Stephanie Danler - Sweetbitter

She was nearing ninety, born and still living in Harlem. She took the bus down to Union Square every Sunday in stockings, high heels, and a hat. She had a burgundy pillbox with silk flowers, and a cornflower-blue fascinator edged in lace. She had been a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall.

“That’s why I still have these legs,” she said, pulling her skirt up to her thighs.

“I dined at Le Pavillon. Henri Soulé, that bastard, he ran the door like a dictator. But I went, everyone went. Even the Kennedys went. Child, you don’t remember. But I remember. They really cooked your food back then. Where’s the cream, I say. The butter, the green beans, honey, you didn’t even need to chew.”

“I wish I could have been there,” I said.

“The haute cuisine, it’s done, it’s dead. Al dente. That’s what they do now.” She paused and looked around the table. “Did my soup come?”

“Um. Yes.” I had cleared it myself ten minutes ago.

“Now, I haven’t had my soup yet. I need my soup.”

“Mrs. Neely,” I whispered stupidly, “you already had the soup.”

Suddenly Simone was beside me, sweeping away my inefficiencies, making me irrelevant. I drew back as Mrs. Neely narrowed in on Simone.

“Tell the chef I’d like my soup now.”

“Absolutely, Mrs. Neely. May I bring you anything else?”

“Oh you look tired. I think you would do to drink a little old wine. Some good old wine, like some sherry.”

Simone laughed, her cheeks colored. “I think that’s exactly what I need.”

—

PARTLY IN THE HANDBOOK, but mostly just understood: You could sleep with anyone, except those above you. You couldn’t sleep with anyone on salary. Anyone that could hire or fire you. You could sleep with anyone on your level. All the hourlies.

Anything slightly more romantic than sex had to be disclosed to Howard, but the sex passed freely below the surface.

I asked Heather about her and Parker. She wore a small vintage engagement ring — his grandmother’s — but they hadn’t set a date yet.

“Parker? Oh, I remember my first trail, seeing him from down the bar, and I said, Oh lord, look at Trouble. We were both betrothed to other people. He was engaged to — I’m not kidding — a Debbie Sugarbaker from Jackson, Mississippi, a lawyer-something, plain as white bread. Don’t you ever tell him I told you. Once we started talking, I thought, Here we go. My real life is coming for me, gunning at me like a train.”

“Wow,” I said. My life, my train.

“This place is a love shack, darlin’. Try to keep your panties on.”

—

THE INTERIOR OF Park Bar was dark and the decorations minimal. But watching over us, high up near the ceiling, was a huge reproduction of a painting that felt familiar. I told them I’d seen it before but that might have been a lie. Two boxers in a ring, midconflict, midinjury. Action everywhere, blows landing, receding. Except the faces. The two boxers’ faces were blurred together, one solid mass.

Will had finally asked me to join them for a post-shift-drink drink, or Shift Drink Part Two. I hung close to him while Nicky locked up the restaurant. People said their good-byes, discussed which trains were running, flagged down cabs. I remembered Ariel’s voice daring me—“It isn’t two yet”—and I checked my phone: 2:15 a.m. They headed into the parking garage across the street from us. Oh do you have a car? I asked. Will said, No, we’re going to Park Bar. Ariel hummed into the echo. We walked farther underground. Rubber soles on cement, oil stains, gasoline fumes. The guard waved to Will. We ascended and we were on Fifteenth Street under a huge lit-up sign that said PARK. And there was, indeed, a bar.

No one asked me if I did coke. Ariel asked me if I wanted a treat and I said sure. I had done it seemed to be the same as I do it. I caught the subtext that everyone did a little bit of coke and nobody had a problem. If I had any inclination to think about it the noise in Park Bar ran right over it. It was crowded and Will and Ariel knew everyone.

Scott and the cooks held up a table in the corner. I recognized some of the prep guys. We moved toward the table and I set my purse by them just like Ariel. I saw people that had been cut earlier, people who worked the a.m. Ariel pointed to different tables and said, “Blue Water, Gotham, Gramercy, some retards from Babbo, and so on.” I nodded.

Will held on to my elbow as we made our way to the bar, where Sasha sat next to a Dominican man with huge diamond stud earrings.

“Oh look who finally graced us from her present!” Sasha said, and shocked me by kissing me on both cheeks. The other man introduced himself as “Carlos-at-your-service.” He was a busboy at Blue Water Grill and he sold drugs to every server within a ten-block radius.

The line for the bathroom ran in humid pairs, some ear-piercingly loud, some whispering as they waited. It wound around the room. After two sips of my beer, Ariel took my hand and we joined the line. When our turn came, we shut a flimsy door, hooked it, and locked the handle. She dipped a key into a small plastic bag and handed it to me. Someone banged on the door.

“Wait your fucking turn motherfucker!” she screamed. She dug the key around and took a bump herself.

“What do you think of Vivian?”

“The one Scott was talking about?”

“Don’t listen to him. He’s lying, they’re all fucking homophobes.”

“She’s pretty,” I said. “She has great tits? I don’t know. I don’t feel anything. Can I have some more?” Ariel handed me the bag and I pyramided up the powder. “Are you gay gay or just half gay?”

“Jesus, you’re something. Where do you come from? Okay, stick this in your mouth.”

She stuck the key in my mouth like a pacifier. It tasted like battery acid and salt.

“You good babe? How do I look? Torrid? Like a natural disaster?” She ruffled her hair up like she’d been in an electrical storm. I nodded. She kissed me on the forehead, and where she kissed tightened, first in my skin, then in my skull, then in my brain. A saccharine, sentimental drip ran down my throat, and I was blinded by how stupid I had been not to see that everything was absolutely, one hundred percent going to be okay.

The boxers panted furiously above my head, I could hear them: let me go, let me go. They put on Abbey Road and I wanted to tell everyone at the bar about how for my sixth birthday I knew I wouldn’t have a party because my father didn’t believe in birthdays but I stole two pastel Hallmark invitations from the grocery store by slipping them into the back of my jeans and I used all my colored pencils to decorate them and addressed one to John Lennon and one to my mother, asking them to please come to my house for tea on my birthday, and the night before my birthday I put them in the empty planter next to the front door and I went inside and I prayed on my knees next to my bed and I begged God to come and deliver the invitations to John Lennon and my mother, I promised him I would never cry again, I would always finish my dinner, and I wouldn’t even ask for another birthday for the rest of my life, and I went to bed holding an unendurable, trembling joy in my arms, thanking God for his hard work tracking the two of them down, thanking him for knowing how badly I needed them, and when I woke in the morning and the cards were in the planter, wet and mushy, I threw them away and I didn’t cry in front of my father, but later in school I started crying at my desk and couldn’t stop and they sent me to the nurse and I told her I knew that God didn’t exist and they called my father to come pick me up, and I heard the nurse arguing with him and then she said to him, exasperated, “Do you know that today is her birthday?”