Sabine came back with two warm, damp tea bags. They were big, about four times the size of regular tea bags.
“I only had family size,” Sabine said. “But rest these on your eyes. Models do this after long flights.”
* * *
THANKFULLY, the lighting at Farmacy was forgiving. In fact, Greta had never seen so many vintage lightbulbs in one place. It was like being in Edison’s laboratory. The bar was designed to resemble a nineteenth-century apothecary and was staffed with people who thought they were making vital medicine. Tinctures, bitters, shrubs, and cordials were house-made and kept in amber bottles with antique prescription labels; cocktails were constructed in glass beakers and stirred with foot-long silver spoons. Greta’s drink, which she downed in two swallows, had been served in an Erlenmeyer flask. It dawned on her that the entire staff looked related, or like the extended family of Mennonite farmers, minus the straw hats and chin curtains.
Gringo didn’t quite fit in, despite his collarless shirt and suspenders, partly because he shook cocktails like a crazy monkey.
“Where’s our blond friend?” he asked.
“On her way,” Greta assured him.
“Another drink?”
“I better wait,” Greta said.
The place had filled up in fifteen minutes, and a large knot of people stood at the door, waiting for tables. Rather than remove the cape, Greta saved the stool next to her by draping her leg over it. Still, someone had the nerve to ask if the stool was taken—a rich, beautiful woman envied by the entire town. Or by Sabine, at least, which was how Greta knew the origin of her wealth （her father invented the pour cap for liquid laundry detergent）， her real estate holdings （seven sought-after properties in Hudson proper）， and her aesthetic （nonprecious Californian）。 The woman seemed aloof and unfriendly, and Sabine claimed she was dried up and dead inside, but she’d cried on Om’s couch many times, so Greta knew that she was in fact wet （she suffered from restless genital syndrome） and alive （or, at any rate, hooked on methadone）， and now here she was, standing less than two feet away, eyeballing Greta without really seeing her. Greta felt invisible but not insignificant. In fact, she felt omnipotent. “I know your greatest fears and desires,” she imagined whispering to the woman, “along with many of your fuckups and vain regrets, and what do you know about me? Nothing, my dear, nothing at all.”
Om possessed the same knowledge, of course, and way more money than Greta, but not the same power. If he were here and sitting next to her, he could be seen, heard, and spoken to by any number of his clients, and subsequently embraced or ignored, while Greta remained an anonymous, unfathomable mystery, whose name was Rebekah. Rebekah, she repeated. And Big Swiss is Flavia. Fla-vee-a. Flavia is a stranger to you, remember, so keep the knowing insights to a goddamn minimum.
At the door, the knot loosened and a figure emerged. Behold, Big Swiss—Flavia—in a white cashmere sweater and silk trousers. She looked windblown but also elated and a little surprised, as if she’d arrived by parachute. She spotted Greta and began walking toward her. People did double and triple takes as she moved through the crowd, but her eyes remained fastened on Greta’s face. Greta had been ogled plenty in life, but she’d never been looked at quite like this. She felt like the red balloon in the black-and-white movie: weightless, irresistible, elusive, and out of reach, floating high above all the bullshit and debris. Now that Big Swiss was standing right next to her, the feeling only intensified.
“Did you go tanning?” Big Swiss asked casually.
“Tea-bagging,” Greta said, deflated.
“What?”
“I fell asleep with tea bags on my face,” Greta said. “Big ones. The kind you use to make iced tea.”
Big Swiss arranged herself on the stool with aplomb. Was it Greta’s imagination, or did everyone at the bar suddenly sit up straighter?
“The house I live in,” Greta went on. “I sleep in the closet sometimes, on an old bed filled with horsehair. Maybe I’m allergic? Although, I was born with bags under my eyes.”
Why was she talking like a goober? Her habit of delivering information out of sequence only worsened with alcohol. Nevertheless, she flagged down Gringo and ordered a Sazerac. Big Swiss asked for white wine with a side of ice.
“I didn’t catch your names,” Gringo said, and held out a hairy hand. “I’m JD.”
“Rebekah,” Greta said too slowly, as if attempting Flemish.
“Flavia,” Big Swiss said.
“This round is on me,” he said. “Salut.”
He played it cool and wandered away. Big Swiss plopped two cubes into her wine and took a dainty sip. The thing to do now, Greta decided, was to be as off-putting as possible so that Big Swiss never contacted her again.
“Nice sweater meat,” Greta said.
“Thanks,” Big Swiss said, oblivious.
“I can see your… pillow corners,” Greta said. “If you know what I mean.”
Who was this? A shitty nine-year-old?
“My what?”
“Your Freudian nips,” Greta said.
Big Swiss’s eyes widened. “Have you been here all afternoon?”
“I beg your pardon,” Greta said, “but I’ve been here twenty minutes. I typed all day. I transcribed a very intense interview with an extremely famous person.”
What was more off-putting than name-dropping? Nothing in the world. Her choices, as far as local celebrities: Daniel Day-Lewis, Jessica Lange, Claire Danes, Parker Posey— “How’s the pay?”
“Who?” Greta asked, confused.
“It must pay pretty well,” Big Swiss said slowly.
“Oh,” Greta said. “Yeah, no, not really. I’m, like, drowning in debt. But I’ve lived hand-to-mouth my entire life, so I’m used to it. I wouldn’t know what to do with money except piss it away as quickly as possible.”
A lifelong romance with poverty. Meow, kitty.
“Have you always been a transcriber?”
Greta shook her head. “I’ve been a pharm tech, waitress, data-entry clerk, barista, ice-cream scooper, pizza slinger.”
“I’ve always wondered if people who work from home bother to get dressed,” Big Swiss said.
“I work in my underwear,” Greta admitted. “When it’s warm enough. Otherwise, pajamas. The house I live in isn’t insulated, so it’s like camping. Except it’s a beautiful house with indoor plumbing, so maybe it’s more like glamping.”
Glamping—gross. Camping—also not her thing, though she’d done her share with Stacy.
“Anyway, if you know anyone who transcribes interviews from home, chances are they spend most of the day furiously masturbating,” Greta said.
Surely, an unsettling visual for someone like Big Swiss, who’d only masturbated once, and not very furiously. So why was Big Swiss smiling? She had not one but several spaces between her teeth. Although the spaces were narrow and uniform, as if placed there on purpose, they made Big Swiss seem mischievous and fun to be around.
“Personally, I’d have to put on a suit in the morning,” Big Swiss said. “And shoes. Just to stay awake. Do you have an office?”