Miss Misery by Andy Greenwald

Author:Andy Greenwald
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gallery Books
Published: 2006-09-20T04:00:00+00:00

The stairway was grim and narrow, as if constructed for a fantastical race of metropolitan pygmy people slightly shorter and leaner than normal Homo sapiens. There were cigarette butts on the linoleum and the smell of fatty chicken soup in the air. Apartment three-B was on the third floor, marked by a steel door with wilting paint the color of blush, an embossed numeral, and a sticker advertising a 1-800 number that only charged $3.99 a minute for dirty talk with a “real live” transsexual. I knocked twice and waited.

When the door opened there was no one I knew behind it—just a random NYU type with a massive jewfro and thin metal glasses over a pimply face. His T-shirt said JESUS IS MY HOMEBOY, and in his hand was a half-empty bottle of Miller High Life dripping condensation onto his black Umbro shorts and flip-flops. From the long hallway behind him I could hear the muffled sounds of hip-hop, laughter, and the steady whirring of a Cuisinart.

“Hi,” I said. “Is Cath in?”

He stared at me dumbly for a moment.

“I’m a friend,” I said. “I’m here for the party?”

Without taking his eyes off me, he shouted over his shoulder, “Cath! Someone’s here!”

There was no answer. Lacking anything better to do, I coughed.

Jesus’ homeboy turned around fully this time before bellowing “Cath!” again and stomping off. Alone in the doorway, I heard the Cuisinart stop, and then Cath popped her head around into the hallway. “Aha,” she said. “It’s you. One second.” Her head disappeared for a moment and then was replaced with her whole body walking the length of the hallway in those great, gulping strides of hers. She was wearing a sky-blue skirt and a tangerine-colored ringer T-shirt with bands of pure orange at the neck and arms. She was rubbing her hands with a red-and-white-checked kitchen towel. And clomping on the uncovered wood floor were violet cowboy boots that ended mid-calf. All those colors together shouldn’t have worked, but against the white walls and drab hallway the effect was like an Alka-Seltzer dropped into a plastic cup of dingy tap water.

She walked right up to me and kissed me on the cheek. “Don’t touch me,” she said. “I’ve been making dip.”

“OK,” I said.

She turned and started back up the hall. “Well, come on! Follow me!”

I did as I was told. The hallway was decorated with wrinkled Morrissey posters and lined with cast-off shoes—filthy New Balance sneakers, leather sandals, leather boots, round canvas Campers—and it stretched the length of the apartment. Off of it was a door to the bathroom, a pathetic little closet, and the cramped kitchen. Then the hallway became some sort of common room, and behind that were the two bedrooms. There were people gathered in the common room and Mobb Deep was playing on the stereo, but I glanced quickly and didn’t recognize anyone. I followed Cath into the kitchen instead.

“Here,” I said. “I brought beer.”

She turned and took the bag from me. “Thanks.”

I was nervous, so I babbled.

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