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October 27, 2008
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I met Billy the week that Wall Street collapsed. It was midnight, and I was standing on the curb of a well-lit street in Midtown Manhattan, hoping to hail a cab and, in the meantime, steal a smoke. I rarely carry cigarettes, because I "don't smoke," but pour three drinks in me and I certainly "do smoke." (Chain smoke is more like it.) With Parliament Lights an astronomical $9 a pack in New York these days, I must often rely on the kindness of smokers. "Can I bum one of those?" I asked. He was sitting on the ledge of a planter. He tapped out an American Spirit and handed it to me. Not my brand, but whatever. "Lemme buy you a drink," he said, gesturing to the Irish bar behind him. I was so broke that week. I shrugged. "Okay." It was one of those sprawling pubs you find in Midtown Manhattan: Random clovers, Guinness posters, the Pogues on the jukebox. Inside, a buddy of Billy's leaned against the bar, taking shots with three blonde women wearing spaghetti-strap dresses and fake tans. I did not like this bar. I told Billy so.
"Yeah," he agreed. "This bar kind of blows." He had ordered us both beers and taken a sip of one. A little bit of foam sat on his upper lip. What I did next is something I have never done before. I do not think I will ever do it again. It was unsafe, reckless, and if my parents are reading this, it is entirely a metaphor. I can only tell you that I hated that bar, and I liked Billy — quite a lot, actually. He had interesting ideas about the magazine where I work and about politics and about art. (He also had cigarettes.) I didn't understand why the stupid, douchey bar had to come in between me and someone I liked. So I turned to him and said, "Would you like to come back to my apartment and have sex?" He licked the foam off his lips. "Yes. Yes, I would." We collapsed in a cab that edged down Broadway: his hand reaching up my skirt, my hand digging in his hair. "Hey, hey, hey, not in this cab!" the driver barked at us. He made us put on our seatbelts. We were genuinely sorry, two good kids scolded by a teacher, forced to opposite ends of the backseat for the thirty-minute crawl back to Brooklyn. We were obliged to actually talk to each other, which, in the end, was probably a good thing. As Billy told me about his mother in Florida, his deadbeat younger brother, his father who had died not long ago, leaving his family in terrible debt, he reached his hand across the black vinyl, and held my hand. "So transactional law," I said, looking out the cab window. "What kind, exactly?" "Basically?" He sighed. "I'm responsible for the market crash."
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Commentarium (18 Comments)
I'm sure it wasn't a lie. Men don't lie about losing their job, unless they owe you money. It's too easy to disprove. (If you really wanted to do the detective work, you could go back to that shitty bar and look for his friend again, but I don't recommend it.) You're a good writer. Sorry it didn't work out, with this one or the New Orleans guy.
I loved your article, and I love your writing style. But please, as a writer, know the difference between "disinterested" and "uninterested". Disinterested means impartial. It is what a judge is supposed to be. Uninterested means you don't have any interest at all in something. This is NOT what a judge is supposed to be. So, the ideal judge is disinterested and interested in the cases he handles.
ThanksQ
Smells like a married guy thing, he had some strange, & backed away quickly. And perhaps also lost a bundle in the market at the same time. Honestly, the folks getting killed in the Big Casino right now cannot afford to leave all that money on the table and just walk away--that part sounds a little off.
Playa alert! Sorry, but the "did he really lose his job or not" question is totally meaningless. This same story could have happened anywhere in the US. Your (and your NYC friends') Manhattan-as-center-of-universe mindset is clogging your gray metter here. That aside, very likely there were grains of truth to his story(-ies). But this is a guy who for whatever reason -- married, girlfriend, not as blown away by your body as he expects to be given his age/status -- is not into you, but wants you on the back burner in case he demoted himself on the "I'm a catch" meter later, or just decides he wants another fuck-night. He's lying and an opportunist, and for god's sake, you were way too emotionally invested even though you think you weren't. You're depressed, it happens. Let it go -- and in the future, if you want to fuck a guy, do so, god bless. But don't think it means you're about to start dating him.
Word up, MB. Word up.
delightful piece. On the disinterested vs. uninterested front, this common mistake has always rankled me, particularly since it became a non-mistake. Some time in the last decade, major dictionaries have started including a second definition of "disinterested" which is "having or feeling no interest in something." So techincally, the writer was not incorrect. But it still rankles, because it's an example of the famously protean English language becoming less precise, and therefore less effective. Another example is the maddening fact that "bimonthly" means both "occurring every 2 months" and occurring twice per month. It should mean twice per month, because semi-monthly effectively covers the other. So sad to watch our language deteriorate.
I'm sorry that happened to you (and to him). That was a very touching piece. I believe him.
Sarah Hepola is one of the best writers around. I always look forward to reading her. I actually met her once. Give her a well deserved raise.
great article and something I can totally relate to. I feel bad for the dude
Please, I don't feel bad for that guy, or any of the other arrogant, status-seeking, social climbing douchebags in the finance industry. In fact, I hope he and his fellow money-grubbing parasites climb the nearest skyscraper and jump off the roof. Don't believe anything these greedy fucks tell you, they're all in it to get filthy rich off speculation and paper shuffling. Wall Street left us all to rot decades ago, so fuck him and his mom.
More Nerve stupidity. Go get a real job honey, writing is not in the cards for you.
Regardless of whether or not he was telling the truth, regardless of whether it's dis- or uninterested, Sarah Hepola is the best of Nerve. Love her, love her, love her.
Fantastic and lovely and perfect. Yay for Sarah.
Speaking as a man who also has sex with men, a word of advice: Unless their sex lives have consisted entirely of porn, men are aware that jackhammering is not what you enjoy. It's what they enjoy. Next time someone tries it on you, state that your vagina is not a bouncy castle and turf him out.
Hi a well written piece, but you obviously fell for this guy and that was what the piece was really about. Who really cares whether it was lack of finances, or another woman; he's just not that in to you and doesn't want to see you again! Let it go!
I think that it is sad when garbage like this article is acceptable as writing. Why are you dumbing up your writing up with such loose profanity and insights into your vulgar immorale sex-capades. It is disgusting to read an artical as such written by a young woman, where the writer has compromised their own intelligence and integrity. YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED!
Except for being rushed to a hospital in a coma, I would certainly of called her the very nest day regardless of any misadventure. Give me a break, she could of been at the least sorry for me a supportive of my bad happenings.
This was really wonderfully written, and I'm impressed that Ms. Hepola was brave enough to put this out there. She is in the same league as Steve Almond these days; no small feat.