Chapter 5
Chris tells me to come over to his apartment on Thursday evening at seven o’clock.
This makes me snort some laughter because he thinks everyone’s life revolves around such confining things as days and hours.
I can nearly always distinguish a sunrise from a sunset and that’s about all I need. I’ve got no interest in shoving my life
inside the tiny squares of a calendar. Time is nothing but a construct meant to make people feel behind. Women, specifically,
with all the wedding-and-kids pressure.
I make an exception for the dogsitting, though, and set a reminder on my phone. Once I get done rolling my eyes at the rigidity,
it’s actually quite exhilarating to have a specific place to go, a time someone expects me to arrive. Defying defiance feels
good sometimes.
Chris lives in Tribeca, the highest-income neighborhood in Manhattan, bordering the Hudson River on one side and the Financial
District on the other. All the corporate sellouts live there so they can sleepwalk to their Wall Street skyscrapers and fulfill
their noble calling as disposable cogs in the wheel of capitalism.
I drive over to Tribeca rather than take the subway because I haven’t yet hit my road rage provocation quota for the week.
When I finally get below the stop-and-go traffic of SoHo, there’s an eerie hush that falls over the cobblestone streets.
It feels like everyone in this zip code has died an early death, and now it’s just their bodily shells marching on in their puffed-up routines because they wouldn’t know what to do or who to be if they stopped.
The tidy sidewalks are nearly empty. All the tourists are tied up in Times Square and the homeless know better than to waste
their time begging from the wealthy. The streets are still packed with parked cars, though—Range Rovers and Jaguars, it’s
all so predictable. I have to squiggle around for a while until I can snag a spot. I’m no good at parallel parking. Perpendicular
things are nearly always more interesting, so I hold up the cars behind me by taking my sweet time until finally the Red Rocket
is wedged into the spot, the back tire up on the curb.
I get out of the Red Rocket and walk east, or maybe west. It’s hard to tell because the sun hasn’t sunk yet but the buildings
are tall enough to block the light, so it feels like night already. That’s a metaphor if I’ve ever heard one.
Eventually I get to Chris’s place. He lives in one of those obnoxiously tall towers, a total eyesore in the sky. Thirty or
sixty stories tall—I don’t feel like craning my neck to check.
The Windemere is written in loopy cursive on the frilly awning out front; it’s so typically English try-hard. There are these two doorpeople
guarding the place like it’s Buckingham Palace. They have to wear these ridiculous uniforms and top hats that make them look
like little props in a show; it’s so demeaning. They see everyone but no one sees them. It’s sort of like being an Uber driver,
I guess, but at least I get to wear whatever I want.
I strut into the building like I belong. As I’m making my way toward the elevator bank, the guy at the front desk calls me
over and asks my name. If I were on staff here, I’d rather take the outside shift. It beats sitting in this stuffy lobby all
day in the sickly light of the crystal chandelier, passing fake niceties with multimillionaire tenants who don’t remember
your name or more likely never even ask for it in the first place.
I try to bond with the guy at the front desk, laugh about what a joke this place is.
I figure he’ll appreciate that I’m another outsider, but he’s all formal and serious and won’t break character.
It’s not his fault. There are probably security cameras rating his professionalism, waiting for the slightest misstep so they can fire him and hire someone younger who doesn’t expect to be paid a penny above minimum wage.
He calls up to Chris’s apartment to verify that I’m allowed to be here, that I’m not plotting some heist to steal all the
jewelry in this place. The thought makes me giggle, makes me feel unbridled and alive.
In the elevator, I jab the number 27 for Chris’s floor. I’ve never been in an elevator that moves so fast. It’s a rush and
leaves my ears popping with pleasure.
I try to open the door to Chris’s apartment, but it’s locked so I rap on it to the beat of a song I was listening to on the
radio on my way here. It’s my new favorite jam that I know I’ll overplay and won’t be able to stand by tomorrow.
A dog barks from inside. It’s a good bark, assertive without being arrogant, a rare combo. You can always tell about a dog
from the bark. It seals in the sense that I’ve done the right thing by agreeing to help Chris.
The door opens and the dog leaps on me like he’s been impatiently awaiting my arrival, like Chris has been prepping him for
just how great I am.
I pretend to be put off by the sudden attack, but the pup’s got my heart from the start. He’s an Australian shepherd, a mash-up
of grays and whites and browns and blacks. His eyes are delightfully mismatched too, one golden and one navy blue. I’m wearing
navy contacts today and it strengthens the bond between us.
“That’s Arnold,” Chris says. It’s pretty cute, the way he’s bursting with pride over this slobbery creature.
I wouldn’t have expected it from Chris. He’s not exactly touchy-feely.
But that’s the magic of dogs, how they bring out the best in all of us, even stoic guys like Chris who’ve been trained to think that showing emotion is a sign of weakness.
Chris is looking alright despite the fact that he’s wearing pastel khaki shorts, plus one of those golf polos with a little
whale logo. It’s the classic Hamptons garb, a code to let everyone around you know that you went to an Ivy League school and
now work in finance and make more than enough money to buy everyone’s drinks at the are-you-on-the-list beach bar, not that
you will because you want to hoard it all for yourself. I’m not sure if Chris means to be sending those messages—he may have
just fallen into the trap without knowing it, but that’s really no excuse. I have the urge to cut off the constrictive collar
of his shirt or at least untuck it, but I restrain myself with pure decorum.
The apartment is modern and sterile with gigantic floor-to-ceiling windows that couldn’t be more of a contrast to the Inn’s.
There’s central air-conditioning and I realize how sweaty I am only when the beads of perspiration start drying on my skin.
The living room windows face south, down toward the Financial District’s steely skyscrapers, pompous and sleek. The only respectable
building is the Freedom Tower, standing a hundred and some stories high, the spire pointing into the sky like a giant middle
finger to the terrorists. I don’t do patriotism, but the sight does jab me with a certain pride that America wasn’t scared
to build another tall building after the Twin Towers fell, that we won’t be bullied into meekness. I wonder if Chris ever
thinks about these things. He’s probably immune to the view by now. That’s how it goes.
Arnold’s not a puppy anymore, but he still has that spunk like he doesn’t plan to calm down anytime soon, like he’s not subscribing
to the conventions surrounding age and maturity. It’s a good outlook. We’re on the same page, so I get down on my knees and
we start wrestling each other right there on the tasseled rug. I call him Arnie, not Arnold. We’re on nickname basis already.
Chris asks if maybe we could take it easy. “I don’t want Arnold to wreck the apartment.”
By that I know he means he doesn’t want me to wreck the apartment, though that’s what the apartment clearly needs—some wrecking. It’s all sharp angles and beige furnishings,
like Chris ordered the whole thing straight from a showroom. Nothing personal about it.
The only exceptions are some framed photos of him and Olivia, hanging vexingly straight and centered on the cream-colored
walls. Looking around, I notice more pictures of them jammed onto the glass coffee table and granite kitchen counter. I bet
there are even photos in the bathroom, so I walk in to check. It’s all ceramic and swirls, and sure enough more pictures are
right there by the opulent little soap dispenser. I get the feeling that Olivia put all these up. She must’ve surveyed the
apartment from all angles to ensure that there was never a place where Chris couldn’t see her face, because out of sight means
out of mind. It reeks of insecurity, but what do I know about relationships?
“Olivia lives here too?” I ask, making a point to show respect by using her name. I choose the high road sometimes, just not
all the time because then it’s not a choice, it’s a default.
“No,” Chris says. “I live by myself. Olivia and I have only been dating five months.”
Doing the math, I conclude they must’ve met soon after Chris fell for me at the art gallery. Very briefly and very rashly,
I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d agreed to go out with him then. Perhaps this apartment might have more color and less
order. Probably not, since we would’ve fizzled out long ago and he would’ve met Olivia or someone identical to Olivia by now
anyway.
There are two bedrooms, and the entire spare room feels like a gross display of income inequality. I could hate Chris for
it, but I’m feeling extra agreeable today so I decide to just hate the system instead.
“Why isn’t Arnie going to the Hamptons with you?” I ask.
Chris explains how he wanted to take him, but Olivia’s dad has a bad dander allergy and Chris is trying to make a good impression since it’s the first time they’re meeting.
He seems nervous about it, which makes zero sense. Chris is the textbook definition of the ideal guy to bring home. My mom
would be over the goddamn moon if I arrived back in Michigan for Christmas with Chris in tow. My dad would be all for it too