Ruin Me Read online

  Banger pulls up a gate and pushes open a metal door. Inside, it’s dark. Rory tells me to hang back while Banger walks ahead. He hits a light switch somewhere, and the entire place instantly lights up with bright, fluorescent overheads.

  We’re in a big, boxy space with twenty-foot ceilings. When my eyes adjust, the first thing I see are all sorts of random supplies. Spray paint, oil paint, brushes, masking tape, and stacks and stacks of cardboard boxes. In the far corner there’s a mattress on the floor, and a heap of clothing.

  I follow them around two large cement pillars toward the back of the loft, behind which is even more space filled with giant cardboard boxes—each one has to be about five feet high, five feet wide, and six feet long. Two of them have the green FreshDirect logo painted on the sides.

  “What is this stuff?”

  “I planned to use the actual FreshDirect boxes. But they’re too small,” Rory says, hands on his hips, surveying the area.

  “Okay, what exactly are you guys doing?”

  “It’s my next installation,” Rory says.

  “Yeah, I get that. But what is it?”

  “Ever hear of the three-thousand-mile Caesar salad?” Banger says.

  “No.” I look at Rory, but he’s busy examining the boxes. I notice that the bottom three inches or so are painted black.

  “Why is the bottom painted dark?”

  “It’s waterproofed,” Banger says. Then, to Rory, “Why is she here?”

  “She’s going to help.” Rory tosses me a can of spray paint. Banger doesn’t seem thrilled with this development, but he directs me to the stencils of the FreshDirect logo.

  We get to work. All four sides of each box, plus the tops, need the logo.

  “It has to be visible from every angle,” Rory tells me, showing me where to position the stencil. He’s taken off his cap and dark glasses. I’m still not used to seeing his face, and I can’t get enough of it. But I know that standing around just gazing at him is the fastest way to get myself kicked off this project—whatever it is. But I say, “I want to go with you. Let me help.”

  “We’ve got it covered,” Banger said.

  “Maybe not. I could use a lookout when we’re launching them. Broad daylight, man. Don’t underestimate that.”

  Banger is clearly not happy to have a third member join the three-thousand-mile Caesar salad party. But Rory is the only cook who matters in this kitchen.

  We share a conspiratorial smile. My heart leaps.

  “Count me in.”

  *** ***

  We take the long L train ride back to my apartment. I ask him to come inside, to stay with me at least until the sun comes up. But he says no.

  “When will I see you again?”

  I can’t shake the fear that he will disappear into the night and that will be it.

  “Soon.”

  “Okay.” I fight the urge to press him for more, to ask for reassurance. I know that in order to be with him, I have to be strong.

  But when I look into his eyes, I find all the reassurance I need.

  Chapter Forty-one

  “Did you see this?” Brandt said, waving the New York Post at them.

  Of course, they’d already seen it. The Page Six photo of Lulu leaving a Brooklyn club hand-in-hand with an unidentified man.

  “What I see is the fact that you have made zero progress since our last conversation,” Anna said.

  Brandt read the headline: “ ‘Pop Art Princess Parties with Mystery Man.’ She’s undermining me before my own show!”

  Anna ripped the paper from his hand and tossed it onto the floor. “The only thing undermining you is your lack of talent. How many times do I have to visit this studio before you get on track? Do I have to hold your hand for every brushstroke?”

  “Lulu is running around with some other guy. How am I supposed to work? And no one is going to buy into me when I’m being humiliated like this. I’m a punch line.”

  Inez could barely believe this train wreck. In her five years with the Sterling Gallery, she’d never seen an artist crack so quickly under pressure. And she’d never seen Anna make such a massive error in judgment. She’d gambled on Brandt, and she’d gambled wrong. Clearly, he’d been a rebound artist: Anna had been hurting after Angel defections to Larry Gagosian’s gallery. She was under new financial pressure. She wanted to launch the new gallery with a splash—and Brandt looked the part.

  But he couldn’t play the part.

  “No,” Anna said. The single syllable punctured the room like a bullet. “Lulu didn’t leave you. That is you.” She picked the paper up off of the floor and smoothed it out so they could all get a better look at the photo. The guy holding Lulu’s hand was about Brandt’s height and build. His head was completely obscured by a hooded sweatshirt. He could be anyone.

  “What are you talking about?” Brandt said.

  “You can’t tell who this person is. Inez, call the editors and tell them they’re wrong; it’s not some mystery man, it’s Brandt. That will shut up the tabloids. As for you.” She turned to Brandt. “You need a change of scenery. I’m sending you to work at my house in East Hampton. The studio has unbelievable light and you won’t be disturbed.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “There’s no discussion on this, Brandt. My driver will pick you up in the morning. Inez, help him pack these canvases.”

  Anna walked to the door. “I need a word with you in the hall.”

  Inez followed her outside of Brandt’s apartment. She noted that Anna’s cheeks were flushed with irritation.

  “Do you know who that person is in the photo?”

  “With Lulu?” Inez said. “I don’t know. Maybe that guy GoST. He answered her phone that day when you called her. She admitted to me that she’s basically obsessed with his work. It makes sense that she’s out with him.”

  Anna shook her head. “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know. No one knows. I think this guy wants to keep it that way.”

  “Well, I don’t want to keep it that way. Find out who he is. And in the meantime, contact the press. That man in the photos is Brandt—from what you’re telling me, that freak isn’t going to come forward to dispute it.”

  “I’d bet not.”

  “And don’t forget to talk to that dandy with the pink hair. After all, he was so quick to report on the fiasco outside the gallery that day.”

  Damian Damian. Looked like it was time to call in that favor.

  *** ***

  At eleven in the morning, it’s already pushing ninety degrees.

  Rory and Banger pick me up in the FreshDirect truck. I didn’t have much notice—just a quick text an hour ago. Of course I’m available. Since quitting the gallery, I have absolutely nothing going on.

  Rory is concealed in his full-on hat, hood, sunglasses getup. I’m disappointed. In the few days since he left my apartment near dawn, all I’ve wanted is to see his face.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, climbing in between them.

  Banger seems less than thrilled to see me.

  “Randall’s Island,” says Rory.

  Randall’s Island is uptown, directly across the East River. I first visited Randall’s Island on a seventh grade field trip. I didn’t go back until the Frieze Art Fair in 2012. And then Niffer and I went to the Electric Zoo musical festival, until they shut down early when two people OD’d.

  “What’s at Randall’s Island?”

  “Nothing. But that’s where we’re going to launch the boats.”

  “Boats?” I feel like he’s speaking another language.

  “The FreshDirect boxes. We’re sending them down the East River.”

  Interesting. “But why from Randall’s Island? No one will see them.”

  “The water will carry them to the Manhattan side.”

  “Are you sure the river flows in that direction?”

  Banger looks at me like, why don’t you just shut the fuck up?

  “Technically, it’s no
t a river, it’s a tidal strait,” Rory says. “And the tide changes four times a day. We’ve got the timing all figured out. About an hour after launch, the boxes should be down by Wall Street.”

  Banger maneuvers the truck onto the FDR Drive headed north.

  “So what’s this all about?” I ask. I know I’m probably missing something obvious—the FreshDirect logo, the river—excuse me—tidal strait, carrying them downtown. But as hard as I try to figure it out, I have to ask.

  “Ever read the book The Long Emergency?”

  “No,” I admit.

  How is it that I’m three-quarters of the way through NYU and a guy who barely finished high school consistently makes me feel undereducated? “What’s The Long Emergency?”

  He doesn’t respond, and I regret asking all the questions. I should have just watched. But again, it’s that insatiable need to know everything about him, everything that drives and inspires him. And this mission, at least for today, is inspiration number one.

  We ride the rest of the way in silence.

  Chapter Forty-two

  I stand at the water’s edge of Randall’s Island Park, waiting for Banger and Rory to navigate the FreshDirect truck around the strategically placed metal posts and small trees that make it an unlikely place to drive a massive vehicle.

  Just before he dropped me off, he finally said something about what we’re doing here.

  “Ever think that all the food has to be shipped onto Manhattan? We don’t produce anything here. And as if that’s bad enough, people can’t even walk to the grocery store. They have to have the groceries trucked to their front door, the food all boxed up. Can we get any further from sustainable agriculture?”

  Probably not. However, I don’t think the police will find that a suitable response.

  “What happens when the police show up?”

  “Try to create a diversion.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  FreshDirect trucks are so ubiquitous about the city, there is a good chance no one will even notice it. Despite the city’s perennial “If you see something, say something” campaign to keep people on the lookout for suspicious activity, New Yorkers can be pretty oblivious. So I’m not surprised to see them successfully back the truck down to the water.

  I walk toward them as Banger unfolds the metal ramp that hooks onto the back of the truck—the launching pad for the boxes.

  “Can you go to the bridge and keep a lookout from there? Call me if you spot anything we have to worry about,” Rory says.

  I reluctantly walk to the bridge.

  Rory and Banger load the first box onto the ramp, and push it off onto its journey. I’m tempted to watch the box make its way downriver, to see if it flows the way they anticipate. But I know it’s more important that I keep an eye out for them.

  But I can’t tear myself away from the sight of the boxes, moving surprisingly steadily and quickly downriver, and moving toward the Manhattan side.

  I turn back to the truck. Immediately, I spot a woman with a baby stroller, aiming her camera phone at Rory loading the next box into the water. Banger is hidden by the truck, and Rory is incognito as usual. Still, the woman makes me uncomfortable.

  I call Rory, and from where I stand I see him pull his phone from his pocket.

  “There’s a lady taking pictures of you guys.”

  “A cop? Or civilian?”

  “Just a regular lady, I think.”

  “Okay, nothing we can do about that. Let me finish. Call me if you see a cop.”

  He says something to Banger, and they start to move noticeably faster. If I’m keeping accurate count, half the boxes are in the water. They could only fit eight in the truck. The first four boxes are now inching along to hug the Manhattan waterline.

  I check the time on my phone. A quarter after eleven. I’m supposed to meet Niffer on the west side to see the apartment she’s sharing with Umberto. I made the plan before I knew today would be boat launch day, and I forgot to cancel. Running late, I text.

  Overhead, I hear the buzz of a helicopter. It’s blue and white. The colors of the NYPD.

  I dial Rory again. This time, he doesn’t pick up his phone because he’s busy getting a box that seems to be stuck along the ramp. I turn and count the boxes floating in the water behind me. Seven. I take a second to snap my own photo. It feels like I’m capturing a piece of New York’s art history, as big as the Sane/Smith tag on the Brooklyn Bridge. Maybe bigger.

  My phone rings.

  “We’re done and getting out of here. You do the same.”

  “I’ll ride back with you guys.”

  “No—there’s still a chance we could get pulled over. Walk back. Take the subway home. Stay out of sight.”

  *** ***

  Umberto lives in a luxury building between Eighty-second and Eighty-third and Central Park West. It’s not The Beresford, the fabled building that Jerry Seinfeld and John McEnroe have called home, but still it reeks of money and exclusivity.

  From his tenth-floor apartment, I have a perfect view of the park. I can only imagine how glorious it is in the fall, when the leaves change color. Or in the spring, when the trees bud with flowers.

  “We’re going into the bedroom for some girl talk,” Niffer tells Umberto after giving me the tour, and we leave him in the living room.

  I sit on a cream-colored chaise. She flops on the bed, onto her stomach, kicking her feet together like a five-year-old.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  “But I miss you already.”

  “I miss you, too.” I feel a little guilty, because I actually don’t. I’ve been so preoccupied with Rory, I’ve barely given anything else in my life much thought. Including the fact that my mother has not contacted me since I took No. 7. It’s not that I wanted a reaction, but I definitely expected one.

  “What’s going on, Lulu?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shoots me a ‘cut the crap’ look. I want to tell her about Rory, but I’m not sure how to do it without betraying his confidence.

  “I saw the photo in Page Six.”

  Oh. That.

  “Is that guy who I think he is?”

  “Yeah.”

  She claps her hands together. “So the painting on the wall worked!”

  “It worked.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, you little bitch.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Did you bang him?”

  I smile.

  “Oh my god, no, you’re going to talk. Now.”

  “Sssh. Umberto is going to hear you.”

  “Talk before I start screaming.”

  “Okay, yes. We hooked up.”

  “And?”

  “And it was seriously the most incredible experience of my life.”

  I can’t explain exactly how monumental it was, because I never confided in Niffer about the elusive O. Still, from the smile on her face, I know she gets that something significant happened.

  “I am so happy for you! So what’s his deal? Who is he?”

  I hesitate.

  “Ladies, come out here. You’ve got to see this.” Umberto knocks on the bedroom door.

  “We’re having a serious conversation,” Niffer calls back, rolling onto her back and grabbing a pillow.

  “Just come here for a second. Something crazy’s going on downtown. I love New York!”

  My stomach flips. Just like that, I know.

  I head for the bedroom door, following Umberto back to the living room, where the TV is turned to NY1. The screen is filled with footage of the boxes floating by the United Nations building. Another shot shows a crowed gathered on the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “Police were alerted when a passerby in Carl Shurz Park noticed the boxes floating past Gracie Mansion. New Yorkers are warned to stay clear of the East River …”

  I grab my handbag and bolt for the door. I
f the boxes are near Forty-second Street now, I might just be able to make it downtown as they reach Wall Street.

  Chapter Forty-three

  I run across South Street at Fulton, and it’s eerie that there isn’t a car in sight. I realize they must have shut down part of the FDR Drive and closed off streets, and that, more than the crowds, more than the deafening sound of the circling helicopters, makes me realize how serious this is.

  The water is straight ahead, but I have to traverse a wide stretch of shops and restaurants. I’m shocked by the enormous crowd filling the path to Pier 17. I’d imagined I would get down here, walk to the edge of the water, and watch the boxes float by. Instead, it seems like the entire city had the same idea. And from the look of the police closing off the perimeter, they’re not happy about it.

  There’s a weird sort of energy in the air, anticipation and fear that’s palpable. It’s strange to me that people would rush closer to the boxes. If I didn’t know that they were harmless, I’d be keeping as far away from this chaos as possible.

  I head for Fulton Market, pushing through the crowd. But when I reach the pet store Salty Paw, a police officer stops me.

  “You can’t go past this point.”

  I’m tempted to argue that other people are past this point, but I know it’s useless. The best I can hope for is to find another area, so I turn and head back to South Street. There are several more piers if I continue to walk south. The street is lined with police command center vehicles and ambulances. I feel a stab of guilt. They don’t need ambulances—the boxes are harmless. But they would never take my word for it: I’d just end up in jail waiting for my mother’s lawyer to bail me out.

  Overhead, the helicopters are circling lower. I’d probably get a better view of what’s happening with the boxes if I duck into a restaurant that has a TV. But I want to see the boxes in person. I painted them; I watched them begin their journey down the river. And I love the man who created them.

  Finally, a few piers later, I see people somehow cramming up to the sides of one of the more modern piers. During a normal day, it’s a very spare, beautiful space to relax and admire the waterfront.