I was hardly ready to go when Bill buzzed my apartment. I still had to fix up my hair and choose a pair of shoes. It was about eight in the evening but summer light was still visible outside my window. Two minutes after I let him in the building Bill got up the three flights of stairs and knocked on my door. With a comb in one hand and two shot glasses in the other I opened the door and let him in.
“Evening.”
Bill took a step in and closed the door. He was wearing jeans with a black button down
and a gray sports jacket. He nodded at a generic work of art on the wall of my kitchen and said, “New painting?”
I nodded.
“I like it. Are we ready to go?”
“How about a shot first?”
“Alright.”
I poured his and ran into the bathroom to finish with my hair. I left the door open.
He called from the kitchen,
“You keep touching it, it’ll only get worse.”
“Where are we headed?”
“Downtown, East Village, I think. Brooke says she knows this jazz club.”
“What does Brooke know about jazz?”
“Oh, it’s her new thing, ’Ric. Give her a couple weeks and she’ll be out of it.
She’s got a hell of a singing voice, though, I’ll tell you that.”
I dropped the comb on the side of the sink and selected a pair of brown suede shoes from my small closet.
“Nice choice,” said Bill. He raised his glass and declared with sardonic optimism,
“To being young in New York!”
“Cheers.” We touched our glasses and downed their contents and Bill looked at me.
“You want to go?”
“I do.”
I grabbed my wallet and jacket and we made our way downstairs. It was chilly outside and there was a light breeze and the sky was clear as it was getting dark.
We took the Four train downtown to Bleecker Street and talked very little on the way. Bill was busy at his blackberry dealing with business e-mails. When we got out of the station he called Jerry and led me with a series of hand-motions and false-turns to a street corner. Jerry was across the street and we waved and walked over. Sandy was with him and she had on a classy pair of heels and a low-cut black top. She wore it well. Jerry said,
“I thought we could go to Eddy’s Place, a couple blocks west.”
“Brooke knows this jazz club she wants us to see,” said Bill. “But I’m sure she’ll be late, anyway.”
“Yeah. You guys know Brent, right? He’s going to meet us at Eddy’s Place.”
“Alright.”
We started walking. I did not know Sandy too well so I walked with her. She asked what I did for a living. I told her I was a journalist but that I did not particularly care for the occupation.
“Oh, you should do something you like,” she said. “How else could you be happy?”
“It’s a living,” I said, “and I do love to write. It’s just that the editors are always changing all your work, and I don’t enjoy working on so much of a schedule. And it’s not creative anyway.”
“You like creative writing?”
“Since I was little, yes. But until I’m the next Fitzgerald I think I’ll be sticking with journalism.” She smiled. “So what do you do?”
“Me, I’m working as an accountant.”
“Do you like it?”
“Not particularly,” she said and laughed, echoing my words on purpose. I continued the joke, “You should do something you like.”
We carried on with the cordial conversation for the five minutes to Eddy’s Place.
Brent was waiting for us at the door and he was on his cell phone. When he saw us coming he smiled and waved and ended the phone conversation.
“Hey guys,” he said and then to me he added, “I haven’t seen you in a while!”
“Not since the summer, I think.”
“Yeah, what a long time!”
Bill never went for chivalry. He nodded at the door and said, “Shall we?” and we followed him in.
It was hardly late and the bar was practically empty. The five of us took our seats at the counter and Bill said, “Let’s get a round in before Brooke calls.”
Sandy ordered a martini, Bill a shot of Bourbon, Jerry some expensive wine, and I matched Bill’s Bourbon.
