IT’S UNCLEAR, STILL, who is to blame for the situation that occurred at Frank’s Cocktail Lounge in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. It could easily be the weather. The night air is the sort of steam-room moist-hot that allows for only one of two states of being: lethargic or horny. Even inside, with A/C on, our thighs stick to the bar’s cracked red vinyl seats. Or it could be the music.
Whatever the reason, the conditions are perfect for Louie to approach our table. Let me tell you about suave-ass Louie— a 60-something Dominican man in a fitted black T-shirt, knee length denim shorts, sneakers so white he must use shoe polish. He’s got a shine to him: baby-oiled-up skin, gelled-back salt-and pepper curls, a gleaming gold chain.
“Louie,” he says, looking right into Thompson’s eyes, by way of introduction or an attempt at hypnosis.
“Tessa,” she responds, either hypnotized or just confused.
“Tessa. Yeah, you look really familiar. I can’t place it. It’s not a line. I know people use it, but it’s not a cheesy line. But Tessa …” She responds with a firm “Nice to meet you, Louie,” meant to get him to leave, which, to his credit, he does.
Thompson isn’t bothered. It happens a lot. “I don’t know if it’s like I have a recognizable face or if I look different enough in the things that I’ve done, but I love that people really know that they know me but they can’t place it. Sometimes it’s just like, ‘Do you know my cousin?’ Like, ‘Did I meet you at Ruth’s party?’ ” She thinks for a second, maybe wondering if Louie would have ever gotten to Creed or Thor. She shrugs. “It’s probably his cousin.”
Bu hikaye New York magazine dergisinin August 20, 2018 sayısından alınmıştır.
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Bu hikaye New York magazine dergisinin August 20, 2018 sayısından alınmıştır.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Giriş Yap
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