Page 19

NINETEEN

T he clock above the lobby bar at the Algonquin says 2:30 p.m., but it feels later in here. The light is very low and it takes a minute for his eyes to adjust. Soft music plays over the quiet lilt of conversation; groups of two and three and four people sit around small tables or slump in wingback chairs under lamps, with shopping bags from Saks and Bloomingdale’s and Apple at their feet. People with money.

Eddie looks down at his worn-out pullover and torn jeans. He doesn’t belong here. He’s never really been in a hotel like this before. The fanciest hotel he ever stayed in was a roadside motel on the way to Padre Island in Texas, when Donna saved up enough money to drive down for a few days with her friend Louisa. The motel didn’t have a bar, but it did have a vending machine with candy bars that only cost a quarter. Eddie had been seven, and they were only there for one night.

He chews on his insecurity, savoring its familiar flavor. He could just snap a quick photograph and leave. He’d be able to come up with something to say to Cookie about it by the time he got back.

But no lying to Cookie , remember? So he takes a seat at an empty table in the back of the room. He sets the white paper bag from the patisserie in the chair next to him and the book and camera on the table. He orders a Coke from a gray-haired waiter in a red vest.

Eddie looks around, taking in the old photographs hanging on the wall behind him, many of them taken here at the Algonquin in years past. One, captioned 1926 , shows patrons gathered in small groups near the taps, some standing, some perched on stools. Others are scattered in ones and twos among the tables throughout the room. The men wear wide-leg trousers and mustaches; the women are in drop-waist dresses and T-strap shoes. The room itself has changed, of course—new furniture, new carpeting—but not entirely. The layout is similar. And it’s still a quiet, dark, fancy hotel bar that feels like it’s been here a long time.

He rests his hand on the camera. He needs to find a way to take a decent photo in here, one that reminds Cookie what the Algonquin looks like, but also has that thing she talked about. The magic. But how to find it? He thinks back to all the photos he took of Cookie in her room, one after the other, reject after reject, before one, inexplicably, stood out. He can’t do that here. He can’t point and shoot photograph after photograph, firing the flash over and over, just hoping for something to happen. It would be easy on a phone, stealthier. But with this big, flashing, whirring camera, he’ll only get one photograph, maybe two at most, before people start staring and getting annoyed.

Might as well do it now. Eddie opens the camera, aims it at the bartender, and snaps. The flash goes off, startling him even though he knew it was coming. Several people at other tables look over. He waves at them sheepishly and lowers the camera. It spits out a photo. Eddie holds it in his hands, waiting.

And then, suddenly, a voice from behind him. “Your martini, sir.”

“My what?” Eddie says, looking up. He slips the still-undeveloped photo into his book.

A waiter is standing by Eddie’s table, balancing a tray on one palm, with a towel hanging over his forearm. This is not the waiter Eddie ordered his Coke from just a minute ago. This waiter has thick dark hair, pomaded and combed very neatly, and a pristine white dinner jacket. No red vest. His eyes are cast down as he places a small cloth napkin on the table, then carefully sets a cocktail glass on top, centering it just so. It’s filled to the rim with a clear liquid, and resting inside is a trio of olives skewered on a metal spear.

“Extra dry,” the waiter says. “As requested.”

“But I ordered a—”

“A martini,” the waiter says. “Excellent choice.” He smiles at Eddie, and that’s when Eddie sees his eyes.

And he freezes. He knows those eyes.

The eyes are luminous, glowing like beacons, at once sharp and shimmering and a thousand other colors. Eddie remembers an exhibit of beetles at a museum in Denver that he visited on a school trip, where he saw the incredible rainbow stag beetle, with a shell that changed colors depending on where you stood. When Eddie was still, the beetle was deep brown. But when he moved, the colors of the beetle began to flow like liquid across the exoskeleton, like oil on a puddle—green, indigo, violet, scarlet, copper, gold. It mesmerized him, the most beautiful thing he’d ever encountered. Until, maybe, now.

The eyes belong to the boy, of course. The boy from the fire hydrant, from the taxi, from the photograph in his bedroom at Cookie’s. Unmistakably him.

“May I bring you anything more, sir?” The waiter continues to smile. Not a typical waiter smile, the kind where he’s just being polite, but a real smile, an open smile, a magnetic smile.

Eddie’s breath shortens. Sweat pools at the base of his spine. He blinks. He blinks again. He rubs his eyes, grabs the tip of his finger. Relax, he tells himself. This is just a vision. Embrace it. Breathe.

Eddie stares up at the open smile.

“Sir?” the waiter repeats.

Eddie knows he’s been asked a question. He knows that the customary thing to do, when asked a question, is to provide an answer. But something is stopping him. His brain, or his mouth. He tries to engage his voice, to push air through his larynx, to say something… but nothing comes. Why? This is his own vision! He should be able to say anything, to be anyone. Nothing but confidence in your own imagination, right? Come on, Eddie. Speak.

But he can’t speak. He just stares.

The waiter smiles patiently.

Finally, Eddie manages to croak out a sound, something like no. He strains to add a thank you, but has already lost his breath again.

The waiter leans in, as if sharing a secret. “Remember,” he says. “If anyone with a badge comes in, a cop or a soldier or anyone at all in a uniform, that is not gin in your glass. That’s water. Prohibition, you know. Liquor is illegal. Officially, at least.” His lips are so close, Eddie can feel his breath on his ear, raising goose bumps across his skin.

The waiter straightens again, winks, and turns back toward the bar. Eddie watches him walk, spellbound as the waiter—no, not just the waiter, the beautiful boy with the shining eyes—drifts away across the room, collecting empty glasses and emptying ashtrays as he goes.

Eddie watches him until he disappears through a service door. It swings closed behind him. Eddie watches it until it stills, then looks around warily.

He sees a pair of young women in snug, old-fashioned cloche hats, laughing with a young man in a brown pin-striped waistcoat. They’re just across from a group of men in high-waisted trousers and shiny brogues, gesturing extravagantly with their cigarettes and stabbing fingers at a newspaper as they argue across the table. At one end of the room, he sees a middle-aged woman sitting alone and looking wistful as she tugs at the collar of the fur jacket draped over her shoulders. The barkeep, in a trim black tuxedo, polishes glasses while scanning the room from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. It all looks exactly like the picture he’d just seen on the wall. Only, this isn’t a picture on the wall. This is… real?

Eddie pinches his finger again. He reminds himself to breathe. No, this isn’t real. This is only another fantasy. Nothing to be freaked out by. This one is more vivid than usual, that’s all. Maybe it’s because of New York City. Everything is amplified here, even your imagination. That’s all this is, right? Your imagination?

Except—this vision feels different. This vision feels physical, alien. Like it’s not something Eddie’s built himself, but something he’s entered from outside. He can’t grasp the controls, can’t move the levers. The way the room has transformed around him, it feels real, like life. Not like something he’s conjuring, but like something that’s happening to him, whether he wants it or not.

Don’t panic, Eddie. Just breathe. It’s not a bad vision, is it? Why not see where it takes you?

He runs his finger across the outside of his martini glass, tracing a squiggle through the condensation. He doesn’t take a sip. He’s not thirsty.

He drops his gaze to his lap, and gasps. Whose clothes are these? Whose nubby wool trousers? Whose watch chain? Whose suspenders? Where are his jeans? His sneakers? He puts a hand up to his hair. It’s sticky from pomade.

Just to his right, he hears a peal of laughter. He turns to see a large round table with seven men and one woman sitting around it. The men are bookish, buttoned-up, fingers tucked into their watch pockets. But she is different. She is striking. Small, hunched, with a wavy bob parted to one side and tucked messily behind one ear. A strand of pearls falls over the square collar of her staid black dress. With one hand, she fiddles with the pearls, with the other, she waves a cigarette in the air. She is speaking, animated and passionate, while the men stare, rapt.

“But Dorothy—” one of the men says.

She flicks her cigarette at him dismissively. “Bennett, I meant what I said. Heterosexuality is not normal. It’s just common.”

The men all laugh and she leans back, confident and satisfied, and takes another drag.

As if she feels Eddie watching her, she glances over to meet his gaze. She holds it, eyes boring into his, as she tips her ashes onto the floor next to her and smiles. Eddie stares back, agape, disbelieving. She nods, then turns back to her conversation.

After a moment, the waiter approaches again, bobbing his head to the music from the piano in the corner, where a man wearing a carnation in his lapel plays and sings a tune that Eddie recognizes. It’s Cole Porter, of course:

I happen to like New York / I happen to like New York.

As the song reaches its climax, the waiter puts a hand on Eddie’s shoulder and sings along. The warm pressure of his fingers sends a shock down Eddie’s spine. It feels like desire, and Eddie tumbles inside. What is this place? What is this fantasy?