they were all aghast for a moment until I broke up laughing and they all followed suit, patting me on the back as we filed back into the office, saying, “Nice one, A. Gray.”
That droll display represented a shift from my isolation in the Nestor/Assman camp. Since the two of them baited the other investigators, I had started to feel isolated from the rest of the office. Or maybe I was just being paranoid. I wasn't sure. Until that moment, the three of us had been on different smoking shifts from the other investigators, and we ate lunch at the opposite end of the conference-room table.
After my performance on the fire escape, Nestor and Assman didn't talk to me for the rest of the day, but I took my chances. That night, all the other investigators went out drinking. I had noticed they all left together a few times the week before, but this was the first time I'd been invited along. Assman and Nestor aside, I knew that I was viewed with suspicion by the other investigators in the office. I was only the third woman they'd ever hired, thrown into a sea of guys mourning the loss of a girl-free, belching-friendly office environment. And I was hanging out with the two office outcasts.
“Yo, Gray, wanna go get shitfaced?” This came from Evan, who'd already gotten a head start on the rest us. He led the way, cradling his laptop in one hand and a Papst Blue Ribbon in the other.
“More than you know.” I packed up and followed everyone to the 119 Bar, which was a five-minute walk from the office. It was part of an exclusive circuit of dive bars frequented by young PIs, including the greasy spoon Corner Bistro, the grim Siberia Bar, as well as the rank-smelling Alphabet City dive standard, Blue and Gold. My coworkers had a tradition, called the Odd Days Club, which consisted of drinking well into the night at the office on odd-numbered days. But lately they had grown tired of working and drinking and then inevitably (or inadvertently) sleeping in the same place, and had focused their efforts on going out to get drunk. “You don't wanna shit where you sleep, ya know,” Gus editorialized.
I devoted time at the bar to chatting with my other colleagues. There was Ronny Finkelman, who grew up in what used to be the largest trash-dumping ground in the United States; that would be the island known as Staten. But he wanted to be an honorary native of Asbury Park, New Jersey. He'd seen Springsteen more times than he could count. Also, admitting he came from S.I. embarrassed him somehow. Ronny had crossed over from being an investigator to being a “marketing guy.” I wasn't sure what that meant then, and I'm still not, but I can say that he's the only marketing guy that's come and not gone since I've been at the Agency, and he somehow seems to bring in new clients.
Otis was a former editor at
Guns & Ammo
, who told me he was wrapping up eight years of work on a biography of Ted Nugent. “Yeah,” he said, “I'd put him up there with Dylan, and Springsteen for sure.” He was shortish and square-jawed, and he was wearing Tevas with socks. It was snowing out. “So, when does it get cold enough for, ya know, shoes?” I asked him. He laughed. “When hell freezes over, man.” He turned around and faced the rest the group, crowded in front of the bar. “Hey, can somebody get this girl another drink—she needs to
relax!
”
I finally got to spend awhile talking to Wendy. “Just don't date any of the guys in the office,” she advised.
“Nothing to worry about there,” I said.
She was a smart and hip (DJ boyfriend, loft in Williamsburg) Californian, so she played up the Valley girl thing too. I told her I liked her leg warmers. She gave me the address for her website, where she sells them along with ponchos and metallic appliquéd drawstring purses. We did shots together.
I don't remember much after that but the taste of the Wild Turkey, Jack Daniel's, and Coke coming up and swishing around my toilet bowl in Brooklyn with
That droll display represented a shift from my isolation in the Nestor/Assman camp. Since the two of them baited the other investigators, I had started to feel isolated from the rest of the office. Or maybe I was just being paranoid. I wasn't sure. Until that moment, the three of us had been on different smoking shifts from the other investigators, and we ate lunch at the opposite end of the conference-room table.
After my performance on the fire escape, Nestor and Assman didn't talk to me for the rest of the day, but I took my chances. That night, all the other investigators went out drinking. I had noticed they all left together a few times the week before, but this was the first time I'd been invited along. Assman and Nestor aside, I knew that I was viewed with suspicion by the other investigators in the office. I was only the third woman they'd ever hired, thrown into a sea of guys mourning the loss of a girl-free, belching-friendly office environment. And I was hanging out with the two office outcasts.
“Yo, Gray, wanna go get shitfaced?” This came from Evan, who'd already gotten a head start on the rest us. He led the way, cradling his laptop in one hand and a Papst Blue Ribbon in the other.
“More than you know.” I packed up and followed everyone to the 119 Bar, which was a five-minute walk from the office. It was part of an exclusive circuit of dive bars frequented by young PIs, including the greasy spoon Corner Bistro, the grim Siberia Bar, as well as the rank-smelling Alphabet City dive standard, Blue and Gold. My coworkers had a tradition, called the Odd Days Club, which consisted of drinking well into the night at the office on odd-numbered days. But lately they had grown tired of working and drinking and then inevitably (or inadvertently) sleeping in the same place, and had focused their efforts on going out to get drunk. “You don't wanna shit where you sleep, ya know,” Gus editorialized.
I devoted time at the bar to chatting with my other colleagues. There was Ronny Finkelman, who grew up in what used to be the largest trash-dumping ground in the United States; that would be the island known as Staten. But he wanted to be an honorary native of Asbury Park, New Jersey. He'd seen Springsteen more times than he could count. Also, admitting he came from S.I. embarrassed him somehow. Ronny had crossed over from being an investigator to being a “marketing guy.” I wasn't sure what that meant then, and I'm still not, but I can say that he's the only marketing guy that's come and not gone since I've been at the Agency, and he somehow seems to bring in new clients.
Otis was a former editor at
Guns & Ammo
, who told me he was wrapping up eight years of work on a biography of Ted Nugent. “Yeah,” he said, “I'd put him up there with Dylan, and Springsteen for sure.” He was shortish and square-jawed, and he was wearing Tevas with socks. It was snowing out. “So, when does it get cold enough for, ya know, shoes?” I asked him. He laughed. “When hell freezes over, man.” He turned around and faced the rest the group, crowded in front of the bar. “Hey, can somebody get this girl another drink—she needs to
relax!
”
I finally got to spend awhile talking to Wendy. “Just don't date any of the guys in the office,” she advised.
“Nothing to worry about there,” I said.
She was a smart and hip (DJ boyfriend, loft in Williamsburg) Californian, so she played up the Valley girl thing too. I told her I liked her leg warmers. She gave me the address for her website, where she sells them along with ponchos and metallic appliquéd drawstring purses. We did shots together.
I don't remember much after that but the taste of the Wild Turkey, Jack Daniel's, and Coke coming up and swishing around my toilet bowl in Brooklyn with
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