Marie-Helene Bertino - 2 A.M. at The Cat's Pajamas

“It’s late,” Ben says.

Michael adds, “And we’re old.”

Georgie thinks about the dishes, the joint she will have after everyone leaves. The quick hush of the extinguished candle.

Bella, Claudia, Michael , and Ben pause on the cold stoop, each considering his or her immediate future. For Bella and Claudia, it is a short walk to their South Street apartment. For Michael, a car ride to the suburbs during which he will have the option of looking at the moon through one of two sunroofs. Ben also has options: he can take a five-minute cab ride to his brownstone in Olde City or he can walk one of the tree-lined streets that connect this part of town to his. It’s a good night for a walk. The air is crisp. His wife is staying with her parents indefinitely. His scarf feels good around his neck and his coat is lined in down. Speaking of, where is his scarf?

Inside, Sarina insists she will help with dishes. She wants to avoid good-byes with the others. But Georgie refuses. She reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind Sarina’s ear. “I’m glad you came.”

“Me too,” Sarina says, coating up. She opens the front door and collides with Ben, who has forgotten his scarf. He disappears inside as she lights a cigarette on the stoop. When he returns, the rest of the party is blocks ahead, too far to run or call out. His forgetfulness and her fear of good-byes have deposited them into this private moment.

Sarina says, “I’m going …” and Ben says, “… this way,” and they point to different directions.

“Please tell Annie I hope she feels better. The flu is going around. Everyone is dropping like flies at school.” It is a lie. For once, no illness is circulating the school, though every day she prays something will render Denny absent.

They descend the steps. She thinks his elbow will touch hers but they reach the sidewalk, separate. The brief holiday is over. She says good night and follows the rest of the party.

Behind her, Ben says, “Good night, Sarina.”

Good night, Sarina , she thinks. Because that is my name . She wants to turn the sound of him saying it into a SEPTA card she can use to get around.

The city is in a perpetual state of being not quite ready to talk about it. Instead it lashes its wind against the banners of the art museum. Moody light changes down Market, the cars bitch toward City Hall. Puddles yearn toward the sewers. The unrequited city dreams up conspiracies and keeps its buildings low to the ground. You are never allowed to dream higher than the hat of William Penn. Dear World, you think you’re better than me? Suck a nut. Yours sincerely.

A slip of a woman, trench coated, dips in and out of the shadows on Pine Street, toward the train. Restless wind dissects her.

Good night, Sarina. Good night.

The woman on the phone identifies herself as Diannarah from The Courtland Avenue Club. Her voice is fancy/chintzy.

“I do not wish to disturb you,” she says, when Lorca answers. “We have a gentleman here who we ask you to kindly pick up. I want you to understand I am using the term gentleman sarcastically as he is feeling up the girls and in general acting like an asshole. We’ve asked him to leave several times. He says he is an Olympic gymnastics coach, but the license I lifted from his wallet says Max Cubanista. Is he yours?”

“Yes.” A new headache blooms at the base of Lorca’s skull. “He’s mine.”

Sonny tells the cold to screw itself. He and Lorca walk to his mustard-colored Buick he thinks can fit into every parking spot in Fishtown. It is crammed between two trucks, its enormous front sticking out into traffic.

Lorca slides into the front seat. “You use a shoehorn?”

Sonny reverses, spins the wheel, accelerates, spins, reverses. Lorca adjusts knobs on the console so heat sighs through the vents. Finally the car is free. Sonny smooths his hair in the rearview mirror and beams.

They ride in silence. Streetlights scan them. What Louisa said about Alex turns in Lorca’s mind but doesn’t allow him to pinpoint its exact shape or form. “Louisa said Alex is going down a bad road. You know anything about that?”

Sonny’s eyes dart from Lorca to the road. He checks his rear view and changes lanes. Light slants in, making him glow. “He’s looking skinny,” he admits.

“What does that mean?”

The streetlight abandons them, throwing the car into darkness. Sonny sighs. “Come on, Lorc.”

“What does that mean? I’m asking.”

“I don’t know why Louisa has trouble talking to you,” Sonny says. “You’re such a goddamned peach.”

The car clamors over a pothole and part of the ceiling fabric comes undone, making a veil over Lorca’s head.

“You got a fix for this?” he says.

Sonny reaches over Lorca and punches the glove compartment open to reveal a staple gun.

“You’re a world-class musician,” Lorca says. “And your car is held together by string.” He shoots staples into the ceiling.

“Do it nice,” Sonny says. “Make a line.”

The Courtland Avenue Club shimmers like a false sunset off the highway. They still have a snake girl. She is featured prominently on a banner that hangs over the entrance. Lorca hasn’t been inside in five years. Other than a new coat of paint, not much has changed.

In one of the lanes a group of Main Line girls prepares to bowl, trying out shoes and form-perfect throws. One of them, a rotund, displeased-looking girl, wears a crown with tulle bursting out of it.

“In and out,” Lorca says. “Find Max and let’s go.”

Sonny nods. “You got it.”

The door to the strip club is behind the bar. Sonny exchanges words with the bouncer. He tells a joke that only he laughs at, but the bouncer lets him in. Lorca orders a whiskey at the bowling alley’s bar. Five years earlier he had stopped in on the way home from scouting a saxophonist in Jersey. Then, it had been Louisa getting his drink and not this girl in the new uniform: a bikini top and shorts.

Lorca swivels to watch the action in the lanes. The place has gained a following among bachelorette parties and hipsters. The yawking group of girls is still testing out grips and throws. One screams, are they ready? The others raise their arms and cheer. They nominate one girl to go to the bar for drinks. She waits for the bartender next to Lorca, so close he can hear her nails tap on the bar. “Are we making complete fools out of ourselves or what?”

“You girls are just right,” he says.

She points to the sour-faced girl. “That one is getting married so we drove down from the suburbs.”

He raises his glass. “Here’s to her.”

The girl orders, unfolds several bills from a change purse. Lorca throws a bill to the bartender. The girl attempts to hand it back.

“Please,” he says. “Tell your friend I’m happy for her.” Even he thinks he sounds desperate.

“I will.” She delivers the drinks and comes back. “My friend says thank you.”

“Tell her my pleasure.”

She takes the stool next to him, mouth knotted in worry. “I’ve never been to this neighborhood before,” she says. Girls were always saying things like this. Like bookmarks, to hold their place until they think of something real to say.

Lorca says, “Where do you live?”

“Princeton. Yardley, actually, but no one’s ever heard of Yardley. You ever hear of Yardley?”

“No.” He signals the bartender that he wants another, bigger whiskey.

“See?” She fiddles with her scarf and recrosses her legs, revealing the top of one thigh.

The bartender brings his whiskey. He asks the girl what she would like.