10.24.25

I’m supposed to meet A at 3:30 and he shows up closer to 4. At this point I am sipping on the foamy dregs of my latte, rewriting the same line over and over to avoid watching the door because what I really want to avoid is the awkwardness of looking for someone when I don’t know what they look like. Sorry, are you—? A wears corduroy and reeks of smoke. He has a scarf looped tightly around his neck, which stands out because it’s a harbinger of yet another seasonal change and also because I was recently in a recording session that turned into a soliloquy on the latest accessories trends—bolo ties, cravats, scarves. People want to layer up, the talent said, and accessories are just another layer to play with. Button ups on button ups, skirts over pants, scarves, purses, hats. I’ve googled button up vs button down before, but I did it again because I like the slant sound of button down but I think most of the time I mean a button up. A and I half heartedly punt the same mundane questions about writing to each other. What did you think of your low-res program? How did you start writing for magazines? Book reviews, any interest? What’s life been like since grad school? Uh, he says, fine. I am nervous so I gesticulate a little more than normal and I lean forward in my seat, spying a sliver of teal in A’s breast pocket. This insufferable conversation is allegedly a networking meeting, whatever that means. Making contact? Trading tips? It’s worth it because when something like this goes well, it’s invaluable. Otherwise it’s an anecdote for me, a character observation exercise. A tells me how to search for tutoring jobs online and suggests different ways for me to pitch myself. His suggestions are helpful and mostly involve strategic lying. Do you remember what you got on the SAT? No, I confess. Doesn’t matter! Customers squeeze by our table, looking for the bathroom, asking the same question—what’s the code? It’s on a small piece of paper taped to a display case that is eye level with me and I’ve already memorized the combination, which would be more impressive if it wasn’t 123456. I’m tempted to recite it to someone who is trying to get an employee’s attention but I am technically in a conversation although it doesn’t look like that. It’s hard to figure out what to do with your eyes when you don’t know someone and you’re sitting side-by-side on a bench and it’s only been ten minutes of this when A asks me if I’ll go outside with him so he can smoke a cigarette. I am jarred by the question and recklessly throw my jacket over my bag hoping that one of the women on either side of us abides by girl code or stranger code or some moral code and will watch my stuff without me asking explicitly. We stand next to a patch of sunlight and A slips the pack of American Spirits out of his pocket. He doesn’t offer me one, which I find to be the rudest act yet, not that I would have accepted it because it feels like too much of a prop. We, too much like tropes. I shift from foot to foot, watching A and watching the door and watching the bearded guy with a helmet strapped to his head shove some bread into his backpack. A offers to recommend me to a company, which might involve inventing girlfriends for high school students looking to present a more well-rounded Common App essay, which sounds sort of fun to me. It is for a little while, A cautions, then it spirals out of control, but I guess it’s good if you’re a fiction writer. Am I? I know I am longing for my jacket and my nearly empty coffee cup and my overwrought sentences and some way out of this spluttering conversation that seems to have no official beginning and no official end because when A finishes his cigarette, after blowing smoke in my face, he drops the butt on the sidewalk and then starts to walk away. Ok, I say, uh, bye? He waves and tells me to send him anything and he’ll review it. He means it. Helmet guy is long gone, but my stuff is still in the cafe and so are the women who don’t look up but clock my return while I clock that A arrived at 3:47 and now it’s 4:12. I debate staying in Manhattan, wandering around the west village, maybe perching in a window with a drink because it is one of those few precious chilly, bright fall days where I’d normally think anything feels possible and anyone could be a messenger but instead I get back on the train and go home.

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