Chapter 15 - Nadia

“The office is in the Bronx,” Dorian told me as we left the townhouse. “140th Street. The 6-train drops off one block from the temp agency.”
My first impulse was to mentally calculate the time it would take to get there from Queens, and the best route. Then I remembered I was already in the Upper East Side. It was nice walking only a few blocks to the subway station, and even nicer to be in a part of the city that was safe. Rather than constantly scanning the alleys and gauging whether or not passersby were potential threats, I was able to relax and enjoy the crisp morning with Dorian.
He was a sharp dresser with good taste. He wore burgundy jeans and black boots, with a matching black belt. His Merino wool sweater was a dark grey, which contrasted well with his fitted knee-length trench coat. Paired with his sharp, attractive face? He easily could have been a model.
“So what gig will we be doing today?” I asked on the subway.
In the seat next to me, Dorian gave an elaborate shrug of his shoulders. His smile was part humor, part mischief. “That’s the exciting thing about temp work. It’s always a mystery.”
“Like a box of chocolates?”
His voice took on a Forrest Gump accent. “You never know what you’re gonna get!”
We giggled to ourselves.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Two months,” he said. “Since I got here.”
“You’ve only been in New York two months?”
“Fresh off the boat,” he confirmed. “After two traveling shows, I got it in my head that I was going to come to New York no matter what happened, succeed or fail. My timing was shit and I was only able to get this role in The Proposition, but it’s a foothold. Real theater work while I look for other casting calls. I was lucky to meet Braden and them.”
“You didn’t know them beforehand?”
“Oh no,” he said with a chuckle. “The three of them already knew each other. I was just lucky enough to lose the part to Braden.”
“You what?”
“I originally auditioned for the lead in the show,” he explained. “We had our callbacks the same day, and we were the last two up for the part. He and I struck up a conversation while waiting to go in and say our lines. We made a deal that whoever won the part would buy the other a drink. Director Atkins made his decision immediately after, and I took him up on the drink. One drink turned into six… And he told me he needed a roommate. I think he felt bad for beating me out.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “So you’re living in his townhouse because you lost the lead role?”
“Yep. Honestly, it’s probably better that way. I’ve got a buddy in the city who was letting me crash on his couch while I auditioned, but that wouldn’t have lasted long. If I didn’t have my free room at Braden’s place, I’d be paying three grand a month for a studio somewhere, and working three jobs just to afford it.”
“Technically you only have half a room since I took yours,” I said, giving him a friendly elbow in the ribs. “Wait. So you’re really living there for free too?”
“All of us are,” he said. “We cover utilities and other incidentals, and Braden’s grandma’s trust covers property tax and everything else.”
“That’s… incredibly generous of him,” I said.
Dorian shrugged one shoulder. “Braden’s the kind of guy who likes having other people around. Better than living in a big townhouse by himself.” He nodded. “But yeah, it’s super generous, too. Thanks to him, I only have to work this temp job for some spending money. It gives me more time to focus on my craft.”
Up to this point, I’d felt extremely awkward about living with them rent-free. Like I owed a debt which would be paid out with services, sexual or otherwise. Knowing the others all stayed there for free, I felt a little less weird about it.
Only a little bit, though. The whole situation was still pretty weird on its own.
We got off at the 138th Street station and walked two blocks to the temp agency office, which was in a featureless old building crammed between a pawn shop and a laundromat. It looked like it might have been a convenience store in a previous life. There was already a line of 12 people waiting for them to open, but it started moving as soon as we got in the back.
They didn’t bother checking my social security card or anything else. All they did was take our names down on a sign-up sheet and hand us two cardboard boxes. The boxes were small but heavy, and would have fit a sheet of paper inside perfectly. Instead, there were two stacks of long rectangular fliers.
“7th Ave and 45th Street,” the man behind the counter said. He looked past me and shouted, “Next!”
I carried my box away from the counter and frowned. “7th Avenue? Way down there?” I pictured a map of the city in my head. Why did it sound familiar…
Dorian gave me a wry look. “Hope you like tourists.”
“Oh, goddamnit,” I said when I realized. “That’s Times Square.”
We took the 6-train all the way south to Lexington and transferred to the R-train. We got off at the 49th Street station and had to walk six blocks to Times Square while carrying the boxes of fliers, which were just heavy enough to be annoying. By the time we reached the crowded tourist spot, my elbows ached from holding the box against my belly.
Even at 8:00 in the morning, Times Square was crowded with tourists taking photos. “So how’s this work?” I asked Dorian.
He led me over to the Sunglass Hut and we deposited the boxes on the ground. “This is home base. Grab a handful of fliers, hand them out to people walking by, and then grab more. Rinse and repeat until they’re empty.”
I opened the box and removed a layer of cardboard that had come from the printer to keep the fliers from jostling, then grabbed a stack of paper. I snorted when I saw what they were advertising.
“Seriously? A new Pizza Hut location in Manhattan? Who the hell comes to New York City and then buys pizza from a chain?”
“A crime worse than murder,” Dorian declared soberly as he grabbed his own stack. “But tourists do. And that’s who we’re targeting today, so don’t waste your breath on any real New Yorkers.”
We got to work handing out fliers. It was a simple task: shove it in someone’s face and hope they took it out of my hand. I cringed while doing it. I was the kind of person who hated bothering someone. Hell, I chose the aisle seat on airplanes because I would rather be inconvenienced than inconvenience someone else. If I was given the wrong food at a restaurant, I smiled and pretended like it was fine.
But after a while, I got into a rhythm of handing them out. I turned it into a game, trying to win over each individual person with the right word, just enough for them to take the flier from me without thinking. It was amazing how far a pretty girl could get with a convincing smile.
Plus, it’s a million times better than selling shoes to bitchy women.
Dorian seemed to take equal enjoyment out of the chore. He danced and flourished the fliers as if he was bequeathing a holy relic to each pedestrian. It was fun to watch, and made the time go by much faster.
“Someone will probably be handing out leaflets like this for The Proposition when it opens,” I said when we both took a short break.
Dorian laughed. “We’ll see.”
I frowned at him. “What do you mean? Do you think the show will never get off the ground?”
“No, I think it will,” he said carefully. “But the producer…” He trailed off like he shouldn’t say.
“Tell me,” I insisted. “What is it about the show you guys are hiding from me?”
He shrugged his shoulders slowly. “The producer is a man named John Vandercant.” He paused to see if I recognized the name. When I didn’t, he said, “He owns a dozen establishments around Manhattan—theaters, bars, restaurants. Yet supposedly he’s notoriously cheap. Hence all the problems with the theater and lighting instruments. With the ad budget—or lack thereof—we’ll be lucky to have a full house on opening night, let alone the three weeks thereafter.”
I grabbed a stack of fliers and thumbed through them. “Then what’s the point? He just wants to be a rich guy who says he has a theater?”
Dorian gave me a curious look. “Do you really not recognize the name? Vandercant?”
It was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t tell from what. “I give up.”
Dorian did a little dance which ended with him bowing and extending a flier to a little old woman in a Nebraska sweatshirt. She giggled and thanked him. Dorian turned back to me.
“Here’s a hint. There’s a Vandercant in the cast.”
I ran through the cast in my head. I didn’t have to go far. “Tatiana!” I blurted out. “Tatiana Vandercant!”
Dorian wrapped his arm around a young woman taking a selfie, smoothly photobombing her. “Excuse me, ma’am?” Dorian said to the woman. “Will you tell my friend she’s won the grand prize?”
The woman looked annoyed, and quickly walked off without a flier. Dorian clasped his chest like he’d been shot.
“Tatiana is what? John Vandercant’s wife?”
“Worse,” Dorian said gravely. “She’s his granddaughter.”
“Well shit. That explain why she has the lead role.”
“And,” Dorian replied, “why Director Atkins is afraid to give her any criticism.”
“I can see why Braden doesn’t want to gossip about it,” I mumbled as I shoved a flier into a tourist’s path. “That’s a quick way of getting kicked off the show.”
“But that’s not going to stop us from gossiping, is it?” Dorian asked. “We have less to lose. And I’m dying for a gossip partner.”
I put my palm over my heart like I was saying the Pledge of Allegiance. “As God as my witness, I swear to be a loyal gossiping partner so long as I live.”
“Amen!” Dorian shouted, which drew a few looks.
As we slowly churned through the rest of our fliers, I found myself watching Dorian. And it wasn’t just for the entertainment of him finding creative ways to give fliers to tourists. My distaste for man-buns aside, he was a sharp looking man. Lean and fit, and dressed to show off his slender body. His green eyes held a humor in them that seemed to banish all the horrors of the world, as if they were only mild annoyances. Every time he smiled at a child and handed them a flier, I found myself smiling along with him.
I wondered if he was gay. The odds of that was a coin-flip in the theater business. Not that it mattered since he only wanted a friend, and not one with benefits. But still, I wondered.
I got my answer when we were nearly done. I bent over to grab the last stack of fliers from my box when I caught him glancing at my ass. And more than just a platonic examination; this was a careful-to-make-sure-she-didn’t-notice glance. The kind I got while bartending when male customers thought they were being slick.
I stood back up with my fliers, and he quickly segued into greeting the next passing tourist and offering them a flier. But I’d seen.
And for some reason, that made me smile even more.