The Bobby Gold stories - Anthony Bourdain [24]
"Bullshit," said Eric, unseen on the other side of a row of graffiti-covered lockers.
"He's a fucking faggot. What's with the all-black clothes? Who does he think he is? He's all talk. Another punchy-ass doorman been sprinkling steroids on his fucking Froot Loops. Probably got balls the size a cashews."
Nikki, in her underwear, peeked around the corner. Eric was cutting a few lines of coke on the lid of a plastic fish tub, a shaker glass of Long Island Iced Tea sitting on the floor next to him.
"Think so?" she said. "I'll let you know."
"I'm tellin' you, man. He's into some serious shit," said Lenny. "I know . . . I heard from reliable sources. He's been to prison — for like a long time. For murder or some shit."
"Bullshit," said Eric, unwilling to believe anything so interesting about the quiet security man who his number-one line cook was clearly planning on fucking. "All those muscle guys are faggots," he sneered. "They all take it in the twins."
Seeing that Eric was too high and drunk to talk to — and not caring what he said anyway - Nikki struggled into her jeans, pullover and leather jacket, slung her knife roll over her shoulder and prepared to leave. Lenny looked stricken.
"It'll be fine," she told the chubby little line cook, pinching his cheek. "I'm just having a drink with him."
She left him in the locker room looking dejected, shaking his head.
They all wanted to get in her pants. That was the problem.
Back at the mezz bar — another drink. This one the last. She was worried. All the tall, thin women around her, with their carefully applied makeup, their club clothes. Nikki caught sight of herself in the mirror above the bar and didn't like what she saw, an outcast, a line cook, a guy with a cunt. She watched herself drain yet another drink, looking like nothing more than the kitchen slut — stringy brown hair, a pullover shirt from the fish company, baggy jeans and sneakers. The scent of smoked salmon still lingered on her fingers.
"What the fuck am I doing?" she asked herself, more than once, as she walked somewhat unsteadily over to her 11th Avenue apartment. She hauled herself up four flights of narrow stairs, the hallway smelling of cabbage and boiled corned beef, unlocked her door and, after peeling off her clothes, poured herself another drink and headed for the shower.
Bobby Gold at three-thirty in the morning. Standing outside NiteKlub. Feeling bad.
Nikki woke up fully dressed, sunlight blinding her.
"I can't believe it!!" she wailed, her eyes filling.
Her shoes were still on. A black Danskin top, tiny black leather skirt. "I can't believe it! I can't fucking believe it!! I am such an . . . asshole!"
The bed was barely disturbed. She'd come home last night, best as she could reconstruct it, showered, washed her hair, done her fucking nails (toenails too, she noticed). She'd brushed. She'd combed. She'd dressed. Jesus fucking Christ — she'd even waxed! Eau de toilette . . . lipstick . . . mascara — even rolled a joint for her three o'clock meeting with the moody security chief. Then she'd rested her head on her pillow for, what? . . . One fucking second? And promptly fallen asleep.
She'd jilted him. The tall, morose Bobby Gold would have been disappointed. She knew that. She could tell he could be hurt. Something about the way he wore his hair long, the way his long forelocks hung down over his face, concealing his feelings.
"Shit!!" she rasped, kicking her best knock-me-down-and-fuck-me shoes onto the floor petulantly, wondering how long he'd waited. Standing there in the dark and the cold outside NiteKlub.
Story of my life, she thought. More questions to which she'd never know the answer. Another road not traveled. Another missed chance. Now she'd never look inside, past those dead shark eyes, past that look — of resignation, acceptance — she'd never know what the other thing was in there,