She looks back at me, beaming in exactly the same way she did when she told me she paid “only” fifty bucks for the dog. But I can tell that the eagerness in her eyes isn’t just about taking care of the dog. Some things are making sense to me now. The impulsiveness, the rambling — she’s using anything she can to not think about her ex. Like, if she just keeps moving, keeps talking — if she doesn’t slow down — she won’t have time or brain space to think about him. She’s running from her breakup. I’m trying to run after mine.
And here we both are, in the same exact place.
4. TAKE CARE OF SOMEBODY ELSE — SO THAT YOU REMEMBER HOW TO TAKE CARE OF YOU.
It’s hard to think about how to take care of yourself, isn’t it? A lot of us convince ourselves that we’re Just Fine, that we don’t need looking after. Breakups can show us that, yes, we do need looking after — and when we suddenly start needing to be looked after, we often feel like there’s no one around to look after us. And, oftentimes, our heads are so compromised by the emotional tsunamis raging through them that we just don’t know what we want — or what we need. At times like this, it can be good to find someone who needs You more than You need someone else …
*
About fifteen minutes later, I’m carrying the dog, who seems to really like the taste of my face, to the Starbucks at Second Avenue and Ninth Street. Along the way, Charlotte ponders Winny’s new name. I suggest “Mistake” — a joke I instantly regret, because neither one of us seems all that ready to laugh about stuff. But Charlotte actually likes it.
“Do you see him?” she asks.
We’re looking for this “Vinnie” guy — though it’s not like I’d recognize him if my life depended on it. But Charlotte’s eyes lit up at the mention of caroling, and I’m pretty sure mine lit up when I realized I wouldn’t have to endure the Empire State Building tonight, so here we are.
I look down Ninth Street and see that there’s a group of people standing in a shivering huddle outside the coffee shop. Do they look like carolers? I have no idea. Just like I have no idea if one of them is the mysterious Vinnie. I can’t admit to Charlotte I have no idea who I’m looking for, because I’ve already kind of made out that Vinnie’s a good buddy — why did I do that? — so I’m acting like I can’t quite see through all the winter coats and beanie hats on the folks in this crowd. As we get closer, I realize that Charlotte and I are going to bring down the average age of this group by about twenty-two years. I slow to a stop about ten feet from them, Mistake trying to wriggle free from my arms to run over to the new people I’m not sure about caroling with when, thank God, I recognize somebody — just not somebody I expected to see among carolers.
“What’s up, Cheese?” I call to the short, ferret-faced guy wriggling free from the pack, almost losing his Santa hat in the process. The accordion tucked under his arm gasps a few off-key notes as he walks toward us.
“That can’t be his name,” Charlotte mumbles.
“No,” I mumble back, realizing that I’d either forgotten or never knew that Cheese’s actual name was Vinnie Zampanti. He transferred to a new school between junior and senior year. By rights, he shouldn’t even be on that WhatsApp group chat. “We just called him that ’cause he was addicted to Gouda.”
“Ant, you made it!”
And now Cheese — Vinnie — is hugging me, almost dropping his accordion, and it’s like my brain is unlocking memories. I remember that Vinnie Zampanti was kind of the weird kid in class and called me “Ant” ever since we were in Cub Scouts together. I’ve hated the nickname since Cub Scouts. “Good to see you, dude.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, trying not to look distracted by the memory of my cousin Marie telling me that, in eighth grade, Cheese attempted to serenade her with his rendition of … well, Marie could never figure out what he was singing, because she could barely hear him over the accordion. If I’d known it was Cheese who answered that WhatsApp message …
“Okay, people, let’s move out.” One of the women in the group — in her fifties, short, stout, all authority — takes a step toward the curb, gathering people to her. “We will start along Ninth Street, heading west. Hope you’ve all got your song sheets, and that you all remember your — who are you?”
She’s looking at me and Charlotte.
“No, no, it’s cool, Gladys.” Cheese claps me on the shoulder, so hard I almost drop Mistake, who barks her annoyance. “This here’s a childhood buddy of mine. One of the best singers I know.”
I’m starting to think Cheese might have me mixed up with some other “Ant.” I don’t sing. But Gladys is asking Cheese what my range is, and Cheese is insisting I sing bass and Charlotte sings something called mezzo-soprano. Gladys seems happy to hear this and leads the group past us, along Ninth Street, saying that this is a relief, because they didn’t have a bass or a mezzo.
I let the group get some distance before I follow. I turn to Cheese, who’s standing on my left. Charlotte’s on my right. “What was that about?”
Cheese just grins at me. He looks so much like a ferret, it’s kind of disturbing. “Don’t worry about it. Just stand at the back and lip-sync it.” And then he’s throwing his free arm around me like we’re old buddies. Mistake gives him a couple of sniffs, then turns her head away. Guess we’re never feeding her cheese. “It’s good to see you, man. But I gotta be honest, I, erm …” He flicks a glance past me, at Charlotte. “I’m a little disappointed you brought your new girl.”
I’m about to ask why, but Charlotte gets in first. “Actually, I’m just here because my flight home was canceled.”
Every time Cheese smiles, I regret more and more coming here — sending that group message in the first place. “What are you doing in a choir, anyway? It looks like it’s just old ladies, soccer moms and you.” I do a quick scan. “You’re the only guy here.”
“Exactly.” Cheese is not only smiling his ferret smile, he’s nodding in slow motion. “It’s genius, man. I’m the willing elk walking suicidally into the pride.”
Charlotte makes a sound of general disgust. “What does that mean?”
“You know, cougars,” says Cheese. “I’m a big piece of prey that’s just begging to be eaten alive.”
Up ahead, the group is beginning to cross First Avenue, and one of the women — who looks older than my mom — turns and makes a kissy face at Cheese. He blows a kiss back at her, and I beg my brain not to imagine what might happen after we’re done here. We cross First Avenue, and Gladys brings us to a stop outside the first house that we come to. She commands someone to ring the doorbell, and when an old guy in a red-and-black sweater opens the door, she turns to face us, pointing at Cheese to make sure he’s ready. Then she raises her arms, preparing to count us off into who-knows-what carol. No one’s given us a song sheet!
What child is this, who, laid to rest,
On Mary’s lap is sleeping?
Oh, I know this one. I think. We used to sing it in middle school. I vaguely move my lips in time to the melody, so that it looks like I’m singing, and hope that the words will come to me, but they don’t. I know there’s a “Christ” and a few more “Marys” in there somewhere. I think shepherds might be mentioned, as well.
I turn to Charlotte, who’s singing (she sounds quite good, actually) while looking at me, like, Seriously? Come on, it’s not like I don’t know the words to the national anthem.
I know that “the babe, the son of Mary” is the end of the first verse, so while the singers take a breath, and Cheese harasses this stretch of Ninth Street with an accordion solo that is surely not in the classic version, I try again to remember what comes next. But then I think, screw it, I’ll make up my own lyrics and trust that I’ll be drowned out by everyone else:
What child is this, I don’t know this kid,
I didn’t order no child …
I would totally have gotten away with it, if everyon
e else had been singing. But I was going off what I remembered of the melody, and not Gladys’s conducting — big mistake, because Cheese was still soloing — so it’s just me and my not-bass voice ruining a Christmas standard. Mistake wriggles in my arms and howls — in harmony or protest, I’m not quite sure — and even Cheese stops playing to gawk at me.
I feel like both an idiot and an asshole, until Charlotte snorts and hides her face in the scarf I bought her.
Somehow, that makes this whole embarrassing situation okay.
Gladys turns and apologizes to the old dude at the door. “We’re breaking in some new singers,” she says, then glares at me and Charlotte. “They have a lot to learn.”
The old dude goes back inside and closes the door, and the Cougar Choir heads down the steps to circle me and Charlotte. As they start yelling at us — one of them even says we’ve “ruined Christmas” — I hear the hiss and whine of Cheese’s accordion as he puts himself between us and them.
“Hey, hey, hey, beauties, beauties!” He’s patting the air as if telling them to sit down. “Relax, don’t get upset. These two are friends of mine. They didn’t mean anything by that — they just really, really wanted to join in on the fun, that’s all. They’re sorry.” He looks at me, and with his face turned away from the group, he lets his real motive show.
Dude, don’t blow this for me.
“Right, Ant?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, shifting Mistake from one arm to the other. She’s getting heavy. “I guess I just had too much Christmas spirit. I’m really sorry.”
Gladys doesn’t look any happier, but she does give a nod. “Apology accepted. But this is a semiprofessional choir, and we can’t let just anyone join. We have to have standards.”
Charlotte scoffs. “Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
“Okay,” I say, grabbing Charlotte’s hand and starting to tug her back down Ninth Street. “We’re done here. Let’s go.”
Charlotte walks with me, while Mistake leans across my chest and shoulder, trying to nibble at her hair. “Guess we’re not going to be starting our own choir anytime soon.”
Behind me, I hear some of the carolers groan as Cheese tells them that he’ll catch up when they’re on Tenth Street, he’s just going to grab a coffee with his friends.
Oh, shit — he means us.
*
And this is how I find myself in some place called Evening Joe’s, having coffee with Cheese. The staff wasn’t sure about letting us in with Mistake, but Charlotte told them the whole story of her day, and I don’t know if it was her tale of woe or the fact that she told it in a British accent — that I swear veered more toward Downton Abbey than at any other time today — but they relented and just asked us to make sure the pup didn’t run wild. Or pee anywhere.
“Don’t worry about Gladys …” Cheese lifts his coffee and takes a big, loud slurp, letting the cup clatter back on the table. It becomes very annoying, very quickly.
Step Three kind of sucks.
“She just likes to be in control.” Then he does this thing with his eyebrows — wiggles one, then the other, making them wriggle like caterpillars doing the worm — that reminds me why I never became friends with him in high school. “Trust me.”
Charlotte’s holding Mistake and doing a good job of looking like she’s not trying to un-see Cheese’s eyebrows. “What exactly is a semiprofessional choir?”
Cheese admits that he’s not sure. “One time, we got fifty bucks for singing at a nursing home.” I try not to laugh — but thankfully, Cheese moves the conversation away from the carolers. He tells me that he’s taking a break from Fordham. “You still at Columbia?” I nod. “Majoring in English, right?” I nod again.
Charlotte looks surprised — maybe even shocked. “You didn’t tell me you go to Columbia,” she says.
I shrug. “Well, it never came up.”
She holds my eye for a long, long second, and I start wishing that I could tell what she’s thinking. We’ll be going to the same school, if she comes back. Does she think that’s a good thing or a bad thing?
Do I think it’s a good thing or a bad thing?
Charlotte hands Mistake to me, saying that she’ll be right back, and gets up to go to the bathroom.
Cheese watches her go, then turns back to me with a face that says, Not bad. “I gotta say, though, bro, I was a little disappointed to see you show up without your last girlfriend. She was fine.”
I think back to junior year, the last time Cheese and I were sort of classmates. I didn’t have a girlfriend junior year, except … “Wait, are you talking about Tammy? We went to, like, two movies.”
“No, man” — slurp, slurp, clang — “the blonde. What’s her name? Maya.”
I stare at him. Wait a minute. “How do you know I dated Maya?”
“She was all over your Instagram, bro. Every new photo was a selfie with that girl.”
I need to set my Instagram to private.
Cheese isn’t done. “I’m just sorry you didn’t post any beach shots or, like, underwear stuff. You totally failed your boys there, man. Also, what the hell were you thinking, letting her get away? What are you, some kind of idiot or something? I mean, she wasn’t just out of your league — you were like … a Triple A player the Mets were just letting hang around and wear their jersey — even letting you get on the field sometimes.”
Mistake whines and burrows into the crook of my arm, like she can sense the anger that’s rising inside of me. I stare at the table, listening to the slurp, slurp of Cheese drinking his coffee. Step Three on a mission to forget about Maya has led me to a cougar-chasing asshole who wants to talk about nothing but her — and I wonder, am I so angry because Cheese kind of nailed it? That I spent a lot of the time I was with Maya — if our weird, bicoastal setup could be called being “with” each other — trying to convince myself to believe my “luck”?
I drain what’s left of my coffee. I’m not sticking around. Charlotte’s coming back from the bathroom, and when she sees the look on my face, she breaks stride. I lightly shake my head at her — I’m fine, but we’re out of here.
I call for the check and pretty much pretend Cheese isn’t there, isn’t talking to me, isn’t asking for Maya’s number. I pay for everything, even his coffee, hand Charlotte her tote bag and hook my backpack over my shoulder.
“Get back to granny-grabbing, Cheese.”
“Was it something I said?” he asks, making to stand up. I put a hand on his shoulder to stop him, and he sits back down. He might be an idiot, but he can at least sense that I’m mad at him. I turn around, handing Mistake’s leash to Charlotte, and we walk out, back onto Ninth Street, heading toward Second Avenue.
“What was all that about?” she asks.
“Just me learning that some people need to be let go,” I tell her.
We stop on the corner at Second. Charlotte’s suddenly distracted by Mistake, who’s wriggling like she wants to escape.
“Oh, dear, I think little madam here needs a wee.”
I try to warn Charlotte we could get a hundred-dollar fine if Mistake has other, grosser ideas. We cross Second Avenue, and take Mistake over to a tree, where she goes number one — thankfully, just that — in the dirt.
As I tune out the sound of Charlotte encouraging and then congratulating the pup, I start to feel sick — and not just from the stench that’s rising up from the dirt. Cheese is an odd dude — a full-on weirdo — but despite everything, I find myself feeling like I agree with him: I was an idiot to let Maya get away.
But you didn’t. She ran. And she did it on Christmas Eve, of all days. That makes it even worse … You’re better off without her.
I really, really wish I could agree with the thought.
“Okay.” Charlotte walks Mistake back down Ninth Street again.
I nudge her arm. “Hey, doe
s this mean we’ve crossed off Step Four now? I mean, we did rescue her from the subway station and got her through peeing. I think that counts as taking care of her, right?”
She beams at me the same way she did when she first got Mistake. When we first got her. “Yeah, let’s cross it off.”
I return her smile, and, for just a second, our arms nudge against each other, and we feel like something more than two strangers killing time in New York.
Then Charlotte’s phone buzzes, and she jumps away from me in surprise. She apologizes and takes it out of her tote bag. Makes a face that is half surprised and half apprehensive. “It’s this girl Katie, answering that message I sent earlier,” she says. “I know her from school. She says she’s throwing a party at her cousin’s apartment in the city tonight and says it’s totally fine if we want to go.”
She’s looking at me, trying to gauge what I think. A high school party isn’t something I really want to go to, but I also don’t want to disappoint her (I already failed to take her to the Empire State Building). So, I point to the tote bag. “Can we make a step out of it?”
Charlotte takes out the book, flicks through it front to back. Then back to front. Stops at a chapter in the middle. Step Six. We’re skipping Five, for now.
“‘Go twenty-four hours without mentioning your ex.’” She looks up at me and shrugs. “Well, I’m not going to even be here that long, so … maybe we could just try it at the party, and see how we get on?”
It’s looking like I’m not getting out of this party. As much as I want to do anything else — even biting the bullet and going home, telling my family what happened and getting it over with seems preferable — I also feel a need to keep an eye on Charlotte. And Mistake’s licking my boots again (Christ, what am I going to do with this dog?).
Kiss Me in New York Page 7