can have another."
"No," he says, putting his nose back on. "This is New York, right? We're all so close. You have to breach boundaries and respect them at the same time. Do you know what I mean?"
"I'd like to think about it," I say, "but I think so." This happens all the time in New York, people on the street saying what New York is, like it was a daily tax you paid to earn your right to be here; I hope when the time comes for me to do that, I can come up with something to say. "And thanks for the tickets." He presses a few more into my hand, and then starts following someone else.
So I turn west on Forty-Sixth, and there it is, Ecco, halfway down the block, five steps down from the street and across from one of the boardinghouses where, some people think, John Wilkes Booth planned the assassination of Lincoln. Even though it's early, people are going into the restaurant, which I'm sure pleases George; people haven't been spending in the theater district since the recession started, and he feels this is sad as in times like these a show and some correctly fried calamari is just what people need. As I come in I see Wally at the bar, George talking to Armando in the kitchen, and Lenny, George's best friend, who owns and runs the restaurant with him, setting out pumpkins and maize.
"Hey, kid," he says when he sees me, "how's the meth lab coming?"
Lenny thinks, given my age, that I must yearn for wry and daring comments from adults, so he's got a few stored up for every time I see him. Lenny's gay, of course, but in a different way than George. Actually the issue, for me, is more about funniness than gayness; Lenny says funny stuff so you'll think, "Wow, Lenny's funny," whereas George does because that's where he is at the moment, and you can choose to be with him there or not. He sees me as he comes from the kitchen and waves, heartily, like he's meeting an ocean liner; it's my second big wave in an hour. I wave back and watch as he goes to greet this lady, Mrs. Engler, who comes in just about every day. She's always alone, and always has the osso bucco, which we're pretty well known for as it's always unusually good. And even though she always has it, she still always asks if it's good today and if it's tender. He says, "Yes," then she says, "Well, I'll trust you this once," as if she hadn't a thousand times before. George says people come to a place like Ecco not for the food but because they trust the guy who runs it, that he'll take care of them and understand, even if they don't, what they need.
He gestures for me to join them. I want to get to Theo's questions, of course, but George must want me for a reason. Diner Relations, I'd guess. We have a deal; I make a little money helping in the kitchen— chopping herbs, crisscrossing rosemary sprigs in dishes of oil, torching the tops of crème brulées for that well-known crackly effect— and George lets me in on aspects of the business, like his trust thing; he feels I have a future in food if I want one. I just need to let him know. And I've never actually met Mrs. Engler before; I've only heard the stories. George has lots, and somehow they're mostly good.
"Hey," George says.
And for some reason I start to speak with an English accent. I don't know why; sometimes I think I'm like forty different people, sometimes not quite one. "Hello, George," I say, then, turning to Mrs. Engler, "Madam."
The English thing seems to really turn her on. "Are you visiting us from England, young man?" she asks.
"This is Nigel," George tells her. "He's my nephew. My sister Victoria married a baronet."
George doesn't have a sister Victoria, nor am I his nephew. But that's our secret. "I hail from London," I say. "In England."
"I adore London," Mrs. Engler says. She beams, chuckles, then cocks her head, like Frances, our dead border terrier, would always do whenever you said the word peanut. "What was it Dr. Johnson said?" This isn't a real question; there are adults— sadly, often my own mom— who ask questions they know the answer to, usually revolving around a quote from some dead witty English guy or Mark Twain. "If you're tired of London, you're tired of life."
"One must agree," I say. "N' est-ce pas?"
She is now officially beside herself with joy. "Well, clearly you've lived in France! Now, tell me, Nigel. Have you tried the osso bucco?"
I take it a step further. I'm still English, but now I'm practicing my American accent. "It's awesome," I say.
We all laugh, enjoying me. "Well," Mrs. Engler says, "I'll trust you both. Just this once! And while you're here, dear, make sure not to miss the Frick." Her salad comes; she sighs, as people do here when food is set in front of them, and starts to eat. George walks me to the bar, nods to Wally, then nudges me, which is my cue to demonstrate something else he's teaching me, the hand gestures, secret restaurant code. I raise a thumb: ginger ale. Snap my fingers: potato chips. The snap used to mean nuts, but we've had to cut corners; everyone has. Wally sets out my stuff.
"So how was school?" George says.
"Thrilling," I say, "when it wasn't enriching. Donald Rumsfeld came and read to us from The Red Pony. And Micah Kinzer saw a black person, and even got pictures, with his phone." I see that Mrs. Engler, probably picturing me walking on some London street, is waving at me; I wave back. " Could I maybe ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"What the fuck is the deal with the Frick?"
"Hey! Excuse me, please?" I'm sort of sorry I said it; I can see he's actually pissed. " Watch your mouth. People eat here. Not many, but there are still some."
"Sorry," I say. "I mean it."
"Not that I have the right to correct you."
"You can. Many do." Which is true; I feel like a spelling test, sometimes, with every word wrong, each part of me circled in red.
"Aren't you home a little early?" George says. He gets a text, says, "Shit," and I do what you do in these situations; I nod to him, and he turns away. The nod; Theo has pointed out that nodding, to give permission to "take this call" or "answer this text," is a key compromised modern gesture. And in this four seconds I have to myself I think that George is right; I am home early. Because I'm never not busy; I'm always working, like everyone I know, to seem more amazing and well-rounded and interesting than I actually am, or could ever be. The weird part is: no one's ever actually said that to any of us. It's more like it's on all our devices, stuffed forever into all of our Clouds; like prune paste in hamentaschen, Theo says. So I do tae kwon do, play soccer, coach soccer, and tutor homeless kids; I'm on yearbook, in the Spanish Club, and in the Bob Dylan Society. And now that Theo is president I'm the entire cabinet, and would be Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff if we had a military. And I enjoy all this stuff; some of it I even love. What I don't love is that I'm not expected to enjoy it; I'm expected to list it. Again, no one has said that, but it's in the Cloud. So when it's time to talk to guys in ties in New England about why they should let me go to their college, my secret plan is to say what I do extracurricularly is text and masturbate, and see where I get in. Wesleyan, maybe; the rumor is they value authenticity.
George is back now. "Sorry. Bernadette." He whispers the word like it's a code name for a spy.
"Bernadette? Is that good?"
"Wonderful," he says. "Even in the wrong role."
"I don't know what that means."
"You don't need to."
"Anyway, you were right," I say, "about my being home early."
