I answer. “Thom? Is Caroline okay?”
“Finally!” he says. “Yes, she’s still asleep. Seems happy. Keeps mumbling something about cartoons and Krispy Kremes in the morning. But I’ve been trying to call Nick for the past hour. Didn’t you guys hear the phone? Scot and I got lost coming off the parkway and then, er, we got distracted at the rest stop and the directions on my hand kinda got rubbed off. We’re sitting in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven. I have no idea where we are or how to get to your house.”
I try to talk Thom through it, figure out where he is, but he confuses me more, and I’m lost all over again. The taxi driver slams on his brakes again. I think we’re near St. Marks Place now. “Give me that,” the driver says, pointing to the phone. I like that he is law-abiding and does not try to use Nick’s cell phone while the vehicle is motion.
I hand him the phone and the driver talks to Thom, figures out where he is and how to get him home to my place in Englewood Cliffs, then hands the phone back to me. “Here, Thom wants to talk to you again.”
“Hi again,” I say into the phone.
I hear Thom’s giggle. “So how is it going? How was the date with Nick? You love him, right?”
“It’s been great. We’re getting married.”
“Really? Can I talk to him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I have no idea where he is.” I click off the cell.
We’re at the restaurant. “You coming in?” I ask the driver. “Borscht and pierogies are on me.”
He smiles at me. His daughters must have some really nice family portraits from Sears hanging in their house. “Thanks, but I’m a working man. Got to keep working. You keep the Kleenex, though.”
I take the box of Kleenex out of the car and give the driver my hundred-dollar bill, the whole of my emergency cab money Dad placed in the secret crevice of my wallet. I only have enough money left in my wallet for something to eat and to take the bus back to Englewood Cliffs, so I’ll have to hang out at the restaurant for a couple hours until the bus service is running again.
A crazy lady stands at the restaurant entrance, holding a Chock full o’Nuts tin can, the Wicked Witch of the Stank. She eyeballs me, zeroing in on my chest area. Maybe she knows something about those vitamin supplements. She tells me, “Salvatore is looking for you.”
I reach back into the jacket pocket for the crumpled ten-dollar bill. I donate Nick’s tunnel money into the witch’s can.
“No, he’s not,” I assure her.
13. NICK
Life fails. Songs don’t always.
I’m on the curb. Taking it all in, including the nothing. Where I am, how I am, who I am, what I’m not.
It starts to come to me.
on Ludlow
the world goes so slow
all the things I don’t know
closing in
on Ludlow
the sidewalk shadow
keeps pleading don’t go
but you won’t hear
Alright, Nick. Louder.
WHO WILL APOLOGIZE FOR HOW
WE ARE?
WHO WILL NAVIGATE WHEN WE’VE
GONE THIS FAR?
ANSWER ME
ANSWER THIS
ANSWER ALL THE QUESTIONS THAT
I’M TOO AFRAID TO ASK
ON LUDLOW
YOU LET ME KNOW
AND I LET YOU GO
AND WE WERE WRONG WRONG
WRONG
ON LUDLOW
THERE’S A SHADOW
THAT LETS THE TRUTH SHOW
AND WE WERE WRONG WRONG
WRONG
NEVER AGAIN
IS WHAT I ALWAYS SAY
NEVER AGAIN
IS WHAT I ALWAYS SAY
NEVER AGAIN
IS WHAT I ALWAYS SAY
Take it back down.
on Ludlow
it’s just a stone’s throw
from where we could go
to where we are
on Ludlow
find me on Ludlow
on Ludlow
find me here…
“Dude! That’s pretty kickass!”
Dev slaps me on the back and sits next to me, his hair a ball of dance-induced sweat, the moisture making his shirt fit even tighter than when it began the night.
“You’re not in there for Where’s Fluffy?”
“Nah. Needed to take a break. You think it’s easy being the cutest damn underage lead singer on the queercore scene? I can’t work it all the time, man.”
“Where’s Randy?”
“Who?”
“Randy.”
“Huh?”
“From Are You Randy? You were, uh, with him before?”
“Oh! You mean Ted! He’ll be out in a few. Wanted to dance off the last song. Isn’t he high voltage?”
Dev’s got his mischievous, smitten gleam in his eye, so I nod in agreement. Sometimes Dev only has the mischievousness, and none of the smittenosity—that’s when I usually worry about the other guy’s heart. But when Dev gets bitten by the swoony bug, I know it isn’t just sex that he’s after.
“So where’s Tris?” he asks now.
“Inside. Why?”
“I dunno. I figured you two would be together.”
“Dev…Tris and I broke up like four weeks ago.”
“Fuck! I totally forgot. Sorry, man.”
“No problem.”
Dev looks at me for a moment, then smacks his forehead.
“Wait! There’s another girl tonight, isn’t there? I saw you, like, groping.”
“You could say that.”
“I just did!”
“What?”
“Say that. I could, and I did.”
This, for Dev, is what usually passes as genius.
Now he puts his arm around me, snuggles in. He loves to do this, and I never really mind. It’s not sexual so much as comforting.
“My poor straight-edge straightboy,” he says. “Nobody should be alone on a night like this.”
“But I have you, Dev,” I reply, trying to lighten things up.
“Ain’t that the truth. At least until Ted comes back.”
“I know.”
“You know what it’s all about, Nick?”
“What what’s all about?”
“It, Nick. What it’s all about.”
“No.”
“The Beatles.”
“What about The Beatles?”
“They nailed it.”
“Nailed what?”
“Everything.”
“What do you mean?”
Dev takes his arm and puts it right against mine, skin to skin, sweat on sweat, touch on touch. Then he glides his hand into mine and intertwines our fingers.
“This,” he says. “This is why The Beatles got it.”
“I’m afraid I’m not following…”
“Other bands, it’s about sex. Or pain. Or some fantasy. But The Beatles, they knew what they were doing. You know the reason The Beatles made it so big?”
“What?”
“‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ First single. Fucking brilliant. Perhaps the most f**king brilliant song ever written. Because they nailed it. That’s what everyone wants. Not 24-7 hot wet sex. Not a marriage that lasts a hundred years. Not a Porsche or a blow job or a million-dollar crib. No. They wanna hold your hand. They have such a feeling that they can’t hide. Every single successful love song of the past fifty years can be traced back to ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ And every single successful love story has those unbearable and unbearably exciting moments of hand-holding. Trust me. I’ve thought a lot about this.”
“‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand,’” I repeat.
“And so you are, my friend. So you are.”
He closes his eyes now, fingers still folded into mine. Even Dev’s breathing is rock ’n’ roll, full of kicks and sputters. I angle my head on top of his. We sit there for a second, watching traffic.
“I think I blew it,” I say.
“With Tris?”
“No. With Norah. With Tris, I didn’t have a chance. But tonight, with Norah—it might’ve been a chance.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know—sulk?”
Dev removes his hand from mine and squeezes me lightly on the shoulder.
“You’re damn pretty when you sulk,” he tells me, “but in this case, I think a more active course might be advantageous.”
“Where the hell are you getting these long words from?” I have to ask.
“You, stupid. ‘If you act courageous / it could be advantageous / to make me act outrageous / all over your blank pages’—did you think I was, like, learning these songs phonetically?”
“‘My love ain’t hypothetical / or pronounced for you phonetical / so it might just be heretical / if you don’t love me back,’” I quote in return.
Dev nods. “Exactly.”
“Where do we come up with this shit?” I ask. “I mean, where do these words all come from? I sit here on this sidewalk and they just appear to me.”
“Maybe they’re always there and you just need to live enough life to get them to make sense,” Dev says.
Someone whistles a birdcall behind us. Dev and I both turn, and there’s Ted just out of the club, shining like a diamond under a spotlight. He’s keeping a respectful distance, but I can tell he’s waiting.
“You gonna go hold his hand?” I ask Dev playfully.
“Hell, yes,” Dev says, sitting up now. “Don’t get me wrong—we’re totally going to make the beast with two backs tonight. But if we do it right, it’s going to feel like holding hands.”
There’s no way Ted could’ve heard us. But when Dev walks over to him, Ted offers his palm. I watch them walk down the street, hand in hand. I don’t think they notice, but their legs are in perfect rhythm. Before they round the corner, they both turn as one and wave a goodnight to me.
I’m on my own again. I decide to check my messages…and realize that not only have I lost my f**king jacket, but I’ve also lost my f**king phone. So many indignities and I start to feel indignant. But that’s nothing compared to trying to find a pay phone on Ludlow Street at three or so in the morning. I walk all the way back to Houston before I find one on the corner of a deli. The receiver feels like it’s covered with pond scum, and the dial tone seems to be coming from North Dakota. The first three quarters are returned to the drop slot. I am about to lose my shit entirely, but then the next two quarters stay put and the volume button amps things up enough that I can actually hear the call start.
Norah answers on the fourth ring.
“Who the hell is this?” she asks.
I mean, I knew she would answer. But still I’m dumbstruck.
“Is Nick there?” I finally ask.
“No,” she says. “He’s out defeating a minor threat. Do you want to call back for his voice mail?”
It’s like I can’t help it. I am absolutely falling back into conversation with her.
“Can you give him a message?” I ask.
“Do I need a pen? Cuz if I do, you’re so f**king out of luck.”
“No. Could you just tell him that he totally blew it when he let Norah get away in that cab?”
There’s a pause. “Who the f**k is this?”
“And could you let him know that I’m really f**king relieved that he has finally unshackled himself from that Tris bitch?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“And could you pass on the message that it’s not enough to be sitting alone on a sidewalk writing a song for a girl if you don’t have the guts to at least try talking to her again?”
Another pause. “Are you serious?”
“Where are you?”