buttons to swap. Is that okay?”
Well, no, it wasn’t okay. It was Yoni’s job to manage details like that, and she wasn’t going to be happy about him muscling in on her territory. If the wrong buttons made it to the store, Yoni had to hunt down the button manufacturer or the order slip, or she had to confront Ephraim, but that wasn’t something André could manage on his own. Laura got her cell phone out to call her, but a shout from the design room interrupted her train of thought.
“Everybody get the hell in here.” Sheldon clutched his briefcase. His wool coat was draped over his forearm as if he were on his way out. “Come on. I don’t have all night.”
Laura stood against the wall with her arms folded. Carmella stood next to her and pushed her foot against hers in a show of solidarity, which separated her from André that much more. Sometimes, she couldn’t help but really like Carmella.
“Tomorrow, they’re burying my wife,” Sheldon announced, using the coldest words he could. For the first time, Laura sensed he hid a great hurt behind his abrasive manner. “I know you all worked with her, and I know some of you even liked her. But I don’t know who those people might be, and I’m not going to go around and ask, because you’ll lie. So tomorrow, I’m closing the office, and I don’t want to hear about this goddamn show because I don’t care.” He looked pointedly at Laura. “The funeral’s in her family plot in Greenwood Cemetery. That’s in Queens , for those of you that weren’t raised here, and you’d normally have to take a bus. I’ve arranged cars to pick you up outside at nine. You’ll be part of the procession, and streets are closing, so it won’t be too much of an inconvenience for you.” He turned on his heel and left.
David, carrying a clipboard, appeared in his place. He cleared his throat. “If you could tell me if you’re coming, I can get the right number of cars.”
Laura heard André mutter to Yoni, “I’m selling the co-op, and I have an open house tomorrow.” He shook his head at the horrid turn of events. Laura knew him. He never missed an opportunity to do a meet-and-greet. He must be getting pressure from Inge to sell, which would explain his overall social ineptitude.
Not wanting to deal with André, Laura slipped out without getting her name on the list. She figured Gracie wouldn’t miss her.
By the time Laura got to Serious, it was ten o’clock. One drink, she vowed, then to bed so she would be fresh for Jeremy the next morning.
Stu’s bike was parked out front, amidst a pile of other fixed-gear, jury-rigged specialties. Tom, the doorman, nodded as she walked past. The front had no signage, and it had taken them months to discover the place actually had a name. That didn’t stop throngs from showing up. The beautiful, the tall, and the perfectly dressed packed into the five hundred square feet of available standing space. Scarves dropped and got stepped on, drinks were balanced on the same arm as coats, and the floor was wet from sludge-caked boots.
Laura and her crowd were second on the nightspot food chain. First, the rich and beautiful found, or founded, the best places. Then came Laura and her friends, who were not so rich, nor so beautiful, but native to the place and friends of people who knew where to go and, more importantly, when. They were followed months later by the NYU students, then the Brooklyn-Queens crowd—not the transplants from Williamsburg who “got it,” but the Canarsie and Sheepshead Bay natives who patently “didn’t.” By then, Laura and Stu and the rest would have moved on, but in the case of Serious, not yet. The soft lighting and ultra-modern Formica still seemed fresh. The nondescript instrumental music was a nice backdrop to people watching, and they told themselves they couldn’t get an Espresso Tomcat anywhere else. There was talk of a gin and beef soup concoction on Second Avenue and, as she pressed
Well, no, it wasn’t okay. It was Yoni’s job to manage details like that, and she wasn’t going to be happy about him muscling in on her territory. If the wrong buttons made it to the store, Yoni had to hunt down the button manufacturer or the order slip, or she had to confront Ephraim, but that wasn’t something André could manage on his own. Laura got her cell phone out to call her, but a shout from the design room interrupted her train of thought.
“Everybody get the hell in here.” Sheldon clutched his briefcase. His wool coat was draped over his forearm as if he were on his way out. “Come on. I don’t have all night.”
Laura stood against the wall with her arms folded. Carmella stood next to her and pushed her foot against hers in a show of solidarity, which separated her from André that much more. Sometimes, she couldn’t help but really like Carmella.
“Tomorrow, they’re burying my wife,” Sheldon announced, using the coldest words he could. For the first time, Laura sensed he hid a great hurt behind his abrasive manner. “I know you all worked with her, and I know some of you even liked her. But I don’t know who those people might be, and I’m not going to go around and ask, because you’ll lie. So tomorrow, I’m closing the office, and I don’t want to hear about this goddamn show because I don’t care.” He looked pointedly at Laura. “The funeral’s in her family plot in Greenwood Cemetery. That’s in Queens , for those of you that weren’t raised here, and you’d normally have to take a bus. I’ve arranged cars to pick you up outside at nine. You’ll be part of the procession, and streets are closing, so it won’t be too much of an inconvenience for you.” He turned on his heel and left.
David, carrying a clipboard, appeared in his place. He cleared his throat. “If you could tell me if you’re coming, I can get the right number of cars.”
Laura heard André mutter to Yoni, “I’m selling the co-op, and I have an open house tomorrow.” He shook his head at the horrid turn of events. Laura knew him. He never missed an opportunity to do a meet-and-greet. He must be getting pressure from Inge to sell, which would explain his overall social ineptitude.
Not wanting to deal with André, Laura slipped out without getting her name on the list. She figured Gracie wouldn’t miss her.
By the time Laura got to Serious, it was ten o’clock. One drink, she vowed, then to bed so she would be fresh for Jeremy the next morning.
Stu’s bike was parked out front, amidst a pile of other fixed-gear, jury-rigged specialties. Tom, the doorman, nodded as she walked past. The front had no signage, and it had taken them months to discover the place actually had a name. That didn’t stop throngs from showing up. The beautiful, the tall, and the perfectly dressed packed into the five hundred square feet of available standing space. Scarves dropped and got stepped on, drinks were balanced on the same arm as coats, and the floor was wet from sludge-caked boots.
Laura and her crowd were second on the nightspot food chain. First, the rich and beautiful found, or founded, the best places. Then came Laura and her friends, who were not so rich, nor so beautiful, but native to the place and friends of people who knew where to go and, more importantly, when. They were followed months later by the NYU students, then the Brooklyn-Queens crowd—not the transplants from Williamsburg who “got it,” but the Canarsie and Sheepshead Bay natives who patently “didn’t.” By then, Laura and Stu and the rest would have moved on, but in the case of Serious, not yet. The soft lighting and ultra-modern Formica still seemed fresh. The nondescript instrumental music was a nice backdrop to people watching, and they told themselves they couldn’t get an Espresso Tomcat anywhere else. There was talk of a gin and beef soup concoction on Second Avenue and, as she pressed
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