Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist
Page 14
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“Want to tell me about it?” Nick asks once the bunny has hopped away.
“About what?”
“The Ex?”
Is this what happens on dates? You kiss before you’ve met, then talk about why your previous relationship failed? I’m stumped. The only guy I’ve ever been with is Tal, and his idea of a date was watching Schindler’s List in his dorm room at Columbia. Besides the random incident with Nick, I’ve never even truly kissed anyone besides Tal, unless you count Becca Weiner at summer camp when I was thirteen, which I don’t. I have no idea how to do this “date” thing. This must be the reason I am frigid.
I really don’t want to talk about Tal. I want to forget I ever entertained the notion of getting back together with him. I want to forget I’ve thrown away my future and that now I have to come up with a whole new plan. So I tell Nick, “I know how to drive a stick shift.” Because I know Tris can’t.
“So you’re saying you could drive Jessie back to Jersey tonight, assuming she’ll start again?”
“Who’s Jessie?”
“My Yugo.”
“You have a name for your Yugo? Please don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who also names his dick.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve yet to find the perfect name for mine, so it’s in this netherworld of nameless identity right now.” Nick glances down at his crotch, then back at me. “But if you think up a good name, let me know. We’d like something a little exotic, like maybe Julio.”
Frigid can thaw, right?
Nick adds, “Dev wanted to name our band Dickache. What do you think?”
“Sorry, I’m stuck on The Fuck Offs. Catchy. The sales reps at Wal-Mart will love it.”
Our conversation is interrupted by a new act on the stage. Two of Toni’s soul sisters are doing an onstage grind to “Edelweiss,” making the previous nun performers seem like…well, nuns. Nick stands up and offers his hand to me. I have no idea what he wants, but what the hell, I take his hand anyway, and he pulls me up on my feet then presses against me for a slow dance and it’s like we’re in a dream where he’s Christopher Plummer and I’m Julie Andrews and we’re dancing on the marble floor of an Austrian terrace garden. Somehow my head presses Nick’s T-shirt and in this moment I am forgetting about time and Tal because maybe my life isn’t over. Maybe it’s only beginning.
I shiver at that thought and in response, Nick takes his jacket off and places it around my shoulders. I feel safe and not cold and from the vibe the jacket gives off, I also feel fairly confident that the original Texaco Salvatore was a good family man, with perhaps a propensity for wearing his wife’s panties and betting his kids’ college money at the track, but otherwise a solid dude.
I wake up from the dance dream when the audience applauds the end of the stage performance and Nick feels pressed too close against me without the music going. Nick/Salvatore/ Christopher Plummer/lovely dancing-partner man can’t be real. It’s not possible. Better to end this dream before it becomes a nightmare.
“Why are you so f**king nice?” I ask, and shove Nick away. I don’t bother to acknowledge his shocked expression. Score, Norah. I have killed his smile, and I didn’t even have to tell him about Tris. “I gotta pee.”
I run away, toward the bathroom. A few people are waiting at the door but a single finger snap from Toni and the line disperses.
I don’t really have to pee. I need to think. I need to sleep. I need Caroline to be sober so I can talk to her. This morning, my life seemed so clear. Turn down Brown, check. Go into the city to see the band Caroline likes rather than suffer through an evening with Mom and Dad entertaining the dreaded hip-hop people at the house, check. This night was supposed to end like any other night out with Caroline—watch her hook up with a guy, then get her home safely. Check. I’m not that girl who randomly meets a guy one night and has her life change. I wear cords and flannel shirts. I don’t have the killer body like Tris or Caroline. Sometimes I don’t wash my hair for three days and sometimes I don’t floss. What’s this Nick guy doing here with me?
I step inside the bathroom as the previous occupant leaves. I clean the toilet with a paper towel, then sit down on it. A trail of graffiti is written down the wall next to the toilet.
Jimmy gives good head. Climb Ev’ry Mountain, indeed. (Illustrated.)
Happiness serves hardly any other purpose than to make unhappiness possible.—Proust
You’re the one for me, fatty.—Morrissey
I want it that way.—Backstreet Boys (Also illustrated, much more lewd than the Jimmy picture, and finer drawing skills.)
Claire, meet me on Rivington in front of the candy store after the show. You bring the Pez. You know.
Psst—Sitting on the john and wondering when this night will end? Answer: NEVER. Where’s Fluffy, unannounced show, TONIGHT, after the von Trapp massacre, before dawn rises. Be there or be square, ayyyy……
There’s no date written on the wall but the black-marker handwriting looks fresh. I’m curious whose executive decision it was to name the toilet “the john,” anyway? But could this show be tonight? I only f**king worship Where’s Fluffy. They turned down Dad to sign up with Uncle Lou’s indie label. They could make me pogo-stick dance all night. They could make me forget I want to crawl into my bed and hide under the covers, and that I only wasted my youth on Tal, and that I’m on a date with a good guy and I’ve given him more mixed signals than a dyslexic Morse code operator.
“About what?”
“The Ex?”
Is this what happens on dates? You kiss before you’ve met, then talk about why your previous relationship failed? I’m stumped. The only guy I’ve ever been with is Tal, and his idea of a date was watching Schindler’s List in his dorm room at Columbia. Besides the random incident with Nick, I’ve never even truly kissed anyone besides Tal, unless you count Becca Weiner at summer camp when I was thirteen, which I don’t. I have no idea how to do this “date” thing. This must be the reason I am frigid.
I really don’t want to talk about Tal. I want to forget I ever entertained the notion of getting back together with him. I want to forget I’ve thrown away my future and that now I have to come up with a whole new plan. So I tell Nick, “I know how to drive a stick shift.” Because I know Tris can’t.
“So you’re saying you could drive Jessie back to Jersey tonight, assuming she’ll start again?”
“Who’s Jessie?”
“My Yugo.”
“You have a name for your Yugo? Please don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who also names his dick.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve yet to find the perfect name for mine, so it’s in this netherworld of nameless identity right now.” Nick glances down at his crotch, then back at me. “But if you think up a good name, let me know. We’d like something a little exotic, like maybe Julio.”
Frigid can thaw, right?
Nick adds, “Dev wanted to name our band Dickache. What do you think?”
“Sorry, I’m stuck on The Fuck Offs. Catchy. The sales reps at Wal-Mart will love it.”
Our conversation is interrupted by a new act on the stage. Two of Toni’s soul sisters are doing an onstage grind to “Edelweiss,” making the previous nun performers seem like…well, nuns. Nick stands up and offers his hand to me. I have no idea what he wants, but what the hell, I take his hand anyway, and he pulls me up on my feet then presses against me for a slow dance and it’s like we’re in a dream where he’s Christopher Plummer and I’m Julie Andrews and we’re dancing on the marble floor of an Austrian terrace garden. Somehow my head presses Nick’s T-shirt and in this moment I am forgetting about time and Tal because maybe my life isn’t over. Maybe it’s only beginning.
I shiver at that thought and in response, Nick takes his jacket off and places it around my shoulders. I feel safe and not cold and from the vibe the jacket gives off, I also feel fairly confident that the original Texaco Salvatore was a good family man, with perhaps a propensity for wearing his wife’s panties and betting his kids’ college money at the track, but otherwise a solid dude.
I wake up from the dance dream when the audience applauds the end of the stage performance and Nick feels pressed too close against me without the music going. Nick/Salvatore/ Christopher Plummer/lovely dancing-partner man can’t be real. It’s not possible. Better to end this dream before it becomes a nightmare.
“Why are you so f**king nice?” I ask, and shove Nick away. I don’t bother to acknowledge his shocked expression. Score, Norah. I have killed his smile, and I didn’t even have to tell him about Tris. “I gotta pee.”
I run away, toward the bathroom. A few people are waiting at the door but a single finger snap from Toni and the line disperses.
I don’t really have to pee. I need to think. I need to sleep. I need Caroline to be sober so I can talk to her. This morning, my life seemed so clear. Turn down Brown, check. Go into the city to see the band Caroline likes rather than suffer through an evening with Mom and Dad entertaining the dreaded hip-hop people at the house, check. This night was supposed to end like any other night out with Caroline—watch her hook up with a guy, then get her home safely. Check. I’m not that girl who randomly meets a guy one night and has her life change. I wear cords and flannel shirts. I don’t have the killer body like Tris or Caroline. Sometimes I don’t wash my hair for three days and sometimes I don’t floss. What’s this Nick guy doing here with me?
I step inside the bathroom as the previous occupant leaves. I clean the toilet with a paper towel, then sit down on it. A trail of graffiti is written down the wall next to the toilet.
Jimmy gives good head. Climb Ev’ry Mountain, indeed. (Illustrated.)
Happiness serves hardly any other purpose than to make unhappiness possible.—Proust
You’re the one for me, fatty.—Morrissey
I want it that way.—Backstreet Boys (Also illustrated, much more lewd than the Jimmy picture, and finer drawing skills.)
Claire, meet me on Rivington in front of the candy store after the show. You bring the Pez. You know.
Psst—Sitting on the john and wondering when this night will end? Answer: NEVER. Where’s Fluffy, unannounced show, TONIGHT, after the von Trapp massacre, before dawn rises. Be there or be square, ayyyy……
There’s no date written on the wall but the black-marker handwriting looks fresh. I’m curious whose executive decision it was to name the toilet “the john,” anyway? But could this show be tonight? I only f**king worship Where’s Fluffy. They turned down Dad to sign up with Uncle Lou’s indie label. They could make me pogo-stick dance all night. They could make me forget I want to crawl into my bed and hide under the covers, and that I only wasted my youth on Tal, and that I’m on a date with a good guy and I’ve given him more mixed signals than a dyslexic Morse code operator.
