Riverside Park. Laura Wormer Van
Celia put a dish of pretzels down in front of Howard. “Thank God you had good news. He’s been depressed for as long as I’ve been serving him.”
Her eyes were nice.Very dark. Like her hair. “Which is how long?”
“Three years,” she said, leaving to get another patron a drink.
When she came back Howard told her, “There is a school of thought that says it’s good to keep writers depressed because then they stay home and write.”
She laughed. It made her much more attractive. She had a great smile.
“I hear you ran into my wife early this morning.”
Her eyebrows went up. “I did?”
“In the lobby. Around three this morning?”
Celia still looked uncertain and held up a finger, signaling that Howard was to hold that thought while she got another customer a drink.
Howard saw the writer standing just outside the bar area, holding a cell phone to one ear and covering his other with a hand. He guessed he was calling his wife with the good news.
“I got sort of hammered here after work last night,” Celia admitted on her return. “I think I remember seeing her. With the baby. Your wife has really beautiful hair, right?”
“Yes, she does.”
“And absolutely huge tits,” Celia added.
Howard did a double take.
Celia covered her mouth, aghast. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. My roommate and I watch this show on BBC America, What Not to Wear, and this lady Trinny’s always saying stuff like that so we’ve been saying it to each other. I didn’t mean to be rude—”
“Miss?” a customer called.
“I meant it as a compliment,” she said, moving away. “I mean, look.” She gestured to her own breasts and then made a gesture of futility.
No, there wasn’t much there, Howard had to agree. But Celia did have terrific legs and that great swing to her ass.
“My wife thinks I’m lying about the Australian publisher,” the writer announced upon his return. “She thinks I’m saying it so I can stay out and drink and not have to deal with her parents. The busboy says he knows you, by the way. That one, over there. Joey or something.”
Howard smiled. “Hey! Jason!”
The teenager untangled himself from a tray of dirty dishes and came over, smiling and wiping his hands on his apron before shaking Howard’s hand. “Hey, Mr. Stewart.”
“Long time no see,” Howard joked. Jason was a great kid, but really shy. Of course, with a mother like Rosanne, Howard imagined it would be hard to get a word in edgewise. “Was that turkey gross or what?”
“It wasn’t that bad,” the boy said nicely. “At least it didn’t have any buckshot in it this year.”
They laughed.
“My novel’s getting published,” the writer told Jason.
“Congratulations. Is Mr. Stewart your agent?”
“Best agent in the world,” the writer declared, but Jason’s eyes had moved to something behind them. Howard turned to see what he was looking at. Celia. Jason was looking at Celia. When Howard turned back around he could see a rash of scarlet spreading across Jason’s neck.
Jason had a crush on her.
“If you want, Jason,” he heard Celia say, “you can have a second break.”
Jason’s eyes lit up. “Yeah. Yeah! That’d be great,” he stammered.
“Then you better go and take it before she changes her mind,” Howard said.
“Yeah. I guess.” Jason stuck his hand out. “Thanks again for dinner, Mr. Stewart.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Congratulations again on your book,” Jason said politely as he backed away.
They turned back around on their stools to lean on the bar. “Seems like a good kid,” the writer said.
“He is. I think he’s going to do very well.” For some reason this reminded him of the financial mess he was in and it made him feel sick inside. “I think I need a real drink,” Howard announced. “What are you drinking?”
“Irish Mist.”
“Sounds good to me.” He looked around. “Where’s Celia?”
The bartender servicing the other end of the bar came down to Howard. “Can I get you fellas something?”
“Where’s Celia?”
“On break. What can I get you?”
Howard ordered two Irish Mists. The writer drank his pretty fast while Howard nursed his. Celia reappeared behind the bar about ten minutes later.
“You’re a little young for hot flashes,” the writer told her when Celia came over to see how they were doing. He had started slurring his words.
Celia blew the hair off her face. She did look hot. “Say that again?”
The writer repeated it.
“I think you’ve hit your limit,” Celia said, smoothly swiping his empty glass from the bar. “So what can I get you? On me. Water, soda or coffee?” She put a dish of pretzels in front of him.
“Fuck that, I wanna real drink,” he said, swatting the dish of pretzels off the bar. The pretzels went flying and the saucer clattered down on the floor behind the bar.
Celia looked at Howard. “Tell him I won’t hold it against him tomorrow.” And then she walked down to the other end of the bar.
“Fuck her,” the writer growled, trying to get off the bar stool. Howard held his arm to steady him and the writer threw his hand off.
“Okay, okay,” Howard said, backing off.
Without another word the writer staggered out of the bar.
“He left his coat,” the woman with lots of makeup on said.
Celia came to wipe down the bar again and Howard apologized. He thought it had been that last drink that had done it. Celia agreed that had she been out here she probably would not have poured him that last drink. She said the writer got a certain look when he was on the verge of a blackout. “The cold will wake him up, though,” she said with a smile. “How about a turkey sandwich? They’re really good.”
“Sounds good to me.” Howard switched back to beer and ate his sandwich. It was good. The football game on television got pretty good, too, and he stayed on, having another beer, doing his best to stay in the moment and not think about his problems.
At eleven Celia said she was going off her shift so Howard closed out his bill and asked if she wanted to share a cab home. She said she would prefer to walk. He said that sounded like a good idea.
It was freezing out but Celia seemed unaffected by it. She asked him a few questions about what a literary agent did, asked where he had gone to school (Duke) and who some of his writers were. (The only author of his she had heard of was Gertrude Bristol.) He asked her what kind of books she liked to read and she said Anthony Trollope.
“Which ones?”
She looked at him. “All of them. He makes me laugh and I like that time period. A lot of cool stuff was made back then. You know, books, paintings, furniture.”
“Good evening, Miss Cavanaugh, Mr. Stewart,” the night concierge of their building said. They said hello, and while Howard pressed the button for the elevator, Celia took her bandana off and shook out her hair. When they got in Howard pushed 11 and by the time Celia asked him to push 6 they