Now it's filled with condos, and they're all a trillion dollars a month. But, in those days, she owned the house, and also a coffeehouse a few blocks away.
I was too broke to pay rent, so every morning saw me behind the counter.
This was the arrangement. I'd just broken up with my ex-a doctor with legible handwriting, an ungenerous top because he was moving to Austin and I wasn't down to do that.
Margo lived with her young son, Walter. Sometimes he went by Walt, the name his father called him, but his father was gone. My aunt had introduced the two of them to me as her Good Friends, which meant they'd cither met at church or been involved in some kind of beauty-shop gossip entanglement but, when I was standing in their doorway, effectively unhoused, none of that had mattered to me.
Walter looked up at me with absolute disdain. Margo only shrugged.
I really appreciate your hospitality, I said, nearly bowing.
Don't call it that, Margo said. It's a favor. Your aunt will pay it back.
This made my aunt's eye twitch. But it wasn't a lie. I'd been living with her for a while, and, ever since she'd walked in on me sucking off a hookup in her living room, every word she lobbed my way felt loaded. So she smiled, pushing me forward a bit.
You'll hardly even notice him, she said, rubbing my back. He's no trouble.
Better not be, Margo said.
Walter kept staring at my face. I scrunched it a bit to see if he'd laugh or something, but he did not.
I'd been a barista before, but Margo still wanted me to make her a coffee.
She sat with her legs crossed at the bar, tapping at her phone. It wasn't a big space: there were three sofas, a few tables, and some drapes lining the windows. The walls were painted the lightest shade of gray. Walter sketched Bluey at a table by the entrance.
Is this a test? I asked.
Only if achievement-based endeavors give you validation, Margo said.
And if I fail?
This story is from the September 16, 2024 edition of The New Yorker.
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This story is from the September 16, 2024 edition of The New Yorker.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
The K-Pop King - Chairman Bang is bringing his formula for creating idols to the U.S.
Scooter Braun was in a tailspin. It was February, 2021, and the music manager, who had made his name launching the careers of Justin Bieber and Ariana Grande, was nearing forty and facing a brutal divorce. An equally nasty battle with Taylor Swift, over his ownership of her song catalogue, had sullied his public image. Rumors circulated that the future of Braun’s company, Ithaca Holdings, was in doubt. Amid this tumult, he was surprised to receive an invitation to speak with someone who had long fascinated him: the South Korean producer Bang Si-hyuk—known to admirers as Hitman Bang.
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