CHAPTER NINE
I’m too upset by the way Ty treated me to stay in the room any longer. I’m a nice person, I know I am, but he made me feel like I wasn’t. He insinuated that I’m a gold digger and that I came all the way down here to New York City to fleece the man who claims to be my father. I am not going to lie down on that bed and cry over something some guy who doesn’t deserve a single one of my tears said. I’m way stronger than that.
I throw my bag over my shoulder, drop the card key inside it, and leave the room. I’m going to have one of those damn papaya hot dogs before I leave here, no matter what. I need to have something good to tell my sisters when I get back instead of all this bad-news garbage.
I walk to the corner and look at the street signs. I’m pretty sure the roads in Manhattan are numbered, and if I just head in the right direction, I’ll eventually hit Seventy-Second. According to what I’m seeing here, I’m at least ten blocks away from my destination, but a long walk is exactly what I need to clear my head and assuage my bruised heart.
I adjust my purse over my shoulder and wait for the lighted-up man to tell me it’s safe to cross the street. My ballet flats make no sound on the sidewalk as I work my way through the crowds of people, most of whom are wearing business clothes. There are tons of people out, and even though there’s not a lot of space between us, everyone manages to move in the direction they need to go without bumping into each other. It’s like a precisely timed, choreographed dance we’re all involved in, and yet we’ve never practiced it before and none of us are listening to the same music.
I experiment with walking straight ahead, without veering left or right, to see what will happen. People move to avoid me without even sparing me a glance. It’s like they’re on autopilot and they have internal anti-collision devices working to keep them from smashing into another human. It’s fascinating.
I walk by boutiques, restaurants, and cafés, offices, and places that might be residences because I see people walking in with children who look like they’re home from school at lunchtime. There are hotels and kiosks offering pizza by the slice for a dollar. I could eat several slices and barely make a dent in my budget, but as tempting as that is, I’m going to have that damn hot dog if it kills me. Something has to go right for me today.
I’m really glad I’m not wearing any silly high heels right now. I probably wouldn’t make it two blocks. The longer I walk, the more the mood of the city starts to sink in. It feels like this place is alive—not just the streets that are crawling with cars every single second, but even the unmoving concrete and steel and glass that surrounds me . . . the sounds and the smells and even the rumbling I sometimes feel under my feet from the cars and subways going by . . . it all adds up to a palpable vibrancy.
The atmosphere here is so different from back home. There I often feel isolated and alone, even when my family is standing right there next to me. It’s so quiet, and every day is just like the next and the one before it. Nothing excites me there or makes me want to jump out of bed in the morning, because it’s always the same, same, same. It makes me sad to think I might actually prefer the vibrancy of New York City to the calmness of Glenhollow Farms, for two reasons: one, I decided when I finished college that I would go home and stay there to help support the family—and nothing about that situation has changed; and two, I’ve already seen that I don’t really fit in very well here, so even if I did want to come back, it wouldn’t work. It makes me think there isn’t a place for me in the world.
The sun glints off shiny skyscraper buildings. A breeze sometimes bumps against me as I reach a cross street. Different odors assault my senses, depending on whether I’m walking past a hole in the ground with steam coming out of it or a Chinese restaurant. This place is crazy, and yet there’s a big piece of me that understands why someone would want to be here, to live here and call this place home. The energy—I’ve never felt anything like it, and I work with fifteen bee colonies all year long, so that’s saying something.
It feels like I have an electric current running through my body—and that current is being fed by other people, cars flying past, neon signs, horns, the wind . . . Where Glenhollow Farms offers me peace and tranquility, this place offers the opposite, but not in a bad way. It reminds me of the difference between being young and being old, and for the first time in my life I’m thinking that being out at Glenhollow Farms is like being old before my time.
I understand why our mothers moved us out there and why they went so far from this city when they became pregnant and were ready to start their families together. I can’t imagine what it would be like to raise a child here after having lived in open green spaces my whole life; I think it wouldn’t be half as good or healthy. But it must’ve been so hard for them to leave, if this was the life that really excited them.
For the first time since learning the truth of my origins, I feel bad for my mothers . . . guilty that I was one of the reasons they walked away from their lives. They gave up a lot to become our parents and to do right by us—as opposed to our fathers, who made zero changes and went on with their lives without us. Did our fathers know that was what they were doing? For a moment I wonder, and a hint of compassion toward them tries to sneak in, but then I remind myself that if they didn’t know about us and our lives, it was because they didn’t bother to go after our mothers when they left . . . and there’s no excuse for that. If they cared about our moms enough to be with them for two years and get them pregnant, they should have cared enough to ask why they left. Our mothers wouldn’t have been hard to find, considering the band’s manager and original bassist both knew their whole story.
I arrive at Gray’s Papaya in a melancholy mood, just as the big lunch crowd is heading out. But the place isn’t empty by any means. Awash with shades of red and orange and signs of every shape and size advertising their menu options, the café welcomes me in and tells me I’m about to have some fun. My mood lifts just the tiniest bit. They must rake in the bucks here, because there’s a line I have to wait in for five minutes before I can place my order.
“I would like one of your most famous hot dogs, please.” I smile at the girl across the counter.
“Which one?” She’s practically zombie-ish, staring at me with empty eyes.
“Your most popular one. Whatever it is, I’ll have that.”
She sighs. “We have a lot of popular ones.”
I try to keep smiling. “But you must have one that is the most popular.”
“Not really.”
My temper flares. What really makes me crazy about this city is that just as I start to like it again, somebody has to act like an asshat and blow it for me. I turn around and face the ten or so people who are in line behind me and raise my voice so all of them and everyone sitting at the various tables eating their lunch can hear me.
“Which hot dog should I order?!” I yell out into the restaurant. “Tell me the best one!”
There’s no hesitation; I get fifty answers shouted back at me, and I pick the one that I hear the most. I turn around and smile at the girl. “I’ll have one of your Recession Specials with chili, cheese, and onions.”
Her expression never changes. “Okay, fine. What do you want to drink with that?”
“I’ll have your most popular tropical drink.”
She stares at me and I stare back at her. In my head, I hear the whistled theme music that plays in every western movie depicting a gunfight.
“May I suggest the papaya drink?” she asks, no inflection in her voice.
I grin. “That’s the spirit! Yes, I’ll have one of those.”
A tiny hint of a smile appears on her lips as she pushes some buttons on her screen. “That’ll be $3.99.”
My eyes bug out of my head. “That’s it? For a hot dog and a drink?”
“For two hot dogs and a drink.”
“Damn. Talk about budget friendly. I hope it doesn’t mean I’m getting discount dogs. Like yesterday’s wieners. You’re not giving me old wieners, are you?”
“No. They’re today’s stock.” She’s back to being a zombie.
I fish out my money. “Okay, if you say so. But I came a long way for this, so I hope it’s good.”
“It will be. Best in the city.”
I hand her a fifty-dollar bill. “That’s what I want to hear.”
My hot dogs and drink are ready in a jiffy, so I sit down at a table where I can watch everyone in the room and feast my eyes on the meal before me. I close my lids and inhale as deeply as I can. I want to be able to describe what I’m seeing, smelling, and tasting to my sisters in as much detail as possible. There’s a hint of something spicy and something sweet reaching my olfactory nerves . . .
A guy’s voice filters into my private thoughts. “Are you gonna eat it or have sex with it?”
I don’t know why this weird stranger’s conversation is entering my brain right now, but I’m going to ignore it because whoever he is, I know he’s not someone I want to engage with.
“Did you hear what I said?” The voice is closer. And louder.
I open one eye. There’s a strange old man standing in front of me who I’ve never seen before. “Are you talking to me?” Maybe I should be scared, but I’m surrounded by at least fifty people, and they’re acting like what he’s doing is totally normal. When in Rome . . .
“Yeah. I asked you if you’re gonna eat it or have sex with it.” He smirks.
I am now no longer in the mood to eat this hot dog. “You’re a jerk, you know that? You just ruined my lunch.”
He laughs and shuffles off, leaving a strange odor behind.
A girl sitting next to me with a nose ring and blue hair nudges me on the arm. “Ignore that guy. He’s a creep. He comes in here all the time and bugs people.”
She’s digging into her hot dog with abandon, leaving globs of sauce on either side of her mouth. She looks like she’s about fifteen or sixteen years old. I think of Linny Lister and wonder if the two girls would get along.
“He ruined my appetite.”
“Meh. You can’t let it bother you. He’s just one of those people who tries to shock other people. Lowest form of life. Not worth worrying about.”
“Yeah.” I stare at the hot dog. I really want to try it, but now that this guy has introduced the idea of sex around my meal, I’m worried it’s going to look like I’m eating some guy’s dong when I insert it in my mouth. I’m no prude or anything; I’ve had sex with a few guys and enjoyed it . . . but still . . . I gaze around the room. Nobody else seems to mind what they look like when they’re eating their hot dogs. Can I be bold like a New Yorker?
“You could ask them to wrap it up and take it and eat it somewhere else if that’ll help,” my neighbor suggests, using a handful of napkins to wipe her mouth mostly clean.
I think about it and decide against it. If I do that, it’ll be admitting defeat, and I’m tired of feeling like crap about things that aren’t my fault or have nothing to do with me. Screw that guy; I can be bold like a New Yorker. Hell yes, I can. I come from down on the farm, dammit. I walk into bee territory and steal their honey, and I even get stung sometimes, but does that stop me? No, because I’m fearless. I’ve cleaned out stinky possum cages without barfing and I’ve milked goats and suffered my share of kicks for it, too, because I’m tough. The taxicab driver tried to rip me off, and while he mostly succeeded at that, it was only because I was in a hurry. I feel confident that I could have given him the tip I wanted to instead of the one he chose for himself if I’d had the time and wasn’t distracted by Mister Grabby Hands trying to accost me again. The lady at the Four Seasons acted like I was a degenerate for not having a credit card, but here I am, kicking ass all over this town anyway, not letting her judgment slow me down. And I tried to tell Ty the story of why I’m in the city and he treated me like I’m some kind of shithead, but I’m still standing, proud of who I am and where I come from.
I don’t get these people or how they operate, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let them take me down. I grab my hot dog and take a giant bite out of it, eating that thing like a boss as I try not to choke on all the little bits of onion and chili bean that fall into the back of my throat.
“There you go,” my friend says, bits of bun flying out of her mouth as she gives me a thumbs-up. “You’re a hero now. Deep-throat that thing.”
I get caught up in the mood, grinning as I try to chew around the massive mouthful of garbage I have in my mouth. I am quickly finding that hot dogs are salty and do not taste like any identifiable meat that I am familiar with.
I take a second bite of my dog and then sample the juice drink, hoping it’ll help quench the fire of fresh onions and chili. Surprisingly, it does the job and goes together pretty well with the mix of spicy flavors I have going on. Who would’ve thought? Processed meat and fruit . . . there’s a veritable party going on in my mouth right now.
I finish the hot dogs even though I know it’s way too much food, and stumble out of the restaurant feeling bloated and sick. I’m probably going to leave out this part of my story when I recount it to my sisters; I don’t want to ruin it for them. And honestly, even though they’re giving me indigestion right now, the hot dogs were pretty darn good, and the juice is something I want to try to re-create when I get home.
When I return to the Four Seasons I’m in a much brighter mood than I was when I left. As I’m walking over to the elevator, somebody at the reception desk waves at me. I recognize the man sporting many gold buttons and walk over.
“Hi, James.”
“Hello, Ms. Fields. I have a message for you.” He hands me a piece of paper over the counter.
“Thanks.” I open it up and read what is written inside on Four Seasons notepaper. Please call Greg Lister at blah, blah, blah . . . I pull my cell phone out of my purse and dial the number, taking a few steps away from the reception desk so I can find some privacy.
“Lister-Spector-Harvey,” says the person answering the phone.
“Hello. I received a message that I need to call Greg Lister. This is Amber Fields.”
She patches me through and another female voice answers. “Hello, Greg Lister’s office.”
“You don’t sound like Greg Lister,” I say, trying to be funny.
“How may I help you?” she replies, no humor in her voice at all. I can totally picture his secretary in her sexy outfit with nude, uncomfortable high heels. I wonder if Lister knows she’s gunning for him.
“This is Amber Fields. I’m just returning a phone call.”
“Please hold.” Some classical music comes over the line, and I’m about to hang up after I hear five minutes of it, but then the line is picked up again.
“Ms. Fields, this is Greg Lister. Thanks for calling me back.”
“You have news for me?”
“Yes. I’ve talked to the band. Is there any chance they could meet with you tomorrow morning over breakfast?”
A little bit of panic seeps into my heart, and the hot dogs churn uncomfortably in my stomach. Now that the actual meeting is being set up, the stress is back, full force. “I’m not sure. I need to get back to you.” I’m worried about missing my flight tonight. I need to talk to my sisters and figure out a Plan B in case I can’t get reimbursed. Not having a credit card makes it really difficult to buy plane tickets. We had to drive into town and use a travel agent to pay cash and get the one I have.
“Okay, let me give you my cell phone number in case you call back after hours.”
I scramble around in my purse and find a pen. “Go ahead.” I write on the note James gave me as Greg recites the numbers. “Got it. I’ll call you back later. Bye.” I close my phone and look around. Although it seems like everybody’s going about their business and ignoring me, I worry that people are listening in on every word, so I take the elevator up by myself—Jeremy is nowhere in sight—and let myself into my room. I position an armchair so it faces the window. I’m going to enjoy the New York skyline while I call my sisters down on the farm and figure this thing out.