Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist
Page 33
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It’s amazing how little I trust Tris, considering that I like to pay lip service to the fact that trust is an essential ingredient to love.
Best case scenario:
She’s saying, “Really, he was just too good for me, and I always felt like he could do better…like with a girl like you. And, man, is he hot in bed.”
Worst case scenario:
She’s saying, “There was this one time, we were flipping through the channels, and he stopped on Pocahontas, and the next thing I knew, he had a total hard-on.” (She will not mention where her hands were at the time.) “And, man, he is one lousy f**k, in more ways than one.”
Deep breaths. I am taking deep breaths.
Composure. Which, for me, means composing.
Why the f**k does my fate get decided
in the ladies’ room?
Sitting tongue-tied as I get derided
in the ladies’ room.
Employees must wash their hands of me
in the ladies’ room
Lock the door and throw away the plea
in the ladies’ room.
Maybe this is my way of creating the illusion of control over something I have no control over. Like, if it’s just a story I’m telling or a song I’m singing, then I’ll be okay because I’m the guy who’s providing the words. Which is not the way life works at all. Or at least not when it’s unfair.
I guess the cool thing is that I really wasn’t happy to see Tris. For the first time in what seems like ever. She walked in the door and my heart sank to hell.
It was strange enough to think that Norah knew who I was before I knew who she was. That she’d been in Tris’s orbit without me noticing. But I guess you don’t see the planets when you’re staring at the sun. You just get blinded.
The fact that she knew me makes this more real. I made my first impression without knowing I was making an impression at all. She knows at least a little of who I am, and she’s here anyway. Hopefully for longer than the next two minutes.
The waitress probably thinks I’m the worst kind of perv, because I can’t stop staring at the bathroom door.
Finally it opens, and Tris comes out alone. And my first thought, honest to Godspeed You Black Emperor!, is What the f**k have you done to Norah? Where is she?
But Tris isn’t staying long enough to be asked any questions. She just pushes past the table, yelling to me, “I told you that you’d find her someplace! Good job! And good luck with that one. You’re gonna need it. I almost feel sorry for you.”
And all I can think to say is:
“thanks.”
But I don’t say anything more. I let her leave. I mean, I don’t want her to stay. And yes, that makes this the first time I’m off of her without still getting off on the thought of her. I believe some cultures call this progress.
Norah’s looking really flustered as she comes back to the table, her face flushed, her pulse clearly up a notch or two. It must’ve been one hell of a confrontation.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods absently. Then she looks at me again and it’s like our conversation kicks back in. She’s with me again.
“Yeah,” she says. “She just needed some money.”
“And you gave her what she wanted?”
“I guess we have a lot in common, don’t we?”
“She’s a f**king force of nature,” I say.
“She certainly is.”
“But to hell with her.”
Norah seems a little startled.
“What?” she says.
“I don’t know what she said to you, and I probably don’t want to know. Just like I don’t want to know why you ordered all this meat, or where you got your flannel—not that there’s anything wrong with it. That’s not what I want to know.”
She defiantly spears a piece of kielbasa and, before putting it in her mouth, asks, “So what do you want to know?”
What the hell are we doing here?
Is this incredibly foolish?
Am I even ready to have this conversation?
“What I want to know,” I say, “is which song you liked the most on the mixes I made Tris.”
She chews for a second. Swallows. Drinks some water.
“That’s what you want to know?”
“It seems like a place to start.”
“Honestly?”
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t even have to think. She just says, “The noticing song. I don’t know its name.”
Whoa. I mean, I thought she would name something from Patti Smith or Fugazi or Jeff Buckley or Where’s Fluffy. Or even one of the Bee Gees songs I put on, to be funny. I didn’t think she’d choose something I wrote and sang. It wasn’t even supposed to be on that mix. But one night I was just so wired from being with Tris that I had to stay up until I turned the evening into a song. I recorded it onto my computer, than stuck it on as a hidden track for the mix I gave her the next day.
Tris never mentioned it to me.
Not once.
“‘March Eighteenth,’” I say.
“What?”
“That’s the name of the song. I mean, it doesn’t really have a name. I can’t believe you remember it.”
“I loved it.”
“Really?” I have to ask.
“Really,” she says. And from the tone of her voice, I can tell it’s a real “really.” Then, to my amazement, she leans in and starts to sing the refrain. Not in a full voice, so everyone in the restaurant can hear. But like a stereo turned low, or a car radio on a lonely night. She sings me back to me:
Best case scenario:
She’s saying, “Really, he was just too good for me, and I always felt like he could do better…like with a girl like you. And, man, is he hot in bed.”
Worst case scenario:
She’s saying, “There was this one time, we were flipping through the channels, and he stopped on Pocahontas, and the next thing I knew, he had a total hard-on.” (She will not mention where her hands were at the time.) “And, man, he is one lousy f**k, in more ways than one.”
Deep breaths. I am taking deep breaths.
Composure. Which, for me, means composing.
Why the f**k does my fate get decided
in the ladies’ room?
Sitting tongue-tied as I get derided
in the ladies’ room.
Employees must wash their hands of me
in the ladies’ room
Lock the door and throw away the plea
in the ladies’ room.
Maybe this is my way of creating the illusion of control over something I have no control over. Like, if it’s just a story I’m telling or a song I’m singing, then I’ll be okay because I’m the guy who’s providing the words. Which is not the way life works at all. Or at least not when it’s unfair.
I guess the cool thing is that I really wasn’t happy to see Tris. For the first time in what seems like ever. She walked in the door and my heart sank to hell.
It was strange enough to think that Norah knew who I was before I knew who she was. That she’d been in Tris’s orbit without me noticing. But I guess you don’t see the planets when you’re staring at the sun. You just get blinded.
The fact that she knew me makes this more real. I made my first impression without knowing I was making an impression at all. She knows at least a little of who I am, and she’s here anyway. Hopefully for longer than the next two minutes.
The waitress probably thinks I’m the worst kind of perv, because I can’t stop staring at the bathroom door.
Finally it opens, and Tris comes out alone. And my first thought, honest to Godspeed You Black Emperor!, is What the f**k have you done to Norah? Where is she?
But Tris isn’t staying long enough to be asked any questions. She just pushes past the table, yelling to me, “I told you that you’d find her someplace! Good job! And good luck with that one. You’re gonna need it. I almost feel sorry for you.”
And all I can think to say is:
“thanks.”
But I don’t say anything more. I let her leave. I mean, I don’t want her to stay. And yes, that makes this the first time I’m off of her without still getting off on the thought of her. I believe some cultures call this progress.
Norah’s looking really flustered as she comes back to the table, her face flushed, her pulse clearly up a notch or two. It must’ve been one hell of a confrontation.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods absently. Then she looks at me again and it’s like our conversation kicks back in. She’s with me again.
“Yeah,” she says. “She just needed some money.”
“And you gave her what she wanted?”
“I guess we have a lot in common, don’t we?”
“She’s a f**king force of nature,” I say.
“She certainly is.”
“But to hell with her.”
Norah seems a little startled.
“What?” she says.
“I don’t know what she said to you, and I probably don’t want to know. Just like I don’t want to know why you ordered all this meat, or where you got your flannel—not that there’s anything wrong with it. That’s not what I want to know.”
She defiantly spears a piece of kielbasa and, before putting it in her mouth, asks, “So what do you want to know?”
What the hell are we doing here?
Is this incredibly foolish?
Am I even ready to have this conversation?
“What I want to know,” I say, “is which song you liked the most on the mixes I made Tris.”
She chews for a second. Swallows. Drinks some water.
“That’s what you want to know?”
“It seems like a place to start.”
“Honestly?”
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t even have to think. She just says, “The noticing song. I don’t know its name.”
Whoa. I mean, I thought she would name something from Patti Smith or Fugazi or Jeff Buckley or Where’s Fluffy. Or even one of the Bee Gees songs I put on, to be funny. I didn’t think she’d choose something I wrote and sang. It wasn’t even supposed to be on that mix. But one night I was just so wired from being with Tris that I had to stay up until I turned the evening into a song. I recorded it onto my computer, than stuck it on as a hidden track for the mix I gave her the next day.
Tris never mentioned it to me.
Not once.
“‘March Eighteenth,’” I say.
“What?”
“That’s the name of the song. I mean, it doesn’t really have a name. I can’t believe you remember it.”
“I loved it.”
“Really?” I have to ask.
“Really,” she says. And from the tone of her voice, I can tell it’s a real “really.” Then, to my amazement, she leans in and starts to sing the refrain. Not in a full voice, so everyone in the restaurant can hear. But like a stereo turned low, or a car radio on a lonely night. She sings me back to me:
