When You Don't See Me (22 page)

“I might have forgotten—”

“You didn't forget. You basically stole from us. Don't lie about it, too.” I paused. “The worst part is that suddenly I sound like a parent, but you're four years older than I am.”

“Five,” she said. When I stared at her, trying to get back my train of thought, she said, “I had a birthday last month. No one mentioned it. But now I'm five years older than you are.”

“Don't play the birthday pity card. You didn't tell anyone it was your birthday. Or we'd have stolen Morgan's wine then, too.” That made her give me a tentative smile, like she hoped the worst was over. I pushed a slip of paper toward her. “If you go there and pay that amount tomorrow morning, they'll have the power back on before close of business.”

“I don't have that much money!” she yelped.

“Not my problem. By the end of this week, you'll also need to pay back all the money I've loaned you.”

Her mouth fell open. She finally sputtered, “That's like—it must be—like—nearly a thousand dollars.”

“Eleven hundred,” I said.

“I didn't know you were running a tab.”

“I wasn't running a tab. I really never gave a shit if you paid me back. Until I found out you were using me and lying to me.”

“You know why you're being so hateful? You're making me pay for what everyone else has done to you. You're being mean to me because you're mad at Fred and your uncle.”

“I'm not being mean to you. And I'm not mad at my uncle.”

“You're starting to act like Adalla and Morgan. They've never liked me.”

“I liked you, Kendra. I still like you. I just don't like being used by you.”

“Fine,” she said. She grabbed her purse and stomped out of the apartment. It would have been a lot more impressive if she hadn't had to come back inside for her shoes after she slammed the door.

 

The electricity was back the next day, but Kendra wasn't. I still hadn't seen her by the end of the week, but when I got home from work on Friday, I found a sealed envelope on the futon. I opened it and counted eleven hundred dollars. I felt guilty, wondering what she had to do to get it.

I stuffed the bills in my cargo pants and took a cab to the bank. There was no reason to invite disaster.

I felt like I'd gotten a bonus. After I made my deposit, I stood outside the bank and tried to figure out a way to treat myself. I remembered those Helmut Lang jeans I hadn't bought, but that moment had passed. A woman walked by me doing something with her iPod. I thought of all the technology that was beyond me now that I didn't own a computer. I could get a laptop. Or buy art supplies. Or use the money for a trip to the dentist.

I hated being practical.

I was looking down the block as I crossed a street on my way home when I noticed the dingy sign for Doug, Ink. I picked up my pace, wondering how late the tattoo studio stayed open.

“Hey,” Doug said, looking up from a customer when I walked in. “Did you finally decide on a tattoo?”

“No,” I said. “I was wondering if you'd seen Kendra lately.”

Doug gestured with his head to indicate that I should sit on the other side of the barber-style chair where his client was reclining. I watched for a few seconds as he applied the last bit of blue-green color to a shark silhouette above her anklebone.

“Why a shark?” I asked the girl. She looked like she might weigh ninety pounds soaking wet. She was more like a minnow.

“I'm taking back my power,” she said. “This will remind me to stop being such a doormat.”

I met Doug's eyes, but his expression was serious. Doug never made light of anyone's reasons for getting a tattoo or what they chose. I liked that about him, so I didn't make a joke about how I'd just gotten my power back, too, thanks to Kendra and ConEd.

I waited while he gave the girl instructions on how to take care of her new tattoo. Then he walked her to the dramatically over-pierced woman at the cash register. I stared at her for a minute and ran my fingers over my ears. But I already had four piercings in one ear and three in the other. Maybe my eyebrow. Or a nose pin…

“You sure you don't want a tattoo?” Doug asked as he came back. “I'm the best.”

“I know you are,” I said. “If I could think of anything I wanted to look at the rest of my life, I would. But nothing's come to me.”

“Kendra stopped by a couple of days ago,” Doug said. “She told me about the power bill crisis. Poor Kendra. She's a disaster.”

“Did she borrow money from you?”

“When I saw her, she said she'd already taken care of everything. Why? Is your power still off?”

“No. She paid the bill.”

“I wonder where she got the money,” Doug said.

He shifted his attention to a guy who asked him about a Celtic knot tattoo. Then he wanted to see Doug's back, which was amazing. He had a feather tattoo that began right above his butt crack, then went up his back, just to the right of his spine, with the very tips of the feather brushing his bones.

“I had it done in L.A.,” Doug told his customer. “This ancient Japanese guy did it with little needles instead of the machine. It took forever. But the inks have never faded.”

“What does a feather symbolize?” the man asked.

“Purity and strength,” Doug said. “For the Celtic knot, you want to book an appointment with Pamela. It's her specialty.” He nodded at a woman who came in and said, “I'll be set up for you in a second.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “You're busy.”

“It's fine,” Doug said. “Give me a minute to get things set up. Then we can talk. It relaxes people to listen to conversations while they're getting inked.”

He moved efficiently as he cleaned the chair and brought all new, sealed supplies to prepare for his next tattoo. I'd been impressed by how sanitary things were whenever I'd come in with Kendra. The grimy exterior of the shop was misleading.

I walked around and looked at photos of tattoos I liked: dragon, phoenix, lion, gargoyle, rooster. But none of them had any meaning for me, any more than Betty Boop, the Nike Swoosh, or the Tasmanian Devil.

“C'mere,” one of Doug's employees said. She was wearing a necklace that said CYNDI, but I was afraid to call her that, in case it was her girlfriend's name. “Check this out,” she said.

She was working on a woman lying facedown on a massage table, getting a gypsy tattoo on her lower back.

“The colors look great,” I said.

“See?” Cyndi or Cyndi's girlfriend said. “I told you I could do it from the photo.”

“You're gonna love it,” I promised.

“My mother calls it my tramp stamp,” the woman said.

“That's a good enough reason to do it,” I said, and both women laughed.

By the time I went back to Doug's chair, he'd started on his client. I looked at the pattern he was working from: a heart with vines around it and the name Josh in the middle. I wondered if she would eventually come to regret that.

“So I was thinking,” Doug said, “Kendra's been my friend for at least three years. And I just realized that I don't know that much about her. Other than her jobs, or places she's lived, or an occasional story about a roommate or a professor. I guess I just always thought of her as one of those people who lives in the moment.”

“She definitely doesn't live in the past,” I said. When he gave me a curious look, I said, “You haven't noticed? She'll say something that sounds like the beginning of an interesting story. But then she never tells the story.”

He thought it over for a few minutes, then grinned and said, “You're right. She does do that.”

“In my experience, mysterious people always turn out to be kind of boring,” Heart Woman said.

I was distracted by a man who took off his shirt before he sat in the next chair over.

“I just want it darkened, man,” he said to Jeff, another of Doug's employees. Jeff was big and hairy and looked like a Hell's Angel. I'd be scared to let him tattoo me.

“Is that what I think it is?” I asked, peering at the customer's biceps.

The man looked over and said, “It's called an ouroboros. A snake eating its own tail. It's all about cycles, man. The circle of life.”

“Not exactly the tattoo for you,” Doug said. Kendra and I had told him about Morgan's snakes.

“You're trying to decide on a tattoo? You should get an Eye of Ra on your shoulder,” Heart Woman said.

“Or get two matching snakes,” Ouroboros Man said. “In a circle eating each other's tails. If I could get a do-over—”

“You can't go wrong with a Muppet, I always say,” another woman interrupted as she walked past us.

“Too many ideas,” I said, covering my ears. “I can barely decide what direction to take when I get out of bed. I can't pick a tattoo.”

“You just did,” Doug said.

“I did?”

“Cyndi—oh, she's busy. Somebody bring Nick my book!” Doug yelled.

Muppet Woman brought me one of those old-fashioned three-ring binders, saying, “Kermit. Elmo. Big Bird.”

“Nick's not a Muppet type,” Doug said. “Flip to, like, the third or fourth page. Yeah, that's it.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“It's a nautical star, but it has more points. It's based on Polaris. That's the star used on the north point of a compass. A lot of my maritime tatts have to do with voyages. This is one I designed a couple of years ago to symbolize a safe journey home. I've put a fleur-de-lis on each of the direction points, but I'd personalize it for you. Kendra talks about your big heart, so maybe the four points would be hearts. Like it's your inner compass. A reminder that you only have to look inside to know what direction to take. If you get lost, you'll have an adventure, but the North Star will always bring you safely home.”

I stared at it a long time and finally said, “I'd want to keep the same fleur-de-lis on the east, west, and south points. But on the north point I'd want twin hearts joined together. Could you do that?”

“Of course. That makes it yours. Nobody else will ever have one like it.”

“Where will you put it, though? My arm's too skinny for a decent-size tattoo.”

“Nick, have you looked in a mirror lately?” Doug asked.

I glanced at the one behind us and said, “Yeah. So?”

“Dude, check out your arms. You've got muscles.”

I frowned at my reflection, then took off my thin sweater and pushed up the sleeves of my T-shirt. He was right. How had my biceps arrived without being noticed? I should have thrown a block party. Invited all the neighbors. Made Roberto show me some respect.

“It must be all that shit I haul around for work,” I mused, still admiring my biceps.

“This would look great on your upper arm, just below your shoulder. Right side, I think.”

“I guess I could make an appointment.”

“Buy my dinner, and I'll do it after I finish Gail here.”

“Gisele,” Heart Woman said.

“Right. Gisele. Sorry.”

“Poor Kendra,” I said. “Her money's going on my arm.”

“It's
your
money.”

“You have a point,” I said.

Gisele laughed as I flexed my muscles at my reflection.

From somewhere in the back, I heard a soft voice muttering, “Gonzo. Animal. Cookie Monster. Fozzie…”

October 19, 2003

Dear Nick,

Hot tattoo! Thanks for the photos. Adam wants to know if you're working out. He says you look good enough to—you know, you don't need to hear that. Adam's a dirty old man.

You didn't ask for my advice about Kendra, but as you know, none of the old men—dirty or otherwise—in your life is ever short on advice. We all make mistakes. You can look back and think that Gavin tried to warn you about trusting people, or that Fred seemed to have her number. But you're the one who lives with her. There's nothing wrong with being willing to forgive, forget, and move on. I don't think that makes you stupid. I think it makes you a good person.

If she takes advantage of you again, however, I've got a couple of old roommates we can hook her up with. Then we can have vengeance all the way around. I'm kidding. My point is, we all go through roommate drama. Let's hope this is the end of yours.

Talk to you soon.

Love,
Jeremy

D
uring my first months in New York, when Blythe was introducing me to the city, she also shared some of her philosophy with me. Not about art. According to Blythe, she had no philosophy about art. At least not one she wanted to share. She never liked talking about her own creative process and refused to analyze anyone else's.

Instead, she liked to talk about friendship, love, and romance. Looking back, I saw that as funny, because no one, including me, knew anything about Blythe's love life. I wasn't even sure she had one. That may have been her point.

“Most people fall in love badly,” Blythe warned me. She always punctuated her sentences with cigarette smoke. Roberto called her Little Dragon. “People undervalue themselves. They're thankful that someone wants to spend time with them”—puff, puff—“and they mistake gratitude for love.”

I hadn't really been interested in love at the time. For one thing, I was only seventeen. For another, I was busy trying not to be overwhelmed by a new home, new school, and new city. Sex, on the other hand, was a different matter. Sex I was interested in, and Blythe had opinions about that, too.

“Never fall in love with the first man who makes you see God,” Blythe warned between rapid exhales. “Good sex and love are not the same thing. In fact, my advice is to have all the good sex you can”—puff—“safe sex, of course”—puff—“either with friends or with people who can be friends. Friends with benefits.” Long exhale. “Good sex and good friendships will protect you from bad love.”

It was easy to agree with a philosophy that could get me laid well and often. It took a while for me to improve my early awkward attempts at seduction; then I met Pete. We learned together, and things went fine for us, until people started treating us like a couple. Neither of us saw it that way, so I understood when Pete ditched me for a quick romance with Fred.

It didn't bother me that I wasn't interested in finding a boyfriend or falling in love. I knew men could love each other and form committed relationships. I saw that with Blaine and Daniel, Jeremy and Adam, and Gavin and Ethan. But I wasn't in any hurry to get there. I just wanted uncomplicated physical enjoyment.

It had been a little weird to actually agree to a date with Pop Shop Boy. I'd already forgotten his name, but I hadn't forgotten the way he looked: a little like me. Maybe narcissism had prompted me to say yes. But being stood up made me feel like the old way was better. Get laid, then move on or become friends. I wasn't ready for dating. Sex was easy. Dating was complicated.

It seemed most of my friends felt the same way, even the girls. Melanie was too busy seeking success as a sculptor to focus on a boyfriend. Morgan—I had no idea what her deal was. For all I knew, the cartoon gig was a front for something seedy. Maybe she was a hooker. There had to be
some
men who were attracted to women who never made an effort to look good or to play well with others.

Adalla was Morgan's opposite. She tried new hairstyles, was forever on a diet, and spent any extra money from her paycheck on clothes and cosmetics. However, Isleta's father had soured Adalla on men, at least for the time being, so she insisted she was doing all those things for herself.

Only Kendra seemed to want a boyfriend, and unfortunately, she'd set her sights on Roberto. Roberto had offhandedly told me that a decreased sex drive was a side effect of his medication. I wondered if that was a convenient excuse for not having sex. I was sure Roberto would be able to find any number of willing partners who could deal with his HIV. It seemed more likely he was trying to get his own head around being positive. But that was just my take on it. Roberto and I didn't sit around analyzing ourselves or our choices. After all, we had Fred to do that for us.

I'd tried several times to make myself call Fred, but I never did. My inaction hung over me, especially after the incident with Kendra and the power bill. If I could forgive her for stealing money from me and lying to me, I wasn't sure why I was so hard on Fred for his stupid blog, or why I didn't want to talk to him.

Then again, Kendra and I didn't really talk, either. She'd avoided me since skulking back to our apartment. I didn't know if Roberto or Morgan had given her any grief, but I was done with the whole episode. I could tell her that if she ever stopped dodging me.

I wondered what Fred would say if I ever stopped dodging him. The problem was, I didn't think it would make a difference. I was starting to figure out that I'd always thought of Fred as a boyfriend in reserve. As if maybe when I was ready for a boyfriend, Fred would be ready for a relationship that had a longer life span than the average housefly's. Confronting him could bring the end of something I wasn't ready to give up yet.

Work became not only my opportunity to explore new creative urges, but to forget about the problems in my various relationships. I was starting to understand why Uncle Blaine and my mother worked all the time.

I got to Wamsley & Wilkes one day to find Bailey waiting for me with a digital camera. “Battery Park,” she said.

“Aw, have a heart. It's chilly outside, it'll be colder by the water, and I don't like Lower Manhattan.”

“Stop ranting,” she ordered, sounding so much like Morgan that it made me shudder. “Why would I want photos of Battery Park? It's an
apartment
in Battery Park. I need you to meet with”—she paused to look at her desk calendar—“Janet Templeton. At this address.” She slid a piece of paper across her desk toward me. “I don't know. Something about decorating a corporate apartment. She didn't give me many details on the phone and—”

Bailey broke off when Tassel landed in her lap with a skein of yarn. Someone was going to be in trouble with Eileen, but I didn't blame Tassel. He was obviously getting ready for the coming Christmas season. The cherry red yarn was a nice contrast to his current green dye job.

“So you want me to shoot the apartment?” I asked.

“Yes, and find out what she wants. It doesn't sound like that big of a job, but her budget was impressive, so maybe it's more than decorating. Maybe the bathroom and kitchen need updating. Get a feel for it, and report back to me. She knows you're not a decision maker with the firm.”

“Sure thing,” I said.

She reached inside a desk drawer for some money that she held toward me. “Take a cab. I don't want some lowlife on the subway stealing my camera.”

I couldn't stop myself from glaring at her and saying, “Do you want to pin my name and address to my shirt, too? You must think I'm a total moron.”

“I know how it can be on the subway. The way a person can get lost watching bands of light fall across someone's tweed jacket. Or noticing the way the dark color of something spilled and stepped in has made an abstract of the floor. How you can stop paying attention to the camera and bam! It's gone.”

“Oh. Someone stole one from you already?”

“And a cell phone. Go. And discreetly drop this yarn in Eileen's vicinity on your way out.”

I stopped at a deli near the office and grabbed a bottle of orange juice and a dry bagel, which I ate while I walked several blocks before finally hailing a cab. The driver was on his cell phone, so I took a paperback from my bag and read, successfully ignoring the view of the financial district on our trip down the West Side Highway.

The building was nine stories and probably around twenty years old. It was a block from the Hudson River. I remembered a summer day when I'd gone to Battery Park with Blaine and Emily to wait for Gretchen to get off work. We'd stared at the Statue of Liberty in the distance. Blaine talked about wishing he could suspend Sheila from Liberty's torch for a Lillith Allure print ad.

The doorman motioned me in, and the concierge told me Ms. Templeton was waiting for me in a fifth-floor apartment. She seemed a little flustered when we introduced ourselves. She was the kind of person I'd probably forget as soon as I left. No humor in her eyes. Meek. Wearing a gray sweater set over gray wool pants. Everything about her was drab, from her limp, dull brown hair to her sensible flat shoes with scuffed toes.

The camera seemed to make her nervous, and I reassuringly said, “Since my boss can't be here, the pictures help her see the apartment's size, features, colors, and furnishings.”

“We don't want anything in the apartment changed or replaced,” Janet said. “It just needs to look lived in. Homey.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, not really paying attention to her as I shot the bathroom. Boring. Like her. I hated apartments like this. No wonder the owner wanted a decorator.

“We need to furnish it with things that make it look like someone actually lives here,” she said, as if I hadn't gotten it the first time. “Artwork on the walls. Furniture that's interesting. Maybe some antiques.”

“Okay,” I said, moving on to the bedroom. Decent view. Small closet. Nothing special.

“Some photographs that give the illusion—”

“That someone lives here,” I interrupted, and she nodded vigorously, pleased that I'd finally caught on. I hated being treated like I was stupid. “I'll tell my boss. I'm only here to take pictures and measure the space. I'm not a decorator.”

“Oh. Right.”

She got a weird, almost sad expression on her face. Maybe she just wanted to talk. So I said, “Most people don't like to put anything too expensive in a rental. Tenants who are just passing through—”

“It's not that kind of corporate apartment,” she said. She turned to stare out the window.

I watched her a few seconds. Maybe the reason she seemed so lifeless was that she was doing something she didn't want to do. I tried to picture her at a table in a club with her friends. Would she be more animated? Less monochrome?

“Decorators are a little like bartenders. Or hairdressers. They end up knowing private stuff about you. You want to be smart when you choose one so your business doesn't end up on the street. You'll like working with Bailey Wilkes. She's talented. And trustworthy. She'll keep your secrets.”

“Have you ever met a bartender you wanted to confide in?” Janet asked. “Because most of the bartenders I meet are jerks who act like they're too good to talk to customers.”

“I haven't actually gone to a lot of bars,” I admitted. I thought about Davii. “But I can tell my secrets to my hairdresser.”

“I don't have a regular hairdresser,” Janet snapped. Then her eyes sent me an apology. Her body language was making me as miserable as she seemed to be.

“I can be a good listener, too,” I said. “I'm not a decorator, but I can keep a secret.”

Her shoulders slumped. “I did something at work a while back,” she said dully. “Something wrong.”

“Haven't we all?” I said. Although I'd come to regard Parker D. Brooks with affection after all the times I'd used him to make people laugh, I said, “I ended up fired.”

“The person who caught me was really nice. He told me not to worry about it. Boy, was I stupid. In politics, no bad deed goes unexploited. People keep your secrets because it gives them power.”

When she stopped talking, I prompted, “So now this person wants something from you?”

“This isn't a corporate apartment for out-of-town visitors to use. I guess it's what people used to call a bachelor pad. Only the four men who'll be using it—not at the same time—aren't bachelors.”

“Oh,” I said.

“They have homes on Long Island or in Brooklyn. Nice homes with wives and kids. This is the place where they'll bring their girlfriends. The girlfriends know about the wives. But they aren't supposed to know this isn't where each guy stays when he has to spend the night in the city. I mean, the men have apartments for that, too, but their wives know about those apartments. So they can't exactly take their girlfriends there.”

“I understand,” I said. “You need a decorator who can keep the apartment generic enough to look like it belongs to each of these men, but comfortable and lived-in enough to look real.”

“You got it,” she said.

“Men.”

“Suck. I feel like I'm helping them cheat on their wives. This is so not me. I'm just a Jersey girl working as a secretary and I made one stupid mistake.”

“Maybe you should get a different job.”

“Maybe you've never worked for prominent people. There's nowhere I can go if they decide to retaliate. Of course, if you tell your boss all this, and she tells my boss, I'm probably screwed anyway. One way or another, these guys are always screwing women.”

“Not me,” I said. “Not in any sense of the word.”

“Uh-huh,” she said listlessly.

I finished taking pictures. Before she walked me out, I had to try again.

“My uncle always says that power's an illusion. They've only got power over you if you give it to them. If you get a new job, they'll probably just forget you. I mean, how bad was your mistake? You didn't kill anybody, did you?”

She almost smiled when she shook her head. Neither of us said anything else before she closed the door between us.