Nick answers, “No-brainer. E.T. can’t take the heat and goes off to the motel vending machine for some Reese’s Pieces, and hopefully doesn’t get caught in the crossfire of some crack deal gone bad while he’s out there. I mean, really, Norah, Motel 6 off the tunnel? Couldn’t we class it up a little? Wouldn’t the devirginization of E.T. merit at least a Radisson, at least Paramus?”
The stage acts are over and nuns have converted to stagehands as they transform the set for the next show. We’ve hit the jackpot, because the Where’s Fluffy unannounced show is most certainly going on next after the stage is converted—widened, barricaded, made ready for the coming apocalypse sure to be wrought by the leathered and chained, tunneled, tattooed, and pierced punk crowd now streaming into this place. It’s got to be close to three in the morning, because it’s the die-hard wave coming in, amped from a night of power-punk club-hopping, ready for the ultimate nightcap. By all logic, I should be home now, sitting up in my twin bed and flicking through channels in the dark while Caroline heaves through her inebriated slumber in her bed across from me. I recognize several people that were at Crazy Lou’s earlier, and I know we’re all following the same yellow brick road, looking for that ultimate band, that ultimate night to remember. Crazy Lou himself has even arrived, I can see him at the bar chatting up Toni. I can only pray hard that Toni’s almighty powers extend to her denying Tal entrance should he follow Lou here tonight, or that Tal will be too jet-lagged for the infinite Manhattan night.
Or maybe prayer isn’t necessary and my moment of clarity was real and true and Tal is not a threat because I am wearing this jacket that says Salvatore and I am deep into this night with this Nick person and I am having occasionally really, truly p**n ographic thoughts about him. While Tal may not yet have wholly receded to the farthest reaches of my subconscious past—I can feel the present bitter taste of his nearness despite the sweetness of the Tina Colada I am drinking—I am here and I am now and there’s nowhere I’d rather be, only where did Nick go?
He said I wear his jacket better than he or anyone else ever could. So why isn’t he going for an encore Johnny Castle performance with me instead of sitting opposite me acting all casual, looking perhaps a little distracted? He could at least do me the courtesy of trying for some furtive cle**age views, or if nothing else, pretend that he’s as interested in learning as much about me as I’d like to know about him. Like, everything. Like, NOW.
If Caroline was here, she’d give me her Patience, grasshopper speech. But she’s not and I am left to wonder on my own: How does this work, the getting to know a new guy without revealing too much desperation for his undivided attention?
It helps that the club has gone from full to packed, because the energy and noise help drown out what is fast becoming a sinking ship between Nick and me, probably courtesy of me and the trying-too-hard conversation. I came back from the bathroom, we had virgin drinks along with toasted clinks, but I seem to have made the ultimate mistake. I try to learn something about him (isn’t that what you do?), dig a little deeper, and I’m getting sucked down fast into the vortex of Awkward First Date.
“So, where do you live?” I ask him, even though I know. Just to say something. And because E.T. tanked, and How long have you been in a band? and Are you guys serious or just f**king around? got me only Since the dawn of time and No, we’ve only been rehearsing together since freshman year, spent every f**king dollar we made at minimum-wage jobs to support this band, but no, we’re not f**king serious. I’m all for sarcasm but sometimes it’s tiring, especially when it’s near morning and I thought we were finally getting somewhere and I might as well be taking a nap at this point. Nick was so with me a while ago, but now without the diversion of a stage show, and with the (I think) mutual admittance of a mutual…something, it’s like the pendulum is swinging perilously in the wrong direction for us, and I don’t know if it’s that something changed, or I said something stupid again (fucking E.T.—I HATE you!), or I just dared to fly too close to the sun in my desire to thaw.
“I live in Hoboken,” Nick mumbles, and I am remembering a Sinatra-centric mix he made for Tris that made me so hot with envy of her that I wouldn’t let her copy my Latin test answers that day.
“College?” I ask him.
“Haven’t figured that one out yet.”
Brick. Fucking. Wall.
This is why I should consider breaking my straight-edge vow. Beer most certainly would help this situation. It probably couldn’t make it any worse.
Basic quiz-show format isn’t working here, so I take inspiration from the divine beings that have performed on this stage this evening. I sing this next question, all fake Julie Andrews shit operetta stylee: “Care to name a few of your favorite things?”
His half smile creeps back. “Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream, original Tiffany stained-glass windows at random houses in Weehawken, my iPod. A hot-oil massage from Reba McIntyre.”
I rest my case.
Did DJ Irony plan to spin “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” by The Smiths right now to appease the crowd during the interim stage setup between acts, or is it just coincidence?
What did I miss? What changed?
I take one last shot. Come back to Mama, Nick. You can do it.
“Last moment of true happiness you experienced?” I ask him.
“Sometime before three weeks, three days ago…”