Chapter 11
11
Hot Josh is Jewish?
I stare open-mouthed long after he disappears into the building. This unexpected insight erases all the strangeness of this week. It erases everything, if I’m being honest. I don’t know anything anymore, other than the fact that my hot neighbor is Jewish.
I stand there at the curb, stunned, for the full three minutes awaiting my ride. When my Lyft arrives, it’s a comically small Toyota, and I don’t even care. I clamber into the back seat, still in shock. Trying to process this information.
Hot Josh is Jewish!
I haven’t dated anyone Jewish since college. Learning that Josh is a member of the tribe hits me in an unexpected way. Honestly, I’ve never been sure that it’s important to me that my future partner be Jewish.
But I’m not sure it’s not important.
And maybe having this in common with him will give me a leg up on the competition. (Surely, there must be competition. The guy is a smoke show.) Now I won’t just be his weird neighbor; I’ll be his weird nice Jewish girl neighbor.
Still reeling, I wipe some sweat from my brow. The heat is cranked up so high in this Lyft that the approximate temperature is July-in-hell. But my Lyft driver is rocking out to some sort of Bangladeshi pop music, and I don’t feel like yelling over it to ask him to adjust the temperature. Glad I kept my coat off, I hope that between the blasting heat and the swooning over Hot Jewish Josh, I don’t get too shvitzy on the ride to the Big Gay Christmas Concert.
When we pull up to the event venue, I’m taken aback by how many people are waiting outside in the cold to get in. Bryan had mentioned something about selling out the main floor and balcony and rush tickets being offered on a first-come, first-serve basis to people willing to do standing room only. But I honestly thought he was full of shit. Since I already have a ticket, I head inside, grateful to bypass the giddy hopefuls trying their luck.
“Eve! Over here!”
Sasha waves at me from inside the crowded concert hall, holding an elegant hand aloft so I can see her through the merry mayhem. There are concertgoers everywhere, almost all of them in tacky Christmas sweaters, laughing and hugging. A disco Christmas mix is pumping over the lobby loudspeakers. It’s intense.
I make my way toward Sasha as quickly as I can, nearly getting knocked over three times by all the enthusiastic revelers milling around the lobby.
“Oh my God, it’s so crowded. How’d you see me?” I ask.
With a smirk, she points at my chest. Although I’d put my coat on when I exited the Lyft, I was still warm enough that I hadn’t zipped it. Framed by my puffy down winter wear, the twinkling menorah adorning my chest is on full display, like a big Jewish beacon.
“The only Hanukkah boobs in Christmas Town,” Sasha says.
“I like to think of them as my lit tits,” I say.
“Classy,” she says, shaking her head, but she’s smiling.
Sasha’s not donning anything nearly as brazen as I am. Instead, she’s wearing a sleek red blazer over an evergreen camisole and tight black pants with red stilettos. The girl is Jewish, but her sleek Christmas cosplay is on point.
“Rocking the sexy-elf look,” I tell her.
“I do what I can,” she says. “But for real, though, I want to bail on this so bad. Did you see the lines outside? We could probably get a hundred bucks for our seats.”
“Are they good? I haven’t looked at the email confirmation.”
“I’m not sure. All I know is that Carlos texted me and said his seat is right next to us and that he’s ‘eagerly awaiting our arrival.’ Come on, let’s get this over with.”
We squeeze our way past chatty concertgoers, out of the lobby, and into the main concert hall. There are wreaths and lights everywhere, and everyone is laughing, embracing, buzzing with a collectively festive mood. And although I undoubtedly look like a frumpy cheeseball next to chic Sasha, there’s no need for me to feel out of place. There are reindeer antler headbands, light-up red noses, and ugly Christmas sweaters galore. I’m relieved and weirdly proud to find that my attire is entirely appropriate.
“This is fun,” I tell Sasha.
“This is the opposite of fun,” she informs me. “Can we just send Carlos an apology, tell him we suddenly have a very bad case of being on our periods...and then scalp our tickets and go get a drink somewhere? Pretty please?”
“Aw, come on,” I say, hooking my arm around her elbow. A bit of the old Christmas cheer is sliding down my proverbial chimney, and I want to enjoy it for as long as I can. It’s been so long since I had fun of any kind. “We haven’t been out together anywhere in forever. Don’t you want to get in some good quality time with your friends?”
The question makes her wince, and I get it. We’ve both been hermits for so long—her while she was in the relationship, and in its aftermath; me in my wallowing sorrow. Bryan and Carlos started dragging me out a few months ago, and thanks to them I’d grudgingly rejoined the world, at least a little bit. Sasha is the one who really hasn’t.
“I’m not sure I’d call this quality time,” Sasha says, and then she’s interrupted by a shrill whistle. Startled, we both look in the direction of the sound.
Carlos lifts a hand and waves at us, grinning. Bryan’s husband is not only a five-star doctor (internal medicine, patients love him, great Yelp reviews), he’s also a model-hot first-generation Cuban from Miami whose dazzling smile can melt ice.
And apparently he can whistle like a freaking lifeguard.
Several people are looking enviously at the attractive man beckoning us toward the seats beside him. Seats that happen to be located in the first damn row.
Sasha gives me an oh-hell-no look.
“I am not sitting in the front row,” she hisses.
“We can’t leave now. He already saw us.”
“Maybe he’s waving at someone else. Maybe he doesn’t even know we’re here, and we can still bail.”
“Pretty sure he didn’t miss these,” I said, indicating my lit tits. “And you said he already texted you.”
“Eve! Sasha! Over here!” Carlos calls, pointing to the seats beside him.
“Shit,” Sasha mutters.
Two minutes later, we’re seated beside Carlos as the lights go down in the amphitheater, and everyone cheers. Hooting, hollering, the whole shebang. The energy is infectious. It feels less like a concert and more like Christmas-themed gay disco meets Deep South church tent revival.
Carlos, seated to my right, has a rolled-up concert program in his hand. As the curtain goes up on the stage, he taps the program excitedly against my shoulder.
“This is going to be so good,” he says, beaming. “And I love your sweater!”
“Thanks.” I grin, and look over at Sasha, seated to my left. She’s slumped down into her seat like she’s trying to disappear. I squeeze her knee. “Try to enjoy yourself.”
“Bah humbug,” she says.
A spotlight slams on, and there’s Bryan, center stage. He’s wearing his own ugly Christmas sweater: green-and-red plaid, with a giant brown felt gingerbread man sipping a martini. Bryan grins, and when he opens his mouth, it’s not just his voice we hear: from the darkness behind him, the whole choir sings in unison, and the spotlighted lip-synching effect is jarring.
“JOY TO THE WORLD!”
A rainbow of other light specials is thrown on, revealing the rest of the singers and evoking delighted shrieks from the crowd. Above their heads, neon lights flash the words Big Gay Christmas Concert. The singers open their mouths in unison.
“THE LORD IS COME!”