Free From the Memoirs of a Non-Enemy Combatant: A Novel by Alex Gilvarry Page B

new apartment. I was desperate to move into Williamsburg, where I knew I truly belonged.
    So there I was, looking after my own interests. But isn’t that why we do anything? As citizens of modernity we’re always trying to better our social status, right down to the smallest detail. Luxury, comfort, it’s all a part of getting ahead. If that’s a crime, then I’m guilty as charged.
    “I’ll need an overlock machine,” I said.
    “What’s that?”
    “It’s a kind of sewing machine. And I’ll need a button puncher and a new cutting board.”
    “Done. Expense it. I’ll reimburse you.”
    “Fine. Three thousand plus the new equipment. I’ll keep receipts.”
    “Receipts
reeshmeets
. Just tell me. We have trust, no?”
    “Yes. We have trust.”
    “So just tell me, beby. We won’t let money come between us. This is a special thing we have. It’s casual. Don’t worry about nickels and dimes. Change is for tolls.”
    Ahmed was beginning to grow on me. Perhaps this is more evidence of my naïveté, but he made it his goal to banish all the usual formalities that came with a business deal. With him it was your word, and nothing else mattered. No signatures. No contracts. He made you believe that a trust had been established from the very start. And from time to time he would check in on that trust by asking about its general welfare. He never wanted our thing to feel stiff or formal.
    “All it takes is the right incentive, Boy. You’ll get the extra five hundred plus damages when you deliver on our arrangement.”
    Back inside I found Olya wearing a black organza dress. She was putting on lipstick in the mirror. Tangerine. Whenever she was bored she would always put on more makeup.
    “I liked your uncle,” she said.
    “He’s not my uncle. Oh God, Olya, what have I done?”
    “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be. You’re so anxious, Boy. Just like my mother. The bitch. Always worrying.”
    “I’m so fucked. Where are my cigarettes?”
    “You don’t smoke.”
    “I do when I’m stressed.”
    “Here, then. Have mine.” She reached into her purse, threw me a soft pack of Kools, and went back to doing her lips.
    My first lesson as an American entrepreneur: learning to live with your decisions.
    “I can’t go to that party tonight, Olya. I have to work.”
    “Then can I wear this?” She turned to me in the dress. “It’ll only be for a few hours.”
    “Will you bring it back unscathed?”
    “What does that mean? ‘Unscathed.’ ”
    “Never mind. Just be careful.”
    “Unscathed.” She practiced saying the word in the mirror and puckered her lips.
    I opened the top half of my window and took a deep inhale of smoke. The air conditioner was on, making my hair follicles stand erect. I ashed out the window, but the ash just flew back in. Olya put on more makeup. Eye shadow, mascara, blush. A car drove by pounding gangsta rap at a new high, setting off every car alarm within a two-block radius. It caused the cracks in my walls to branch and blossom. This attention to every detail was a signal to me that I was experiencing the onset of a small panic attack. I sat down on the bed. Snap out of it
,
I said to myself, just as the thump of the bass beat faded into East Williamsburg. I worked on my
pranayama.
3 Maybe a suit in three days was terribly inconvenient, but I wouldn’t have agreed to it if it was not possible. Surely, somewhere deep in my subconscious, I knew it could be done. That it
would
be done. And it was this healthy optimism that I took with me to the garment district later that day. In other words, I wove the stress to my advantage, harnessed it like I had done in fashion school once upon a time. Amazing, thebattleground that is the mind. A constant war of self-will with a counterinsurgency of doubt. We are our own worst enemies, ain’t it the truth.
    Over the course of the next three days I redrafted my designs, cut fabric, sewed into the