Snatching my receipt from the bodega ATM, I already knew the bad news. I’d just withdrawn
two hundred dollars, and my account balance was hovering a little over zero. So I stashed the
cash and receipt in my battered backpack and asked what any recent Yale graduate whose
student loans had left her seventy-five thousand bucks in debt would wonder:
“If I were to charge for sex, how much could I get?”“Depends,” answered my best friend, Charma Abrams, flatly. Her nasal monotone had been
influenced heavily by too many girlhood hours spent with MTV’s Daria. “Do you get to pick and
choose your clientele?”
“Let’s say I’m going for maximum cash.”
“Hard to say. Let’s go find you a pimp in Tompkins Square Park.” Charma examined her
reflection in the anti-shoplifting mirror above the limp-looking green vegetables. “Or we could
ask your sister.”
My sister. Lily. As Charma well knew, Lily was playing a rich-girl-turned-hooker-turned-pimp
in Streets, Doris Egan’s new off-Broadway play. Lily’s photo had graced the cover of last
week’s Time Out: “The New Season’s Must-See Young Thesp.”
My sister had been must-see her whole life. Drop-dead gorgeous, talented singer and dancer,
Brown University grad, Lily had been born to be stared at. As I took in my own reflection in the
warped deli mirror—medium height and weight, size eight on the top and size ten on the bottom
on a good day, long brown hair exceptionally prone to frizz, a heart-shaped face with nice
enough hazel eyes, a thin nose, and lips like the “before” photo on a lip-plumper ad—I wondered
for the zillionth time how Lily and I shared a gene pool.
The chief reason I’d chosen to attend Yale was so I could do one thing in my life that was more
impressive than what she had.
The immaturity of this is not lost on me, by the way.
“Come on,” I told Charma. “I don’t want to miss him.”
We headed out of the bodega and crossed East Seventh, dodging a couple of joggers and a bag
lady carrying on a one-sided conversation with the president: “You call that a foreign policy, you
asshole?” It was one of those crystalline Indian-summer days when nature puts on a last-ditch
floor show—the stubborn final leaves of autumn danced on their branches as the low November
sun bathed them in ocher light. I wore my usual no-name jeans, a white Hanes T-shirt, and an
ancient navy cardigan that my favorite of our family’s three dogs, Galbraith, used to sleep on
when he was a puppy.
“Where are you meeting this guy?” Charma asked.
“Southwest corner.” I scanned the crowded benches lining the walkway to the center of the park.
Everyone was enjoying the mild weather that surely wouldn’t last longer than a day or two.
“Did he tell you what he looks like?”
“Tall, thin, dark hair cut short, soul patch, right ear pierced with a rhinestone stud,” I rattled off.
“He’ll be wearing a red flannel shirt and Levi’s, loose-fit.”“Boxers or briefs?” Charma asked.
I raised an eyebrow.
“I just wondered. Since you’ve got every other detail down.”
“When I told him I was twenty-two, he said he was twenty-nine, which probably means he’s
mid-thirties and trying to pass. So I’d guess boxer-briefs.” I made a beeline for an empty bench
to our right. Too late. Three old Polish ladies had spotted it first.
Charma shook her blond curls out of her eyes. “About the whole sex-for-money thing? Waste of
your brain. And I don’t think your customers want to be remembered in that kind of detail. Stick
with the magazine.”
“Oh, like that’s not killing my brain cells on a daily basis.”
I had a magna cum laude degree with a double major in English and American history and had
been features editor of the Yale Daily News. So you can’t say I arrived in Manhattan with the
wrong credentials. I thought I’d have no problem finding a job writing in-depth stories at an
important but left-leaning periodical like The New Yorker, or Rolling Stone, or hell, even Esquire
—which only shows that a girl can be twenty-two years old, ridiculously well educated, and still
as dumb as a bag of hair.
As it turned out, every other graduate from every other Ivy League school had come to New
York the day after graduation, and we all wanted the exact same jobs. Many of them, however,
had something that I lacked. Connections.
My dad is a professor in the economics department at the University of New Hampshire, and my
mom is a nurse-practitioner at campus health services. Lily and I had grown up in an old
farmhouse filled with books, intelligent conversation, and excessive pet fur. My folks lived an
ecological life. Theirs had been voted Best Compost Heap by Earth Lovers, the local greenie
newspaper. It is a little-known fact that parents who win Best Compost Heap cannot help their
daughter find a job at a hot-shit New York City magazine.
June morphed into July, which morphed into the hothouse of August, and I still was ridiculously
unemployed. Then, right after Labor Day, I got my first and only job offer. Since I owed Charma
the September rent and felt it would behoove me to sustain my body on something other than
ramen noodles and canned tuna, it was either become an editorial assistant at Scoop or learn to
intone “May I run through our specials this evening?” with a perky smile on my face. Walking
gracefully while carrying hot food is not my strong suit. Nor is perkiness. The choice was made.
You know Scoop, though you may not admit to actually purchasing it. It’s one step up from Star
and two steps down from People. A few of my highlights to date included captioning such photo
spreads as “Did Jessica Get Implants?” and “Lindsay’s Wild Mexican Vacation!” Yes, I’d found
it necessary to lower my journalistic aspirations a standard deviation. Or ten.As Charma and I ambled along, a guy with short blond hair, a day’s worth of stubble, and a ratty
Wolfmother T-shirt smiled at us. Well, her. Charma turned to watch him pass, letting out a low,
appreciative whistle. She’s a much better flirt than I am.
I looked around, trying to find my mark. There was a junkie looking to score at ten o’clock. At
high noon were two teenage schoolgirls with too much everything—makeup, hair, boobs, skin,
stiletto boots—who apparently felt the need to shriek every other word at each other. Then I
spotted a guy in jeans and a flannel shirt cutting through a stand of trees at two o’clock. Bingo. I
waved.
“Megan?” He held out a hand with slightly dirty fingernails, but I was in no position to turn
down a shake. He had something I really, really wanted.
“Yeah, hi, thanks for coming. Pete, right?”
“Yeah.”
A couple with a baby stroller vacated a bench to our left. I sat down and motioned for Pete to
join me. Meanwhile, I noticed Charma chatting with Wolfmother, who’d circled back to make
actual contact. Who could blame him? Charma had the kind of natural curves women pay a small
fortune for and even then have to settle for saline.
“You got it?” Pete asked, drumming his fingers on his jeans impatiently.
“Right here.” My heart hammered as I unzipped my backpack, taking out the white T-shirt that
had, until an hour before, hung inside a frame on the exposed brick wall of our living room
(whose futon also doubled as my bed). The front of the shirt featured a bird sitting on the neck of
a guitar and the inscription WOODSTOCK: THREE DAYS OF PEACE AND MUSIC. Not only
was it the real deal from the greatest rock concert of all time, it was also signed by Jimi Hendrix.
Two Cornell students, who would later become my parents, had stuck it out until Hendrix’s set
on Monday morning. My father had managed to get the shirt signed by the guitar god himself
and gave it to my mother as a sign of his love and devotion.
Now, as a sign of my love and devotion, I was passing it on. To what’s-his-name. Right. Pete.
“Like I said on Craigslist, it’s in mint condition,” I told him.
He held out a callused hand. “Let’s see.”
I hesitated. “I’d like to see the tickets first.”
Out came his wallet, and then there they were: two front-row seats to the Strokes at Webster Hall
for that very night. The show had sold out within minutes last month. I’d tried everything to get
tickets, but nada. Until now.I should tell you, to be perfectly candid, the Strokes are not my favorite band. But my boyfriend,
James, worships them. James—of the dazzling intellect and shining prose, a guy who considers
Doris Lessing light reading—would blast “Heart in a Cage” and dance naked in his dorm room
playing air guitar like a twelve-year-old. How can you not love a guy like that?
We’d met in a senior writing seminar where James quickly established himself as the most
articulate student in the room, thinking nothing of arguing—and doing it well—with a professor
who just happened to have written the preface to the latest edition of The Elements of Style.
I noticed James, of course. From my seat in the back, I was wowed both by his intellect and by
his swagger as he walked to his rightful place in the front row. It was amazing what you could
see when you weren’t worrying about people watching you.
Take, for example, Cassie Crockett. She had a Maxim body and fabulous blond hair. But on the
first day of class, I noticed two fingers sneak under what I quickly realized was a fantastic wig.
Her fingers reemerged holding a few strands of dung-brown hair, which she covertly dropped to
the ground. Then she did it again. And again. Trichotillomania—the obsessive-compulsive need
to pull out your own hair. I spent whole seminars wondering what it was like for Cassie to go out
with one of the guys constantly circling her. Maybe she never had sex. Maybe she had a No
Above the Neck rule, instead of a Below the Waist one.
This is the kind of thing that goes around in my brain.
Anyway, back to James. A few weeks into the semester, I wrote a five-thousand-word piece for
the Daily News about a New Haven intersection where businessmen pick up transvestite hookers.
I’d spend an entire week blending in at a nearby coffee shop, observing the girls and their
customers, memorizing every detail. Our writing professor read aloud a section of my article to
illustrate the kind of specificity he sought from us. Then he nodded in my direction.
Every head craned around to look at me. I could see their reaction all over their faces: Her?
Really?
James corralled me after class. I was too shocked to be nervous, and then I was too at ease to
remember why I would have been nervous. We went for coffee and agreed on everything and
everyone from Jonathan Safran Foer (loved Everything Is Illuminated) to Donna Tartt (loathed
The Secret History). Lily, oracle of all romantic wisdom, had cautioned me to never, ever, ever
have sex on dates one through three. I suppose you could say that I took her advice, in that my
first meeting with James wasn’t really a date. I was in his loft bed within five hours of “Want to
grab a cup of coffee?”
We’d come to New York together after graduation, though not so together that we shared an
apartment. His parents owned an excruciatingly chic white-on-white pied-à-terre in a Donald
Trump Upper West Side development, though their three-million-dollar mansion in Tenafly,
New Jersey, was actually home. Dr. and Mrs. Ladeen—he was an intensely anxious but gifted
cardiologist, she was a senior editor at the New York Review of Books—offered James the condo
rent-free while he began what would surely be his meteoric rise to literary fame. Their expectation was based not only on the fact that he was truly talented, but also on the fact that his
mother had used her connections to snag James a junior editor job at East Coast. East Coast is
kind of like The New Yorker, except with even more of a focus on fiction.
Alas, James’s parents had never warmed up to me. I’d tried, I really had, but there was no
question they harbored hope James would get back together with his former girlfriend, Heather
van der Meer, the youngest daughter of their longtime family friends. And thus the offer of
lodging did not extend to me.
That was okay. There was plenty of time. James and I were happy. And tonight was his twenty-
third birthday. I wanted it to be memorable, which was why I’d cut my bank account in half:
first, dinner and a fabulous bottle of wine at the restaurant Prune. During dessert, I would
casually break out the concert tickets, which would cause him to whoop with delight and lavish
upon me the kind of public display of affection to which he was normally allergic. After the
concert, we’d go back to his place for the best part of the evening. And morning.
To finalize my plan, all I had to do was trade my dad’s Woodstock T-shirt for the tickets.
“We doing this or not?” Pete tapped his coffee-colored loafer against the sidewalk.
I bit my lower lip. My parents would understand. Of course they would. Or at least that was what
I told myself. We made the swap. God, James was going to be so surprised.
I stuck the tickets in my backpack and then rose to wish Pete a pleasant life. A kid with a shaved
head—he couldn’t have been older than fourteen—wheeled toward us on one of those delivery-
boy bicycles. He was swerving from side to side, taking pleasure in scaring the little old Polish
ladies nearby.
“Thanks,” I told Pete. “Take good care of my—Hey!”
The kid on the bicycle sped past me, snatching my backpack before I could sling it over my
shoulder.
“Stop! Stop that kid!” I bellowed.
I gave chase, Pete gave chase, and a lot of other people did, too. But the kid cut off the path and
through the trees, pumping for all he was worth. A few seconds later, he was speeding down
Avenue A with my backpack swaying from a handlebar.
It was almost as if the concert tickets and my two hundred dollars were waving goodbye.
Choose the analogy that best expresses the relationship of the words in the following example:
EAST VILLAGE WALK-UP : SCOOP(a) classic six on the Upper West Side : The New Yorker
(b) condo in Panama City : USA Today
(c) Hollywood Hills bungalow : Daily Variety
(d) flat in Camden, London : Blender
(e) SoHo loft : Us Weekly
(анонимно)
26.01.12 в 00:45
