Summer 1981, the East Village. Infamous street cop ‘Animal’ is out of suspension and back on the street. Uptown, two teenagers exit a bus at Port Authority and head downtown, eager to chase their dreams.
3
The myth that lived inside Ryder Abbott’s head was that he was always lucky. He caught the best breaks. Among the best was the fact that he was living in New York City with Kristen Brezezicki.
They had met on a Greyhound bus, coming in from the bedroom communities north of the city. Ryder was from much farther upstate than she was, and it had taken him the entire ride to work up the nerve to speak to her. He thought she looked like Debbie Harry—blonde hair, upturned nose. She sat with one knee drawn up, her chin resting on it, content to stare out the window and think her thoughts. She was still, almost sublime.
Ryder had his Walkman on, cranking the Ramones through his headphones. He soaked in the place names he was about to visit in person—Forest Hills, Rockaway, 53rd & 3rd, CBGB’s—while trying to summon the courage to talk to this girl. His nervous energy had to go somewhere, so he drummed his fingers on the back of the seat in front of him, mentally willing her to turn and look at him. She didn’t.
As the bus ascended the ramps of Port Authority and passengers stood to disembark, Ryder noticed Kristen’s backpack—not a daypack, but a proper rucksack. In his estimation, this made her a migrant like him, not a tourist. Then she pulled a guitar case from under the bus.
He asked her name. She told him with a smile. Then he asked if she had someplace he could crash. Once again, luck was on his side. She did. He followed her to a dark sublet on Allen Street, and NATO was born.
NATO had been Ryder’s brainchild since sophomore year—a band that took the politics of the English punk scene but none of the pretense. Stripped-down punk rock. Ryder on drums—not even a full kit, just a kick drum, one big tom, and a high hat. He knew they could get everything they needed from those components. Ryder could even sing. He just needed someone on guitar. The fewer people in front of him on stage, the more he’d shine. He even planned to move the drums to the front, next to the guitarist. Why not?
That first night, after he tossed his Eastpak into the corner of Kristen’s apartment, they went out to look for food. He was already making plans. They walked uptown and east, found some tacos, ate those, and swung by CBGB’s to see what was up. The place matched the hype. It was sticky, sweaty, and absolutely filthy. Bud longnecks were two for a dollar.
The band playing was forgettable. Ryder didn’t even know who they were. Kristen seemed to, but he didn’t want to have to ask her. Instead, he studied the lights, the soundboard guy, mentally mapping the square footage of the stage for his inevitable future gig there. At one point, he headed to the bathroom, past the stage, and peeked into the backstage area. A few six-packs and a bag of Utz chips sat waiting for the headliner. Very cool.
On the walk back, he told her his band idea. She shrugged, said it sounded like fun. She had some lyrics written down in a notebook that might work for this. Ryder wasn’t sure about her seemingly blasé attitude but bit his tongue for now.
Later, back on Allen Street, Kristen pulled fresh sheets from her rucksack and made the bed. Clean sheets, smelling like Tide. He couldn’t believe it. She brushed her teeth. She flossed. Ryder watched from the doorway, unsure what was going to happen. Turns out, nothing. He lay down on the floor in the front room, using his folded t-shirt as a pillow, and didn’t sleep a wink. He just listened to the cars going by, the angry shouts, the rapid-fire Chinese conversations, and, eventually, the garbage trucks. He was still lying there when Kristen appeared, showered and dressed, ready to go find a job.
When the door clicked shut, Ryder got up, walked into the bedroom, and fell asleep on the bed. He didn’t even bother to take off his boots. When Kristen returned, he was still asleep.
The listing in The Village Voice is brief: “Bartender, loud environment, buck an hour plus tips.”
Kristen walks by the place a couple of times before she spots it. A real hole in the wall, painted matte black inside and out, plastered with stickers and graffiti. The sign on the exterior displays the name of the place in a bizarre mix of fonts and perspectives, tilted in a way that gives her an uneasy feeling. DOWNTOWN BEIRUT.
The owner hires her within the first ten seconds. After asking her if she can handle herself, and she says, “Absolutely,” he grunts and peels off two keys from his bundle.
“This one’s for the front and back door. This one’s for the padlock on the gate. We open at eleven. We close at 4 a.m. There’s another girl—come back later, and you’ll meet her. Work out a schedule.”
Kristen takes the keys.
“At the end of the shift, take your hourly from the till and your tips from the jar. Don’t worry about cleaning up; I’ve got a Polish lady who comes in early and wipes the place down. Baseball bat’s behind the bar. The Ninth Precinct’s number is next to the phone. All good?”
She nods.
“All right,” he says, waving her off. “Come back later, meet the other girl.” Kristen walks out, feeling pleased. Downtown Beirut. The name fits.
Two weeks into the job, things finally click for Kristen with Ryder. The truth is, she was scared to move to the city. Her parents were dead set against it, and that necessitated a hard break between her and them. It’s possible that if Kristen calls her mother in a jam, she could get a little money wired to her, or, worst case, a bus ticket home. Her father, having been defied, won’t lift a finger.
Ryder is a good-looking guy—a little rangy, but not sketchy or dangerous. She finds that she can read him like a book, and she knows that if she takes him home with her, she’ll feel safer and sleep better. She’ll have someone to talk to. And he won’t try anything, not even a kiss, until she gives him the massive, blinking green light to do so.
He proves her right. They’re friends until they aren’t. Kristen brings him into the bed and thinks maybe she loves him. Definitely on the right path. And when he suggests they leave the Allen Street sublet and squat in the East Village, she says yes. He says he’s scoped out a place called Pueblo. All the squats have cool names like that.
They miss the raid by a little less than 24 hours.
But Kristen terminates the sublet early, pissing off the leaseholder in the process. That leaves Ryder and Kristen standing on the corner of 6th and D with all their earthly possessions in hand, staring at a crime scene. Most of Pueblo Tower lies collapsed into the street. The NYPD has the whole block taped off.
They sit on a nearby stoop. Ryder vanishes into a bodega. Kristen considers asking her coworker if she has a couch to spare, but where would that leave Ryder?
Then he returns, three forties cradled in his arms, and he’s brought a friend—a tall Black guy with short hair. Both of them are laughing, already thick as thieves.
“We’re good!” Ryder says, handing her a bottle. She takes it and sets it down beside her. It’s not even nine in the morning. “Stiles has space for us!”
“Black Box, East 12th off D, you know it?” Stiles’ voice is low and calm, like the whole world is handled. The way Ryder looks at him makes her nervous.
“Two rooms, big rooms. Practice space in the basement, and we can go right now!” Ryder is practically vibrating with excitement.
Stiles grins at Kristen. He isn’t setting off her creep detector. She can tell he has no interest in her. The smile isn’t meant to seduce her or condescend to her. Her gut tells her she should take it as a warning. About what, she has no idea. But Ryder wants this. They’re homeless, with about twenty bucks to their name. She isn’t calling her mom—not yet.
“Sounds great,” she says.
##
(to be serialized in weekly installments)
I like the characters already, each got a nice personality.
I think a typo snuck in at the end there: "Hey gut tells her she should take it as a warning."