Courtney Litz - Live From New York, It's Lena Sharpe

“Sweetie, you look exhausted. I’m getting you a drink.” Such endearments would normally annoy me—hon, honey, sweetheart—coming from anyone except my mother or my amore, but as with all things Tess—normal rules simply didn’t apply.

She held up one delicate hand and I could almost hear Alberto snap to attention. Two bellinis appeared instantaneously.

“So, what matters of business do we need to cover this morning, my dear?” Tess was only half kidding. I knew she took these sessions as seriously as I did.

“Hey guys, sorry I’m late.” Parker had appeared at our table, seemingly out of nowhere. “Had to get one last fight in with Brad while I was trying to get a cab,” she said, struggling with her coat.

Tess gave me a look that, if expressed in words, would have said something like Oh, I see that Parker has joined us for another cycle. I responded in kind.

It had been at least three months since either Tess or I had heard from Parker (aside from the occasional group e-mail updating us on our bridesmaids’ responsibilities—yes, she was marrying Brad) and much longer since she had made it to Sunday brunch. Of course, this kind of separation was not all that unusual after a certain age, when couples seemed to drift off into their own private biospheres. It’s something a single girl must learn to accept in the way that she must accept painful blind dates, anxious mothers, and the sole responsibility of killing bugs and constructing bookshelves.

“Brad, I will talk about you if I damn well please…fuck you, too!”

Tess and I shared a confused look and then Tess remembered. “I always forget you wear that phone headset wherever you go. Good thing I didn’t start laying into that no-good Brad like I usually do,” Tess said mischievously. We could hear the muffled strains of an irate Brad through the earpiece. Parker smiled as she turned off her phone and removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were red and swollen.

I’d known Parker since college, but it seemed like she had been at least three different people since then. When we first met, she was deep in the throes of her party-girl persona— I think the first conversation we had took place as we both got sick in side-by-side stalls in a beer-soaked frat-house bathroom. Soon after, she gave up her hard-living ways and began her passionate quest to single-handedly launch the second women’s lib movement. She grew out her hair, threw out her makeup, and even tried to adopt unisex pronouns in her speech. Then she met Brad.

Despite the transient nature of our friendship, she was the most direct link to my past life. She witnessed firsthand the Greg saga, in its glory and its tortured defeat. In fact, Parker, Brad, Greg and I had spent the better part of our undergraduate career in tandem. This shared history would perhaps be a source of comfort had it not meant that I would soon have to see Greg again at Parker and Brad’s upcoming nuptials. Anyway, now she’s a publicist and the professional world seems to suit her. She has a closet full of Gucci suits, wears dark-rimmed glasses without a prescription, and has cut her dark hair into a sleek pageboy. Even better, she can easily work herself up into a genuine tizzy over anything from the newest line of lip glosses to the latest PalmPilot upgrade.

“Well, I think we better start with you, Parker. What’s going on?” Tess said, observing the damage.

Now, knowing Tess, this suggestion was very much intentional. Parker, when present, always went first. Why, you might be wondering, would the least reliable friend be allowed to go first? Very simple. Both Tess and I (and very likely even Parker) knew that she would quickly launch into a twenty-to-thirty minute monologue on the actual and tangential issues relating to her current crisis. She would insist vehemently (and completely unconvincingly) that this time she would cancel the wedding.

Meanwhile, Tess and I would simply nod or smile or frown, when appropriate, while we finished our breakfasts (French toast with lingonberry sauce for Tess; eggs Florentine with fruit salad for me). By the time she was finished, Parker would very likely have come to her own conclusions about her quandary or at least have exhausted herself by turning it inside out. Tess and I, now fully satiated, would have had enough time to properly caffeinate ourselves for our own respective rants.

I was polishing off my second bellini when I knew this was going to be a very specific type of Sunday affair. Every now and then, our brunch would extend well beyond the “meal” and turn into a messy, drunken, no-holds-barred, daylong event of relentless self-examination. And today was one of those days. It surely wouldn’t be over until one of us had cried, argued, or made a spontaneous phone call to an angry ex or an unsuspecting crush.

I knew this because, against my better intentions, I could hear myself unraveling the tightest knots of minutiae about my failed relationship with Nick to the rapt attention of Parker, Tess and Wanda the cashier, who had joined the table after her shift was over.

“Honey,” Tess said solemnly. She moved my head with her hands so that, had I not lost all ability to focus, I would be looking her in the eyes meaningfully. “You’ve got to stop romanticizing these boys.”

“You’re right,” I said. And she was. It might seem strange to take such advice from someone who had gauzy scarves draped over every light fixture in her apartment, but I had to admit where men (or boys as she stubbornly insisted on calling them) were concerned, Tess had figured some things out. She understood my problem. Hell, even Wanda understood my problem at this point.

“Sweetheart, here in New York he’s an artist with a sexy accent,” Tess continued. “I’ll bet you back home in Liver-pool, he’s just a short bloke with a coloring-book fixation.”

“Wait.” Parker put down her drink sharply and pulled herself back from the table dramatically. Tess and I looked at her expectantly.

“He’s…short?” Parker looked dumbfounded. “You’re getting this upset over a short guy?”

“I’m with Parker,” Wanda said, picking at Parker’s cold French fries. “Case closed.”

With that, glasses raised, we all burst into the gleeful laughter of four drunk girls, gaily skewering the male species for sport.

Oh, to bottle those moments of alcohol-induced clarity before they hit the wall of sober confusion. Why couldn’t those moments last longer than the hangover?

I didn’t make it back to my apartment until dusk. Not entirely drunk, though certainly not sober, I was getting that slightly apprehensive, sinking-stomach feeling I always got as Sunday night descended. Plus, having spent the majority of the day avoiding necessary errands, household chores and, of course, work, this anxiety was laced with a heavy dose of slothfulness.

Determined to at least portray the idea of productivity, I turned on This American Life, straightened up my disheveled living room and set up my computer. Whether I actually did work was less important than the comforting idea that I could, if necessary. I poured a tall glass of water and set about the not-too-painful task of answering e-mail. And then, this one caught my eye.

Hello Lena,

Chase Bolton gave me your name as the new contact person for my segment. Could you possibly let me know what’s going on with it? It’s been dragging on for some time now and I’m leaving town in a few days.

Thanks,

Colin Bates

I felt an inexplicable rage begin to well up inside me: Who does he think he is—writing me like this, pressuring me to get going on “his” segment? I found myself typing furiously.

Mr. Bates,

While I appreciate your predicament, I must also demand your patience. I was only recently handed this assignment and cannot be held responsible for the actions, or lack thereof, of my predecessor, Chase Bolton. I also do hope you’re aware that this segment will be quite short and has no determined airdate.