the great gatsby

Friday
It takes me 30 minutes to move 20 blocks south and 2 blocks west to Penn Station, and it becomes clear that I will miss my train. Sweating, cursing, and angry, I rush in and buy a ticket for the next train.

I am unbelievably impatient, and the three hours cannot go by fast enough. In DC, I end up with the slowest taxi driver in the city. Finally, he takes a wrong turn, and frustrated, I tell him to stop a block away rather than circumnavigate the neighborhood again.

Finally, finally, finally, I arrive. We turn right around and leave for the baseball game. There are dozens of stragglers like us, arriving well into the third inning. The first concession stand we try is out of hot dogs, and at the second one, we have to wait five minutes, and then, lukewarm hot dogs in hand, we discover that they are out of mustard. But eventually, we have beer and hot dogs and Cracker Jack, and we sit down.

The game goes by quickly, and I tell him about my recent trip to Europe: London, Kitzbuhl, Prague, Vienna.

He says, “Man, I’d love to live in London.”

I turn to him, trying not to gape.

“Really?” I ask.

He explains: American lawyers can get very lucrative compensation packages in exchange for transferring overseas for a few years. Unfortunately, he would have to work in corporate law upon his return to the United States, and he isn’t entirely sure he wants to do so. Plus, he’s not sure how it would work out, with his short term plans to accept an offer with a law firm in Washington.

But I can’t help but smile. “My firm has an office in London,” I say.

Later that night, before we fall asleep, he hugs me tight. “It’s about time you came back from Europe.” I smile and kiss him. “It’s good to be back.”

Saturday
In the morning, I visit K and G and their newborn baby, L, and Clerk goes to his office. In the afternoon, we have brunch with my friend R, on Capitol Hill. R has just purchased a remodeled townhouse, which I am eager to see. Afterwards, we walk around Eastern Market, and I buy some peaches and berries. As I am poking through the produce, Clerk looks at R and shrugs, “That’s what you get for walking through a market with a chef.”

I look over my shoulder and roll my eyes. “I’m not a chef.” But I’m smiling anyway.

Back at the apartment, the preparations for The Great Gatsby party begin. Make up. Curling iron. Costume options. He: bright orange twill pants, bright green cotton belt with royal blue seahorses, light blue dress shirt, multi-colored, diagonally striped tie, off white linen jacket, brown flip flops. Me: white strapless lace and tulle sundress with black polka dots, black embroidery, and a thin black ribbon across the front; white patent leather slides with bows on them, dangling silver and black earrings, high ponytail with bouncing ringlets.

We stroll over to the party, enjoying the attention from passersby. We approach the yard, and a gaggle of young women coo appreciatively. “That’s such a cute dress!” “Clerk, you look awesome.” He introduces me to his numerous female coworkers. I can’t help but notice, We look fabulous.

We go inside, and even his friends are impressed. One of his law school buddies, E, looks up from a copy of "The Great Gatsby," and says, in his very deep, booming voice, “You win, sir. You win.”

Lots of kisses. We pour champagne. I smirk when I hear yet another group of women oohing over Clerk’s outfit. I am tempted to listen, but I want to give him some space, so I smile at him and go back outside, where the sun is setting.

Clerk wanders over to us. “I am...not sober,” he says, gesturing with a champagne bottle in one hand. He asks me incredulously, “Is that your second glass?” I laugh, “Is that your second bottle?”

Later in the evening, Clerk and I are outside on the balcony, kissing, and we hear someone open and then close the door. We giggle and decide to rejoin the others.

Clerk’s friend, B, has just moved to Washington from New York. At midnight, the party has completely moved outside. B and I sit down, and survey the scene. We start talking about New York and about Washington. I say, “If I moved here, I just don’t know what my scene would be.”

He looks at me and nods. “That’s exactly right. That’s exactly right.” We are the only two people of color left at the party.

The three of us walk a few blocks away to my friend L’s 30th birthday party, in the basement of a popular bar. L and Clerk went to the same law school, and immediately, someone recognizes Clerk. He chats with some people for a while, and B and I feast on the free, cold quesadillas. I get up to order drinks, and the two boys tell me to surprise them. I order a round of whiskey, and they are floored. “You tryin’ to kill us?”

“If you don’t want it, I’ll drink it,” I tease.

B declares, “These quesadillas are so good. If there were a contest between sex and these quesadillas, it would be close. Sex would win, but it would be close.” Sated, we decide to find the folks from the party. We jump into a taxi, and our cabbie is initially surly. “I can’t take you where you wanna go. I can only get to ____ and 18th Street. There’s too much traffic. Just too much.” Silence from the boys, so I jump in, soothingly, “That’s fine, that’s fine. Just as close as you can get us.”

As we pass the Church of Scientology, someone cracks a joke, and then the cabbie is off. “That’s where the whore house used to be!” He insists that he knows “where the orgies are,” and that recently a few girls wanted to see his twelve-inch penis. He starts singing obscene Ludacris lyrics about oral sex. It is the most unbelievable cab ride I have ever had.

At the club, A, the host of the party, gives me a big hug. “Clerk, go over there,” he jokes, and pretends to dance too close to me. “Ha ha,” Clerk says, good-naturedly.

B is much happier. “Now this is more like it.” The two of us go and dance, while Clerk buys drinks. One of the small girls from the party starts talking, and I lean forward so I can hear her. “When you guys walked up, we were like, ‘They are the cutest couple!’ but you’re not a couple!”
“What?” I ask her, confused.

“Wait,” she backtracks. “Don’t you live in New York?”

“Yeah,” I smile, guessing her next words.

“Oh...but you’re a couple?”

“Yeah,” I say, trying not to laugh.

“Ohhhhhh.”

I smile and turn away.

Every once in a while, Clerk joins us on the dance floor, and I put my arms around his neck, and we dance close. One time, he comes back, and I am dancing suggestively with B, and he says with feigned irritation, “Hey, hey, hey!” B and I move apart, and I turn to Clerk. “Well, you shouldn’t leave us alone on the dance floor...”

The DJ announces, “Last call!” and we start gathering our things. I am tired, my feet are sore, and I cannot wait to be in bed.

We shuffle home. G is not home, and this makes me smile. We can be as loud as we want.

Sunday
8 am. Too early. Drink some water. Go back to sleep.

At 10ish, the cleaning women are here, and we have to get out of the apartment. He introduces me to them, and I think, Now they can put a face to the...hair.

We wait in line for brunch at a local diner, and are thrilled to get a table a little while later. It is a remodeled place, made to look old fashioned. Small white subway tiles line the floors, and the huge high ceiling is lined with crown molding. I say, “I like this place. I could live here, if I could go to a place like this.” But I think he doesn’t hear me.

“So,” he says. “Are you going to tell me about the training?” I tell him about my two weeks in Europe: practicing how to give and receive feedback, role playing difficult client situations, the one-on-one coaching session I had. We start talking about work, and about how long I’ll stay at my company, and how it differs from a law firm.

We segue into discussing his career, and he tells me he’s not sure what he wants to do. He will probably accept one of the offers with a local firm.

“There’s another part of me, that really wants to move back to Maine, and get involved in politics, and if I’m going to do that, I have to do it sooner rather than later.” He explains,

“Mainers...” (I have to smile at this.) “...don’t like carpetbaggers.”

I nod gravely, trying not to show any reaction on my face.

He says, “But...I’m not sure I’m ready to plan my whole life around that.”

I think (and hope) he means, But it’s not a dealbreaker.

I cannot remember the details, but I remember it seemed like a slightly scary conversation. Both because it was about a scary subject, my career, and because it was about my future. Or, our future.

We return to the apartment, and he is too tired to function. He crawls into bed, and I watch television, and work a little bit. After a while, work is boring, and I am feeling antsy. As I am wondering whether I should go out and walk around, he lumbers out, sleepy eyed, unshaven, and adorable.

We decide to eat a little before leaving for the concert. He makes his favorite comfort food: macaroni and cheese and a hot dog, and I have some breakfast: yogurt and fresh berries and cereal.

On the way to the amphitheater, I ask, “So what kind of politics would you want to get involved in?”

And as he says the words, my heart sinks. “Probably elected politics. You know, a Senator or a Representative.”

Again, I try not to frown. I feel both impressed, and proud, and sad. I ask him whether he would be interested in working for a government agency or an NGO, and he frowns. “All the good NGOs are in Washington, and I don’t want to live here forever. Plus, I don’t think life as a career bureaucrat is for me. I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never been really comfortable selling myself, so I’ve thought about being the guy behind the guy.” He grins slyly. “But on the other hand, I think I would like the glory, so I don’t think I want to be the guy behind the guy.”

At the amphitheater, we spread out a blanket and sit down on the grass. I look over, and see people streaming in. Teenagers, people in their 20s and 30s, carrying blankets and lawn chairs and beers. The sun is setting, and the air is still warm. I smile.

He sees me beaming. “What?” he asks.

“I don’t know. It’s just...this is everything I like about Washington.”

I tell him that R had asked me, “What does Clerk like about Washington? Is he a politico?” And that I hadn’t known exactly what to say.

And he explains what it is that he loves. It’s a beautiful city. People are interested in things, other than money. He finds it easy to meet and talk to people. He asks me, “What do you like about New York?”

And I explain. The energy. The people. I never get bored. The bars, the restaurants, the shops. The diversity, the variety. It is, to me, incomparable. I explain that it is true that I only spend a few nights there a month, and he says, “I could live in New York, if I had your schedule.”

We sit quietly for a bit, and he says, “Have you ever just felt completely happy with all the people you spend time with? Right now I just think I’m not spending anytime with anyone I don’t want to spend time with. I mean, top to bottom, I like everyone in my life.”

“As long as I’m on that list, that sounds great.”

He grins, “I said, top to bottom.”

I am not sure how that answers my question, but I smile anyway.

The main act starts playing, and it is getting dark. We lie back on the blanket, and I put my head on his chest. I look up and kiss him, and we rub noses. I giggle. It feels lovely and romantic and right.