I’m disoriented when my alarm goes off on Sunday morning, instinctively reacting like it’s Monday, before the world comes into focus and the memory of my defeat comes flooding back. I roll over and groan.
With twenty-four more hours I could’ve gotten it. I had some very good leads.
The thing is: just collating the data took a lot longer than I expected. By the time I was finished gathering everything I needed, the day was over. I had to convince John to stay late and look at it with me, but though he said he could import my data for mein theory,he didn’t have a clue how we’d go about actually integrating it into a report.
I refused to accept this, sending John home and scrolling coder forums on Reddit instead. I posted what I was trying to accomplish, eventually making contact with a hobby hacker in Germany called Vunderkid, who said he could do it for a price, until I told him I needed it by the next day, at which point he disappeared.
Instead, I wrote a very long, very intricate email, telling Connor how my custom reportcouldwork, to which he simply replied:time’s up you lose.
The memory of Connor’s satisfied grin when I read hisstupid email is enough to get me moving. I’m going to wipe that smug smile off his face by stuffing it with an enormous, overpriced cookie. If I can’t be a winner, I’m determined to be the next best thing: a really good sport.
My bedroom is in a state of disarray. It looks like a small child broke in and pulled every single item from my wardrobe and then just tossed it up in the air to see where it would land. Really, it was Carrie, who decided she had to change ten minutes before going out last night.
I dress in a version of my doing-nothing-on-the-weekend uniform, throwing on a pair of leggings and a huge, baggy sweatshirt, which I attempt to elevate with a jean jacket. I’m trying for “off-duty model,” but in reality am looking more “quarantine, day seven.” What does it matter? The only other person who’s going to see me this morning will also look like the living dead.
I make my way out to the living room and around to the front of the sofa, taking in Carrie’s lifeless form. She’s lying facedown, her backcombed hair now a wildly knotted bird’s nest of platinum blond highlights. A threadbare bedsheet is draped across her—Sam’s, I think—and her arm dangles off the edge of the sofa. Even in sleep she reaches toward her phone, which lies on the floor beneath her, its cracked screen faceup.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” I say, poking her with mytoe.
A garbled moan is my only reply.
“It’s time to go to Krumes,” I say. “Remember how you promised you’d be fine this morning and would definitely be joiningme?”
“No,” Carrie whimpers, rolling over and croaking out a plea for water.
The current state of affairs is not exactly a surprise to me. When I finally gave up and went to bed around three thirty lastnight, I left Carrie and Sam in the middle of a deep and meaningful about the nature of creativity, endlessly arguing the particulars of what did, and didn’t, qualify as the creativeact.
Both Carrie and Sam can be big personalities at the best of times, but last night felt like a death match. All night, any conversation we fell into, on any subject, one always had to disagree with the other. Sam said red wine was better. Carrie disagreed. It must be white. Carrie argued Pinterest was basic; Sam insisted it was refreshing and ironic instead. On and on it went, until the two of them wound up on the dance floor, staring one another down, angrily swaying to the music. Like a dance-off inZoolander.
The wild thing is, we weren’t even planning to go to that rave. Carrie and I were going to have a movie night on the couch. Sam was going to a gallery thing. But the three of us convened in the living room and it’s like the fuse was lit. Before I knew it Carrie was going braless in a tank top she fished out of the back of my wardrobe and Sam was in a leather miniskirt and we were at a blacklight party at an old warehouse in Brooklyn’s armpit.
I fill the cup of water and hand it to her. She’s sitting up now, sheet tucked under her arms. She has the air of a Victorian monarch, ruling from her bedside.
“So, Krumes?” I ask again. “We need to get there before they all sell out.”
“If you think I’m going uptown right now, you are insane,” she says, taking a huge, two-handed gulp of water.
“You’ll feel better once you get moving,” I reason. “And we can get brunch!”
“I will not be eating today,” she says. “Please let me die in peace.”
I sigh. I’ve dealt with Carrie’s hangovers enough times toknow she’s not going anywhere fast. “Fine. But if you think I’m saving you a cookie, you’re in for a shock.”
“Have fun,” she mumbles, rolling over.
I head back to my bedroom and swipe my tote bag off the door handle, then grab the book on my bedside table and stuff it inside.
I pull on my running shoes, fill my water bottle, and with one forlorn look at Carrie’s inanimate form, slip out of the apartment.
—
When I emerge from the subway at 72nd Street I have the errant thought that I’m deep in Connor territory now; I’ve heard him describe the wacky hot dog stand on the corner many times.
I don’t often have occasion to come up to this side of town. It’s early, and mostly deserted. The shopfronts along Amsterdam Avenue are still closed, and there’s hardly any traffic at this time of the morning. The city feels extra spacious today—there must be a million people within a square mile of where I’m standing, yet it feels like I’ve got the place to myself.
I walk a couple of blocks with the sun on my face and then turn down 74th Street, the map on my phone guiding me to my final destination. I don’t find Krumes so much as I find thelinefor Krumes. I’m getting a feel for why this place sells out so early—it appears to be the size of a basement cupboard.
There’re already at least a dozen people hanging around, but not so many that I’m worried, so I join the line, then fish my book out from my bag. The bakery opens in thirty-five minutes. If I’m quick about it, I can be back home and napping within an hour.
