The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

Toss it back! Do it!” a chorus of voices shouts, and a stream of tequila burns down my throat. The backsplash of it in my nose makes me cough, but then Tyler’s shouting, “Bite it! Come on!” and my teeth are sinking into a lime wedge and the burst of acid rips away the tequila aftertaste and my eyelids fly open and Tyler shouts, “YEAH!” and pounds me on the back and then hollers to the bartender, “Same again!”

“Dude,” I cough, laughing, “wait a minute!”

“No waiting!” Tyler cries, grinning. “You can’t wait, that’s the whole point!”

He licks the back of his hand, sprinkles it with salt, picks up the tequila shot, and vaults onto the bench alongside the scarred wood table where we’re sitting in an old-fashioned East Village bar.

“To the two biggest film geniuses to come out of Tisch since nineteen-freaking-seventy-five!” he shouts.

Everyone in the bar cheers, Tyler hoists the shot glass over his head, licks the salt from his hand, tosses the tequila back in one slug, and chucks the empty shot glass across the room. There’s a shatter and someone in the back shouts, Hey! but Tyler doesn’t pay any attention. Now he’s down off the table and biting a lime wedge next to me, leaving the rind in his teeth and giving me a green-rind grin while sliding a shot glass over in front of me.

Obediently I lick my own hand, sprinkle it with salt, and pick up the tequila shot. Tyler and everyone is clapping and cheering. I hesitate, take a deep breath, then in one motion lick the salt off my hand and toss the tequila back. I exhale the fumes with an “aaaaaah” and thunk the shot glass upside down on the table, pick up the lime wedge, and tear into it with my teeth. A warm patch starts to spread across the back of my neck.

“Yes! That’s it. That’s how we do it,” Tyler shouts near my ear. “Now tell me again what Krauss said about Most at the reception. Verbatim. I want to hear it.”

“Come on, man.” I wave him off, but I’m grinning.

“Shut up, shut up. Listen. Do you know what Krauss said about this guy’s documentary?” he shouts to a couple of girls who are jammed up next to us at the picnic table. They look at each other, giggle, and shake their heads.

“She said she’s heard it’s powerful, and she can’t wait to screen it next week. Tell them,” he instructs me.

“I’m sorry,” I explain to the girls. “You’ll have to excuse him, we’ve . . .”

“Powerful,” Tyler says, jamming a finger into my chest, his arm over my shoulders. “That’s serious film talk, right there. That’s what that is.” The girls are really laughing now.

“Are you guys, like, filmmakers?” one of the girls asks, half hidden behind one of her friends.

“Damn right we are!” Tyler hollers. “You remember this guy’s face, because you’re gonna be seeing us on TV. When we get our Oscars. I swear.” He points to me, finger wavering from the tequila.

The girls all laugh, trying to figure out if they’re supposed to know who we are.

“Dude,” Tyler says, leaning in close to me. “You have to do sound on my next one.”

“Your next one?” I slur. My eyes are having trouble focusing on one point all together. And my lips are feeling kind of numb.

“Totally! The woman from Gavin Brown wants to see another one from me by the end of the month. She said, at the reception. Do you have any idea what this means?”

He’s grinning so wide, I can’t help but grin back at him, even though I can’t feel my mouth. His eyeliner’s gone streaky with sweat, and his cheeks are flushed, and in the background one of the girls has taken a selfie with him and looks like she’s posting it to Instagram, just in case he’s famous.

“It means,” he says, leaning in close, “that it’s really going to happen for me, Wes. For serious. All this time, you know, and I think maybe it’s finally going to happen.”