Chapter 4
I got here first—I am the man—and I look like a boyfriend, like Romeo in black jeans.
I shaved. I ate a banana. I practiced my small talk in the mirror, and I walked all the way here from Stuy Town.
There is a whole world out there. Zillions and billions of people and you are not girls, girls, girls.
You are just one girl. I’m not risking my life, but my legs won’t stop shaking.
It’s good. I’m good. I bought the tickets.
They’re a little moist—I am sweating—but first dates are a mind fuck, and I bet you’re sweating too, wondering if I’ll show up, if I’ll still want you when I see you.
I need to breathe. Be cool. Don’t say moist. But it’s one of those topics I made for us to discuss, the way it’s always the coldhearted snakes in this world who are so fucking good at being relaxed. Cool.
The other topics are on the Moleskine notepad in my back pocket, but I don’t need to check it. They’re all upstairs, in my head:
- Our favorite Philip Roth books
- Our favorite books from childhood
- My advance copy of The Lovely Bones that I might lend to you
- Pizza
- The horror that is the Virgin Megastore in Times Fucking Square
I’m ready for you, Vail. My feet are planted on the concrete on the corner of Houston and Mercer, right in front of the main steps to the theater.
But then a woman smirks at me and fuck. Am I too ready?
Yes. There’s this stink about me. Desperation, as if every passerby can tell I jerked off in the shower, the way I went from pulling at my Portnoy to clutching these fucking tickets.
Fix it, Joe, fix it. I step aside to lean against the wall like James Fucking Dean, like I’m cool.
It’s just a date. You’re just a girl. But my neck is stiff, and the wall is too hard and then…
You are here. Bare legs under a black miniskirt. No tights. Same messenger bag. Your hair is stick straight. Ironed and glossy.
“Hello, Joe.”
“Hi, Vail.”
You throw your arms around me, and I’m a soldier back from the war.
You smell like a girl, like powders and peaches, and you have strong arms. Muscles that you use to hold on to me.
And then you pull away, as if you think you came on a little strong.
You size me up, and do you see good things?
Bad things? Did you expect me to have a messenger bag?
Should I have worn my brown sweater instead of the black one?
“So,” you say. “Are you as nervous as I am?”
“Oh yeah. Just now I tried to lean against the wall to seem cool.”
“And how’d that work out for you?”
“It didn’t.”
You laugh—you like me—and you pull your hair over one shoulder. You really are nervous, and that means I matter. “Aw, I get it,” you say. “But come on. You guys have it easy. You throw on jeans and a T-shirt and you’re good to go.”
It’s December, and I am wearing a sweater. “True.”
“You have no clue…. Women, us, me, I went nuts this morning. My place is a mess ’cause I still haven’t unpacked since I got home from Christmas…. Did you go home for Christmas…or Hanukkah?”
I laugh like I have a family, like I had a holiday. “I’m from Bed-Stuy, so there’s no suitcase involved.”
“Cool,” you say. “Okay, my point, though…This morning, I changed my clothes ten times. I mean, jeans are okay if I’m feeling them, if they flatter me, but as a girl, every day you have a different body, so you can’t plan these things in advance.
And the whole time I’m melting down and worrying if a skirt in the day is too much and my slutty roommate is rolling her eyes and mocking me and oh my God this is so not what I planned on saying to you when I got here. ”
You are bursting with fruit flavors, with words.
That’s what you are, a pack of gum. Fruit Stripe that I used to count as lunch, and I like you, Vail.
I like you. Your mouth that moves so fast and your exposed, weak knees.
I get it, the nerves. I changed sweaters four times before I left my cardboard box, but there are some things girls can say that boys just fucking can’t. “Well, you look lovely, Vail.”
Lovely was the wrong word. I can feel you clock it and stow it in your giant busy-girl bag. “Thank you, Joe. And fuck me and my blabbing.”
You said fuck me, and I stash that in my invisible bag.
It’s early, but it’s clear. We’re clicking.
Open and yet shy all at once, as if we’re surprised by ourselves, by our chemistry.
I touch your elbow. “See, this is why people go to the movies,” I say.
“Because we have to keep our traps shut once we’re inside. ”
You blow a little strand of hair out of your mouth. You say that’s a good point—you think I’m smart—and I never knew that I had that opinion about the classic movie date until now, until you. You shift gears. “Speaking of movies, did you ever see Annie Hall?”
Your voice is high. The alchemy is getting to you too. I laugh and say yes. “I mean, I’m a fucking New Yorker.”
“Mm-hmm.”
You say this like it’s a code, and it’s my first real date. I do what feels natural. I do you. “Mm-hmm.”
“Okay,” you say. Yet another lick of the lips, and are you blushing? “Do you know that part where they…” You shake your little head, hair blown out for me, combed for me. “Never mind…. I can’t.”
“Sure you can, Vail. It’s okay.”
It feels good to say your name, to imagine it coming out of my mouth every day.
Big bad thought, too much, too soon. Down, Portnoy.
Chill. Your cell phone rings. It’s work, you have to take it, and it’s fancy, Motorola.
You are sweet and sorry, talking by the fire hydrant, looking at me, promising one more minute.
I am the good guy, patient. I like the way you check in with me.
You’re kind. You care. I could get used to this.
I am fucking used to it, and you’re back.
“Okay, hi.”
“Hi.”
And then we are quiet. I read about this kinda stuff, about “love.” Time slows down, the planet dies, and we’re the last two left on the sidewalk, in the world.
I hear the opening lines of that song from Shag, that movie at that birthday party, in the dark, in Kelly Fuentes’s basement, the first time a girl touched my Portnoy.
Touch me…. Love the way you touch me. You sneeze, and the music dies, which is good.
It’s too soon. I can’t jump off the bridge into you just fucking yet.
You’re a girl, you have a tissue. You dab your nose.
A button that’s a little too large for your face, probably the reason why you draw black circles around your eyes.
You don’t know that you’re perfect as you are, but soon enough, I will show you.
“Okay,” you say. “So, Annie Hall.”
“Annie Hall.”
“You know that scene when they’re on their way into the diner and he says they should kiss before they eat so they can digest their food?”
I really am Romeo in black jeans and I’m a cool cat…tapping on the toe with a new hat. Collected. “I think I remember it….”
Your eyes come at me, two little Polaroid cameras, and fuck yes, Vail.
Capture me, expose me. I want this, you.
You bite your lip in a deliberate, slow-motion music video kind of way.
It’s happening right here, right now, on Houston and Fucking Mercer.
I take your hand, or you take mine—the blur is real—and you give me your lips.
It’s a fit, a good match, and your fingers work my hand, and your body melts below my other hand.
This is my life turning around in real time.
My eyes are closed but already we are the world and undoubtedly others are watching, vowing to get what we have.
I deserve a girl like you. An X who marks the spot, quivering when I find the small of your back, and is that your tongue?
It is. I put my message in a bottle, my tongue in your mouth, two lovestruck whales humping in a deep blue sea.
You pull back and squeeze my hand before you drop it. “Well, hello, Mr. Tongue.”
The CD skips. Scratched. Well, hello, Mr. Tongue.
You recede like a fucking tide and wait.
What just happened? You started it. You brought your tongue into it, and I was only bringing mine to be polite.
You fidget with your skirt and your messenger bag…
. Did I imagine it? Did I just give you unwanted fucking tongue? Did I kill the whales?
You snatch the tickets and slap my chest with them. “So! Where do you live?”
Is this a test? “In the city.”
You don’t ask for specifics, and I don’t offer. I can’t. My tongue is MIA. “C’mon,” you say. “I live for the coming attractions.”
I follow you up the stairs, and it’s wrong, all wrong. Fuck you, Mr. Tongue. Fuck you, Woody Allen. You grab onto the door with the same eager beaver gusto you had when you grabbed onto the tickets, and you screech, “After you, sir.”
I’m the man. I’m supposed to ask the questions, to get the door.
Inside, you are casual and clucking, turning every tiny, quotidian transaction with every employee into an inter-fucking-action.
Can’t even hand off the tickets to the usher without complimenting his vest. Mr. Tongue killed it, he did, and I have to fix things. Man up.
I point to the concession stand. “Popcorn?”
“Mmm…” It hangs there, incomplete, and c’mon, Vail. Give me the fucking hmmm. “Nah, I’m good.”
You don’t want our hands to meet in a bowl of salty butter anymore. Assuming you did earlier. Did you? You dig into that giant bag and flash a box of peanut M&M’s. “The snacks are always such a rip-off.”
“True,” I say, but not true. It’s a date, Vail. I want to be ripped off for you. You won’t let me feed you a fucking snack at the movies and is it true that girls turn on a dime after the first kiss? Hello, Mr. Tongue.
You grab the door for me and that’s my job. No. No! “After you, kid.”