About a Girl

"No, no, no!" I practically shout, slamming my martini glass down so hard that the overpriced concoction it's holding spills over the side in a waterfall of alcohol. "Do not fucking say that please."

"What?" she answers from across the small table, her face all exaggerated childlike demurity.

"You know what I'm talking about. Do not bring up that kind of shit right now. I'm not in the mood." I wonder if I truly appear angry, or if I look like I'm trying to encourage her to continue. Even I'm not sure of my intentions right now.

"What, the things I like in bed?"

I cringe. My penis once again stirs from what I had hoped would be a very deep and undisturbed all-night sleep.

"Are you deaf? Yes, that." I say. The two other guys sitting at the table are now laughing hysterically. "I don't want to think about sex tonight. This was supposed to be a guy's night out: drinking, laughing and then home -- alone. Sex just complicates an evening."

Of course, I'm at least partially full of shit. Sex is typically the perfect way to end an evening; it's the pursuit of it in the hours prior to the whole endeavor coming to fruition that complicates things. I'm not in the mood for the chase tonight; I just want to get drunk and not have to play nice -- or worry about making an ass out of myself in front of a beautiful girl.

And now that I take a close look at her, she's a very beautiful girl.

Shit. I'm history.

She flips her long, brown hair behind her shoulder and keeps right on smiling. "Why does it bother you if I talk about it?"

I tell her why -- everything inside my head. She seems amused by either my assessment or my candor or possibly both.

"So because you don't want to think about it, I have to stay quiet?" she says.

"Tonight you do, yes."

And that's final -- I think.

What she doesn't know -- couldn't know -- is that in the six months that I've been in New York City, most of which has been spent living in a hotel, I've been on so many dates that I'm probably owed a toaster-oven. I've power-dated to the point of wanting to never pay another expensive dinner bill for two again. I've met so many new women, endured so many idiosyncrasies -- likes and dislikes; stories about Dad, The Ex, and the perils of being single in Manhattan -- that I've turned into Seinfeld: I now find insurmountable issues and deal-breaking quirks where there probably are none.

This one spends too much time talking about the strength of her portfolio (too stable). That one calls me more than once a day (too needy). Another one's face turns bright red when you kiss her (too weird). Still another one has hair in places she shouldn't (dear God).

I never wanted to be this way. The veritable cornucopia of willing single women in this city, coupled with an admittedly pathetic desire to fill the hole left in the wake of my marriage has created the proverbial beast with two backs, neither of them belonging to anyone actually worth a damn. It's also worn the hopeful romantic in me down to a dull nub.

I'm not interested in women right now. I just want to be left alone.

But she's so damn cute.



Earlier in the evening, I hopped a cab down to the legendary CBGB's on Bowery. A friend of mine from college -- a guy named Kelsey -- was playing guitar there, not with his band but as a favor to a fellow musician. I planted my ass at the bar as soon as I arrived, pulling up a stool next to another friend and co-worker at NBC who agreed to meet me for a night of heavy drinking. Javi and I managed to go through four beers before Kelsey even stepped onstage. The nearly spontaneous inebriation turned out to be fortunate; it was necessary to help us endure the "music" that flowed from the speakers and filled every corner of the room like an airborne virus for the next 45 minutes. Needless to say, this was no fault of Kelsey's; I had heard his own band, Pillow Theory, several times and knew he could write a great song. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for Kelsey's musically-challenged friend on this particular night. The stuff they played resembled the sound I imagine cows make when they're being turned inside-out by curious aliens.

Javi and I downed at least four more beers before the racket finally, mercifully, ceased.

After the show, Kelsey sought us out at the bar -- and I have no doubt that we were quite a sight: drunk as hell and laughing like idiots. He had in tow, a young girl wearing a black beret.

That was the fist thing I noticed: the beret.

Who wears a beret anymore?

He introduced her as Jayne, with a "Y" -- said she worked with him at the Barnes & Noble on 6th Avenue. She had apparently been sitting directly in front of the stage during the show -- said Kelsey pleaded with her to come out and support what he knew was a questionable venture from the start. She said she couldn't find anyone to go with her, so she came alone.

Now that's a friend.

After a few minutes of Jayne feeling what likely should've been uncomfortable, were it not for her surprising ability to hold her own against every bit of drunken madness Javi and I felt the irrepressible need to spew out, the four of us dragged ourselves out into the chilly March night and hailed a cab. Kelsey had predetermined our destination: the Belmont Lounge off Union Square.

As soon as the cab doors slammed shut, sealing out the night breeze, Kelsey asked the obvious question -- the one I was hoping to avoid.

"So, what did you think of the show?" I heard him say somewhat sheepishly from the backseat behind me.

"Honestly man? Fucking awful." I responded curtly. He and I have known each other long enough to where I understood I could be brutally frank if I needed to -- and I did.

"Wow, that bad eh?" he responded.

"That's really mean," I heard the Jayne girl say.

"I'm sorry. You know I love your band Kels, and I know how talented you are. It wasn't about your playing; that was great. Your friend was terrible."

Kelsey leaned back in his seat. "Yeah, I know. I shouldn't have taken this gig."

"You get paid?" I asked, watching the city go past my window.

"Yeah."

"Then it was worth it. I think it's safe to say Quincy Jones wasn't in the audience tonight. If you do wind up being blackballed for this though, I take it all back."



We've been at the Belmont now for a couple of hours, hunched around a table in the corner as if it was giving off warmth in a snowstorm. I didn't really notice Jayne -- subconsciously, a herculean task to be sure -- until she brought up the whole sex thing a minute ago; now I can't seem to pry my eyes away from the loveliness of her face. It's as if she needed to hit me in the side of the head with the fact that she is, in fact, a woman for me to finally take notice.

"You're an asshole -- you know that right?" she says to me, still smiling.

"What makes you say that?"

"You were so rude to Kelsey back in the cab -- about the show."

"No I wasn't. I was honest." I glance over at Kelsey. "Believe me, he's heard a lot worse from me."

Kelsey and I used to work together at the University of Miami radio station: He was the General Manager; I was the incorrigible thorn in his side -- the enfant terrible of the DJ pool. I hosted a music and talk show which he himself enjoyed immensely, despite the fact that it had him running constant interference as he tried to quell the vitriol of the station's faculty adviser, a man I loathed and regularly insulted on the air. In my defense, he actually was the worthless drunk I regularly claimed him to be.

"So, what's your story?" she says, the other conversations in the bar seeming to fade into the background.

As I've been doing quite a bit lately, I give her a version of recent events that's highly "edited for content." My ironic opportunity to be reborn in the shadow of arguably the most devastating single event in American history -- 9/11 -- is something I refuse to waste. No one here knows anything about me; I intend to keep it that way.

"I'm a producer at NBC News. I was called here right after the attack." I pull my martini glass from the rim of spilled liquid that's coalesced at its bottom -- take a sip. "I lived in a hotel for almost six months and just got my own place a few weeks ago. Guess I'm here to stay." I make this last point with satisfaction. My life wasn't supposed to turn out like this; not after going through rehab in Miami; not after getting out just ten days before the attack with no job, no relationship, no future at all to speak of. My life was nothing but a blank slate. Perpetual emptiness.

Then came the attacks, and everything changed.

"What about you?" I ask, giving her my full attention.

Her story turns out to be just about as good as mine -- certainly in the way it pertains to our mutual friend.

"Nothing as interesting as that." I like the way she draws out the word iiiin-ter-ees-ting. "I want to be an actor and this is the place to be. I left a little college in Pennssylvania early to move to the big city. Came here with almost nothing, but it's been worth it. I love it here."

"How do you know Kelsey?"

Kelsey overhears and interjects.

"I never told you?" he says. "Whoa." He leans back laughing. "Dude, I worked in the World Trade Center -- at the Borders Books in the basement level."

"You were there?" I say, genuinely shocked.

"Nah man, I called in sick that morning. I went out the night before and got fucked-up -- so I told them I'd be in late."

This is just the latest in a long list of stories I've heard detailing the seemingly unbelievable accidents, twists of ironic fate, quantum moments and singularly minute decisions that kept people away from the World Trade Center on September 11th, saving their lives -- or tragically putting them there, in the wrong place at the wrong time, cutting their lives short. It's temporal chaos theory in its purest form. It shouldn't surprise me anymore, yet it always does.

"That's unreal, my friend," I say. "To you, you lucky son-of-a-bitch." I raise my glass, which meets his double of Jack & Coke with a loud clink.

I turn back to Jayne. I'm already wondering if I could stop myself if I tried.

She smiles brightly and continues the story. "So, since Kelsey was obviously out of a job after the attack --"

"I'd say so."

"-- he came to work at my Barnes & Noble. We became good friends, and here we are."

"And so, as a good friend, you decided to sit through that show tonight," I say. "He's really getting the better end of this deal."

She gives me a sweetly drunken chuckle. I can't stop staring at her, a situation that would likely continue were it not for my bladder's determination to break the trance. "I'll be right back," I say as I push myself up from my chair -- steadying briefly before moving in the direction of the bathroom.

I do what I must, learning simultaneously -- thanks to a list of trivial factoids framed directly above the men's urinal, conveniently at eye level -- that feline urine glows under black light. This could be important should I ever need to find an incontinent cat during a blackout. I make a mental note to plan a trip to Spencer Gifts.

When I return to our table, Jayne is gone. Despite a lack of inquiry on my part, I'm quickly informed by Javi that she's made her own trip to the bathroom. It dawns on me that, if nothing else, I may now have some assistance in that cat hunt.

As I sit down, Javi leans in close, a giant smile on his face -- the inevitable product of tonight's relentless infusion of alcohol into his bloodstream.

"Dude, she likes you," he says, practically laughing the words out.

I just stare at him for a moment. "What the hell are you talking about?" I say with an incredulity that I hope can suppress a noticeable flash of excitement.

"No, man, I'm serious." Now he's trying to whisper it into my ear like we're two schoolkids. "She told me. She really likes you."

"Oh shut the hell up. You're fucking with me."

"No, I'm not kidding. Go for it man -- she's adorable."

He's certainly right about the last part.

At that, I look up and see Jayne -- all luminous skin, dancing eyes and inviting smile. She sits down, closer to me this time, and I realize that I'm feeling slightly more light-headed than I was just a few short minutes ago. I'm trying to be as charming as possible -- which I once again admit to myself I wasn't in the mood to do upon leaving my apartment earlier in the evening. But as I listen to the sound of her voice, I find myself becoming lost in it. She's more than simply gorgeous: she's smart, clever, articulate, and at first glance anyway, eerily devoid of any of the instant turn-offs that have registered in my head about nearly every other woman I've come into contact with recently.

After awhile, I'm forced to once again make my way to the bathroom -- where I'm eager to learn yet another useful fact during what should, in theory, be the most mundane of necessary tasks -- and that's when Javi, positively lunatic with the thrill of his role as a gossipy Cupid, tells Jayne that I'm as interested in her as she supposedly is in me.

I of course don't know this while I'm in the bathroom, attempting to somehow save the fact that the act of swallowing requires 25 muscles into my alcohol-addled memory. I have no doubt that many men have swayed stupidly right where I am now and thought to themselves that this particular factoid might, if all goes well, come in handy later in the evening.

When I sit back down at our table, Jayne seems different. She sits even closer. She drapes an arm around me. I can't find a reason to complain.

We talk. We tease. After some time, at Javi's anything-but-subtle encouragement, we kiss. I immediately regret only one thing -- that I'm drunk and therefore in danger of forgetting this. I don't want to.

Eventually, Kelsey gets up in a sullen huff and makes an exit; I'll find out later that he's had a thing for Jayne for some time, and it will require an apology on my part -- but I'll only say that I'm sorry for unintentionally hurting a friend, not for having met and connected with Jayne. I can't feel anything but good about that.

As we pay our painfully exorbitant tab and wander out into the night, Javi immediately hails a cab. I pull Jayne close and, with a mercifully clear head, kiss her. It seems to go on forever, which is just fine by me.

So what now?

"I have to go home," she says softly, her breath warming my face in the chilly air. "If I miss the PATH train I won't be able to get back to Hoboken."

Her home. Where she lives with three other aspiring actors in a railroad apartment.

"You have to go, huh?" I ask, lowering my voice to a near whisper.

"Yes."

How daring should I be? Should I really take the risk? And would she think she's just around for the night -- because I can tell right now that that might not be what I want.

"I have a car." I say, knowing full well that the line is now dangerously behind me.

She gives me a bemused little smirk. "What do you mean?"

Do I have to spell it out?

"I have a car," I repeat. "I can give you a ride home in the morning."

There's a moment of silence between us -- the unspoken but fully understood possibilities now at hand: passion, pleasure, surprise, but likewise the potential for at least temporary hurt and stupid regret come daylight.

The anticipation seems to last forever.

"Okay," she says. "Let's go."



As the sun comes up the following morning, flooding my apartment with bright light, I turn my head to feel Jayne's soft hair in my face -- look down to see her body next to mine. We're lying on a mattress on the floor -- admittedly not the most regal of settings in which to spend the night with her, but the best I could do given that my furniture hasn't arrived from my former home in L.A. yet. My apartment has a grandeur of which I'm very proud: It's in a doorman building and features a breathtaking, 17th floor view of the Empire State Building. But right now there's little of me contained between these four walls. I have the mattress, a stereo which I picked up a few months ago at Best Buy, and an ironing board. This last item Jayne initially reacted to with hysterical astonishment; she apparently didn't believe that a man might occasionally find the need to iron his clothes.

I feel as if I could lay like this forever, with my arm around her and her head lying against my chest, so I reluctantly stop stroking her pristine skin when she stirs -- stretching luxuriously, her back arching, then rising slowly until she's sitting on the edge of the mattress. I can't help smiling as my eyes crawl slowly over the enticing streak of chestnut hair that runs down her back.

After a moment, she pushes herself up from the bed and strides across the width of the living room toward the bathroom.

It is a sight that's glorious beyond description.



During the drive out of the city to Hoboken -- the one I promised the previous night -- we talk. She runs her hand along my arm. I run mine through her hair.

As she gets out of the car, she kisses me in a way that makes me believe that the world could be saved by a feeling so perfect and pure and true -- by the way I'm feeling right now, with her.

I watch Jayne walk up the steps and through the door to her building, turning around one more time to wave and blow me a kiss. I think about my past, which suddenly seems just a little further away. I think about the future, which is uncertain, despite the surprising events of the last seven hours. I know that last night could've meant nothing. It could end up being no more significant in either of our lives than a single drop of water in the ocean.

I'm already hoping it isn't, though.

I don't want to play games. I don't want to pretend. I don't want to play it cool.

I want to see her again.

It's later that afternoon that I pick up the phone, dial her number, and ask her what she's doing Saturday night.