Jessica did not go straight home after work. She walked into Nailed It, a salon near her apartment, and walked out an hour later with her fingernails clipped, filed, and polished in a summery neon-orange.
On a whim, she sauntered around the corner and went into Art’s Artistry.
Could she get an appointment? Art, the owner, said she was in luck. A customer had just canceled.
“I’ve decided I want two tattoos. Written in script. One on each forearm,” Jessica said.
Art invited her to sit and look at his design books and discuss ideas.
“Think of what inspires you,” Art advised. “And think ahead thirty or forty years. Will you still want to see those ideas on your body?”
“I am inspired by strong women,” Jessica said. “Maybe I can find a couple of elegant quotes from someone I admire.” She flipped through the pages looking for her perfect tattoos.
Art said, “Give me some names of these strong women who inspire you.”
“Let me think. Some of them are writers,” Jessica said. She scanned the pages in front of her. “One of them is a poet.”
Together, she and Art came up with two sentences paraphrased from Maya Angelou. She got comfortable in the big leather recliner and Art got to work with the tattoo needle. When he finished a couple of hours later, Jessica was quite pleased with the results.
“Thank you, Art. This was fun and I love your work!” She was relieved that the experience had not been extremely painful.
When Jessica walked through the door of her apartment that night, she felt exhilarated and a bit nervous. It had been a long and somewhat weird day.
* * *
When she arrived at the truck the next morning, Jessica thrust out her hands to show her polished nails.
“Well Bick, take a look. Is this better? Does this meet with your approval?”
Bick and Steve looked up from their work stations.
“Nice!” Steve nodded approvingly. “You got a manicure.”
Before Bick could comment, Jessica blurted, “And on a whim, I did this.”
She rotated her arms with her palms facing up. Each forearm sported fancy script lettering. Bick read the tattoos out loud, left arm first, then right.
Life is a bitch.
Go out and kick ass.
“Cool!” Steve smiled and high-fived with his sister.
Bick snickered. “Whatever floats your boat, I guess. Not something I would do.”
“I thought all chefs loved ink,” Jessica said.
Bick shook his head. “Not this chef. I never understood the appeal. Why would I want permanent writing on my skin?”
Steve chimed in. “The real reason Bick has no ink is because Bick has a serious needle phobia. Right, Bick?” Steve’s raised eyebrows dared Bick to contradict him. Steve turned back to Jessica.
“You should see Bick at the doctor’s office when he gets a flu shot. I have to go with him and hold his hand. Am I right, Bick?”
Bick raised both middle fingers in the direction of Steve and Jessica. “One for each of you.”
“It’s a fact. Don’t deny it,” Steve grinned, enjoying the repartee at Bick’s expense.
“It’s time to get to work,” Bick growled. “And by the way, I heard from ketchup lady. Her blouse is at the dry cleaners and she will be sending me the bill.”
“That seems reasonable,” Steve said. “We’re getting off easy.”
Jessica put on her apron. “Those damn bottle caps will not fall off again on my watch. I promise!”
* * *
Throughout the day, Steve’s toothache pain worsened. By early evening, he was in agony.
“You need to go to the emergency dental clinic now!” she said. “Your jaw is swollen.”
Bick agreed. “Dude, go now. Jessica and I will close up the truck.”
After an hour-long wait in an upper west side emergency clinic, Steve learned that one of his molars had a pus-filled abscess. He was sent home with painkillers, antibiotics, and an appointment to return on Monday for a root canal.
He got home late and tiptoed down the hallway. Bick was sound asleep in the darkened bedroom with the television on. Kim Kardashian was doing the rhumba on Dancing With the Stars. Oliver—asleep on the floor at Bick’s side of the bed—snored loudly. Gracie and Jerard, nestled together on the rug at Steve’s side of the bed, yipped softly when he quietly entered.
Bick stirred, lifting his head from the pillow. “How’s your tooth?” he mumbled.
“Okay for now. I’m on painkillers. Go back to sleep,” Steve whispered. “I’m too wired right now to come to bed.” He closed the bedroom door and walked to the end of the hallway.
His computer sat on the desk in the alcove of the spare bedroom—the bedroom now occupied by Nestor. After Nestor moved in, Steve hadn’t bothered to find another desk space in the apartment. With Gracie and Jerard padding along behind, he knocked on the closed door of Nestor’s room. A ribbon of light escaped from under the door.
“Hey, Nestor,” Steve said, cracking the door open, “do you mind if I come in for a few minutes?”
Lounging on the bed in a hooded bathrobe and black boxer shorts, Nestor motioned for Steve to come in.
“Hey, no problem,” he said. “I’m just checking my schedule for tomorrow. Even though it’s Sunday, I have three house calls to make. Of course, my hourly rate goes up on weekends.” He winked playfully at Steve.
Nestor pulled back the hood of his robe, revealing dark, damp curls post-shower.
“I love my customers because they can’t be bothered to manage their own computer files. I know that sounds cynical. I go in and delete all the junk programs they never use. Plus, I have to update their software. And for that, they seem to love me.”
“Sounds like you have job security,” Steve said.
“Yeah, pretty much. Whenever someone’s computer screen goes dark, I get a panic call. So, what’s up?”
“I wanted to use my computer for just a few minutes.” Steve shuffled to the alcove and eased into the desk chair. “It’s for my blog. I won’t stay long. Do you mind if these little knuckleheads come in, too? We don’t want to bother you.”
“Please. You and the dogs can stay as long as you want. You’re never a bother.” Another wink.
“Thanks, man.” The scent of sandalwood in here is sweet.
Steve set to work editing his photo files.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been to your food truck,” Nestor said. “I’ve been meaning to come, but I only have one client downtown so I hardly ever get below Houston Street. I’ll make a point to come. I could really go for some good empanadas.”
“Sure. Come anytime,” Steve said. He imagined the mini-conniption Bick would have if Nestor showed up and ordered only empanadas and no meat loaf, but whatever.
“It would be great to serve you. Our paths don’t seem to cross even though you’re living here,” Steve said, laughing.
“Yeah, I know,” Nestor said. “Work has been really busy. And I’ve been trying to find my own place.”
“Would you be willing to critique some photos that I plan to post on my blog?”
“Of course!” Nestor hoicked himself from the bed and sat on the loveseat next to Steve’s computer to get a better look. He scanned the thumbnail photos.
“Dude, these are great! Your eye for composition is amazing. I love this one!” He pointed at an image of a foot-high sandwich made with a stack of empanadas alternating with slices of meatloaf. “How did you do that?”
“Yeah, that one was tricky,” Steve said. “I had to stick in some wooden skewers to hold it all together. About ten seconds after I finished shooting, the whole thing toppled. What a mess.”
Nestor pointed at another photo. “This one has a Salvador Dalí feeling about it. It’s kind of surreal the way the empanadas seem to be floating out the serving window.”
“Thanks,” Steve said. “I’m getting pretty good with Photoshop, if I do say so.” Just a gentle touch on your face.
“Besides food, I see you also take lots of pictures of your dogs,” Nestor said.
“Thankfully, Gracie and Jerard never get tired of posing. They are my muses. I don’t make them wear clothes and wigs, though. Like William Wegman’s Weimaraners.”
“Hah!” Nestor laughed. “I’m sure Gracie and Jerard are relieved to hear that!”
Hearing their names, the dogs perked awake from dozing. Nestor leaned over and scratched them both behind the ears.
“I really appreciate your feedback,” Steve said.“It means a lot. Sign up for my blog, if you want to see more of my work. I have a lot of followers.”
“I will do that,” Nestor said, returning to the bed.
“Bick is one hundred percent not interested in my photography.” Steve turned off the computer and stretched out on the love seat, the upholstery still warm from Nestor’s body. He kicked off his shoes and let them drop to the floor.
“Bick also has zero interest in my volunteer work with the dogs. May I ask you a personal question?” Would you kiss the back of my neck?
“Sure, why not,” Nestor said, yawning from the bed. “Ask me anything.”
“What happened between you and your boyfriend? Why did you break up?”
“Because Stewie—Stewart—is an insecure, immature dipshit. He lives off a big trust fund in a nice co-op apartment in TriBeCa. He couldn’t understand that I had to get up every morning and go to work. He wanted us to stay out partying until 4 or 5 in the morning. Like, every night.”
“Must be nice to have that freedom. To not have to worry about money,” Steve said. “Meanwhile, I’m wondering how I’m going to pay for an expensive root canal.”
Nestor yawned again. “Stewie and I went out to all the different clubs. Everybody knew Stewie, the life of the party. I was the fifth wheel. One time a flirty thing sidled up to him and cooed, ‘Hey, Magenta.’ Later I asked him ‘what’s with Magenta?’ Stewie said it was his club name.” Nestor rolled his eyes at the memory of it.
“Do you have a club name?” Steve asked. I want to know everything about you.
“Hell, no! For a while when we were out partying, Stewie was calling me Babylon, or Baby for short.” Nestor rolled his eyes again. “I told him to knock it off.”
Steve devoured Nestor’s words as if inhaling a narcotic.
“No, the attraction was purely physical,” Nestor continued. “It was probably the same for him. He got super suspicious whenever I came home late from a client meeting. We would have a big argument and then have sex. It got to be a routine.”
“He sounds insecure,” Steve said. “I know the signs.”
“Being with Stewie was emotionally exhausting. By the end, I was just going through the motions.”
Steve contemplated the routine coupling of Nestor and Stewie.
“I could use a glass of wine. Would you like one?” Steve asked, sitting up. “We have a nice bottle of Chianti Classico somewhere.”
“Sounds great!”
Steve—with Gracie and Jerard padding close behind—returned in a few minutes with the Chianti and two glasses. Nestor had kicked back on the bed, his robe casually tossed onto the loveseat where Steve had lounged moments ago.
“The pain meds for my tooth have worn off, so I need some vino,” Steve said, holding his jaw. He poured a glassful, handed it to Nestor, and seated himself on the edge of the bed.
He poured the other glass for himself.
“So, where did you grow up, anyway?” Steve asked.
“Grand Concourse in the Bronx.”
“No way! I go up there a lot,” Steve said. “My friends Andrew and Diego live on 138th. How come our paths never crossed?”
“Oh, I left the Bronx a while ago. After I found a job, I moved to the West Village.”
“Is that where you met Stewie?” Steve was swirling in a pleasant warmth at that moment. Oh, to lie down next to you.
“Yeah,” Nestor said. “He’s one of those people who has more money than sense. He was calling me every day to come fix his computer. At some point, I moved in with him.”
“Well, I’m very happy that you are here right now,” Steve said. Don’t leave.
Steve poured them both another glass. “Have you ever seen the Alfred Hitchcock movie North by Northwest? It stars the beautiful Eva Marie Saint and the enticing Cary Grant.”
“Oh man, that’s one of my favorites.”
Steve studied how Nestor took his time, holding the wine glass so elegantly as he sipped. Bewitched by the late hour and the analgesic-alcohol potion circulating in his blood, Steve stared at Nestor’s eyes and whispered, “Right now, you look exactly like Cary Grant.”
“Hmm.” Nestor smiled broadly, softly. “Are you enticed?”
“Oh, yes.”
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