Candace Bushnell: Summer and the City

She continues on in this vein, tearing through the bags and removing every item of clothing from her life with Charlie. The pile gets bigger and bigger, while Miranda and I watch in concern. I bite my lip. “Are you really going to leave all this stuff?”

“What do you think, Sparrow?” she says. She pauses and takes a deep breath, hands on her hips. She tilts her head, and gives me a fierce smile.

“It’s baggage. And even if I’m not the most real person in the world, I’ll tell you one thing about Samantha Jones. She can’t be bought. At any price.”

“Remember when I first moved here and you made me pour that carton of milk down the drain because you said the smell made you sick?” I ask, rearranging myself on the futon. It’s two a.m. and we’re finally back at Samantha’s apartment. All the packing and unpacking has me beat.

“Did she really do that?” Miranda asks.

“Oh yeah.” I nod.

“Adults shouldn’t drink milk anyway.” Samantha exhales as she throws back her head in relief. “Thank God that’s over. If these fallopian tubes could talk-”

“Luckily, they can’t.” I get up and go into the bedroom. I look at my own meager belongings, and with a sigh, open my suitcase.

“Sparrow?” Samantha calls. “What are you doing?”

“Packing,” I say loudly. “I’m leaving tomorrow, remember?” I stand in the doorway. “And after this summer, I really don’t think I’m a sparrow anymore. Haven’t I graduated by now?”

“You have indeed,” Samantha agrees. “I now declare you a pigeon. The official bird of New York City.”

“The only bird in New York City,” Miranda giggles. “Hey, it’s better than being a rat. Did you know that in China, rats are good luck?”

“I love the Chinese.” Samantha smiles. “Did you know they invented pornography?”

“Stanford White,” Capote says. “He designed the original Pennsylvania Station. It was one of the most beautiful buildings in the world. But in 1963 some idiot sold the air rights and they tore it down to put up this monstrosity.”

“That is so sad,” I murmur, riding down the escalator behind him. “I wonder if it smelled as bad then as it does now.”

“What?” he asks loudly, over the hubbub.

“Nothing.”

“I always wish I could have lived in New York at the turn of the century,” he says.

“I’m glad I was able to live here at all.”

“Yeah. I don’t think I’d ever be able to leave New York,” he adds, his words causing another jolt of despair.

All morning we’ve been saying the wrong things to each other, when we’ve managed to say anything at all.

I’ve been studiously trying to bring up the future, while Capote keeps studiously avoiding it.

Hence the history lesson about Penn Station.

“Listen,” I begin.

“Look at the time,” he says quickly, nodding at the clock. “You don’t want to miss your train.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was trying to get rid of me.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” I venture, shuffling in line to buy my ticket.

“Yeah. It was great.” For a moment he yields, and I see the little boy in him.

“You could come and visit me in Providence-”

“Sure,” he says. I can tell by the way his eyes dart to the side that it’s never going to happen, though. He’ll have found another girl by then. But if I weren’t leaving, maybe I could have been The One.

He has to find her someday, right?

I purchase my ticket. Capote picks up my suitcase as I buy copies of The New York Times and the Post . I won’t be doing that for a while, I think sourly. We find the escalator to my gate. As we descend, I’m filled with a blinding emptiness. This is it, I think. The End.

“All aboard,” the conductor shouts.

I place one foot on the step and pause. If only Capote would rush forward, grab my arm, and pull me back to him. If only there was a sudden blackout. If only something would happen-anything-to prevent me from getting on that train.

I look back over my shoulder and find Capote in the crowd.

He waves.

The trip to Hartford is three hours. For the first hour, I’m a puddle of misery. I can’t believe I’ve left New York. I can’t believe I’ve left Capote. What if I never see him again?

It isn’t right. It’s not the way it’s supposed to be. Capote should have declared his undying love.

“Should,” I suddenly recall myself saying to Samantha and Miranda, “is the worst word in the English language. People always think things ‘should’ be a certain way, and when they’re not, they’re disappointed.”

“What happened to you?” Samantha asked. “You had sex and now you know everything?”

“I not only had sex, I had an orgasm,” I said proudly.

“Oh, honey, welcome to the club,” Samantha exclaimed. And then she turned to Miranda. “Don’t worry. Someday you’ll have one too.”

“How do you know I haven’t?” Miranda shrieked.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat. Maybe it’s okay about Capote. Just because something doesn’t last forever, it doesn’t mean it wasn’t meaningful while it did last. It doesn’t mean it wasn’t important.

And what’s more important than your first guy? Hey, I could have done a lot worse.

And suddenly, I feel free.

I shuffle through my newspapers and open the New York Post . And that’s when I spot my name.

I frown. It can’t be. Why is my name in Page Six? Then I look at the title of the piece: “Disaster and Plaster.”

I drop the paper like I’ve been bitten.

When the train pulls into New Haven for a twenty-minute layover, I race out of my compartment and run to the nearest phone booth. I catch Samantha in her office, and shaking and spluttering manage to ask if she’s seen the Post .

“Yes, Carrie, I did. And I thought it was terrific.”

“What?” I scream.

“Calm down. You can’t take these things so personally. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

“They said my reading was the worst thing they’ve seen since their high school Christmas pageant.”

“Who cares?” she purrs. “They’re probably jealous. You got a mention for your first play in New York City. Aren’t you excited?”

“I’m mortified .”

“That’s too bad. Because Cholly Hammond called. He’s been trying to get in touch with you for days. He wants you to call him immediately.”

“Why?”

“Oh, Sparrow,” she sighs. “How should I know? But he said it was important. I’ve got to go. I’ve got Harry Mills in my office-” And she hangs up.

I stare at the phone. Cholly Hammond? What can he want?

I count out more change. Normally, the cost of making a long-distance call from a pay phone would be a problem, but I happen to be kind of flush right now. In the spirit of Samantha, I sold my brand-new, never used Chanel bag to the nice man at the vintage shop for two hundred and fifty dollars. I knew the money wasn’t near what it was worth, but I wouldn’t need the bag at Brown. And besides, I was kind of happy to get rid of it.

Baggage.

I drop several quarters into the slot. The phone is answered by a bright young thing.

“Is Cholly there?” I ask, giving my name.

Cholly immediately gets on the line.

“Little one!” he exclaims, like I’m his long-lost friend.

“Cholly!” I reply.

“I saw your mention in the Post and found it very intriguing,” he enthuses. “Especially as I’ve been thinking about you for weeks. Ever since I sat next to you at Barry Jessen’s opening.”