Heartbreaker - Julie Kriss Page 0,2
gave me a pinched look for the rest of the day, then left at four to go to spin class.
I left at five and stood on a crowded train, my nose in some guy’s armpit all the way to Brooklyn. My shoes were pinching me by the time I got from the stop to my apartment building, and all I wanted was a very large glass of wine.
The best thing about my life in New York was the apartment I’d scored. Honestly, it was like I’d won the lottery. I’d met my friend Theda in acting class; her aunt had left her an apartment, and she needed a roommate. I moved in, and six months later Theda got a lead role in a traveling production of Starlight Express, playing a train—I could never remember which one. So Theda was currently in Salt Lake City, Utah, while I had an apartment to myself for way less than I should be paying. After nearly a decade in New York, I knew exactly what I had, and my plan was to cement myself in place and stay in this apartment for as long as I humanly could, preferably until I kicked the bucket.
It was a five-story building, and my apartment was on the top floor, so I got in the elevator. The building was old, which meant the elevator was old—yellowy, with barely legible 1980’s buttons. For the rent I paid, I didn’t care. I pressed five and felt the elevator start to rise, as I thought about how crazy hungry I was.
The elevator stopped and the lights went out.
“Damn it,” I said out loud. This had never happened before. I peered at the button panel, poking buttons randomly, but nothing happened. I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight, looking for an alarm button. I hit it and there was no sound.
“Hey,” I shouted, moving to the doors and banging on them, hoping someone could hear me. “Hey, I’m stuck in here.”
Nothing. There was no phone number listed on the panel. It was creepy and dark, but I wasn’t the kind of girl to panic, so I scrolled through my phone until I found the super’s number. Of course, there was no answer.
I left him a message, then stood there helpless in the dark. I banged on the door and shouted some more, and finally my phone rang with the super calling me back.
“We’re workin’ on it,” he said in his raspy smoker’s voice, thick with a New York accent. “There are some people I gotta call, they’re a pain in my ass. But I found the backup generator for ya.” As he spoke, the lights flickered and came on faintly, as if I was underwater. At least it was better than the pitch dark.
“When do I get out of here?” I asked him.
“Soon, soon. I’ll call ya back.” He hung up, and I expressed my mounting anxiety by practicing his accent in the silence of the empty elevator.
“I’m workin’ on it,” I said, letting my vowels roll out the way New Yorkers do. For a girl from Wisconsin, the New York accent had been unintelligible at first, but in my time here I’d gotten the hang of it. “Listen, I’ll call ya back. I got the backup generator for ya!”
Nothing else happened, so I kicked off my work heels and sat on the elevator floor, trying not to think about what kind of grunge was sticking to my pencil skirt. I rubbed my aching feet as my stomach growled, and then I rifled through my purse for the emergency Snickers bar I kept in there. Anyone who takes the New York Metro to work and back every day keeps something in their purse for train breakdowns and trains that don’t show up. It’s part of life when you’re commuting in New York, and if you’re not prepared, you’re going to be hungry.
“Technically, I don’t need this,” I said to no one as I chewed through the gooey goodness of Snickers. “I could live off my body fat for probably a good winter, like a bear. But I’m eating it anyway.”
Trying to get to Broadway when you were a girl with curves wasn’t the easiest thing to do. I’d had a few rejections that stung. But times were changing, and I knew I had at least some talent. I could dance and sing and act. I thought I was good, at least. I just needed the right opportunity so maybe