Sharing Space (The Complete Series) (7 page)

"Now, saying shit like that, that may make you a
little
white."

After thanking her for the advice we promised to get together soon and said goodbye. I tapped the screen of my phone to disconnect the call. Reading from a notepad on the coffee table, I called Patrick.

Patrick

You're a woman. 

You don't look Irish. 

Well, I suppose I could let you look at the apartment although I really don't want you living here.

With a start like that, I briefly wondered why I accepted when Chloe called to offer me the apartment—but only very briefly. My agent had stressed several times that moving into Manhattan would benefit my career. She said I needed to be "closer to the action.” She'd call me at home for last minute auditions and, due to time and distance, I'd miss out. I took my acting career seriously and if spending a small fortune in rent each month would increase my chances of working, so be it. It didn’t hurt that splitting the rent on Chloe's apartment meant spending substantially less than I’d budgeted. Also the location was perfect, and the building was on a safe block. Well, as safe as you can get in New York City.

I'd gotten a little too comfortable living on Long Island. I grew up in Roman Glen, a small town where everyone was your neighbor. Even if they lived ten blocks away they were your neighbors, and everyone knew the Murphy family. There were so many of us that you could ask anyone walking down the street and they'd tell you their kids had gone to school with at least one of the Murphy children. Our family was a tight-knit one. We still lived in a world where blessings were said before a meal, all meals were held in the dining room, Sunday dinner was mandatory, family meant everything, and Dad was a hero. Well, in our case, Dad really was a hero. My father, Sean Murphy, was a retired firefighter.

My older brothers, Thomas and Kellam, followed in his footsteps, much to my mother's disappointment.  She would have preferred they'd chosen safer professions like my sisters, Margaret and Catherine, a lawyer and pediatrician respectively.  Liam and I were the rebels.  Though we’d both gone to college—I studied occupational therapy and Liam accounting—we were pursuing other avenues.  Whereas I was at least utilizing my degree working at the fitness center while acting, Liam currently worked odd jobs while chasing his dream of becoming an artist.  The only thing that kept my parents from losing their minds completely was the fact that they'd seen his work and recognized his talents. 

I was closest to my little sister Charlotte, and she provided more motivation for the move. Charlotte attended NYU and studied English. Lately, little Char had been spending lots of time with a young man named Orbit. I wish I was kidding, but that's his name. Orbit was a hippie wannabe also attending NYU, but living off campus in a nearby Village loft. The way Charlotte told it, they met in a Comedic Writing class, were paired for a project, and have been inseparable soul mates ever since. To hear Orbit tell it, they were kindred spirits that had lived many lives together, and fate had once again matched them. 

My family wasn’t too pleased with the cosmic salad that had become my sister's life. Over her last winter break, Charlotte had invited a really nice guy named Jason to dinner.  We all loved him. He was polite, good-looking, smart—a pre-law major—and his name wasn't a verb. Poor Jason didn't last long. Charlotte went back for spring semester and we heard less and less from her: no more weekend trips home with tons of laundry and no more daily phone calls to Ma. She was, instead, attending poetry readings and animal rights rallies with her new friend Orbit.  This past summer we'd seen even less of her. She spent most of her time at his apartment and working as a teacher's aide for a summer school program in the city.

My parents were unsure of how to proceed. Her grades weren't suffering, but there were differences. We noticed changes in her clothing and speech, but just the lack of time she spent at home was enough. Like I said, we were tight. You miss two Sunday dinners in a row and my mother will be at St. Joseph's lighting a candle for you because surely you are ill, pregnant, failing school or, better yet, you've gotten someone pregnant. Theresa Murphy was sure her youngest was a shaved head away from joining a cult. 

At first my mother didn't like that I was moving further away. It was hard enough on her when I moved in with my best friends, Max and Paul, just ten minutes away from the house I grew up in. The city was a different story. There were rapists, murderers, and thieves in the city. I tried telling my mother there were rapists, murderers, and thieves on Long Island too, but I don't think she cared. She was somehow convinced that they were not as bad as the criminals in Manhattan. In fact, nothing was worse than living in Manhattan, except maybe living with a woman out of wedlock. Ma didn't like that too much either, but all that was a small price to pay to be able to look in on and live closer to Charlotte.  She was willing to forgive me that sin if it meant I could keep Charlotte away from the man we'd started to refer to as "The Cosmic Freak.” So, not only was it practical and affordable for me to room with Chloe, it was my family's last-ditch attempt to get Charlotte back.

From a totally different perspective, it certainly didn't hurt that Chloe was a knockout. 

When she answered the door that first day, phone balanced on her shoulder, pad and pen in her hands, I was surprised.  She looked stressed and frustrated, but she also looked cool. It was scorching hot out and it had been a two-block walk from the subway station to the apartment.  I could feel my shirt sticking to me and worried that I'd make a horrible first impression. Chloe managed to pull off confident and in control even in her rushed state. She had on those pants that ended just below the knees, the ones all women seemed to be wearing this past spring and summer, but not all women wore them as well as Chloe. 

When she had turned her back, assuming I was the plumber, I noticed the rest of her. The white shirt she wore did nothing to hide those curves; if anything, it accentuated them. It went in at her waist and fell on two round hips. For some reason it made me think of ripe fruit. I was less surprised that she was black—I hadn’t given any thought to the race of the person placing the ad—and more surprised to discover she was so good looking. It was like when you go on a blind date you expect the worst, or when you're on the Internet and some girl tells you how hot she is when in real life she's overweight and bucktoothed. Only in movies with Katherine Heigl or Scarlett Johansson do men meet beautiful strangers over the Internet or through newspaper ads. In real life you don't expect a girl like Chloe to open the door and then offer you the chance to live with her, and Chloe on her worst day could give both those ladies a run for their money.

In taking her up on the offer, I found myself meeting with Chloe and the landlord that Wednesday evening. Mr. Tucci was quite a character.  Besides providing references and signing the lease, I felt like I should be kissing his ring or something.  The mafia persona aside, he seemed like a nice man and it didn't hurt to have him living in the building. It assured me the heat would be on in the winter and the air conditioning would work in the summertime. The building itself was in great condition. It was off Seventh Avenue on Thirty-Third Street, nestled between brownstones and small shops. The block was quiet and tree-lined. On my way to the apartment I noticed people coming home from work, walking their dogs, and playing with their children. They looked like working professionals: no punks with green hair, and no one looked to be a rapist, murderer, or thief. Ma would be relieved. After showing me where the laundry room, mailboxes, and backdoor were, we sat down in Mr. Tucci's apartment to sign the lease.

Mr. Tucci leaned forward on the sofa and slid the agreement across the coffee table. "Read this over.  Grace was paid up through the end of the month, but she didn't give proper notice when leaving so she doesn't get the remainder of the rent back. You can wait till next week and move in on the first or you can move in tonight for all I care. Consider the next week a gift from Grace."

He smiled and stuffed a thick cigar in his mouth with thick fingers. Everything on him was thick: his hands, arms, legs, neck, and mid-section. He reminded me of a fire hydrant. I glanced at Chloe, who was sitting across from me but next to Mr. Tucci on the sofa, and she shrugged.  She had her legs crossed. They were good legs, long and lean. She was wearing a brown suit with one of those shirts that had a scarf attached in green. The scarf was knotted on the side of her neck.  Her hair was pulled back and she wore little makeup. A small pair of intertwined hoop earrings jingled whenever she turned her head. Her legs were stocking-less, which made sense seeing as how it was ninety degrees outside. The suit's skirt was short but professional. Chloe looked very classy in her brown suit, a brown that was slightly darker than her skin, which reminded me of a caramel macchiato from Starbucks. I found myself wondering if she was just as sweet.

"So, you gonna sign or what?"

Mr. Tucci said that real slowly, like I was real slow and needed to have things broken down for me. I looked at Chloe again and noticed she was also looking at me like I might have special needs. I quickly signed the lease wherever I saw an X.

***

With the first of September falling on a weekday I decided to take Mr. Tucci up on his offer and move in that Saturday. Luckily that day provided a break in the heat wave and I was able to easily convince Paul and Max to assist in the move.

Paul and I had been best friends since we were seven. He lived only a few blocks away from me and we were rarely seen apart. We were about ten the summer afternoon we were cutting through Roman Glen Park on our way home from nothing but trouble when we noticed this little kid getting the snot kicked out of him by two other boys. As we got closer I realized that the boys doing the kicking were Davey Simmons and Charles Kopak. 

If I were a superhero, Davey Simmons would be my arch nemesis. Ever since I could remember we competed over every little thing. He was loud, he was big, and he spit when he talked.  I didn't like him and I didn't know the poor boy getting the snot kicked out of him, but I was sure he'd done nothing to deserve Davey's wrath. And if he had, so what? I was not going to pass up an opportunity to pound on Davey, so that afternoon Paul and I became the heroes of a small kid new to the neighborhood from Detroit named Max.

We were pretty much attached at the hips from then on. It was a funny union.  Paul was the smart one, tall and lanky with brown hair and green eyes. He had that easygoing spirit that made everyone want to be his friend. Though Max started out as a runt, he went through a surprising growth spurt throughout junior high and entered high school bigger than both Paul and I combined. He grew muscles, joined the football team, and got laid a lot. Davey Simmons wasn't a problem ever again. Now Max was the assistant football coach at Roman Glen High School. He'd led the team to two state championships and was reveling in being the town hero. Paul was working at the local paper and was a serious contender for the assistant editor-in-chief position. They were both content in Roman Glen, but I wasn't.

It seemed natural that we'd room together while in college and even after. I was the first to leave our bachelor's nest at twenty-six years old. It was sad, but I was ready. It was time to go. It took us three trips using Paul's brother's van.  Even though the weather had cooled considerably, we were still sweaty and funky after hauling the last of my belongings to the second floor apartment.

"How much are you paying us again?” Max asked.  We were sitting on the floor in the living room, dressed in sweatpants and t-shirts and chugging bottled water. Before I could answer Max continued, "I don't know 'bout Paul here, but you can repay me by introducing me to this chick roommate of yours and some of her friends."

He winked one blue eye, but I knew he was serious. He was a player, plain and simple. I don't think he'd had a steady girlfriend for more than three or four months and he liked it that way. I just laughed it off and glanced at Paul. He looked at Max, shook his head, and took another swig of his water. We were the best of friends, but even best friends had secrets and we were no exception. Very few people knew that Paul was gay and Max wasn't one of them.

We had been seniors in high school when he told me. I can't say that I was very surprised—not because Paul was flamboyant or behaved "gay" but he didn't date and he didn't seem interested in the normal things guys our age were interested in. Which, at the time, were: girls, getting laid, having sex, and meeting girls. Paul confided in me and I can honestly say my feelings towards him hadn't changed a lick. We couldn't be so sure about Max, and that's why he'd yet to tell him.