A Brooklyn-Bound D Train

“I like your line about the tropical garden. That’s fab,” Sadie says. She’s perched on the chair by my window, arm slung round her knees, wearing my coat and shivering. She’s finishing a cigarette. “It must be twenty degrees in here.” 

“You can write whatever you want,” I say. “I was hoping to weed out the crazies.” 

The exact lines are: Cozy room in sunny, spacious apartment. Sunset Park. Convenient location—close to Manhattan via the D/N train at 36th Street. Plant life in the living room gives the apartment a tropical ambience.  

The plant life is my roommate James’ terrariums. He has three or four of them I’ve never really inspected—old Utz pretzel jugs housing Venus flytraps and pitcher plants stacked in the living room’s only window. These plants mean a lot to James. Every morning he turns on a special fluorescent lamp to enhance the dawn. The lamp illuminates the room like the reptile wing of the zoo. In summer, there’s no shortage of humidity in this apartment, and if it weren’t for me opening the bathroom window every chance I get, there’d probably be an inch-thick layer of mold on the walls—but I leave that out. Accentuate the positive.  

James assigned me the job of writing the apartment listing after Sam told him he was moving. 

“I’m not a writer,” James said. “I failed English.”  

Maybe James really did fail English, but he’s never been too confident about anything. I’m a teacher, so he assumes I like writing craigslist posts. He even wanted me to write a personal ad for him. It’s hard to say no, even when it’s his responsibility. James is the only one of us on the lease. He’s paranoid the landlord will kick him out. If we don’t find a roommate by the end of February, we’ll have to cover Sam’s rent ourselves, so I understand the sense of urgency. James works at Costco; he’s kind of checked his ambition at the door, although he recently received a letter of commendation for alerting his co-workers about a theft in progress (he didn’t physically intervene). He wears tight pants and thick-rimmed glasses that cinch his nose like a clothespin. With his beard growing in and the softness under his eyes, he looks haggard and old. 

I knew he wouldn’t take Sam’s moving well. Any disruption to his routine makes him act weird. Nowadays, he’s prone to knock on my door for no reason at all. 

“You can write fine, I’m sure,” I told him while he stood there, gaping. “It’s just craigslist.” 

“You’re right. Morons read craigslist.” 

“When I moved here, the post about the place was great,” I said. 

“Oh.” James blinked and reset his glasses. “Sam wrote that.” 

Now Sadie is typing quickly and starting on a new cigarette. “Who’s doing the interviewing?” 

“Me. So far.” 

“That seems fair.” 

I’ve only had two interviews, and they’ve both been duds: the first, a shifty character claiming to be related to the actress Julia Stiles, and the second, a really young girl still attending CUNY who looked horrified by the plant life, the linoleum, and especially the old green couch I’d invited her to sit on. I could only imagine what she’d do if one of those three-inch cockroaches that inhabit this place decided to saunter out on a foraging mission.  

“James isn’t an easy person to live with,” Sadie says. 

“He’s all right once you get to know him.” 

“Didn’t he like hit on you?” 

“Sort of. That was before he knew me.” 

Sadie unfolds herself from the chair. She’s only wearing underwear underneath my coat; no point dressing up here. “I can’t imagine he thought you were gay.” 

“I wasn’t offended, you know. I mean, I wasn’t flattered, either. I have standards.” 

Sadie slides on the bed next to me and props her chin on my sternum. Through the wall there’s the constant hum of ’70s pop music, a druggy David Cassidy-style voice. “What do you think he does in there?” 

“Beats me.” 

“He’s lonely. Josh—we should do something. Didn’t you mention his birthday? Why don’t we go out? All of us. Sam. Kathy.”  Sadie pokes my ribs. “It’ll be like a going-away party.” 

I make to kiss her, and she pulls away. 

“Seduce me,” she says.  

“I’m too tired,” I say. 

“Pig.” We lie there side by side, and the chiming music gets louder. “Does he ever hear us in here?” Sadie says. “Is he turning it up on purpose to drown us out?” 

“Not like we’re making any noise.” 

“Do you think he’s ever heard us at night? That would be so embarrassing.” 

“To him or to you?” 

“To both of us. Wouldn’t you be embarrassed if you heard him getting it on?” 

“I tune everything out from that room.” 

“You can’t tune everything out.” 

“Yes, you can,” I say. “Or else you’d go crazy.” 

*          *          *

Our roommate Sam told me he was moving out a week before he told James. Sam is a photographer. He works freelance, and he’s almost never at home except the odd weekend when he doesn’t have a gig. He stopped me on my way in. It was after five, but it looked like he’d just woken up. He’d been shaving, shirtless, in black jeans with frayed pockets. His feet had the spongy quality of someone who spends all his time in socks. 

“Sambo,” I said. “I never see you.” 

“It has been a while, right? Step into my office.” 

We went into his room, but neither of us sat down. He’d rigged his bed so it sat three feet off the ground. Underneath, he stored all his equipment in two huge duffel bags, which he managed to yoke over himself whenever he set off for a shoot. He’d already taken his pictures down from the wall. 

“I’m moving,” he said. 

“Where?” 

“Bay Ridge.” 

“With Kathy?” 

“Yeah. It’s time.” He’d been digging around in his closet, and now he took out a single photograph in a cheap frame. “The more we fight, the closer we get,” he said. “It doesn’t make sense but, hey, we’re going with it. We’ll see where it goes. How’s Sades?” 

“Tired, and she works too hard. Same old.” 

“But you’re both OK?” 

“Sure. No complaints.” 

“You don’t fight a lot, do you?” 

“Not really—but give us time.” 

“And she still likes you?” 

“Beats me,” I said. “What you got?” 

Sam tilted the photograph—just a picture of Fifth Avenue north of Washington Square, a single woman in a raincoat, her eyes peering up from her downturned face with a severe expression, a scowl that looked prepared, like she’d been practicing it just for this occasion. 

“A parting gift,” Sam said. “Would you like it?” 

“You don’t want it?” 

“No. It’s yours. I took it ages ago,” Sam said. “On my way to see Kathy. I remember because it was a day or so after that hurricane. I was walking along, probably running late, and I saw this branch sticking out from the fence in front of the Church of the Ascension. It looked like an arm, like it was pointing. I pulled out my camera and what do you know, this old lady’s stepped right in front of the branch. It doesn’t have anything to do with anything, I guess, and I’ve used a lot of the other pictures from around then. I kind of like it, though. It’s unexpected.” 

“Well,” I said. “Thanks.” 

“No sweat.” 

I was walking back to my room. “Hey,” Sam called. “Kathy and I are together all the time, watching movies and whatever. We’re in our nesting phase. She’s learning to cook and all. We’ll have you over. You and Sadie.”

“Sounds fun,” I said. 

“I’ll give you a call in March.” 

I said that sounded good. I was pretty sure he’d forget. 

 *          *          *

We settle on Friday, February sixteenth, for James’ party. It’s not his actual birthday, and we still haven’t found a roommate, but we’re pretty optimistic, just the same. Kathy won’t be able to make it, she’s visiting relatives on Staten Island, but Sam’s coming. He has to work late, at a shoot at the Carlisle Hotel, so he’ll meet us at the bar. I pick up some Bud Lights on my way home—James has been complaining about his weight. I figure these plus the mixed drinks Sadie’s bringing will be plenty for the likes of James, and I’m not picky. Sadie wanted to know James’ favorite drink, and he responded as if no one had ever asked before. “Midori sours!” So Sadie’s bringing the Midori and the sour and maybe even a banana pudding from that cupcake place in Manhattan. 

The day of the party, Sadie gets sick. She’s coming anyway. She wants to give James one last pep talk. It’s true, without her sweet-talking, James would probably be settling into his armchair for another episode of The Partridge Family on Netflix instead of going out with us and being social. He says he used to go out in Williamsburg all the time, to the Alligator Lounge and all the hip spots, but money’s been tight. 

“Well, don’t worry about money,” I tell him. “It’s only your birthday once a year.” 

Sadie arrives wearing a thick, handmade scarf, and her eyes have that glassy, strained look like someone who’s been sneezing a lot. She has to clear her throat in the bathroom before she even sounds like herself and not like some dual-track recording.  

“Don’t kiss me,” she says. “I’m contagious.” 

“I’ll risk it. You’re an idiot.” 

I help her with her coat, and we open the cap on the Midori. “I don’t think I should go,” she says. “The train ride wrecked me. Why do you have to live so far away?” She excuses herself to the bathroom again, and when she comes out, I notice her nose and mouth are chapped. 

“Poor Sadie,” I say. I’ve mixed two Midoris, but she shakes her head. 

I’m already feeling good when James comes in with food from Tacos Matamoros. It’s after eight o’clock. I’ve been slugging the Midoris, which have burned the roof of my mouth worse than SweeTarts, but on the positive side, they enhance the flavor of Bud Light.  

“Ready for your bachelor bash?” Sadie asks James as he jiggles the keys in his bedroom door. He’s the only one of us who locks his door. It’s just part of his routine, from the time when he lived with “sleazeballs,” he told me. 

“Fuck yeah,” he says, laughing. “That’s how I like it.” 

“No women to worry about,” I say. Sadie points her finger at me accusingly. “Don’t worry,” I say. “We won’t get in trouble.”  

We dig into our tacos, and Sadie lies down on my bed. 

“She’s sick,” I tell James. 

“Oh. Jesus.” James often says “Jesus” when the situation doesn’t merit it. “I hope you don’t catch it.” He’s drinking his first Midori, and his face is already changing, becoming looser, more animated, and somehow more fleshy. He’s changed out of his Costco vest, and now he’s wearing corduroys and a green-and-orange-plaid shirt that ruffles around his stomach like a blouse. His hair falls over his head in two flops, parted down the middle, and curls around his ears. He has his big glasses slammed on the bridge of his nose. 

“How’re you feeling?” I ask him. 

“Trashed,” James says. “Ha. Ha. I’m a total lightweight.” 

“Are you serious?” 

“I am. Unfortunately, yes. I don’t usually drink liquor. This must be a higher alcohol percentage. Is it?” 

I shrug. “It’s done the job. Ready to get out of here?” 

James’ drunkenness becomes more apparent when we’re outside and he has a whole sidewalk to stumble on. I walk on the side facing traffic, what few cars there are, and use my body like a football dummy to keep him from tottering off the curb. I’m regretting those Midoris because they’ve destroyed his inhibitions; not like he had much of a filter before now. He’s telling me some pretty personal details about a guy he knew. Then he starts asking about my experiences. 

“I bet you get hit on all the time,” he says. 

“Not really. There was this one guy in the West Village . . .” 

“Oh. I looove the West Village.” 

“Yeah. He asked me if I wanted to model for him.” 

“Was he older?” 

“Sure. I guess.” 

“Gay,” James says. “Definitely gay. He probably wanted you to model naked.” 

“I don’t know. I didn’t get the specifics.” 

“I’d have done it,” James says. “Models get paid pretty well just for standing there with their shlongs out.” He starts listing slang terms for certain fetishes, and I’m sure he’ll run through the whole catalogue when we go down into the 36th Street subway station and he catches sight of some Russian girl in a fur coat. She’s leggy, wearing fishnet stockings and leather boots. 

“She’s a hooker, isn’t she?” James asks, not quietly enough. 

“Shh,” I say. 

“But she has to be a whore. Look at her.” 

The Russian girl is reading a book. She slouches by a pillar and turns the page, crossing one leg in front of the other. 

The rest of the way, James talks about the Russian chick. “She was fucking gorgeous, wasn’t she? Would you fuck her? I’d fuck her—if I were straight I would.” After a while without me responding, James gets quiet, and we sit, a small space between us, as the N train grinds into Union Square. It’s a long trip. I’ve forgotten how long it takes, and then we have to go down to the L train, the platform packed, the train packed, although three quarters of the passengers get off at Bedford. James almost gets off too. 

“The place is at Lorimer,” I say. “It’s a bar Sam knows. He says it’s gay friendly, and they’ve got pool and some arcade games too.” 

“Oh, right. Isn’t that a dangerous neighborhood?” 

“Um, no.” 

“One of my friends was mugged there.” 

We’re still standing even though the long blue benches have cleared. I lean my head against the overhead bar. 

“Shit,” James says. “No. Sorry. It wasn’t Lorimer. That’s near Metropolitan. It was Montrose. Bushwick. That’s where all the cool kids live, right? Bushwick: the new Williamsburg. It used to be the Lower East Side, and then it was Williamsburg and Greenpoint. Now it’s Bushwick.” 

“I haven’t spent much time in Bushwick,” I say. “I interviewed there for a job, but they didn’t want me.” 

“Where we live is nice,” James says. “It’s real people. But it’s not where the cool kids live.” He sneers when he says the word “cool,” but otherwise, he’s sobering up. We get out at the next stop, and I follow Sam’s directions to the place. James keeps telling me we’re going in the wrong direction, and I have to reason with him like I’m talking to the middle-school students I teach. 

The bar is by itself on a block of shuttered, old factory buildings, an auto repair shop on the corner. There’s a small neon sign affixed to the side of the big doors. 

“This is it?” James says. “It doesn’t look very new.” 

The girl at the front doesn’t even bother checking our IDs. James has his out and ready, though it’d be hard to mistake him for anything less than forty-two, which is his actual age. It’s a big place, sort of like an auto shop itself, with high ceilings, shiny concrete floors, exposed pipes and air ducts, and the original brick wall. Toward the front, there are three pool tables, all in use. It’s 10:45. Sam’s texted me: ON THE WAY, but he isn’t here yet. I leave James at a bar table and order some beers. When I come back, James is standing instead of sitting, watching the pool. He’s focused on one table in particular and one guy at that table. The guy’s slender and young, almost a boy, with a thick, bleached pomp, shaped with styling gel. His pants are dark and tight, and they get even tighter as he folds his body over the table. He takes a poor shot, then laughs, uncovering a prominent gap between his front teeth. 

I want to give James advice, but I’m reminded of those uncomfortable father/son moments and my own dad, the one and only time he offered personal advice. “Josh,” he said solemnly. “When you play a sport, make sure you wear an athletic supporter to protect your penis and . . .  your testicles.”  

We stand there, without talking, while the next player at the table goes and makes his shot. I get a delayed text from Sam: WHERE U AT? Pretty soon, I see him at the front. He nods in my direction and saunters over to the bar to see his friend Wes, one of the two bartenders.  

At the pool table, a short guy with a buzz cut is leaning over. He has heavy eyebrows, and his face is permanently furrowed like a Persian cat. He behaves like a serious pool player, not rushing into anything. Sam comes back with three bottles of Brooklyn Lager and distributes them. James is still working on his first. 

“So, James.” I place my empty bottle on the bar table nearest us. “What’s stopping you from going up and talking to that dude?” 

“Oh. I’m shy,” James says. “Not only that—he’s out of my league.” 

“Give yourself some credit,” Sam says. “Remember: positive thinking.” 

“Easy for you to say. You both have girlfriends. You’re both players.” James studies us. “What do you think he’d even say?” he asks. “Oh, gosh. I’m terrible at making small talk. Is that like necessary? I’ll put my foot in my mouth and end up regretting it. Jesus. I feel flustered.” 

“I know what you need,” Sam says. “You need a shot.” 

“Oh, no. I’d puke.” 

We go to the bar anyway and lean over and wait for Wes. He has to charge us for the shots but confides that he can do another round of any of the bottles, free.  

“Oh, no. I can’t,” James says, raising his eyebrows at the orange-colored shots. 

“Come on. It’s your birthday.” We clink and down our shots, except James, who sips it as if it’s a cocktail, sniffing at the liquid. 

“What is this?” he asks. He only swallows half. 

“Fruity,” Sam says. We balance ourselves at the bar and look around. 

“All right,” James says. “I’ll do it. I’d rather make a fool out of myself than drink this, no offense. Here I go.” He slumps in the direction of the pool table. 

“Is he really going?” 

“Wait and see.” 

“Five dollars he chickens out.” 

James hesitates in the open floor like a turtle that’s just hatched out of the ground. His glasses are beaming the light. He turns back, unsure. Sam and I wave our hands, sweeping him forward. He shakes his head, steps toward us, then turns around. 

“God bless,” I say, turning back to the bar. 

“Have you found a roommate?” Sam says. 

“Are you kidding?” We drink and stare at the mirror behind the bar. 

James is coming back, neck disappearing into his shoulders. He shakes his head vigorously and makes a gargling sound in his throat. 

“What’s up?”  

“Big mistake,” he says, burrowing between us and clanking his beer bottle on the counter hard enough to jostle the other glasses. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Ugh. I’m a stupid idiot.” We glance over our shoulders. The group at the pool table is watching us. The short guy is staring right at me. I don’t even know where the skinny guy went. Now the short guy consults with the others. He puts his hand on another dude’s shoulder and veers off toward the bar. He flanks himself on my left, and a space opens around him. I can’t say what I’m expecting, but he’s actually soft-spoken, with a voice not unlike a teacher lecturing. 

“Tell Bill Nye the Science Guy not to hit on my boy,” he says. 

I cough up some of my shot, and it burns my nose. “Sorry—he didn’t know.” 

“Yeah, well. Not appreciated. Andre is my boy, you get me.” 

“Sure, I get you. Andre is your boy.” 

“No—I mean like we’re together, man. We’re in a relationship. Get me?” He pronounces “relationship” with all of the consonants so that it sounds like another language. 

“I get you,” I say. “Honest mistake.” 

“We’re just chilling, having a good time, but Andre isn’t available. OK? You got me?” 

“Sure,” I say. “I guess what it comes down to is you have good taste.” 

“Excuse me?” His forehead is deeply furrowed, but his tone hasn’t changed. 

“Andre is a good-looking dude. Congrats.” 

“What’s your name? I can totally fix you up with my boy Freddie.” 

We introduce. His name is Mark. 

“Thanks for the offer, man,” I say. “I’m dating somebody, but I appreciate it. Thanks.” 

“Really? Guy or girl?” 

“Sorry?” 

“You got a boyfriend or girlfriend?” 

“Girlfriend,” I say. “At least I did a few hours ago.” 

Mark gives me a gleaming smile. “I like you. Your friend, not so much. Tell your girlfriend she better watch out.” 

He blows me a kiss and weaves his way back to the pool table. 

Sam is cracking up. 

“That went well,” I tell him. 

“This is fucking humiliating,” James says. “Bill Nye the Science Guy?”  

“The ironic thing is, Bill Nye doesn’t even wear glasses,” Sam says. “Lab glasses, maybe. But only when he’s doing an experiment. He’s got to have 20/20 vision.” 

The bar is getting crowded, and several people are pushing into me. I scowl, expecting some new group of guys to be spilling over into my space. Instead, there’s a cute blonde girl and her friend. The blonde girl has wide cheeks, green eyes, and bangs that are sticking to her forehead. “Hi,” she says, almost apologizing. “I’m Jill.” 

We laugh at the way we’ve been smashed together so that we’re forced into this conversation. 

“So . . .” she says. “What brings you to Brooklyn?” 

“I live here.” 

“Ah . . .” 

“We’re looking for a new roommate, actually. Interested?” 

She shakes her head. “I’m good.” She shifts to the other direction and doesn’t turn around. I’m looking at the back of her head like a moron. 

“I’m leaving,” I hear James say. 

“Don’t be that way,” Sam says. 

“Come on,” I say, turning. “Are you serious?” 

“I don’t feel well,” James says. “I’m too old for this.” 

“Ridiculous,” I say. “I’ve got to pee.” 

When I come out, Sam is by himself, chatting with the two girls who were next to me. “Hey, bucko,” he says. “This is Lucy, and this is . . .” 

“Jill, I know. We met.” 

The girls exchange looks and smile unenthusiastically. 

“Jill goes to the New School,” Sam says. “She’s studying public policy to be a big-time lawyer.” 

“Urban planning, but close,” Jill says. 

“Something I don’t know anything about. That’s the bottom line.” 

Sam has a handle on women, and he’s leaning way into Jill. I try to get Lucy’s attention just to acknowledge we’re the outsiders here, but she’s too busy fooling with her martini glass. 

“Oh, James left,” Sam says over his shoulder. He’s listening to Jill. 

“That’s great. Unbelievable.” 

Sam’s making Jill laugh. I step around the two of them and try again with Lucy. She’s not at all my type, too lanky, and her hair’s braided like a breakfast pastry. She’s got thin hair, too, like it might be running out. 

“Hey,” I say, louder than I want. “Bet I can beat you in Donkey Kong.” 

“Seeing as I’m not a guy, I don’t play video games,” she says. 

“Come on. Live a little.” 

“What do you do for a living?” she asks. 

“I’m a teacher,” I say. 

“That’s an unexpected twist,” she says. “I work at the Brooklyn Public Library.” 

“Wonderful. I’m a big fan of books.” This is coming out very differently than I’d anticipated. 

Lucy eyes me with one neat little black eyebrow forming an inverted ‘U’. “You’re not much of a conversationalist, are you?” 

“I’ve always hated it,” I say. 

I think I almost get a laugh, but it’s snuffed out in a sarcastic facial twitch. “It’s not that you’re bad looking,” she says. 

“Please.” I hold up my palm. 

“You’re just not my type.” 

“Can’t we just play an arcade game?” 

She smiles for real. “Not interested,” she says. “But I’ll let you buy me one of these.” 

 *          *          *

Back home, Sadie coughs in her sleep. I fit under the covers, and she curls into me. 

“Did you have fun?” she asks. 

“Sure.” I tell her about James and that guy Mark, but she’s mostly asleep. 

“You smell like beer and sweat,” she says. 

“Should I shower?”  

“No. I need you for warmth.” 

“Is the radiator off again?” I say. It seems that way, breathing the winter air, cold numbing my ears. The landlord didn’t even switch on the heat until the first week of December, which is illegal. “That’s it for me. Next winter, I’m going to live somewhere else.” 

“James will go crazy.” 

“He can take care of himself. You know, he left early. Just skedaddled.”  

“Mmm. That’s who I heard come in.” 

“Yeah. Well. James isn’t my problem. I’m not going to make decisions based on whether or not he approves. Fuck that. Once we get a roommate, then we’ll see. I won’t like spring it on him, but come on. We’re huddled like animals.” 

“I understand,” Sadie says, almost asleep. “You can’t live here forever.” 

I shift onto my side, and Sadie aligns herself against me, her head against my neck. The curtains are open. Outside, the street is lit by the lamps, and the wall is lit, and the path through Sunset Park goes up into grayness, bending out of sight before it reaches the hilltop, the flagstones, and the stone benches: the highest place in Brooklyn. 

“You’ll move,” Sadie says. “You’ll do it.” 

“Sure,” I say. “We’ll find a roommate first.” 

WILL CLATTENBURG

Will Clattenburg is the author of The Art of Fugue (UnCollected Press, 2020). His writing has appeared in many publications, including Cagibi, Litro Online, Dash Literary Journal, and the anthologies The Best Short Stories of Philadelphia and Crack the Spine’s The Year (2019). He lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.