Candace Bushnell - Summer and the City

“Did you have a dog?”

“A long-haired dachshund. He was Margie’s dog first, but she could never be bothered to pay attention to him.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

“Yeah. She stopped paying attention to me, too. It was all about her career.”

“That’s terrible,” I say, filing contentedly. I can’t imagine any woman ever losing interest in Bernard.

I wake up the next morning with an idea.

Maybe it’s because of all the time I spent with Bernard, but I’m finally inspired. I know what I have to do: write a play.

This brilliant notion lasts for about three seconds before it’s crushed under a million and one reasons why it’s impossible. Like Bernard will think I’m copying him. Like I won’t be able to do it anyway. Like Viktor Greene won’t let me.

I sit on Samantha’s bed with my legs crossed, making faces. The fact is, I need to prove I can make it in New York. But how? Maybe I’ll get lucky and be discovered. Or maybe it will turn out I have hidden talents even I don’t know about. I clutch the silk bedcovers like a survivor clinging to a lifeboat. Despite my fears, it seems my life is starting to take off here-and Brown is less than seven weeks away.

I pluck at a thread. Not that there’s anything wrong with Brown, but I’ve already gotten in there. On the other hand, if New York were a college, I’d still be applying. And if all these other people can make it in New York, why can’t I?

I jump out of bed and run around the apartment just for the hell of it, throwing on my clothes while typing the following three sentences: “I will succeed. I must succeed. Damn everyone,” and then I grab my Carrie bag and practically slide down all five flights to the lobby.

I beetle up Fourteenth Street, expertly weaving through the crowd, picturing my feet flying a few inches off the ground. I turn right on Broadway and hurl myself into the Strand.

The Strand is a legendary secondhand bookstore where you can find any book for cheap. It’s musty and all the salespeople have a very big attitude, like they’re the keepers of the flame of high literature. Which wouldn’t matter, except the salespeople cannot be avoided. If you’re looking for a specific book, you can’t find it without help.

I buttonhole a weedy fellow wearing a sweater with elbow patches.

“Do you have Death of a Salesman ?”

“I should hope so,” he says, crossing his arms.

“And The Importance of Being Earnest ? And maybe The Little Foxes ? The Women ? Our Town ?”

“Slow down. Do I look like a shoe salesman?”

“No,” I murmur, as I follow him into the stacks.

After fifteen minutes of searching, he finally finds The Women . At the end of the stacks I spot Ryan from class. He’s got his nose in Swann’s Way , scratching his head and jiggling his foot as if overcome by the text.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” He closes the book. “What are you doing here?”

“Going to write a play.” I indicate my small pile of books. “Thought I should read a few first.”

He laughs. “Good idea. The best way to avoid writing is by reading. Then you can at least pretend you’re working.”

I like Ryan. He seems okay as a person, unlike his best friend, Capote Duncan.

I pay for my books, and when I turn around, Ryan is still there. He has the air of someone who doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “Want to get a coffee?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“I’ve got a couple of hours to kill before I have to meet my fiancée,” he says.

“You’re engaged?” Ryan can’t be more than twenty-one or two. He seems too young to get married.

“My fiancée’s a model.” He scratches his cheek, as if he’s both proud and ashamed of her profession. “I always find if a woman really, really, really wants you to do something, you should do it. It’s easier in the long run.”

“So you don’t want to marry her?”

He smiles awkwardly. “If I sleep with a woman ten times, I think I should marry her. I can’t help myself. If she weren’t so busy, we’d already be married by now.”

We walk down Broadway and go into a hamburger joint. “I wish I could find a guy like that,” I say jokingly. “A guy who does everything I want.”

“Can’t you?” He peers at me in confusion.

“I don’t think I’m the man-wrangler type.”

“I’m surprised.” He absentmindedly picks up his fork and tests the prongs on his thumb. “You’re pretty hot.”

I grin. Coming from another guy, I’d take this as a pickup line. But Ryan doesn’t seem to have an agenda. I suspect he’s one of those guys who says exactly what he’s thinking and is then stupefied by the consequences.

We order coffee. “How’d you meet her? Your model fiancée?”

He jiggles his leg. “Capote introduced us.”

“What is with that guy?” I ask.

“Don’t tell me you’re interested too.”

I give him a dirty look. “Are you kidding? I can’t stand him. He’s supposedly got all these women after him-”

“I know.” Ryan nods in appreciative agreement. “I mean, the guy’s not even that good-looking.”

“He’s like the guy every girl has a crush on in sixth grade. And no one can figure out why.”

Ryan laughs. “I always thought I was that guy.”

“Were you?”

“Kind of, yeah.”

I can see it. Ryan at twelve-masses of dark hair, bright blue eyes-a real teen heartthrob. “No wonder you’re engaged to a model.”

“She wasn’t a model when we met, though. She was studying to be a veterinary assistant.”

I take a sip of my coffee. “That’s like the default profession for girls who don’t know what they want to do. But they ‘love’ animals.”

“Harsh but true.”

“How’d she become a model?”

“Discovered,” Ryan says. “She came to visit me in New York and a guy came up to her in Bergdorf’s and gave her his card.”

“And she couldn’t resist.”

“Don’t all women want to be models?” he asks.

“No. But all men want to date them.”

He chuckles. “You should come to this party tonight. It’s a fashion show for some downtown designer. Becky’s modeling in it. And Capote’s coming.”

“Capote?” I scoff. “How can I resist?” But I write down the address on a napkin, anyway.

After Ryan, I pop by Viktor Greene’s office to tell him about my exciting new plan to write a play. If I’m really jazzed about it, he’ll have to say yes.

Viktor’s door is wide open as if he’s expecting someone, so I walk right in. He grunts, startled, and pets his mustache.

He doesn’t offer me a seat, so I stand in front of his desk. “I’ve figured out what my project should be.”

“Yes?” he asks cautiously, his eyes going past me to the hallway.

“I’m going to write a play!”

“That’s fine.”

“You don’t mind? It’s not a short story or a poem-”

“As long as it’s about family,” he says quickly.

“It will be.” I nod. “I’m thinking it should be about this couple. They’ve been married for a few years and they hate each other-”

Viktor stares at me blankly. It appears he has nothing more to say. I stand awkwardly for a moment then add, “I’ll get started right away.”

“Good idea.” It’s now patently clear he wants me out of there. I give him a little wave as I exit.

I run right into L’il. “Carrie!” She flushes.

“I’m going to write a play,” I inform her excitedly. “Viktor says it’s okay.”

“That’s perfect for you. I can’t wait to read it.”

“I’ve got to write it first.”

She steps to the side, trying to get around me.

“What are you doing tonight?” I ask quickly. “Want to have dinner with me and my friend Miranda?”

“I’d love to, but-”

Viktor Greene comes out of his office. L’il glances up at him. “You sure?” I ask, pressing her. “Miranda’s really interesting. And we’re going to go to one of those cheap Indian places on Sixth Street. Miranda says she knows the best ones-”

L’il blinks as she focuses her attention back on me. “All right. I guess I could-”

“Meet me on Fourteenth and Broadway at eight-thirty. And afterward, we can go to this party,” I say over my shoulder.

I leave L’il and Viktor standing there, staring at me like I’m a mugger who has suddenly decided to spare them.

I write three pages of my play. It’s all about Peggy and her lover-the guy who took those naughty photos-whom I’ve named Moorehouse. Peggy and Moorehouse are having an argument about toilet paper. I think it’s pretty funny and pretty real-I mean, what couple doesn’t argue about toilet paper-and I actually feel satisfied with my work.

At eight o’clock, I pick up Miranda at her house. Miranda’s lucky-she has an old aunt who lives in a small, run-down townhouse, consisting of four floors and a basement, where Miranda lives. The basement has its own entrance and two windows just below the sidewalk. It would be perfect but for the fact that it’s damp and perpetually dark.

I ring the bell, thinking about how I love the way I can walk to my friends’ apartments and how my life has this frenetic, unstructured pace where I never know exactly what’s going to happen. Miranda opens the door, her hair still wet from the shower. “I’m not ready.”

“That’s okay.” I stroll past her and plop onto an ancient sofa covered in worn damask. Miranda’s aunt used to be rich, about thirty years ago. Then her husband took off with another woman and left her flat broke, except for the house. The aunt worked as a waitress and put herself through school and now she’s a professor of Women’s Studies at NYU. The apartment is filled with books like Woman, Culture, and Society and Women: A Feminist Perspective . I always think the best part about Miranda’s apartment is the books. The only books Samantha has are astrology, self-help, and The Kama Sutra . Other than those, she mostly reads magazines.