I poured myself a Diet Coke just as the bells over the door jingled and the music started to pour through the speakers. It was five o’clock on a Friday, officially happy hour, and the TGIF crowd was filing in.
Smiling, I told Bev, “Have fun, girlie,” as I prepared to make several hundred drinks. “Oh, watch out for the bunny,” I added with a wink, and poor Bev squinted at me, her brow furrowed. I didn’t offer any further explanation. She’d figure it out soon enough.
At the end of the night, Bev stayed with me as I counted my tips and had a drink. “Oh. My. God. I had no idea what you meant when you mentioned a bunny. Who the hell is that? And what is that all about? I’ve lived in New York all my life, and I never.” Bev laughed into a glass of water.
“I told you to look out for him. Apparently, it started back in the Village years ago, probably when we were babies. A guy named Frankie would dress as a bunny and hit on all the female customers in the bar. He was apparently pretty famous there, and when he got older, his son took over. Being a poor New Yorker, he moved to Queens. His name is ... wait for it ... Frankie Junior.”
I released my hair out of its messy bun, scratching the nape of my neck where it was itchy from a few too many hairs pulled tight.
After several rounds of laughter, we made small talk in the afterglow of a good night for all, including Frankie Junior, who’d danced with Bev. She’d flirted with him and everything else that moved on two legs and had a penis, and I’d raked in the cash.
For a while tonight, we both forgot about our moms. Bev needed to forget because she ached all over at the prospect of losing hers. As for me, I ached all over at the prospect of finding mine. We were opposing ends of the same continuum, thrown together by some random stroke of kismet.
As I sipped a vodka and tonic, I somehow knew my not telling Bev the truth would haunt me, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. The multitude of ways this whole Paula thing could end were too great, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to share that with anyone just yet.
When we were finished, I waited with Bev for her Uber before splurging on a cab home.
With my cheek against the cool pillow, I didn’t think of Robby. A dark-haired, sort-of-older (which made everything more questionable) guy had taken up residence in my mind, and I wasn’t sure how it made me feel, other than happy.
Price
Saturday afternoon, I kicked back in my apartment with a cold beer and my book—Cannery Row—hiding from all the Big Apple had to offer.
I’d read the plotless story several times, and it was still my favorite. Sad, how it became truer and truer to my own life. Rather than the cannery employees, we were the struggling, down-and-out farmers. Then there were the people in the surrounding big cities who had chosen a different life. Except now, I was caught between the two worlds.
The doorbell knocked me out of my reverie, and I made the mistake of opening the door without looking through the peephole first.
“Hey, Price. I’m house sitting this weekend for my aunt, and I was wondering what you’re up to?”
It was Monica—a mistake from when I first moved here. With Moira’s harping on me to sow my wild oats ripe in my mind, a bruised ego from my mom pushing me to this place, and a momentary lapse in judgment, I found solace in the girl down the hall. Grateful to learn she was only house sitting for her aunt who lived in the building, I’d sworn never to shit where I ate again.
Now as she leaned against the doorjamb, wearing a black crop top and even blacker leggings outlining her camel toe, her feet bare, I recalled why I don’t sleep with neighbors (or house sitters of said neighbors) anymore.
“Having a low-key weekend,” I said, trying to avoid long moments of direct eye contact. I’d learned my lesson ... city girls weren’t like the girls back home.
“You should come out! It’s Saturday.” She leaned forward, her fake tits on display, bouncing with her every step.
I knew all about them ... her dad bought them for her on her eighteenth birthday. I’d had to bite my tongue in an effort to resist laughing at that.Tits for a birthday gift!Apparently, it wasn’t uncommon around these parts. Can you imagine?
On my eighteenth birthday, I got gift cards to the wing place and the gas station, and an“Attaboy, now you’re a man”from Bruce.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m probably going to stay in.”
“Nooo. You can’t. This building is so lame. It’s so quiet, I can hear the clock ticking. You need to come out with us. It’s a group,” she said coyly, twirling her hair between her thumb and forefinger, a duck face replacing her smile.
“I’ll think about it,” I said to get rid of her.
“Oh, great. I’ll come by around nine and we can share an Uber, then grab everyone else. It’s a plan.”
“I’m not a definite.”
“See you later,” she said over her shoulder, already sashaying her ass down the hall.
Happily alone again with my book and my beer, I spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch.
A little before eight, I opted to head out and pick up some food, trying to avoid Monica and her Uber. With a bag of cheap Chinese takeout tucked under my arm, I grabbed the keys hanging from my mouth to unlock my apartment, hoping I was safe.
“Priiiice! Woo-hoo, let’s go!”
