“I’m surprised she didn’t snitch the utensils while she was at it,”Hal says, sharing in my revulsion. “Just to make a clean swipe of it all.”
“At least she left the Red Rocket,” Tara points out. “Said she wanted us to have it as her parting gift.” Tara gulps, close to tears.
“You’re not buying that, are you?” I say. “It’s just because Peter already has a Mercedes and they don’t want to pay for two parking spots.”
“And Jenni’s too embarrassed about what her fancy new Manhattan neighbors would think of a rusty old Ford,” Hal adds.
“So much for all her vigilante shit,” I say.
Walking outside, I give the Red Rocket a good kick in the bumper like it’s the car’s fault. But the Rocket is tougher than it looks, escaping unscathed as my toes burn and bubble with pain.
A couple weeks later, I take the Red Rocket for a late-night spin over to Jenni and Peter’s apartment on the Upper West Side. I’ve got this feeling that I can spite Jenni by doing loops around the block, channeling some witchy energy and drawing an ominous square around her new life.
In my head, Jenni would look out the high-rise window and see me down here. She’d come running out and hop in shotgun, confessing she made a huge mistake, begging me to take her back to the Inn as she tossed her criminally large ring through the sidewalk grate and felt the weight of the release.
That doesn’t happen, though. I guess I have to get over my savior complex. Jenni’s an adult and she chose to trade in her sovereignty for suitability. There’s really nothing I can do about it except make sure that Hal and Tara never do the same.
I know they won’t. They’ve actually got these things called spines made of bone, not rubber. What a concept.
I rev the engine of the Red Rocket and hightail it out of there,hoping the exhaust pollutes the air. As far as farewell gifts go, it’s a pretty generous one. I could’ve burned her whole block down. A prison sentence for arson isn’t the most appealing, though at least incarceration comes with free rent, and a play written from a cell would probably sell. It’s got the hook.
Chapter 12
The new year starts in the same way they all do in New York: everyone flocking to the gym and starting new authoritarian diets that ban every food group except kale.
I swear people only like working out and dieting because it gives them something microscopic to obsess over so they don’t have to focus on the bigger issues at play, like the fact that they’re living a life that makes them feel dead.
The three of us Redstockings decide to make resolutions this year, just so we can show off our willpower and gloat over everyone else. My resolution is to not call or text Chris until he reaches out to me. It’s a facetious one because it’s not like it’s hard to do at all. Besides, he’ll probably call me tomorrow and ask me to watch Arnie while he and Olivia go to Hawaii for a couple’s getaway because they’re not in love enough to make it through the New York winter. They have to rely on things like tropical islands to keep the spark alive.
Tara’s resolution is to go to the House of Yes only one time per week. It’s just about the worst resolution ever made, and I have zero intention of following suit.
Hal’s is to get a queen-sized bed, and she achieves that one in short order. We unceremoniously dump the old bunk bed she shared with Jenni out on the curb. It’s gone by nightfall. There’s a market for anything free around these parts.
We adapt to Jenni being gone by not adapting at all. It’s the best way to handle change: ignore it until you hardly notice it anymore.
It’s kind of nice having more space at the Inn too. We can sprawl out and keep things messy like they’re supposed to be. She’s not scurrying around tidying up for her man anymore.
Tara starts hosting weekly roommate dinners for Hal and me. She puts a lot of effort into cooking and setting the coffee table with folded paper napkins and clean forks and all this other weirdly formal stuff.
I can tell she’s terrified that she’s going to lose us, that Hal and I are going to go the way of Jenni. I get it, I do, but Tara’s got to stop clinging so hard. There’s zero risk that I’ll handcuff myself with marriage. I remind her of that every day until she stops freaking out so much if the black bean burgers she cooks are overly charred, or if the sweet potatoes are a bit soggy. Our love isn’t dependent on her culinary skills.
“Let’s just go back to ordering pizza from Tony’s,” I tell her one night, and she looks relieved.
The biggest thing I’m upset about with Jenni gone is that my share of rent goes up. Hal says we should split it evenly among the three of us, but that’s a scummy business move if I’ve ever heard one since she’s got her own room now while Tara and I are still sharing. Hal finally agrees to pay more but still not fifty percent like I wanted. It means I need to rake in some more money, so I pick up more Uber shifts.
The Red Rocket has this traitorous Jenni vibe to it. Ideally I’d trade it in for a U-Haul truck or something else that sits high and mighty and reminds me that I can run this city if I want to. But I don’t have the funds to upgrade, and even if I could afford the gas, the carbon footprint wouldn’t sit right. So I end up just giving the Rocket a new coat of paint, mustard yellow. It doesn’t quite mask the rusty color underneath, so it’s kind of an orange hue when it’s all done. I stash some lemon peels and coffee grounds from thecompost bin into the cup holders to give it a fresh new scent and call it good.
Sometime in late winter, I realize I’m sick of driving Ubers. I’ve been sick of it for a while, so I talk my way into a job at Kora’s, the coffee shop I love that’s a little ways down Knickerbocker Avenue. I figure it’ll be good inspiration because I can brainstorm ideas for my next plays based on the characters that walk through the door.
It’s not a bad gig. The customers aren’t too demanding and most of the orders are simple: black iced coffees or espresso shots. Nothing high-maintenance like you’d get in Manhattan—matcha latte with oat milk and a splash of vanilla, but no, actually not that much; make me a new one in two seconds or I’m taking my business elsewhere.
That’s not to say that everyone who comes into Kora’s is an angel, but it’s generally a more low-key crowd. The downside is that the tip jar is always empty except for a few pennies and dimes, pity donations. They’re not worth pocketing but I do anyway. Tip jars are a terribly antiquated concept. Who carries cash anymore?
Sometimes I don’t show up for shifts or I’ll get there late on purpose or by accident, it depends. I’m less scared of losing my job than I am of getting trapped by a repetitive schedule. It’s nearly as suffocating as monogamy.
Outside of work, I’m too restless to write so I take long walks through Bushwick and beyond. I stay in Brooklyn because what’s to see in Manhattan? Chris hasn’t reached out yet. It’s been a couple months now since our Christmas Eve conversation, and I’ve decided I was wrong about him. He never cared about me like I thought.
“Enough with the moping,” Hal says one day when I get back from my shift at Kora’s and plop down on the couch with a bottleof red and a bowl of chocolate-covered espresso beans slathered in peanut butter for an EJ touch. “Just call him.”
