Olga Dies Dreaming

    Noir was a satiating place to be sad, Olga thought as she sidled up to the bar and ordered her usual. Filled with regulars who seemed to have nowhere to be and no one who cared if they made it there, it lacked the sense of possibility that the newer spots in her rapidly gentrifying corner of Brooklyn conveyed. There were no reclaimed woods or cleverly reimagined industrial lamps with Edison bulbs lighting the place. Noir was more like a well-insulated garage, illuminated by mismatched lamps and filled with old kitchen stools, in a completely unironic way. The air-conditioning was weak, so on warm days like this one, you were never quite hot, but never quite cool, either. Its major draw, for Olga anyway, was its jukebox, filled with old funk and R & B from the '70s, '80s, and '90s. [...] When she made her way back to her seat, she felt a hovering presence behind her.
    “Can I help you?” she turned to say.
Before her was a swarthy, unfamiliar fellow. A sad sack who, though she had never seen him before, had escaped her attention because he blended in so well with the other pouty faces. [...]
    “Are you a writer or an artist?”
    “I'm a wedding planner.”
    “I'm a Realtor.”
    “I didn't ask.”
    Yet something about that descriptor made her give the stranger another look. He was disheveled. His button-down shirt wrinkled, a rolled-up tie spilling out of his pocket. He carried under his arm an oversized ledger notebook with dog-eared pages and Post-its and business cards sticking out of the ends. He was wearing a massive JanSport book bag, stuffed like that of an overachieving eighth grader from an era before laptop computers.
    “Wait, you're a Realtor?”
    “Yeah. You looking for a place? Interested in exploring life in New Brooklyn?”
    She was insulted. “Psssh. F*** outta here! I bleed Old Brooklyn, thank you very much. My family's been in Sunset Park since the sixties. One of the first Puerto Rican families in the 'hood and we owned our house.”
    Now the stranger appraised her. “Really, now? Impressive given the redlining going on back in the day.”
    “My grandmother was gangster. Never involved a bank. Bought our house from her landlord, cash. He sold it to her for a song when the area got too Brown for his taste.”
    “Is that right? Well congratulations to your abuela for taking advantage of white flight.”     Olga couldn't help but laugh.
    “¡Salud!” She raised her glass and drank the last of the wine in it.
    “I'm from South Slope,” the stranger offered. “In case you were wondering.”
    She hadn't been, but now paused. “Really? Born and raised?”
    “Born and raised.”
    On the rare occasions that Olga met a fellow native, she was always surprised by how relaxed it made her feel. Like she could slip into a dying tongue and talk about the old country.
    “So, listen, don't take this the wrong way or anything, but from one Brooklynite to another, I've got to ask you something.”
    He laughed. “Shoot. But I'm already gonna take this the wrong way because nobody starts with that if they're going to say something positive.”
    She smiled. “So, this neighborhood is hot right now. Luxury properties. New money coming in. The Realtors I know are all kind of slick and polished…”
    “And you want to know how I get away with looking like a crazy community college professor?”
    “Yeah, I guess that's what I was getting at.”
    He took his backpack off, sidled up to the bar, and leaned in towards her.
    “Well, I'm really talented, I'm very smart, I've got some swag, and frankly, I'm well connected. I went to the best schools – literally – Packer, Bennington, the works.”
    “That's interesting.”
    “You're wondering why I'm just a Realtor?” [...]
    Olga laughed and the stranger laughed, and Olga forgot for a second that she wanted to be alone.
    The stranger, who'd now sat down on the stool next to her, offered his hand.
    “I'm Matteo.”
    “Olga.” [...]
    “I suppose though,” Matteo offered, “most of us in New York live double lives, with a secret of some sort living behind closed doors.”
    “Really? What's your secret?”