Pug Hill - Alison Pace [88]
I wonder where Benji Brown might be in the world at right this very second. I have no idea. The James Taylor album that’s been playing in my mind skips over to a different song. I lean back a little in my chair, take a sip of my white wine spritzer, and listen as James Taylor sings so softly: this is a song for you far away from me.
chapter twenty-six
Standing on Smith Street in My Pumas, Waiting
“Listen, man, thanks for suggesting this, it was fun,” Elliot says as he leans over and does some sort of guy handshake-snapping thing with Sergei.
“A lot of fun!” Sergei agrees. “See you all on Monday. Bye, Elliot. Bye, Hope.”
“Bye Sergei,” I say and I wonder if that just came out slurry, or if I just think that it did. It is two-thirty in the morning. I can’t remember when I was last out this late, and I think the possibility might be high that it was in a different decade. I also think the possibility might be high that I am wasted. Elliot asked Sergei and me at work on Friday if we minded if some of his artist friends came with us as they, too, wanted to celebrate Elliot’s promotion. We both said that of course we didn’t mind and then I couldn’t sleep at all last night trying to think of what to wear that would make me seem cool to Elliot and all his artist friends, the type of people who surely sneered at people who lived on the Upper West Side, the type of people who only lived in artsy, exotic places like Brooklyn.
That I found myself at Foot Locker first thing this morning, buying a pair of Pumas (my thinking being that Pumas were indeed a hip footwear choice) actually did not do a whole hell of a lot to increase my confidence about my level of coolness.
Claire is not here. Maybe Claire is at fat camp. Or better yet, maybe Claire doesn’t exist at all. The artist friends have come and gone. It’s just Elliot and me. I have spent a tremendous amount of this evening thinking that Elliot is perfect. And dreamy. Though to my credit, when, over the course of the evening, Elliot has gotten up to get us yet another round, or to go to the bathroom, I have refrained from thinking things like, “God, look how fucking hot he is when he walks.” Thinking such things, I know this, would generally not be a good idea. Thinking such things could be but a stop or two away from Penis-Lunging-Ville, a Ville to which I do not wish to go.
Elliot takes another sip of his beer, puts it down on the table. “So how’s it going with the Rothko?” he asks. It is the first time tonight that I have remembered that Elliot is now my boss.
“Good, hard though,” I say, and take another sip of my beer.
“Paintings Conservation,” he says, draining his beer, “it’s so hard. It’s painful and you’re always alone.” I live for this shit, I really do. Elliot is so deep. And so blurry. I nod in agreement and take another sip of beer. Elliot reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone. He glances at its screen, and as he goes to put it back away, I remember standing on the steps of my brownstone so long ago, imagining typing “Elli” into my phone. I know that I am drunk, yes, but I feel that the symbolism, whatever it might be, needs to be captured. I reach into my bag, grab my phone.
“What’s your number?” I ask. “I should program you in.”
“Uh, yeah,” he says, “718-555-1212.” I key in the number, type in E-L-L-I, smile to myself, and flip my phone shut. As I slip the phone back into my bag, I think that I’d like to have sex with my boss.
“Uh, what’s yours?”
“Oh, um, 917-222-1515.”
“Cool,” he says and I watch him type in the number. A wave of dizziness sweeps over me. It occurs to me that I’m too drunk, that going drink for drink, for some inexplicable reason, with Sergei and Elliot wasn’t a good idea at all. It occurs to me that possibly I’m thisclose to something I’ll later regret. I watch as Elliot types the four letters of my name into his phone. H-O-P-E. It occurs to me that the only thing you can shorten Hope to is Ho.
“I think I’m just going to grab an