Naomi and Ely's No Kiss List

by Rachel Cohn

  Track 7

  Green Day: “Poprocks & Coke”

  I’m not sure I want to know how this song slipped into her mix.

  Is Naomi one of those pre- or post-fans? Meaning, does she have a love of Green Day starting with their early album Dookie, or is she a listener who discovered them only after the twelve-year-old-girl set embraced “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”?

  Naomi yawns. “I don’t know. Catchy beat for a stoner song?”

  “What?” This is sacrilege. Catchy beat, sure—but it’s a song about devotion and longing and not about getting high. I sit down at the empty end of the sofa. It’s tempting to place her feet on my lap and offer her a foot massage, but aside from the doorman code of what would be extremely unbecoming conduct, it’s more tempting to find out how Naomi could be so musically misinformed. “What makes you think it’s a stoner song?”

  “Poprocks. Coke.”

  “That’s just the song title. The actual words Poprocks and Coke aren’t sung once in the lyrics.”

  “Oh.” I can never tell when Naomi looks at me if it’s really attraction I sense underneath her gaze, or just disinterest. “Is it really that important?” She shuts her eyes.

  Of course it’s that important.

  I can see the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathes underneath my jacket.

  They are also important.

  I want to, but I won’t give up on her.

  Track 8

  Destiny’s Child: “Bootylicious”

  I don’t think she’s ready for my jelly, so I let her catnap. Watch her.

  When she came home tonight, before she took refuge on the lobby sofa, she approached me at the doorman station. I was supposed to be watching the feed from the security monitors outside the building, but really I was watching Court TV. I figured Naomi would do her usual act when she appears at my doorman station—bore into the center of my soul with her eyes and then say nothing more to me than “hey” before walking away, confident (correctly) that I’d be paying close attention to the sly strut of her hips. Maybe she’d send me a suggestive text message from the elevator.

  “Hey,” she said, gravel-voiced. Bloodshot eyes.

  I nodded and said nothing. Ready to jump up and catch her should she fall.

  I expected her to walk off toward the elevator. Instead she announced, “Tonight we were going to put Robin-guy on trial for crimes against womankind, so Robin-guy said, ‘Okay, but only if I can film it,’ which goes to show why he needed to be on trial anyway, right? God, so self-absorbed. But Robin-girl— I really hope she breaks his heart, I really do—was like, ‘Well, we need an impartial jury,’ so I went, ‘Gabriel should be the judge, because he’s an archangel.’ ”

  This is what worries me. The unoriginal associations Naomi makes with names as well as songs.

  But she’s thinking about me when I’m not there. Now I know that.

  I like that. It dilutes the worry and replaces it with hope.

  “So why didn’t you come find me so I could preside?” I asked.

  “Robin-guy went to find his Super 8, but he found his water bong instead and then we forgot about the trial.”

  My dad thinks I’m missing out on a great growing experience by not going to college, but I suspect he’s mistaken.

  As Naomi naps on the sofa, I take her in. She may sleep in a fetal position, but her silky hair falling over the sofa armrest and her bare legs exposed below her short skirt are damn sexy and damn well not child’s play. Her sleep is anything but peaceful. She breathes unevenly and her body jerks. I imagine lying in bed next to her, stroking that hair, my leg wrapped over hers, holding her and soothing her.

  She smells like marijuana smoke. It’s not a bad smell. Just a sad one.

  If I was her boyfriend, I’d keep her stimulated in much healthier ways.

  Musically. Physically. Spiritually.

  Track 11

  Belle & Sebastian: “Asleep on a Sunbeam”

  Mesmerized by watching Naomi asleep, I must have dozed off myself. I wake up to the sound of footsteps on the marble lobby floor.

  Ely stands before us, alone. Where’s the boyfriend?

  As weird as it is to see Ely returning home alone, it’s also a relief. It would be awkward if Naomi were to wake and see Ely. But if Bruce was standing here also—just plain painful.

  It must be a song Ely liked.

  It’s Ely’s turn now to absorb the vision of Naomi, crunched up on the sofa. Ely’s eyes take in her hair, down to my doorman jacket covering her body, then on to her feet, and finally his eyes move over. To me. Next to her.

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here. It’s not like I’m worried about Ely exposing me for breaking the doorman code of conduct. He’d be doing me a favor, getting me fired from this job.

  It’s that the silence hanging between us, the awkward and painful glance we share, acknowledges that I’m sitting in his seat.

  I start to stand up, but Ely shakes his head and gestures for me to stay seated.

  “It’s cool,” he whispers.

  I watch him stride away to the elevator.

  Skip

  At five-thirty, I have to wake her. I gently tap on her ankles. “Naomi,” I whisper. “People are going to start coming through anytime now. You’d better get up.”

  She opens her eyes and smiles lazily at me. “You’re a nice face to see first thing in the morning.” She’s still baked— content—but the guard is still down.

  She’s happy to see my face upon waking. That’s something.

  Naomi sits up, stretches her arms, then rises from the sofa. She hands me back the doorman jacket. “Thanks” is all she says. Guard rising back up. She walks off toward the elevator without a good-bye.

  We can’t go back to “Hey.”

  “Hey, Naomi,” I call out after her.

  She turns back around. “Yeah?”

  How can I know if I’m asking too much if I never actually ask?

  I stride over to the elevator. I ask:

  “Did you like any of the songs on the mix I gave you?”

  The elevator door opens. I step inside and beckon her in. If someone has dry cleaning to drop off—well, it can wait until I return downstairs. I hit the button for the fifteenth floor.

  “I liked that Kirsty MacColl song,” she says as the elevator climbs up. “I didn’t know anything about her ’til I listened to that song, but I liked that song so much that I got one of her CDs.”

  Bingo, as the building residents like to say. If I had chosen one song on the whole playlist for her to like best, the Kirsty MacColl song would have been it.

  “Which Kirsty MacColl did you buy?”

  “I didn’t buy it. Mom Susan ‘borrowed’ it for me from Ely’s collection.” Naomi puts her index finger to her mouth. “Shhh, don’t tell. Hey, you know what? You and Mom Susan. You both like cowboy songs.”

  “How do you know I like cowboy songs?”

  “That song with the yodeling? ‘Blue Yodel’?”

  Naomi really did listen to the mix I made her.

  There’s potential for her musical taste to improve. I feel it.

  Naomi adds, almost laughing, “When you’re winning Susan’s quarters in those insomniac poker games in the building lobby, I feel obliged to tell you that you’re taking away her secret reserve of funds for cowboy songs.”

  “Like what songs?” I really want Naomi to know the songs.

  She shrugs. “This guy. Marty Somebody.”

  Close enough.

  “Marty Robbins?” I ask. My father’s favorite singing-inthe-shower inspiration.

  “Yeah, that guy! Mom Susan used to sing us his cowboy songs when she was putting us to sleep.”

  “Which was your favorite song?”

  “I think it was called ‘Big Iron.’ But when Mom Susan sang the part about the stranger having a big iron on his hip, she’d always motion her hands like she was ironing a shirt instead of slinging a Smith & Wesson. I think
I was twelve before I realized a big iron meant a gun and not an actual iron.”

  The elevator door opens and Naomi steps out.

  I’m not going to point out that Susan put Ely and Naomi to bed when they were children like siblings. There was nothing for Naomi to wait for.

  “Good night, Naomi,” I say. I hit the button to return to the lobby. “Sweet dreams.”

  “Patsy Cline?” she says as the door closes between us.

  BRUCE THE SECOND

  FAIR

  “Tonight,” Ely says, “we’re going to a drag version of Lilith Fair.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. Except for the “drag” part. Which is enough to put me on edge.

  We’re in his room. He’s putting on a pink shirt and a pink tie. He’s putting on mascara. The closest I’ve ever come to wearing makeup is when my grandmothers kissed me on the cheek and left lipstick there.

  “It’ll be great,” he goes on. “There’s this one drag queen who does Aimee Mann and calls herself—well, she calls herself Aimee Man, with one n. And then there’s Fiona Adam’s-Apple and Sheryl Crowbar and Natalie Merchant-of-Penis. Pronounced so it rhymes with Venice. Of course.”

  Of course.

  The truth? And I can’t believe I’m thinking it, but it is the truth: We should be making out right now. His moms are at their book club. The apartment’s all ours; it’s not like my dorm room, where you can hear all the people in the hall and wonder if one of them is about to knock, like it was last night before Ely left me to my “study sleep.” I’m still tired tonight, but certainly willing. It looked promising when he kissed me hello and it lasted for fifteen minutes. Then, when it started to get grabby and unzippy, he got skittish. And while I know it’s because we have plans, and I know it’s because he probably spent an hour putting his outfit together, and I know it’s because I’m spending the night and there will be plenty of time later, I still can’t help but feel a little unsexy. I mean, I’m supposed to be the anxious, hesitant, newly gay one here, right? And then he starts talking about drag queens like they’re all personal friends of his, and I feel not only unsexy, but also completely uncool. And unprepared. And inept. And insecure. Really, all it takes is one unword for all the other unwords and inwords to break through.

  “It’ll be fun,” Ely says. This is his phrase for c’mon, try it. I hear it a lot, whether he’s compelling me to have Indian food for the first time (verdict: fun), see a black-and-white-and-subtitled movie about the very, very, verrrrry slow breakup of a marriage (not fun), or lick whipped cream off his chest (tasty).

  He’s so predictable with his “It’ll be fun.” And I’m just as predictable, because just like every other time, I go right along.

  “What’s a Lilith Fair?” I ask. “It sounds like a place where lesbians run around in Renaissance costumes.”

  “You’re not that far off,” Ely tells me. “It was an all-female tour in the 1990s that Sarah McLachlan started after she was told that nobody would ever pay to see more than one female performer on the same bill. It made millions.”

  “Is what I’m wearing okay?” my unsexy, uncool, unprepared, inept insecurity asks.

  I know that most boyfriends would shrug it off and say I look fine. Or even, on a good day, good. But the plus and minus of any transaction with Ely is the direct truth. So instead of a “Yes, dear, you’re ready to go,” I get a “Do you want to borrow my penguin shirt? It would look great on you.”

  God help me, I think he’s going to give me a black shirt with a white bib, which on my body would look just about . . . penguin. But apparently, Penguin is a brand, because the shirt he gives me is five shades of green, sort of like a preppy test pattern. Green is usually a color I like, but I’m not sure about so many of them at once.

  Ely chuckles. “You look scared,” he says. “Let’s stick with black.”

  I love how casual he is with his clothes. I’m an only child; I’ve never really worn other people’s clothes. And nobody’s ever really wanted to wear mine.

  “When in doubt, go with black”—that’s what Naomi would tell me. And now Ely’s saying the same exact thing. I wonder which one learned it from the other. Or if they learned it at the same time, at the NYC Cool Kid orientation I missed.

  His shirt is way too tight on me, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  “I feel naked,” I say. I can see the shape of my nipples.

  “Here,” Ely says, coming close to me with the mascara pencil, “this’ll help.”

  I step back.

  “I think I’ll pass on the mascara,” I say.

  Ely smiles. “Eyeliner,” he tells me. “Not mascara. Eyeliner.”

  “I like my natural lines,” I say.

  “I like your natural lines, too.”

  He makes a show of putting the pencil down, then comes over and wraps his arms around me.

  “Close your eyes,” he says.

  “What are you going to do to me?” I ask. Maybe he has some lipstick in his pocket.

  “Nothing,” he says. “Trust me.”

  I close my eyes. I feel him stepping back. Then I feel closeness again. A little brushing on my cheeks.

  Eyelashes. His eyelashes. Working their way to mine.

  “Be careful,” he whispers. “I might rub off on you.”

  And I whisper, “Bollocks.”

  The Lilith Fair is on the Lower East Side, at a club that I’m not sure I can get into.

  “I don’t have an ID,” I remind Ely.

  “If the doorman gives you trouble, I’ll just show him my dick,” Ely replies.

  I don’t feel much better.

  I feel even worse when we get there and find a line full of hipless hipsters, drag queens holding court, go-go boy aspirants, and flavas of the week.

  “I guess word got out,” Ely mumbles.

  It’s almost sweet to see Ely in a crowd that’s never heard of him. It means he has to wait on line like everyone else.

  “This one time?” Ely says, and I almost expect him to continue with “At band camp?” But instead he says the quarantined name—“Naomi and I decided to go to the Night of a Thousand Stevies. Just to see all the girls and guys dressed like Stevie Nicks. And Naomi? She thought it would be really funny if she went as Stevie Wonder. This one drag queen nearly suffocated her in muslin. It was a time.”

  He’s not only said her name, but he’s tied it to a good memory. It makes me hopeful, but I don’t want to jinx it by pointing it out.

  The line is moving slowly, and some people who were ahead of us are actually walking back the way they came— meaning: The bouncer is actually bouncing.

  There is no way I’m going to make the cut.

  I don’t know this as an objective fact; I’ve never actually been bounced in my entire life, for the simple reason that I’ve never put myself in a position where there was any risk of being bounced. I mean, you can get through life pretty easily if you avoid places guarded by bouncers. It’s not like they’re at supermarkets or libraries.

  “What’s the name of this place, anyway?” I ask.

  “I dunno,” Ely replies. “It changes every night.”

  Odds are the name’s a pretentious singular noun— bouncered hipster establishments are usually named with a pretentious singular noun. Not unlike perfumes. I put on a little Enchantress in order to go downtown to Fugue. Or I sprayed my wrist with some Mannerism, and we hopped from Heathen to Backwash to Striation and then ended the night at End.

  Personally, if I ever open a club, I’m naming it Inquisition.

  The bouncer tonight is certainly a sight I’ve never seen in econ class. It’s this ginormous guy dressed in what looks like an inflatable pouch of parachute fabric. Ely laughs when he sees the guy, but it’s a joke I don’t get. Which is made even worse when we get to the front of the line and the bouncer looks at me and asks, “Who am I?”

  I’m stuck on Do I know you? when Ely jumps in and says, “You’re Missy Elliot! Lilith Fair’s token bl
ack girl from year two!”

  This is clearly the right answer, but the bouncer isn’t about to give me the prize.

  “I wasn’t asking you,” he says to Ely. “Now you get to go in, but he stays out.”

  This is nothing short of humiliating. I know Ely’s getting in because he’s hot, and I’m being bounced because I’m not— musical trivia aside.

  “C’mon . . . pleeeeeeease?” Ely says, batting his eyelashes.

  The bouncer shakes his head and starts to look at the guy behind me, who has done his hair in braids.

  “I’ll show you my dick!” Ely playfully offers.

  This makes the bouncer smile and raise his eyebrow.

  “Here,” Ely says, and before I can stop him, he’s unbuttoned his fly and pulled out the waistband of his underwear so the bouncer can take a look.

  “Not bad,” the bouncer says to Ely. “You’re a lucky guy.” Then he looks at me and says, “You are, too.”

  As I walk by, the bouncer spanks me on the ass.

  I am so not in the mood.

  Ely’s beaming, like the winning contestant on a reality show.

  “You really didn’t have to do that,” I have to say.

  “No worries. All in a day’s work.”

  And I guess what I should’ve said is: You really shouldn’t have done that. Not that there’s anything wrong with what he did—it’s his dick, and he can show it to whoever he wants. In passing. But it’s like he’s given me a new definition of himself for me to consider and feel inadequate about. I am not the kind of guy who has a boyfriend who shows his dick to a stranger. I know this. And he has just proved himself to be a guy who shows his dick to a stranger. And he’s not even drunk.

  Therefore.

  Ergo.

  Erg.

  Argh.

  Ugh.

  We’re on completely different tracks now, our evening splitting in two directions. His is up. Mine is down. The club is packed, and the DJ is blasting beat-heavy remixes of ordinarily mellow Liliths. Ely’s loving it, loving it— I know this because he’s calling out, “I’m loving this—loving this!” He gets a Fiona Appletini at the bar, and I get one, too, but for a different reason—his is to enhance and mine is to deny.

  My boyfriend’s a hit. Other boys are coming over to flirt. Some are clearly repeat flirters, and Ely clearly doesn’t remember any of their names. As he talks to them, he holds my hand. Ordinarily this would make me feel giddy with mine-mine-mine-ness, but now I feel like I should say to him, Oh no no no, don’t mind me, you go ahead and have a good time. I’ll just go home and watch PBS.