The Home For Wayward Ladies (11 page)

“Don’t give me your lip, Lady. No one is going to implode if we skip brunch for one week.”

“It’s been three…” I say.

“Anyway, I thought you might want some time alone with that sexy little number you brought back here last night.” Nick smiles deviantly. He pushes the door back open and breathes the smell of Listerine into my face, “He’s cute, Lady. Well done. Is he still sleeping? You two must have had a late night.” Nick obviously has no idea that Jason pulled a disappearing act better than the likes of Harry fucking Houdini. Currently, however, my need to piss overwhelms my need to set the record straight.

“He had to get home for a fresh pair of boxers,” I lie. “The ones he wore yesterday were practically soaked through.”

I close the door and moan while my bladder fills the bowl. As far as I’m concerned, if Nick doesn’t have time in his life for the only people that he promised would always matter, then I don’t have time in my life for him. Let him forget all about his family and go enjoy the company of that handsome man that wants to buy him pancakes after an evening spent preparing their own batter. For all I care, they can both go to hell in Elmira Gulch’s basket.

When I finish relieving myself (and it is quite a relief), I make my way to Hunter’s room. We both have a few hours until we have to be at work, but when I tap on his door with my knuckle, he doesn’t respond. I can hear him humming something in a minor key, “Wayfaring Stranger” I think, so I knock again. He answers back in a violent shout.

“What is it?”

I step back. I hadn’t expected to be interrupting anything at a quarter past ten on Sunday morning. 

“Hey, Lady, it’s me,” I say cautiously, anticipating the door will fly open at the sound of my voice. Instead, he stays silent. “Can I come in?” There is a long pause to tell me that my request is being considered. “Hunter?” I call. “I want to talk to you, not your door. Open up.” 

He unlocks the knob and opens the door a crack just big enough for me to see his face. He is flushed and tired, like he’s been masturbating while suspended from a ceiling fan. “Are you okay?” I ask, trying to peek around his head and catch a glimpse of whatever he is hiding. He sees my eyes dart from side to side and the door starts to close in my face. I lodge my foot in the frame to stop him. 

“I’m fine.” His answer sounds as if he were taking a bite out of an apple. “What is it?”

Feeling rushed, I blurt my plea. “The producer that fucked Nick last night is taking him to breakfast solo, so it’s you and me for brunch. How long will it take you to wash your face and be ready? I have to be downtown for a shift in two-point-five. We can still make that work if you hustle.” He looks at me with a confusion that is typically reserved for the works of Samuel Beckett. “Please, don’t say no,” I say.  “It’s been a real shitty morning and I need you. Don’t tell me you’re too good for me too.” I try to look as miserable as possible, which isn’t hard considering my hangover.

“Lady, I really wish I could.” He starts to close his door on my foot. I haven’t got on my slippers, so my toenail catches the brunt of his force. I wince and shove back.

“Hunter- I don’t know precisely what I have done to upset you, but for weeks now you’ve been nothing but excuses and I’m fucking sick of it. I can’t remember the last time we made it through an entire conversation without you forcing an apology. ‘Sorry, not now,’ ‘sorry, not today,’ ‘sorry, not ever.’ You’re always either too broke or too busy for me. You seem to forgotten that being broke and busy is par for the course for people of our lot; everyone we know is broke and busy and, on top of that, some of us are losing patience. My reception with the two of you this morning has made me question if I am the only Lady that remembers we all took an oath.”

“Now is not the time, Eli,” he responds. “I’m warning you not to poke the bear. Go take your new friend to brunch if you’re so hungry.”

“I had a feeling that’s what this was about. Well, I have news for you: you don’t have to be jealous of him- he doesn’t want me either.” I know I should have left that bit out, but I shouldn’t be the only one that hurts and spreading that darkness only seems fair. Anyway, Hunter needs to learn to take his lumps like the rest of us. If he can dish it out…

“Pass over my door, Eli. The way you run your mouth I wouldn’t dream of brunching with you.”

“Then we don’t have to eat. Look, maybe I could hang back and we can ride the train to work together. I’m sorry.” I’m not sorry, but I say it to make him think we’re speaking the same language. “I feel like I haven’t seen you for ages. Are you okay?” He doesn’t answer. Rather, he steps aside to let me see his room. I am in disbelief. Every shelf and drawer has been stripped bare. All of his belongings are in a pile in the middle of the floor. “What the fuck are you doing in there anyway?” I can’t help myself. “Are you building a fort?”

“Yes, Eli, I am building a fort. And, gosh, I’m so sorry but- no girls allowed.” And, with that, he slams the door in my face so fast that I am lucky it doesn’t clip my nose. Really, I’m batting a thousand.

I head to the bathroom to splash some water on my face. Maybe when I come to, I will discover that this morning has been a delusion caused by too much vodka and not enough tonic. I run the shower hot in hopes I’ll sweat out what’s left of the booze. When I brush my teeth, I spit up bile. By the time I emerge, ready to get ass-fucked by another day, Nick and Danny are already gone. I pour myself a lonely bowl of cereal and slurp and crunch my way through the Weather on the Ones. 

“You know how I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” the meteorologist says through a shit-eating grin that proves he fucking loves to be the bearer of bad news, “but it’s going to be another cold day.”
No shit,
I think, looking out the window to the foot of snow on our fire escape. “We’re looking at record lows throughout Central Park, so if you have to go outside, don’t forget your mittens because the wind chill is going to make a brisk twenty-three degrees feel more like twelve.” Ugh. Fucking kill me. “At least it’s Sunday,” he laughs, “why not take the afternoon to enjoy a warm blanket and a good book?”

“Why don’t you take your own fucking advice and get off my TV, you smug piece of shit?” I turn it off and slam the remote on the coffee table. When I put on a second pair of socks, I can barely get my boots tied. The constriction makes my feet fat all over, like a bullfrog after collagen injections. I close the door behind me hard enough to make it rattle in its frame. I don’t bother to look back. As I make my way to the train, I can’t resist the urge to stop at the bodega to pick up a pack of smokes and a lighter. I told myself last week that I’d be quitting. Sorry, lungs, but today is not the day.  

—--

When I make it to the theater for the Sunday matinee, the last show of the week, I do everything I can to avoid that fuckwit Jason. Naturally, with the day I’m having, my plan doesn’t work. I spot him immediately over my shoulder in the locker room as soon as my pants hit the floor. His mouth is contorted into a pout. He extends his lower lip to me as if he’s got plenty to say. I shoot him a glare so he knows that I refuse to hear a single fucking word. At least I know I’m safe from him as long as my underwear is exposed; there’s no way that he will publicly associate himself with my bulge. Hell, even with my pants on Jason wouldn’t want to discuss last night while we’re still in the theater. I, on the other hand, have had years of experience of not giving a shit. I couldn’t care less about what our co-workers think. For him, however, the notion of being discovered makes him apoplectic. I dress quickly and start upstairs to the lobby floor.

I don’t make it past the downstairs bathrooms when I hear him call my name. The son-of-a-bitch.

“Eli, can we talk?” I walk faster. “Eli, stop. I can explain.” He speaks in a hollow voice that makes my determination waiver. When my brain stops functioning, my heart melts. I turn and see him for all that he has ever been: a scared little boy who’s lost at the supermarket not knowing which shopping cart belongs to mommy.  

“Jason, there’s no need to explain. The things that you’re afraid to say already speak volumes.” I start to walk away with my nose held in the air. He follows after me and grabs for my hand. As soon as he’s made contact, Tino walks by. He smiles in our direction.

“A lovers’ quarrel?” Tino laughs.

Jason’s snatches his hand away so fast that his fingernail drags across my wrist, causing the skin to fray. He flattens his mouth to show Tino his denial of the accusation, despite the fact it’s true. 

“Not quite,” Jason says defensively. “I don’t know what you think this is, Tino, but I can tell you exactly what it isn’t -- any of your goddamn business.”

Tino raises his pink palms to the sky and shrugs. “Well, whatever it is, wrap it up. The producers called a meeting and want us all upstairs on the double.” With that, Tino pardons himself, chuckling all the way.

Jason watches me rub my wrist to disperse the blood that he’s drawn. “You don’t know shit,” I say, trying to contain my anger so it doesn’t echo through the empty hall. “You offer me your hand and when you pull it away, I’m bleeding. Look at what you’ve done! Jason, I don’t have the capacity to take on someone who’s afraid of what they are. I can save us both a shit-ton of time and spell it out for you right now. You’re a coward.”

“Don’t say that,” he implores. “Please, don’t say that.”

I turn to walk away. 

“Fine, you’re right,” he beckons, “I’m scared. And I’m sorry.” He lands on this like it’s supposed to change everything. It doesn’t. “I’m sorry for running away this morning. You deserve better.”

“You bet your fucking ass I do.”

“But my being scared doesn’t make me a coward any more than you being a bitch makes you the Queen of England.” He pokes at my rib in an attempt to make me laugh. I draw my hand back in a claw all too ready to swipe.

“You say you’re not a coward?  Then prove it. I’ll believe it when I see it, Jason. Now, let’s go. We have to get to that meeting.”

By the time we’ve made it to the floor, our house manager is already leading the full staff of ushers into the orchestra section in a single-file line. Naturally, coming from a family that survived the Holocaust, I have a sixth sense about lambs being led to slaughter. Typically, we gather in the lobby for our staff meeting. But those are just for the ushers. This time, everyone who works in the theater is attending: actors, stage managers, crew, porters, everyone. 

Danny’s brunch with Nick must have not lasted as long as their tryst the night before because he’s here too. There he is, pompadour and all, wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday. He is standing with the rest of his moneyed rank at the apron of the stage. They look on us with the calibration of a firing squad. Until now, we have never been addressed by them directly. It’s hard to tell if they’re attempting to look forlorn or if they merely need more fiber in their diets. 

“As you all know,” the most senior producer among them begins, “our show has had some difficulty securing an audience. I want to reiterate that this is in no way a reflection of the tremendous work that each of you do every night. To the contrary, we couldn’t be more proud of our association with this show and hope that, when you look back on it, you’ll be able to say the same. Unfortunately,” several of the chorus boys clutch each other like Miss America is about to be crowned, “we feel that we have done everything we can to keep this ship afloat. At this time, it’s taking on too much water. We will officially close next Sunday.”

Ready. Aim. Fire. With one bullet, they have taken out a hundred innocent men and women whose only mistake was to believe in a show too bad to be believed. There is an audible gasp from the actors. The rest of us roll our eyes. Ray Charles could have seen this one coming.

Danny steps forward and the rest of the producers bristle like he hasn’t earned the right to speak. “We want to thank you all for your dedication to this project.” The disdain for which his compatriots look at him proves to me in an instant that even when you get to Broadway, you still have to pay your dues. “Without each and every one of you, this show would have never happened.”
Real nice, Danny,
I think,
make it sound like we’re the ones to blame.
 

That’s when things start to get real Kumbaya up in this bitch. Something about theater people in case you hadn’t guessed- they’re all fucking bizarre. As if our hippie-dippy rituals are programmed into our DNA, the actors rise without speaking and join hands. Once they form a chain, they walk to the producers who add on. In turn, the producers reach toward the stage managers, then the house staff, then the crew until everyone that’s served time on this show is standing in a circle that encompasses the center orchestra seats. The empty chairs that we surround have become an all too familiar sight.