-There you go! Pay! he yelled, tossing Charlie my wallet and throwing open the cab door. He pulls out a twenty, tells the cabbie to keep the change, and gets out of the car. He wouldn't miss this for the world.
I slide on the thin layer of ice and adopt an apologetic tone.
"Beth, you don't know how sorry I am…I totally forgot!"
-Forget that? she asks in a calm and pleasant tone of voice.
"Our dinner... that I had invited you to the house...
"Don't worry, it's done.
As Beth talks, I discover that she has totally straightened her long brown hair.
"I have my own key, remember?" Beth says.
He brushes past me, but I'm still puzzled.
-Where are you going?
—Soda. They're over. "Beth, why don't you let me…" "Come in and make yourself comfortable, I'll be back in a minute.
He pulls away from me and sees Charlie.
"How are you, sweetie?"
Charlie opens her arms, intending to give him a big hug. She doesn't seem interested in reciprocating.
Hi Charlie.
Beth tries to dodge him but Charlie steps in front of her.
—How is the world of corporate accounting? she asks.
-Fine.
"And your clients?"
-Also.
-And the family?
-Good. She smiles, mounting her best defense. It's not an annoyed smile; nor a tired smile; It's not even a get the hell out of my way stoned mosquito kind of smile. Just one of Beth's typical easy, pleasant smiles.
"And what do you think of vanilla ice cream?" Charlie asks, raising an evil eyebrow.
"Charlie," I warn him.
-Than? He—turns to Beth to say, "Are you sure you don't mind if I crash your dinner?
Beth looks at me, then at Charlie.
"Perhaps it would be better if I left you alone."
"Don't talk nonsense," I insist. "No problem," she adds, waving her hand in the air in a gesture that means I needn't worry. Beth never complains. You should spend some time together. Oliver, I'll call you later.
Before either of them can stop her, she walks up the street. Charlie's eyes are fixed on the L.L. Bean snow boots Beth is wearing.
"My God, all the girls in the frat house wore those same boots," she murmurs. I pinch him hard on the back. But that's not enough to shut him up. As Beth walks away from her, her camel-hair wiggles behind her. Just like Darth Vader…just boring," Charlie adds.
He knows that Beth can't hear him, which makes things even worse.
"I'd give my left egg to see him land on his ass." When Beth has disappeared around the corner he says, "No luck." Bye doll.
I look at Charlie hard.
"Why do you always have to tease Beth like that?"
"I'm sorry, but you make it so easy for me!"
I turn around and walk quickly to the door.
-Than? -Question.
I scream without looking at him. Just like dad. "You can be a real jerk, you know that?"
She thinks about it for a moment. -I guess so.
Again, I refuse to look at him. He knows that he has gone too far. "Come on, Ollie, it's just a joke," he says, catching me at the bottom of the loose brick stairs. It's just that I'm secretly in love with her.
I put the key in the lock and pretend she's not there. That lasts two seconds.
"Why do you hate her so much?"
"I don't hate her, I just…hate everything she stands for. The boots, the calm smile, the inability to express anything resembling an opinion... it's not what I... It's not what you should want for yourself.
-For real?
"I'm serious," he says, as I open the third latch. It's the same as this tiny basement apartment. No offense, but it's like taking a blue pill and waking up to an urban twenty-something sitcom nightmare.
"You don't like Brooklyn Heights, that's all."
"You don't live in Brooklyn Heights," he insists. You live in Red Hook. Do you understand? Red. Hook.
I open the door and Charlie follows me into the apartment.
"Well, the Magic Pens and the color impress me," he says, pacing the apartment. Look who's in charge of decorating.
-I do not know what you're talking about.
"Don't be modest with me, Versace. When you moved into this apartment you had a used and stained mattress from Goodwill, a dresser you stole from our bedroom, and the table and chairs Mom and I bought at Kmart as gifts for the house. And now, what do I see in bed? Is it the latest Calvin Klein duvet model? Plus that faux antique Martha Stewart cracked paint covering the cabinet, and the table with that faux Ralph Lauren tablecloth, perfectly set for two. Do not think that I have overlooked that touch of love. And while I see what you're trying to do, brother... this is all a symptom of a deeper problem.
Charlie repeats the last words to himself. Symptom of a deeper problem. In the kitchen he takes out his notebook and writes it down. For some, life is an audition, he adds. His head bobs to the rhythm of a fast melody. When he gets like that, he takes a few minutes, so he just let it go. His hand jerks to a stop, then he begins scribbling on the notebook. The pen furiously scratches the surface of the paper. As he turns to the next page I catch a glimpse of a perfect little sketch of a man waving in front of a curtain. He is done with writing, now he is drawing.
It's the first thing that came naturally to him, and when he wants to, Charlie can be an incredible artist. So unbelievable, in fact, that the New York School of Visual Arts wanted to examine his patchy high school record and awarded him a full college scholarship. Two years later they tried to steer his career towards commercial work, such as advertising and illustration. It's a nice life, they told him. But the minute Charlie saw art and career converge, he took off and finished his last two years at Brooklyn College studying music. I was yelling at him for two days. He then told me that there is more to life than designing the new logo for a detergent bottle.