Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

Later, on my way downtown, I pass a store for medical supplies. In the window are three mannequins. Not the pretty kind you see in Saks or Bergdorf’s, where they make the mannequins from molds of actual women, but the scary cheap ones that look like oversized dolls from the 1950s. The dolls are wearing surgical scrubs, and it suddenly hits me that scrubs would make the perfect New York uniform. They’re cheap, washable, and totally cool.

And they come neatly packaged in cellophane. I buy three pairs in different colors, and remember what Bernard said about a valise.

The only good thing about going to my father’s this weekend was that I found an old binoculars case that belonged to my mother, which I purloined to use as a handbag. Perhaps other items can be similarly repurposed as well. When I trip by a fancy hardware store, I spot the perfect carryall.

It’s a carpenter’s tool bag, made of canvas with a real leather bottom, big enough for a pair of shoes, a manuscript, and a change of scrubs. And it’s only six dollars. A steal.

I buy the tool bag and stick my purse and scrubs into it, grab my suitcase, and head to the train.

It’s been humid the past few days, and when I enter Samantha’s apartment there’s a closed-in smell, as if every odor has been trapped. I breathe deeply, partly due to relief at being back, and partly because this particular smell will always remind me of New York and Samantha. It’s a mixture of old perfume and scented candles, cigarette smoke and something else I can’t quite identify: a sort of comforting musk.

I put on the blue scrubs, make a cup of tea, and sit down at the typewriter. All summer I’ve been terrified about facing the blank page. But maybe because I went home and realized I have worse things to worry about—like not making it and ending up like Wendy—that I’m actually excited. I have hours and hours stretching before me in which to write. Tenacity, I remind myself. I’m going work until I finish this play. And I will not answer the phone. In an effort to make good on my promise, I even unplug it.

I write for four hours straight, until hunger forces me out in search of food. I wander dazedly into the deli, the characters still in my head, yapping away as I buy a can of soup, heat it up, and place it next to my typewriter so I can eat and work. I beetle on for quite a while, and when I finally feel finished for the day, I decide to visit my favorite street.

It’s a tiny, brick-paved path called Commerce Street—one of those rare places in the West Village that you can never find if you’re actually looking for it. You have to sneak up on it by using certain landmarks: the junk store on Hudson Street. The sex shop on Barrow. Somewhere near the pet store is a small gate. And there it is, just on the other side.

I stroll slowly down the sidewalk, wanting to memorize each detail. The tiny, cha

rming town houses, the cherry trees, the little neighborhood bar where, I imagine, all the patrons know one another. I take several turns up and down the street, pausing in front of each house, picturing how it would feel to live there. As I gaze up at the tiny windows on the top floor of a red-brick carriage house, it dawns on me that I’ve changed. I used to worry that my dream of becoming a writer was just that—a dream. I had no idea how to do it, where to begin and how to continue. But lately, I’m beginning to feel that I am a writer. This is me. Writing and wandering the Village in my scrubs.

And tomorrow, if I skip class, I’ll have another day like this one, all to myself. I’m suddenly overcome with joy. I run all the way back to the apartment, and when I spot my pile of plays on the table, I’m can’t believe how happy I am.

I settle in to read, making notes with a pencil and underlining especially poignant bits of dialogue. I can do this. Who cares what my father thinks? For that matter, who cares what anyone thinks? Everything I need is in my head, and no one can take that away.

At eight o’clock, I fall into one of those rare, deep sleeps where your body is so exhausted, you wonder if you’ll ever wake up. When I finally wrench myself out of bed, it’s ten a.m.

I count the hours I slept—fourteen. I must have been really tired. So tired, I didn’t even know how shattered I was. At first, I’m groggy from all the sleep, but when the grogginess dissipates, I feel terrific. I put on my scrubs from the day before, and without bothering to brush my teeth, go straight to the typewriter.

My powers of concentration are remarkable. I write without stopping, without noticing the time, until I type the words “THE END.” Elated and a little woozy, I check the clock. It’s just after four. If I hurry, I can get the play photocopied and into Viktor Greene’s office by five.

I leap into the shower, my heart pounding in triumph. I slide into a clean pair of scrubs, grab my manuscript, and run out the door.

The copy place is on Sixth Avenue, just around the corner from the school. For once, it’s my lucky day—there’s no line. My play is forty pages long and copying is expensive, but I can’t risk losing it. Fifteen minutes later, one copy of my play tucked neatly into a manila envelope, I gallop to The New School.

Viktor is in his office, slumped over his desk. At first I think he’s asleep, and when he doesn’t move, I wonder if he actually is dead. I knock on the door. No response. “Viktor?” I ask in alarm.

Slowly, he lifts his head, as if he has a cement block on the back of his neck. His eyes are puffy, the lower lids turned out, defiantly exposing their red-rimmed interior. His mustache is ragged as if rent by despairing fingers. He props up his cheeks with his hands. His mouth falls open. “Yes?”

Normally, I would ask what’s wrong. But I don’t know Viktor well enough, and I’m not sure I want to know anyway. I take a step closer, holding the manila envelope aloft. “I finished my play.”

“Were you in class today?” he asks mournfully.

“No. I was writing. I wanted to get my play finished.” I slide the envelope across his desk. “I thought maybe you could read it tonight.”

“Sure.” He stares at me as if he barely remembers who I am.

“So, uh, thanks, Mr. Greene.” I turn to go, glancing back at him in concern. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Mmmm,” he replies.

What the hell’s the matter with him? I wonder, bounding down the stairs. I walk briskly for several blocks, buy a hot dog from a vendor, and ponder what to do next.

L’il. I haven’t seen her for ages. Not properly, anyway. She’s the one person who I can really talk to about my play. Who will actually understand. And if Peggy’s there—so what? She’s already kicked me out once. What can she do to me now?

I hike up Second Avenue, enjoying the noise, the sights, the people scurrying home like cockroaches. I could live here forever. Maybe even become a real New Yorker someday.

Seeing my old building on Forty-seventh Street brings back all kinds of memories—Peggy’s nude pictures, her collection of bears, and those tiny little rooms with the awful camp beds—and I wonder how I managed to last even three days. But I didn’t know better then. Didn’t know what to expect and was willing to take anything.