It’s Sunday afternoon. I gaze out onto the East River from a walkway next to the park. The air smells fresh and the breeze is mild. I’m standing between two bridges.

Directly across is Randall’s Island, where they have concerts in the summer. To the north is Hunt’s Point. To the south is Harlem. It’s a lovely view.

The sky is a crisp, cloudless blue. I watch boats sail by over the rushing river. Behind me, the sun beats lazily down on the weekend people. The hill is dotted with beach towels. Couples sunbathe together. Small children run in circles around each other, giggling.

I can feel the sun’s warmth on the crown of my head as I walk slowly over the grassy hill, taking in one scene after another. Mothers push babies in swings on the playground. Strapping teenage boys sweat hard as they try to jump over each other on the basketball courts. Along the river, parked cars with the windows rolled down play music of every variety while girls dance on the sidewalk. Spring has crept up once again.

I look down at my arms and notice how pale they are compared to everyone else’s.
Several families sit on the lawn picnicking in their Sunday best, but it isn’t until I see the pastel bonnets and the baskets full of colored eggs that I realize today is Easter. A wave of shame bubbles up in my chest – I am so out of touch with the world around me that I despair of ever getting back into it.

I haven’t spoken to my own family in months. I don’t see friends anymore either. I live alone now, and I want it that way.

I go to work sporadically – sometimes at Lucille’s, sometimes at other clubs where no one knows me. I work as infrequently as I can while still bringing home enough money to support myself. It’s getting harder every week. The guys can tell I’m not into it. Every word that comes out of my mouth feels stilted. I don’t even bother with the other girls.

It’s hard to make small talk with people when you have nothing left to say.

As I walk through the late afternoon, through everyone else’s holiday, I feel invisible – on the inside as well as out.

Sharon crawls over to a large pile of clothes that’s sitting in the corner, and collapses on top of it. She looks like a broken doll that’s been tossed away. She breathes deeply to stop crying.

“Are you gonna be okay?” I ask reluctantly. I really want to go home.

“Stay with me… Please. I can’t be alone right now.” Her voice comes out small. I rub my eyes, and sit down beside her.

I glance around the bleak little studio apartment. It hasn’t been cleaned in months, if ever. There’s a stale aroma permeating the room. I wonder how much of that smell is the smell of blood.

“Nobody gets what they expect in life, unless they keep their expectations low,” Sharon murmurs.

“Maybe keeping them low is the problem,” I contradict.

Her response is a laugh that contains absolutely no mirth.

“I keep going on these auditions,” she says. “Sometimes I even get promised the parts. I didn’t really want the last one, you know that? I think I maybe even fucked it up on purpose.”

“Why would you do that?

“They wanted me to play a junkie prostitute.”

I start to chuckle, but I stop myself because I notice that she looks really hurt. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…”

“I know, goddamnit. Not much of a challenge, is it?”

“You want to kick?”

“I want to act. I ever tell you that when I was fourteen, I got into LaGuardia Arts?”

“Wait a minute… You went to the ‘Fame’ school?”

“No, I didn’t go. I just got in.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

She snorts. “My drunk bitch of a mother thought it would be better if I didn’t make the same mistakes she did. She came to New York to be an actress, and wound up waiting tables instead. She was a bitter old hag. You couldn’t even talk to her about acting. I used to have to sneak around behind her back to be in the school plays, even.”

“That’s nuts.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Where was your dad?”

“I think the real question there is, who was my dad,” Sharon says. “I never knew, and I don’t think she did either, although there’s a really excellent possibility that he was one of the same casting directors who leers at me now when I go to auditions.”

“Wow, creepy.”

“It’s reality, right? Or some semblance of it. Anyway, when I found out I couldn’t go to LaGuardia unless she approved, I tried all sorts of things. I talked to the guidance counselors, the admittance people, had them talk to her, got my principal to write her a letter… she wasn’t budging.” She takes a deep breath. “Then she came after me one night, wasted, and we beat the shit out of each other while my little sister watched. After that, I left.”

“And went where?” I rub my eyes again. This is the most that Sharon has ever told me about herself.

“Where a fourteen-year-old goes when she runs away from home, honey. Use your imagination.” She sighs. “There were always men around. There always will be. Willy’s the first guy I’ve been with who isn’t a sugar daddy. I think he feels inferior. He shouldn’t, though. I never loved any of them. He’s the only one who’s ever really had me.”

“Then it’s his loss if he leaves.”

“Don’t you understand that it’s not that simple?” she blurts, her voice rising again. “It’s my fault that Willy ever even laid eyes on a needle. I ruin people, do you know that? I’m twenty-three years old, and I’m a complete fucking failure. It’s over for me. I’ve just never admitted it before.”

“I don’t think that’s true. It can’t be. You’re still young, you still look great, and you could get out and do something with your life other than be a statistic. Both of us could.”

“What did you really want to be?” she asks.

I take a deep breath. “A singer,” I admit.

“Are you really that good?”

“I don’t know,” I say automatically.

Alannah emerges from the basement, still looking dark and unhappy. I’m ready to just leave her alone, but she sits down next to me. We don’t speak for a while.

Both of us stare straight ahead at the nearly identical wall across the room, our reflections distorted by sweat and many years of thick, grimy disappointment.

“Listen,” she utters abruptly, breaking the reverie.

Her beautiful face is pinched.

“What’s up?” I ask softly.

There’s a long pause, and then she says, “Could I… like, maybe crash at your place for a little while if I had to?”

This is the last thing I expected her to ask me. We’ve never even hung out.

But… “Of course,” I answer, automatically. It never occurs to me to say no. Or to ask her for how long she plans to stay.

“Like, maybe I can come home with you tomorrow night and just stay there?”

“Yeah, Alannah, sure, but what’s going on?”

She’s quiet for a moment.

“Alannah…”

“I have to get away from my old man,” she spits out quickly, her voice rising. “You see this bruise?”

She unwinds a scarf from around her neck, and sure enough, there are marks all around her throat. I don’t know how I missed seeing them while we were downstairs.

“What did he do to you?” I ask.

“Last night…” She holds back a sob. “He – he threw me on the floor and choked me. We were fighting. I just wanted him to leave me alone. So when he let go of me, I ran in the bathroom and slit my wrist. I told him that if it would make him happier for me to be dead, I would do it for him myself.”

“Jesus! What the fuck? You have to get out of there!”

“I know. So, really, is it okay?”

“Fucking yes, it’s okay! You working tomorrow night?”

She nods.

“Well, bring some clothes to work with you. Just pack a small suitcase. You’ll come home with me after work. Don’t even tell him you’re leaving,” I say.

“Are you sure?”

“Girl, don’t ask me that again.”

“What do you really do?” he asks suddenly, catching me off guard.

I hesitate. “You’re looking at it,” I say.

“I don’t believe you. Do you go to school?”

I can’t believe I’m considering telling him anything about my personal life, but it spills out of me before I can stop it. “Not yet. I’m saving for music school,” I blurt.

Sean cocks his head. “Who do you like to listen to?”

“Oh, man, don’t get me started. I like a lot of blues. A lot of old stuff.”

“You look like a punk rocker. Or maybe a goth chick.”

“Anyone ever tell you it’s rude to typecast people?”

“Ah, come on. Most people are begging for it,” he says.

I’m so caught up in the conversation that I’m surprised when I look over at the wall and see Tina standing there wearing a stern expression, tapping her watch. I shake my head at her slightly and shrug, so that she at least thinks I tried to work Sean over. Fortunately, he doesn’t notice.

“I have to go,” I sigh. “I’m sorry.” I start to get up.

“Hey, I play bass,” he says. “We should jam some time.”

“I would love that,” I exclaim.

“Cool, let me give you my number then,” he offers, digging in his pocket.

“Oh, no, I can’t,” I hiss in his ear. “I’ll get fired if they see me write down your number.”

“Right,” he says, and I hear the sarcasm creeping back into his voice. My stomach sinks. He thinks I’m hustling him after all.

I can see Tina glaring at me out of the corner of my eye. Oh, relax, bitch. Sloane will make sure that you get to fix several times over tonight. Leave me the fuck alone.

I look at him again, apologetically. “Can you come back?” I whisper. “Just to give me your number?”

His expression is inscrutable once more, and I have to walk away before Tina comes over to us. I grit my teeth, angry that once again the club has managed to tear the rug out from under me, just as I was about to get something that I really wanted.

God damn this place.

Barry is out of breath and covered in sweat when he walks in the door.

“What happened to you?” I ask dryly. I’m only mildly interested. “Get in a fight with someone?”

“No, baby,” he grimaces with exaggerated patience. “Not today, not yet. Think you could help me with the boxes in the hallway, though? They’re fuckin’ heavy.”

I don’t move off the couch. “What are you bringing into my house this time?”

“You’re welcome,” he says with disgust, and disappears out the front door.

When he returns, he’s carrying a long, thin box, which he sets down next to me on the couch. It says Sam Ash on it.

“That doesn’t look so heavy,” I comment. “So, what now? Did you steal it?”

He wipes his brow. “Fuck you,” he answers. “The receipt’s in the other box. The heavy one.”

I follow him out the door to find a much larger box, maybe about three by three and a half feet, sitting in front of the apartment. “What is it?”

“Just hold the door,” he scoffs. He crouches with the box in front of him, and starts to push it into the hallway.

Once both boxes are taking up most of my small living room, Barry goes in search of a straight razor to cut them open.

The long box turns out to be an electric guitar. It’s a white Fender Stratocaster. The big square entity contains a mid-sized Fender Twin Reverb combo amplifier. The receipt is for nine hundred and twenty-six dollars.

I don’t say anything at first.

“The Ovation guitars were much too expensive,” he says, fingering the neck of the Strat.

“What’d you do this for?” I want to know. “You don’t have a musical bone in your body.”

“I just love how I can always count on you to be a bundle of sweetness, Miss Thing. You’re also wrong. But as it happens, these toys aren’t for me. They’re for you.” He beams, and I think he expects me to smile as well.

“Barry, I don’t play the electric guitar,” I remind him. “I’ve got a perfectly good acoustic.”

“Which I haven’t seen you pick up in months,” he replies.

“Not really your affair, is it?” I’m being snotty for a reason. If Barry actually made a legitimate purchase from Sam Ash, then I think I know exactly where the nine hundred bucks came from.

“I got sick of seeing you moping around on your days off,” he explains. “Now you can have an outlet for your complicated and tragic existence.”

“I’ll be right back,” I say. I go into the bedroom and open the drawer where I keep my roll of bills. Sure enough, most of the wad is missing. I feel the fury start to bubble in my chest. I take a few deep breaths, trying to avert it. It’s not working.

I hear Barry strumming the Strat, then plugging it into the amp. He fiddles with the settings as I stand behind him and seethe.

“This is one of the best combo amps you can buy,” he says, turning the knobs and letting the strings ring out a tuneless set of notes, too many to be a proper chord. “When you start learning how to use it, you’ll never want to play an acoustic guitar again.”

“Barry, I didn’t ask you to do this! What’s wrong with you? It’s not a gift if you steal the money from me to buy it!”

“You wouldn’t have bought it for yourself. It’s something you ought to have. It’s for your own good. Therefore, it’s a gift.”

“Take it back. I want my money.”

“I can’t. Do you know what it took to get the damned thing here on the subway? If you don’t want to keep it, then you can carry it back to midtown yourself.”

“And what are we supposed to eat this week?” I ask, rhetorically.

“Quit pretending you’re poor,” he says. “You’re working tomorrow night.”

“You’re missing the point! Do you know how ridiculous what you just did actually is?”

“Got your attention, didn’t it?”

“You are such an asshole,” I mutter.

“What’s the matter, baby?” Barry taunts. “Can’t let anyone call your bluff?”

“What bluff? What are you even talking about?”

He looks at me with suppressed rage. “You think if you don’t try, you can’t fail? What is it, huh? What are you so afraid of, Little Miss Thing?”

“Your clichés,” I shoot back.

He sits staring at me, finally shrugging and relegating the new guitar and amp to a corner, where they will most likely sit and gather dust along with all our other junk. Then he picks up one of his dog-eared paperbacks, and I go to lie down in the other room.

I don’t know why either one of us is so angry. Habit, I suppose. This was probably supposed to be some sort of peace offering from Barry.

But all he’s succeeded in doing is humiliating me. Again. He’s lifted up a rock to expose the maggots that are crawling under it. And the bastard wants me to say “thank you.” Well, he can go fuck himself. It’s my rock, and I know damned well what’s under it. Why does he think I keep it where it is?