This is the first chapter of New York Is Losing Hope, one of three novellas found in the Bold Strokes Books’ release Hot Hires. Click here for more info!
Chapter One
Some people say New York City is the place you go when you want to remake yourself. I guess all the steel and concrete and summertime hot garbage stink are supposed to scour you clean of all the bullshit you picked up where you were before. But I wouldn’t know about that. I’ve always been here. Born uptown in Columbia-Presbyterian almost thirty-five years ago. Where am I supposed to go when I need a fresh start?
Fresh is not a word I’d associate with my hometown. But by October, the swampy heat is thankfully behind us, replaced by cool, crisp autumn in New York—arguably the freshest time of the year. It’s my last fall here, and my absolute favorite season, but it’s not quite the roasted chestnut-scented, leaf-shedding, sweater-wearing, When Harry Met Sally fantasia we’ve all been conditioned to expect. That Manhattan exists only on streaming sites nowadays.
Even if it’s not some figment of a Hollywood screenwriter’s imagination, New York City is a place of change—it’s in perpetual motion, and it’s constantly forcing you to learn new things. Opportunities for gaining knowledge can come from the unlikeliest of places. Like last week, I learned a valuable lesson while standing on the platform waiting for the Q train. I was listening to my Veronica Mars rewatch podcast when my left Airpod popped out of my ear and onto the subway tracks. A rat almost as big as a dump truck leaped over the third rail, skittered over to my poor defenseless Airpod, chomped away for three seconds, and then—I swear by Saint Nora Ephron—it looked up at me and laughed. Where else in the world are you going to get a lesson like that? Definitely not something I remembered from my days at PS 290.
And moments after opening the door of my garden level apartment, I was learning again, whether I wanted to or not. Here to ruin this brisk, sunny, October morning was a biodegradable baggy of poo resting on the lid of one of the empty garbage cans at the curb. So thank you, anonymous Upper East Side resident, for kindly providing me instruction in communal dog rearing this morning. I picked it up with the very tips of my thumb and index finger and dropped it in the bin, and crashed the lid down with a terrific clang.
“It wasn’t me! Or Buster. I swear.” Mrs. Finkelstein approached with her cocker spaniel straining on his leach as he tried to get near me.
“I’m sure it wasn’t, Mrs. F.” She’d caught me scowling at an inanimate trash receptacle at 8:40 on a Saturday morning, but what are you gonna do? After I dragged the garbage cans through the wrought iron gate that separated our building from the sidewalk, I bent toward Buster and gave him all the love he deserved. “You would never, would you, Buster, baby? You’re a good boy. You don’t even poop, do you?”
“Oh, yeah, he does. But I dispose of it properly like any civic- minded dog owner should. Got something warm in my coat pocket right now.”
Yikes. This was exactly why I didn’t own a dog. The whole poo-handling part. It was infinitely preferable to love on someone else’s fur baby rather than care for my own. But maybe getting a pet would be something to consider when I got to Los Angeles. I pressed pause on the Buster love fest and lifted the garbage can lid for her. “Here you go. An easy two points.”
“Please forgive me, Hope. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about the shit I’ve been carrying on my person since Seventy-fourth Street. The things we do for our loved ones.” Mrs. Finkelstein dropped her baggy in, took a small bottle of hand sanitizer from her other pocket and offered me a squirt before using it herself. “What are you doing out and about so early on a Saturday?”
The front door on the parlor level opened and the woman who gave me life swanned out onto the stoop in her Pucci caftan—the one she reserved for fancy brunches or various moments of high dudgeon. Mom held a bottle of champagne in one hand and a carton of orange juice in the other. “Are you excited, Hope? Today’s the big day.” She set her beverages on the third step and sat. “Good morning, Minerva. Care to join us for a mimosa?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Mrs. F. sat down on the stoop. “What’s the occasion?”
“Hope is starting a new phase of life today.” She popped the cork on the champagne and poured a measure into three paper cups.
Phase of life? “Let’s not get carried away, Mom.” She made it sound as if I, at the ripe old age of thirty-four, had finally received a visit from Aunt Flo. I remembered her bursting into dramatic rafts of tears when that milestone had occurred at age thirteen, but right now I detected a subtle, sarcastic edge to her mild words that I really didn’t want to deal with right now.
“What? It’s not every day a Mason undertakes the task of navigating the city from behind the wheel of a motorcar.”
“Nobody calls them motorcars anymore, Mother. It’s the twenty- first century.” I gave all my attention to Buster again.
Mrs. F. raised her eyebrows. “You’re learning to drive? At your age? Why?”
At my age? I was only thirty-four. What the hell was she implying?
“That’s what I’d like to know, Minerva. There is no earthly reason for Hope to drive. That’s what the subway and the bus and taxicabs are for.” She handed a mimosa to her longtime neighbor and tried to hand one to me.
I stood and leaned against the iron newel post. “No thanks.” “Don’t slouch, Hope, and take this. I’m trying to be supportive.”
My spine straightened as if I were one of Pavlov’s dogs, involuntarily reacting to that tone my mother had been using on me since I was five. Then I slouched again just to spite her, like I was five. “I don’t think drinking alcohol right before my first driving lesson will endear me to the instructor.”
“Oh, right.” She stifled a laugh and set the cup on the step next to her. “I didn’t think of that. Yet another reason not to drive—you can drink whenever you like!”
“Even at nine in the morning.” Mrs. F lifted her cup. “We should toast your new endeavor somehow, Hope. How about a virgin orange juice?”
“Fine.” I scanned the street for the driving school vehicle to rescue me, even if it was ten minutes too early.
“This is the Upper East Side,” my mother said, as if I didn’t know that. “Everything is walkable. You know, Hopey, you live in a very unique city where you don’t ever have to drive. There are so many options now, with the Uber and the Lyft and what have you.”
“I’m well aware, Mother.” She had activated her sermonizing function, and I truly did not have the patience for it this morning. Couldn’t she see I was trying to devote all of my mental energy to quelling my driving lesson anxiety? I focused on the unconditional love in Buster’s eyes.
“And even before your grandfather bought this building”—she threw a hand toward the facade behind her—“Masons have chosen not to contribute to the auto industry and its outsized carbon footprint. You’re finally back where you belong, living under the Mason family roof again, but if he knew about this, he’d be turning in his grave.”
Please. As if Grandpa—the loveliest grandpa who ever lived, but let’s face it, as timid as the day was long—had the sack to drive in the city. Or had the faintest idea of what a carbon footprint was. He died when I was nine. But I silently endured my mother’s lecture because if she knew the real reason I had decided to learn to drive, our morning cocktails on the stoop would turn into the Spanish Inquisition with my mother playing the role of Torquemada.
Of course, I loved my mom and dad. I really did. But the fondness that came with absence was severely reduced by their now very close proximity. When the lease on my East Village apartment expired five months ago, the new terms were four times what I had been paying. Housing was just about the only sector that had bounced back with a vengeance since the pandemic. The garden-level apartment where my grandmother had lived while I grew up in the floors above had been vacant, and my dad offered it to me at an extremely low rent. It was a benefit that diminished my independence in a few very real ways. Not to mention, they wouldn’t let me get rid of any of my grandma’s furniture.
And now, my mother’s third degree was preventing me from achieving the serenity I so desperately needed right now. I was nervous enough about taking to the streets without her passive-aggressive disapproval masked by pseudo-supportive mimosas.
I lifted my gaze from Buster to watch a tall woman walk toward us from down the block. She seemed to be checking the building numbers as she got closer and then zeroed in on us. Yowza. She had thick, long, dark hair tied back in a ponytail, and her features were sharpish—sharp as in angular, high cheekbones but also clear intelligence emanating from her eyes. Tall, dark, and handsome. Her soft butch energy was speaking volumes to me, and I knew I would be staring and trying not to drool at her rangy figure after she passed us by. But then she pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of her black fleece jacket and smiled as she approached.
I don’t think I imagined her gaze lingering on me for a moment before she addressed all three of us, referring to the paper. “Good morning. I’m looking for Hope Mason?”
“I’m Hope.” I abandoned Buster, who butted his nose against my shin, looking for more attention.
“You’re Hope?” The woman tilted her head in what might have been disbelief.
“Yes.” I did a quick, surreptitious check of myself. Did I have toast crumbs on my face? Egg yolk on my sweater? No. What the hell?
The woman seemed to quickly recover her confusion and gave a quiet chuckle. Her smile grew wider. It transformed her face. I could easily get lost in a smile like that—so warm and friendly, and sexy. Before I could answer her, mom stood. She had that speculative look on her face that could mean anything from is this person delivering a subpoena to am I looking at my future daughter-in-law.
“Hello. I’m Cordelia Mason, Hope’s mom.”
“I’m Hope’s neighbor.” Mrs. F. added, lifting her cup again. “And you are?” Mom moved down two steps to get within interrogating range.
“I’m Val Caceres, C&C driving instruction.” She pointed at the embroidered logo on the left breast of her black fleece jacket.
Mom put a hand by her ear. “I’m sorry. Valka, is it?”
The driving instructor smiled broadly. “No, Val. Short for Valentina, but nobody calls me that. My last name is Caceres.”
“Valentina is a lovely name. You should be proud of it,” my mother said.
“Oh, I am, Mrs. Mason. It’s just easier for my students to remember.” She turned to me. “May I see your driving permit, please?”
While I produced my brand-new permit for her to inspect, Mrs. F. said, “Where’s your car? Can’t learn to drive without a car.” She looked to the street.
Val Caceres hiked her thumb over her shoulder. “I’m parked illegally by the fire hydrant. Not the best move for someone charged with upholding the rules of the road, but this street is narrow and I didn’t want to be in the way of traffic.”
Mom and Mrs. F. nodded sagely even though neither of them had probably ever given a thought to how narrow the street was.
“Shall we go?” Val showed me that knockout smile again.
We started in the direction of her car. My heart rate skyrocketed at the thought of actually driving, and my palms turned into tiny Slip ‘N Slides.
Val glanced behind her. “I’m sorry, but our insurance doesn’t cover passengers. Do you want to tell them they can’t come along?”
I turned and to my absolute mortification, Mom, Mrs. F., and Buster were following behind us. This was the last thing I needed right now. “They are not coming along, but I think my mom is curious. Please bear with her. I come from a long line of proud non-drivers.”
“They’re proud they don’t drive?”
“It’s a thing. Don’t ask.”
She seemed to accept that. We arrived at a black sedan, its headlights blinking and a little sign strapped to the roof that said C&C Driving School—Confidence on the Roads. She opened the driver’s side door with a flourish and gestured for me to sit, but I opened the passenger side and stealthily slid in. Even though I had bought and paid for this lesson, as well as many more, I had no intention of taking the driver’s seat—yet.
Val stood in the street. She bent and gave me a puzzled look through the open driver’s side door.
On the sidewalk, Mrs. F. sounded confused. “How is she going to learn to drive from that seat?”
Mom’s strident voice was loud even through the closed window. “Yes, what kind of lesson is this? How is my daughter supposed to learn from being a passenger?”
I sunk low in the seat. Had my mother been this embarrassing when I was in junior high? Because that’s about how old I felt right now.
“She’ll get there. Hope’s going to learn about the car first,” Val said, and I felt almost boneless with relief that she didn’t insist I move.
I pressed the button that lowered the window. “I’ll tell you all about it after the lesson, Mom.”
“If you live that long,” she said ominously.
There was amusement in Val’s voice. “I’ve never had one casualty, Mrs. Mason. Don’t worry.” She sat on the driver’s side. “It was lovely meeting you both.”
After I raised the window, I said, “Thank you, and I’m so sorry about them.” We were now closed in from the city outside. The interior was spotless and smelled like a pine forest.
“It’s fine. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Parents are often worried about their babies learning to drive. But their babies are usually sixteen years old. That’s why I was so confused before. I thought you were going to be another high schooler. I’m sorry for assuming.”
“You don’t teach adults?”
“Sure I do, but I haven’t had an adult student in a while. It’s usually teenagers.”
“Got it.” I vigorously rubbed my palms on my pants.
Val watched. “This is your lesson, but I’m sitting behind the wheel.”
“I didn’t realize I’d be driving right away.”
“There’s nothing to fear. We’ll go slow, and I’m right here to help.”
My heart was still pounding away in my chest. “Have you ever had any failures?” I can’t believe I’d asked that. I’d never failed at anything.
“A few. But don’t worry, even if you fail your driving test the first time, we’ll instruct you until you pass. Guaranteed. We don’t need to think about that just yet, though.”
I took a shaky breath. “I’m not ready. Can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Would you mind if we start this lesson somewhere else? I really don’t want these two watching the whole time.” I covertly pointed to where my mother and Mrs. F. were still gazing at us from the sidewalk.
Val turned the car on. “Sure. Let’s find a quieter, wider street. Please fasten your seat belt, and you may have noticed there is a pedal on the floor on your side. That’s a brake for me to use while you’re in the driver’s seat—in case of an emergency. Please avoid touching it with your foot.”
I drew both feet back as if the pedal was covered in cockroaches.
Val didn’t seem to notice and tapped lightly on her horn and waved at my mom before pulling out. A few moments later we were a couple of blocks away in the loading zone in front of an empty storefront.
“Shall we switch?” Val unclasped her seat belt.
“No.” I looked straight ahead. “I just want to say that I don’t think I’m ready to drive right now.”
“Okay.” She was very calm. “Why do you think that is?”
“Look at my hand.” I held one up to reveal its slight tremor. “I’m a little nervous—no, I’m petrified, really. I’m a total pedestrian. I’ve never even ridden a bike. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve even been in the front seat of a car. It’s just become real, and I can’t—I think I’m going to need some time to wrap my head around the idea of actually driving.”
Val took the paper from her pocket again. “Well, it looks like you’ve reserved—whoa—forty hours of lessons—”
Words gushed out of me like a waterfall. “That was the most your website would let me book. Nobody I know drives—at least not in the city. All my practice will have to come from you. Your company, I mean.”
“—so if it takes a little while for you to get comfortable, then that’s what it takes.”
“Oh. Good.” I darted a look at Val, whose expression was nothing but kindness. “I’m really nervous. So nervous I almost feel like I’m going to hurl.”
“Do you know how to swim?” Val asked.
“Do I—?” What did swimming have to do with driving? Val waited for my answer, her smile serene. “Yes. I started taking lessons at the Y when I was six.”
“Too bad.” Her expression turned sorrowful. “You almost had the New York City trifecta—no swimming, no cycling, and no driving.”
A giggle erupted from me, totally unbidden. “It’s true! So many people I grew up with don’t do any of those. Who had room for a bike in their apartment? And now all these lunatics on their Citi Bikes? They’re just begging to get hit by a cab. And swimming! How many diseases do you think you might pick up from a dip in the East River?”
“At least four, but probably less than six.” Val laughed, and it sounded like a child imitating a machine gun. Hu-hu-hu-hu. It was lovely and unaffected and made me laugh harder.
“I’m a lifelong New Yorker, but knowing how to swim is a definite strike against me.” I sat back in my seat.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Knowing how to swim is insurance against whatever life throws at you. It keeps you safer if you somehow do end up in the East River. And that’s what driving is too. You never know when having the skill will be useful. And if you ever need it, you and everyone else is safer if you’re calm and qualified behind the wheel.”
“That is a fantastic argument. I’m going to use it on my parents.”
The expression on Val’s face said maybe she really is sixteen.
“I do walk everywhere though,” I rushed on. “And become quietly angry with those glacial-paced slowpokes who get in my way. That should give me at least a little NYC cred.”
“Oh, absolutely. Cred that’s automatically reduced because you’re about to start learning to drive.” Val gave me a considering look. “Still feel like you’re gonna hurl?”
“No, but now all I can think about is that slick of vomit that would collect in the corner of the pool at the Y. Every single time. Why was that? Swimming lessons must have been traumatic for someone.”
“But not for you?”
“No.” I thought about those long-ago days when Mona Applebaum and Lauren Havemayer and I took swimming lessons together. “I was the first to jump off the springboard into the deep end. I guess I was pretty fearless back then.”
“I’d say learning to drive takes about the same amount of bravery as jumping off the springboard into the pool at the Y. If you had it then, you probably still have it now.”
“You think?”
“I do.”
“Do you know how to swim?” I didn’t know if this breached the instructor-student contract, but call me curious.
“Yes. I also have a bike, and I obviously know how to drive. Plus, I moved away for a while. I invalidated my New Yorker status long ago.”
I didn’t think this was true. In my opinion, the definition of a true New Yorker was as broad and encompassing as the city itself. There was room for everyone, and if you believed you were a New Yorker then what authority was going to say you weren’t?
“I have to ask. Why is someone who comes from a long line of proud non-drivers hiring me to teach her how to drive?”
“Oh.” I had only told my closest friends. Revealing the reason to a virtual stranger meant it would be released out into the world. But that’s what I wanted, right? I was making a big life change, and this was a necessary step on that path. And driving instructors were a little like priests, right? The car was their confessional. Despite having met Val ten minutes ago, she seemed trustworthy. She should be—I was putting my life in her hands.
“Sorry. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“No, I want to.” I took a breath. “I’m moving, and I’ll need to know how to drive when I get there.”
Val raised her eyebrows. “Giving up that hard-earned New Yorker status? Where to? Jersey? Long Island?”
“Los Angeles.”
Val gave a low whistle. “Wow. You’re not messing around, and you’re right. You’ll need to know how to drive in LA.”
“That’s what I’ve heard.” I didn’t sound scared, did I?
“Are you moving for a job?”
“No, as long as I have a computer, I can do my job anywhere.” That was as personal as I wanted to get right now. “What does that do?” I pointed to some random button on the dashboard.
Val thankfully picked up on my ham-handed subject change and launched into a lengthy explanation of all the features of the car. This led to her listing all the reasons why I should only use my right foot to operate both the brake and the accelerator, and then an in-depth treatise on the importance of side mirrors. As we sat there, illegally parked on a quiet side street for the entire lesson, I found myself relaxing into Val’s calm expertise. It was a relief that I wouldn’t be forced to drive today. I could do this. Maybe not right this second, but one day soon, I would be driving.
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