By Melissa Marni
The subway car made its way toward 59th Street, a metal serpent slinking beneath Manhattan’s Upper West Side.
Moments before, the doors of the 1 train had slid open and four or five sleepy passengers emerged, settling with their foil-wrapped deli lunches onto blue plastic seats. It was the dance of the morning commuter and Ava Chase once knew it well, this synchronized tango of detachment performed between tiled subway walls. One woman smiled at Ava as she entered and the wide, yellow-toothed grin fell into the corned-beef air, offbeat and unreturned.
Where was the good in goodness? Ava thought. What ordinance could be drawn from the ordinary?
Exactly two days had passed since Ava’s editor called her writing “crusty.” Then, with a flitter of a French-manicured hand, she told Ava the magazine was dissolving its musical theater department. Another wave and her editor said despite the crusty writing, Ava could probably find a job at some publication that valued good entertainment reporting and an ordinary style of prose.
The feeling of joblessness was similar to the feeling of weightlessness (or so Ava imagined) and she floated on distracted clouds since losing her position with Matte Magazine, sleeping in her navy Versace suit, keeping her two-days unwashed hair in its taut bun atop her head and riding the 1 train to nowhere.
Crusty? Crusty was a word reserved for rhubarb pie or sunburned skin or for that sticky grit that sometimes got caught beneath fingernails. But for her writing? No.
How, Ava wondered, could her words ever be considered crusty when in her most recent story about Lionell Mann’s turn as Jerry Mulligan in An American in Paris, she declared his performance “a theatrical, tap-dancing pearl oyster sparkling in the Parisian sun”? Nautically infused, maybe, but writing like that was anything but crust.
It didn’t matter. She was no longer the Senior Entertainment Reporter she had been last week, that onetime Broadway baby of backstage passes to get tipsy on cheap champagne poured by 42nd Street’s finest then exit with wobbly professionalism through hidden stage doors.
Now, she was a study in monochromatic melancholy, the dismal, all-navy outline of a crustless writer without a crusted thing to write. At least she still had her green scarf, given to her last year by the Tony Award-winning falsetto star of Jersey Boys who said tying the knot of silk fabric above her collarbone brought out the elegance in her neck.
She brought her hand to the scarf and caressed its smooth fabric, cold against her fingertips, cold against her damp skin. Funny that Ava’s neck was said to be marked by elegance but her words by crust …
The question came from a voice small and pinkly and belonged to a little girl no older than eight. Ava couldn’t remember when or if the subway made another stop but it must have because she would’ve earlier taken note of the child sitting beside her, green socks stuffed sloppily into ballet slippers, her bright pink tutu – the kind every little girl’s ballerina dreams are made from – covered by a gray sweatshirt one size too big. She was the toe-tapping portrait of an Upper West Side dance class child: young New York City kittens who wore their jazz shoes to kindergarten, knew the underground labyrinth of subways before they knew how to speak and preferred bagels and cream cheese for breakfast, hold the onions, please and thanks.
“Hellooo? Whatcha readin’?”
Ava forgot about the book in her hand, the one that in times richer had been her faithful reporter’s notebook, always fitting, Mary Poppins style, into whatever bag she carried to the next show. This morning it was a crimson façade between her fingers, folded open to an empty page.
Was it really two days since she’d been fired? It may have been three or six or ten days before that her editor dismissed every one of Ava’s childhood dreams to write about names she’d only admired in neon marquee lights.
“I can almost read! Let me see it!” The little girl leaned toward Ava, the pink tulle of her tutu scratching Ava’s left arm. “Hey! How come it’s blank? Don’t books come with words on ‘em?”
Ava had no time for children, especially not tiny, persistent ballerinas with high-pitched voices who couldn’t mind their own business. “It’s a special book for adults. A book to write in, not read from,” Ava blurted with staccato exasperation. She angled away from the girl. The girl moved in closer.
“Oh! Well, do you write in it then? Whatcha gonna write today? Maybe something about me! I might be the best thing!”
“No, I’m just looking at my notebook.”
“Because I don’t write anymore.” Ava tried to sound detached. She was. She wasn’t.
“Maybe it’s like dance. My mom says I can’t go to dance anymore because of the emonomy being so bad and the classes being so ‘spensive but I still wear my tutu every day!”
Some tectonic plate inside Ava shifted, her dreams realigned. “Listen,” she began with more passion than necessary for a conversation between a former Senior Entertainment Reporter and an eight-year-old ballerina. “No one can stop you from dancing.”
“No one can stop me from dancing?” The little girl repeated Ava’s words, and her question trailed off into the sound of subway doors squelching open.
Ava was outside on 42nd Street before she even realized it. Here she stood, among the horn section of frustrated, traffic-jammed taxi drivers, among the string section of construction workers whistling to pretty pedestrians, among the wind section of a windy spring day.
And then her phone rang.
On the other end, she heard the voice of her faceless Matte Magazine editor, an offstage character in the song-and-dance number of Ava’s new, if not empty, life.
“Ava? Ava are you there?”
A quick pause and her editor continued. “I need you to cover the matinee showing of Chicago. Rumors have it they’ve brought in a ringer to replace Coco Sanderson as Roxie Hart and all the magazines want to scoop the story. Broadway’s triumphant return to relevancy or some nonsense. Anyway, can you be there in like, 20 minutes? Hello, Ava? Hello?”