Elves in Manhattan by oshun

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

I met them the last time that Lucy and I went shopping together in Manhattan. (Usually a big mistake-- Lucy and I shopping together--but that's a whole other story.) We were in the East Village near Astor Place and my feet were killing me.

"Lucy, my feet are killing me and I really need some coffee," I said, trying to gain empathy, without sounding what she calls whiney. She really hates it when I get "all pathetic and tragic." She has no idea. I looked down at her pointy-toed boots, with the three-and-half-inch heels. Just you wait, kiddo, I think. Working in shoes like those every day for a while longer, two or three kids, another 20 years, and you will know exactly how it feels.

"Here's a Starbucks, but I know you hate Starbucks," she said. "There's a real Italian place across the street, a couple of blocks uptown and just around the corner...."

"Starbucks is great!" (My feet really did hurt.) "Just wish they knew dark-roasted doesn't mean charred beyond recognition. When I was your age and going to school in Berkeley, within a block of Telegraph Avenue alone..."

"Mom," she said, dramatically rolling her eyes. "I've heard that story a thousand times!" Never ceases to amaze me how she can give the word Mom three syllables and sound like a valley girl, when she has never been anywhere near the California Central Valley.

We squirmed inside of the crowded Starbucks, barely able to close the door behind us, stood in line, and watched the seats fill up. Finally, after my usually inability (or cranky-old-lady refusal) to grasp the concept that grande means small, we get our cups and look around for a table.

"Look, mom, there are two empty seats, next to those two guys over there who look exactly like Maximo and Conrad from your latest story."

"Lucy, the names are Maitimo and Káno, Maitimo is Quenya for Maedhros and Káno is a nickname for Findekáno, which is Quenya for..."

"All right. All right. Let's go ask Maitimo and Káno if we can share their table. They look nice. And the only other seats are next to the weird guy over there talking to himself with the ridiculous buttons pinned all over his coat. You know, Mom, seriously, if you would just lose the names a lot more people might be willing to read the story."

We struggled toward the table near the window, reaching it only after I stumbled over an umbrella and one of those ferocious, yapping dogs the size of your fist, and the near-brawl had subsided between the guy behind the counter and an irate French woman over the fact that dogs are not allowed in Starbucks. No, not even in a shopping bag and not even on Astor Place. The tall and impossibly good-looking redhead, rose gracefully to his feet.

"Lucy?" he asked, with a vaguely Irish accent and megawatt smile that eclipsed anything even she has in her arsenal.

"Mac!" she squealed. "I can't believe I didn't recognize you--as though there are dozens of guys running around Manhattan who look like you. It is so great to see you. I lost your business card. This is my mom. Can we share your table? Her feet really hurt! Wow! I don't believe it."

"Please," he responded, simultaneously pulling out my chair and relieving me of my bulky packages.

"Mom, this is Mac. He coached the guys on the swordplay for the Samurai dream sequence in the Bronx detective movie." And she still wonders why it takes forever for the movies she works on to ever be released? "Wow! I still can't believe it. Then this must be your brother--I mean cousin--Finn you told me about." Part of the genius Lucy has with people rests in remembering small personal details.

Finn stood also. These guys exuded allure. He was not quite as tall as Mac. But one would have to flip a coin to decide which one was better looking. Finn had dark-chocolate, nearly black, hair and the bluest eyes I had ever seen. He seemed less blatantly charismatic than Mac, but then Mac already knew Lucy and Finn being a stranger would naturally be more restrained.

Everyone smiled and shook hands all around through the hurriedly conducted introductions, like thoroughly civilized people, all this in Starbucks in Manhattan. New York is filled with surprises--good and bad.

"My mother's nickname in high school was Mac," Lucy volunteers. The gorgeous Mac raises his eyebrows slightly in genuine or flawlessly feigned curiosity. Lucy has this habit of throwing scraps of my life history into conversations that require an explanation. Little bits of detritus like "Mom hates Lima. But she loves La Paz." Who cares, Lucy? I thought. Now I would be required to explain myself to Mac.

"My father's family is Northern Irish," I said. Might as well confess up front. I hate the way these Southern Irish semi-nationalists look at me when it eventually comes out--like I neglected to tell them that I am notorious serial killer. It's not as though I am Protestant or anything so sinister.

"Finn and I aren't Irish. Although we lived there for a long time," Mac said.

Darkness comes early to Manhattan in the winter. The afternoon crowd of Saturday shoppers had thinned in the café and the evening throngs had not yet begun to fill up that part of the city again. A slow, gentle but heavy, snow hid the garbage bins and fire hydrants under a thick covering. The early evening had metamorphosed into one those nights that makes the East Village appear to be almost a true village and the city surrounding it becomes a magical wonderland for a few short hours, before the white blanket either disappears or is shoveled into grey, ugly mounds.

First we listened to Lucy and Mac's anecdotes of the cast and crew from the film--reminiscences of the people they had grown fond of and missed and those they both loved to hate. Lucy's accounts of her recent experiences had taught me how like a family a film crew becomes when they work together 12 to 18 hours a day for an extended period of time. Finn and I had each heard these yarns from one point of view, but since Mac and Lucy--both humorous, animated storytellers--played off of one another well, it was far from dull to hear them again. We moved on from there to other subjects: films, music, and books.

After another round of coffee and sharing a lemon bar and a brownie among the four of us, Lucy inevitably piped up with, "My mom writes." Oh, Lucy. In front of these two intelligent, urbane men from only-god-knows-where who had doubtless accomplished all sorts of unknown interesting things, I felt myself blushing. They both projected the ambience of old souls who no longer struggled to survive, but did as they wished. I had first thought the two men to be only a little older than Lucy, but as I spent more time in their company I sensed indefinable experience and a history of sadness, even tragedy, endured and overcome, reflected in ageless eyes.

Finn politely asked, "What kind of things do you write?"

"Nothing much," I said, shrugging in embarrassment masquerading as detachment.

"Mom!" Lucy said, with the offended passion of one who still holds a parent as an undeserved agent of wisdom and virtue. "You spend all day on the computer. Tell them about the novel you're writing."

I heaved a deep, ponderous sigh, which I immediately regretted. Poor-little-me is never an attractive stance. "Well, I am working on a novel that is set in Mexico..." I begin, feeling less than honest, since I haven't touched it in three months and then to only fiddle with a couple of pages and add a few hundred words.

Lucy jumped right in. She likes her truth straight and unvarnished and has no sense of shame. "Not that one! The one about the elves in Valinon or Valior and all that cool shit. She even has two awesome characters that look like you guys and are all beautiful, tragic and heroic--you can just imagine the type. It could make a great movie. I could see it becoming a cult classic like the ones about the immortal guys with the swords who go around trying to kill one another."

Now she is really getting on my nerves. "That is not a novel. It is just a long short story and it's Valinor, not Valium!" I said, again embarrassed by own overly vehement reaction.

"I did not say Valium and you know it. That's just plain mean," she said. By then, Lucy was starting to get mad. "Although Valinor is far from the worst. A lot more people would want to read it if she would clean up the ludicrous, impossible names of the characters and places." I felt like I owed her an apology somehow, but I instead opened my mouth to say something nasty, when Finn reached out and touched my hand.

"Tolkien fanfiction," he stated. Finn's quiet, deep voice seemed deliberately bland and non-committal to me. I caught a subtle, wicked grin directed at Finn from Mac and a returned warning in the form of an almost imperceptible narrowing of Finn's eyes.

"Finn reads Silmarillion fanfiction and has tried to get me to read it," Mac said, the grin no longer subtle.

"Mac, however, not only read the book--several times--but has written something of his own that he will not let me read," Finn said. My head was pivoting back forth like crazy now between the two of them. This was getting interesting.

"Safely passworded on my hard drive," Mac added, still smiling. "I didn't toss it though. I might let you read it when you are more dispassionate on the subject. Don't want to stir up ancient arguments, old man. My peace on those questions was harder won than yours." More interesting by the minute. Lucy by then had perked up too: silent and Bambi-eyed with fascination.

Discretion has never been my strength. Nothing ventured, nothing gained and all that jazz is my mantra. "Maybe you would let me read it? I wouldn't talk to Finn about it."

"Probably not," Mac answered. Clearly, I would not be reading his piece of work anytime soon. "Half a brownie only made me hungrier," he added. "May we invite you ladies upstairs for dinner? Finn has chicken marinating in the refrigerator that I can throw in the oven and I have some highly-recommended wine I want to try."

"Mom, is that OK?" Lucy asked, "Mac said he would show me some fencing moves after dinner and you and Finn can talk about Lord of the Rings."

"Upstairs?" I asked.

"Our apartment is right around the corner," said Finn.

"That's great. If you are sure it would not be an imposition," I said. Naturally, I was dying of curiosity by this time.

Outside we turned from Astor Place onto Lafayette. Mac fiddled with a key in a small door between a restaurant and a small boutique. If one did not know New York, the impression of the downstairs entrance would be far from overwhelming, but I was aware that some of the more adventurous of the rich and famous lived throughout this area--from A-list film stars to old social-register money. We struggled single-file up a steep, narrow, ancient wooden staircase for two long flights and Mac unlocked another door.

We stepped into a large open space broken up by huge supporting pillars, while towering ceilings soared above us.

"Awesome," Lucy said, twirling around with outstretched arms. I took in glowing hardwood floors, a few large middle-eastern rugs (probably each worth more than most new cars), richly-colored, heavy drapery, only partially shutting out the skyline, the falling snow, and the sounds of the city that surrounded us, all lit by the golden glow of a few well-placed floor lamps.

"We did most of the work ourselves," Finn explained. "I have lots of ideas, and am very good at lugging awkward, heavy things around and sweeping up during construction, but Mac is the skilled craftsman."

"It's beautiful," I said.

"It was one big open space when we bought it. We left the sitting, dining and public areas open and only enclosed our bedrooms and a workout room. Well, and the bathrooms, obviously," Mac said, grinning, clearly pleased with their accomplishment.

It did not take long to throw together a simple dinner--oven-roasted chicken pieces, marinated in vaguely Mediterranean spices, grilled vegetables, thick crusty bread, cheese, fresh fruit, and tossed salad, with plenty of wine. After we had eaten, true to his promise, Mac offered to show Lucy his workout room.

Lucy had studied theatrical fencing, which she explained carefully to me during dinner, exaggerates actions for dramatic effect and Mac offered to demonstrate some moves of classical fencing or even how to defend oneself in a real life and death encounter if she was interested. (What is it that makes adult children speak slowly and use simple words when talking to their parents? Did I lose I.Q. points over the last few years? As I recalled it, I was the one who found the theatrical fencing classes for her and paid for the lessons.)

At last, Finn and I moved from dining table to sofa, with an additional glass of wine. We both had one eye on the computer in the corner, while waiting for Mac and Lucy to get on with their project before we pounced on it. We cast sly, sideways glances at one another, with the definite air of co-conspirators and mild self-consciousness of those accustomed to being accused of extreme geekiness. There were a couple of fics I wanted his opinion on and he wanted to read my Maitimo and Findekáno piece.

A lot of walking back and forth and discussion ensued regarding what a petite young woman might find in the wardrobes of two guys well over six-feet tall that would be appropriate to physical activity. Finally, Lucy was suited up in a pair of bicycle shorts and a turtleneck, securely held in place by her own wide belt. I was then required to ooh and aww over the workout room before Finn and I were allowed to leave Lucy and Mac to their athletic pursuits. It looked to me like a cross between a dance studio and a gymnasium, if a bit on the small side. Definitely underwhelming for me--but the floor and woodwork were impressively polished, so I fortunately was not left without anything at all to comment on politely.

Back in the large open area of the apartment, Finn and I all but raced one another to the alcove that held his desktop computer.

"Well, where do we start?" he asked, trying the old disarming smile trick. "I know what I want to see."

"The piece I mentioned," I answered, sighing in absolute certainty. Of course, I would have to produce if I wanted him to share his taste and opinion with me.

"Come on it can't be all that bad. Anyway, if it will make you feel any better, I plan to let you read some of mine in return."

"Some of yours?" Hadn't he just said that he didn't write fanfiction, only read it?

"I lied to Mac. If he won't even let me look at his magnum opus, then I'll be damned if am going to let him read my little pieces, hardly more than vignettes, really. Does that make you feel better?"

"Definitely. So, I guess I still go first?"

"That was our deal," he said, a wide grin completely changing the aspect of his pale, handsome face.

---

Chapter End Notes

 

Thanks to IgnobleBard for reading and finding a dozen invisible (to me) typos and entertaining and flattering me while doing it. 

The real-life model for Lucy did tell me to "lose the names."

My nickname in high school was Mac. They still call me that in the hinterlands where I come from.

Don't try to find the guys' apartment; while the intersection is real and the ambiance authentic, the exact details are imaginary.