The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(32)
“Are you kidding me?” The words escaped my mouth before I could even stop them.
“No! I kid you not! It’s all the rage. It’s like a portable business card, but even better.”
“Aren’t business cards already portable? Never mind.” I stopped my line of questioning. I was clearly an alien on this planet of Gen Zers, and I had a lot of learning to do if I was going to keep up.
Oak lifted her hand again, and I opened my camera app and scanned her thumbnail, which instantly populated all of her social media handles into my phone under her contact info. Dude! That was kinda cool.
“Okay, so we will reach out to our landlord immediately to let him know, and barring any issues with the background and credit check and whatever, we’ll see you tomorrow,” Lyla said.
I stuck my finger in the air to pause the conversation. “Oh, I almost forgot I um . . . kinda had a bit of a run-in with a temperamental detective and sorta got arrested for assaulting an officer. The case was dismissed, though.”
“Honey, please. I had a similar arrest like four years ago at a Women’s March in DC that turned a bit hairy. Par for the course, am I right?” Sevyn offered in a self-satisfied tone and extended her hand for a fist bump.
“Great! I think this will be . . . great,” I said, even though I wasn’t actually sure if this was going to be an epic train wreck or the experience of a lifetime.
Chapter Sixteen
Having gotten the hang of my new commute over these last few weeks, thankfully, even with recent delays on the M Train, I managed to make it from my new apartment in Bushwick to Times Square for my shift. A look of relief washed over Charlie’s face as soon as he spotted me. “Oh good, you haven’t morphed into Elphaba yet. After your last shift, I had to wipe green fingerprints off half the place settings.”
“You know I make double the tips when I sing ‘The Wizard and I’ in full makeup.”
Charlie tilted his head to the side. “You wouldn’t have to do the makeup at all if you’d just get up the nerve to sing ‘Defying Gravity’ instead. If memory serves, that number’s your real moneymaker.” This was maybe the tenth time Charlie had mentioned this in just as many shifts, and I was running out of ways to dodge his urging. He didn’t know a thing about the moo heard round the world and the complicated history I had with that song, so he thought he was being helpful.
“We’ll see. So, what can I do around here?” I asked, desperately trying to change the subject for the second time today.
Charlie tossed me a cloth from inside his apron pocket. He motioned to the rest of the booths that still needed a wipe down, while he placed freshly laundered linens atop the clean tables.
“Can you take sections one and two today? Paula has a callback and won’t be here ’til the late afternoon,” he said.
“Oh really?” I lifted my head, shifting my focus from wiping the table. Apparently, my voice was unable to hide my disappointment.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Paula was supposed to be the Joanne to my Maureen in our ‘Take Me or Leave Me’ duet.” I pulled my set list from my back pocket and scanned it over. “It’s fine, just means I’ll have to rework the Rent medley.”
“If you need me to stand in, just let me know,” Charlie offered genuinely. “I thought I filled the Anne Boleyn hole in the SIX megamix pretty well, if I do say so myself.”
I laughed at the memory of Charlie with two space buns slapped over his ears and a bedazzled B choker around his neck. Truth be told, his rendition could’ve given Tom Holland’s iconic Lip Sync Battle a run for its money. “Teamwork makes the dream work, right?” I teased. “Is there anyone you won’t play?”
He tapped his upper lip and thought for a moment. “My line in the sand was Little Orphan Annie. Actually, no,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “I take that back, a seven-year-old’s birthday party came into the restaurant a few years ago, and the mom offered two Benjamins if we could throw together an Annie mash-up. And for two Bennies in our tip jar, you can bet your bottom dollar I was out there belting out ‘Tomorrow’ like there wasn’t one, red wig and all. I don’t know how many other men would be up to the challenge,” he joked.
“Not to mention have the range to pull it off,” I teased back, tossing the damp dishrag into the linen bin.
“But that’s the gypsy life, though, right? We all help each other out, have each other’s backs, cover for one another when we have a real gig or audition. Everyone here understands the dream, and we hustle hard so we can each pursue our own version of what that looks like. That’s why I’m still here all these years later.”
Carrying over a bin of clean silverware and a stack of paper napkins, I slid into one of the booths and began rolling them together into sets. “So, what’s the dream now? Still composing? If I remember right, you were writing a show of your own. Did you ever finish it?” I asked.
Charlie scooted into the booth across from me and grabbed some forks and knives to join in. “I finished that one, and three others to varying degrees of success, but nothing Lin-Manuel Miranda–level yet. My biggest hit had a three-week run at The Public a few summers ago, which was pretty awesome. And I’m working on something now I think might have some potential.”