2. Small, Small World （Melissa） #2
Sitting shotgun in Mr. Hellerman's — I mean, Ryan’s — Mercedes Uhlenhaut Coupé as we cruised down Manhattan and headed to Brooklyn, my own dusty Fiat parked in Blue Riff’s underground parking lot, was the last thing on my mind.
But it was still on my mind. Tomorrow, I’d have to take an Uber to the office and then drive home in the Fiat. Eh.
“You’d think me vapid, but I have to ask,” I said. I was still feeling a little embarrassed about that whole mental image I’d conjured up in the file room. “How rich does a man have to be that they drive a 142 million dollar car?”
“You’re a regular Supercar Blondie,” Ryan said, not taking his eyes off the road.
“It’s my dad. He’s crazy about cars,” I said.
“He must be a good man,” Ryan said.
“Don’t change the topic. I know for a fact that this is the most expensive Mercedes ever sold. So, 142 million must be like, what, chump change for you?”
“$142 million is $142 million for anyone, billionaires included. It’s no small sum, especially for a two-seater.
I’d have still bought it if my net worth had been just $500 million.
I’d sell my soul for it if I didn’t have the money.
But thank God, I did, because Christ, I love this car.
Both my grandfather and my father were fond of cars.
In fact, Dad had an impressive collection of his own.
This, however, was the only car that eluded him.
Back when my grandfather wanted to buy it, it was unavailable.
It was still unavailable when my dad wanted to buy it.
After his death, it…I don’t know, it felt like a way of connecting with him, having this car.
So I bought it, no matter the cost. Now, whenever I’m behind the wheel, it feels like Grandpa and Dad are looking at me from above, content that I am living their dream,” Ryan said in one string.
“That’s profound, Ryan,” I said, feeling the cool breeze in my hair. “I would never have…”
“Guessed that billionaires have hearts too?” Ryan asked, smiling.
There it was again, that vehemence in his eyes that made me want to picture all the dirty things with him.
I had never been one for voluptuousness, making me question my sanity even more.
What was it: the pheromones? The fact that I’d been looking up to him as my idol for the past ten years? What?
Then that voice deep within me — the voice of reason that I had been ignoring lately — spoke in her faint voice that mimicked mine. Perhaps you’re turned on simply by how fucking hot he is, Melissa.
I hated to agree with that voice, but it was right.
Ryan seemed to be some Renaissance sculptor’s rendition of a Greek god: cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them, an angular jawline with just a light sprinkle of stubble on his chin and cheeks, and fierce brown eyes that seemed to hold all of the wisdom of the world behind them.
Even though he was wearing an Armani suit up top, I could still trace the brawny outline of his seemingly impeccable body underneath.
At this moment, I didn’t care. It was not every day you met the man, the myth, the legend, and found him to be so…so Ryan.
“You keep going somewhere inside your mind, it makes me wonder if I’m boring you,” Ryan said.
“I’ll confess something. You’ve been a bit of a hero for me since I was twelve. I mean… ten years later, I get to see you in the flesh. I’m just having one of those super-fan moments.
“But why? I’m not the one who sings on the stage,” Ryan declared, parking his car by the side of the road.
I didn’t even realize that we’d crossed the Brooklyn Bridge fifteen minutes ago and were now basking in the orange-yellow glow of Bill Basin Deli.
It was impossible that he knew that this was my favorite Deli in New York.
“Put a pin in that for a second. Why are we here?” I asked, pointing at the Deli’s window.
“Because it’s almost one in the morning; and if there’s any place that’s going to serve us fresh hot dogs, pizza straight out of the oven, and burgers so good they’ll remind you of your mom’s sloppy joes, it’s this place.”
“But it’s closed,” I announced.
“Not for me it isn’t,” Ryan said a bit cockily, then got out of the car. He walked around it, then opened the door for me. “Do you know Joshua Liebermann?”
“You mean the singer whose poster I hid in my high school locker? The Joshua Lieberman?”
“Yeah, that Joshua Lieberman, him with the Tony and the hattrick plat albums. He was a judge on last year’s American Idol, if I remember correctly,” Ryan said, knocking on the door that clearly said ‘CLOSED.’
“What about him?”
“Well, he was my first client ten years ago. His mom owns this place. Makes everything herself, the brisket, the buns for the hot dogs, the pizza dough. Everything. Remarkable woman. One hell of a cook. You wouldn’t know it when you see her, but she’s eighty years old.”
“You’re talking about Mrs. Emily Lieberman. Of course, I know her. I used to get donuts from her at eight in the morning every day on my way to school. Come on, I’m a Brooklynite through and through.”
“It might surprise you, but so am I.” Ryan beamed at me and walked right in as the deli’s door swung open.
“Oh, Ryan, bubbaleh! I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age!” I heard Mrs. Lieberman’s unmistakable high-pitched voice chirp from inside. Luckily, I was standing on the pavement all alone, because at that moment my stomach rumbled so loud that I feared half the block had heard it.
“How’s Josh?” Ryan had both his hands on Mrs. Lieberman’s shoulders. They were doing a sort of impromptu meet-and-greet dance in the hallway. Inside, the deli smelled heavenly, with different scents of delicious foods perfusing into each other, making my mouth water.
“You know Josh, always traveling the world, touring, playing his music, all thanks to you!” Mrs. Lieberman said. Then, turning her attention to me, she said, “Missy?”
“Hi, Mrs. Lieberman,” I greeted, waving at her.
“Melissa, or rather, Missy , just started work for me today. We’re both ravenous. I told her there was only one place in all of Brooklyn that served the finest brisket in all of America.”
“Say no more. You two seat yourselves over there and I’ll be out in a jiff. Let me surprise you,” she said, scuttling over to the kitchen. “I can read hunger on the face of my favorite people better than a James Patterson novel. And you two are running on fumes.”
“You do that, Mrs. Lieberman,” Ryan chirped, patting her hand.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lieberman,” I said.
“Missy, how’s your dad? I hear he’s been ill.”
“He’s on meds, Mrs. Lieberman. The docs say that one of these days he’s going to be up and at it again.”
“That would be for the best, now, wouldn’t it?” Mrs. Lieberman put her hand on my cheek and regarded me with an affectionate gaze. One that made me feel all comfortable inside.
Once she went back into the kitchen, we were all alone in the diner, looking at the passing cars from the window.
“Your dad,” Ryan said slowly.
“Old age’s a son of a bitch, ain’t it?”
“I never really got to see my dad when he was old. You’re lucky to have him.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about him.
As much as I love him, it makes me sad to think that sometime soon in the future, he won’t be there any longer.
Could we talk about anything else, please?
” I requested, looking sideways to stop the tears from making their way to the surface.
“Do you know the history of this place?” Ryan asked, smoothly changing the topic. He was looking around at all the black and white jazz posters on the walls, the checkerboard pattern on the floor, and the deep orange and yellow walls that subliminally seemed to increase my hunger.
“This place? I didn’t even know Mrs. Lieberman was Joshua Lieberman’s mom,” I said, hurriedly wiping my eyes while Ryan was looking behind at the main counter with all the baked goods on display.
“Well, you would be surprised to know that ten years ago, when I’d just started Blue Riff Records and had no clients and barely enough money to sign someone on, who should enter my shoddy downtown one-room office but Joshua?
He was thirty back then. He told me that he desperately needed some money to save his mom’s deli from going under and the only thing he had to show for it was his smooth octaves and an as-of-yet-undiscovered Soundcloud page. ”
“Did Soundcloud even exist ten years ago?” I asked, feeling grateful that Ryan had shifted the conversation so suddenly. I was no longer sad; just intrigued.
“Ten years ago was 2013, not 1993,” Ryan said, chuckling. “And yes, it did exist back then.”
“So what happened next?”
“Well, I told him that despite what they said about the industry, there was no such thing as a get-rich-quick scheme and no deals with the devil…nothing like that. That if he wanted me to sign him on, he had to show me he meant business. And boy, oh, boy, he showed me business like no one else. Took out his electric guitar and played a riff from the heydays of the Blues music scene. I’m talking the next Robert Johnson.
Back then, I hadn’t even named my label anything.
“When I listened to his tune, the name “Blue Riff” came to my mind. That’s both the story of how he became my first client and how I named my company.
With the signing bonus, he bought the land and the building of this very deli we’re sitting in, and that’s why, in a heavily gentrified neighborhood in Brooklyn, this is one of the last remaining old-school New York eateries that still retains its post-war architectural appeal. ”
“Holy fucking shit,” I said, having difficulty in comprehending all that Ryan had just told me. “It’s trippy, the interconnectedness of it all. My favorite singer got signed on by my favorite music producer, and together the two of them somehow saved my favorite deli. Small world, eh?”
“I can make it even smaller,” Ryan whispered.