The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(79)
I smiled. “Thanks, and I really appreciate the pep talk. I think I will turn in. I’ll catch the rest of the episode tomorrow. I’m invested now in what choice Gemma makes,” I said as I climbed off the couch and grabbed the empty popcorn bowl from the end table to take to the kitchen.
“Angus, if she knows what’s good for her,” Oak called out from the couch.
“Night, girls,” I said, chugging the rest of what was in my mug, the heavy red wine drying my tongue and sliding all the way down my throat with a warm heat. I put the cup in the sink and offered a wave as I padded down the hall.
I closed the door to my bedroom and slunk down on the bed. My thoughts drifted to Marisol, who always seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to my audition insecurities. Even when I said that things were going fine, somehow she always knew what was really bubbling underneath the surface. That’s when she would step in and help me see the world through her fearless eyes.
We started a tradition that every time I would get too critical about my ability or performance or get too in my head about a part, we would make a date and jump on the subway out to Coney Island and forget real life for at least a little while.
It’d been almost a decade since the last time I visited the old-timey amusement park, home to the notoriously rickety wooden coaster the Cyclone. Despite Marisol’s words of encouragement on all our trips, I’d never been brave enough to actually ride the ride. But the faint smell of Nathan’s hot dogs, the haunting melody of tinny carnival music, and the taste of the ocean’s salty breeze were calling to me. Maybe it was exactly the type of distraction I needed to overcome the mounting self-doubt and get out of my head.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
From the moment we met Christmas Day my freshman year at NYU when Gabe took me home to meet his family, Marisol and I became fast friends. Like her brother, she was confident and sometimes brash. She told it like it was and never made apologies, honest and loyal almost to a fault. I admired her confidence and fearlessness and used to hope that some small fraction of her self-assuredness would rub off on me, if even only by osmosis.
Back then, she was a junior at The New School studying filmmaking and, much to her brother’s chagrin, believed art was as important a calling as politics or policy making. I remember one time she and Gabe got into a particularly heated argument, which she ended by flashing a tattoo of a Tolstoy quote she’d recently gotten across her back that read, “Art is not a pleasure, a solace, or an amusement; art is a great matter.” I don’t know what shocked him more, the sentiment or the size of the tat.
The last time we took a trip to Coney Island together had been a few days before my ill-fated Wicked audition. Marisol stood waiting for me outside Gabe’s and my apartment, wearing her iconic shit-kicking boots paired with a cute pleated miniskirt and a vintage rocker T-shirt.
“Hey!” she greeted me. “No offense, but it looks like you haven’t slept in a week.”
“More like two,” I replied with a small shrug and a side smile. “I can’t believe I’ve even made it this far. The other auditioners have agents and long résumés. I’m completely out of my league.”
“If you want to run with the big dogs, you can’t piss like a pup. You’re a freakin’ bullmastiff, you just aren’t seeing it. You will, though. All right, Coney Island, here we come!” she said, linking her arm into mine and leading me down the steps into the subway station.
An hour later, we emerged in not only another borough but a whole other world, the briny air floating off the nearby Atlantic Ocean coating the insides of our mouths and nostrils.
“What do you think? Boardwalk first, then that frog slappy game I always kick your ass in, and then we ride the Cyclone?” Marisol asked.
I raised my right eyebrow. “Yeah, we’ll see.”
“C’mon, live a little, Lawrence,” she said, guiding me toward the bright-yellow awning of Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs, the iconic Coney Island landmark.
Marisol marched up to the counter and ordered us each two hot dogs with the works, two Cokes, and a basket of fries to share. “Go find us a spot outside, I got this,” she said.
I reached into my pocket for a twenty. “You sure?”
She shooed me from the counter. “Put that away. Your money’s no good here.”
I stepped outside and found us a table on the boardwalk. The gentle wind coming off the ocean made it feel about ten degrees cooler than in the city, a welcomed change considering how unseasonably warm it was for May. Coney Island was packed to the brim with people enjoying the summerlike temperatures. Fishing enthusiasts dangled poles over the edge of the railing while kids dipped their toes in the waves, screeching at the tops of their lungs when the cold water climbed up their shins. I turned my face into the sun and soaked in the rays. After spending the last week in a rehearsal studio getting ready for the Wicked audition, the fresh air and sea breeze felt amazing.
Marisol approached, one hand holding the tray, the other shielding it from any rogue seagulls eyeing our meal. She set down the food and took a seat on the other side of the picnic table bench, swiping a fry off the top of the pile and popping it into her mouth as she sat down.
“Okay, we got hot dogs, kraut, relish, a little mustard, and a little ketchup. And I couldn’t help myself, I grabbed two knishes for good measure. I mean, is it even a trip to Nathan’s if we don’t get knishes?!”