We had perfected the art of bullshitting. We stopped at Alice’s and acted sad and despondent. Alice’s parents thanked us for taking Alice out of the East End to get her mind off Izzy. We stopped at Val’s and acted warm and loving. Gordie assured her mom (in Spanish) that a night away was just what Val needed to get her appetite back. We stopped at Jean’s and raved about the Tiny Art Show to Jean’s mom, who was resting on the couch with her feet in a bucket of ice. She told us how we had changed Jean, that he wasn’t the loner he used to be, and how nice that was to see.
Trying to act perfect, fully functional, innocent, and wholesome all at the same time was exhausting. Gordie played music and we didn’t talk until the Manhattan skyline popped up out of nowhere. Then we got serious about a game plan.
Alice told us the building Izzy took her to had an ornate gate with black leaves.
“You’ve got to give us more than that,” Gordie said.
Alice stared out the window. The walls of the Midtown Tunnel whipped past us.
“I remember looking up at a cool building with a gargoyle. It was somewhere downtown, definitely south of Times Square because we walked through Times Square and I made Izzy stop at the M&M’s store.”
Gordie parked in front of an immaculate brownstone near Gramercy Park and we jumped out. Inside was all chocolate mahogany and expensive Persian rugs. The largest New York home I had seen prior to entering Gordie Harris’s seven-bedroom, six-bathroom, four-floor brownstone was my uncle’s two-bedroom, one-bath, second-floor apartment in Astoria, Queens.
And Grandma Hosseini called that uncle the family success story.
“I call the master bedroom,” Jean yelled from the top of the staircase.
“I’m going to text this guy Ahmed,” Alice said, studying Izzy’s drug phone. “I met him once at the shrink’s house but he has a New York number. He looks like a sumo wrestler.”
I’m in the city. Where are you? Alice texted from the drug phone.
We waited awhile for Gordie to turn on the AC, flush all the toilets, and check the sugar jar. Ahmed didn’t respond. So we hit the streets, a flock of beach-bred kids skating on adrenaline, fear, and the thrill of being on our own for the entire night.
“I’m nauseated,” Val said, clutching her taut belly.
“You haven’t eaten in days, Val,” I said.
“Water,” Val moaned.
We stopped for waters at a bodega and continued down the path Alice didn’t remember. “It was snowy last time I was here” was her excuse.
We walked east to west, staring up, like the world’s worst tourists, trying to find a gargoyle standing guard over an ornate gate.
“Puppy!” Alice stopped in front of a homeless guy sitting cross-legged with a puppy between his legs and a copy of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass in his hand.
“Can I pet her?” Alice leaned down.
“Sure. Her name is Annabelle.” The guy had eyes the color of moss, bad acne, and a sign propped in front of his duffel bag that said HOMELESS. FOOD APPRECIATED.
Alice nuzzled the tiny puppy against her face.
“How’d you end up homeless, dude?” Jean said, reaching out to pet the puppy.
“Long story, man. It was one unfortunate series of events after another. It’s so tragic it’s almost comical.”
“Any chance you know where we could score some smack?” Alice said.
I was mortified.
The guy stared at her, perplexed. “Nah, you guys don’t use.”
“We’re looking for somebody who uses. Missing, of course. It’s so cliché I could barf,” Alice said.
“Yeah, I get the old ask the homeless guy to help find your strung-out loved one question all the time. Nah. My drug of choice is McDonald’s. But there’s a pack of asshole kids with asshole dogs that hang out down around St. Mark’s. They’ll give out dealer addresses for money.”
“Thanks, dude. Very helpful tip,” Jean said.
“I don’t want to give Annabelle back,” Alice said.
“You better give my baby back.”
Gordie handed the guy a twenty-dollar bill. “Godspeed, bud.”
“Same to you, man.”
We passed countless ornate gates and a few gargoyle statues as we snaked around the streets of Manhattan, trying to fish the murky memory from Alice’s brain.
We stopped in Union Square to watch old guys play chess next to an assembly of chanting Hare Krishnas and a pack of skateboarders veering dangerously close to all of them. I was hot and my feet ached already.
“This is ridiculous, Alice,” I finally said. “There are millions of people and, apparently, thousands of ornate gates in this city. Can you try to remember something else?”
“I have been trying, Sadie. I was pissed off that day and I specifically remember I was freezing and cursing my life. That’s it.”
“Guys, you know we could be so far off. Izzy could be out in Montauk, like, a block away from where we were last night. Or Jersey, or Arizona,” Val said. “We should have thought this through a little more carefully.”
The Hare Krishnas didn’t move. They sat in their saffron dresses with their bald heads and wisps of hair sticking out of their skulls like tails, and they chanted. Their faces showed no signs of distress or anger or fear. I almost got sucked into their cult, just to escape the drama.
“Let’s go. These people are getting on my nerves,” Alice said, turning. We argued over which way to go.
Alice refused to share her pretzel with Jean, who then insisted we go back so he could get his own. As they all waited in line for pretzels, I sat on a bench and held a water bottle against my aching feet. I watched a couple not much older than me as they wrestled with a baby who didn’t want to sit in her stroller. They were as mismatched as we were, the pretty, fair-skinned, brunette, Ralph Lauren–model type with an NYU bookstore bag slung over her shoulder, the tattooed guy with piercings and a leather cuff, the dark-skinned baby girl in a peach-colored dress. A very hot guy in soccer cleats and a bright yellow jersey called out to them. The Ralph Lauren girl stood, picked up the crying baby, and kissed the very hot guy as the pierced guy grabbed the stroller and followed after them.
I would have loved to know their story.
We were almost at the High Line park when Alice stopped short and stared down at Izzy’s drug phone. Her eyes got wide.
“It’s Ahmed.”
Yo. Izzy. I heard you were at the nest.
“I don’t know what the hell the nest is. Ahhh. Let me think.” Alice paced back and forth, and finally replied, I was. I went out and now I’m lost. What’s the nest address again? So f’d up!
“That’s perfect,” Gordie said.
We stood in a circle, staring at the phone like it was an egg about to hatch. After an excruciating two minutes, Ahmed texted, Near Fourteenth Street.
Alice texted back, Thanks. What’s the building number?
Trying to find molly on St. Mark’s.
“The dipshit didn’t answer my question.”
“That’s the street the Walt Whitman guy was talking about,” I said.
“Let’s go,” Val and Jean said at the same time.
“Jinx,” I said.
Jean made a face. “What the heck is jinx?”
St. Mark’s Place was packed with tattoo parlors, noodle restaurants, and drug paraphernalia shops. We wandered into a bizarre store where some disturbed artsy person had packed glass cases with naked dolls. A guy with a feather-shaped birthmark on his cheek sat on a blowup doll, smoking a joint.
“Dude, do you know where we can score some smack?” Jean was getting bold.