The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(11)
The blonde interjected, stirring me back to planet Earth. “Wait, you know each other?” she asked, wagging a finger between the two of us.
“We do. We did. In a past life,” I said in an almost whisper. “So sorry to have . . . I just . . . I’ll find a cab outside somehow. Merry Christmas,” I barked over my shoulder as I bolted from the building and out to the lamplit street.
I stumbled about in a haze of my own panic-retreat, my body temperature surged, and I no longer felt the bitter sting of the cold. Gabe? How?! I mean, what were the odds of finding myself on my ex-boyfriend’s doorstep? None of it made any sense.
Gabe was the very first person I met at college. Fresh off the train from Woodbury, Connecticut, I was greener than green. After saving every cent I made working at our local pizzeria to pay for voice lessons and acting classes, I managed to get accepted into NYU Tisch School of the Arts for musical theater, and it was a dream come true. But if New York City was the city that never slept, then Woodbury was the small town that liked a good catnap, and for the first few uncomfortable weeks blundering about like a fish out of water, I wasn’t sure I could successfully navigate a new life in the Big Apple—that is, until I met Gabe and his sister, Marisol, who quickly became my closest friend.
Raised by a single mother on the Lower East Side, Gabe was New York through and through—from his unwavering devotion to the Yankees to his uncanny ability to pick out the best food cart on any city block. Between meeting him and Marisol, it was like having my own personal Manhattan tour guides, only better. Gabe explained that the city was essentially one big grid, with the avenues running horizontally and the streets vertically, and educated me on which subway exits got you closest to class. Marisol was the one who let me in on the secret—that most of the plays I was assigned to read in History of Theater 101 could be bought at The Strand, a local indie bookstore, for a fraction of the cost they were sold for at the NYU one.
When I met Gabe, he was a junior and prelaw, with the singular goal of making a difference in the world, whatever it took. He could be intense and brooding, but he was also steadfast in his convictions, not to mention undeniably gorgeous. His drive to “do good” was infectious, and it wasn’t long before I joined the long line of freshman girls in love with him. We dated all through college, and I was positive I’d found “the one”—that is, until it all spectacularly fell apart. Almost a year later, I started dating Adam, cutting ties with Gabe and Marisol completely in order to dive headfirst into my new life.
In big moments over the past seven years, I couldn’t help but find myself reminiscing about Gabe and our relationship, and then about Marisol and what she’d think. It became the strange metric by which I evaluated all my choices. How would Gabe feel about this decision or that one? How would Marisol have done such and such? And every single time, I came to the same conclusion—Adam was my future, and Gabe and Marisol were my past.
Well, until tonight when I randomly showed up at his front door. But why?
No, I couldn’t worry about any of that now. It was still twenty-five degrees outside, and I was still only in a hoodie freezing my ass off. Now, I just needed to get home. I power-walked, more like power-stalked, back in the direction of the security guard’s booth, ready to give that lady a piece of my mind. What kind of sick game was she playing? I mean, who sends a defenseless woman who just stepped fresh out of jail, still in her pajamas, on a goose chase around town for shits and giggles?! A sadist, that’s who. A sadist who was going to have to schedule immediate surgery to remove my foot from her ass.
When I made it back to the prison in what felt like record time, I marched right up to the security booth, annoyed to see someone new at the guard post. I banged on the window anyway, startling the man from his coffee, causing him to toss the hot liquid sky-high.
“Dammit!” he swore. He swung around to look at me and then quickly softened at the sight of my bedraggled and desperate appearance. He sighed and asked, “Is there something you need?”
“Yes, sir, there is. I need to talk to the woman who was here on duty before you. Finger-waved hair. Um . . . maybe in her fifties? Fuller figured. A silver-bell broach on her lapel. I need to speak with her pronto.”
“Ma’am,” he said as he continued to mop up puddles of coffee with some ineffectively thin paper towels, “I’ve been on duty all night. And I relieved a man named Ernie who is about five-two, weighs about a buck-ten soaking wet, and is bald. So, I’m not quite sure who you’re talkin’ about.”
“No, the woman, who was here, I don’t know, like an hour and a half ago. She was reading a newspaper. Sitting exactly where you are now.”
The man narrowed his eyes at me and took in my whole appearance. He gave an impatient huff, like answering nonsensical questions from annoying strangers was just another perk of manning a street booth outside the prison in the jungle that was Manhattan. “My shift started three hours ago. I’ve been right here, in this exact seat, from the moment I clocked in.”
“I don’t understand. I was released from this prison, didn’t have a ride, and she said it was against policy for her to call me a taxi. So instead, she handed me a business card and sent me on a wild-goose chase.”
“Look, young lady, I don’t know who you spoke to, but I can call you a cab right now, it ain’t against any policy we have, and I’ve worked here for more than thirty years.”