Kissing in Manhattan (21 page)

Everything about the elevator connoted an ancient craftsmanship and grace, the qualities of another age. Now that he considered it, James recalled that his fellow residents never spoke to each other in the elevator. They seemed to hold their tongues not out of embarrassment or estrangement—James knew several of them to be friends or siblings—but due to some unconscious respect they were paying the Preemption or the elevator itself.

In fact, the Preemption’s elevator deserved respect. It was the oldest working Otis elevator in Manhattan. Installed in 1890, it had never needed replacing. The gears and powers that drove it had been engineered for perpetuity, and the only person in the building who even knew how to access the elevator’s inner workings was Sender, the Preemption’s doorman. Perhaps Johann Rook, the current owner of the Preemption, also knew the elevator’s secrets, but Johann Rook was an absentee landlord. He was an avuncular German doctor who, it was believed, spent his time chiefly in Paris, Ghana, and the rain forests of Brazil. A Preemption resident was lucky to set eyes on Dr. Rook even once in his or her lifetime, and all that James Branch knew of his landlord was from the portrait that hung in the Preemption’s lobby. The portrait showed a severe-looking gentleman with shock white hair standing partially in shadow, wearing a black tuxedo.

In any case, it had been Elias Rook—Johann’s ancestor and the original owner of the Preemption—who’d overseen the installment of the elevator, and, as James stared at the chamber in which he stood suspended, he nodded at the man’s fine choices. There were no mirrors or benches in the elevator. The air had a vague fragrance of wood, but it was a warm, constructive smell, like the inside of a carpenter’s shop. Also, there were no stains or black fossils of gum in the carpet. There was nothing in the carpet at all except one brass placard, centered in front of the doors, which bore the name Otis.

James stared at this placard. He thought of his childhood afternoons and evenings, when he’d boxed himself off from the world in his dumbwaiter. Standing there at midnight, gazing at the floor placard and recalling the knotted wood walls of his childhood hiding place, James Branch had a strange, sudden vision. He imagined—or his mind imagined for him—the workman who’d built the elevator in which he stood. The man was tall, strong, and silent. He was a man from another century, but he had a patient face and wore a blue workshirt and dark blue trousers. The man also had deep brown eyes and brown hair, and his sleeves rolled up on his biceps. With no evidence to the contrary, and on a whim that was somehow comforting, James decided that this man’s name was Otis.

What James did next was even more whimsical, or perhaps, by objective standards, simply crazy. He pulled the lever, and lowered the elevator until it was halfway between his floor—the seventh—and the one below. He clicked the brass key to the left, and the elevator stopped. Then, inspired by the seclusion, James sat cross-legged in the middle of the carpet, closed his eyes, and began to rock and speak.

“Hello, Otis,” he said quietly. “I’m James Branch. I’m from Morris, Minnesota, and I had Eggs for dinner at Flat Michael’s.”

James waited. He wasn’t insane enough to expect a response from the darkness. He was just waiting to see what he himself would say next.

“I do the books for Harrow East,” he explained. “I work there with a guy named Patrick Rigg. He’s my roommate too. Sometimes I need to get away from him. That’s why I’m here, Otis.” James rocked and whispered. “There’s this guy on my train, Otis. He’s a street singer. You know, a vagrant with a guitar. He calls himself Morality John. He’s always staring at me when he plays his songs. They’re pretty good songs, though, and I think they’re originals.” James rocked and thought. “Morality John’s creepy, but I give him money.”

It went on like that for an hour. If it had been the middle of the day or early in the evening, more people would have been summoning the elevator and James’s privacy might have dissolved. But somehow either the late hour or some sixth sense on their parts kept Preemption residents away. At twelve-thirty one young woman named Hannah Glorybrook did burst into the lobby with an eager suitor who hoped to share her bed. But Sender the doorman, who always seemed to know what was afoot in the Preemption, pointed the couple away from the elevator and told them to take the stairs.

“Otis,” said James, “I’m glad to have made your acquaintance. I live right on the seventh floor. I’m sure I’ll come talk to you again sometime.”

James opened his eyes, blinked. Around him was wood and brass, and the warm impression his body was making on the carpet. James blushed, stood, and turned the brass key to the right. He brought himself back to the seventh floor, slipped into his apartment. A woman named Donna stood on the coffee table in the living room. She wore a velvet vest and slacks, and she was singing a Billie Holiday song for Patrick and the other men. James hurried past her, into his bedroom, got under his covers. He was grinning and panting a little, like a boy who’d disobeyed a rule. He’d forgotten to take off his shoes and his jeans, and he fell asleep that way.

So James Branch had a new confidant: Otis the elevator. Every night, at midnight, James sneaked into the elevator, suspended himself between the sixth and seventh floors, opened his mouth, and testified. He talked about his sinus problems, about the New York Knicks, about how much he liked visiting the Cloisters, about the bone-crushing loneliness inside him.

“There was this woman on my train today, Otis,” said James one night. “She wore a polka-dot dress. She was forty years old, at least. This dress she had on, it was like something out of a comic book. It was bright red with giant white circles on it, like a girl’s dress, like Little Orphan Annie.” James kept his eyes closed, remembering. “This woman was beautiful, Otis. I mean, everything else about her except the dress was very adult, her coat and her shoes, and there were wrinkles on her face, and she looked so sad. She had these dark, burnt-out-looking eyes, but she wasn’t a whore or a junkie. I’m sure of it. The thing is, I don’t think I would’ve noticed how beautiful she was if she hadn’t been wearing that silly dress. In fact”—James rocked back and forth—“in fact, Otis, I don’t even know if she would’ve
been
so beautiful and sad if she hadn’t been wearing that dress. You know?” James paused. “Isn’t that weird?”

That’s how it went. Sometimes James was on the elevator, with the brass key turned left, for just ten minutes. Other nights he was there a full hour. James talked to Otis about his parents, about his frustrations at Harrow East, about “Never Love Another,” a song that Morality John sang on the trains, a song that seemed to have been written for him and Anamaria. James spoke candidly and soberly to Otis, the way women speak to diaries. Often, as he sat and spoke, he took from his pocket the pair of opal earrings that were always on his person. He rubbed these opals between his thumb and forefinger as if they were rabbit’s feet or some other talisman of fortune. Whether all this was helping him or not didn’t concern James. He simply obeyed the impulse to speak to Otis every night the way some people drink alcohol or seek out chocolate or slice sharp metal across their wrists.

James’s habit took shape over the course of a year, from a November to a November. He guarded the fact and location of his nightly confessions the way a superhero guards his lair. Sender the doorman shot James curious glances, but he held his tongue and, without discussing it with James, told Preemption residents that the elevator was off-limits nightly between midnight and one A.M. Meanwhile, James’s boss, Phillip, noticed a new, fierce introspection in the eyes of his already ascetic accountant. But Phillip found James a strange guy anyway and avoided conversation with him. Even Patrick Rigg knew as little about where James sneaked off to every night as James knew about what transpired between Patrick and the women who frequented his bedroom. All in all, nothing threatened James’s ritual or the insular room of his thinking until December 21, 1999.

On that night Patrick Rigg was kicking off what he called the Millennial Solstice Debauchery Spree. This was to be a ten-night-long bacchanal celebration headquartered in Patrick and James’s apartment. Patrick, who was uncommonly wealthy, had also rented out his favorite Manhattan haunts for certain nights of the Spree. For one hundred of Patrick’s associatesthere would be a dinner served on the twenty-third at Duranigan’s Restaurant on Madison Avenue, a cocktail and storytelling night on the twenty-sixth at Cherrywood’s Lounge, an evening at the Lucas Theater on the twenty-ninth, and a New Year’s Eve Rave at Minotaur’s Nightclub. Every night that one of these functions wasn’t under way, the door of the Preemption would be open to any of Patrick’s thuggish chums or femmes fatales who wished to mingle in Patrick and James’sapartment. Through whispers or perhaps telepathy Patrick hadpromised these men and women ten days of the finest company, champagnes, and carnal delights the city had to offer.

At eleven P.M. on the twenty-first, Patrick emerged from his bedroom and sat James down in their kitchen.

“You want a beer?” asked Patrick.

“Not really,” said James.

“Have one anyway.”

Patrick pulled a cool bottle from the fridge, gave it to his housemate. Patrick was drinking what he always drank, an old-fashioned with Old Grand-dad whiskey and two spoonfuls of sugar. He also wore a finely tailored black suit, and he grinned, James thought, the way a hyena might.

“Here’s the deal, Branch,” said Patrick. “There’s going to be some serious festivities around here, starting tonight.”

“Okay,” said James.

Patrick scowled. He didn’t like to be interrupted. “I want you to be part of the action.”

James nodded noncommittally.

“I want you to stop brooding. I want you to talk to some chicks and drink some alcohol.”

James sipped his beer.

Patrick handed James four tickets, each slightly larger than a business card. The tickets were identical to one another, pure black, with the letters
Spree
written on one side in silver sheen cursive.

“For Duranigan’s, Cherrywood’s, the Lucas, and Minotaur’s,” said Patrick.

“Hmm.” James pocketed the tickets.

“Those things are hot property, my friend.”

“Okay. Um, thanks.”

Patrick patted James’s shoulder like a guidance counselor. “For the next fortnight you’re in my corps. All right? You know how long a fortnight is, Branchman?”

“A fortnight is two weeks,” sighed James.

Patrick laughed his tinny, eerie laugh. “That is correct,” he said.

James heard a thump and a creak in Patrick’s bedroom. The creak sounded like the boxspring of a bed.

“What’s that?” asked James.

“That is nothing,” said Patrick.

The guests arrived at midnight. It was only a Tuesday, and not even Christmas yet, but spirits were high. Like Patrick most of the men had packed themselves into suits, and they swept into the apartment bearing bottles of Old Grand-dad for their host. James sat on the couch, nursing the same beer he’d held for an hour, watching the cast of the next two weeks take shape. There was Henry Shaker, who worked at FAO Schwarz and who had one giant, united eyebrow. Wrapped in a white scarf that he refused to remove was Tony DiPreschetto, the surprisingly down-to-earth cellist, and with him was Jeremy Jax, a crabby actor. Two Iranian gentlemen sat beside James on the couch. They ate Toblerone chocolate and wouldn’t reveal their names.

James noticed that none of Patrick’s male friends ever had dates, except for a man named Checkers, who was part of Checkers and Donna, a notorious couple. Loads of single women came, though. A young nanny from Munich named Eva came, and so did Crispin, a bartender with a sharp, beakish nose. Marcy Conner, a sloe-eyed, uncommonly tall Preemption resident, drank champagne straight from a bottle. A serene Jewish girl, Sarah Wolf, posted herself beside the fish tank, and the lovely Hannah Glorybrook dropped in. Just by standing still Hannah made all the other women jealous, except for Liza McMannus, who had splendidly black skin and who, at twenty-eight, had already sold three screenplays to Paramount Pictures.

Besides Checkers and Donna the only other couple in the room consisted of young Nicole Bonner—a teenager who lived in the Preemption penthouse—and the much older man on her arm. A locally known rock singer named Freida showed up smoking a clove cigarette. She wore a red-and-white-striped candy-cane tube-suit and black boots and she told the Iranian gentlemen, when they approached her, to kindly fuck off. The real hit of the night, however, was Walter Glorybrook. He was a burly hot-dog vendor who lived on the sixth floor, and he brought to the party his trained pet ferret, Eisenhower. Both Walter and Eisenhower were incurable show-offs, and Walter took great delight in letting the ferret lap eggnog from a shot glass and scamper around the rock singer’s ankles.

“Call off your beast,” shrieked Freida, but Walter wouldn’t, and everyone laughed. Sinatra crooned from the stereo.

“Let’s play something,” said Nicole. “Charades.”

“Or Mindfuck,” said Hannah.

“Scrabble?” said Marcy Conner. Marcy wrote for
Powergirl
magazine and loved words dearly.

“Let’s get plastered,” said Henry.

“Let’s get schnockered,” said Tony.

Eva wrinkled her forehead. “Let’s get
what
?”

Nicole snapped her fingers. “Twister,” she suggested.

The Iranians raised their glasses, winked at Freida.

James Branch sat among the loud, bright-minded guests. He didn’t want to insult Patrick’s wishes by leaving, but he felt distinctly out of place, especially when Crispin the bartender and Walter Glorybrook began arm-wrestling on the coffee table. James felt even more befuddled when Sarah Wolf, who’d appeared to be shy and pleasant, swallowed three of Patrick’s goldfish on a dare. Not long after that Crispin and Walter switched from arm wrestling to a heated debate about cryogenics, and James stood to go. He squeezed between bodies in his kitchen. A drunk girl seized his biceps.

“Where’s the Jacuzzi?” she yelled over the music.