Pug Hill - Alison Pace [52]
“Next time, really. Have fun, you guys,” she says quickly and rushes away. I can’t help thinking that unless he pulls a complete one-eighty, all the cuteness and fashion sense is wasted on Alec, because Alec just might be a bit of an idiot. I imagine that’s probably for the best, reminding myself that I just don’t have it in me to love anyone else from afar, or come to think of it, even from up close right at this juncture in time.
“What was that all about?” Amy asks heavily as she clomps just as heavily behind me as we climb the stairs and head to the back of the second floor of the Cedar Tavern.
“I’m not sure,” I say, because as intriguing as the tale of the slutty accountant whose e-mail was read around the world is, I want to do something nice for Lindsay, and that’s the only thing I can think of.
“Dude,” Alec calls from in front of us, “she’s the girl who sent some e-mail about nailing this guy who fell asleep and not nailing someone else so he’d buy all her friends drinks but she sent it by mistake to the guy who wasn’t, uh, getting nailed, and then it got forwarded, I mean everywhere. A celebrity in our midst.” He flashes a grin over his shoulder. Such a boyish, handsome grin, I think, and wish he’d stop using the word dude.
“Wow,” Amy says, “I absolutely remember that. That’s intense.”
There’s a round table in the back, we circle around it, take our seats as a waitress appears to take our drink orders. A bourbon for Amy, just ice water for Martine, a Manhattan for Lawrence, and whatever you’ve got on tap for Alec. And then it’s my turn, and I want it to be a friendly night, a nice night, I want people to like me and I wonder if it’s really true what Evan always said about white wine spritzers.
“I’ll have an Amstel Light,” I say, and as soon as I say it, I wonder if maybe that’s the next worse thing to a spritzer.
“So,” Lawrence says brightly, “where does everyone live?” No one answers, I take a sip of my beer, gather any reserve that is left after all that has been spent in class, and say, “Upper West Side.”
“I hate ze Upper West Side,” says Martine.
“Why do you hate the Upper West Side?” Lawrence asks. “I live there, too.”
“Zare are so many mothers on ze Upper West Side, so many of zem bottle-feed. I think ze people on ze Upper West Side, zey think zey are so great with zare proximity to ze park and zare decorative fireplaces but so few of zem breast-feed.”
Lawrence purses his lips. Amy curls a lip at her, I imagine more over the breast-feeding, than over any defense of the Upper West Side. I decide that, as in many situations, it might just be better not to say anything.
“I live in Brooklyn,” Amy says and I’m happy we’re moving on, and I wonder if she lives near Elliot.
“My coworker lives in Carroll Gardens,” I offer and she nods. Alec tells us he lives in Tribeca. I’ve long had a theory that all the cutest guys in New York live in Tribeca; everything looks good about this guy, except it seems for his personality.
“So, why does it make you so angry when people don’t breast-feed?” Lawrence asks, really rather provocatively if you ask me. Martine takes a deep breath, it seems she is preparing to launch into a tremendous tirade. Lawrence leans into her, stage whispering so that everyone can hear, “My wife didn’t breast-feed.”
Wife? I think, and Martine’s tirade begins. Luckily, she and Lawrence are at one side of the table, and the group seamlessly, naturally separates at this point: Lawrence hunkers down to listen to what I’m sure will be a long speech, and Alec and I turn in our chairs toward Amy. Alec leans in to Amy. “So, you’re a novelist, that’s totally cool. What have you written?”
She exhales and says, “My first novel came out about two years ago, Black.”
“Oh, I think I’ve heard of it,” Alec says in a way that reveals he hasn’t heard of it. I can’t really fault him too much on that though, because I haven’t heard of it either.
“It’s very literary,” Amy offers. “You