For two years Jason has not known the name of the little French cafe across Hudson Street from his apartment. And at this point he would rather not know. Names have a way of dominating things, corralling off thought-spaces the way apartment buildings cordon off courtyards. Inside the courtyard was another world entirely. The noise of the city hardly entered. It was always cooler than the street. And of course it was a luscious green. Paradise. A hidden paradise is what it was, but it was called a courtyard. Names had a way of destroying the very essence of the thing that they applied to. Apropos, Jason had refused to name the fish in the cab despite Jesse’s protests. It would remain happy lucky magic fish. Or magic happy lucky fish. Or any of the first three components in any order followed by fish, so as not to constitute a name. Magic magic happy fish.

So there he and Jess sit in said unnamed cafe having dropped off the unnamed fish eating sandwiches and looking through the Times for something to do tonight. Jason turns to the Metro section and spots an article about how the Famous live in New York. He laughs because he knows the drill—everyone does: Here they come. Don’t look at them. And he never does. For all the Famous he’s seen in the village, he’s never once said a word to any of them. Would they even see him if he did say something?

“I’m sorry to bother, and I don’t usually do this,” (likely!) “but I really loved you in __________.”

The imaginary Starlet looks at a point in the air somewhere just behind Jason’s head. “Hey thanks. I had so much fun making that picture.”

Then, feeling gregarious or maybe just needing to fill up the awkward silence rather than just saying goodbye to the pretty living art, he’d probably try to be too friendly. “So, do you live in the Village? ‘Cause I live in the Village.”

And the Starlet would be visibly uncomfortable and hem a little bit, “Um… well…”

Jason would totally accommodate the Starlet, “Oh don’t worry about it. I know you all like your privacy. Just—you know—just makin’ chit chat!”

“Okay!” the Starlet would say, relieved. Then her order would finally show up and off she’d sail on the breeze of casual glances. “Bye.” She wouldn’t say something like “See ya’ around,” of course, because that might imply that she did in fact live in the Village.

Jason is staring at the corner of his table. He looks back to the paper.

“It’s always easiest for the stars to blend in with the super cool of the hottest neighborhoods, like DUMBO these days.”

“Wow,” Jason says, “you know it’s cool when you don’t even know what the hell they’re talking about.”

“What?”

“DUMBO?”

“Oh. Down underneath the Manhattan Bridge Overpass.”

“Seriously?”

“That’s what it’s called.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s where we should be heading tonight.”

“For real?”

“It’s the new Billyburg.”

“But it’s Brooklyn.”

“It’s, like, one stop.”

“I dunno.”

“Aaaand there’s a place there I want to check out called Superfine. You’re coming.”

“All right.”

“You’re a sorry excuse for a hipster.”

“You’re damn right. You didn’t even hear what the article said!” Jason reads her the line.

In her best cheerleader voice, Jess responds, “Haven’t you heard—it’s the supercoolest!”

“Dear God.”

“We’re going.”

“Fine.” Jason continues absently flipping through the metro section and turns past a Chanel ad with an exotic, blonde German woman in it, so beautiful, so sheek, that he doesn’t even notice her.

“I don’t mind doing this—it’s just that I would like to understand it.”

“You will,” Gene says, as he looks up to eye the CCTV camera on the corner of the ceiling of the porch.

“Do you know someone who lives here?”

Gene looks slightly surprised, then looks around and shakes his head, “No.”

“Okay.”

“That’s not the point?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don’t know anyone in this building, but I do know that they have a security system with the camera outside the front door and all and it makes them feel safe…”

“And?”

“Look, if you’re going to employ me in your services, you need to understand a very basic principle.”

“Okay.” When she says this, she tosses her hair over her shoulder, like she does just about every two minutes. And even though he sees it for what it is, he can’t help but helplessly watch as she does it. It’s a tick—the sign of a present irritant and at having to wait for his various obtuse “explanations.” Still though, he keeps tying the balloon to a rock, and tries to take a deep breath because every time she does toss her hair, little particles of sweet-smelling womanliness cast off into the atmosphere and he just has to catch a few. But he returns to reality after tying of the knot on the balloon string. He’s made the placement just right and the balloon floats up just in front of the camera, blocking its never-sleeping eye.

“See?”

“Uh… you blocked the camera.”

“Yeah!”