Hot Desk: A Novel - 4
Coming out of the subway on the Lower East Side, Ben walked the three blocks toward his apartment, breathing in the fresh air of early evening, feeling spring had fully arrived. He had wondered whether he would feel overwhelmed by the move to New York City, but so far, he felt only energized, alive....
Coming out of the subway on the Lower East Side, Ben walked the three blocks toward his apartment, breathing in the fresh air of early evening, feeling spring had fully arrived. He had wondered whether he would feel overwhelmed by the move to New York City, but so far, he felt only energized, alive. It was some kind of sign that Caro had brought up the Lion today and had said she liked Ben’s confidence; he was going to grab the chance to get involved with the Lion’s estate, to continue what he had started in grad school—no, what had started that night at Bread Loaf when he was just sixteen. He would reach out to Atticus again tonight.
Ben slowed down at his corner and was relieved to see the “Help Wanted” sign still up on the propped-open door of Betty Jack’s, and when he peered in, there were a few people sitting at the bar, a couple kissing in a red pleather booth, and some men playing pool. Every time he passed by, at any time of day or night, there were people inside, a good sign for a bartender. There was a jukebox, a small TV always turned silently to off-brand sports—darts, billiards, greyhound racing. Ben imagined himself already hired and changing the station to the NBA playoffs. There was an old woman behind the bar moving a bar mop vigorously around the surface. She had a purple-tinged blond beehive and muscular forearms and was wearing a calico housedress and matching apron. Ben stepped into the bar and breathed in deeply to enjoy the familiar sour fermented smell. A Patsy Cline song was playing softly, and he heard the clack and thud of pool balls. He moved forward with his hand outstretched. “Hello? I’m Ben Heath, and I’m interested in bartending on the weekends, maybe once or twice during the week.”
The old lady ignored his hand and nodded. “I’ve seen you walking by. Got your big dog.”
“Yes.” Ben shifted his messenger bag. “I’ve worked in bars the past six years or so.”
“Can you make a pomegranate cosmopolitan?”
“Sure.” Ben looked around and caught the eye of an old man in a dirty white bucket hat slumped over his bottle of Miller Lite. The man revived, gave Ben a surprisingly crisp salute, and shook a near empty bowl of pretzels in the old woman’s direction.
“Then you’re overqualified,” she cackled. “And hired! And your big dog is an emotional support dog.”
“Butch? No, he’s a rescue from—”
“He’s an emotional support dog, and if the Department of Health asks, he waits outside on the patio while you work.” She gestured to an open door toward the rear of the bar, where Ben could see a small square of dirt, a few weeds, and a carpet of cigarette butts. “Boris passed last month, and I can’t bring myself to get another one. It’s good to have a dog in the place. A little backup.” She reached behind the bar and drew out a wooden baseball bat, cradling the barrel end in her palm. “You aren’t afraid to use this?”
“Is there much need to use it?” Ben’s height usually deterred assholes from trying anything, but this was New York City, and he wasn’t sure how much good a baseball bat would do against a gun.
“Chases away the junkies. And the grabbers. And the geezers who don’t pay their tabs.” She shook the bat menacingly toward the old man, who ignored her. “Anything else I got covered elseways.” She gave Ben a significant look without explaining the significance. “You like old people?”
“I do.” Ben did. Old people in bars talked a lot, and Ben always loved hearing their stories and making them happy by agreeing vaguely to meet their granddaughters or nieces.
“You start Saturday. Be here by three to fill out the paperwork.”
“Okay! It was nice to meet you… um…”
“Call me Betty Jack,” Betty Jack said. “See you Saturday, and bring your dog.”
His fifth-floor walk-up rental was basically ten flights of climbing, and even though Ben was in basketball shape, he was still sucking air by the third floor. The third floor was home to an old lady in a bathrobe who had her door open every time she heard him coming by: “Well, aren’t you a tall drink of water?” Fine, no harm done, but then he had to take his pit bull mix, Butch—a rescue who had come all the way from Alabama with that name, and he answered to it, so there was nothing to be done about it (Ben had tried)—down and back up, and there she was: “Well, aren’t you a tall drink of water?” While Ben was at work, his sister, Ava, walked Butch, and she reported no sign of life whatsoever on the third floor.
Ben took the stairs to his apartment as quickly as he could and was halfway to the fourth floor before the old lady finished her refrain. In terms of working at Betty Jack’s, he would have plenty of time to play in the Saturday morning pickup game, shower, and get to the bar. Perfect. He reached his door, panting, and bent over his knees for a minute to catch his breath. As he fumbled with the key, he heard Butch’s low, rumbling half bark and the sweet tone Ava used with Butch and Butch only.
“Hey, hey!” He hung his bag on its hook and triple-locked the door behind him. “Nobody get up or anything. You know he’s not supposed to be on the couch.”
Ava, wearing a semitransparent white slip, brightly flowered kimono, heavy boots, and Ben’s socks, was sprawled on the big couch, with all seventy-five pounds of Butch sitting on top of her. “Technically he’s not on the couch.”
“Seriously. He has his own chair.”
“He wanted to snuggle! Butch, Ben’s home! Go say hi to your dad.” She gave Butch a little push, then a shove. He gave her sad whale eyes, heaved himself off the couch, and lumbered over to Ben. Butch, age and provenance undetermined, was a fine Southern gentleman with a noble block head and a laconic disposition. Ben had been worried about his getting enough exercise in the city, but going up and down the stairs three times a day was more than enough for Butch, who spent most of his time in his chair gazing with calm concentration out the window. “We went to the dog park today but Butch does not give one single fuck about other dogs. And he was misgendered by the lesbians again.”
“Well, technically, he is ball-less,” Ben pointed out. “I don’t think he minded.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that biology is not destiny? Jesus.”
Ben ignored her as Butch leaned his massive head against him, which was his way of hugging, and Ben pulled gently on his soft black ears. “Why don’t you make some friends, Butch?”
“He’s above it. He knows there’s no dignity in all that sniffing and bounding.” Ava roused herself to a seated position and brushed dog hairs from her kimono. “Doug and Jeanie want you to check in.”
“Just call them ‘Mom and Dad’ like a normal person. Guess what? I got a job at Betty Jack’s on my way home. Basically because they want Butch to be the muscle.”
“That dive? With the fierce old lady? Amazing!”
“And—and this is the big news—today at work we were talking about the Lion’s estate, and there’s a good possibility Hawk Mills could start publishing him. I might have a chance to see what he left behind—”
“You told them you knew that dick Atticus?”
“Yeah, of course. That might get me in the door, sure. But after that, if the Lion has unpublished work, you know, maybe I could edit it, assemble a collection, just get involved.”
Ava gave a theatrical sigh. “The Lion? Come on. That guy is your blind spot, B. I know you had your moment together, but I would love for you to explain to me how he’s any better than Bellow, Roth, Updike, Mailer. I know you’re not out here championing them. Who’s next, Kipling? Bring back Ezra Pound?”
“He’s better because his writing is better,” Ben said tersely. It was true: he had no strong feelings about letting go of most of them. Philip Roth was a genius but, as Ava said, admittedly problematic. He could live without Roth. The Lion was on another level. It had been a while, but Ben used to copy his favorite passages from the Lion’s books just to shape the words himself, and he used to read them out loud just to hear the muscular, crystalline prose.
“Well, good luck with that.” Ava rose from the couch and started loading things back into her fringed suede messenger bag: hairbrush, phone, water bottle, clementine, book, journal, pen, baggie of cashews, ticket stubs from the Film Forum, an Altoids tin that Ben knew contained hand-rolled cigarettes, and some matchbooks, all of which had been strewn on the floor. She tied a silk scarf around her long, strawberry blond hair, her “crowning glory,” as their mom liked to say. Ben’s hair was much darker and his eyes a deeper blue, but both he and Ava were tall enough to draw attention.
“Are you taking a Citi Bike back?” Ben checked out the window, but it was still light. He hated the idea of Ava riding a bike on the city streets in the dark. He had been better off living in ignorant bliss regarding what Ava was up to in New York City, though she, as she pointed out, had been doing just fine before he showed up.
“I’m meeting my TA for a drink.”
“Is that even allowed?”
“Oh my god. Dude.”
“Is this the bearded Albanian?”
“No, this is the TA from my Reframing the Old Masters seminar. You should audit it. You might learn something. Anyway, they’re brilliant. They did this amazing program in Berlin last summer that I might apply to if I can get funding.”
“And you don’t just meet them for coffee?” Ben was proud of himself for not even tripping over the preferred pronoun. He was still chagrined from an argument he’d had with Ava a few years ago when he’d registered a mild complaint about plural pronouns for a single noun being difficult for people who cared about grammar and had been lacerated (fairly so, he knew) when Ava held up James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, Faulkner, and even “your beloved Cormac McCarthy” as examples of people close to his heart who didn’t give a fuck about grammar because language was fluid and always evolving. He got over himself, as Ava furiously advised.
“We’re getting a drink, Ben, not sexing.” Ava came closer to drape herself over Butch. “Goodbye, Butch Buttercup. What are you having for dinner?”
“Leftover basil beef and pad thai.”
“Beef is literally poison.”
“Weed is poison.” So maybe Ben was a hypocrite, but he wasn’t crazy about Ava smoking. “I don’t think you know how to use ‘literally’ correctly.”
“My weed is organic and I know the guy who sells it at the farmers market,” Ava said haughtily. “He grows it on the banks of the Hudson. Lit-ture-ally. So suck it.”
“Sure. I can see him now in his suspenders and straw hat. Banks of the Hudson , my ass. Hey, do you want to borrow a sweatshirt?”
“Stop policing women’s bodies.” Ava slung her bag across her chest.
“I just mean you’re going to be cold.” Who rides a bike in a slip and a kimono?
“Okay, Mom.”
“ ‘Okay’ you want a sweatshirt?”
“No!” Ava rolled her eyes and snatched her keys off the top of the low bookcase that lined the hallway. “Aside from eating murdered cow, what are your plans for tonight?”
“Just reading some manuscripts in case there’s anything worth going after. And I’m on this committee about the desk sharing policy. I’ll probably check out some of the feedback to see what people think so far.”
Ava raised a clenched fist, showing off the tattoo on her inner forearm, a quote from Patti Smith: “the people have the power to redeem the work of fools.”
“Yeah, I’ll bring the whole thing down from the inside.” Ben pulled his computer out of his bag, put it on the small kitchen table.
“You have nothing to lose but your chains.”
“Is that going to be your new tattoo?”
“No, but I did get a stick and poke last week. See? A little maple leaf.” Ava showed Ben the freshly dark tattoo on the inside of her middle finger.
“That looks like a pot leaf.”
“It’s a maple leaf! For Vermont.”
“Represent. Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow? I’ll Venmo you.”
“I hate taking money for the privilege and pleasure of hanging with Butch,” Ava claimed. “Kiss!” She smacked Ben lightly on the side of his head, fondled Butch’s ears one more time, and was gone before he could call “Be careful!” after her.
Ben locked the door, then sat down on the couch to take off his new boots and was unpleasantly reminded of the chocolate-covered-almond incident. He rinsed the boot’s sole in his tiny sink, heated up the leftover Thai food, and turned on his computer to check emails. As promised, Mrs. Singh had sent him the information about the Cooperative Community Group Committee. Before the first meeting, he wanted to check the Office Life Inbox. Ben’s sense was that desk sharing was here to stay, no matter what people thought. Corporate landlords were fucked—rising interest rates, tenants shrinking their footprint, people working from home—Leesen had no choice but to come up with creative ways to keep the business alive. Ben was just glad to be in an actual office twice a week and getting a paycheck, paltry though it was, to do what he loved.
He was about to pull up the Office Life Inbox when his WhatsApp pinged. Birdie, his on-, off-, on-, and now definitely off-again (as she was in India for a year) college girlfriend, was checking in. Ben did the math quickly in his head: Chennai was nine and a half hours ahead of New York City, so it was 5:30 a.m. there. Birdie was working for India Ultimate Frisbee and helping to start a nonprofit that would introduce girls to sports. Ben loved Birdie. She was tall and strong and capable; he loved her when she was laying out to catch a Frisbee or pulling her blond hair up into a ponytail or driving her pickup truck with the radio blasting. After she was accepted to veterinary school at Colorado State (which was harder to get into than med school, Ben liked to brag on her behalf), Birdie deferred and took off to India. Ben was sad, but he kept thinking of what Ava had said when she heard Birdie was leaving. “I love Birdie”—everyone loved Birdie—“but you already have a sister.” As usual, Ava put her finger right on the point and pressed. Being with Birdie was safe; being with Birdie was easy. Sex with Birdie was comfortable sex with a good friend. Ben had read enough literature to know he wanted more. Not drink poison, lose your mind, jump in front of a train, eat each other alive more, but maybe a little eat each other alive? Birdie had done them a favor, he knew. She had told him at their vet school acceptance celebration dinner right before he learned she was moving to India. “We both deserve sparks, Ben. We don’t have enough sparks,” she had said in her gentle Birdie way, tears dropping onto her grilled salmon. The waiter gave him a look of pure hatred. Even the waiter loved Birdie.
They exchanged friendly WhatsApp messages and then Birdie was off to an early morning scrimmage with the team. Ben opened the Office Life Inbox to scout out the vibe.
OFFICE LIFE INBOX:
AGIRLHASNODESK:
Where do we find the End Cap Shelf Replacement Request Form?
paul:
why all the higher ups have dedicated desk :/
HOT DESK:
“reach for the stars, even if you have to stand on a cactus” —unknown
LoveGrammar:
Serious question: I want to work at home all week yet I’m being forced into the office. Use my desk. I don’t want it. Guess that was not really a question.
renedescarteswasadrunkenfart:
first they came for the breakfast burritos then they came for the box wine
CarlottaLopez:
I just want to shout out to my awesome desk partner, Gabe!
Anon:
this whole situation is trash
AGIRLHASNODESK:
Is there a spreadsheet for vacation schedules?
Anon:
we were guinea pigs now we are lemmings
Paul:
this is Paul from production and I did not post as “paul” repeat: “paul” is not me
Anon:
it’s just a matter of time before we work for robot overlords
HawkHarry:
What if I want to schedule a meeting with my desk partner? Can we just arrange that or is there a procedure to follow?
Admin:
Please speak to your direct report. Thanks—Admin
Paul:
If someone from tech is reading this, please reach out to “paul” and tell them to cease and desist. Also this isn’t about desk sharing but to the person who ate one of my hard-boiled eggs, I hope you enjoyed it. Sorry you can’t read or don’t care about private property.
HaileyB:
there is an assigned free desk to the left of the kitchen that no one is using—whose in charge of that?
HaileyB:
who’s
Ben got up and retrieved a pint of Cherry Garcia from his tiny freezer. What a clusterfuck. He knew he should be professional but he couldn’t help himself. He pulled up the Office Life Inbox on his phone, took a few screenshots, and texted them to Ava.
Ben:
this “cooperative committee” is going to be fun
Ava:
capitalism is death
Ben:
HOT DESK has to be my desk partner right? the cactus quote?
Ava:
does she have a hang in there poster of a kitten
Ben:
so rebecca blume is an inspirational quote person and kind of a slob
is it a message to me? the cactus the stars?
renedescartes is howie i’m pretty sure did not take him for a monty python fan
Ava:
my fave is “paul”
Ben:
should i be worried about anon shooting up the office
Ava:
not funny
Ben:
sorry i know
he seems really disgruntled
Ava:
what do you have on your desk?
Ben:
what? nothing
Ava:
jesus b that’s like serial killer shit
Ben:
we have a cactus!
Ava:
you need some nicknacks
Ben:
knick-knacks
Ava:
fuck off
Ben:
like what? trying to keep a low profile as sox fan and i think they might fire a celtics fan here
give me ideas
Ava:
gtg
sex with TA
Ben:
stop
Ava:
byyyyeeeee
Ben leaned against the sink and ate half the carton of ice cream. He cleaned the spoon, wiped down the table, dropped and did forty push-ups. Butch wandered over to help by sticking his head under Ben’s face. It was almost time to take Butch out before bed, but Ben thought he should post on the inbox instead of just lurking. Honestly, Mrs. Singh could probably identify everyone somehow. Maybe she or someone could keep an eye on Anon? He was surprised no one had used the screen name “Bartleby” yet.
And what about Rebecca Blume, her inspirational quotes and her refusal to abide by the Clean Desk Policy? She reminded him of his sixth-grade teacher, the shapeless and unforgivably dull Mrs. Toddle, whose classroom was wall-to-wall motivational posters that said things like “If life gives you lemons, make lemonade” and “Life is a journey, not a destination.” Well, Ben could google a stupid quote about a cactus. He cracked his knuckles. “Okay, Butch. Good boy. We’ll go out in a minute.” Butch pricked up his ears at the sentences containing at least 50 percent of his vocabulary.
OFFICE LIFE INBOX:
KMarx:
“We reap what we sow. We cannot expect apples when we have sown the seed of the cactus.” —Unknown