Chapter 17
“Pop Rocks,” he says. “Goldberg, no. You’re not making that chick a mixtape.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s Valentine’s Day and you’re alone in a coffee shop.”
“Well, I might see her later.”
“No, Goldberg. She spit and ran.”
I grab the damn liner notes out of his cynical fucking hands. “Don’t you have beans to grind, Dickwad?”
He nods. Nice. He respects me a bit more now, and okay.
It’s true. Technically, you spit me out and bailed on me, but that’s why you need a Little Red Corvette.
I’m not judging you for being fast. Hungry.
The city turns pink and we all get a little hungry.
And I hope you’re not judging me. Sure, you were tipsy, you turned into an astrology slut on spring break.
But I let you put candy on my dick, so I kinda think we’re even.
But we’re at a standstill. You can’t call me—you blew me in a bathroom—and I can’t call you—you spit me out on the floor.
We both froze up. You stood there at the sink before you fled, washing your hands, avoiding your own eyes in the mirror.
You said what girls say, what Dick says you all say.
“I never do this…. Please keep it between us…. I mean, I never ever do this.”
I played it cool and calm, smushing my seed onto the tile fucking floor. “All good, Vail.”
Of course you’ve had restroom romps but that was a first for me, and yes.
You should have swallowed me and invited me home instead of running back to Cynthia to help her through her That bitch stole my purse drama and yes, I should’ve poured those fucking Pop Rocks into the toilet.
(I think that’s why you didn’t swallow.) And yeah, I am a little undone, but how the fuck could I not be?
It’s Valentine’s Day and it’s been three minutes and fifty-six hours since you walked out of that restroom, and that’s another one for the mixtape.
Track number 2. “Nothing Compares 2 U.”
Dick grabs my liner notes again. “Seriously, kid, stop it.”
I grab the notes. “No, fuckwad, you stop it.”
“Jesus,” he says. “One lousy spit take of a blow job and she owns you?”
“It’s just a mixtape. I’m not gonna go to her house and play it on a boom box.”
I can’t do that—I don’t know your exact address—and Dick slaps the counter. “Stop it. This is about dignity, Golddog. Face it. You Seduced. But you didn’t Destroy. If you destroyed, if that Passerby blowie led to a three-day, V-Day fuck-fest…. The end.”
Finally, he goes back to work, and he’s smart about stuff, but he doesn’t get it. He wasn’t there when you looked up at me, when you tore off my belt. I won’t lose faith.
Track number 3 is “All I Want Is You.” U2.
I have things I need to say to you. I know that you felt gross for being a Little Red Corvette.
I’m sure you’re worried that I think you’re not marriage material.
I mean, that’s obviously why you turned into Cynthia’s barmaid mother.
Helping her find her purse, credit card, anything to avoid facing me because you were worried that you blew it.
Ha. Blew.
Rest assured, my sweet. You walked in through my out door and there is no going back.
Track number 4 is “Raspberry Beret.” More Prince. Fuck it.
Track number 5 is also “Raspberry Beret.” Twice in a row so you really listen.
The parallels, Vail. They’re real. Prince works in retail—I work in retail—and the girl walks into the shop—you walked into the shop—and his boss is Mr. McGee—mine is Mr. Mooney.
Prince has no regrets. He does everything right.
He’s in charge. The girl gets on the back of his Harley, and he whisks her off to the country and they do it in a barn under the rain and I’m the one who fucked it all up.
The rain can’t hit the roof of a meat market bathroom bar in the fucking Meatpacking District.
I failed you, Vail. I let you get down on your knees and pleasure me in a disgusting public place.
I didn’t whisk you away. And I didn’t chase you and help you with Cynthia.
Now you’re curled up in a ball of unfair fucking girl shame and what a waste.
I loved my bathroom blowie and you did it. You made me…Yes!
Track number 6 is straight out of the bathroom. “You Make My Dreams.” Hall & Oates.
The coffee is too caffeinated and maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe you’re not ashamed. Maybe you’re curled up with Ben and Jerry and Cynthia, venting about the pig who let you get down on your knees while you were clearly under the influence.
It’s a terrible thought but it’s a reasonable one.
Did I take advantage of you? Did I, Vail?
Did I really fuck up RIGHT BEFORE V-DAY?
No. You wanted it. But I should’ve made you wait for it.
I didn’t put you on the back of my Harley—I don’t have a motorcycle—and the horses don’t wonder where you are—the bartender winked at me, Vail.
As did Dick and Schlitz. I didn’t tell those guys what happened, but they knew.
Guys are pigs. Guys know, and I check my Motorola.
Not ringing. I can’t live like this. Wondering.
Sitting. Waiting for you to do what you do every Thursday between 8:45 and 9:30 a.m. This is your slow day.
Your day to dwell and sip your coffee, and I should say fuck it and call you.
Dick says that you have to be the one to make the first call, but I’m the man.
Can’t I Say Anything to you? Dick wasn’t there.
He can’t know that I fell into something new with you in that bathroom and I could burn this coffee shop to the ground when I think of how fucking stupid I was, tongue-tied.
I just stood there and let you binge on my Portnoy but that’s your power, Vail. You make me…
Go all track number 7: You “Make Me Lose Control.” Eric Carmen.
Dick grabs at my liner notes again, and again I grab ’em the fuck back because no.
No.
“Jesus,” he says, then he sighs. “All right, so you’re…You’re serious about her.”
“I’m serious.”
“You still want this even though she’s a spit and run—”
“Stop saying that.”
“Well, son, I don’t get it but if that’s how it is, then you gotta set another trap. And you do not set a trap with a fucking mixtape.”
He steps off to deal with a customer who brought him a heart-shaped box of candy—I worry for all girls, I do—and I am losing my fucking mind. Literally. I am Pavlov’s dog from eighth-grade science. Hell-bent like Dick said. Climbing up on Solsbury Hill, and yes!
Track number 8: “Solsbury Hill” by Peter Gabriel.
I’m cruising now—track number 9 is “Thank You,” the Dido song from Sliding Doors, the movie you mentioned the day we met, the day you were so nervous you claimed to be an Anglophile—and Dick is wrong. This mixtape is the perfect trap. It’s Valentine’s Day and I’m on fire. Yes.
Track number 10 is “I’m on Fire.” Bruce Fucking Springsteen.
I remember everything when it comes to you.
It’s effortless evolution, a new second nature.
I know what you like, what you want. You moved to the city because of Woody Allen movies, and you love Hannah and Her Sisters even if you think you need to say you prefer Manhattan.
On this day, love is the thing with feathers and soon it will be spring and yes. Yes!
Track number 11 is “I’m in Love Again.” Bobby Short. As featured in Hannah.
Then the hairs on the back of my neck come alive like a bunch of Peter Framptons—I need to add him to my mixtape—and then holy shit. Holy Saint Motherfucking Valentine.
It’s you. Dick looks at me. Stay cool. I am cool. Am I cool?
“Hey. Vail.”
“Hey.”
You can barely look at me—you are ashamed, you’re in love—and you put your eyes on a safe place, a sexless place, you put your eyes on Dick. “Could I get an extra shot?”
Dick says he can do that, and you sneeze. I knock over the napkin dispenser when I reach for a napkin for you, and you laugh at me. “Aw,” you say. “I’m cool. I have a tissue.”
There was something bad in your voice. Something cold. Snide.
I should have fucking called you. I WRECKED LOVE DAY.
“Hey, well, here we are. I mean happy Valentine’s Day!”
You look at me like I’m the nut who thinks Pop Rocks and penises go together. “You too.”
You too is not I love you (I should add more U2), and I have to save this.
Fix it. I feel your pain. I didn’t chase you.
I didn’t call to see that you got home safe, and there is no going back.
But it’s not fair, Vail. You didn’t do everything right either, and you leave me no choice.
I need to get my power back. Hide the fucking mixtape and pull my heart off the counter and spit you out, the same way you spit me out but WHY DIDN’T I FUCKING CALL YOU? WHY?
“Yo, Dick. Can I get a to-go cup?”
You are huffy. Sniffling. “Well, someone has places to be….”
“Nothing major,” I say. “Gotta meet up with someone….”
It feels bad to fuck with you, but that’s the rule of women, of bodies.
No pain, no gain, and Dick approves. He delivers your latte.
Ceramic cup. As in Joe is going places and you’re just sitting around.
You avoid my eyes the same way you did in the bathroom, and I know, Vail.
I’m in pain too. But did I spit you out? Did I burn your private parts?
“So, what’s shaking, V?” Reducing your name to a single letter. Casually cruel in the way where you’d sound crazy if you acted offended. “How you been?”
You nod at your latte. “Good. Great, actually.”
Actually doesn’t feel good and Dick would tell me to neg you but I want to fucking hold you. “Cool,” I say. “You have a good rest of the weekend?”
You look at me again. The horror. “It’s Thursday, Joe.”
“Right. So…Are you having a good week?”
You blow your nose into that filthy Kleenex. “You first.”