place—a tall black man with a curly beard wearing a knitted skullcap. He nurses a Coke and taps his hands on the bar while he watches a Thai boxing match.
The waitresses wear denim overall-shorts. One of them takes Tony and me to a table near the bar. We sit down, and before I can mouth the words Let’s get out of here , the back door to the bar bursts open. Three men pull a large Christmas tree behind them. The Chinese start holiday decorating early. I look over at the girl with her head on the bar. She might be fifteen. She hasn’t moved. No one is paying her any attention. The pool game stops, and the man in the tie makes his way to the bar for his drink. He puts his arms around each girl and dances with them in a circle for a minute. It’s now eleven thirty in the morning. The girls cheer him when he orders another round of shots.
I try not to stare. But it’s hard. I point the blue Oxford out to Tony. “How often,” I ask, “do you think men who work for you end upin bars like this with girls like that?” We’re now having an argument at the Goose ’n’ Duck Pub while the New England Patriots fall behind on the television screen.
“Never,” he says. “I’ve never come near a bar like this with the people I work with.”
“But just know,” I go on, “if you ever call to say you’re staying late to play pool with the guys, this is the scene I’ll imagine: that man over there sinking the eight-ball while the girls in minidresses clap.”
“You’re unfair,” Tony says. “No one who works for me goes to bars with prostitutes.”
“But how can you be sure?” It was a bad idea to come. “And we’ve only just moved here,” I remind him. “Who knows what will happen?” Three teenage delivery boys arrive with takeout: cartons of noodles and fried rice that they place on the bar counter for the girls.
They’re hungry—except for the one who’s still asleep with her head on the bar. They all sit down at the bar with the blue Oxford and dig in, shoveling the food gently into their mouths. I can remember that hunger after you’ve stayed up all night drinking. It was something my roommate and I did in college a few times. You get to a point where you’re not drunk anymore. Dawn comes and you’re starving and, in my case, regretful. Tony steps outside the back door of the bar to take a business call and leaves me alone. The waitress hovers until I order something on the menu called a lemon juice. She brings me a glass of margarita mix without tequila.
The girls finish eating, and the New England Patriots pull ahead in the fourth quarter. I want to get out of this place. Tony comes back, and I’m not sure if we’re speaking to each other. We pay the bill, and on our way out, we see the blue Oxford moving to rack one more game of pool. None of the girls around him seems sure where things are going to go next. All of them are waiting for a sign.
On Saturday morning I leave the boys making paper airplanes with Tony in the living room and walk to the new French market called April Gourmet that’s just opened in Tower Four of Park Avenue. A Dutch woman I know named Anke is there, browsing the three small aisles. She moved here with her two girls and her husband back in Augustwhen we did, and I met her on the playground. I smile and wave and then go stand at the meat counter and ask for salami. It’s from Italy, and this is no small development for Aidan. Salami in China. He loves salami.
Anke moves in line behind me. “How are you?” I ask. She looks so thin that I can tell she’s in trouble. The girl behind the counter hands me my slices, and then I ask for two inches of provolone.
“My husband is having an affair,” Anke says, and smiles broadly. “I have three days to decide whether to leave him or not.” Then she laughs. “I’m calling it Project Beijing.”
“Wow,” I say. I do not smile. I know smiling is not the thing to do right now. But I’m at a loss in front of the
The waitresses wear denim overall-shorts. One of them takes Tony and me to a table near the bar. We sit down, and before I can mouth the words Let’s get out of here , the back door to the bar bursts open. Three men pull a large Christmas tree behind them. The Chinese start holiday decorating early. I look over at the girl with her head on the bar. She might be fifteen. She hasn’t moved. No one is paying her any attention. The pool game stops, and the man in the tie makes his way to the bar for his drink. He puts his arms around each girl and dances with them in a circle for a minute. It’s now eleven thirty in the morning. The girls cheer him when he orders another round of shots.
I try not to stare. But it’s hard. I point the blue Oxford out to Tony. “How often,” I ask, “do you think men who work for you end upin bars like this with girls like that?” We’re now having an argument at the Goose ’n’ Duck Pub while the New England Patriots fall behind on the television screen.
“Never,” he says. “I’ve never come near a bar like this with the people I work with.”
“But just know,” I go on, “if you ever call to say you’re staying late to play pool with the guys, this is the scene I’ll imagine: that man over there sinking the eight-ball while the girls in minidresses clap.”
“You’re unfair,” Tony says. “No one who works for me goes to bars with prostitutes.”
“But how can you be sure?” It was a bad idea to come. “And we’ve only just moved here,” I remind him. “Who knows what will happen?” Three teenage delivery boys arrive with takeout: cartons of noodles and fried rice that they place on the bar counter for the girls.
They’re hungry—except for the one who’s still asleep with her head on the bar. They all sit down at the bar with the blue Oxford and dig in, shoveling the food gently into their mouths. I can remember that hunger after you’ve stayed up all night drinking. It was something my roommate and I did in college a few times. You get to a point where you’re not drunk anymore. Dawn comes and you’re starving and, in my case, regretful. Tony steps outside the back door of the bar to take a business call and leaves me alone. The waitress hovers until I order something on the menu called a lemon juice. She brings me a glass of margarita mix without tequila.
The girls finish eating, and the New England Patriots pull ahead in the fourth quarter. I want to get out of this place. Tony comes back, and I’m not sure if we’re speaking to each other. We pay the bill, and on our way out, we see the blue Oxford moving to rack one more game of pool. None of the girls around him seems sure where things are going to go next. All of them are waiting for a sign.
On Saturday morning I leave the boys making paper airplanes with Tony in the living room and walk to the new French market called April Gourmet that’s just opened in Tower Four of Park Avenue. A Dutch woman I know named Anke is there, browsing the three small aisles. She moved here with her two girls and her husband back in Augustwhen we did, and I met her on the playground. I smile and wave and then go stand at the meat counter and ask for salami. It’s from Italy, and this is no small development for Aidan. Salami in China. He loves salami.
Anke moves in line behind me. “How are you?” I ask. She looks so thin that I can tell she’s in trouble. The girl behind the counter hands me my slices, and then I ask for two inches of provolone.
“My husband is having an affair,” Anke says, and smiles broadly. “I have three days to decide whether to leave him or not.” Then she laughs. “I’m calling it Project Beijing.”
“Wow,” I say. I do not smile. I know smiling is not the thing to do right now. But I’m at a loss in front of the
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