by Rachel Cohn
“Merry Christmas. Tell me something that’s a drag.”
The bouncer she-man’s request at the door to the club would have confused me before Thanksgiving, but because of meeting Shee’nah through my caroling group a few weeks ago, I understood the system.
Shee’nah, who is a proud member of this “new now next wave of fabulosity” in the downtown club scene, had explained the drag-on ladies as being “not quite drag queens, not quite dragons, there for you to drag your woes to.”
And so, to a very large, very gold-lamé-dress-wearing club bouncer who had a dragon’s mask on her head, I whined, “I didn’t get any presents for Christmas.”
“Sister, this is a Hanukkah show. Who cares about your Christmas presents? Come on, do me better. What’s your drag?”
“There may or may not be a person of unknowable name and face inside that club who may or may not be looking for me.”
“Bored.”
The door did not budge open.
I leaned into the drag-on lady and whispered, “I’ve never been kissed. In that certain way.”
Drag-on lady’s eyes widened. “Seriously? With those boobs?”
Gosh! Ex-squeamish me?
I covered my chest with my hands, ready to bolt.
“You are serious!” the drag-on lady said, finally opening the door to me. “Get in there already! And mazel tov!”
I kept my arms covering my chest as I entered the club. Inside, all I could see was screaming-thrashing-moshing crazy people. It smelled like beer and puke. It was as close an approximation to hell as I could imagine. Immediately I wished to return outside and pass the night chatting with the drag-on lady, and hearing everyone else’s tales of woe at the door.
Was Snarl playing some kind of cosmic joke on me, sending me to such a dump?
I was scared, frankly.
If I’d ever been intimidated trying to make conversation with a posse of lip-glossed sixteen-year-old girls at school, they were child’s play in comparison to the formidable group of club folks.
Meet [dramatic drumroll, please] the punky hipsters.
I was easily the youngest person there, and the only person there by herself, so far as I could tell. And for a Hanukkah party, no one was dressed appropriately. I seemed to be the only person there dressed festively. Everyone else was in skinny jeans and crappy T-shirts. Like teenage girls, the hipsters congregated in cooler-than-you packs, wearing bored expressions on their faces, but unlike the teenage girls I knew, I didn’t think any of them wanted to ask to copy my math homework or play soccer. The hipsters’ sneers in my direction immediately dismissed me as Not One of Them. I can’t say I wasn’t grateful about that.
I wanted to go home to the safety of my bed and to my stuffed animals and to my people I’d known my whole life. I had nothing to say to anybody, and fervently prayed that no one there would have anything to say to me. I was starting to hate Snarl for throwing me into this lion’s den. The worst punch I’d swung him was Madame Tussauds. But wax people don’t pass judgment and say to each other “What is that girl wearing? Are there taps on her boots?” when I walk by. I don’t think.
Ah, but … the music. When the band of young Hasidic punk boys took the stage—a guitar player, a bass player, some horns, some violins, and, strangely, no drummer—and let loose their explosion of sounds, then I understood Snarl’s master plan.
The band played a style I’d heard before, when one of my cousins married a Jewish musician. At their wedding reception, a klezmer band played, which Langston told me was like a kind of Jewish punk-jazz fusion. The music at this club was like if you mixed the horah dance with Green Day playing a Mardi Gras parade? The guitar and bass provided the sound’s foundation, while the horns riffed with the violins, and the band members’ voices laughed and wept and sang all at once.
It was clown insane. I loved it. My arms removed themselves from protecting my chest. I needed to move! I danced my tuchus off, not caring what anyone thought. I twirled in the middle of the mosh, thrashed my hair around, and jumped like I was on a pogo stick. I tapped my boot taps on the floor like I was part of the music, too, not caring what anyone thought.
Apparently, the wildly dancing hipsters thought the same as me about the music, dancing around me like we were in a punk horah dance. Maybe klezmer music was a universal language, like soccer. I couldn’t believe how much I enjoyed myself.
I realized that Snarl had given me what I asked for as a Christmas present. Hope and belief. I’d always hoped but never believed that I could have such an adventure on my own. That I could own it. And love it. But it had happened. The notebook had made it so.
I was sad when the band’s set ended, but also glad. My heart rate needed to come down. And it needed to find its next message.
While the opening band left the stage, I went to the bathroom, as instructed.
May I just say, if I ever have to return to that bathroom in my lifetime, I’m bringing a bottle of Clorox.
I took a paper towel from the sink and placed it on the toilet to sit down on; no way would I use that toilet. There was writing all over the stall wall—trails of graffiti and quotes, messages to lovers and friends, to exes and enemies. It was almost like a wailing wall—the punked-out place to puke out your heart. If it wasn’t so filthy and smelly, it could almost have doubled as a museum art installation—so many words and feelings, so many diverse styles of scribbling, with messages written in Magic Marker, different-colored pens, eyeliner, nail polish, glitter pens, and Sharpies.
I related most to this scrawled line:
BECAUSE I’M SO UNCOOL AND SO AFRAID
I thought, Good for you, Uncool and So Afraid. You made it here anyway. Maybe that’s half the battle?
I wondered what happened to that person. I wondered if I could leave him or her a red notebook to find out.
My favorite scrawl was written in black Magic Marker. It said:
The Cure. For the Exes. I’m sorry, Nick. Will you kiss me again?
Because suddenly, on the night-(horah-)mare after Christmas, as I sat on a filthy toilet in a stinky bathroom, dripping in sweat from dancing, I really really wanted that certain someone to kiss. In a way I’d never wished for in my life. It wasn’t about the fantasy. That was now replaced with hope and belief that it could happen, for real.
(I’ve never kissed anyone for real, in a romantic way, before. I hadn’t lied to the drag-on lady. I don’t think my pillow counts.
(Should I confess this to Snarl in the notebook? Full disclosure, so he had a fair chance to run?
(Nah.)
There were so many messages on the bathroom wall that I might never have found his, except I recognized his handwriting. The message was a few lines down from the Cure kiss message. He’d painted a strip of white paint as background, then alternated the words in blue and black Magic Marker—a nice Hanukkah-themed message, I guessed. So Snarl was secretly a sentimentalist. Or maybe part Jewish?
The message said:
Please return the notebook to the handsome gumshoe wearing the fedora hat.
Well, just dreidel me verklempt.
Was Snarl here?
Or was I going to meet a kid named Boomer again?
I stepped back out into the club. In all the black jeans and black T-shirts and bad lighting, I finally identified two men in a corner by the bar wearing fedora hats, although one had a yarmulke pinned over it. Both guys wore sunglasses. I noticed the one not wearing the yarmulke lean down and scrape a piece of gum from his shoe with a paper clip. (I think he used a paper clip. Gosh, I hope he didn’t use his fingernail—gross.)
In the club’s darkness, it was impossible to make out their faces.
I pulled out the notebook, then changed my mind and put it in my purse for safekeeping, in case I had the wrong guys. If they were the right guys, shouldn’t they be saying something to me like, Hey, we’re here for the notebook?
They shot me their glazed, punky hipster glares instead.
&n
bsp; I was struck mute, panic-afflicted.
I ran out of the club as fast as I could.
Mortifyingly, I ran right out of one of my boots. Really. I’d neglected to wear socks over my tights so the too-big boots would fit properly, and like a Shrilly Cinderella at the indie-gayjewfire ball, I slipped right out of one of my boots.
No way was I going back for it.
Only when the cab dropped me off at home and I took out my wallet to pay the driver did I realize:
I’d left the gumshoe a boot and no notebook.
The notebook was still in my purse.
I’d given Snarl no clues how to find me back.
nine
–Dash–
December 26th
I was woken up at eight in the morning by a banging on the door. I stumbled into the front hallway, squinted into the peephole, and found Dov and Yohnny peering back at me, fedoras askew.
“Hey, guys,” I said after I opened the door. “Isn’t it a little early for you?”
“Haven’t gone to sleep yet!” Dov said. “We’re all Red Bullish and Diet Coked–up, if you know what I mean.”
“Can we crash here?” Yohnny asked. “I mean, soon. Like, in two minutes.”
“How could I turn you away?” I asked. “How was the show?”
“You should’ve stayed,” Dov said. “Silly Rabbi was awesome. I mean, they’re no Fistful of Assholes, but they’re about eighteen times better than Ozrael. And let me tell you, your girl busted some moves, man.”
I smiled. “Really?”
“She put the ho in horah!” Dov exclaimed.
Yohnny shook his head. “It was more like the rah. I mean, she was more like the rah.”
Dov hit Yohnny on the shoulder with what looked like a boot.
“Bitch, I’m talking here!” Dov cried.
“Someone’s not getting to break the glass tonight,” Yohnny muttered.
I stepped in. “Guys! Do you have something for me?”
“Yeah,” Dov said, holding out the boot. “This.”
“What is it?” I asked.
Dov looked at me flatly. “What is it? Well, let’s see …”
Yohnny said, “There wasn’t any notebook. I mean, she held it out to Dov, but then she ran away with it. Only, she lost her boot in the process. Don’t ask me how—it seems to defy the law of physics for a foot to fall out of a boot. So maybe she wanted to leave it behind for you.”
“Cinderella!” Dov cried. “Let down your hair!”
“Yeah,” Yohnny went on, “I think it’s time for bed. Mind if we crawl into a cave?”
“You can use my mom’s room,” I said. Then I took the boot from Dov and looked inside.
“No notebook,” Yohnny said. “I thought that, too. I even checked the floor, which was not a pleasant experience. I can honestly say, if the notebook had fallen out, it wouldn’t have gotten far—it would’ve stuck right where it landed.”
“Ew. Sorry. I mean, thanks.” I led them to my mom’s room. It felt a little wrong to loan out her bed, but it was also Giovanni’s bed, and I loved the idea of casually mentioning to him that two clubbed-out gay unorthodox Jews had caved there together while he was gone. I removed the bedspread while Yohnny kept Dov propped up; just the sight of a sleeping place had drained all the Red Bull from his veins.
“What time do you want a wake-up call?” I asked.
“You going to Priya’s party tonight?” Yohnny said.
I nodded.
“Well, wake us up a little before that.”
Delicately, Yohnny removed his hat, then Dov’s. I bid them good night, even though the morning was just getting started.
I examined the boot. I pondered it. I searched for secret messages etched into the leather. I removed the insole to see if there was a note underneath. I asked the boot questions. I played with its tassel. I felt that Lily had outriddled me.
If she hadn’t left anything, I would’ve thought, Wow. That’s it. It’s over. But the boot was a clue, and if there was a clue, that meant the mystery was still intact.
I decided to retrace my steps. I knew Macy’s had probably opened early for the day after Christmas, so I called them right away … and was put on hold for fifteen minutes.
Finally, an exasperated voice answered, “Macy’s—how may I help you?”
“Hi,” I said. “I was wondering if Santa was still there.”
“Sir, it’s the day after Christmas.”
“I know—but is there any way to track down Santa?”
“Sir, I don’t have time for this.”
“No, you don’t understand—I really need to have a word with the man who was Santa four days ago.”
“Sir, I appreciate your desire to speak to Santa, but this is our busiest day of the year and I have other calls I must attend to. Maybe you should just write him a letter—do you need the address?”
“One North Pole?” I guessed.
“Precisely. Have a nice day, sir.”
And then she hung up.
The Strand, of course, didn’t open early for the day after Christmas. I had to wait until nine-thirty to get through to someone there.
“Hi,” I said, “I was wondering if Mark was around?”
“Mark?” a bored male voice asked.
“Yeah. Works at the information desk.”
“There are about twenty of us named Mark. Can you be more specific?”
“Dark hair. Glasses. Ironic detachment. Scruff.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down.”
“He’s a little heavier than the rest of you?”
“Oh, I think I know the Mark you mean. He’s not here today. Let me see—yeah, he’s on tomorrow.”
“Could you tell me his last name?”
“I’m sorry,” the guy said, pleasantly enough, “but we don’t disclose personal information to stalkers. If you want to leave a message, I can get it to him tomorrow.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“I thought so.”
So, not much progress there. But at least I knew he’d be around the next day.
As a last resort, I left Dov and Yohnny asleep in my mom’s bed and ponied up another twenty-five bucks to hang with the waxed-out celebrities. But the woman guard was nowhere to be found, as if she’d been moved into the back room with the statues of the cast of Baywatch.
When I got back to the apartment, I decided to write to Lily anyway.
I fear you may have outmatched me, because now I find these words have nowhere to go. It’s hard to answer a question you haven’t been asked. It’s hard to show that you tried unless you end up succeeding.
I stopped. It wasn’t the same without the notebook. It didn’t feel like a conversation. It felt like I was talking to silence.
I wished I had been there to see her dancing. To witness her there. To get to know her that way.
I could have looked up all the Lilys in Manhattan. I could have shown up on the doorsteps of all the Lilys of Brooklyn. I might have scoured the Lilys of Staten Island, sifted through the Lilys of the Bronx, and treated the Lilys of Queens like royalty. But I had a feeling I wasn’t supposed to find her that way. She was not a needle. This was not a haystack. We were people, and people had ways of finding each other.
I could hear the sounds of sleep coming from my mom’s bedroom—Dov snoring, Yohnny murmuring. I called Boomer to remind him of the party, then reminded myself who was going to be there.
Sofia. It was strange she hadn’t told me she would be in town, but it wasn’t that strange. We’d had the easiest breakup imaginable—it hadn’t even felt like a breakup, just a parting. She had been going back to Spain, and nobody had expected us to stay together through that. Our love had been liking; our feelings had been ordinary, not Shakespearean. I still felt fondness for her—fondness, that pleasant, detached mix of admiration and sentiment, appreciation and nostalgia.
I tried to prepare myself for the inevitable conversation. The awkward teetering. The simple smi
les. In other words, a return to our old ways. No sharp shocks of chemistry, just the low hum of knowing our place. We’d had her going-away party at Priya’s, too, and I remembered it now. Even though we’d already had the talk about things ending when she left, I was still put in the boyfriend position; standing next to her for so many goodbyes made me feel the goodbye a little more deeply within myself. By the time most of the people had left, the feelings of fondness were nearly overwhelming me—not just a fondness for her, but a fondness for our friends, our time together, and the future with her that I’d never quite wanted.
“You look sad,” she told me. We were alone in Priya’s bedroom, only a few coats left on the bed.
“You look exhausted,” I told her. “Exhausted from the goodbyes.”
She nodded and said yes—a little redundancy I’d always noticed in her without ever saying something about it. She’d nod and say yes. She’d shake her head and say no.
If it hadn’t been over, I might have hugged her. If it hadn’t been over, I might have kissed her. Instead, I surprised both of us by saying, “I’m going to miss you.”
It was one of those moments when you feel the future so much that it humbles the present. Her absence was palpable, even though she was still in the room.
“I’m going to miss you, too,” she said. And then she slipped out of the moment, slipped out of the us, by adding, “I’m going to miss everyone.”
We had never lied to each other (at least not to my knowledge). But we had never gone out of our way to reveal ourselves, either. Instead, we’d let the facts speak for themselves. I think I’m in the mood for Chinese food. I have to go now so I can finish my homework. I really enjoyed that movie. My family is moving back to Spain, so I guess that means we’re going to be apart.