Page 22 of The Tenant
I look down at the gray cement below my polished black dress shoes. “My steps?”
“They’re filthy!”
I don’t know what to say to that. My steps aren’t spotless, but no worse than his. “They’re outdoors.”
“So that’s your excuse?” he spits at me. “This is a disgrace to the whole block! I’m not the only one who feels this way.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll hose them down, okay?”
Mr. Zimmerly mutters something under his breath, then goes back into his own house. He doesn’t seem like he believes I’m going to clean the steps. Which is fair, because there’s no way I’m going to do it. I don’t even have a hose.
12
The first dayat the temp job goes as well as it possibly could. I mean, considering my job is basically to do filing and data entry for people who are five years younger than me.
After spending the entire day stuffed in an office, I decide to get off the subway early and walk the last mile back to the house. It’s not a run through the park, which is what I’d prefer, but that’s not an option in my work clothes. Also, the summer is finally coming to a close, and the weather is great. Although my Upper West Side neighborhood isn’t nearly as colorful as it was around my very first apartment, which was in Greenwich Village, the walk still clears my mind. I’m in such a good mood that I drop a dollar into the coffee cup of a guy begging for change in front of a liquor store.
After I’ve been walking about half a mile, I realize I’m only one avenue block away from Cosmo’s—the diner where Whitney waitresses. Before I can overthink it, I make a detour, weaving my way through the commuter pedestrian traffic to get to the diner. It’s barely five thirty, which means it won’t be very crowded at the restaurant. If I want to chat with Whitney for a minute, this would be a good time to do it.
Cosmo’s is similar to a lot of the other Greek diners in the city—a medium-size restaurant with booths lining the walls and tables in the center of the room, with a faint aroma of burgers on the grill wafting through the air. The menu posted on the wall of the diner next to the A+ from the health department claims to have such ethnic dishes as moussaka and stuffed grape leaves, but it’s clear that 99 percent of the patrons come here for a burger and fries.
I scan the room until I spot Whitney near the back, dressed in another pair of blue jeans and a snug T-shirt with the wordsCosmo’s Dineremblazoned on the chest, her hair pulled back into a sensible bun.
She spots me at the same moment as I see her, and her face lights up as she gives me a cheery wave. She hurries over to where I’m standing, tucking a small pencil into the groove over her ear.
“Blake!”
“Hey, Whitney.”
She rests a hand on my biceps, which are very decent given how much I worked out during my unemployment. I don’t flex for her though.
Okay, I flex a tiny bit.
“How are you doing?” she asks. “How was your first day at work?”
“Not too bad.”
I scratch my forearm. Toward the end of the day, I started to feel itchy again, the same way I was at Becky and Malcolm’s place. I wonder if I’ve developed an allergy to one of the components of the dress shirts during my time away from work. Does that kind of thing happen? Or is it stress? God knows I’ve been under enough of it.
“You’re going to do great,” Whitney tells me, her hand still on my arm. “I promise.”
“Uh, thanks.”
She glances over her shoulder at the mostly empty dining area. “It’s pretty dead right now, as you can see. Can I get you a table? Our lemon meringue pie is to die for.”
“Actually,” I say, “I wanted to talk to you for a moment. Is that okay?”
“Sure.” She frowns, looking concerned. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes.” I pause for a moment, rethinking if it’s a good idea to discuss this with her while she’s working. But I’m already here, so I plow forward. “Actually, no. Not exactly. Look, remember how I told you that you could use my stuff? Like, the soap and shampoo and cereal?”
She narrows her eyes, finally letting go of my arm. “Yes…”
“I actually don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be sharing anymore,” I say. “I had no idea how much you’d use, and honestly, I’m a little shocked. I think it would be better to keep things separate from now on.”
She blinks at me. “You came here and interrupted me at work to tell methat?”
I scratch my arm again. “It was weighing on me.”
