the nerve to gripe about how dirty New York has become? It starts with you, Henry. You are the problem.”
“You can’t hold me responsible for the city’s pollution because of one slip of paper.”
“Oh, yes, I can. Just watch me.”
I realized that, during our contretemps, Henry’s piece of paper had fluttered away like a moth finding no light to singe his wings on. I became occupied by hunger, but didn’t have a specific craving. Reaching Jerry’s on Prince Street, we settled on the restaurant by giving one another affirmative nods. Henry intuitively opened the door, where I ducked under his arm and followed our friendly waitress to a side booth. (Anyone was friendly after spending an afternoon with Barracuda Barb.)
After giving my order, I opened my wedding planner as a distraction from the rumbles of my stomach while not giving in to the empty calories of a breadbasket probably pinched from an earlier, carb-averse table. Having no interest in the crispy peasant bread as well, Henry became enthused by my task, excited when he saw “Church?” alone on its page.
“So you want to have a religious service?” he asked.
This thought had been sliding about my brain noodles, considering a church near St. Mark’s Place if we decided to get married in the city.
Henry asked what denomination the church was, and I answered somewhere in the lower eastside.
“Religion,” he said gruffly. “Catholic, Presbyterian, Protestant?”
“I don’t know,” I said, annoyed. “Something that believes in God.”
We both turned away from each other to diffuse the annoyance factor fueled by this particular subject. A Neil Young classic played from above, and I wondered if Young had been fading away rather than the preferable intention to burn out.
Returning to my original mission, I opened my planner, faintly alarmed by the sheets of whiteness, and pulled a blank page seam by seam from its hand-sewn binding where I would rewrite my notes into a new planner bought specifically for the move. I looked to another table as a way to stir my thoughts and began to write.
READE STREET LOFT
Basic Necessities:
Basketball (Google Nerf?)
Basketball net
Kidney-shaped coffee table (ask Barracuda Barb if we could buy the one from the people who lived in the Grand Street apartment)
Picasso drawing from the Blue Period
Henry scooted in closer to me, eyeing my entry. Apparently amused by my list, he pulled it toward him right as my pen was about to hit the paper, only to be left hanging in the air.
“Basketball? A Picasso! Forget our concerns about how we can afford the loft, we’re in debt till our twilight years from your ‘Basic Necessities.’ So, Emily, does this mean what I think it means? I gather you’re taken with the Reade Street place?”
Taken? Try completely infatuated. I felt the way I did when I found a dalmatian-spotted shirt I loved at Roberto Cavalli that I had to have. If I didn’t buy it, I considered my wardrobe unacceptable, that I wasn’t well dressed unless I had that shirt.
“I loved it too,” smiled Henry. “But the pragmatics of this, Emily, is we just can’t afford Reade Street right now.”
Can’t afford!
“Are you okay, Emily?” Henry looked frantic.
“Um, I guess so. But you were talking about my car. Right?”
I have a Ford Mustang.
“Your car?”
“Right. There’s no garage at the Reade Street place.”
“Emily, you’re completely losing me. Now let’s get to the pragmatics.”
Pragmatics were meant for people that aimed to fix governmental problems. Henry pinched my chin before it free-fell into my lap.
“Unless!” he perked.
“Unless?” I asked slyly.
“I have an idea. Just excuse me for a second.”
And Henry got up from the table, leaving in a flurry of his dust.
I turned back to my Reade Street Basic Necessities list, closing the book, becoming depressed by this hopeless fantasy.
Staring about the restaurant alone. Bored. I reopened the book and tore out another piece of paper, outlining tomorrow’s agenda. I had to get my career on track and earn millions so I could buy the apartment for us based on my insanely successful career as an artist. I wrote:
Morning workout at gym (endorphins good for the spirit and inspiration)
Met to view collections (inspiration)
Light shopping (for high profile meetings with galleries—on budget, so only Barney’s, no Bergdorf’s)
While I was crossing out the “no Bergdorf’s” part, Henry returned to the table with that wide grin of his covering his face.
“I have an idea!”
Well, I have thousands, but look where that gets me, I thought, sifting through my scribbled wedding planner pages.
“We may be able to pull off the Reade Street loft.”
I closed the book, practically jumping into Henry’s mouth.
“My first idea was to economize, do some quick budgeting based on all of our expenses and income coming in. Since you aren’t bringing in as much with your new career direction as an artist.”
And why didn’t he just say “since you are a waste of life sapping me of every penny”?
“Henry,” I interrupted cheerfully. “You’re right. The wedding! Let’s blow off the wedding and use the money for the loft!”
“No, no,” he insisted. “That’s not what I was getting at.”
“Oh.” After a slight pause, I again interrupted him. “Well, I could ask Mom and Dad for some money, which may be weird. I already feel the burden of being under her employment from painting this wedding portrait of us.”
“Emily, can you just clam it for a second!”
I clammed up.
“When you were fluttering about the loft, I did some interesting crunching with Barb.”
Did he just say crunching? What kind of sexual position was that?
“Numbers, Emily,” he said firmly. “And you really could try to control your smirks when around Barb. It’s noticeable when you have a ‘thing’ with certain people.”
Thing?
“Henry.
