*
Myke tells me Frank’s wife is an artist from England. He tells me she is the fetal age of twenty-five. He tells me they got married in the summer and that she’s come to the office once. He tells me she is hot.
*
“The one thing I will not tolerate is absolutely anything less than perfection,” says the woman in black walking ahead of me down Fifth. Later on, I try repeating this to myself as I go about my day. The one thing I will not tolerate is absolutely anything less than perfection. Nice try, I think.
*
Everyone I know is either more successful or more interesting than me. This realization is nothing new. In fact, it used to feel like everyone I didn’t know was more successful and interesting than me too. I still remember the sensation of watching a talent show on TV as a child and realizing that the girl dancing was a whole year younger than me. She was wearing a red sequin dress and patent tap shoes. She looked like a ruby, a human jewel spinning across the stage. I was in my pajamas from T.J. Maxx eating cereal for dinner, already destined for a life of mediocrity. Why didn’t I just pull myself together back then? I was five! I could have turned it around!
*
I meet Frank’s friend Anders, who used to be the art director here before leaving for some big-shot title at a fashion magazine. What it’s like to be a straight single man in your mid-forties at a place like that, I can only imagine. He is also almost insultingly handsome. When Frank introduces me, his gaze slides over me like he’s scanning a news article he has realized too late is of no interest to him but must somehow finish.
*
I get an email from Frank. It’s a video of Peruvian pan flutists playing “Hotel California” on the subway platform. Every time it comes to what should be the end of the song, it starts up again.
Lived this for fifteen minutes today, now you must too.
*
“You’re smiling again,” says my mother.
“Uh-huh,” I say. “That happens sometimes.”
“What are you smiling at?”
“Just work stuff.”
“On the weekend? You think I was born yesterday. Who’s the guy?”
“It’s work, Ma.”
“Okay, so you two work together. What’s his name?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“So there’s something to talk about!”
Scientists discovering microscopic life on Mars sounded less triumphant.
“Nope. Nothing to talk about, Ma,” I say.
“Ellie,” she says more quietly. “I just like to hear about what makes you happy.”
I look at her. She is getting smaller every year.
“Okay,” I say. “Yes, we work together. His name’s … Myke. With a ‘y.’ That’s all you’re getting.”
“Myke with a ‘y’!” She throws her hands in the air. “And why not? Myke. Myke! I like it. A mover and shaker called Myke!”
I walk out of the room as she begins miming maracas. Or should I say myming.
*
“So, what do people call you?” asks Jacky.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You have a nickname or something?”
“Well, my mother calls me Ellie,” I say. “And I used to have this boyfriend who called me Nor, which I hated because I thought it made me sound like a Viking. But mostly people call me just Eleanor.”
“What about Lee?” she asks. “Mind if I call you that?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Suits you.” She nods. “Kinda masculine.”
*
My mother and I are planning to spend Thanksgiving at That Home with my father. There’s no point traveling, and anyway, there’s nowhere I can think to go. The wing of That Home my father lives in is called Memento Gardens, though I’ve heard the staff call it Memory Loss Gardens. Every time I think of that I want to grab my father’s hand, douse the place in gasoline, throw a match over my shoulder, light a cigarette on the flames, and run and run with him without ever looking back.
*
“Do you know where I can buy weed?”
Frank and I are walking back from the falafel place. It’s gotten cold all of a sudden.
“Whoa.” He laughs. “Big plans for Thanksgiving?”
“Just family stuff,” I say.
“Sounds like you feel about family stuff how I feel about family stuff,” he says. “Sure, I can put you in touch with my dealer.”
“I appreciate it.”
“What are bosses for? But I should warn you. Don’t go to his apartment.”
“Why? Is he dangerous?”
“God no! He’s a kitten. But he’s a hoarder.”
“I’m going to need more context.”
“The context is that he doesn’t throw anything away. Yellow newspapers to the fucking ceiling. He has, like, twelve old TV sets, none of which work. And once you’re in there he’ll want to show you everything. I got trapped looking at his collection of chipped old teapots for twenty minutes. Do yourself a favor and meet him on the street.”
“Okay,” I say. “Hoarder. Noted.”
Frank gives me a sideways glance. “I can go with you if you like.”
I try to suppress my smile. “Wouldn’t that be a little inappropriate?”
“I think we passed appropriate about two blocks back.”
“Two blocks and two months back,” I say.
“No.” Frank clutches my arm. “Have we only known each other that long?”
One month, three weeks, and five days.
“Round about,” I say.
Frank says something, but a crowd of schoolchildren barrel between us as we turn the corner. He pivots to let them pass, and I miss the words.
*
Frank arranges for us to meet the dealer after work on a corner near Gramercy Park, the least suspicious of all the parks. As we walk up, I see a man wearing a T-shirt that reads “99% ANGEL” under a baseball jacket. He spots us and jogs over. He and Frank embrace. He puts his hand in Frank’s pocket, and Frank puts his hand in his.
“Brother,” he says.
“My man,” says Frank. “How are we doing?”
“Blissful,” he says. “You?”
Frank grins. “Haven’t killed myself or anyone else today.”
“This will help with that,” he says, nodding toward Frank’s pocket.
“This is my friend Eleanor,” says Frank.
The dealer gives me his hand to shake.
“What’s the other one percent?” I point toward his T-shirt.
He turns around and slides his jacket down his shoulders. The back of his T-shirt reads “1%?”
“We’ve all got one percent question mark,” he says, winking at Frank.
“I need to write that down,” Frank says, laughing. “That’s a tagline right there!”
My eye catches on something near the bushes by the railings of the park. It’s partially covered by brown leaves, but it is unmistakably a dead piglet. Its little body is curved like a C. There’s a red brand on its side. I can see the white hairs on its pale pink skin, its limp, dark trotters.
“Oh god,” I say. “There’s a dead piglet behind you.”
“What the fuck?” The dealer spins around.
“Where? Where?” Frank is clutching my arm.
The dealer starts laughing. “You scared the shit out of me,” he says.