thinking of doing this one a week after—I’m not trying to compete with Sebastian or anything.” The truth is, I
can’t
compete with Sebastian. I’m just some little upstart who’s thrown two little parties in the Chandelier Room, which, because it’s so small, is where Christoph puts all the promoters he’s not sure about yet, who sometimes works the door of the VIP, and Sebastian is fast on his way to becoming a downtown legend. Whether Christoph is aware of this fact or not, I’m certainly not going to bring it up.
“Let me think about it,” he says brusquely, picking up his glasses and bending toward the stack of papers on his desk, which I take as my cue to leave. I stand up, throwing my knapsack over my shoulder, and wait there awkwardly, unsure if I should remind him about the money he owes me or if I should just leave and worry about it later. Just as I’m turning to leave, Christoph lets out a large sigh and mumbles something unintelligible in German. Every time I show up to get paid, it’s always a production. I can never tell if he remembers exactly why I’ve come in the first place, and sometimes I just stand there uncomfortably before he unlocks the drawer and counts out a pile of crisp bills. In this way, Christoph reminds me of my father.
“Wait, Cat, I have your money,” he says, raising one finger in the air, then leans back and reaches into the front pocket of his jeans, retrieving a gold ring that jangles in the air. He opens the top right desk drawer and removes a large, green metal box, unlocking it. He reaches in and grabs a stack of hundreds, counting out five with a series of brisk movements, the bills falling from his hands as easily as a bank teller. He holds the money out, leaning toward me with a smile.
As I take the cash, Christoph grabs my wrist, gripping me tightly, his fingers closing around my flesh, his expression curious as he registers my surprise, the way my eyes widen at his touch. His eyes restlessly roam my face like they’re looking for something that has been lost, and my stomach is tense, pulse revving the way it always does when I’m surprised or touched without warning. I don’t
want
Christoph to be touching me, but at the same time it’s
all
I want, to be touched, and I can’t untangle my own response enough to make sense of the wave of fear and excitement that rips through me. I want to run, but my feet are nailed to the floor, my tongue swollen and wordless. After what seems like years pass, he releases my wrist and settles back in his chair as if nothing has happened. He returns to the stack of papers on his desk and begins scribbling something with a fat gold Montblanc pen that reminds me of a large expensive crayon, his pen moving determinedly across the page as if I’m no longer there at all.
I turn around, dazed, as if I’ve walked out of a movie theater into afternoon sunlight, and shove the money into my pocket, crumpling the bills as if to annihilate them completely. Although the paper is crisp and new, the bills feel slick, almost dirty in my hand. As I retrace my steps out of the club and push open the front door, I’m hit by a wave of exhaustion so intense that I want to sit down right there on the dirty metal steps strewn with champagne corks and cigarette butts, and cry.
The money bulges in my pocket, pushing against my skin uncomfortably, but the weight of it is somehow reassuring, slowing my pulse. Tonight I will order in from the Thai place in my neighborhood, the scent of lemongrass and cilantro wafting like spicy, exotic incense from the open plastic containers. I will go to the grocery store and pull items from shelves: dishwashing liquid, soap, a bag of apples, a jar of spaghetti sauce, and when I reach the cashier and pull the thick wad of bills from my pocket, I will feel worn out from the effort and so much older than my seventeen years. I will watch as mothers push their children down the aisles in metal shopping carts,
can’t
compete with Sebastian. I’m just some little upstart who’s thrown two little parties in the Chandelier Room, which, because it’s so small, is where Christoph puts all the promoters he’s not sure about yet, who sometimes works the door of the VIP, and Sebastian is fast on his way to becoming a downtown legend. Whether Christoph is aware of this fact or not, I’m certainly not going to bring it up.
“Let me think about it,” he says brusquely, picking up his glasses and bending toward the stack of papers on his desk, which I take as my cue to leave. I stand up, throwing my knapsack over my shoulder, and wait there awkwardly, unsure if I should remind him about the money he owes me or if I should just leave and worry about it later. Just as I’m turning to leave, Christoph lets out a large sigh and mumbles something unintelligible in German. Every time I show up to get paid, it’s always a production. I can never tell if he remembers exactly why I’ve come in the first place, and sometimes I just stand there uncomfortably before he unlocks the drawer and counts out a pile of crisp bills. In this way, Christoph reminds me of my father.
“Wait, Cat, I have your money,” he says, raising one finger in the air, then leans back and reaches into the front pocket of his jeans, retrieving a gold ring that jangles in the air. He opens the top right desk drawer and removes a large, green metal box, unlocking it. He reaches in and grabs a stack of hundreds, counting out five with a series of brisk movements, the bills falling from his hands as easily as a bank teller. He holds the money out, leaning toward me with a smile.
As I take the cash, Christoph grabs my wrist, gripping me tightly, his fingers closing around my flesh, his expression curious as he registers my surprise, the way my eyes widen at his touch. His eyes restlessly roam my face like they’re looking for something that has been lost, and my stomach is tense, pulse revving the way it always does when I’m surprised or touched without warning. I don’t
want
Christoph to be touching me, but at the same time it’s
all
I want, to be touched, and I can’t untangle my own response enough to make sense of the wave of fear and excitement that rips through me. I want to run, but my feet are nailed to the floor, my tongue swollen and wordless. After what seems like years pass, he releases my wrist and settles back in his chair as if nothing has happened. He returns to the stack of papers on his desk and begins scribbling something with a fat gold Montblanc pen that reminds me of a large expensive crayon, his pen moving determinedly across the page as if I’m no longer there at all.
I turn around, dazed, as if I’ve walked out of a movie theater into afternoon sunlight, and shove the money into my pocket, crumpling the bills as if to annihilate them completely. Although the paper is crisp and new, the bills feel slick, almost dirty in my hand. As I retrace my steps out of the club and push open the front door, I’m hit by a wave of exhaustion so intense that I want to sit down right there on the dirty metal steps strewn with champagne corks and cigarette butts, and cry.
The money bulges in my pocket, pushing against my skin uncomfortably, but the weight of it is somehow reassuring, slowing my pulse. Tonight I will order in from the Thai place in my neighborhood, the scent of lemongrass and cilantro wafting like spicy, exotic incense from the open plastic containers. I will go to the grocery store and pull items from shelves: dishwashing liquid, soap, a bag of apples, a jar of spaghetti sauce, and when I reach the cashier and pull the thick wad of bills from my pocket, I will feel worn out from the effort and so much older than my seventeen years. I will watch as mothers push their children down the aisles in metal shopping carts,
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