Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List

by Rachel Cohn

  The problem, says my sister, Kelly, is not that I can’t get over Naomi—it’s that I refuse to. You are correct, sir! Loving Naomi and waiting for her to come back to me—it’s not a stalker thing, but more like a personal mission. A job. Wake up, think about Naomi. Go to school, think about Naomi. Come home, eat dinner, do homework, think about Naomi. A few games of Xbox, a few IMs with whoever’s available while thinking about Naomi (except for Ely—blocked! blocked! blocked!), download some porn that looks like Naomi, try to go to sleep. Count Naomi sheep. Fail to fall asleep. Naomi Naomi Naomi.

  When insomnia prevails and I don’t have Naomi physically present to comfort me through it—although in every other way, believe me, she’s there—I know I can count on an emergency meeting of the Bruce Society to get me through the night. In the spacious lobby of our one hundred–unit apartment building, the Bruces Below Fourteenth Street convene to pass the dark hours. Sleepless? Big deal. We’ve got important issues to discuss—specifically, the Burden of Being a Bruce.

  We are:

  • Mr. McAllister, who alleges to be named Bruce, but I don’t imagine anyone would ever dare address him by a name other than Mr. McAllister.

  • Gabriel the graveyard-shift doorman, middle name Bruce (fact-checked on driver’s license).

  • One of Ely’s moms, Sue, who may or may not have once been married to someone named Bruce. The University Place Stitch ’n’ Bitch knitting circle is hot with rumor over that one.

  • Random persons hanging out in the lobby between late-night laundry loads, Bruces in spirit.

  • Bruce the Chihuahua, also known as “Cutie Pie” by her owner, Mrs. Loy, but renamed by the Bruces-inspirit because I’m the one, not Naomi, who feeds and walks her when Mrs. Loy goes out of town. I’m the “nice boy” (take that, Naomi’s sainted Ely) who uses the secret key under Mrs. Loy’s mat to tap on Mrs. Loy’s apartment door for the dog to hear, but not so loud as to wake Mrs. Loy, when Cutie Pie–sometimes–called–Bruce yelps for a midnight walk.

  The problem with the Bruce Society is that I want to talk about being a Bruce, but the other Bruces, they want to talk about insomnia. What insomniacs don’t realize is that the more you talk about your inability to sleep, the more you will be unable to sleep. It’s like a whole mathematical problem that equals up to a solution called: Why Not Just Face It, You’re Screwed. The other members—I question their dedication to the Bruce Society. I suspect they care more about their sleepless nights than about what it means to be a Bruce. Because think about it. There’s the legacy of great Bruces whom we should honor and hope to emulate: Lenny the brilliant comedian; Mr. Springsteen; Master Lee; Robert the Bruce, aka “Braveheart.” But there are also those Bruces whom we need to seriously consider repudiating, and striking from our namesake society: Willis, Jenner, Hornsby.

  Sue/Bruce never fails to dodge the importance of being Bruceness. Instead she asks me, “Honey, have you talked with a shrink about the sleeping issue? I’m worried you look awful tired. You’re too young to be an insomniac. Don’t you have SATs coming up? You need to get this sleeping issue resolved before then.”

  I don’t know why I like Sue so much. Maybe because she’s not the DNA part of the Ely equation (I don’t think), or maybe because she’s not part of the Naomi & Ely parental situation that got the co-op board into such a state. I mean, it’s one thing to turn fifty and all of a sudden cross over into being midlife-crisis “flexibly” gay; it’s an entirely different matter to mess with your neighbor’s real estate standing. The consensus from the Bruce Society, in those middle-of-the-night insomniac gossip sessions when Sue isn’t present, is that if Ginny had needed to “experiment” so badly, it would have been helpful for the fifteenth-floor residents of our building if she had chosen a man who lives in, like, a different building entirely. And, a man more discreet than Naomi’s dad. We’d totally pass a resolution in support of Sue if ever called upon by the co-op board.

  Since she doesn’t seem to have a clue, I tell Sue/Bruce, “I like not sleeping. Sleeping is time not spent living.”

  Mr. McAllister the Bruce says, “Sixteen is an age not worth living. Too stupid to know any better. I read in Marie Claire that sleep apnea is linked to . . .”

  Proof! Naomi swears Mr. McAllister steals her mother’s fashion magazines from the garbage-chute-room recycle bin. According to Naomi, the models in those magazines are like porn for old guys too cheap to buy an Internet connection to get it like the rest of us.

  Sue / Bruce ignores Mr. McAllister / Bruce like she always does. She pats my shoulder. “Have you given more thought to where you’d like to go to college? Last time we discussed it, you were hung up on colleges that have presidents with Bruce in their names. I’m hoping I was successful in talking you out of that idea?”

  She’s so nice, Sue/Bruce. “You were. I have a new college plan, as of today. This morning I saw an ad on the subway for a college called PolyTechnic University. According to their slogan, it’s a university for people who aren’t mono-thinkers, but who are poly-thinkers. Must mean it’s the college for me.”

  “That’s what you are—a poly-thinker?”

  “Yes,” I state.

  What else could I be? If I were a mono-thinker, I probably wouldn’t be an insomniac. How is a poly-thinker supposed to fall asleep, and more importantly, stay asleep, when thoughts just won’t stop darting! darting! darting! through my head?

  Lights out. What is Naomi doing this very minute? Is she naked?

  Tucked in. Has Bruce the Second seen her naked?

  Fluff pillow. I’ve seen Naomi naked.

  Mono-hand maneuver. Jesus Christ. Why bother with porn?

  Discard Kleenex under bed. True, she kept her panties on. And I wasn’t allowed to touch. But I’ve SEEN.

  Toss. Turn. Torture.

  A poly-thinker is left no choice but to get out of bed, retrieve Cutie Pie, and go down to the building lobby for a Bruce Society meeting.

  I really want to ask Sue/Bruce, “Do you think Ely has ever seen Naomi naked?” but I don’t. Because I’m sure he has. Gay guys get all the perks with none of the responsibility. It’s so not fair.

  I hate that I only got to see Naomi naked because last summer Ely was seeing some boy and Naomi hated not having full access to Ely’s time so she gave me access to hers. And then Ely dumped the boy and Naomi dumped me.

  Someone ought to dump something on Ely.

  Did Naomi just walk by, barefoot and carrying a laundry load, or am I dreaming? I’ve got to be, because she is an insomniac’s most dire and darling vision, wearing a tiny, tiny, dreamy, dreamy black dress, the kind she wears when she’s going out partying with Ely, and it’s got to be the highest form of injustice how Naomi does not realize that she could look like a dump truck for all that Ely would notice her in the way she wants him to notice her.

  The highlight of Bruce Society meetings comes when Gabriel the doorman notices he has nothing to do after midnight. He leaves his station, walks over to our area, and dumps a deck of cards onto the coffee table in the middle of the square of lobby couches. “Five-card stud?” He sits down with us and shuffles the deck.

  Our members dutifully pull the rolls of quarters from our pockets that serve in place of poker chips as Gabriel deals. Since he took over the night shift last June, I think it’s fair to say that Gabriel has become a very rich guy. I don’t know what kind of salary a novice doorman with no experience makes, but Gabriel could easily fund laundry loads lasting into eternity with all the quarters he’s won.

  Sue/Bruce asks, “I’m still waiting to hear from you, Gabriel, about when you’re going to make college plans. I know you’ve said you wanted to take some time off after high school, but how old are you now? Nineteen? Almost twenty? It’s time, son. I’d be glad to write a recommendation letter for you. What schools interest you? Have you heard of Vassar?”

  Like it’s not obvious Ely put his mother up to gay-baiting Gabriel. Vassar. Right. A stud like Gabriel? So not gay, E
ly. Keep on dreaming. Just like I dream of you being dipped in a vat of vinegar long enough so the smell permanently attaches to your skin and Naomi can’t stand to be around you anymore. Skunk.

  “Dunno.” Gabriel shrugs.

  Dunno? Dunno! This Bruce knows. Case solved: Gabriel the doorman, you are hereby proclaimed a Heterosexual. Make mine a Michelob, too, pal. You know what will also work? The beer that comes with the lederhosen girl whose breasts are spilling out of her uniform as she hands out the brewskis. Yeah.

  Naomi would look awesome as the lederhosen beer girl. I bet she wouldn’t wear panties underneath.

  The Chihuahua barks from my lap, and believe me, my lap is relieved for the distraction. With a tail wag and puppy yelp, Cutie Pie indicates the lobby door, where a new person has arrived. We all look up to see the cause of the disturbance.

  Bruce the Second stands at the lobby entrance. He looks as tired as I don’t feel. Ruined. Or maybe that’s how I want to see him. Really he just looks like Bruce the Second, the main difference being now he appears as confused as he is moronic. Gabriel Bruce the Doorman asks him, “Who are you here to see?”

  It’s like some psychic connection between Cutie Pie and me, because I’m sure her continued barking is really gossip code for “Check it over there, papi. Cuz don’t you know about wha’happen’d?”

  “I’m not sure,” says Bruce the Second, fidgeting with the cell phone in his hand.

  Excuse me? Everyone knows Naomi’s mom is out by 11:00 p.m.—and hell hath no fury like a divorcée on antidepressants who’s awoken by a doorbell or the ring of her daughter’s cell phone. Who else could other-Bruce be here to see?

  I’m so not getting to sleep ’til I find out wha’happen’d.

  ELY

  KEY

  It’s 12:08 a.m. and I look hot. I mean, I should look hot, since I’ve spent the past hour working it. As Naomi always says, I’d fuck me. Of course, I always tell her, “Well, it’s a good thing you’re gonna fuck you, cuz it ain’t gonna be me.” She loves it. Loves it.

  The door chime’s ringing, and I can’t believe that bitch is picking tonight of all nights to be only eight minutes late. If I’d known she would be this early-late, I would have told her twelve-thirty. Then I realize: She probably just wants to borrow something. No fucking way is Naomi ready before one.

  I open the door and it’s Bruce the Second.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” he says.

  “No you weren’t,” I say, just joking.

  He looks down at his feet, embarrassed.

  Fuck.

  “Well, I’m glad you weren’t in the neighborhood,” I say. “Come in.”

  I feel like Naomi’s going to open her door at any moment, and I don’t want that to happen.

  It’s not that she took the news badly. I said, “Hey, I kissed Bruce the Second,” and she was all like, “Yeah, whatever.” Then she said, “I hope you had a better time with him than I have.”

  And I actually kept my mouth shut. Because I didn’t say, “Yeah, I probably did.” Instead I pointed out that she’d never put him on the No Kiss List.

  And she said, “Well, I didn’t bother to put your grandma on the list, either. Some things are just obvious. Bruce the Second’s not exactly your type.”

  I told her she was right. Because she was. Is. He’s totally not my type.

  Although lately, I have to say, my type has seemed to be total bullshit.

  It’s Seventeen that’s letting me down, I tell you. Naomi and me both. I swear, we take those quizzes like they were sponsored by the College Board. When the boy you like walks you to his car, does he: (a) go around and open the door for you, (b) get in the car and then lean over to unlock your door, (c) put you in the trunk, (d) sit you in the backseat and say, “Take off your clothes and I’ll be with you in a second”? Naomi and I were never satisfied with the answers, just like we were never satisfied by the kind of guys who would be photographed for Seventeen, looking so goofy in their board shorts that you had to know they were the managing editor’s nephews or sons. We’d make up new quizzes for each other— Would your ideal date be underwater or atop a sea of lava? — and the prize at the end would always be dinner for two at whatever restaurant we were walking toward. More often than not, we’d take the quizzes for each other. And we were almost always right.

  Except the Bruce the Second Quiz. When she’d asked me, Would you rather go out with: (a) a former First Lady, (b) gorillas in the mist, (c) a woman who looked like Stephen King, or (d) a future accountant, I went with (b). But it’s not the gorillas at my door now, is it?

  I take Bruce the Second into the living room. He sits down on the couch. I offer him a drink. And then I’m like, whoa, we’re returning to the scene of the crime, aren’t we? But that wasn’t the idea. Not mine. And it doesn’t look like it’s his, either. He doesn’t seem to have the remotest clue about what he’s doing.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to have a drink?” I offer. “I’ve already had two.”

  Truth: It’s three, but since two of them were only about half as strong as the other one, I figure that counts as two. Usually it takes at least four for me to start feeling like life’s a musical. And it takes at least five for me to start feeling like life’s a disco musical. It’s a very expensive habit, unless you happen to have very cheap taste.

  “Bruce?” I ask. Because he’s turned about as expressive as the couch he’s sitting on. Which, incidentally, is beige floral. Very lesbian.

  Lord, I shouldn’t have kissed him. But, Lord, if You hadn’t wanted me to kiss him, why did You put him in my room like that?

  “I’m sorry,” Bruce says. He’s turned away from me again, so it’s like he’s apologizing to the wall.

  “What for?” I ask. It’s a genuine question. I have no idea.

  “For coming here so late. For wanting to see you.”

  “It’s no problem,” I say. “I was just about to go out anyway. So it’s not like you woke me up.”

  I don’t touch the “wanting to see you” part, because honestly it’s setting off the Neediness Alarm in my head.

  The door chime rings again. I hear Naomi scraping at the door, calling, “Let me in!” She doesn’t really care if the moms are home—one of them loves her and the other one owes her. Conveniently Naomi forfeited her key to my apartment a few months ago, when we fought over whether it was wrong of me to give a sweater of hers to a boy I wanted to sleep with. She threw the key at me; I kept it. She asked for it back four days later, after I’d stolen the goddamn sweater from the boy’s apartment, figuring he’d blame his hairy roommate. I kept both the sweater and the key, because I had to teach her to never throw a key at me again. With her aim and my luck, she’d end up poking out both of my eyes.

  “C’mon,” I tell Bruce. I grab his hand and pull him back to my bedroom. He seems to remember the way from yesterday. I figure I can just close him in there for a little while. But then I have one of those brilliant revelations that screams, You. Are. A. Dumbfuck. Because no way is Naomi coming into this apartment without pawing through my room for something.

  So I tell Bruce to get into the closet. He does it, and as I stare at the closed door I think, Did I really just tell Bruce to get into the closet? That is too fucking obvious on so many levels.

  Naomi is treating my apartment door like it’s starring in the seventh sequel to Saw, and I know the assault won’t compare to the barrage of questions I’ll face if I don’t open it in the next thirteen nanoseconds.

  “Where the fuck were you?” she says as soon as she gets in the apartment.

  “I was jerking off and you startled me so much I dropped the photo of you into the toilet,” I say. “Calm down. You’re acting like it’s that time of the month and I’m the OPEC of tampons.”

  She looks good, but unfinished. I give her the once-over while she gives me the third degree. Neither of us needs a mirror when the other one’s around.

  “Is that my wristband? Are
you ready to go? Why aren’t you answering your door? Are you ever going to give me that key back?”

  This is all precious, since any gay boy worth his Madonna singles could tell that she’s come over to borrow a belt. Naomi hates hates hates the fact that we fit into the same jeans, but that doesn’t stop her from treating my clothes like I only have them on loan from her.

  “I’m going to wear the red one,” I say. “I know I’m wearing this one right now, but I was about to change to the red one.”

  “Fuck you. You look hot and you know it. You’re just saying the red one to throw me off the trail of your lick-my-hips-with-your-hands glitter belt. And I’m telling you, tonight that baby’s calling this waist Mama.”

  There’s no use arguing, especially since she’s totally paying for my drinks tonight, whether she knows it (awwww, Ely’s puppy dog eyes) or not (stupid waif still hates purses enough to ask me to hold her plastic wallet).

  She bounds into my room, and I swear it’s like I can hear the closet breathing. Bad move bad move bad move.

  “Over here,” I say, thanking the Lord that I’m too goddamn busy to ever get my used clothes beyond my desk chair.

  I hand her the glitter belt.

  “Looks better on me,” I say.

  “Only when it’s fastening you to the bedpost,” she shoots back.

  Spoken like a true ignorant, which is what I love about my girl.

  “All set?” I say.

  “Do you mind if Bruce comes along?” Naomi asks. Clearly I balk, because she laughs and says, “What? He’s downstairs. I needed clean underwear, okay? I went to the laundry room, and he was hanging out with the sleeplessheads in the lobby.”

  I’m so confused.

  “The First,” Naomi says. “Not your cheap-thrill kissing partner. I swear, if he didn’t have such good teeth, I’d let you have your little mindfuck for a little while longer.”