Chapter 15
It’s a good spring for my playwriting. I don’t write much in terms of word count, but I conceptualize this whole new genre,
unfurl it with my hips and then my fingers. I touch the fabric, cut its shape, design its texture. Gritty like sandpaper.
A slippery streak too, the flat side of a skipping stone.
The premise is that all the dialogue comes from one master voice that you hear from behind the curtain but never actually
see. Kind of like an Oz figure but the actors onstage don’t speak. They just mime to what the voice is saying.
It’s satire about how the theater industry takes away the individual voices of the actors by making them stick to constrictive
scripts and paying them nothing, exploiting their talent and turning them into puppets.
We think about pitching it to some directors, but we know it’s a lost cause. There’s no way they’ll go for something that
paints the industry in a shady light, no matter how true it is.
The “we” refers to Elliot, this total smoke show who comes by Kora’s a lot and inhales nitro cold brew, spilling it into the
cracks of their keyboard without care. Elliot wears a look that less enlightened people might mistake as constipation. But
as I know too well, it’s actually the expression of a virtuoso whose talent is lodged so deeply inside that they can’t quite
squeeze it out.
Elliot runs the theater circuit too. We hit it off venting about all the nepotism and elitist gatekeeper shit that goes on.
It’s even worse for the nonbinary community.
They gave up on acting because they’d audition for female roles and get told they were too masculine, then get turned down for male roles for being too feminine.
And the tricky thing is most of it was this subtle coded language so they wouldn’t have great evidence for a lawsuit even if they could afford a lawyer.
Elliot sees my talent, says I’m the leader the world needs. It’s validating but frustrating too, that everyone doesn’t see
it that way. Though maybe some of my charm lies in its controversy.
We find some creative ways to work our disgruntled muscles before they tell me I’ve inspired them so much that they’re moving
to LA to conquer the screenwriting scene. I’m pretty relieved by this because I’d probably keep seeing Elliot for a while
if they stayed in New York. Not monogamously, but still, it was getting a little too serious. The choking feeling, which begins
as a soft tickle in the throat, would soon have become a set of talons clenching my neck.
The day that Elliot leaves, I head over to Lone Wolf, the matchbox-shaped dive bar on the corner of Dodworth and Bushwick
Avenue, home to three-dollar picklebacks—a shot of whiskey chased by pickle brine. Picklebacks originated in Bushwick, one
of our many claims to fame.
Even at nighttime, it’s nearly always darker inside the bar than outside. The lightbulbs in the ceiling lamps are either too
old or too grimy to shine properly. Probably both. Tara has started bartending at Lone Wolf for extra money. I like keeping
her company. Hal is here tonight too, on the rickety barstool beside me as Tara pours draft beer and whiskey for the motorcycle-and-Medicare
crowd. They’re the kind of people you can rest around, no sleazy pickup lines or anything like that.
“Let’s invent a Redstocking drink to put on the menu,” Hal suggests.
“I don’t think I have the power to make that happen,” Tara says, looking hesitant, as if her manager is going to catch wind and fire her.
“Of course you do,” I say. “A Redstocking cocktail is a good idea. It’ll cement our legacy. Gin, vermouth, and Sprite? With
pomegranate for the red color, plus some maple syrup and bitters to make a statement. And excess salt on the rim so it’s nice
and crunchy. Tough on the tongue.”
I expect Hal to shoot it down and propose her own grand recipe instead. But she just nods in approval and claps my back. “Nice
work, EJ,” she says. “Might hire you to be on my product development team soon enough.”
“Like I’d ever work for you, Hal,” I say, giving her a stern do-you-even-hear-yourself look. The ice breaks, and the two of
us fall through into laughter that feels like lake water. Tara joins in too. It’s like we’re hollering extra hard to mask
the fact that there are only three of us now, not four.
There’s an old, duct-taped jukebox pressed up against the back wall. Hal and I go over and give it a good shake. We’ve developed
a special talent for shaking jukeboxes so hard that the coins they’ve gobbled up fall into place and we get to pick songs
for free. If I had a résumé, which I don’t obviously, “Jukebox Pirate” would be front and center in the “Special Skills” section.
Sure enough, things rattle and click into place and we’re able to get “Wild Horses” going. It’s one of our favorite Rolling
Stones songs, though it’s on the slower side. Hal and I dance to it together, swaying as we hold each other and twirl this
way and that through the narrow bar, cloaked in the liberation that comes from dark lighting and a crowd of heavy drinkers.
Tara won’t come out to dance with us for fear of repercussions while she’s on the clock, so Hal and I have to hop up and over
the bar and join her back there. We’re not too unhinged but we’re not tame either.
“Better to be fired and free than employed and tethered,” I say.
“Well said,” Hal agrees. “We should add that to the ceiling quotes at the Inn. You’re really on your A game tonight, EJ.”
“I’m always on my A game,” I say. “Except the days I don’t want to be, for risk of my brilliance becoming monotonous.”
“Here,” Tara says, handing us two cocktail glasses, the rims drowned in salt. “I made you the Redstocking.”
“Make one for yourself too,” Hal says. “Per our no-Redstocking-left-behind policy.”
“The only form of governance we tolerate,” I add.
And so, still looking a bit nervous that she might be caught drinking during her shift, Tara hastily conjures up one of her
own.
“You gave yourself the worst one,” I observe, trading glasses with her before she can protest.
We raise our glasses and sip. It tastes like the beginning of summer, bright and spritzy with confidence that the best is
just beyond the next bend.
“Where are you going?” Hal asks, as I hop off the barstool.
“Mango and Squid,” I explain. “They’ve been home alone for several hours now.” I don’t like the thought that they might feel
abandoned. Or a bird might have pecked its way in through the grilled window, on the prowl. Implausible but not impossible.
“They’re goldfish,” Hal says with an exasperated sigh. “They don’t need to be babied.”
“As much as I appreciate your input on my pet parenting abilities,” I say with an upbeat salute as I head out, back toward
the Inn, “I’ve got this covered.”