his life. Not to worry, he wasn’t quitting his job. This was simply a new habit: set the alarm for five, carry a cup of black coffee and his laptop into the living room and drum up some dramatic literature. Instead of divorce, David opted for a world of make-believe.
College! Iona pulls back her hair. You work at an investment bank! If anyone’s successfully hidden his dream of writing the great American play it’s you.
Returning to the kitchen, she opens the cabinet above the toaster, gropes wildly around the hot sauces and takes down David’s tequila. Pours herself a finger of añejo. A slosh of orange juice to prove it’s a brunch order, not the sign of a budding alcoholic.
What took place over those missing three weeks? Sorority orgies? Shared heroin? Betting their savings on a rooster? She found nothing incriminating on the credit card statement and David remained uncommonly silent for a man who described any bowel movement that departed from the standard.
Iona swirls her glass, sips the tequila. It’s not that she’s opposed to a midlife revelation. She tried to keep an open mind and at least appear supportive. Never reminding David that she was once on track to becoming an artist herself. One of those annoying undergrads with a pencil in her bun, pestering professors as they tried to eat lunch. But after graduation Iona wised up. Recognized in the making of art instability. Insolvency, selfishness, misery. A job in conservation meant a regular paycheck. Health insurance.
