Riley: The Bright, Throbbing Dark
The summer night thrums around me as the crowds carry me through a filthy neon wonderland. New York, city of waking dreams. An ugly, middle-aged drunk stumbles in front of me and slurs, “Hey, baby, give me a smile,” and when I walk past him: “Come on, fucking bitch.”
I look him in the eye and say, “No one likes you.”
“Fucking…” he spits, but I’ve walked off before he can come up with anything else.
At the next intersection, a homeless man sitting on the corner says, "Hey, baby, look how nice you're dressed. You got some money, I know it. Can you just spare a little change?"
I'm in such a good mood from the last interaction that I give him a break. "If you call me ‘Ms.’ instead of ‘baby,’ I'll give you twenty dollars." I know I have a loose twenty in my jacket pocket, so I won't have to take out my wallet in front of him. My city guide said showing all your money was asking to get mugged or pick-pocketed. Only give money to homeless people if you have loose bills.
He cocks his head and thinks about that for a moment. “Yeah, that’s fair enough, Ms. I apologize.”
I hand the bill over and continue downtown on Broadway, slowly leaving the banners and bright lights of the theater district. My phone buzzes—Caleb, my fiance, is wondering where I am. I told him when the play got out and I’m exactly on time, but he’s forgotten this because he’s bored. I text him an apology and tell him I’m on my way.
I start passing more and more clubs, each one lit in vivid colors, emanating smoke, and pumping music. A group of gorgeous women tumble across the street and cut me off on their way into one with a gold door and a sharp techno beat. The bouncer eyes me like a grenade he needs to throw himself on—like he's preparing to leap in front of me before I kill the vibe of the entire place with my presence. I don't really go to clubs. I blush because of the beautiful women—they make me feel inadequate. Does life ever stop feeling like high school?
Goosebumps erupt on my skin as I realize there’s a man watching me from across the street. He’s standing stone still in the shadow of an alley, and all I can make out is a hulking silhouette, but for some reason, I'm convinced his eyes are on me. I try to see if I can recognize him, but I'm distracted by a girl protesting loudly as she leaves another club. I glance over, annoyed, and when I look back across the street he's gone. Did I imagine that?
The girl pulls my attention away before I can investigate. She’s talking with three guys, they’re leading her towards a car, and she seems confused. She says she needs to go back to the club, and one of them says something soothing to her, but he’s gripping her arm hard.
“Danika?” I say and walk towards her. The men look at me with annoyance. The girl’s confused. “Danika—oh my gosh, long time no see!" I fumble with my phone and manage to summon a car service even though my eyes are on the guys. I throw an arm around “Danika” and pull her into a hug. "Who are your cute friends here?"
“She has to go now, she’s not feeling well,” one of the guys says, but I talk over him to the girl.
“Oh my gosh, if you’re not feeling well you have to come back to my place.”
“I…” the girl says. She seems really hazy.
“How do you know Dani?” I say to the guys.
They ignore me, and the one grabbing her arm tries to pull her away from me towards the car. I’m blushing again and my heart’s racing. I keep a grip on her other arm. Think, think, think! I lift my phone and snap a picture of all of them.
“Hey!” the guy barks, and one of them reaches for my phone, but I pull it away. The guy drops his hand from the girl. A black sedan pulls up and I realize it’s my car. I tug the girl away.
“It was so nice meeting you!” I say to the guys and shove her into the back of the car. Her eyes are glassy and confused. I don’t know what to say for a moment, then I ask the driver, “Can you take her to the hospital?”
“Which one?”
“I’m not from here…a good one, I guess? Do you know a good one? Bellevue downtown?” I read a book about that one once.
“Yeah,” he says, annoyed like all New Yorkers are when asked to go a step beyond their job description. “Does she know how to contact you?”
“No, she doesn’t know me.”
He shrugs, I shut the door, and he pulls away.
“Fucking bitch,” one of the guys mutters. My heart rate goes through the roof, but they don’t have the guts to do anything to a non-drugged girl except try to scare me a little.
“Mind your own fucking business, cunt.”
I bring my phone up and snap another picture, then turn on video until they get into their car and pull away. "Women find you repulsive and you're using way too much hair gel!" I yell after them.
I look for the figure across the street, but there's no sign of whoever it was. I indulge in a fantasy of some dark prince watching me lustfully from the shadows, but I'm interrupted before I get to the good parts by the arrival of Caleb.
“Babe, what the hell? We said we were going to meet on 28th Street—I was waiting! What are you doing?”
“I…uh…got distracted.”
Caleb’s annoyed at having to wait, and when he’s annoyed he gets mean in a petty, passive-aggressive way. He grabs me by the arm just a little too hard and pulls me in the direction we’re headed. “Come on. I’m not waiting anymore. You’re going to make me late.”
“Caleb, you’re hurting my arm.”
“You knew this was important to me!”
“I got interrupted! You knew when I got out of the play—it was only a minute!” I stumble as he yanks me along, but then he loses interest and drops my arm to walk on ahead. I have to run behind him for a moment to catch up.
“How was the game?” I ask.
“Fine. We kicked ass…” Technically a bunch of guys on TV kicked ass while he sat on a barstool and ate peanuts, but I don’t say anything. He goes into a long description of the game and I try to pay attention, asking questions and nodding along the way, but my mind keeps drifting back to the man in the shadows. Why was he staring at me?
“The play was good, too,” I offer when Caleb’s done.
He doesn’t respond.
“Romeo and Juliet. It was outdoors—in the park.”
“Yeah, I know—‘To be or not to be.’”
“No, that’s Hamlet…” I say, but Caleb’s checking football scores on his phone as he walks.
“Was that the best thing you have to wear?”
“You don’t like it?”
"This place we're going is high class, babe. We need to look good."
Caleb hasn’t told me anything about the night or dress code required. He often seems to assume that if he knows something I know it, too, whether he’s told me or not. “I thought you were just going to a poker game?”
“This is a high-class poker game.”
I want to snap at him or say something snarky, but I grind my teeth and stay quiet. Caleb can explode like a raging toddler when people don’t agree with him, and I don’t feel like being yelled at on the sidewalk tonight. I would've worn a nicer dress, but I don't like buying new things. I like having new things, but I don't have money of my own. I'm almost completely supported by Caleb, and for some reason, I always feel rotten taking his money.
We met in college. He was a senior when I was a freshman. He played rugby and football and was popular because of his athletic prowess and his dad’s money. Back then I thought his domineering attitude was kind of sexy. It was only later that I realized what I’d taken as dominance and decisiveness was actually neediness and petulance.
We dated for years. He asked me to marry him last year after I graduated. I spent the next year in a post-graduation internship, and I had writing jobs lined up after that in New York and Chicago. But Caleb and his dad, Hector, had wanted him to work for a branch of Hector's investment firm in Maryland. I followed Caleb and I've been job-hunting ever since. I studied French and German in school, and I’m doing translating work over the internet now, plus a little freelance writing, but the money I make from it is paltry. I don’t have any hope of keeping up with the expenses of Caleb’s lifestyle, so he always ends up paying for me.
I try to remind myself how grateful I should be. My own dad slaved for years supporting me, my mom, and my siblings. We were always poor. Caleb was everything that my family thought I needed: wealthy, upper class, and possessed of powerful connections. He’d grown up in a completely different, better world than me, but he’d reached down and plucked me out of mine—like the prince picking out Cinderella. I was the grubby servant girl who got the glass slipper. That’s what I tried to tell myself, at least. The reality became far less satisfying with each passing month.
Taking gifts from him makes me feel disgusting now. It’s a sign of my dependence—and Caleb doesn’t let me forget it. I feel like I can always see his father’s eyes watching and judging me, too. Gold digger, they always seem to say. I never wanted Caleb for his money, though. I liked him because he had chosen me, in spite of my mediocre origins and crazy family.
We head into Chelsea and towards the warehouses near the water.
“I didn’t know there were bars around here,” I say.
“Yeah, this place is real secret. Some idiot gave me the tip-off at a bar yesterday.”
I feel a thrill. I’m excited to be going to a poker room in Manhattan, despite Caleb not telling me what to expect. Gambling is at best semi-legal here, and a secret, illicit poker room is even better than a regular one.
“Do you think we could go dancing tomorrow, Caleb? Or maybe sailing, like you said?”
“No, babe. Game’s on tomorrow.” I’m not even sure which game he’s talking about. Whenever Caleb doesn’t want to do something, there’s a game on.
“It’s just…we don’t have many days left in the city.”
“We went out on Jason’s boat last week. That wasn’t enough?”
We had ridden a dingy out to Jason’s anchored boat and sat in the harbor drinking light beer and talking about football until everyone was sunburned and dehydrated.
“I…I wanted to sail. I wanted to go out on the ocean. I thought it would be nice to fit it in while we still have time off.”
Caleb laughs with a nasty hint of derision. “You always have time off.”
My cheeks burn with frustration. Caleb sees my translating and freelancing as more of a hobby—a little curiosity to keep me occupied, like his mom’s time at her country club. I bite my lip and don’t say anything. It is a hobby compared to what Caleb does, I guess. "I mean, since I don't have any translating work scheduled for this week, and since you're off work…"
Caleb ignores me.
This is supposed to be our last fling before settling down. Our last little taste of adventure before embracing stability. Caleb’s getting promoted in his dad’s firm, and he’s going to be glued to a nine-to-five schedule for the foreseeable future. I’m probably going to get a teaching job if I can. Or I could sit around at our home doing nothing and live comfortably off Caleb for the rest of my life. I try to tell myself I should be grateful for that. At least I’ll be able to get a lot of reading done.
I think about taking trips on my own—I could learn to climb in the Himalayas. I could trek the Sahara. I could take up photography to document my journeys. I could write articles and send them around to different magazines. But the thought of doing that on Caleb’s money, when he couldn’t or wouldn’t come, makes me feel nauseated.
Plus, he likes me to be home for him at the end of the day. There are certain expectations in his family: cook dinner—or tell the private chef what dinner to cook, manage the cleaning ladies, and maintain the household, just like Caleb’s mom did for his father. It’s an easy life. It’s better than my family ever dreamed of for me.
We arrive at a set of stairs on a dark street. They lead down off the sidewalk and into the shadows. I can smell brine in the breeze. It's coming off the Hudson River just a few more blocks west. I look up and down the street. It's completely dead. The only other buildings are tall concrete and steel warehouses and industrial buildings. The air carries a hint of fish, as if there's a market nearby at other hours of the day or a packing house. It's almost eerily quiet for the city.
Caleb checks something on his phone uncertainly. "I guess this is it?" he says, as if he wants me to confirm it for him.
“Let’s check,” I say encouragingly. For some reason my heart’s racing. It’s already a more exciting night than usual. I’m happy about that, at least, even though my mind keeps saying, How much money is Caleb going to put on this game? He’s not a gambling addict, is he? Could I have missed something that big about my own fiance? And what kind of men am I going to find at an illegal poker game?
I force myself forward and start to walk down the steps—curiosity overcoming caution—but Caleb cuts back in front of me as if to claim that of course he knows what he's doing. The steps wind down into the shadows and double back on themselves. We go two levels down and reach a deep-red oak door. The street lights don't filter down to the landing. I can barely see in the dark.
Caleb knocks. I hold my breath, waiting for what we might summon from the other side of the door.