Letters From The Ledge (32 page)

Being a writer wasn’t something that dawned on me in high school after a particularly bubbly English teacher put a big red “A” on one of my creative writing assignments. I wrote because I had to. I wrote because I had no one else to talk to. I wrote to God. That’s how it started I think.

At first I wrote poetry because I always liked the lyrical nature of words. There was something about iambic pentameter that calmed me. Hell, for all I know now I could’ve had a touch of autism. All my early poems were like a game of hopscotch, and it made sense in a way that few other things did at the time. 

But words written to no one in particular weren’t enough like conversation, and that was what I really needed. I needed someone to listen. The minister at the Episcopal Church at the top of our street said God was always listening, so I took him at his word and that’s how the relationship started. 

My earliest journals were little more than letters scratched out to God and quickly crumpled and tossed in the garbage. Then came the little diaries with the lock and key. Those seemed safe enough, but with a little sister in the house there was also the distinct possibility of vital information falling into enemy hands, so it was safer to keep the thoughts locked in my head.

Then in the fourth grade we read the story of Mary Jemison, a young girl from Ireland who was captured by the Indians, watched her parents and brothers brutally murdered and scalped, was sold to the Seneca and then chose to stay with them when she could have been freed.  She had settled in the very area where I was born, more than a hundred years earlier, and somehow I bonded to this girl in ways that made sense to no one but me. Her story captivated me. We were supposed to write our own story about it, so I used slang in my dialogue just like they did in the book, words like “injuns” and “shore enough”. When we read the stories aloud the other kids in my class laughed at me, but the teacher praised my writing voice and said my dialogue helped make the story seem more real. I was hooked on story. I was hooked on writing.

I was set along a path that would eventually derail my ability to hide, but at the time all I knew was that writing a story about a girl like Mary–a girl like me–unlocked something inside, and I got to let it out without too much pain or suffering on my part. Every time I wrote it liberated something, and I came to crave it, needing its release in a deep, visceral way. Even now, not writing is like constipation, a bloated fixation on all the shit that won’t come out any other way.

So I wrote. I wrote stories and poems and songs and journals upon journals. When the computer age dawned I learned how to lock them up in password-protected files, and that’s when the real fun began.

But for now let’s get back to Finn.

Finn came into my life right when I had things just about all sewn up. I was working on my first novel, had a regular stream of freelance gigs in multiple magazines with decent circulation. I'd even published a few special interest pieces in The Times. I had a good relationship with one of the editors over there and he was considering bringing me in on a more regular basis. He liked my no-nonsense way of looking at life, and said New Yorkers seemed to like it too. I mean, let’s face it–living in New York can be challenging. The only way to get through it is by the use of good planning and a regular routine.

I’d written a piece about organizing stuff in your closet, followed up with one on organizing your financial stuff, then spread out to include menu stuff, trip stuff, “social media and other time sucking stuff”. People were eating it up. They wanted to dub me “The Stuff Girl.” This worked for me. I liked having a place for everything and everything in its place. 

It wasn’t until we were in the back of that cab and I was looking into a strangely twinkling set of green eyes that I’d even considered the idea of veering off the path.  I actually don’t even think it was a conscious decision.

“Let’s go to a club” I announced.

Judging from the look on Kate’s face, I’d already lost sight of the cliff. She just shook her head and looked for all the world like I’d grown fur and an extra set of limbs.

Finn looked over at David with a raise of his eyebrows. “Who knew that unintentional abuse could bring about such sweet rewards.” I sat shaking my head and was about to give the cab driver an address when Finn scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it up. The driver read what was written on it and nodded with a smirk of approval on his face.

We pulled up in front of an unassuming door with a couple of Greek Gods for bouncers and a line around the block. I sighed audibly. I had neither the time nor the inclination to spend an extra couple of hours waiting in the freezing cold. And I definitely wasn’t dressed for it. Finn peeked at the line and smiled at me again.

“Shall we?”

This was turning out to be a colossal mistake. I tried to make eye contact with Kate but she was already getting out of the cab. She looked like we’d stepped into Saks. I knew that look. I followed her eyes, but didn’t see anything unusual. Just a lot of freezing cold, yet rather well-dressed posers waiting to become yet another sardine in the can. I stood by the curb but didn’t want to let go of the door. My instincts told me to just get back in the cab and say goodnight. Then suddenly a warm, gentle hand was on the small of my back, leading me toward the sidewalk.

Finn smiled at the Gods and they parted the waters. The ropes were unhooked and we walked through to the warmth of a techno-pop haze. The music was loud but not quite deafening. There was plenty of comfortable seating and the dance floor was spacious. Several bar areas spanned the two floors of converted warehouse and it actually seemed pretty well organized. Still a bar, but almost…civilized. Suddenly I had a new idea for a piece for The Times. I started scanning the layout, making mental notes and pulling out a pad and pen for good measure. I quickly sketched out a couple of the seating ideas and drew a rough layout of the main floor.

“Hey, what’s this place called?” I looked up at Finn, all business, and he started to laugh.

He looked down at my drawing and back at me, puzzled. “Planning a party? Good luck. I heard you’ve got to book this place a year in advance and the owner’s a real hard ass.”

“A party?” I shook my head, frustrated. “No, of course not!” I dismissed him. How absurd. Why would I want to plan a party at a place like this? Dissatisfied, I turned to his friend David. “I need the name of this place.”

I followed David’s grin and it landed on a matching face to my right. “It’s called Finnegan’s.”

The bulb now fully lit above my head, I proceeded to consciously close my mouth and try to act unimpressed. I nodded in Finn’s direction. “Is there any other
dabbling
I should know about? Diamond mines, oil refineries, that kind of thing?”

He looked like a schoolboy–embarrassed almost, although it was hard to tell in the dim light whether or not he was blushing. It was adorable and I found my eyes trailing down to his lips as the one side of his mouth curved up. I blinked, shaking my head and forcing my eyes away from his face. He laughed softly and hooked a finger under my chin so I’d look at him again.

“Can I get you a drink?”

I composed myself quickly. He’d ignored my question and moved on so I played along. Who knows how many women he’d brought here like this, trying to impress them with his Moses act. “Well, I don’t know. What’s good here? Do they have any specialties?”

Finn watched me with interest. I watched right back. He hesitated, then answered. “As far as I know there’s not a drink on the planet they can’t make. You name it, they’ve got it.”

“Really! Well color me happy! Let’s see if they can make me my favorite.”

I threaded my way through the crowd to the nearest bar. Finn was right on my heels. The bartender was an experienced looking fellow, about twice Finn’s age with a sort of blonding gray hair but similar green eyes that smiled at me before his mouth ever started its ascent.  Finn leaned sideways on the bar and watched me, awaiting his victory lap. 

I slid effortlessly onto a black leather stool and leaned both arms on the deep, polished mahogany. “Caipirinha please.”

The man nodded and proceeded to pull out a fresh lime, which he cut into several wedges, adding them to a hefty–sized rocks glass with a couple teaspoons of sugar. After mashing them together for a couple of minutes he pulled the telltale red black and yellow labeled bottle of 51 Pirassununga from a shelf behind him and proceeded to shake it with a good dose of ice and pour it over the fruit mixture.

The way Finn watched me made me feel warm and wanted, invited to participate fully in his experience of life. He was laughing again.

“What’s so funny?” I looked around for Kate, but she and David had made their way to one of the dance floors and I was alone with Finn and the two hundred or so other blurs that surrounded his face.

“I don’t know. Just didn’t peg you for a girl who’d spent time in Rio.”

I took a sip of my drink and found it perfect. The slow burn that always followed the sweet, tangy smoothness made its way down my esophagus and somehow landed south of where it belonged. I didn’t like where this was going. The bartender tilted his head slightly as he looked at me. “How is it?”

“Oh! It’s great! Thank you!” I started to reach into my purse for a twenty but he shook his head. I looked at him, then at Finn.

“Shall we go find a seat?” A glass of clear liquid had made its appearance on the bar next to Finn and he scooped it up in one fluid motion.

“Ok. Sure.” I nodded.

Finn tapped the top of the bar twice and grinned at the bartender. “Thanks da.”

There was that hand on my lower back again. I was beginning to feel like the quintessential sheep being led to slaughter. “Da? Nice, Finn. Nice.”

He laughed heartily then. “I thought you’d like that one.”

We slid into a comfortable booth. “So this is your dad’s place then?”

“It’s a joint venture.”

“And who started out smoking the joint?”

Finn laughed out loud. “He provides the money, and I provide the planning and “urban design” that makes it a hit.”

I looked around again and remembered the article idea. He’d planned this out? It was really well done. And it was definitely a hit.

“How long do you make people wait out there in the cold?”

He glanced toward the door. “As long as it takes to keep critical mass but not overwhelm it. People like to know it’s popular, but they want to be able to breathe as well.”

I hooked my thumb toward to doors. “And that’s where Venus and Apollo come in?”

He grinned at me. “Yes. Exactly.” His arm was still up on the back of the seat as we sat and I liked that it was above me, even if we weren’t touching. His other arm was up too. It wasn’t like he was trying to put his arm around me, but I somehow found myself wishing he would. I shook my head again. This was completely absurd. Where was Kate when I needed her? I scanned the dance floor but she was nowhere to be found.

Finn tipped his head sideways and studied me. “Who’s winning now?”

I looked over. “What? Winning what?”

“The argument you keep having with yourself.”

I sat up a little straighter. “I am. I told you, I always win these arguments. I don’t stand a chance against myself.”

His eyes narrowed and he took a sip of his drink. “So, how is it you came to be fond of Cachaca? Are you sure you’ve never been to Brazil?”

“Only in my mind.” I took another sip, but he still wasn’t tracking with me. “Ever read John Updike?”

He shook his head.

“He wrote a book called
Brazil
back in 1995. Kind of a Tristan and Isolde story line.”

“Well see now? I hadn’t pegged you for a romantic either.”

Ok so that made me a boring homebody who watched psychological thrillers?

His mouth curved up on the one side again. He took a slow, deep breath in and I watched his chest rise and fall. “And what does the book have to do with Cachaca?”

“I don’t know, it was the beverage of choice in the story, so I tried it once and I really liked it. It felt exotic to me, even though in Brazil it’s a poor man’s drink.” I took a long sip of my Caipirinha and this time the burn went to my head.

He watched me with some amount of amused concern. “You know, they say Cachaca is like Tequila in some ways. Too much can cloud your judgment.”

I nodded. “Yes. So I’ve heard.” Finn wasn’t the only one who kept things close to his chest. He didn’t need to know my history. I was feeling self-conscious, and more than a little angry with Kate for deserting me.

“I like your shirt.”

I shot Finn a look. “Excuse me?”

“Your shirt. It’s much better than the other one.”

“You mean the ruined one?”

His eyes rolled back and his head followed. He did seem genuinely sorry. “Are you certain you won’t let me reimburse you for it?”

“Positive.”

“Pink. Hmm.”

I shook my head. “What is it with you and this shirt thing?”

His head pulled back as if I’d pushed into his personal space. “I just didn’t peg you for a pink girl.” It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. I wondered if he knew he was actually going backwards in the point-making game?

“But I like it. It creates this fascinating contrast.” He rolled his hand in a circle as if to frame my head.

I looked down at my shirt. It was pale pink against my winter white skin, which at this point in my fluorescent light existence was almost translucent. “I’m sorry, did you say contrast?” I had to raise my voice a bit because the music had ramped up.

Just then David and Kate plopped down, obviously exhausted. She looked over at Finn. “Your friend’s a great dancer! I haven’t had this much fun in ages!”

Finn smiled and raised his voice to match the increase in volume. “David dances professionally.”

It was Kate’s turn to be surprised. “Really! Where?”

David shrugged. “Mostly off Broadway. Trying to break in still.”

Kate nodded, satisfied. She’d studied at the School of Performing Arts, but never really ventured out past graduation, and hadn’t gotten picked up by a dance company. Instead she taught at one of the modern dance studios on the Upper East Side and helped with choreography at the high school in her neighborhood.