Old Flame

PART ONE

BIRTH

This story, like all human stories, begins with a birth. My head flew out of a vagina, and there began my consciousness. A gloved hand severed the umbilical cord, and there began my aloneness. The blood kept coming out of the vagina long after I exited. Too much blood. My entrance into the world had created a chasm big enough to swallow a mother. I screamed and screamed. I reached out for a breast, but there wasn’t one. The gloved hands held and washed me. They gave me milk from a bottle, which I refused, then gulped. I do not remember any of this with my mind, but I remember it with my body. I remember the harsh lights of my new life, the dark space from which I came, the taste of plastic, the goo of my mother wiped away. I remember the feeling of it. My wholeness stolen. My half self, searching. I would search long after. I am searching still.

PART TWO

BUSINESS

MONEY SIGNS

When I was younger than I am now, twenty-seven to be exact, I found myself walking into a tall office building on Thirty-Fourth Street in Manhattan. It felt like I was being pulled in by a magnet. The magnet was capitalism, but I couldn’t see that then. All I could see was an opportunity to survive and purchase potions for my face. I was only in my twenties, but I was already worried about my face, what might become of it as the years passed over it, where the lines would be drawn. I was worried about many things: the homeless guy on my block freezing to death, all the whales dying, how to pay my rent. But also who I should be in this life, how I would get there, what the point of me was. I was, as certain people tended to describe themselves in the days before they began to describe themselves as anxious, what they might call a worrier. Other people might have just called me a woman.

The building on Thirty-Fourth Street was the corporate office of an iconic New York department store, where I had gotten a job as a copywriter. This was my first real job, the kind that made real money that would nestle me comfortably into the real world. Before this, I had been a bartender, a salesgirl, a nanny, a waitress, and a tutor to a pair of rich children on the Upper East Side—invisible, energy-sucking jobs that, despite their toll on the body, weird hours, and depressing aspects, were not considered legitimate by the ruling class of New Yorkers or the IRS. I had always worked very hard, but I had always been poor, putting what money I did make into the endless, ever-expanding pit of my student loan debt or into the greedy hands of whichever Brooklyn landlord I was renting from. I always felt nervous, as if I were balancing on a very thin beam that could be yanked out from under me at any moment. I was never, as far as I could understand it, fully in control of any given situation.

On my twenty-seventh birthday a DJ named Darius had given me a baggie of coke as my gift, which I inhaled in the bathroom of the dive bar where I worked at the time with a fellow bartender named Zoe. After she snorted her line through a rolled-up twenty, she told me excitedly that I was too fucking smart to be so poor and declared that I should go into advertising. Advertising, Zoe explained, was the only industry in this godforsaken city where a creative person could make any cash. Her cousin had a job as a copywriter, she explained, and got paid to write fun puns about clothes. You could definitely do it, Zoe said. You’re always lurking in coffee shops with that notebook of yours. There have got to be some fun puns in there. At first, I wasn’t so sure. Like so many young people living in New York City, I wanted to be a real writer, not a writer of taglines about sweaters. I rubbed some of the coke onto my gums. When I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I didn’t recognize myself—I had money signs in my eyes.

COSTUMES

The department store was at once cheesy and glamorous, with carpeted shoe salons and long escalators, faux-mahogany wall displays stuffed with silk ties. The whole place smelled of many perfumes mixed together, and the beige light made it feel like it could be any time of day. There was a strict dress code: anyone who worked at the store itself or at the corporate office was only allowed to wear black and white. When the employees emerged from the subway in groups, the sidewalks were our chess board and we were the kings, queens, and pawns. We moved up and over, sometimes diagonally. We took elevators in packs of six or eight. We migrated silently between the marble lobby and the ninth floor, using magnetic cards to unlock the doors and turnstiles. When the door to the office opened, it made a very loud clicking sound.

There was Essie. Tiny, hunched, wonderful. Essie was the receptionist, but she was more than that. She was like a mascot for this place, a relic of an old New York full of fur stoles and jazzy types. Every morning I asked her how she was and she said she was wonderful, but she said it in a way that was sarcastic enough to maybe mean she was the opposite of wonderful. Then she always lifted her paper coffee cup and said: That friend of yours is an angel from heaven.

Essie was talking about Megan, my best work friend, who brought Essie a small black coffee from the coffee cart in Herald Square every morning because she knew that Essie secretly wanted two coffees but would only ever allow herself to purchase the first one. This was the sort of woman Essie was: the kind who denied herself small pleasures in exchange for feeling some other kind of goodness, the kind that came with saving her daily dollar. I respected this and could relate to it; I was the kind of person who refused to take a taxi when the subway existed. I wondered if Essie had always been this way or if there had been a time when she was more generous with herself, when she went to smoky parties at friends’ apartments, drank many glasses of wine, left with a man on her arm, looked back at her friends coyly, watching them watch her exit, watching them watch her exist.

The halls were a maze. The lights were bright. The cubicles were chest-high. The overachievers and the mothers of small children were already at their desks, typing away or leaning back, guzzling iced coffees from tall plastic cups, savoring this warm weather ritual even as it edged into Pumpkin Spice season. The coffees were so big back then, a foot tall if you included the straw. The ice made a comforting sound as it sloshed against the plastic, then became smaller and smaller as the morning wore on, squeezing its condensation through the plastic and pooling on the desk. Even the ice wanted out of its cage, shape-shifting in an attempt at escape. By 10 a.m., everyone had arrived.

Emails began to fly across the room. When you caught one and pinned it down, solved its problem, another one flew at you. They stacked up like Tetris blocks, each fitting into the previous one somehow, but only if you were fast enough. If too many went unread for too long, a low-level anxiety began to build. This was capitalism at work: the deep sensation that you were going to start falling behind. Poverty was waiting for you, and then death. An office like this one—its organized plots, its waxy smell and coffin chairs—brought you very close to death; you could feel it lurking. But then it contradicted itself, promising with its padded cubicle walls and cozy chat rooms and plush health insurance that it would hold your very mortality at bay. This promise made you want to stay. It made you feel needy and needed. Two years passed, and then three, and now it was October again. I was still here, and it was time for our team meeting.

Our team meeting was in Linda’s office. Linda was the manager of the writing team, a middle-aged single mom from Jersey City who’d been working here since 1994 and still wore business suits from that time period. I loved Linda. She was kind and had a good sense of humor and I found much comfort in her, the way she had seemed to stay the same for so long, how she maintained a buoyant positivity even though her job was mundane and her life as a working single mother was probably pretty hard. But her meetings were pointless, and even she knew it. We’d have to read off our status reports and stare blankly ahead while the rest of the team read their status reports. Then we’d all laugh about something and eat mini candy bars. Hahahahaha Snickers. Hahahaha Milky Way. My team gathered like little chicks in the small room. Linda huddled us under her motherly wings, unwrapped our Twix bars for us, popped them in our mouths. My status was that I was done writing the product copy for the catalog but I had not finished the headlines. Reed’s status was that he was done with his headlines but not his product copy. Fiona’s status was that she was not done with either, but she had done some research about how other brands were writing about highlighting serums and she wanted to share it with us. She read a poetic verse about morning dew from her phone’s screen.

We need to be talking about dew more, she said.

I can’t argue with that, Linda said, unfolding the wrapper of a peanut butter cup and sliding it into her mouth.

It was Halloween, hence the candy. Linda was wearing a witch’s hat. I had painted a mustache on my upper lip and worn a beret. Reed had shaved a five-point star in the back of his hair; he was going as Marcel Duchamp performing Tonsure. Fiona had worn bright red. When I asked her what she was, she said, I’m a person who doesn’t work here, and shoved a purple lollipop in her mouth. Then she got out her essential oils kit and asked who needed a pick-me-up. We all did. Linda chose the one in the blue bottle, meant to activate the fifth chakra, which was a throat opener for good communication. Reed always chose the sensual sacral chakra, because he despised sex but wanted to be seen as sexual by others. Fiona chose the one that opened her third eye. I did a blend of survival/grounding (first chakra) and sensual sacral (couldn’t hurt). Then we left Linda’s office and went back to our own cubicles.

My cubicle! It was all mine. My pics, my pens, my desktop, my mouse. Click click! I was the captain of my own ship in here, surrounded by my own shit. Reply all, reply all, oops, didn’t mean to reply all. Cold coffee, but I felt cozy. Bad lighting, but it was familiar by now. My reflection in my computer, the universe at my disposal. Clicked to the news and scanned a headline about a French town that had banned clown costumes. Remembered I needed some socks, so clicked to instantly purchase some. Clicked a link Zoe sent me to a video of a group of senior citizens dancing; one of the old men throws his walking canes aside in order to bust a better move. An ad on the side reminded me that I could look better than I did currently if I bought something, anything, whatever it was that was being sold.

I knew I should start working. Reluctantly, I clicked over to a Word document and wrote a headline about fall’s new capes: GIVE THESE A WHIRL. Then I wrote a headline about statement socks: SOCKS TO BE YOU. Then a poem appeared in my inbox; at some point I had signed up to receive a poem a day. Usually I didn’t read the poems because I was too busy, but the poem today was called You Can’t Have It All, which intrigued me because I was just starting, in this very moment, to feel like maybe I did have it all. My coffee had begun to work and I was getting things done. I had a boyfriend I’d managed to keep for over a year—a photographer named Wes—and a shitty but workable basement apartment in Williamsburg that, because of my real-job salary, I did not have to share. I finally had health insurance; I was finally making a tiny dent in my student loans; I could finally afford to buy avocados. Why couldn’t I have it all?

Barbara Ras was the poet. And although the poem’s title suggested depravity or lack, its verbose list of life’s succulent stuff—a fig tree, a soulful black dog, the skin at the center between a man’s legs, so solid, so doll-like—made me feel flushed with so much pleasure I began to see all the world as abundant and forgiving. Ras seemed to be whispering in my ear, singing, almost, as if I were a small child and she were lullabying me to sleep. She spoke of foreign languages and towels and makeup, buses that kneel, Indian food with yellow sauce like sunrise. As always happened when I read writing that moved me, I allowed myself to fully succumb to it, taking the poem in through my eyes but reading it with my entire body, until, by the last line—Jesus Christ, her last line—I was crying at my desk.

There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother’s, Ras finished, it will always whisper, you can’t have it all / but there is this.

I wasn’t sure if I was crying because of the mention of the mother’s voice—even the word mother could undo me if the timing was right—or the phrase buses that kneel, which made me hear the wheeze of this bus, see its lumbering, gentlemanly gesture, and think of old San Francisco in the wind. I was plunged into a past life on the opposite coast, one that I told myself often I didn’t miss but that I occasionally longed for with a bodily desperation that manifested as dizziness or even nausea. I had grown up in Daly City with my adoptive mother, Ann, in a clean and quiet suburban house from which San Francisco taunted me like an inaccessible playground. I moved to the city as soon as I could, when I was eighteen and started college, and for a while I considered it mine. San Francisco had been so charming then, in the same wonderful way that Essie at the front desk was charming, which had everything to do with regional specifics. In San Francisco’s case this was the smell of old wood and eucalyptus, Victorian homes perched wonkily on hillsides, food trucks selling corn covered in cotija and watermelon juice, teenagers, high on home-grown weed, traipsing through the Mission in purposefully threadbare clothes. Since then San Francisco had been digitized and regenerated, an aging face that had gotten some kind of laser treatment. And I had changed, too. Now I spent my days awash in fluorescent light, emailing the minutes away, and the concept of California felt like a distant dream.

The Barbara Ras poem had me suddenly worried. Was I being the woman I had meant to be? The woman I had imagined becoming as a girl? Was this what having it all felt like? And if so, why could the phrase clouds and letters from a poem in an email make me question everything, make me crave some alternate version of myself, a self who was more like Barbara Ras, a woman whom I suddenly missed, imagining in detail her bright scarves and her geranium smell, her redwood writing desk, her deep woman’s wisdom, even though I had never met Barbara Ras, she was not mine to miss or love, she had her own family, her own daughter, who I found out via Wikipedia was born the same year that I was. I wondered if she and her daughter shared the lives of their minds with each other. I wondered if they drank coffee together in a breakfast nook regularly.

An alert popped up on my screen, eclipsing Barbara Ras’s Wikipedia page. Hans, the creative director, had called a last-minute meeting about the holiday campaign. I quickly sent my document of holiday ideas to the communal printer, gathered up my notebook and my iced coffee, picked up my printed pages around the corner, and headed to Megan’s cubicle to swoop her up on my way.

WORK FRIENDS

Megan, who was less concerned with punctuality than I was, was busy in her cubicle, putting the finishing touches on a spread in the Women’s Book. The Women’s Book was just a catalog featuring the new styles for fall or spring, but for the creative department, who labored furiously on it for months in advance, it was a kind of biannual fashion bible, the culmination of our collective creativity and effort. She was adding a flirty border to the Bold Colors story; this particular spread featured a bony brunette wearing a bright red crop top and a structured miniskirt of the same hue. The woman floated strangely in the middle of the page, reaching out toward my headline: WITH FLYING COLORS. Seeing my words in the context of the catalog made me actually cringe. This was the problem with writing: your silly ideas printed on real paper, which made them both more permanent and more disposable than if they’d just gone fallow in your mind. Someone would actually read the dumb headline I’d written in the pages of a free catalog. Someone else would throw it in a gutter.

Looking good, I said to Megan, plopping down in the chair she reserved for cubicle visitors. Like me, Megan was also sporting a painted-on mustache and black beret.

Is it, though? she said.

As good as it can, I said. Can’t make the clothes less hideous.

True, she said. But I didn’t get a fucking master’s degree to make borders all day.

I didn’t say so, but to me making the border looked easy and fun. I was jealous of graphic designers because their job appeared to embody an ideal of mine, which was to be simultaneously artistic and useful. Graphic designers could fulfill their innate desires to create beauty—and develop mood boards, and obsess over serifs, and tape color swatches onto their computer screens—all while slotting nicely into the corporate system. This felt very different from my own job, in which I wrote using words I would never employ in my own writing, words like luxe and glow and trend. I always felt like I was lying.

Smells good in here, I said.

Without looking away from her screen, she lifted an unlit candle she’d stashed behind her computer monitor. Gardenia, she said.

Chic, I said.

It was chic. Everything Megan had tacked to her cubicle walls was in good taste: an image of the shadow of a monstera plant; a Chanel ad from the seventies, an illustration of a deli coffee cup that said We are very happy to serve you on it. There was a framed picture of a Northern California beach, which I’d instantly known was a Northern California beach when I’d first seen it because I was from Northern California, too, and I knew the way the seagulls there behaved.

No wonder I like you, Megan had said when I’d told her I recognized those seagulls, back in 2011, when we’d first met. I seem to always find the Californian in the room.

You mean you seem to find the other perverse bitch who decided to leave the most beautiful place on earth for this shithole, I’d said.

Yes, Megan had said. That.

Megan and I had become fast and reliable work friends in those first weeks of making fashion ads together. Work friends were specific: you only went so far with each other, never pressing past a certain outer skin, and there was comfort in this. By this point we’d known each other for three years, but she still felt one step removed from my heart and soul, which I liked. We were bonded by the DNA of our communal effort, the blood of our email chains. We made mistakes and cried in each other’s cubicles. But we weren’t beholden to each other like real friends were—at least not yet. Our vague similarities—we were both Californians; we both rode the L train to and from poorly renovated apartments in Williamsburg; we both resented the company dress code and tried to defy it with excessive accessorizing—were enough to keep our nine-to-five friendship afloat and ever buoyant.

Eww, I just realized something, I said, standing to leave for the meeting.

Hmm, Megan said, not taking her eyes off her screen.

It’s lunchtime. They’re going to serve us one of those meeting salads.

There is nothing worse than a meeting salad, Megan said. It’s like the second the lettuce enters this building it becomes iceberg.

I knew exactly what Megan meant. Even if it was spring greens they were serving, it always tasted crisp and flavorless, utterly devoid of nutrients.

Hurry up, I said. It’s twelve fifty-seven.

You and your minutes, she said.

We walked through the bright halls with our arms touching. The new Associate Creative Director for the Women’s Department—his name was Todd; he wore suits over T-shirts and had a small hoop earring; we had yet to uncover whether he was gay or straight—joined us on Megan’s side.

Hey, girls, he said, shocking us both into silence. We suddenly knew he was definitely straight. You headed to this meeting, too?

MEETING TEXTS

Me: What’s New Guy’s deal?

Megan: Like in what way?

Me: Seems like a hotshot.

Megan: No one says hotshot

Me: I just said it which means people say it.

Me: Earring etc.

Megan: Reed told me he’s making triple what he makes

Megan: Guess he found his onboarding packet in the recycling

Me: Jesus. But isn’t he like younger than us?

Megan: I just remembered that Reed makes more than us

Me: Because he has a peen.

Megan: I’m kind of intrigued, to be honest

Me: By Reed’s peen?

Megan: NO! By New Guy

Me: Are you serious? He’s your boss, dude. Plus he’s BLOND.

Megan: What does that even mean?

Me: One should never trust a male blond.

Megan: Where do you even come up with this stuff? It’s like you’re copywriting life

Me: ™

HOLIDAY IDEAS

Hans wanted us to throw spaghetti at the walls. He wanted us to riff. He wanted us to free-associate, to brainstorm, to generate. To use our collective creativity to imagine the very best holiday campaign that had ever existed.

I loved this shit. I was never happier than when I was in a room with many people, all of us aiming our energies at the same thing. It didn’t matter that it was for the sake of selling fancy things to rich people. It didn’t matter that we worked for an outdated department store that all but refused to enter the new age of digital marketing, that our hard work would end up in old-school paper catalogs with an average readership age of seventy-six. All that mattered was that I was surrounded, encased in collective thought, my brain synapses ping-ponging inside my head as if life were just one big game and I was playing fast and loose.

We considered wrapping taxicabs in large red bows. We dreamed of skyscrapers draped in Christmas lights. We riffed on possibilities for our always-iconic store windows. I wrote festive or funny phrases down in my notebook, calling them out occasionally to spark the team’s thinking. Holiday of lights. Love, unwrapped. Sleigh me. Fleece Navidad. People loved my ideas and gave me air high fives across the table. I was good at this: selling the feeling of a particular kind of delight. Customers loved to be delighted while they considered which store, out of all the world’s stores, they should shop at, and which items, out of all the world’s items, they would purchase and own. The more delight and desire a woman felt while looking at a pair of boots, the more likely she was to spend her money on them. I was good at this job because I was a dreamer and an exaggerator. I could not simply live with things as they were. I had to make them shinier, more dramatic, bigger, and more beautiful. I knew what desire felt like—I had been burning with some version of it for as long as I could remember—and I could make other people feel it, too.

A knock on the conference room door meant the meeting salad had arrived. Two young women wearing unflattering black pants and short-sleeve button-ups wheeled a cart into the room and pulled the plastic wrap from five or six oval trays. Hard, lifeless tomatoes gleamed under the conference room lights. A carafe of dressing was the only promise of flavor. The group stopped talking about Christmas and lined up to serve themselves on thick black plastic plates. Those of us who knew what was up got a Diet Dr Pepper, too. No one said thank you to the young girls who’d wheeled the salad in. They were invisible and then just gone.

Megan was uncharacteristically quiet as we ate, just when everyone else was getting friendly, asking about weekend plans. Come to think of it, she’d been quiet during the whole meeting. Where she would normally be the one to come up with the best idea and share it easily, she’d kept her hands in her lap, hadn’t written anything in her notebook. She’d reapplied her lip gloss twice. She looked more elegant than usual somehow, in her painter’s beret and a blouse with a Peter Pan collar, as if her simple costume had transformed her. Her silence, too, felt unfamiliar, and vaguely worrisome. I kept glancing over at her, as if that might prompt her to contribute, but she avoided my gaze. Despite her silence or perhaps because of it, she looked beautiful.

I had never really thought much about Megan’s particular brand of beauty. I had noted an attractive health about her; there was the sense that she was very much in her own body, that she took care of it and felt it fully. I knew she attended exercise classes with names that promised holistic overhaul—Pure Barre, SoulCycle, Physique57—and that she had a noticeably nice complexion thanks to the many potions and lotions she purchased with her discount at the department store and used on her face at night and in the morning; she had what she called a skin regimen, and it seemed to work. Her eyes were hazel and her hair was hazel, if hazel meant what I thought it did, which was any in-between color that was impossible to pin down. Was her hair blond? Was it red? Was it actually just brown? It was old-fashioned somehow, her look. Edwardian, maybe.

I tried one more time to look at her, but she kept her eyes on her salad as she ate. I saw Todd look at her, too, or at least I thought I did. It could have been that I was making up the look, just like I made up the woman I was writing the holiday campaign for, who was shopping for a Christmas present for her sister, who was dying of cancer. She wanted to find her something soft, maybe a cashmere scarf, so that she would feel comfortable and cozy as she passed slowly into another realm. This woman couldn’t know that her sister would be offended by such a gift, that it would make her feel old and sad and sick, and that she would hide it in the back of her closet and try to forget her sister had purchased it for her. It made the sick woman feel distressed, even violated, to be so misunderstood. What she wanted was something shiny, even gaudy, outrageously beautiful. She did not want to sink softly into death but to sparkle her way there.

EXCHANGE

Later that day, around four, I got an email from Megan. When I opened it, I found a line drawing of a salad that she had scanned in and Photoshopped to peak crispness. It was a perfectly disgusting depiction of the salad that was now in my stomach. I laughed out loud when I saw it.

I wrote Megan an email back. It was a short story about the salad girls, the ones who had wheeled in the silver cart. I wrote about them ironing their shirts in the dark dawn, then meeting at the subway stop to ride to work together. They always had a cigarette before going in. They were friends because they had to be, because they peddled salads around midtown together, and without each other’s company they wouldn’t be able to stand the job. But one day, one of the girls didn’t show up at the subway stop. The other girl felt confused, almost devastated. She waited for a long time, tried texting and calling, never got an answer. She finally went to work, and when she got there she asked the boss about the other girl. Maya got here early for once, the boss said. She’s already on her route. The girl who had been left behind felt awful all day. When she finally saw her friend as they were punching out at headquarters, she asked her where she’d been that morning. My therapist says I’m codependent, she said. But I think I’m going to fire her. The girls grinned at each other. They knew things were going to be fine. They smoked a cigarette in Herald Square, looking up at the patch of sky between the tall buildings,