Faking Life (25 page)

“Well, I figure you must love them so much that now you're bringing your work home with you. I haven't been taught this lesson since college, so go ahead professor, lecture away. Pardon me if I tell you to take your assignment and shove it up your ass.”

Paul stood up and walked to the doorway. He flicked the light switch on as he left.

“Ow, the fuck'd you do that for?” John said, shielding his face.

“Better for your eyes,” Paul said. “I'll pretend I didn't hear that, but I won't take much more of this passive-aggressive bullshit. You want to get it out of your system, fine. Just let me know when you're done. But in the meantime, think about what you're saying. And I empathize, I really do, but there's a fine line between empathy and pity.” He paused. John stopped typing and looked his way. Paul couldn't help but smile. “Now take a fucking shower, you smell like my grandmother.” John laughed, a true laugh that seemed like it had been bottled up for days.

“Pants it is. But I'm still going to Slappy's tonight. Self-loathing be damned, I deserve one night to get really fucking hammered before I start scraping burgers for a buck fifty an hour. The invite still stands.” Paul thought for a moment, then shrugged.

“Fuck it, why not? I'll shower after you're done, but let's at least eat something. I don't want you seeing your friend Jack Daniels on an empty stomach. I spent a hundred and nine bucks on a pair of Diesel jeans the other day and if you puke on them I'll kill you.”

W
hen they arrived at Slappy's Slop House, Paul was amazed at how cordial everyone was to John. It was as though he'd never worked there, had never been fired, and had in fact been the life of the party so often that the mere sight of him sent the entire bar into a tizzy of joyful camaraderie and binge drinking. John had worked at Slappy's for nearly seven years, and in the last few months had been suspended, embarrassed and fired, yet was now drinking like a Saturday night regular. Artie was sitting with him, hand clamped firmly on John's shoulder, toasting to a wonderful six-plus years of employment. Stacy, looking slightly uncomfortable having been put on bar duty full-time, poured them three shots of fluorescent-green liquid. When John and Artie finished chugging their beers—people actually chanting
chug, chug, chug
like they were at a fraternity kegger—Stacy handed them the shots. She cleared the empty glasses four seconds later. John let out an audible burp and tried unsuccessfully to repress a hiccup.

Paul was observing this from the other end of the bar, choosing not to participate in the night's revelries. He was sure that at some point he'd be dragging the dead weight of John's body up several flights of stairs, only to plop him in front of the toilet. He decided to play it safe until then.

Even Enzo, whom Paul had never seen so much as look longingly at a drink, had downed two shots with the crew. He knocked the drinks back like water, nixing any chasers. Wherever Enzo was from, they were probably used to drinks a hell of a lot stronger than anything served at Slappy's; stuff probably made from rare plant extracts and bat wings like on the Discovery Channel.

“Hey Paul,
Paul
. Paul come take a shot. You're sitting there like…like…a
slug
or something.” John looked at Artie and nudged him in the ribs, not as gently as he meant to from the look on Artie's face. “Artie, you hear what I said to him? I called him a
slug
. Pretty funny since he's got a job and I don't.” Nervous laughter from Artie, but another shot eased the tension. It looked like straight Jack Daniels. When Artie left to mingle, John stood up, pushing away groping arms that were trying to aid his stability. John stumbled over to Paul, resembling a bum out of a 1930's flick. Paul snickered. All he needed was dirt on his face and a bowler and he'd be Charlie Chaplin.

“So what's the deal now? You and are Artie best friends suddenly?” John slapped Paul on the back hard enough to make his teeth hurt.

“Friends?” He yelled, “Artie, Paul wants to know if we're friends.” Artie raised his drink. John raised his empty hand, spilling a woman's martini glass all over her shirt. “Oh, sorry there. I'll pay for it.
Not
. Shit yeah, we're still friends. You think I'd let something silly like Artie firing me get in the way of our friendship? Hell, Artie's been like a brother to me. You know, that brother who sleeps with your wife.” He took Paul's shoulder and turned him away from the others, whispering into his ear. John's grip on his shoulder was tight as a vice and he sounded like he was deliberately trying to enunciate every syllable.

“I know what you're thinking. I mean this guy just
fired
me and now he's giving me drinks and shit. Well I don't buy it either. You know what I think? I think he's trying to alleviate his guilt for firing me. Did I just use the word alleviate in a sentence? Christ I'm drunk.
All-e-ve-ate.
Anyway, I'm taking advantage of it now, and then I won't come back here again. I've had enough of this fucking place, the fucking wood, the fucking dance floor, the fucking fuckers who come here every fucking night. Except for Stacy and Lisa, they're cool.” Suddenly John stopped and a look of utter disappointment came over his face. “Aw hell, wouldn't you know it. She comes here the one night I can't see straight.”

Paul followed John's gaze to the door. That girl—Esther, the one who'd read his stuff—was standing there. She was wearing a camel-colored overcoat with leather gloves, a gray shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“Wouldn't you know it,” John said softly, leaning heavily against Paul. He had to brace his foot against the bar stool to prevent John from toppling over.

When Esther saw them she gave a shy wave, then took off her coat and hung it on an empty hook.

“If I say or do anything stupid, you'll cover for me, right?” He looked at Paul with pleading eyes, like he knew he was bound to screw something up and was relying on Paul for damage control.

“I'll take care of everything,” Paul said, his mind running through vivid scenarios where he might be forced to make an awkward apology or, in the most vivid one, asking Artie for a glass of water to wash vomit stains off Esther's blouse. He could feel John's body swaying gently next to him, trying to keep balance. He could see why John was worried. She had a sweet smile, a friendly gait, and eyes that didn't seem to hide anything. It was all there, wrapped in a delicate package, and it was walking towards them without any hesitancy.

“Hey you,” she said. John stood up to allow her his seat. Paul offered his chair to John, hoping his friend would realize that standing was tempting fate. John declined and braced himself on the bar with an outstretched arm.

“Funny seeing you here,” John said, making an effort to sound sober.

“Why funny?” Esther said. “Don't you, you know, work here? Although I am used to seeing you on the
other
side of the bar.” A small hiccup interrupted John's laugh.

“Funny you should ask,” he said. “Actually I don't work here anymore.” Esther looked confused. She turned to Paul for an answer. He shrugged. She turned back to John, her lip trembling.

“But…what happened? Did you quit?”

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head as if casting off fleas. “First I got demoted, then I got fired. Within a week of each other. Kinda strange, isn't it?”

“I don't understand,” she said, her voice disbelieving. “Why would they bother demoting you if they were just going to fire you?”

“You know, I'm not really sure. I don't think they planned on firing me when they demoted me. But hey, c'est la vie.” Esther's mouth remained open, her breath coming in short bursts. Paul wondered why she was so affected by John's firing. It wasn't like she knew him that well. Maybe all women reacted that way when someone got fired. Maybe she cried when the guy at the bagel store lost his job or a cabbie's license expired. Finally she seemed to notice Paul.

“Oh, hi,” she said, a metallic coldness in her voice. “How are you?”

“Not bad. I still have
my
job, in case you were wondering.”

“That's good.” They both looked at John.

“Hey, don't mind me,” he said. “What, just 'cause I needed to put my tab on layaway you're gonna get all weird on me? Come on, have a drink.” John put his fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill whistle—since when could he whistle like that?—and Stacy came over, looking annoyed. “Stace, let's get two shots of Jack and, what would you like Esther? Is Jack okay? Three shots of Jack hun, thanks a bunch.” She returned with four glasses of brown liquor.

“Mind if I join in?” Stacy asked. She eyed Esther suspiciously. Paul caught the look.

On the count of three, they threw their drinks back, the bitter taste lingering in Paul's mouth. He took a sip of beer. It took Esther two sips to finish her shot, her face contorting in displeasure after each. Stacy cleared the glasses. Esther asked for a cup of water.

“Anything else for the heavy drinkers?”

Paul blurted, “No, we're good for now.”

“You sure? I could…”

“We're good,” Paul said, glaring at John before he could protest. “For now.”

“Suit yourselves,” she said, and left.

“So Esther, what brings you here again?” John said, staring at the floor.

“The company, as always.” John smiled. Suddenly Paul wanted to leave. He didn't need this. With any luck, John would go home with Esther. He'd didn't want to worry about mopping the apartment after John's stomach staged a revolution.

“You know something Ms. Esther? Or is it Mrs.?” She said it was the former. John seemed glad to hear that. “I'm glad to hear that. But anyway, what I was saying is, I'm not drunk. Well, yes I'm drunk, but I'm not
drunk
. I mean I'm not drunk to the point where I'm not going to remember anything tomorrow, you know? There are a lot of people that you know, get drunk and claim they forget what happened the previous night, like drinking gives you instant anemia.”

“Anemia?”

“The disease where you forget stuff.”

“Amnesia.”

“Right. I'm just saying that whatever happens tonight…” he paused. Paul pinched him under the table, but John's nerves were probably so fried that he didn't feel it. Paul pinched him again. “Whatever happens tonight, you know—with you and me—I'm not going to forget about it. I'll call you, I promise.” He leaned in close, nearly tumbling to the floor. “That was a joke.”

“Thanks, I figured.”

“Don't mention it.
Ow
, stop pinching me asshole. Anyway, don't take this the wrong way, but you look fucking gorgeous tonight.” Paul watched a smile slowly spread over Esther's face, as though out of all the times she'd been complimented by a drunkard, John was the only one she believed. Maybe, thought Paul,
he
should give up trying to be smooth, because if women fell for shit like this…

“That's sweet of you. How could I take it the wrong way?” John looked embarrassed, like he just realized the ramifications of his compliment. Not that he didn't mean it, but even Paul knew that confessing your feelings to a woman while plastered was
not
the recommended way to begin a courtship. But then Paul saw John's eyes, the way he was looking at her. Suddenly, John cast his face downward.

“Don't look at me,” he said, moving away from the bar. Esther put her hand delicately on his shoulder, moved it slowly up towards his neck, her fingers bristling the wool of his sweater.
Talk about your third wheel,
Paul thought.

Esther had a pained look on her face, as though she could feel every thought and every hurt.

“I don't want you to look at me right now,” he repeated. She didn't ask why. And why was Paul still there? Was he contributing anything to this conversation? Maybe subconsciously he felt he had to stay in case John had a nervous breakdown. Plus there was still the alcohol thing and…did John just order another shot? Shit.

“So what do you want from your life, Esther?” John said, as more Jack was set in front of him. “My friend Paul here wants to be a writer…oops, scratch that. Sorry, he
is
a writer, insofar that he's written and actually been paid for it. How much have you been paid for your writing Paul?”

“John, I really don't want to talk about this…”

“Oh come on, it's not like I'm asking how much you make at your
real
job—even though I already know that one. So how much have you made, altogether, from your writing?” Paul remained quiet. He knew very well how much money he'd made from writing. But why should he be embarrassed? It was more than the two of
them
would ever make writing.

“Four hundred sixty-seven dollars. Plus seventy-two contributor copies.”

John whistled, the kind of whistle you make when you learn that a friend of yours will be making six figures right out of college.

“Four hundred sixty-seven dollars. You know what? Some people might say four hundred sixty-seven dollars is peanuts, that all those hours you worked couldn't even buy you a one-month lease on a luxury car. But you know what?” John waited a moment. Paul wasn't sure if he was actually expecting him to guess what the 'what' was. “I'm impressed. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. You know why? Because that's what you love to do, and when you do what you love, it isn't about money. If I was doing something that honest-to-God I knew I wanted to do for the rest of my life, and I spent days and weeks and years perfecting it and someone cut me a check for four hundred sixty-seven dollars, I wouldn't cash the thing. Nope. I'd take a thumbtack and pin that sonofabitch on my wall. Sure I'd cash the other ones, but that first check, that
first
validation by someone else that your work is
inspiring
, that's worth more than anything fucking Chase has to offer.” Paul looked at John, measuring his sincerity in the red webbing of his eyes. “I'm serious Paul. You're a lucky guy.”

“Thanks,” Paul said.

“So what
do
you want, Esther?” John asked again.

Esther wiped a strand of hair from her face and looked John sadly in the eyes. “I guess I really want to be involved in something worthwhile. I don't know. Everyone my age wants to move the world. I guess I'd settle for moving one person I really cared about.” John laughed.