Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist
Page 41
We’re dressed again except our clothes are still damp and we’re still laughing except we’re also kinda making out against the ice machine and he bumps me in just the wrong way and now ice is pouring from the machine onto the floor, all over us, it’s like a f**king avalanche, and all we can do is laugh harder and run away.
We’re kissing in the hallway again, against the wall.
We’re kissing in the glass elevator again. We ride it up and down, up and down, still kissing. Outside the elevator, time is going on, but inside, it’s stopped for us because we’ve got our own schedule: kissing, giggling, probing, breathing, taking, wanting, hoping. Liking.
I don’t know this Norah, this risk-taker, this thrill-seeker. I am a nice Jewish girl from Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey. I may have a potty mouth, but I do not get caught in illicit sexual encounters in Marriotts, for f**k’s sake. I guess I could be open to a Ritz-Carlton or a Four Seasons, but a Marriott, no f**king way! Yet here I am. And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. What spell has this boy cast on me?
I don’t know this Norah, but I like her. I’m hoping she’ll hang out awhile, consider permanent asylum.
The elevator door opens on the ground floor and we’re greeted and escorted out by hotel security and I suppress the urge to sit them down for a good honest discussion about our country’s founding principles of civil liberties because that would take away from my time with Nick.
So Nick and I head outside, and we’re holding hands, and still giggling, and still wet from the earlier rain and the sweat of our earlier encounter(s)(s)(s). And we are giddy, because dawn is here, we’re at the center of the world and we’re the center of our own universe, and spring is here, and the air smells wet and clean. God bless Manhattan, you know, because it must be six in the morning on a Sunday yet trash collection trucks are teeming down the street and Times Square workers in their bright-orange uniforms are cleaning up the night’s excesses and not even the smell of fresh spring rain can completely wash away Eau de Times Square Urine/ Trash/Vomit, but somehow this here, this now, it feels perfect.
“Where to?” Nick asks, and I say, “Home.”
We’ve got to find Jessie the Yugo and find our way off this island.
I have so much to do. Caroline to intervene. College to plan. Nick to know. Sexual techniques to Google.
Playlists to be created. I’m already planning the one I will make for Nick after I get some sleep. I will call it “(T)rainy/Dreamy” and it will be all dreamy songs with either the words rain or train in the title because he is so beautiful in the rain and one day I would like to make love to him on a train, just not the Chicago El like that scene in that ’80s movie Risky Business because that was way hot but seemed so unhygienic; no, we’ll take a cross-country train trip with our own cabin berth with proper sheets like in an old black-and-white movie and Nick and I will call each other “darling” and read books aloud to each other at night while the train rolls through the Plains. Off the top of my head, I’m thinking my “(T)rainy/Dreamy” playlist for Nick will include “I Wish It Would Rain” by The Temptations, “Train in Vain (Stand by Me)” by The Clash, “It’s Raining” by Irma Thomas, “Blue Train” by Johnny Cash followed by “Runaway Train” by Rosanne Cash (oh! I’m so clever!), “Come Rain or Come Shine” either by Dinah Washington or the Ray Charles cover (tough call—I’ll decide later), and I will cap the mix off with “Friendship Train” by Gladys Knight & The Pips because that’s what it’s all about in the end, right?
We’re walking down Seventh Avenue and I don’t know if we’re going to the subway or walking all the way back to the Lower East Side or what and I don’t care.
“Nick?” I say.
He lifts my hand he’s holding to his mouth for a quick kiss. Then, “Yeah?” he says.
I tell him, “What just happened there? I have something to tell you.”
He stops walking and he doesn’t drop my hand but his grip loosens a little and I can see in his eyes that he’s thinking, Now she’s going to tell me she has herpes, or worse, She’s going to deny any of this happened at all. I can almost see the beads of worry on his forehead. “What?” he whispers.
I look him back square in the eye. I take a deep breath, solemn, and just let it out. “I’m pregnant. I don’t know if it’s yours or E.T.’s.”
This time I don’t try to hold back my smile. It’s gonna come out whether I like it or not. I choose to like it.
He doesn’t hold his back either. He pulls me to him, tight. He’s laughing, but part of me wants to tell him to stop because that part of me is leaning against his chest and thinking, Shit, this is not funny, because I could seriously fall in love with you.
19. NICK
When is a night over? Is it the start of sunrise or the end of it? Is it when you finally go to sleep or simply when you realize that you have to? When the club closes or when everyone leaves? Normally, I keep these kinds of questions to myself. But this time, I ask Norah.
“It’s over when you decide it’s over,” she says. “When you call it a night. The rest is just a matter of where the sun is in the sky. That has nothing to do with us.”
We keep walking down Seventh Avenue, through the large swath of city that is still sleeping through the dawning of the day. Night-shift cabdrivers slow when they see us, then speed up again when they notice the way we’re holding hands, the way we don’t seem to be in any rush to be anywhere but here.
We’re kissing in the hallway again, against the wall.
We’re kissing in the glass elevator again. We ride it up and down, up and down, still kissing. Outside the elevator, time is going on, but inside, it’s stopped for us because we’ve got our own schedule: kissing, giggling, probing, breathing, taking, wanting, hoping. Liking.
I don’t know this Norah, this risk-taker, this thrill-seeker. I am a nice Jewish girl from Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey. I may have a potty mouth, but I do not get caught in illicit sexual encounters in Marriotts, for f**k’s sake. I guess I could be open to a Ritz-Carlton or a Four Seasons, but a Marriott, no f**king way! Yet here I am. And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. What spell has this boy cast on me?
I don’t know this Norah, but I like her. I’m hoping she’ll hang out awhile, consider permanent asylum.
The elevator door opens on the ground floor and we’re greeted and escorted out by hotel security and I suppress the urge to sit them down for a good honest discussion about our country’s founding principles of civil liberties because that would take away from my time with Nick.
So Nick and I head outside, and we’re holding hands, and still giggling, and still wet from the earlier rain and the sweat of our earlier encounter(s)(s)(s). And we are giddy, because dawn is here, we’re at the center of the world and we’re the center of our own universe, and spring is here, and the air smells wet and clean. God bless Manhattan, you know, because it must be six in the morning on a Sunday yet trash collection trucks are teeming down the street and Times Square workers in their bright-orange uniforms are cleaning up the night’s excesses and not even the smell of fresh spring rain can completely wash away Eau de Times Square Urine/ Trash/Vomit, but somehow this here, this now, it feels perfect.
“Where to?” Nick asks, and I say, “Home.”
We’ve got to find Jessie the Yugo and find our way off this island.
I have so much to do. Caroline to intervene. College to plan. Nick to know. Sexual techniques to Google.
Playlists to be created. I’m already planning the one I will make for Nick after I get some sleep. I will call it “(T)rainy/Dreamy” and it will be all dreamy songs with either the words rain or train in the title because he is so beautiful in the rain and one day I would like to make love to him on a train, just not the Chicago El like that scene in that ’80s movie Risky Business because that was way hot but seemed so unhygienic; no, we’ll take a cross-country train trip with our own cabin berth with proper sheets like in an old black-and-white movie and Nick and I will call each other “darling” and read books aloud to each other at night while the train rolls through the Plains. Off the top of my head, I’m thinking my “(T)rainy/Dreamy” playlist for Nick will include “I Wish It Would Rain” by The Temptations, “Train in Vain (Stand by Me)” by The Clash, “It’s Raining” by Irma Thomas, “Blue Train” by Johnny Cash followed by “Runaway Train” by Rosanne Cash (oh! I’m so clever!), “Come Rain or Come Shine” either by Dinah Washington or the Ray Charles cover (tough call—I’ll decide later), and I will cap the mix off with “Friendship Train” by Gladys Knight & The Pips because that’s what it’s all about in the end, right?
We’re walking down Seventh Avenue and I don’t know if we’re going to the subway or walking all the way back to the Lower East Side or what and I don’t care.
“Nick?” I say.
He lifts my hand he’s holding to his mouth for a quick kiss. Then, “Yeah?” he says.
I tell him, “What just happened there? I have something to tell you.”
He stops walking and he doesn’t drop my hand but his grip loosens a little and I can see in his eyes that he’s thinking, Now she’s going to tell me she has herpes, or worse, She’s going to deny any of this happened at all. I can almost see the beads of worry on his forehead. “What?” he whispers.
I look him back square in the eye. I take a deep breath, solemn, and just let it out. “I’m pregnant. I don’t know if it’s yours or E.T.’s.”
This time I don’t try to hold back my smile. It’s gonna come out whether I like it or not. I choose to like it.
He doesn’t hold his back either. He pulls me to him, tight. He’s laughing, but part of me wants to tell him to stop because that part of me is leaning against his chest and thinking, Shit, this is not funny, because I could seriously fall in love with you.
19. NICK
When is a night over? Is it the start of sunrise or the end of it? Is it when you finally go to sleep or simply when you realize that you have to? When the club closes or when everyone leaves? Normally, I keep these kinds of questions to myself. But this time, I ask Norah.
“It’s over when you decide it’s over,” she says. “When you call it a night. The rest is just a matter of where the sun is in the sky. That has nothing to do with us.”
We keep walking down Seventh Avenue, through the large swath of city that is still sleeping through the dawning of the day. Night-shift cabdrivers slow when they see us, then speed up again when they notice the way we’re holding hands, the way we don’t seem to be in any rush to be anywhere but here.
