Crazy in Love (12 page)

“I’m glad you’re my friend, Sallie,” he said. “I’m sorry
that I can’t promise that one day you and I will walk into the
sunset together, hand in hand, and live happily ever after,
but I just don’t see things happening that way.” He paused.
“Now, do you hate me?”

“No, not at all.” I laughed. “I’m glad you’re my friend,
too. Not to mention my business partner.”

“Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten about that.” We were out of the
park by then, standing on Fifth Avenue and watching the
cars whiz by. “I’d originally planned to spend today
working on that song with you, but I’m afraid I don’t feel
much like doing it anymore. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“I think maybe I’ll go home and work on it alone. It
might make me feel better if I can get my mind off this
whole thing.”

“Okay.” We continued walking together toward Lexing
ton Avenue, where Saul could get the subway. Our
conversation turned to our song and to the WROX contest,
which was only one week away. The following Saturday
night was the first level of the competition, and the truth
was that I was getting nervous. Saul’s social life was getting
in the way of our progress as a creative team. “But we have
to get together this week,” I insisted as we neared the 86
th
Street station. “We can’t enter the contest
unless we come up with those prize-winning lyrics.”

“I know. And I’ll be working on them. You do the same.
I’ll call you, Sallie!” he promised as he disappeared down
the subway station steps.

I must admit, I was kind of relieved to see him go. I felt completely drained by the heart-wrenching day I’d just lived through. First Rachel, that morning. And then the afternoon with Saul. I think the afternoon was even more
difficult for me. There’s one thing I’m completely convinced of, though: It’s no easy thing, strolling through
Central Park with a teddy bear who looks as if he’s about to
cry.

The thing I like best about New York City is its
unpredictability. It has a totally unique feeling. I
honestly believe that if I were blindfolded and flown around
in a helicopter for hours, then dropped anywhere in
Manhattan, still blindfolded, I would be able to tell that I was in New York. Everything about it is just so
different
from anyplace else in the world that it simply cannot be
compared to any other city.

For example, once I was standing in front of F.A.O.
Schwarz, the giant toy store on the corner of Fifth Avenue
and 58th Street. Now, F.A.O. Schwarz is not just
any
toy store; it has all kinds of wild and exotic stuff
that you simply cannot find anywhere else. It has twelve-room Victorian dollhouses, complete with tiny grand pianos and teensy-weensy forks and candlesticks; stuffed gorillas and lions and giraffes that are as big as the
real ones that live in the Bronx Zoo; marionettes
with faces so lifelike that you expect them to start talking to you. The place is a total fantasy world, a little Disneyland
right in the middle of midtown.

Anyway, on this particular occasion, there was a little girl standing near the entrance to the store, cradling a doll in her
arms. This was not your usual doll; it was a male, for one
thing, and it was dressed in some sort of uniform.

I leaned over and asked, “What’s your doll’s name?”

“He doesn’t have a name,” the little girl replied
congenially.

“Well, I see he’s wearing a uniform. Is he a policeman,
or a soldier?”

“No,” she answered, very matter-of-factly. “He’s a
doorman.”

Only in New York. That’s exactly the kind of thing that makes me giddy over the fact that I live here in this city that
is as much of a fantasy land as F.A.O. Schwarz, only with
real people instead of wooden and plastic ones.

As I walked home on that Saturday afternoon, after
having watched Saul vanish into the New York subway
system, I witnessed two things that had the result of
changing my perspective on the whole situation. I was
trudging along 86th Street, lost in my own thoughts
as I passed colorful fruit-and-vegetable stands and quaint
German restaurants and bakeries. And all of a sudden a bum
who was lurking in a doorway caught my eye. He was just your typical bum: dusty worn-out shoes, unshaven face,
stringy black hair streaked with gray. But-he was also wearing a brand-new, bright yellow sweatshirt with the
name “Bennetton” printed across the front in bold black
letters. Can you picture that? Needless to say, I couldn’t
help chuckling over that one.

Then, further down the street, I came across a panhandler begging for money. Once again, this isn’t exactly a rare sight
. But instead of the
traditional tin cup, this particular guy was clutching a
paper
cup. You know, one of those waxy white ones with the
purple and orange swirls printed on it. It was terrific.

Seeing things like this, commonplace occurrences with
some unusual, unexpected twist, is hardly rare in New York. But these two little events, superimposed over the terrible mood I’d sunken into, managed to bring me back to reality. It was similar to looking at the dinosaur bones: In light of the world at large, my own situation began to look
quite different from the time when I could see no farther
than my own freckled nose.

I began to feel more hopeful, more determined to play an
active part in setting things right instead of just sitting
around watching everybody—myself included—go from feeling bad to feeling even worse. And so, as difficult as it would be, I resolved to confront Rachel and see if I could
convince her that she was making a huge mistake. She
was hurting Saul, she was hurting me, and, ultimately,
she was hurting herself.

Once I’d decided on my strategy, I felt a sense of
relief. After all, this was really the only thing to do. But at
that point I was so wrung out by the emotionally grueling
day that all I wanted was some time to myself. By the time I
reached my front door, I’d planned my schedule for the
next twenty-four hours. It included, among other things, a very hot bath, an hour or so with my guitar, and an evening
of goofing off with my sister, assuming she was open to
the idea. Then, after all that, I would tackle the Saul-and-Rachel issue with
full force.

That evening my parents went off to a party at the home
of some friends of theirs who live up in Westchester County.
Jenny and I had the apartment all to ourselves. It was tons of fun, carrying on like crazies instead of mature, responsible members of the Spooner household. We played our favorite music
so loudly that it could be heard all over the
apartment, stayed up late and watched a stupid but fun
Sandra Dee movie on Channel 9, made popcorn
and smothered it with more salt and hot melted butter than is
generally considered normal or even desirable. I discussed my plan with Jenny at great length,
and she agreed that sitting down with Rachel and having it
out was the best way—the
only
way—to handle the whole
situation.

So the next day, Sunday, I set out for the Glass residence right
after lunch. I must admit, however, that I was pretty nervous as
I tripped across the
sidewalks toward East 77th Street. I talk big,
but when the heat is on, I’m as much a victim of butterfly
stomach and shaky knees as the next guy. It’s not easy,
telling your best friend that you think she’s wrong, and that
you’ve even gone so far as to side against her. I can honestly
say that my allegiance was with Saul as I nodded to the
doorman of Rachel’s building and rode up the elevator. And
being aware of that only made me even more nervous.

Feeling anxious and approaching the Glasses’ apartment
are two totally opposite actions. Just as I consider
Rachel my sister and Mrs. Glass my second mother, whenever I’m in the presence of Rachel’s whole family—her parents
plus her older brother, Steven—I feel as comfortable as
when I’m with the Spooner clan. Perhaps even a bit
more
comfortable sometimes, because I know that certain topics of conversation, such as grades, noise level, and long red
hairs in the bathroom drains, won’t ever come up. Never
theless, I was feeling true anxiety as I waited for the front door of the Glasses’ apartment to open in response to
my less-than-assertive knock.

Mrs. Glass answered. Her face broke into a
warm smile when she saw who it was.  A wave of relief rushed over me. It was a wonderful feeling, knowing that I
was so welcome.

“Hi, Sallie!” she exclaimed. “What a nice sur
prise! Come on in!”

One of the best things about Mrs. Glass is that she always
treats me as if I’m an equal when I pop over, as if I were visiting her or the whole family instead of just her daughter. I mean, the mothers of some of my friends always seem in such a hurry to push me off on their kids whenever I call or drop by. The instant they see me or recognize my voice on
the phone, they say, “Oh, wait, I’ll go get Jane,” or
whomever, and they dash off. Not Mrs. Glass. She and I
have spent many an hour talking, discussing life, seated
together at the kitchen table or on the living room couch. Sometimes, when I stop in and Rachel turns out not to be
home, I end up visiting with her mother instead.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Sallie,” Mrs.
Glass went on, leading me into the kitchen. “It’s been at
least two weeks. Has school been keeping you busy?”

It’s funny—from the back, Mrs. Glass looks almost
identical to her daughter Rachel. They’re about the same size and build, and they both have shoulder-length black
hair. Usually, Mrs. Glass wears her hair in a
ponytail—especially when she goes to work—but on this
particular day, it was loose. With her wine-colored pants
and pink cotton blouse, she was a ringer for Rachel.

“Yes, I guess I have been busy lately,” I answered. I
could tell by her voice that she had absolutely no inkling of what had transpired between Rachel and me during the last couple of days. It was better that way, too; while I can see
real value in asking the opinions of people you trust, I’ve
never been one to go dragging everybody and his uncle into my personal affairs. Apparently, that was true of Rachel as well.

“I was just going to have a cup of tea. Care to join me?” Mrs. Glass offered. “Here, I’ve got some cookies from that
new French bakery around the corner. Let’s have some
while you tell me all about the courses you’re taking this
semester.”

I sat down at the kitchen table, greedily digging into the
package of cookies, whose two main ingredients were
butter and chocolate. While the water boiled in a fire-engine-red enamel kettle, Mrs. Glass joined me. I gave her
a quick rundown of all my classes.

“So you and Rachel aren’t in any classes together this year?” She frowned when I’d filled her in on my new schedule. “That’s too bad.” She poured boiling water
into two cups and handed one to me so I could dunk my own
teabag. It was Earl Grey tea, my favorite.

“Yes, it is too bad,” I agreed. “We hardly get to see each
other anymore, since we’ve both been so busy with
homework and exams and all that.” I peered at her through
the rising steam of my cup. “How
is
Rachel, anyway?”

“Oh, she’s just fine. She’s holed up in her room right
now, working on some project for Spanish. A paper on
Don
Quixote,
I think.”

Just about then, Rachel’s older brother, Steve, walked in.
The most notable thing about Steven Glass is the fact that he
was my very first major crush after I moved to New York.
Soon after Rachel and I became friends and I started
spending a lot of time at her house, I had the pleasure of
meeting him.

He was a sophomore at Columbia University then, and I spent hours making up fantasies in which he would invite me to some terribly exciting school dance or something
and fall madly in love with me. I think those fantasies
included us moving into an apartment in Greenwich Village
together, although why a student at Columbia would want to
move all the way down to the opposite end of Manhattan is
now completely beyond me.

Besides, I think that whole infatuation only lasted about a
week. Once I saw that Steve was very big brotherish—
which included teasing Rachel mercilessly and treating both
of us as if we were mere children
,
simply because he had
the status of being a worldly college student—he dropped
from being Mr. Right back down to earthly status. And after
he became Rachel’s brother again, he and I began feeling
pretty comfortable with each other. Sometimes he was even sort of protective of me, which had a certain charm about it.