Chapter 31
31
Josefine
It turns out Iris knows more than just the secret menu at the Black Hole. After making small talk and learning that I’m a writer, she introduces me to her fellow barista, Ari, who invites me to tag along to a six-week creative writing workshop that begins tonight. I’m terribly jet-lagged and want nothing more than to sleep for a solid week, but when Ari mentions there’s only one spot left, I seize the opportunity.
With a cup of Winnie the Pooh (honey latte with condensed milk), my AirPods in, and my favorite “Get Shit Done” playlist cued up, I reply to every email I received while on vacation and even complete a project I left unfinished before Greece. Then I head back to the apartment to freshen up.
At a quarter till five, I meet Ari outside the Black Hole.
“Aren’t you a sweetheart?” I warble when the adorable man hands me a to-go cup of coffee.
By the time the bus spits us out in front of the arts and education building in West Harlem, I’m well versed in Ari’s life story. The small-framed man, also twenty-three, looks like Timothée Chalamet, with his mop of black hair, sharp cheekbones, prominent jaw, and crystal-blue eyes.
He grew up on Long Island with his Jewish-Italian family, but like me, he moved to the city last year. We instantly bonded over our Jewish dads. He works at the Black Hole part time to supplement his income as a social media manager.
“You’re going to love Talulah!” Ari trills, taking and tossing my empty coffee cup by the door.
Talulah, I learned on the ride over, is our instructor. She’s also Ari’s grandmother.
The classroom he leads me to smells earthy, and the walls are covered in paintings. A handful of people are already seated, with a mix of notebooks and laptops scattered across tabletops.
I settle into a navy blue plastic seat like the ones from school, and suddenly, I’m hit with memories of a high school English class.
I’ve wanted to be a writer—an author—since I was seven years old. As a child, I would sit in front of the TV and copy dialogue into my Lisa Frank notebook as quickly as my chubby little hands could keep up. By the time I got to high school, I had more notebooks than my desk could hold. But stringing together words and scenarios became especially therapeutic following my dad’s death.
When given a creative writing assignment in freshman English, I dove in wholeheartedly. Only I messed up the due date. I was mortified when I was called to the podium to read my paper before it was ready. Believing I had one more week to work on the assignment, I was forced to read my shitty first draft to a room of judging classmates.
When I sank into my seat, hands clammy and my heart racing, a guy behind me leaned in close and whispered that it was the worst thing he’d ever heard .
I willed my sticky plastic chair to swallow me whole on the spot. I was humiliated that the one thing I loved more than anything was put on display in its ugliest form. No dancer wants to be forced to perform a triple pirouette in front of a live audience before they’ve had time to practice and polish their technique. The same is true for writers. We have to fill a page with some pretty ugly shit before we trim and prune and cultivate the words into something magnificent.
My memory is interrupted when a very loud—and colorful—woman saunters through the door.
She has a silvery-lavender bob, purple glasses perched on her button nose, and aquamarine Converse sneakers that match her cotton coveralls perfectly.
When she passes Ari, she playfully flicks his ear.
“That’s your grandma?” I gape at the eclectic woman poised at the front of the classroom. Ari said she’s in her seventies, but she doesn’t look a day over fifty, and she oozes an infectious charisma.
“Yup. That’s my bubbe ,” he beams.
“Now.” Talulah claps, commanding our attention. “Most of you are here because you have dreams of becoming a published author, correct?”
Not a soul speaks, but many of us nod.
Talulah leans a plump hip on the desk behind her. “Over the next six weeks, we will cover a variety of topics, beginning with grammar and punctuation. While I consider this the least important part of creative writing”—she rolls her eyes like a teenage girl whose mother is giving her a stiff lecture—“it seems to have a chokehold on my students. I’ve learned it’s best to get it out of the way.”
Talulah continues, explaining all the topics we’ll cover—expanding vocabulary, improving flow, understanding sentence structure, and writing concisely .
“We will not have any flappy sentences.” She flaps her arms like a chicken, garnering a round of laughter from the class.
“We’ll cover plot, story arc, and character development, then get into how to spot plot holes and how to fix them.”
Talulah goes on to explain that when the six weeks are over, she offers a two-week extension for those who wish to embark on a little spicy challenge.
When that topic comes up, Ari shifts in his seat and gives me a knowing wink.
He introduces me to his grandmother after class, then we all hug and part ways.
I cross the courtyard and pull out my phone to check my notifications, only to run smack into a petite body. Papers go flying and a steel water bottle rolls into the busy street with a clang.
“Shit!” I yell.
The woman I knocked into bends at the same time I do.
“Are you okay?” I ask, assessing her.
I’m met with a perfect dark brown bun situated on top of her head. “I’m fine,” she says, swiping her bangs off her gold wire-frame glasses.
With a long breath out, I help her collect the pages strewn around us. Once they’re collected, she sticks them back into her portfolio.
We rise and I apologize again, insisting I’ll buy her a new water bottle, as it’s currently New York City roadkill. After learning that she will be at the education center again next week, I wish her a good class and tell her I’ll be waiting outside.