On The Verge

For the rest of the afternoon, me, my perfectly shaped eyebrows and telly name mop up the floor and try to ignore the disinfectant smell mixed with the dog piss.

November

I race up the stairs the moment we get the key, early Saturday morning. Roseanne follows behind me (she can usually run faster, but she is giving me the lead). We both kind of take a deep breath before I open the door.

I was expecting a palace, but what I find is just a really nice average-size apartment. Anywhere else it would be worth less than half of what we are paying. Here in New York, it’s a place I want to call home. The floors are amazing. Roseanne, seeing that I don’t hate it, starts pointing out more features. I follow behind her, looking at the windows, the bathtub, the brand-new stove.

“So?” she asks.

“Wow!” I grab her arm. “Good job.”

“Dusty,” says my mother, before sneezing.

“Where should I put these?” asks Phil, one of my dad’s buddies, holding up a box of my clothes. My dad says nothing.

The room I get is pretty big. It’s a washed-out dingy white, which eventually we will have to change. The closets are huge. Rosie’s cranny, as we call it henceforth, is a smaller alcove next to the kitchen with a sleep loft above the kitchen. In the alcove, she has space for a desk and maybe a bureau. It’s actually kind of cute.

I’m really happy that my dad’s friend Phil is helping out, even though we see a lot of his butt crack. My dad is still on hyperspeed, he’s rushing up the stairs with everything, but thanks to Phil, there is a lot less for him to take. My mom cleans the whole time. She brought her super-duper vacuum and vows to buy us a small vacuum so we can be “on the ball about cleaning.” The thing about my mom is she keeps giving me these hugs and saying “my little girl” like I’m getting married or something. My father stands on the fire escape, which we will henceforth call either the balcony or the veranda, and smokes.

The whole process takes about two and a half hours. Phil goes to the store and gets a bunch of sandwiches and some beer. Then, we sit around on the hardwood floors eating. I look at my dad to make sure he is not going to have a heart attack, but he is happily gnawing away at his pastrami and swiss with mayo.

“So,” asks my mother as she leaves, “are you coming home for Thanksgiving?”

“Mom! I’m not living in Alaska! Of course I will, it’s only an hour train ride.”

“Okay, honey! Remember you can always come home.”

“Okay, Ma, okay.” As my father leads her out, I hear her start questioning whether or not the lock is safe.

Rosie and I work steadily for a while. We put up shelves, hang a few posters, unpack clothes, arrange the bathroom. By the time we get the apartment closer to the way we want and make a list of the things we need, it’s almost nine o’clock.

We stand out on the veranda and look out over 7th Avenue. If we turn to the right we can see all the way up to the lights of Times Square. “Tired?”

“A little—” Rosie leans against the stairs “—but I wouldn’t mind a drink.”

We don’t even bother to shower. We (I) invite Tabitha, who agrees to go out with us, but informs us that she is “not in the mood to excess.” Adrian declines because he has a date.

Tabitha arrives with puffy eyes. She refuses to talk about Jaques. He left for Paris a few days ago. She surveys the place. “Not bad. This is a loft.”

“Thanks, we knew that,” Rosie says, getting up to finish putting on her makeup. You’d think in their times of need they could be nice to each other. Wrong.

“How do you plan to fill your days?” Tabitha yells toward the closed door.

“C’mon on, now,” I plead with her. Tabitha looks like she might start crying again at any minute. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I’ve got a tennis lesson.”

“Tennis?”

“Yeah, I need something to fill my time away from Jaques. The circles I want to run in are full of people who play tennis. I would encourage you to look into it.”

“No thanks, I like to be sedentary.”

“Even with Ms. Jazzercise, here?” Ms. Jazzercise herself opens the door to the bathroom and emerges with an obvious foundation line. There is no way she needs to wear this much makeup. Maybe I should buy the Kevin book and leave it open to a page that talks about minimalism. I look at Tabitha and shake my head.

“Okay let’s go, ladies.” I clap my hands together like my mother.

Tabitha wants us to go to this lounge all the way over by the river.

“C’mon, there’s so many other places. Both of us are a little weary. We just want to sit and drink and not have to worry about anyone looking at our breasts.” Roseanne nods in agreement, probably too scared to say anything.

“Why not?” Tabitha is confused.

“Tabitha, at least think of Jaques. We don’t want a meat market.”

We wind up at Peter McManus. It’s an Irish pub with a kickass jukebox. This is the type of place that I would think Tabitha would hate, but she gets up and puts at least two dollars in the jukebox. She keeps telling us we are going to love her selections. When each song ends we pause and look to Tabitha for a word on whether the new one is one of her choices. It’s always a good one, but never one of the ones she picked.

We drink a lot while waiting for her songs to come on.

While Rosie is in the bathroom, I ask Tabitha if she’ll call Johann, the German banker.

“Eve, what about my feelings? I’m just getting over one European.”

“Tabitha, you don’t have to date him, just give him a call.”

“You never tire of testing me. Oh, God.” She gets up. “Shit, shit. This is it. My song.” I leap up, too. It’s “Suspicious Minds” by the King himself. We start dancing and dancing and when Roseanne comes out she starts dancing, too. Some of the regulars look over at us and laugh. They sing along, but it’s just kind of us, fucking up the words, making up dance moves. It’s a good drunk.