Trying to Float by Nicolaia Rips Read Free Book Online Page A

Stanley continued in a pained tone, “what I pay in electricity? In taxes? And the unions, oh, the unions! They’re killing me!”
    My father would reply with something like . . .
    â€œUnions? Stanley, the only people who work here are guests you overcharged and who are trying to pay off their bills.”
    Or . . .
    â€œStanley, I renegotiated my rent a week ago.”
    But nothing mattered, for the very next day, putting his arm around Father’s shoulders, Stanley continued.
    â€œWhen you first moved in, I thought, ‘This is a good man.’ But I must be honest with you: I’ve been having my doubts. Every day I ask myself, ‘Would a good man, with a good family, pay his landlord so little?’ It makes me sad to think that.”
    This would be accompanied by a moistening around Stanley’s eyes.
    A man who preferred strong coffee in the morning to strong emotion, my father joined the person who hopped on the garbage cart.
    But there was one person who didn’t care about Stanley.
    His name was Artie, and I met him for the first time one morning when I was waiting in the lobby for my mother to take me to school, and Artie came through the front doors. He was in his fifties, with thick dark hair, an athlete’s body, aJames Dean swagger, and, as I noticed when he passed, a flask in his back pocket.
    Before Artie reached the elevators, Stanley appeared from behind the front desk.
    â€œArtie, I need to talk to you.”
    â€œYou do? Well, that’s funny because I need to talk to you !”
    â€œArtie,” Stanley pleaded, “come into my office and we can discuss it quietly.”
    â€œNo! We’re going to discuss it here !”
    Stanley touched Artie’s elbow, coaxing him toward the office. Artie shook it off.
    â€œI know what you want, Stanley.”
    â€œYou do?”
    Artie pulled out his wallet.
    â€œYOU WANT MONEY!”
    Stanley waved his hands frantically as if to shake off Artie’s suggestion.
    â€œArtie, please . . .”
    Artie was now tapping his wallet against Stanley’s chest.
    â€œ How much fucking money do you need, Stanley? What? You aren’t rich enough? What? Living across the street from the Metropolitan Museum of Fucking Art isn’t enough for you? And you didn’t even earn it! You got your money from Daddy ! An itty-bitty daddy’s boy !”
    Artie moved in to finish him off, sticking his finger into Stanley’s face.
    â€œ You tell me! Right now! HOW MUCH FUCKING MATZOH DO YOU NEED?”
    â€œMatzoh? Artie, I beg you . . . .”
    â€œYou heard me, Stanley, mu-cha-cha .”
    â€œMuchacha?”
    â€œWill this do, Mr. G-R-E-E-D-Y?”
    Artie pulled something from his wallet and flipped it at Stanley.
    â€œA tensky,” announced Artie triumphantly.
    Stanley scurried back to his office.
    Artie pulled the flask from his back pocket, took a swallow, and by the time it was returned to his pocket, he had, with his other hand, retrieved a bottle of mouthwash from his motorcycle jacket. Standing at the elevator, Artie took a shot, and then, just as the elevator door closed, spat the fluid in an effervescent green arc into the center of a nearby wastebasket.

MY BABYSITTERS
    A DOLL IN a dollhouse. That was Jade.
    Unlike other babysitters, Jade, who worked in the evenings, was available all day, and with her apartment in the hotel, it was very convenient.
    Jade’s apartment was decorated with wood paneling, marble floors, leopard skins, and rabbit pelts. Everything was comfortable. Very comfortable. Although her apartment had a balcony and faced the Empire State Building, her shades were always drawn. The apartment was lit with chandeliers, lamps covered in patterned silk shades, and candles. On the shelves was Jade’s collection of stuffed quail, raccoons, foxes, and other woodland treasures. Bounding through this was an Egyptian sphinx and