What she needed, she knew, was to find a way to make Clara spend less money, without causing her to panic. Every Monday, she gave Clara cash for groceries—seventy-five dollars, which seemed enough for two smallish women—and every Wednesday Clara asked for more: for cigarettes, for coffee, for this great painting she’d seen at the Salvy, which she was sure was valuable. And so Emily handed over a twenty or two, so as not to seem stingy. But by Friday Clara was asking for more again, for supplies for her Sunday brunch, which always ran at least sixty bucks in and of itself. That seemed the obvious place to economize. She couldn’t ask Clara to stop inviting her friends over, so she instead suggested serving eggs and potatoes instead of lox and bagels. For two weeks, Clara obliged. The third week, Emily looked in the fridge and saw the familiar Russ & Daughters carrier bags, but opted to say nothing. Clara hadn’t asked her for money, and Emily presumed she must have saved grocery money from the past few weeks to pay for the nice fish and cream cheese, which was good. She couldn’t, no, couldn’t even consider the possibility of Clara taking cash from her though she had been feeling that her wallet seemed to empty more rapidly lately. And even if this was the case, was it really so bad, stealing a ten every now and then? In a way, the trouble, really, wasn’t that they were overspending but that they needed more income—just a little more, another thousand a month, and they’d be fine. Not rich, but fine.
Since Clara could not, reliably, be taught to economize, Emily tried to cut corners for the both of them. She drank two cups of coffee at home before leaving for work, rather than buying her second at the L before she got on the subway. She skipped breakfast and brought her lunch—salad, in a square Tupperware container—instead of buying it. She let her gym membership lapse and began running, though she hated it, and using the vouchers given to her by the yoga instructor. But these small economies made little difference and all day, as Emily sat at her dreary desk, she devised moneymaking schemes. They could knit hats and scarves and mittens and sell them to one of the overpriced gift shops on Bedford. She could write a story for a women’s magazine about taking care of her mentally ill sister, or proofread for Sadie’s company.
But nothing panned out: the gift shops all had suppliers of fancy hand knits; she’d need “clips,” according to Will, to write for magazines; and Sadie’s company kept proofreaders on staff. And so she sank lower: she began buying a lottery ticket once a week, though she knew this was a waste of a precious dollar. She carefully, painfully, withdrew her most pristine vintage—the sixties cocktail dress of deep turquoise satin that she’d worn to Lil and Tuck’s wedding; a crocheted halter dress, very Charlie’s Angels; a car coat of emerald and gold brocade—and sold them to a shop on West Broadway, but she got so little money that, on the train home, she trembled with regret. She answered a posting on the bulletin board at the L for an art model, but when the artist called her back—his voice thick and phlegmy on her machine—she didn’t pick up the phone, in fear that it was some sort of scam and the guy was really a pornographer, which led her to think about stripping. Between their sophomore and junior years of college, her friend Tova had worked at a club downtown called Goldstring. Just one night a week, all summer, and she’d earned more than enough to pay her room and board for the year. But Emily had neither Tova’s body—lush, brown, firm—nor her larky brain (“It’s funny,” she’d told Emily, “the guys are so excited; it’s hilarious, and empowering, too—you feel really hot”), and she just couldn’t bring herself even to investigate. She thought more seriously about phone sex, which you could do from your home, or at least Jennifer Jason Leigh had in Short Cuts. But that was impossible, too, since Clara would surely hear her holed up in her room moaning, “Oh, you’re making me hot. Oh, you’re such a bad boy. Fuck me, fuck me.”
On and on she went: She thought she could teach yoga classes, but it took time and money to get certified. Or she could teach after-school acting classes for kids, but where? In what space? When she passed a wig shop, she realized she might sell her crowning glory—her hair—but even that avenue proved closed. Her hair was too short now. “Grow it out and come back in a year,” the owner told her. You don’t understand. I need money now, she wanted to say, but she nodded mutely and left, without even a thank-you. Finally, she called her pseudo-agent and told him she was interested now in doing voice-over work and she was sorry she’d been out of touch. But he didn’t call back. And so she began going on auditions again, on the off chance that she’d be cast in something with night rehearsals, as even the measly income for a show would help. But nothing, nothing was offered to her; all the parts seemed to be for actors older or younger, or other types: perky blondes, or wispy blondes, or statuesque blondes, or angry Latinas, or angry black women.
Then one night, she was sitting at Von with Lil and Sadie—Sadie’s first outing after having Jack—trying to make her nine-dollar glass of wine last as long as possible, when she saw the bartender—tall, black-haired, beautiful, in clothing far more fashionable than anything she or her friends owned—pocket a tip. Sadie and Dave and Tal had all worked as bartenders in college, not just because it was a cool job in terms of the campus hierarchy, but because it paid more than working in the dining hall or the student union or the library, because of tips. A cute girl could, she knew, clean up. Three days later, she had a job at a simple, pub-style place on First Avenue, all the way up at Seventy-second Street, safely north of her friends’ orbit. Not that her friends would ever go into this sort of bar, with its brass rails and banker clientele, its televisions tuned to football. She told Clara she’d been cast in a play that rehearsed nights and she’d be out late Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for the next few weeks. Clara, as expected, didn’t ask for any details. “Congratulations,” she cried, and flung her arms around Emily. “That’s so great! You’re gonna be a star. I always said it.”
Her first night, a Wednesday, Emily arrived at the pub in what she thought was ideal bartender attire: black leather pants, a low-cut black T-shirt emblazoned with the word “Angel” in red rhinestones, and her green cowboy boots. The manager, a portly guy named Declan, looked her over approvingly. “You’re an actress, right,” he said, lighting up a Winston. Emily had forgotten about the smoke. She hated smoke, but perhaps she would get used to it. And her own apartment wasn’t all that much better than a bar.
“It’s true,” she said, grinning. “I am.”
“Well, you’re gonna be a star, I can tell you that.”
Emily laughed to slake off the smarminess of this exchange. “That’s what my sister says.”
“Yep. All our girls are actresses. They leave when they get a break. Go to L.A. for pilot season. The last one, Kirsty, she’s on this new sitcom about lawyers.”
Emily learned how to work the taps, how to change a keg, how to pour a drink, and how to work the dishwasher. At eight, the bar began to fill with short-haired men in suits, their ties loosened or stuffed in pockets. Business, Declan told her, had been “booming” since September eleventh. The men drank beer after beer after beer, and the occasional shot of whiskey or bourbon or scotch on ice, and began leaving fives and tens for her instead of singles, smiling slyly as they slid the bills across the bar.