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With Drew at work, I call a few of my other friends. Kit refuses on grounds that his wife, Madge, won’t let him out. Madge is pretty awesome, for the record, but Kit is like a big kid and since they have two young children now – the real kind, not the thirty-odd-year-old, hairy kind – sometimes, she has to enforce a few rules with him.
I call Edmond. Also known as Super-chef and the owner of the swanky restaurant Becky works in. It’s a long shot because I know, if he is free, he’s probably spending his rare night off with his wife and kids. Sure enough, he answers the call and tells me that because the restaurant is closed on Mondays, he’s having a quiet one with his family.
I try Marty, the other half of Statham Harrington law firm, alongside Drew. He’s taking some clients to a boozy dinner – code for schmoozing.
On the ‘good friends’ front, I’m all out. I can’t really be assed to make small talk with the guys from the gym. Even when we’re out for drinks, I always get the sense they see me as their boss and don’t fully relax.
The proverbial lightbulb suddenly shines bright in my mind. Jake.
I mentioned I went to school with Drew. Grew up with him, really. Our families both lived on Staten Island when we were kids. His mom all but adopted me when my folks decided to get a divorce and were gunning for each other’s blood every night. Well, Jake is Drew’s kid brother. He’s a twenty-five-year-old man now, but to me he’ll always be Drew’s kid brother – who we tortured for fun but always loved. He’s doing well for himself these days, working for a hedge fund in London. He flew over here so we could all celebrate Drew making named partner at Statham Harrington. As far as I know, he’s still in the city.
I hit his number in my phone. ‘Brooks, my man. How you doing?’
‘Jakey. You still in New York, buddy?’
‘Not for long but I am right now. I’m currently watching some awful game show with my folks, going out of my mind.’
‘Is your mom in earshot?’
‘She sure is. That’s why she just tossed a sofa cushion off my head. Hang on.’ I hear him in the background: ‘I’m going into the other room, relax. You wouldn’t have answered that question right anyway. Ouch! Stop throwing cushions!’
I’m shaking my head but can’t help smirking when I hear a door close and he comes back on the line. ‘Sorry ’bout that.’
‘No worries, man. You want to escape for beer and wings? We can’t do Monday Night Live but we can catch some football reruns. I doubt you’ve seen them in London. You can stay at my place.’
‘I’m on the next ferry to the city.’
* * *
‘All right, guys, I got one Texas smoked burger with sweet potato fries, and one extra-large stack of firecracker wings.’
Jake has his head tipped back to drain the dregs from his bottle of Samuel Adams, so I tell the waitress, ‘The burger is his. Wings for me. Thanks.’
She puts the plates on top of the sticky bar we’re perched at. There’s something about a sticky wood bar in a sports joint that just works. And Mitch’s Sports Bar happens to have the best wings in the city.
‘You want another two beers, Brooks?’
That’s Mitch. Second-generation Mitch, who now runs the bar since his old man died a few years back.
I’ve wasted no time in getting my first wing to my mouth, so I nod with a mouthful of hot sauce.
Jake is chomping through his first bite of burger as if he hasn’t been fed for a decade.
‘I’m telling you, they don’t make burgers like this in England. In London, it’s all about presentation and good British beef. Screw that! I want good, hearty, mess-on-a-plate pulled pork. I don’t give a crap where the meat came from, I just want the thing to be smoked properly with a solid barbecue sauce. This is a burger. I ought to take a picture of this and tweet it to the Royal Family.’
I wash down my first wing with a swig of beer and subtly swallow the belch that threatens to pop up. ‘I don’t think the Royal Family will engage with a burger war on Twitter, man.’
He takes another bite that has me in awe of the man. Showing me the half-chewed contents of his mouth, he says, ‘Yeah, maybe I should just eat it. Should you really be eating this stuff, Mr My Body Is a Temple?’
‘Are you kidding? I work out so that Icaneat this stuff. You can’t starve yourself and build muscle. Wings are good protein.’
Jake gives me a disbelieving look from behind his beer bottle. ‘I’m sure that’s not what goes in those nutrition plans you’ve got every New Yorker raving about.’
I ignore his comment and work through another wing. I know my fitness brand has taken off. Damn, I have a wait list of hundreds for PT sessions and nutrition advice, but I feel weird when the guys blow smoke up my ass. They just know me as Brooks. Not Brooks ‘Trainer to the Stars,’ as one magazine put it recently.
When the Jets score a touchdown, I drop my bare chicken bone on my plate and jump from my stool. ‘Yes! That’s what I’m talking about! Pay up, Jakey-boy! I told you there was a touchdown left in this quarter.’
‘It’s a fucking rerun. You’ve already seen it.’
