Bruce Bauman - Broken Sleep

Alchy ordered in about ten pizzas from Lombardi’s. After we eat, Alchemy signals we need to huddle up. So me and him head into the bedroom alone. I’m expecting a conflagration. Only he’s all Mr. Sunshine and Hippie Love and says that me gettin’ in some scrums with the law is more than predictable. He wished it hadn’t been with my brother. Then he takes his fist and rubs it against his nostrils, and I think, Uh-oh, here it fucking comes .

“Holencraft spoke to his protégé from AY&S, the one who talked to you about the GM commercial and ‘American Band.’ ” I nodded. “I advise against doing it. It’s up to you and, I guess, Don Brewer and Grand Funk Railroad. Count me out on that one. It’s bad enough I had to give in about Absolut and the tour. I, the band, we won’t ever do ads.”

I’m so stunned I’m practically choking on my tequila.

“I’ll see.” I’m still anticipating the death stare or some ultimatum.

“Look, it’s up to you and Absurda to work this out. How it plays out for the band.” That’s the threat I been expecting. He ain’t done. “It may not be possible”—he’s half smiling—“but try to be a little more cautious. If you and she are over, it upsets me but I get it. Don’t do anything rash — think before you punch — to make it worse for her. Or you.”

I’m really wondering if he spotted me the night before. I have no freaking idea how to handle what I seen. My compass of not caring was all upside down, and the two people I normally would’ve asked for advice I can’t, ’cause they is Alchemy and Absurda.

Back in the living room, Brockton has arrived and is priestifying on Clinton being a closet Republican. I stop listening. I’m feeling agitated with my own case of Nadling, and I got to talk to Absurda.

I sidle up to her and whisper, “Let’s go for a drink.”

“I guess we should.”

“Yep.”

We bid our goodbyes. In the hall I ask, “Where do you want to go?”

“Let’s just walk.” Which we do. Neither of us saying nuthin’. I let her lead the way. It’s about ten or eleven at night and freezing. We head west toward the river. Chelsea ain’t fully happened yet and 22nd Street is like “follow the crack vial road,” with whores and trannies playing the part of Munchkins. We head south toward the Florent restaurant on Gansevoort. She knows the Froggy owners and we get a table in the back. Finally, she murmurs, “Why’d you do it, Ricky? Why? ”

I’m sitting there, my fists clenched, knowing I can’t hit her, trying to figure out how to say what I seen without screaming, “You lying two-timing fucking cunt,” when she just slumps down over the table, looking skinny and wasted instead of raunchy and slinky, and starts to sniff, holding back tears. It rips me up, and suddenly I feel like crying. I can’t say nuthin’. She says, sounding like a funeral march, “I guess we’re not a preposition anymore.”

“Guess not. I’m my own front-page article.” She don’t laugh.

“You don’t love me anymore?” She looks up, and for the first time all night she stares right into my eyes and doesn’t even blink until I answer.

“Not that way. Ya know.” I shook my head. “Four years. Long time, ya know.”

She gets up and scampers outside to the corner and I follow her. I grab her and she buries her head on my shoulder and I hold her while she is gasping for air and sobbing and sobbing.

I loved her like nobody I ever loved before. Truth, I love Carlotta, my wife, and I was wacky over Bryn, and then some other women for about ten minutes each, but I never loved no one like Absurda again. I didn’t care about all of them other guys she fucked or whatever she done. Only, after what I seen and heard, I couldn’t bear to stay with her no more. I just couldn’t.

After like fifteen minutes, she says, “You don’t know how sorry I am.”

What she don’t ever know and I wish to this day, to her dying damn day, I wish I had told her how fucking sorry I was.

I know you ain’t supposed to curse the dead, and the guy made me rich and famous and well fucked. Only sometimes it don’t matter one little rat turd ’cause I still think …

Damn that Alchemy .

Hannah had begun spending more and more time in L.A. She fretted that she’d become a nuisance to Moses and Jay’s insular life, although Moses continually assured her the opposite was true. Jay welcomed Hannah’s company on “mother-daughter” outings she’d missed with her own mom, like shopping and getting their hair and nails done. During these outings they spoke about what being a woman meant in a business world still too dominated by men, and most important, they grew emotionally closer.

One day, while she and Jay shopped at the Venice farmers’ market, she caught Jay eyeing a group of mothers close to her age with young kids. “Cute, yes?” Hannah ventured.

“Cute for about an hour and then it’s work.”

Hannah suspected that Jay’s implacable expression and terse tone served as a defense to her desire to be among them. Hannah let it go.

A few days later, when Jay was at a client’s, Hannah broached the subject with Moses. “So, I know you two decided long ago not to have kids, but I wonder if you’ve ever reconsidered making me a grandmother.”

Moses answered in a voice tinged with annoyance, “We reconsidered. And came to the same conclusion.”

“You or Jay? Or both of you?”

“Ma, with my future so unpredictable, I think it’s more responsible not to.”

“And Jay?”

“Why? She say something to you?”

“No.”

“Mom, I’d love to make you happy. Only sometimes, I can’t. Okay?”

Not wanting to upset him further, Hannah changed the subject.

“Moses, you know I’m going to be sixty-seven soon, and this cross-country commute is getting harder and harder.”

“Jay and I have talked about that. We hope you’ll give up your New York place and move here permanently. You can continue to work from here. Or retire.”

“You want that?”

“Why wouldn’t we? I just never thought you’d leave New York. We could celebrate holidays together and drop around whenever we feel like, all without it becoming a major ordeal.”

“That would be wonderful. I’d like to do some pro bono work. Make my own hours.”

“I, we’d love it.”

Hannah, almost teary-eyed, decided right then to move to L.A. by the end of December.

A week before Christmas Eve, Hannah sat alone in her New York office. Suddenly feeling a bit light-headed, she took a gulp of water from the cup on her desk and scanned the place where she’d spent the majority of her waking hours for the past thirty years. All the small artifacts, the external architecture of her life, would soon be condensed into a few cardboard boxes.

From the top right drawer of her desk she pulled out a favorite picture, one she knew would have upset her parents: a six-year-old Moses wearing a white shirt and red vest, and sitting on Santa Claus’s lap at Gimbel’s. For some crazy reason she began to list, in no particular order, all the department stores she’d seen disappear over her lifetime: Loehmann’s, May, Stern’s, Abraham & Straus, Altman, Ohrbach’s, Korvettes, Best, Bonwit Teller, and Gimbel’s. Interrupting her memories of a lost New York, William III ambled into the office. “Last chance to change your mind.” William III smiled, knowing she was determined to go.

“I appreciate it, but as well as Moses is progressing,” she said with a sigh, “I want to spend some good years with them.”