they’ve got nothing else to do but sit around and spy on the young people. I swear to God, sometimes I think they peek at me through the opposite end of my peephole. But they’re harmless, and my place is dirt cheap. I moved in three months ago, and if I hadn’t found it, I would have wound up with a twenty-year-old rich-girl-hipster roommate in Brooklyn. And not even near the park! Totally embarrassing. So, I’m never leaving. When I die, they can bury me under the floor.”
Audrey chortled. A little at the delivery, a lot at the messenger. “Sorry,” she said.
“Why? I’m very funny. I’m doing stand up at the Laugh Factory next week—my first real gig!” As she spoke, Jayne bounced against the doorframe with her hip like she was made of rubber. Back and forth. Back and forth. Audrey couldn’t figure out if it was a nervous habit or a happy one. Maybe both.
“You should come to one of my shows. I’ve got like, three friends, but they’re all married, so they don’t count. I hate it when they make their kids call me Auntie Jayne, and what the hell do I care if they shit green or brown? Anyway, if you come, I’ll comp you. That’s what it’s called: comping, for complimentary. But that’s not my real job. The rest of the time I’m in sales at L’Oreal. Westchester office, so it’s a backwardcommute. They laid off half the staff last month. Everybody was wandering out of their cubicles carrying cardboard boxes and crying. I hope I never cry when I get fired from a job I don’t even like. I mean, what’s the matter with them? You’d think they weren’t going to get unemployment. Anyway, if you ever need makeup or whatever, just shout. I’ll give you samples and shit. Oh, I hope you don’t mind that I keep cursing. Do you mind? I’ve got a real potty mouth.”
Audrey shook her head. “No, I don’t mind.”
“You’re awesome!” Jayne declared. In her excitement, she hip-checked herself against the door hard enough to hurt, and her bounce-back wasn’t nearly as resilient. She limped a little but kept smiling.
Audrey shook her head. Was this chick for real? Then again, nobody else had come knocking, so she decided to play along. “You’re awesome, too!” she said, then chuckled, because she hadn’t used the word “awesome” since…ever.
Jayne clasped her hand and squeezed, but didn’t shake, like they were New Age hippies practicing touch therapy. Her skin was surprisingly cold. “Okay! It’s so good to meet you! I’m on my way to a date. It’s new, but I think I love him. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow? Let’s have dinner! Anyway—oh!” She dropped Audrey’s hand and ran back into her apartment across the way before saying more. Audrey fought with a sudden case of giggles. Just barely, she won.
When Jayne returned, she was holding a twelve-ounce minibottle of Moët & Chandon. “I’ve got, like, ten of these. L’Oréal Christmas parties—they hand them out like cards. Too bad they don’t give bonuses. Welcome to the building!”
Before Audrey could say thank you, Jayne was heading down the hall in beat-up New Balance running shoes. She didn’t jog. Instead she walked really fast, like those middle-aged ladies who circled the Central ParkReservoir in the early mornings wearing nylon track suits. Determined as ducks, and just as graceless.
After Audrey closed the door, she opened the bubbly, sipping straight from the bottle to keep the suds from spilling. She was relieved to find that the “Betty Boop!” wireless connection had faded, and when she tried to refresh “Diary of the Dead: Casualties of Chaotic Naturalism,” it was gone.
So she did her best to put the article out of her mind and watched as the Night Court theme song played. As she sipped Jayne’s bubbly, she wondered when she’d last made a friend aside from her boyfriend, Saraub, or her drug dealer, Billy Epps. She reached back into her memory as far as she could and realized that the
Audrey chortled. A little at the delivery, a lot at the messenger. “Sorry,” she said.
“Why? I’m very funny. I’m doing stand up at the Laugh Factory next week—my first real gig!” As she spoke, Jayne bounced against the doorframe with her hip like she was made of rubber. Back and forth. Back and forth. Audrey couldn’t figure out if it was a nervous habit or a happy one. Maybe both.
“You should come to one of my shows. I’ve got like, three friends, but they’re all married, so they don’t count. I hate it when they make their kids call me Auntie Jayne, and what the hell do I care if they shit green or brown? Anyway, if you come, I’ll comp you. That’s what it’s called: comping, for complimentary. But that’s not my real job. The rest of the time I’m in sales at L’Oreal. Westchester office, so it’s a backwardcommute. They laid off half the staff last month. Everybody was wandering out of their cubicles carrying cardboard boxes and crying. I hope I never cry when I get fired from a job I don’t even like. I mean, what’s the matter with them? You’d think they weren’t going to get unemployment. Anyway, if you ever need makeup or whatever, just shout. I’ll give you samples and shit. Oh, I hope you don’t mind that I keep cursing. Do you mind? I’ve got a real potty mouth.”
Audrey shook her head. “No, I don’t mind.”
“You’re awesome!” Jayne declared. In her excitement, she hip-checked herself against the door hard enough to hurt, and her bounce-back wasn’t nearly as resilient. She limped a little but kept smiling.
Audrey shook her head. Was this chick for real? Then again, nobody else had come knocking, so she decided to play along. “You’re awesome, too!” she said, then chuckled, because she hadn’t used the word “awesome” since…ever.
Jayne clasped her hand and squeezed, but didn’t shake, like they were New Age hippies practicing touch therapy. Her skin was surprisingly cold. “Okay! It’s so good to meet you! I’m on my way to a date. It’s new, but I think I love him. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow? Let’s have dinner! Anyway—oh!” She dropped Audrey’s hand and ran back into her apartment across the way before saying more. Audrey fought with a sudden case of giggles. Just barely, she won.
When Jayne returned, she was holding a twelve-ounce minibottle of Moët & Chandon. “I’ve got, like, ten of these. L’Oréal Christmas parties—they hand them out like cards. Too bad they don’t give bonuses. Welcome to the building!”
Before Audrey could say thank you, Jayne was heading down the hall in beat-up New Balance running shoes. She didn’t jog. Instead she walked really fast, like those middle-aged ladies who circled the Central ParkReservoir in the early mornings wearing nylon track suits. Determined as ducks, and just as graceless.
After Audrey closed the door, she opened the bubbly, sipping straight from the bottle to keep the suds from spilling. She was relieved to find that the “Betty Boop!” wireless connection had faded, and when she tried to refresh “Diary of the Dead: Casualties of Chaotic Naturalism,” it was gone.
So she did her best to put the article out of her mind and watched as the Night Court theme song played. As she sipped Jayne’s bubbly, she wondered when she’d last made a friend aside from her boyfriend, Saraub, or her drug dealer, Billy Epps. She reached back into her memory as far as she could and realized that the
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