Summer and the City

I hear her rustling around in those black silk sheets. She pats the side of the bed. “There’s plenty of room here.”

I heave myself onto the mattress and promptly fall into a greasy sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Hey, I found some food,” Miranda exclaims. She places a box of Ritz crackers on the bed and we dive in.

“I think we should walk up to Charlie’s.” I brush my cracker crumbs off the sheet. “He’s got the biggest apartment.” And we’ve been stuck here for hours. I don’t know how much longer I can last.

“No,” Samantha says adamantly. “I’d rather starve then let him see me like this. My hair’s dirty.”

“Everyone’s hair is dirty. Including Charlie’s,” I point out.

“Listen. What we talked about last night, we don’t ever tell anyone, right?” Miranda says.

“I still can’t believe Marty only has one testicle.” I take another cracker. “That should have been a tip-off.”

“I think it’s a plus,” Samantha says. “It made him work harder as a lover.”

I feel around in the box for another cracker. It’s empty. “We need supplies.”

“I’m not moving.” Samantha yawns luxuriously. “No power, no work. No Harry Mills trying to look up my skirt.”

I sigh and change into my last clean pair of scrubs.

“Have you decided to become a doctor now?” Samantha asks.

“Where’s your stethoscope?” Miranda hoots.

“They’re very chic,” I insist.

“Since when?”

“Since now.” Hrmph. Apparently neither my sexual experiences nor my sartorial choices are much appreciated around here.

Miranda leans toward Samantha, and with an excited squeal demands, “Okay, what’s the worst sex you’ve ever had?”

I throw up my hands. When I slip out of the apartment, the two of them are howling with laughter about something they’ve dubbed “The Pencil Problem.”

I wander aimlessly around the Village, and when I spot the open door of the White Horse Tavern, I go inside.

In the dim light, I discover a few people sitting at the bar. My first reaction is one of relief that I’ve found someplace that’s open. My second is dismay when I realize who’s sitting there: Capote and Ryan.

I blink. It can’t be. But it is. Capote’s head is thrown back and he’s laughing loudly. Ryan is hanging on to his bar stool. Clearly, they’re both severely inebriated.

What the hell are they doing here? Capote’s apartment is only a couple of blocks away, and it’s possible he and Ryan got stuck at Capote’s place when the power went out. But I’m surprised to see them, considering Capote’s extensive alcohol collection. Judging from the looks of them, I guess they ran out.

I shake my head in disapproval, gearing up for the inevitable encounter. But secretly, I’m awfully glad to see them.

“Is this bar stool taken?” I ask, sliding in next to Ryan.

“Huh?” His eyes uncross as he stares at me in surprise. Then he falls upon me, embracing me in a bear hug. “Carrie Bradshaw!” He looks to Capote. “Speak of the devil. We were just talking about you.”

“You were?”

“Weren’t we?” Ryan asks, confused.

“I think that was about twelve hours ago,” Capote says. He’s soused, but not nearly as plastered as Ryan. Probably because he thinks it’s “ungentlemanly” to appear drunk. “We’ve moved on from there.”

“Hemingway?” Ryan asks.

“Dostoyevsky,” Capote replies.

“I can never keep those damn Russians straight, can you?” Ryan asks me.

“Only when I’m sober,” I quip.

“Are you sober? Oh no.” Ryan takes a step backward and nearly lands in Capote’s lap. He slaps his hand on the bar. “Can’t be sober in a blackout. Not allowed. Barkeep, get this lady a drink!” he demands.

“Why are you here?” Capote asks.

“I’m foraging for supplies.” I look at the two of them doubtfully.

“We were too.” Ryan slaps his forehead. “And then something happened and we got trapped here. We tried to leave, but the cops kept accusing Capote of being a looter, so we were driven back to this lair.” He breaks up with laughter, and suddenly, I do too. Apparently, we’ve got a serious case of cabin fever because we fall all over each other, holding our stomachs and pointing at Capote and laughing even harder. Capote shakes his head, as if he can’t understand how he ended up with the two of us.

“Seriously, though,” I hiccup. “I need supplies. My two girlfriends-”

“You’re with women?” Ryan asks eagerly. “Well, let’s go.” He stumbles out of the bar with Capote and me running after him.

I’m not exactly sure how it happened, but an hour later, Capote, Ryan, and I are bumbling up the stairs to Samantha’s apartment. Ryan is clutching the handrail while Capote encourages him forward. I look at the two of them and sigh. Samantha is going to kill me. Or not. Maybe nothing really matters after twenty-four hours without electricity.

In any case, I’m not returning empty-handed. Besides Ryan and Capote, I have a bottle of vodka and two six- packs of beer, which Capote managed to cadge from the bartender. Then I found a church basement where they were handing out jugs of water and ham-and-cheese sandwiches. Then Ryan decided to take a leak in an empty doorway. Then we got chased by a cop on a motorcycle, who yelled at us and told us to go home.

This, too, was extremely funny, although I suspect it shouldn’t have been.

Inside the apartment, we discover Samantha bent over the coffee table, writing out a list. Miranda is next to her, battling several expressions, from consternation to admiration to out-and-out horror. Finally, admiration wins. “That’s twenty-two,” she exclaims. “And who’s Ethan? I hate that name.”

“He had orange hair. That’s basically all I can remember.”

Oh dear. It seems they’ve resorted to the vodka bottle as well.

“We’re home,” I call out.

“We?” Samantha’s head snaps around.

“I brought my friend Ryan. And his friend Capote.”

“Well,” Samantha purrs, rising to her feet as she takes in my stray cats with approval. “Are you here to rescue us?”

“More like we’re rescuing them,” I say belligerently.

“Welcome.” Miranda waves from the couch.

I look at her in despair, wondering what I’ve done. Maybe what they say about danger is true. It heightens the senses. And apparently makes everyone seem much more attractive than they are under normal circumstances. Probably has something to do with the survival of the species. But if that’s true, Mother Nature couldn’t have chosen a more unreliable bunch.

I head into the kitchen with my sack of supplies and start unwrapping the sandwiches.

“I’ll help you,” Capote says.

“There’s nothing to do,” I say sharply, cutting the sandwiches in half to save the rest for later.

“You shouldn’t be so rigid, you know?” Capote flips open a can of beer and pushes it toward me.

“I’m not. But someone needs to keep a level head.”

“You worry too much. You always act like you’re going to get into trouble.”

I’m flabbergasted. “Me?”