Daydream on Orchard Street (short story)

The girls on the Lower East Side were vapid in a way that was almost impressive.

It was calculated, their airiness; carefully curated and thoughtfully deployed, usually just to get them into the bars on Ludlow with $25 margaritas and C-list rappers on the guest list. Or to get backstage access at said rapper’s concerts in hole-in-the-wall venues, hoping to be leaving in said rapper’s car at the end of the night (or at least in the car of any other Instagram-verified member of his entourage) instead of stumbling toward Myrtle-Broadway in their micro mini skirts and Dior heels.

It was a disguise that could unlock any door guarded by a man. And that was most of the doors here, literally and figuratively. So I wasn’t surprised when Kimora had shown up to the theater tonight on Timmy’s arm, sashaying down the aisle showing off the new pair of hips she returned with from their vacation in DR. In the few times I’d met her before tonight, it had become clear that she was adept at feigning the particular brand of obliviousness that translated here as charisma.

And the men on the Lower East Side were as lacking in integrity as the girls were in substance, so of course Timmy made her his girlfriend. They were attracted to obliviousness because any girl too aware of their true character and intentions could become problematic.

So all Kimora had to do was laugh, nod, and be pretty (seriously—she’d never forget to remind her social media followers that this was her only role in life) to earn and keep Timmy’s attention. He had higher standards for what he sniffed up his nose than what he put his dick in.

It worked on other girls, too. It’s the reason why Kimora had walked out of the theater hand-in-hand with Vanessa and Selene, two of Timmy’s oldest friends and the neighborhood’s earliest socialites. Normally, it took much longer to get into these girl’s good graces (they’ve made people go through years of vetting before earning even a tag in group photos), but Kimora possessed a unique combination of all the key tokens of entry into their circle. Pretty, good fashion sense with a healthy balance of vintage designer and pieces fresh off last season’s runway, super skinny or busty in the right places, and charmingly oblivious. Plus, it helped that she was now dating the director of the music video—sorry, music film experience—that we just came from watching.

Dating a guy who was on the list for all the parties, friends with all the micro-celebrities and a few of the macro-ones, and had his own semi-local clout from various creative endeavors was the master token of entry. I knew because it’s how I ended up here, walking through the lower Manhattan streets on a Wednesday evening in Autumn, listening to Vanessa and Selene ramble about a girl who kept popping up to events wearing outfits a week after they’d posted wearing the same thing.

To shorten a story too long and too distant to divulge now, a couple years ago I was dating a rapper. (Clearly a rookie mistake in hindsight, yet an inexorable experience of the early twenties nonetheless.) We broke up for reasons I barely remembered, but while we dated I was brought to enough parties and plus-one’d on enough lists to become a recurring character among his friend group long after the relationship ended. Time moved so fast in LES that by now, most of them couldn’t even remember when I started coming around or who had brought me. Timmy was the first one I became cool with, since I was in film school during that relationship so he would let me shadow and assist on his music video sets. Once I graduated and started working with big names in music and fashion, the girls started inviting me out and buying me drinks and tagging me in photos. So I stuck around even after the breakup.

In fairness, I think they also genuinely liked me. And I liked them too, but I knew the fact that I had some access to fancy spaces and rubbed shoulders with a few fancy people was a motivating factor for keeping me around. It wasn’t that they wanted friends who could get them into rooms they couldn’t enter (that’s a little bit more LA)—they wanted friends with their own access so we could all walk into the rooms together. A hot girl by herself in one of these rooms could attract some of the important people in it. A group of hot girls in these rooms, to everyone around them, looked like important people themselves. And if they showed up together enough times, it became true.

“Timmy, what bar are we going to, babe?” Kimora slurred these words, her eyelash extensions almost fully eclipsing her half-opened eyes.

“Hopefully none for you,” James, another friend in the circle, replied to her. The group broke into laughter; Timmy had invited thirty of us to the private early screening of his film (an evening hosted at a local theater and sponsored by Jägermeister) and almost all of those people were together now, walking in a rowdy progression searching for the afters.

“Alright, everybody stop,” Timmy halted at the corner and the group gathered on the sidewalk, forcing passersby into the street to get around us. “This is getting ridiculous. Where are we going?”

“I thought we said Vino’s?” Mikey asked.

“Vino’s is burnt out,” Kev said. “We should do Keys. My boy Jah is working the door tonight.”

Selene threw her head back and groaned. “Can we go somewhere that has food? All I had today was that popcorn. I’m gonna get too drunk.”

“Word. Skinny’s got good eats,” Tony said.

Timmy nodded at this, along with a few others. “I could fuck with that.”

“Their food is literally trash.” This from Vanessa.

“But,” Timmy raised a finger with a smirk, “their drinks are strong.”

This was met with nods and a few extended yeeaaaaahs.

“You talking about their drinks strong. Nigga, you look more lit right now than your girlfriend,” James said. Again the group laughed, Selene the hardest; even in her drunkenness I could tell she found satisfaction in her title being announced and affirmed in front of everyone.

[Also, for context, Timmy was white. Not the only white man here, but one of few—there were more white girls than guys, since the girls were able to achieve through hair and makeup a kind of ambiguity that was pretty popular around these parts. But Timmy had the most money, so everyone affectionately called him ‘my nigga,’ treated him accordingly, and, quiet as its kept, gave him a pass to say it back every now and then when everyone was too drunk to care.]

“This was the pregame. Just wait ‘til you see how I’m about fuck Skinny’s up.” Cheers erupted when Timmy said this to James, and then a few people began trickling across the street, heading for chapter two of a night that would probably turn into a ten-part saga.

The rest of us broke into smaller groups on the sidewalk. I stood with Vanessa, Selene, Kimora, and a few of the other current/ex/soon-to-be girlfriends of the group.

“Is that the vibe? Because I feel like that doesn’t have to be the vibe,” Vanessa said, taking a pull from her vape.

“Well, that’s definitely where I’m going,” Kimora said. Obviously.

Selene shrugged and turned to me. “What are you tryna do?”

I forced a yawn. “I gotta be up early in the morning, so I don’t know. Might be a dub.” The rest of them just nodded. Sometimes I’d forget how normal it was for this group to stay out until four in the morning on weeknights. This was what most of them did for a living—hanging out with each other, going to events, showing up to bars, with a little modeling or drug dealing or photography in between.

The rest of the girls decided to go to Skinny’s to keep Kimora company amidst the meat fest, so we started hugging and saying our goodbyes. The other smaller groups on the sidewalk did this too, and in a moment everyone dispersed off into their own directions.

I started walking in the direction of Grand Street. It was around the time of night the trains started acting funny, and I was too inebriated and too pretty to be sitting in that station for thirty minutes. So I picked up my pace, about to start pushing past the loud groups of twenty-somethings, when I heard a voice call me from behind.

“Bria?”

I turned around to see Andre. He was another recurring character in the group, known among them and beyond them for his work as a designer. Usually these types heard that and thought fashion, which he did work in, but on the graphics and visuals side. He was always a calm but consistent presence among them.

“Oh, hey,” I smiled. “I didn’t even see you at the theater.”

“Yeah, I was in the cut for most of it. You not going with them?”

“Nah, I think I’ll call it a night. You?”

“Same here. Nothing at Skinny’s seems that enticing to me right now.”

I chuckled. “Well I’ll see you around then. Get home safe.”

“You too.”

I turned around again headed toward Grand. I was halfway up the block now, fishing my headphones out of the pocket of my jeans. When I found them and picked my head up, Andre was standing in front of me. I paused, then frowned, and we both laughed.

“I just, uh, had a question,” He smiled coyly, aware and seemingly apologetic about interrupting my walk a second time.

“I hope it’s a good one,” I retorted.

“How drunk are you?”

“Not drunk yet. A strong tipsy.”

He nodded. “Wanna get one last drink before we go home?”

I widened my eyes. “We?”

Andre laughed and quickly shook his head. “No, no. Not like that.”

“Oh, I thought you were trying to come home with me for a second.”

Still laughing, he said, “Nah. I’m just trying to get you a little more drunk and then send you on your merry, solo way.”

I muttered an mm-hmm while scanning him over. I’d never taken the time to really look at Andre, mostly because I never had a reason to. Besides being the kind of person who naturally kept my eyes to myself and the ground, he was also just someone I didn’t get to interact with beyond a hello and goodbye most of the time. We had the same friends but because the group was so big, some people ended up on opposite sides of it. We’d meet in the middle at parties, sharing fleeting conversations at bars that never went much further. This had been the case for Andre and I; but every time those conversations happened, however fleeting, they were pleasant. He was pleasant and funny and mostly just focused on his art, which were surprisingly rare qualities.

I knew that he was easy to talk to. And here under the white light reflecting from the corner store next to us, I could tell that he wasn’t difficult to look at, either.

There were worse people to get a drink with. Plus, in true Vanessa/Selene fashion I could probably finesse an Uber home, which was better than the train ride waiting for me.

I nodded. “Anywhere but Skinny’s.”

______________________________________________

A few months ago, Vanessa saw her ex walking into a bar with a Wilhelmina model. Obviously, she stormed over to the bar ready to confront him and was stopped by a bouncer who informed her that particular night was invite-only. She left, but a few batted eyelashes and close-friends posts later she was able to not only find out what event was happening at the bar and who was hosting, but she found the host himself. She made herself his date to the event and walked in with him, Selene and I following close behind, and ever since she’s said that the look on her ex’s face when he saw her made all the effort worth it. After that it kind of became one of our usual spots, and every time we went we’d laugh about that story.

But when Andre asked me if I’d ever been here before after the very same bouncer from that night allowed us inside, I said I hadn’t.

We pushed our way down a tight corridor to find vacant seats. I walked in front of Andre, and I could feel his hand lightly on my forearm guiding me through the people. We finally came to two empty seats at the end of the bar; he pulled out both and we sat side by side.

“So I’m guessing you’re a tequila kinda girl, right?” He asked.

“How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess.” He shrugged with a satisfied smile. He turned to catch the bartender’s attention.

“Well, you’re right, but I actually don’t think that’s my vibe right now.”

Andre turned back to me. “I see. Something calmer?” I nodded. “Wine?”

“Perfect,” I said. I was grateful to not have had to explain too much, probably because that wasn’t what he was truly in the mood for either. If we wanted to down tequila shots, we would’ve joined the group at Skinny’s.

He caught the bartender’s eye and called him over. He leaned over the bar and spoke words I couldn’t hear into his ear. The bartender nodded, went off to the other side of the bar, and returned with two glasses and a fancy-looking bottle containing an amber orange liquid.

I made an impressed face at Andre while he poured out our glasses, and he chuckled. “Is orange wine for pretentious assholes?”

I picked up my glass and toasted with his then brought it to my lips. The wine was dry but rich with flavor, and certainly felt smoother going down my chest than tequila would’ve. “Pretentious assholes with refined taste,” I said.

He drank to that with a laugh.

The spot was lively for a weeknight, but not as chaotic and intense as other local spots could be. We were sitting at the bar and didn’t have to shout to hear each other’s voices, remarkably. The sounds in the space were mild enough that I could feel the silence between us.

“So, when did you start calling me Bria?”

“Did I not always call you that?”

“I don’t actually remember. But I know that I introduce myself to people with my full name, so I’m always curious about how people who use the nickname arrived there.”

Andre thought for a moment, stirring the wine glass against the bar counter. “I think that’s how Gray first introduced you. So I just kept using the first name I heard.”

I gave a silent nod. Of course. Again, it had been so long ago now (two years, but in LES time that might as well have been five) and everything about us was old news. But that’s why it made my skin feel tight every time Gray was brought up in relation to me, especially among this crowd—I felt like any mention of him was a reminder to them that I actually hadn’t been around that long; that I was a second-hand addition, an extension of a ghost. (He wasn’t dead, just too busy these days to come around much and not particularly rushing to because of how often I did.) I also wondered if members of the group that had been closer to Gray, like Andre, ever thought that I was the reason they saw less of him now and resented me for it.

Andre must’ve seen the look on my face, because he gave me a smile and said, “I won’t bring him up again.”

He was wearing one of those plain crew necks that looks unsuspectingly expensive, Diesel jeans, and tiny gold studs in both earlobes. He was not pretentious nor an asshole (especially in comparison to a lot of the people he knew), but his tastes were certainly refined. Every time I saw Andre he looked effortlessly curated, so much that I’d never thought about it until now. Even the glint in his bronze eyes under the bar’s dimmed lights and the fingers playing idly in his short hair seemed spontaneous, but I could tell that he wanted me to study the details. He wanted me to be aware of him.

“So do you like Sabria or Bria better?”

“Since you told me where you got Bria from, let’s go with the former.”

“Okay, Sabria.” One reason I sometimes gave people my nickname was that they pronounced my full one in a way I didn’t like to hear, but it sounded pretty coming off of his lips. “How come you didn’t go party with your friends?”

I took another sip of wine. “Well unlike them I have, you know, real adult responsibilities.”

Andre nodded, finding humor in this. “I do know how that is. I have to be up kind of early tomorrow myself.

“Wait, you have a job?” I laughed at myself for being so crass. “I mean, I thought you were freelancing.”

“I was but yeah, I got a real grown-up job. Still in graphic design but at this advertising agency now,” he explained. “I still freelance on the side, though. The creative world is cool but it’s also weird, especially the people. And I needed a more steady stream of income.”

“I totally get that! I work at a production company and freelance on the side too. But it’s funny because a lot of my friends, our friends, don’t get it. Like I can’t really talk to them about work stuff because they don’t understand why I won’t leave in the middle of the weekday to come to a pop-up. Or why I can’t spend six weeks exploring Europe with them over the summer.”

Andre poured more wine into our glasses while he listened to me. He handed me mine and watched me take a sip.

“Why do you hang out with them?”

I swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“Vanessa, Selene, Timmy, everybody. You talk about them like you don’t have a lot in common with them, but you’re always with them.”

“Well technically, I only know them because of Gray. That’s why I started hanging out with them, because of hanging out with him.”

“You never seemed to have that much in common with him either.”

I frowned. “You and Gray are close friends. What do y’all have in common?”

“I don’t know if I would say close,” Andre clarified. “And we actually don’t have that much in common. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, you and I both know these people. And here we are, sitting here together.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t have to mean we’re around them for the same reasons. Maybe you just have more in common with them than we do with each other.”

I found the boyish smile on his face less endearing now. “Maybe you are a pretentious asshole.”

Andre chuckled and held up two surrendering hands. Then we simultaneously reached for our glasses and downed their contents. He looked at me again. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” He’d actually only asked a few so far, but I was growing annoyed with them already.

“You inspire a lot of questions.”

We locked eyes for a moment. I was slightly impressed with the reply but hid it. I gave him a nod of approval.

“What’s your biggest fear?”

“Damn, at least take me out to dinner first before you bring out the intrusive ones.” Andre and I laughed together, and then I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know, though. I don’t really think I have an answer.”

“Okay, if I get you another drink can I ask you something else?”

“Go ahead. I’m getting drunk already,” I said, sipping the last of the wine we had left. Andre summoned the bartender again and ordered two of the night’s specials. A few moments later, he brought us two black rum cocktails. We toasted, and then just when I was bringing the cup to my lips for another sip, he asked his question.

“Do you think that you’re afraid of being like them?”

I took a bigger sip from the glass than originally planned and set it back down. “Like who?”

“Gray. The girls you hang out with.”

“It seems like asking me is your way of telling me.”

Andre shook his head. “No, I’m not telling you. I’m genuinely asking if that’s something you’re afraid of. Of becoming emotionally stunted and impulsive like Gray is. Or becoming airheaded and unambitious like Vanessa and Selene are.”

“I never called any of those people any of those things.”

“What I’m asking, Sabria, is if those are things that you’re afraid of becoming.” He spoke with the cautious delicacy of a therapist delivering a hypothesis they knew their patient wouldn't want to hear. “And if you surround yourself with those people because you find comfort in how opposite they are to you. They can’t fully connect with who you are, but you keep them around as reminders of everything that you aren’t.”

I didn’t know if it was the alcohol or if he’d been harboring these thoughts about me all along, but I didn’t like the things Andre was saying to me. Not because I thought they were true, but they were bringing up memories and thoughts of Gray that I didn’t need to explore and he’d promised he wouldn’t bring him up again. And, after all, I came here suspecting that he brought me here to flirt with me which would result in free drinks and a ride home. If I knew he’d brought me here to psychoanalyze me, I would’ve taken the train.

“No,” I said, already finishing the cocktail. “That’s a silly thing to be afraid of. But, honestly, so is everything else.”

“So you’re not afraid of anything?”

I shook my head. “Nothing I can think of.”

Andre smiled and downed the rest of his drink. “Okay, miss big and bad. I was gonna get you an Uber home, but since you’re not afraid of anything the train should be fine, right?”

I sucked my teeth and gave him a come on look, and he leaned into me with his laughter.

“Okay fine, you got me,” I surrendered. “You can call it now.”

————————————————————

Andre stood outside the bar waiting with me. The car was apparently three minutes away, so we just watched the skateboarders doing their tricks up and down Allen Street.

“Thank you,” I said to him. He looked away from the skaters and down at me. I felt smaller in his gaze now, out here, than I did sitting with him at the bar; maybe even ever before.

“For what?”

“The drinks, the ride, the invitation.”

He smiled, turning his full body to face me now. “Thank you for accepting it.”

I broke our eye contact and let out a sigh. “So are you gonna get your ride home after I leave?”

“Actually, Timmy and them hit me up to ask if I was still around so I might head back to Skinny’s.”

I shook my head. “You better than me.”

Just then, a black Toyota Camry pulled up with the correct license plate number. He walked me to the car and pulled me in for a hug. It was brief, less intrusive than his line of questioning, but warmer than I was expecting. Leaving much to be longed for in its ephemerality.

“Well, I hope you wake up in time for your responsibilities in the morning,” I said to him.

“Shit, me too,” he laughed. “Text me when you get home, alright?” I nodded and he opened the car door for me to get in the backseat and then closed it behind me. I waved from the inside and he walked away.

The driver repeated the address of the destination, my apartment in Brooklyn, to me. “All set?”

“Uh…” My eyes were still focused on Andre. He was a few feet away, looking at his phone and preparing to walk to the curb to cross the street, but I knew he still had the car in his peripheral. “One sec,” I said to the driver.

I opened the door again. Andre noticed this, turning his head to look over with a frown. I stayed put inside the car watching him approach. He placed a hand on top of the opened door and looked at me questioningly.

“Come home with me,” I said.

Now he looked even more confused—unsure whether he’d heard me right or whether I was serious. But he leaned in closer. “Why?”

“Because I’m scared of being alone.”

Andre’s face relaxed some. He looked at the driver, who was looking back at us. Then he looked at his phone. Whatever or whoever was in it could not have been very enticing, because in a matter of seconds Andre stuffed it away in his pocket, gazed into my eyes, and then dove into the backseat like there was a home waiting in me.