Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist
Page 34
The way you’re singing in your sleep
The way you look before you leap
The strange illusions that you keep
You don’t know
But I’m noticing
The way your touch turns into arcs
The way you slide into the dark
The beating of my open heart
You don’t know
But I’m noticing
And I’m moved, it’s so beautiful. Not what I wrote, but to have it given back like this. To have her remember the words and the tune. To hear it in her voice.
She is blushing furiously, so I don’t clap or do anything like that. Instead I shake my head and hope my amazement is translating.
“Wow,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Although, in all honesty, the first time I heard it, it caught me on a really bad day.”
“I can’t believe you—”
“I promise I’m not a stalker or anything. I promise I’ve forgotten all the other songs.”
“Really?”
“Can we change the subject?”
And I find myself saying, “It wasn’t really about her.” And finding it’s true.
“What do you mean?” Norah asks.
“It was about the feeling, you know? She caused it in me, but it wasn’t about her. It was about my reaction, what I wanted to feel and then convinced myself that I felt, because I wanted it that bad. That illusion. It was love because I created it as love.”
Norah nods. “With Tal, it was the way he always said goodnight. Isn’t that stupid? At first on the phone, and then when he’d drop me off, and even later when we were together and drifting off to sleep. He always wished me a goodnight and made it sound like it really was a wish. It’s probably just something his mother always did when he was a kid. A habit. But I thought, This is caring. This is real. It could erase so many other things. That simple goodnight.”
“I don’t think Tris ever wished me a goodnight.”
“Well, Tal sure as hell didn’t inspire me to write songs.”
“That’s too bad,” I say. “Tal rhymes with f**king everything.”
Norah thinks for a second. “You never put her name in any of the songs, did you?”
I go through the entire playlist, then shake my head.
“Why not?”
“I guess it didn’t occur to me.”
Norah’s phone rings and she pulls it out of her pocket. She looks at the screen and mumbles, “Caroline.” I see she’s about to answer it, and find myself saying, “Don’t.”
“Don’t?”
“Yeah.”
Another ring.
“What if it’s an emergency?”
“She’ll call back. Look, I want us to take a walk.”
“A walk?”
Ring number three.
“Yeah. You, me, and the city. I want to talk to you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Not as a rule, but in this case yes.”
Ring.
“Where will we go?”
“Wherever. It’s only”—I look at my watch—“four in the morning.”
Pause.
Silence.
Voice mail.
Norah bites her bottom lip.
“Thinking about it?” I ask uneasily.
“No. Just thinking about where to go. Somewhere nobody will find us.”
“Like Park Avenue?”
And Norah tilts her head, looks at me a little askew, and says, “Yes, like Park Avenue.”
And then she utters a word I never in a zillion years thought I’d ever hear her utter:
“Midtown.”
It’s ridiculous, but we take the subway. Even more ridiculous, it’s the 6 train that we take, the most notoriously slow local in all of Manhattan. At four in the morning, we’re on the platform for a good twenty minutes—the time it would’ve taken us to walk—but I don’t mind the delay because we’re talking all over the place, hitting Heathers and peanut butter preferences and favorite pairs of underwear and Tris’s occasional body odor and Tal’s body hair fetish and the fate of the Olsen twins and the number of times we’ve seen rats in the subway and our favorite graffiti ever—all in what seems like a single sentence that lasts the whole twenty minutes. Then we’re in the weird fluorescence of the subway car, sliding into each other when the train stops and starts, making comments with our eyes about the misbegotten drunkards, business-suit stockbroker frat boys, and weary night travelers that share our space. I am having a f**king great time, and the amazing thing is that I realize it even as it’s happening. I think Norah’s getting into it, too. Sometimes when we slide together, we take a few seconds to separate ourselves. We’re not to the point of deliberately touching again, but we’re not about to turn down a good accident.
We get out of the subway at Grand Central and walk north on Park. It’s completely empty, the skyscrapers standing guard up and down the avenue, sleeping sentries of the important world.
“It feels like we’re in a canyon,” Norah says.
“What freaks me out is how many of the buildings still have lights on. I mean, there have to be thousands of lights in each building that are left on for the night. That can’t be very efficient.”
“There are probably still people working. Checking their e-mail. Making another million. Screwing someone over while they sleep.”
“Or maybe,” I say, “they just think it’s pretty.”
The way you look before you leap
The strange illusions that you keep
You don’t know
But I’m noticing
The way your touch turns into arcs
The way you slide into the dark
The beating of my open heart
You don’t know
But I’m noticing
And I’m moved, it’s so beautiful. Not what I wrote, but to have it given back like this. To have her remember the words and the tune. To hear it in her voice.
She is blushing furiously, so I don’t clap or do anything like that. Instead I shake my head and hope my amazement is translating.
“Wow,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Although, in all honesty, the first time I heard it, it caught me on a really bad day.”
“I can’t believe you—”
“I promise I’m not a stalker or anything. I promise I’ve forgotten all the other songs.”
“Really?”
“Can we change the subject?”
And I find myself saying, “It wasn’t really about her.” And finding it’s true.
“What do you mean?” Norah asks.
“It was about the feeling, you know? She caused it in me, but it wasn’t about her. It was about my reaction, what I wanted to feel and then convinced myself that I felt, because I wanted it that bad. That illusion. It was love because I created it as love.”
Norah nods. “With Tal, it was the way he always said goodnight. Isn’t that stupid? At first on the phone, and then when he’d drop me off, and even later when we were together and drifting off to sleep. He always wished me a goodnight and made it sound like it really was a wish. It’s probably just something his mother always did when he was a kid. A habit. But I thought, This is caring. This is real. It could erase so many other things. That simple goodnight.”
“I don’t think Tris ever wished me a goodnight.”
“Well, Tal sure as hell didn’t inspire me to write songs.”
“That’s too bad,” I say. “Tal rhymes with f**king everything.”
Norah thinks for a second. “You never put her name in any of the songs, did you?”
I go through the entire playlist, then shake my head.
“Why not?”
“I guess it didn’t occur to me.”
Norah’s phone rings and she pulls it out of her pocket. She looks at the screen and mumbles, “Caroline.” I see she’s about to answer it, and find myself saying, “Don’t.”
“Don’t?”
“Yeah.”
Another ring.
“What if it’s an emergency?”
“She’ll call back. Look, I want us to take a walk.”
“A walk?”
Ring number three.
“Yeah. You, me, and the city. I want to talk to you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Not as a rule, but in this case yes.”
Ring.
“Where will we go?”
“Wherever. It’s only”—I look at my watch—“four in the morning.”
Pause.
Silence.
Voice mail.
Norah bites her bottom lip.
“Thinking about it?” I ask uneasily.
“No. Just thinking about where to go. Somewhere nobody will find us.”
“Like Park Avenue?”
And Norah tilts her head, looks at me a little askew, and says, “Yes, like Park Avenue.”
And then she utters a word I never in a zillion years thought I’d ever hear her utter:
“Midtown.”
It’s ridiculous, but we take the subway. Even more ridiculous, it’s the 6 train that we take, the most notoriously slow local in all of Manhattan. At four in the morning, we’re on the platform for a good twenty minutes—the time it would’ve taken us to walk—but I don’t mind the delay because we’re talking all over the place, hitting Heathers and peanut butter preferences and favorite pairs of underwear and Tris’s occasional body odor and Tal’s body hair fetish and the fate of the Olsen twins and the number of times we’ve seen rats in the subway and our favorite graffiti ever—all in what seems like a single sentence that lasts the whole twenty minutes. Then we’re in the weird fluorescence of the subway car, sliding into each other when the train stops and starts, making comments with our eyes about the misbegotten drunkards, business-suit stockbroker frat boys, and weary night travelers that share our space. I am having a f**king great time, and the amazing thing is that I realize it even as it’s happening. I think Norah’s getting into it, too. Sometimes when we slide together, we take a few seconds to separate ourselves. We’re not to the point of deliberately touching again, but we’re not about to turn down a good accident.
We get out of the subway at Grand Central and walk north on Park. It’s completely empty, the skyscrapers standing guard up and down the avenue, sleeping sentries of the important world.
“It feels like we’re in a canyon,” Norah says.
“What freaks me out is how many of the buildings still have lights on. I mean, there have to be thousands of lights in each building that are left on for the night. That can’t be very efficient.”
“There are probably still people working. Checking their e-mail. Making another million. Screwing someone over while they sleep.”
“Or maybe,” I say, “they just think it’s pretty.”
