Page 14 of We Could Be So Good
He can hardly blame her for leaving.
Chapter Two
Andy isn’t surprised when Nick decides that the situation calls for a liberal quantity of cheap alcohol, applied like some kind of emotional first aid. He steers Andy past O’Connell’s, the usual reporters’ haunt, and to a hole-in-the-wall bar on South Street that smells like cigars and has dusty photographs of boxers on the wall.
By the time they get to Nick’s apartment, Andy is several drinks to the better and a little unsteady on his feet.
“One more flight,” Nick says, tugging Andy by the elbow. “Up you go. Christ, you’re a lightweight.”
Andy braces a shoulder against the wall as Nick jiggles the key in the lock. “It sticks,” Nick grumbles. “There we go.”
Andy hasn’t ever been to Nick’s apartment and doesn’t know what to expect. He has the vague idea that Nick ought to live in the sort of apartment that looks like a miniature spaceship, with one of those sofas that’s about as comfortable as a stack of corrugated cardboard. Everything should be uncompromisingly shiny and utilitarian and probably metal.
But there is no way any modern space-age apartments exist in this part of town. Based on the neighborhood, he’d imaginesomething shabby and tenement-like. Not that he’s entirely clear on what a tenement looks like, at least not this side of Jacob Riis, so his information might be a good seventy years out of date. But he can’t imagine anythingnicein this part of the city.
The neighborhood is, to put it charitably, a bit rough, on the southwest fringe of Greenwich Village. Bands of children roam the streets at hours when they surely should be in bed. People shout at one another in languages Andy can’t identify. A few blocks to the east, long-haired bohemians play the guitar and smoke grass; a few blocks to the west, actual longshoremen drink in dingy bars.
It’s not a neighborhood where Andy would feel especially safe, at least not on his own, but nobody’s going to bother him with Nick around. That’s probably true for war zones and East Berlin as well as the seedier edges of the Village—Nick just doesn’t look like the kind of person it would be smart to mess with. Part of it’s his size, sure, but most of it’s just that he projects the air of being someone you wouldn’t want to go up against in a fight. He looks like he’s ready to handle whatever’s thrown at him, whether it’s a punch or a breaking story, and after a year Andy knows this impression is correct. Nick is frighteningly competent.
Look, Andy knows that he’s a walking disaster. He knows that he’s clinging to a veneer of professionalism by the grace of God and his last name and every trick his mother ever taught him. Sue him if, on his first day at theChronicle, when he already felt like a fish out of water and was pretty sure the day wouldn’t end without him being exposed as a complete incompetent, he attached himself to the most intimidating person in the newsroom, the one person who looked like he might have clawed his way in. And it’s worked out, hasn’t it?
Andy didn’t expect that they’d actually become friends. Hecertainly didn’t expect that any friendship between them would be easy. But it is. Sure, Andy has to be careful not to look too appalled when Nick casually alludes to things like working what amounted to a full-time job while still in high school. And Nick has to patiently explain things like how to pay the electric bill and change the typewriter ribbon and not get mugged on the subway. But these are details. Andy’s never been too bothered by details.
In any event, Andy is prepared to look unbothered by whatever Nick’s apartment turns out to be. He knows that he’s sheltered, but he also knows that life exists outside the Upper East Side. He just never quite knows what that life is going to look like or how he’s supposed to react.
Now, as Andy basically falls through the door, he lets Nick steer him to a squashed-looking floral sofa that’s about ten times more comfortable than it has any right to be. He sinks into its cushions and takes stock of his surroundings. Most of the apartment’s walls are painted a warm yellow, but some are brick. One wall is covered floor to ceiling in bookshelves. The floor is chaotically uneven wood planking, with an array of mismatched carpets scattered around and an odd patch of linoleum over by the kitchen. Everything is worn and faded; nothing is what Andy, to his mortification, still thinks of as “good.” He wouldn’t know how to go about acquiring anything in this apartment. The only obviously new items are a television and a record player.
“I’m putting your bags in the spare room,” Nick says.
“You have a spare room?”
Nick snorts. “You thought I was inviting you to sleep on my couch? I mean, the room isn’t much, but—”
Andy flings a sofa cushion across the room, missing Nick by a yard.
A moment later, he hears sounds coming from the kitchen—the water running, doors opening and shutting.
“Another drink?” Nick calls.
“Sure, why not.”
Nick brings over two glasses of what looks like whiskey. “Budge over.”
Andy manages to haul himself upright and takes the offered glass. Nick, meanwhile, lights a cigarette and passes it over. Andy doesn’t really smoke, but he always wants a cigarette when someone else is smoking, so Nick just preempts the whole song and dance by giving him one straight off the bat.
“I ran into Emily at your apartment,” Nick says. “She was picking up some things so you wouldn’t be bothered by seeing them there.”
Andy doesn’t know what to say to that, and it doesn’t matter, because Nick keeps talking. “She looked awful. She obviously felt awful, too. She cried all over me.”
There are probably a dozen things he ought to be feeling, but primarily he’s glad Nick didn’t try to shun Emily. “I feel bad for her.”
“Me too. She fucked up—”
“She really didn’t. She met someone else and didn’t want to dump me over the telephone.”
“She fucked up,” Nick repeats, more firmly now. “But who hasn’t? Well, you haven’t. But you’re the exception.”
Andy’s given up trying to correct Nick on this bit of lunacy. “Go to hell.”
