Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist

8. NORAH

“So say we’re at the Motel 6 on the other side of the Lincoln Tunnel and we’re having that threeway with E.T. Who gets to be the top and who gets to be the bottom?”

This question has actually escaped my mouth. Perhaps it’s not that I’m frigid—it’s that once I decide I like a guy, I turn into a raging idiot, unfit for public appearances. I wish Caroline could be here now, hiding out in a corner, feeding me lines, Cyrano to Nick’s Roxanne. Although Caroline-as-inspiration could easily land me right back in the bathroom, on my knees, and not in prayer. Which as a basic premise isn’t so objectionable, but now that I’m trying to get in sync with time, I need more of it than Caroline generally requires to reach room temperature with a guy.

Nick answers, “No-brainer. E.T. can’t take the heat and goes off to the motel vending machine for some Reese’s Pieces, and hopefully doesn’t get caught in the crossfire of some crack deal gone bad while he’s out there. I mean, really, Norah, Motel 6 off the tunnel? Couldn’t we class it up a little? Wouldn’t the devirginization of E.T. merit at least a Radisson, at least Paramus?”

The stage acts are over and nuns have converted to stagehands as they transform the set for the next show. We’ve hit the jackpot, because the Where’s Fluffy unannounced show is most certainly going on next after the stage is converted—widened, barricaded, made ready for the coming apocalypse sure to be wrought by the leathered and chained, tunneled, tattooed, and pierced punk crowd now streaming into this place. It’s got to be close to three in the morning, because it’s the die-hard wave coming in, amped from a night of power-punk club-hopping, ready for the ultimate nightcap. By all logic, I should be home now, sitting up in my twin bed and flicking through channels in the dark while Caroline heaves through her inebriated slumber in her bed across from me. I recognize several people that were at Crazy Lou’s earlier, and I know we’re all following the same yellow brick road, looking for that ultimate band, that ultimate night to remember. Crazy Lou himself has even arrived, I can see him at the bar chatting up Toni. I can only pray hard that Toni’s almighty powers extend to her denying Tal entrance should he follow Lou here tonight, or that Tal will be too jet-lagged for the infinite Manhattan night.

Or maybe prayer isn’t necessary and my moment of clarity was real and true and Tal is not a threat because I am wearing this jacket that says Salvatore and I am deep into this night with this Nick person and I am having occasionally really, truly pornographic thoughts about him. While Tal may not yet have wholly receded to the farthest reaches of my subconscious past—I can feel the present bitter taste of his nearness despite the sweetness of the Tina Colada I am drinking—I am here and I am now and there’s nowhere I’d rather be, only where did Nick go?

He said I wear his jacket better than he or anyone else ever could. So why isn’t he going for an encore Johnny Castle performance with me instead of sitting opposite me acting all casual, looking perhaps a little distracted? He could at least do me the courtesy of trying for some furtive cleavage views, or if nothing else, pretend that he’s as interested in learning as much about me as I’d like to know about him. Like, everything. Like, NOW.

If Caroline was here, she’d give me her Patience, grasshopper speech. But she’s not and I am left to wonder on my own: How does this work, the getting to know a new guy without revealing too much desperation for his undivided attention?

It helps that the club has gone from full to packed, because the energy and noise help drown out what is fast becoming a sinking ship between Nick and me, probably courtesy of me and the trying-too-hard conversation. I came back from the bathroom, we had virgin drinks along with toasted clinks, but I seem to have made the ultimate mistake. I try to learn something about him (isn’t that what you do?), dig a little deeper, and I’m getting sucked down fast into the vortex of Awkward First Date.

“So, where do you live?” I ask him, even though I know. Just to say something. And because E.T. tanked, and How long have you been in a band? and Are you guys serious or just fucking around? got me only Since the dawn of time and No, we’ve only been rehearsing together since freshman year, spent every fucking dollar we made at minimum-wage jobs to support this band, but no, we’re not fucking serious. I’m all for sarcasm but sometimes it’s tiring, especially when it’s near morning and I thought we were finally getting somewhere and I might as well be taking a nap at this point. Nick was so with me a while ago, but now without the diversion of a stage show, and with the (I think) mutual admittance of a mutual…something, it’s like the pendulum is swinging perilously in the wrong direction for us, and I don’t know if it’s that something changed, or I said something stupid again (fucking E.T.—I HATE you!), or I just dared to fly too close to the sun in my desire to thaw.

“I live in Hoboken,” Nick mumbles, and I am remembering a Sinatra-centric mix he made for Tris that made me so hot with envy of her that I wouldn’t let her copy my Latin test answers that day.

“College?” I ask him.

“Haven’t figured that one out yet.”

Brick. Fucking. Wall.

This is why I should consider breaking my straight-edge vow. Beer most certainly would help this situation. It probably couldn’t make it any worse.

Basic quiz-show format isn’t working here, so I take inspiration from the divine beings that have performed on this stage this evening. I sing this next question, all fake Julie Andrews shit operetta stylee: “Care to name a few of your favorite things?”

His half smile creeps back. “Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream, original Tiffany stained-glass windows at random houses in Weehawken, my iPod. A hot-oil massage from Reba McIntyre.”

I rest my case.

Did DJ Irony plan to spin “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” by The Smiths right now to appease the crowd during the interim stage setup between acts, or is it just coincidence?

What did I miss? What changed?

I take one last shot. Come back to Mama, Nick. You can do it.

“Last moment of true happiness you experienced?” I ask him.

“Sometime before three weeks, three days ago…”

And he’s gone again. Ohhhhh……….

The air is hot here from the surge of people coming in and I watch him watching the door and I realize he’s scared Tris is going to show. She probably will. An underground band about to hit it big performing in the middle of the night for a secret show, surely there’s an almost-famous musician about to come onstage looking for some groupie Tris love.

I feel for Nick. He doesn’t know yet that he’ll be okay without her. Part of me wonders if I should even bother here. The other part of me wants to scream at him: What did you see in her? Why did you waste your life on her?

Only I already know the answers to the Tris quiz show. If I can suck it up enough to look past the obvious—the blond hair, the big tits, the long legs, the tight skirts—I know that there’s this other Tris, this girl who can show a guy a good time without the Caroline variety hangover, make him feel wanted and special until her attention inevitably wanes, this girl who will kick ass at FIT next year, this girl who will have your back, no questions asked.

In Nick’s absence of words and his vacant look, I am remembering junior year in the bathroom, after I’d tanked on a Bio exam. I was drying my hands with a paper towel when Tris came from behind me and snatched the paper towel away from me. “You realize you’ve been drying your hands for about three straight minutes now? You’ve practically parched your skin. You okay?” And just like that I came out with it: “I’m late.” “You’re paranoid,” Caroline had said when I told her, while Tal had said, “Don’t you dare make any decisions without consulting me first.” But it was Tris who grabbed my arm and said, “C’mon.” It was Tris who knew the strictly Jersey public bus that could take us to the nearby CVS and not to the city, Tris who waited outside the bathroom for me at Starbucks while I took the test, Tris who shoved me in the chest afterward and said, “Be more careful next time, bitch.” It was Tris who stood in line to buy me a Frappuccino with her back to me after, knowing I wouldn’t want her to see me cry. And I know we really don’t like each other except for having known each other since elementary school and the whole past and shared childhood of that, and I know she is a lying cheating skank because how could she do what she did to this guy?; but I also know there is like some girl code I should be obeying and not treading into new dangerous territory with her castoff, so maybe that’s why it’s Nick who’s suddenly gone all frigid?

The Smiths song ends, to a smattering of applause coming from the direction of the bathrooms. The cocktail bunny has responded to the urgent calls of nature of a long line of laddies waiting for the loo and unlocked the bathroom door with the key hanging from the chain around her neck. Even with the dank lighting and through the beads separating the bathroom area from the club, it’s clear that it’s Hunter wrapped inside the arms of the singer for Nick’s band, I think his name was Dev. They’re standing against the red wall, locked in one of those deep, soul-enjoined kisses that can only cause observers of the kiss to have a crisis of deep, soul-searching envy.

Nick finally laughs again, and my heart tries not to leap. “That’s our Dev!”

As their mouths disengage, Dev plucks a strand of hair from Hunter’s face and twirls it through his fingers. With his other hand, Dev waves hello to the exasperated line of laddies.

I point out, “Damn, even from here, you can see the smile on his face.”

“Dev’s the reason our band doesn’t have a drummer.”

“How’s that?” We’re going again. Thank you, Dev, you stud, thank you.

“We used to have a great drummer. The guy killed, he was so good. Then Dev ‘turned’ him. The dude didn’t even know he liked boys before—”

“Oh, he knew.” Because they always do, whether or not they’ll admit it.

Nick shrugs. “Could be. But Dev brought him out. And once the closet door had swung wide open, the poor guy wanted a boyfriend. Dev had just wanted a conquest. Especially one who had been the All-American high school track star.”

“Dev is a slut?”

“That’s our boy.”

Dev’s trailing Hunter by the hand now, and they are snaking their way through the club. Their performance has merited the offering of two coveted barstools from the packed bar area. The dynamic duo take these offerings and haul them over to our table and sit themselves down.

“Nice show,” I tell Dev.

“Wasn’t it?” Dev laughs. He looks like the love child of a Bollywood movie star and whoever this year’s Adam Brody is. I can’t blame Hunter, or the M.I.A. drummer. Dev’s a fucking babe, whose point score doesn’t even receive deductions for the faded and torn “Lodi Track & Field” shirt he’s wearing.

Dev’s animation is the antithesis of casual-boy Nick. “FUCK! You heard about the show? Where’s Fluffy! WHERE’S FUCKING FLUFFY!” He plays mock drums on the table and Nick lifts his eyebrow at me and gives me a knowing smile and for a flash lightning stroke of a moment, I suspect the time-out is ending and we might be getting back in the game.

And then our ref sashays to our table like the beauty queen s/he is and addresses Nick like they’re old sorority sisters: “Girl, be a dear and help me with some of this stage equipment, will you?” Nick jumps to his feet like he’s been waiting for Toni’s salvation all along. Good—maybe Toni can share some PMS elixir with Nick and send him back revived.

“WHERE’S FLUFFY!” Dev shouts. He pats my back in excitement then raises his arms like he’s Rocky. “WHERE’S FUCKING FLUFFY!”

Exactly. This was the reaction I expected from Nick when I told him about the show. I mean, they’re only the best punk band out there right now, named for the fucking apathy of a xenophobic fucking nation oblivious to the fucking terror its leaders wreak on the rest of the world because they’re too busy worrying if their cat might be stuck up a tree or something. Where’s Fluffy can actually play instead of just wail like fucking pop-punk goof-offs. They sing everything right about everything wrong—they’ll come on pro-NRA, anti-choice, homophobic—to remind listeners what’s worth fighting for. Where’s Fluffy are the real deal, and if there is anything between me and Nick, it will be determined when the show starts, if we’re front and center in jumping throttling exhilaration together, fist-waving and shouting “oi oi oi” at all the right moments, in sync. So to speak.

The mosh pit will reveal all the answers. The mosh pit never lies.