by BB Easton
I opened my mouth to ask a few more irrationally rhetorical questions, like, Why the fuck did I agree to come here? and Will I still be able to walk after they have to amputate all of my toes? but before I could get the words out, somebody shoved a pair of two-foot-long inflated tubes into my chest and handed me a pair of sparkly plastic glasses that looked like the number two thousand. I looked around to find the source of the gifts and realized that the entire crowd was now wearing sparkly 2000 glasses and clapping those phallic inflatables together like some kind of maniacal flash mob.
We were several blocks down from Times Square, but I could still make out Dick Clark’s face when it appeared on the massive monitors in the heart of the madness. The clock below the glowing orb read 11:53.
No, no, no. I wanted to stop time. I wanted to shoot a flare gun into the air to help Hans find his way back to me. I wanted to punch somebody in the face out of frustration. But I didn’t have to.
Because, just then, I heard the cops outside the barricade yelling.
“Section’s full.”
“Ya can’t stand here. We gotta keep the sidewalks clear.”
“Keep it movin’, guys.”
I looked to my right to see the source of the scuffle, and there, standing six inches taller than the police officers blocking his path, was my favorite person in the whole fucking world. I finally got my wish; when our eyes locked, time really did stand still.
Hans’s name tore from my bluish-purple lips as I pushed my way through the crowd. There were three uniformed men standing between him and the barricade.
“He’s with m-m-m-me!” I shouted, tapping one of them on the shoulder.
The officer tossed me an annoyed glance, but then his face softened. “Aye, I like ya hat.”
I smiled and held up my mittens and scarf, showing off the gold NYPD logos on those as well.
The officer glanced up at the clock, then back at me and smiled. “All right, guys. You can come in but only because ya girl here has such good taste in clothes.”
The officer opened the barricade by a few feet to let the guys in, and I hugged his arm over the metal fence.
“Th-th-thank you!” I stuttered.
He smiled at me, a gold tooth glinting in the lights from Times Square, just before I was lifted off my feet and carried back into the crowd.
I wrapped my arms around Hans’s black beanie-covered head as we made our way over to our friends. “Wh-wh-what took you so l-l-l-long?” I yelled over the deafening noise from the crowd.
Hans looked up at me and smiled bigger than I’d ever seen him smile before. “They offered us a contract!”
“Who?”
“Violent Violet! They took us out to dinner and offered us a recording contract! We’re getting signed by Love Like Winter’s label, baby!” He squeezed me tighter and bounced me up and down just as Trip announced the news to the group.
“Violent Violin Records, muthafuckas!” he slurred.
I threw my head back and laughed into the frosty night. Delighted. Excited. In love and alive.
Before Hans could set my frozen boots back on the ground, Dick Clark began the countdown. I was above it all, looking down 7th Avenue at the hundreds of thousands of my fellow humans who’d gathered in peace and love and harmony to celebrate the new millennium.
A million voices rose above the skyscrapers in unison. “Five…four…three…two…”
Hans slid me down his warm body and pressed his warm lips against purple ones as the last second of the twentieth century ticked away. I kissed him with reverence and gratitude and awe at the difference his presence made in my life. Before he’d shown up that night, I’d thought I might die. Now that I was in his arms, I felt as though I could fly.
A blizzard of confetti poured from the sky. Everyone cheered and hugged and clapped their inflatable baguette-shaped noisemakers together. The lights were still very much on. And it felt like the entire world was celebrating with Phantom Limb that night.
Except for Steven, who was clearly disappointed that the power grid had not gone out.
January 2000
I squeezed Hans’s hand and bounced on my toes as we rode the escalator back in time, back to my favorite city beneath a city. Our city.
That December, I’d decided that going to school downtown was the worst fucking idea I’d ever had. Not only was the city hotter in the summer because of all the asphalt, but it also turned out to be colder in the winter because the tall buildings blocked out the sun and turned all the sidewalks into wind tunnels. And speaking of wind tunnels, the outdoor subway platforms were even worse. The train only ran every fifteen minutes, and I’m pretty sure its only heat source was the anger radiating off its passengers. Between waiting for the damn train, riding the damn train, walking from the goddamn train station to campus, walking from building to building between classes, and then doing it all over again in reverse, I was spending waaay more time freezing my ass off than I’d ever thought possible.
But that was December.
This was January. And in January, Hans started coming to school with me. We could have been in Alaska, for all I cared. I had my big, hard-bodied teddy bear to keep me warm.
Hans smiled down at me as the smell of candied pecans hit my nose. With our fingers laced together, we stepped from the modern moving staircase onto the vintage brick-paved street of Underground Atlanta. All four of our backpack-burdened shoulders relaxed as we strolled past the ornate light posts and shop fronts toward the sound of saxophone music.
When Hans ran his thumb over mine, the moment came full circle. I lifted our joined hands to my lips and kissed his thumb, which always landed on top of mine.
“The last time we were here, the only thing I could think about was how bad I wanted to hold your hand,” I admitted with a wistful smile. “I can’t believe that was only six months ago.”
Hans’s dimples deepened, and his cheeks flushed under his five o’clock shadow. “You want to know what I was thinking about?” he asked.
“What?”
“Don’t laugh.”
I pressed my lips between my teeth to secure them and gave him my most serious face.
“I was wondering if anyone had ever gotten married here before, or…if maybe…we would be the first ones.”
My eyes began to water, and my tightly drawn mouth fell open in a silent gasp.
Hans stopped walking and turned to face me. “I know you’re still too young, and I don’t want to freak you out or put any pressure on you, but—”
“It’s perfect,” I whispered, gazing up at him through blurry, waterlogged eyes. “It’s so fucking perfect. I wanna do it right now.”
Hans smiled in relief. Then, he leaned forward and kissed my goofy grin. “You’re not even old enough to buy cigarettes.”
“Pssh. This is the South. I can get married with a forged note from my parents.”
Hans laughed. I watched his eyes shift to something over my shoulder. Then his face lit up. “A forged note and a ring. C’mere.”
Taking my hand, Hans led me to an old-timey cart in the middle of the street that had been converted into a jewelry store kiosk. An older man with a bushy gray mustache was sitting on a stool on the opposite side, reading the newspaper.
“Pick whatever you want. It’s just for now. I’ll get you something better later.”
The man glanced up from his paper and scoffed at Hans’s comment.
We snickered under our breath as I perused the cases of rings. They were fancy. Signs boasting 14k Gold and Real Diamonds surrounded the merchandise. I didn’t really wear jewelry, other than my piercings, so I was at a total loss.
“Will you pick one for me?” I asked, hopeful. “I can’t decide.”
Hans smiled and tapped on the Plexiglas above a small white gold band with a channel of inlaid black diamonds going across the front. “I like this one,” he said. “The black diamonds are kind of badass, don’t you think? And, after I get you an engagement ring,
you could keep it and wear it as your wedding band.”
My beautiful, backward boy.
Only Hans would give a girl a wedding band as an engagement ring and an engagement ring as a wedding band.
And it was black and white, just like him.
“I love it.” I beamed up at him.
Hans leaned over and gave me a chaste kiss. “I love you,” he whispered.
The irritated man measured my finger and pulled a size five version of the ring Hans had chosen out from a drawer on the back of the cart. As I slipped it on and admired the way it looked on my left hand, Hans handed the man his debit card and signed the receipt.
Arm in arm, we continued on toward our favorite Mexican restaurant. I pointed out good places to take wedding photos along the way, making sure to point with my left hand, and Hans occasionally leaned over and kissed me, mid-sentence. At the restaurant, we tossed our backpacks and coats onto one side of the booth and sat on the opposite side together, drunk on love and dreams and saxophone music.
Hans ordered every taco on the menu while I drank in the sight of my ring for lunch. We went over his schedule, strategized the best places to meet up for a cigarette between periods, and laughed about the Women’s Studies class I’d signed him up for as an elective.
Life was good underground.
Too good.
When I finally tore my eyes away from my ring and looked at the clock on my cell phone, I realized we were going to be late to our one o’clock classes.
Hans waved over our waitress and handed her his card. Before we even finished pulling our coats and backpacks back on, she returned with an unhappy look on her face.
“Your card was declined.”
Hans furrowed his eyebrows. “Really? Will you try it again?”
“I tried three times, sir. It won’t go through.”
I laughed and took the card from the woman’s hand. Reaching into my purse, I pulled out my wallet and handed her my own debit card, tucking Hans’s worthless piece of plastic into the slot next to it. “That’s it. I’m keeping this,” I said to Hans with a teasing smile. “You cannot be trusted with it.”
The woman disappeared.
“Damn it. I meant to deposit that money my mom gave me for books yesterday. Shit. I’ll pay you back.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, accepting the receipt and a pen from our waitress. “But, from now on, I’m keeping up with your checking account. You’ve overdrawn that thing three times in the last month.”
Twenty-five bucks plus tax just for tacos? Ouch.
I signed the slip of paper and handed it back to her with a smile.
“C’mon. Women’s Studies waits for no man,” I teased, grabbing Hans’s hand. I laced our fingers together as we speed-walked toward the escalator that would lead us back to modern-day Atlanta.
I became aware of the ring on my fourth finger as it slid between his knuckles.
I also became aware that my thumb had landed on top of his.
It never landed on top.
Something new and exciting and something nagging and uncomfortable were both competing for my attention in that moment.
Guess which one I chose to ignore.
February 2000
It’ll be fun, I’d thought.
I’ve always wanted to go to Mardi Gras!
Riding in a van with four dudes for ten hours won’t be that bad.
First of all, the van ride was absolutely that bad. Trip insisted that we listen to his heavy-ass Death, Murder, Mayhem playlist on repeat. I got stuck riding bitch in the middle of the backseat the whole way, which made me super car sick, and by the time we pulled into New Orleans, I could identify each guy’s farts by the smell alone.
Second, I discovered pretty quickly that during Mardi Gras, Bourbon Street should be renamed Bourbon River—only because the more appropriate name, Barf-Body-Fluids-Beer-and-Beads River, is too long to fit on a street sign. I trudged through the four-inch deep muck for what felt like miles, trying to find the best place to watch Phantom Limb’s float go by. I was thankful that I’d worn my boots but also sad because it would probably take a priest to get them clean again.
And third, nothing about watching teenage girls and grown-ass women waiting to flash their breasts at your boyfriend is fun. Nothing. Especially when all you have to offer under your shirt is a four-pound water bra and a couple of bee stings fitted with a pair of stainless steel door knockers.
At least New Orleans in February was warmer than Atlanta. I’d give it that. And the architecture was pretty cool too. And the music. And all the lights. And the palm trees. If you just removed the street slime, the breasts, and the ten hours of open asshole I’d had to smell to get there, I guess it was pretty cool.
I gave up on finding the perfect spot somewhere around mid-Bourbon Street and sat my tired, hungry, pouty ass down on some random steps. They appeared to lead up to a novelty shop or a corner store or a fucking voodoo doll vendor—hell if I knew. To me, it was simply the place where I would watch my man look at other women’s tits.
Woohoo.
A tall, extremely thin guy wearing overalls came bursting out of the store and leaned against the handrail next to where I was sitting on the top step. “Oh my God. Dat last lady was pregnant! Now my back hurts, my feets hurt, an I’m cravin’ pickles!” His accent was Cajun, his cowboy boots were snakeskin, and his head was shaved completely bald. Lighting a cigarette, he inhaled and exhaled dramatically. “Be happy you ain’t knocked up, mon cher. Dis shit is da worst.”
I looked up at him, then everywhere else, unsure if he was actually talking to me. Furrowing my brow, I tried to figure out how to respond to such an odd statement. I finally settled on, “Uh…congratulations?”
The thin man laughed and looked down at me. His face was all high cheekbones and pale skin. His head was shiny bald. And his eyes were alight with madness.
He lifted a hand and clutched some kind of amulet hanging from a cord around his neck, then stroked the underside of his chin with it. His eyes rolled up in the back of his head for a moment before they settled on me again.
The man nodded slowly, humming in approval. “You ain’t pregnant, and you feisty as hell. I like you.” He grinned. “I’m John.”
“BB,” I said, extending my hand up toward him.
John jumped back and held his hand up as if I’d tried to hand him a live rattlesnake. “No, no, no, no, no. You gots to pay fo’ dat.”
“I have to pay to shake your hand?” My question came out a lot sassier than I’d intended. I was still super fucking annoyed at being left alone all day so that Hans could literally float down the Boobie Bayou, and my people skills were suffering.
“Ooh!” John shook his head and let out a long whistle. “You got dat fiah in you, girl.”
“Sorry.” I swallowed and tried to compose myself. “I’m just…in a bad mood. It’s nice to meet you.”
John smiled and pointed at me. “You in a bad mood ’cause all dese people heah”—he extended his bony, cigarette-pinching fingers out across the landscape—“and none o’ dem payin’ you no attention.” He coughed out a chuckle and took another drag.
“You’re right.” I shrugged. “You’re totally right.”
“I know! I’m always right! Dat’s why dey pay me.”
“Who pays you?”
“Dese people.” He looked out over the crowd. “Dey come to me. I tell dem de troof. Dey pay me.”
“Are you a psychic?” I asked, cocking my head to the side.
“Yes! I know tings.” He tapped his temple with his middle finger.
“That’s really cool. How does that work? You have to touch people?”
I was suddenly the one giving John all the attention. I’d never met a psychic before. I was skeptical about a lot of things, but for some reason, psychics weren’t one of them.
Neither were ghosts or aliens, in case you were wondering.
“I touch yo hand, I know yo life. I look at yo
hand, I know yo fucha.”
“Really? Can I pay you to look at my hand?”
John smiled and closed his eyes like he was listening to something.
All I heard was a bunch of drunk, “Woohoos,” from the titty patrol on the street and some loud bass coming from one of the clubs farther down Bourbon Street, but John was on a whole other wavelength.
“No,” he finally said with a smile.
“No?”
John took another drag from his cigarette and shook his head. “No. You so bright, I see yo fucha from heah.”
“Really?” I sat up a little straighter and turned toward him fully. “What do you see?”
John looked me in the eye. “I cannot tell you. You tink you grown up, but you just a baby. You gonna have to learn some tings de hard way. I cannot take dat away from you.”
“So you’re not gonna tell me what you see? Oh my God, is it that bad?” I turned and stared blankly into the sea of people as a sense of dread gripped my body. It had never occurred to me that I might get bad news. My stomach flip-flopped as if I’d just gone over the first hill on a roller coaster.
John smiled and closed his eyes. Rubbing his amulet under his chin, he said, “Oh…no, no, no, no. Not bad. You gonna live a long a life, child. You gonna enjoy yo life. You gonna have two kids, you know—a boy and a girl. And de man, he not even gonna drive you dat crazy. You gonna be wit’ him fo-evah. But de rest…” He shook his head slowly. “You got to find dat out fo yo’self. You got suhprises comin’, mon cher. And when dey come, you gonna find out what you made of.”
I stored everything he’d said away, every single syllable, but at that moment, the only words my insecure teenage brain could process were, “You gonna be wit’ him fo-evah.
A grin split my grumpy face. “Thank you, John. I feel so much better. You have no idea. Wow. Can I…give you a hug?”
John walked over and stubbed his cigarette out in a potted plant by the shop door. “Why not?” He shrugged. “I already got yo big energy all ovah me.”