around the stained-glass hanging lamps, into their hangout. William and Joseph only came to the bar together, and they had done so ever since they were introduced six years ago on the set of a low-budget horror movie. William had played the love interest of a biochemistry grad student who, for reasons not entirely clear in the script, had disturbed the forces of nature so drastically that it wiped out her friends with maniacal ease before spending a second hour having unprecedented difficulty doing away with her. At twenty-five, Williamâs curly, black hair and brooding, angular face got him cast as the ultimate boyfriend with few speaking lines and gratuitous locker room scenes. Joseph had not been so lucky. Covered in Karo syrup, wearing a bodysuit sewn with stuffed birds, he sat drinking soup through a straw waiting to be pecked to death in front of the camera by a flock of crows springing out of a closet.
âAt least you can see what kills you,â William had said that night so many years ago when they bought each other consolatory rounds on these very same Hairy Bishop barstools. âI get murdered in a football field by a single gust of wind.â
âThere are no small death scenes,â Joseph had offered feebly in reply.
But there were. Jennifer had left him bleeding from the nose the minute she cut from their relationship. They had spoken by phone twice since the breakup. Jennifer hung up the instant he started crying into the receiver. The second time, she used his name after each sentence. âIâm doing fine, William. I have a new place. Unlisted. Good-bye, William.â
As long as he had known her, Jennifer had saved everything, packing it awayâtrain tickets, matchbooks, postcards from college friends scattered into the sunsets of Yemen or Alabama to raise children or funds for womenâs rights organizations. Not just personal items, either. Her family had made its money in advertising, and she spent her inheritance on high-grade auction antiques. It was also Jennifer Rubenâs money that floated them twelve flights above Central Park in a two bedroom decked out like Ali Babaâs cave with an alarm system that spit out a litany of beeps the minute he opened
the door. She always knew when he was coming home late. Jennifer, with eyebrows waxed and redrawn, with the high-school nose job that didnât hide her Jewish ancestry but revealed her family wealth, with her initials curled on her yellow robe, had saved everything. She kept her grandmotherâs pearls, the bridle of the horse she jumped as a child in Connecticut, the first flower that her second boyfriend had pinned to her prom dress right before he pinned her in the back seat of the limousine (that memory too was preserved with the boyâs red cummerbund). But in those final moments, after William had decided to come clean about one sexual episode with an actress in a backstage bathroom, forming sentences carefully and then whining them stupidly and out of order, understanding as her knuckle hit his nose that those seconds would be the last of their marriage, he realized he had mistaken his wife for what he always thought her to be: someone who could never let go.
Now he lived alone surrounded by the debris of Jenniferâs twenty-eight years, in an apartment that still technically belonged to her.
âItâs really Jennifer who ruined my chances for all of the good parts,â William said, waving a finger at the bartender who made no hurry to provide his regulars with refills. âI think thatâs what killed the marriage. She wouldnât give me any room to breathe in her own damned perfect life. She would read every script summary that came over the fax, checking it for sex scenes. Sex scenes! I was responsible for the sexual life of characters I hadnât yet tried out for.â
âOf course, cheating on her had nothing to do with the split,â Joseph intoned. He was no longer
Captain Frederick Marryat