Society Debut: 'Life Between Moments' excerpt

This is an excerpt from my bestselling book, Life Between Moments: New York Stories. Get your copy on Amazon.

You can hear the music well before you reach the club off of West 72nd and Broadway. Jagged, bluesy and improvised notes from the horn of an underpaid player leak through the windows, and the sound of bouncing ivory keys escapes into the cold Manhattan air every time someone opens the door. A small, unassuming sign with a treble clef hangs above the entrance. If it weren’t for the music, it’d be the only indication that anything at all happened within the battered confines of the place. It’s winter so you, like other passersby, choose to leave the frosty streets and step into the New York society you’ve heard oh so much about.

Someone inside offers to take your coat because it’s that kind of joint. Eternal cigarette smoke greets you as you push your way to the bar. A rush of excitement hits you square in the chest such that your heart begins to beat in rhythm with the band — and what a band! The jazz is loud — fast as if the players were racing to fit in as many bops as possible before sunrise. The musicians play familiar beats that remind you of a place you’ve never been but can remember just fine. You’re not sure why, but you feel nostalgia for a time you didn’t know you’d recognize.

The smell of gin and vermouth break through the fog, adding to the strange, hypnotic feeling that you stumbled in somewhere that fulfills the aesthetic that books and films always fall short of. You look around the sea of faces, each one more rugged, more beautiful, and more interesting than the last. There are several handsome couples at the bar, women in dark dresses and men in corduroy pants. Nearby, young people with white teeth and dimples are tonight learning to hold their liquor. There’s two retirees who sit quietly in the back with eyes weighed down by wisdom and fingertips blackened by cigars.

You squeeze through the bustle to get to the bar. Flanking you are beautiful men and women, leaning against the bar holding martini glasses. There’s an expensive-looking couple to your right; the lady wears pearls. Their clothes make them look as if they were trying to dress up but also give off an air of nonchalance. Good enough for you, though, so you signal you’ll have what she and he are having.

The bartender, sweating like the drinks on the counter, gives you a glass in exchange for a credit card. He starts your tab without asking.

You turn around from the bar and observe the scene before you. It reminds you of what magazine writers talk about when they describe a haut monde, but you know your friends in the suburbs would see it all as excess.

A drunken young man bumps into you on his way to the counter without acknowledging the dig. You move away from him, only to find the young man isn’t alone in his condition. Drinks flow without pause at the beck of Manhattanites. In a moment, you remember that here in this city, especially at such superlative affairs, it was not only acceptable but stylish to show off your drunkenness. People travel from all over to taste New York, to imbibe in the cider and see if it doesn’t disappoint. Standing there in the middle of it all, you shrug your shoulders and find the bottom of your glass.

Soon, you’re oscillating with the movements of the crowd, dumb and smiling but doing your best to maintain a certain seriousness because, well, this is still society life. People here are obsessed with appearing civilized. The strong spirits, then, act as a lubricant for new friends and misremembered names. You meet a group of happy people shouting over the music and clinking glasses. One of the women says she’s 30, though another woman jabs her with a bony elbow and laughs. Yeah, 30 maybe 10 years ago, she tells her friend in front of me. She looks great, you think to yourself. But the smile of the first woman fades a little; she bows her head as if to concede that the best years of her life have already come and gone.

A gentlemanly-looking chap with four eyes, a checkered shirt, and a matching scarf enters your small circle. His eyebrows are perfectly angular and he moves his hips with the comfort of a regular. First time here? he asks you. You nod, and he flashes a smile. Behind his glasses, you see dark circles that betray the regularity with which he spends his nights in clubs. In them you sense a nakedness, as if his frequent jamborees are a mask, the same one worn by those who move in the thick of New York society. He, like everyone else in the room, proudly adopts the anonymity that comes with identifying with an entire city.

You scan the crowd. Warm bodies are moving freely with the music but their faces look guarded, as if they know someone is watching. The personas of people in the club are the same ones they carry to work, to boozy socials, to executive dinners. The only time they shed the act is if they think no one can see them or when they ride the subway. The commute levels everyone, and for a moment makes you feel as if you are no different from the compromised and forgettable faces filling the car.

You shrug and down another drink.

There’s a young woman standing alone with a troubled gaze. She looks as if she’s less than a year removed from an Ivy League liberal arts degree. Every time she makes eye contact with someone in the club, she smiles like it’s a surprise to her — as if she had snuck in somewhere off-limits and knew no one would catch her. The crowd swallows the pretty girl and it’s the last time you see her.

Your eyes fall upon a young man with a tired face and peppered hair. He has the worn expression of a man who commutes on the subway twice a day, and endures a third commute still for evenings out. Perhaps he’s an unpaid intern from the Times in search of a big break his editor will never let him find. Or maybe a junior clerk. In his eyes you see a desire for gallantry, muddled by the uncertainty of how to achieve it. It’s the same ambiguity you imagine you’d find if you were to sit in a diner on Broadway and Exchange Place at midday. Over a club sandwich and pop, you could watch the lunchtime odyssey of Wall Street’s foot soldiers. The financiers, the lost souls in suits coming off the trading floor. The high-brow columnists. People “in insurance.” A sea of anonymous black and blue and gray blazers with the same shoes and haircuts, all bearing the same indifferent visage. Men and women move in a rush as if each of them were uniquely at risk of being late. But more apparent is the quiet satisfaction of each commuter, secure in the knowledge they are nameless among the crowd.

Students on field trips and tourists wearing lanyards trickle against the tide because they have nowhere in particular to be, but of course they smile because they know they’ve already arrived to the only city worth visiting. The locals would be easiest to spot, you guess, because they are the ones who do not slow down, do not make eye contact, and do not crane their necks at the skyscrapers. Denizens of the city, marching in step with the clocks and markets of every time zone — each striving to their utmost to be an authentic New Yorker.

There’s very little that appears familiar to you tonight. You arrived alone, you don’t know the place, and the city outside feels foreign. And yet you can’t escape the feeling that, because it is New York, you’ll run into a familiar face simply by participating. The people around you, you think, share your ambitions, and each hold the same belief that they alone are unique in Manhattan. It only makes sense that if you don’t encounter someone you already know, it’ll be someone you ought to know and that just might be better anyway.

Several drinks later and you swear you have been in New York as long as you can remember. The night has dragged on like a habit. You convinced yourself that you’re no longer simply in New York, you are New York. In bumping shoulders with the people in the club and listening to the jazz, the atmosphere tells you that moving in these society circles is certainly the only place you could ever see yourself. Every conversation is like a fated encounter that could have never possibly happened anywhere else. Talks hinge on well-reasoned remarks about why the map of the world starts and ends with Manhattan.

A prim looking woman wearing white gloves leans toward you as if she’s about to leave a kiss on your cheek. You feel her breath on your ear but her words remain barely audible over the music: I get nauseous every time I have to leave this damned island, she says. I imagine you’re the same?

You turn to the bartender, raptured at the thought of sharing your next drink with the elegant lady now holding your hand. The bartender won’t come your way no matter how many times you shout. The woman pulls you close again.

If you really want a drink, I have gin at my place, she says.

You turn around with a raised eyebrow. You wonder what she sees in you — it couldn’t be your shapeless figure, unkept hair, or small eyes. Your reflection reminded you often that, in every way, you are an undistinguished person. But maybe tonight, you think to yourself, it’s your chance to be someone else.

The music stops. Conversations halt. The lights turn on and you feel vulnerable. Naked, as if caught at a crime scene. The woman drops your hand from hers as if it could stain her glove. You look around and others, too, are blushing because the darkness had before so effectively hidden their improprieties.

We’re having some technical difficulties, the pianist announces at the front. Sorry about that folks.

You look to the exit and watch New York society begin to filter out of the room. The woman who keeps gin at her apartment is gone. You follow the outflow of dapper, sweaty bodies and weigh whether to walk home or take the subway. There are no goodbyes, because you didn’t actually meet anyone tonight. The evening is a forgettable blip. But still — a night in society! That has to be worth something. The suits and dresses and martini glasses, the jazz and the dim lighting. That’s living, you think. You feel an emptiness now, but the smolder of the night will stick with you for days.

You’re excited to tell everyone about the high circles you now call your own, but you’ll leave out the part about not actually knowing anyone. You’re not sure why people clamor to join affairs where everything and everyone exists in a big, anonymous generality. Selling the city to people who’ve already bought in is the prevailing personality trait of the people with names you don’t remember.

You step out into the street. You have no idea what time it is, and the cold bites your face and hands. The night sounds quiet now that you’ve exited the place, and you hear only cars and sirens. Standing below the treble clef, you look to your left. Then to your right. The street looks the same in both directions. You clasp your hands together and wonder what part of town the woman with the gloves lives in.

Just as you’re about to walk home, you hear the band begin to play again.

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