Bunheads (20 page)

Two weeks ago I would have had back-to-back Pilates and yoga classes, and I would have turned him down. But tonight is different.

“Where are you going to take me?” I ask.

“A place you’ve never really seen before,” he answers. And then he raises his glass and clinks it against mine.

“What in the world are we doing?” I ask, hunching my shoulders inside my wool coat as the wind kicks up around us.

Jacob and I are in the middle of Times Square—a place I normally avoid at all costs—standing in a line of tourists: dads in Green Bay Packers jackets, moms in lumpy down coats, kids of various ages who are sporting hats and carrying bags full of cheap souvenirs. “Everyone here looks like they’re from Kansas.” (Everyone, that is, but me and Jacob, who looks sloppily gorgeous in an old navy peacoat, a pair of cords, and a brown knit hat.)

“Well, the Green Bay Packers are from Wisconsin,” Jacob says. “And maybe you missed the girls from France behind us, and that Japanese family.”

I don’t bother to turn around. “Still. We
live
here. What are we doing hanging out with a bunch of tourists?”

“I thought I’d take you on a tour of the city.” He smiles and puts his arm around my shoulder. “You know, since
you
actually seem to live in the theater.”

Just then a red double-decker bus pulls up to the curb. Its doors hiss open, and the line of tourists starts moving forward.

“Wait, so you’re taking me on a tour?” I ask, incredulous. “
This
is what I’ve supposedly never seen before—New York from a Red Apple tour bus?”

Jacob shrugs. “What better way to see your city than from the top deck of a carbon monoxide–spouting behemoth? There’s an announcer who tells you all sorts of New York trivia.” And he guides me forward, onto the bus and up the steps to the roof.

Feeling somewhat less than thrilled, I flop down in a seat near the railing. Jacob squeezes in beside me.

“We could get off and on again, but I figure since time is precious, we’ll just want to ride this one the whole time. I brought snacks.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out two bottles of San Pellegrino, two clementines, and a giant bar of dark chocolate.

“Well, in that case…” I say, my mood brightening. I help myself to a square of chocolate.

Our guide clears his throat, taps his mike, and fixes us with an oversize grin. “Welcome, everybody, welcome! So glad to see you! Here we are in the red-hot center of the city that never sleeps! Times Square! Times Square was known as Longacre Square until 1904, when the
New York Times
moved its headquarters here! Before that it was a neighborhood of Broadway theaters and
brothels
!” he says.

“Why is he so excited about everything?” I ask, grimacing.

“I think that’s in his job description,” Jacob says. He peels a clementine and hands me a slice.

“By the First World War, Times Square had become the premier theater district in the nation, but fifty years later it had sunk back to the district of streetwalkers and sex shops again!” the man calls out. “A dirty business!”

I give Jacob a dubious look as the bus lurches forward into the sea of cabs and delivery trucks and cars heading south on Seventh Avenue. “Do you really want me to listen to him?”

“Actually I was thinking of giving you my own personal and private tour as we go. What do you think?” he asks, cocking his head sweetly.

Intrigued, I nod. “Just try not to sound as excited as that guy.”

“All right, then, no exclamation points. So, here we are at the corner of Seventh and Thirty-Eighth, which is where I once nearly passed out after consuming too many Singhas at one of the karaoke clubs in Koreatown following a truly incredible rendition of ‘Sweet Child of Mine.’ One block east and a little north is Bryant Park, where I saw a summer showing of
The Graduate
with a girl I thought I was in love with.”

We idle at a light, and I turn to Jacob. “What happened to her?” I ask, imagining once again a pretty brunette with sultry dark eyes.

“I bought her pottery classes for her birthday—and she cheated on me with the instructor. I think his name was Sven.”

“Ooh, that’s harsh.”

He nods ruefully. “Yeah. But don’t worry—this trip isn’t entirely about me and my minor life disasters. Did you know that Broadway is one of the longest streets in the world? It starts in lower Manhattan, and it doesn’t stop until Albany, which is a hundred and fifty miles north.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And the Empire State Building is one thousand two hundred and fifty feet tall, not including its lightning rod and antenna.” He points vaguely in the direction of the landmark.

I try to look very serious and studious. “Fascinating.”

We’ve left the flashing neon signs of Times Square and we’re in the no-man’s-land of lower midtown: tall, windowed office buildings, bodegas, crowded sidewalks. Jacob rests his arm along the back of my seat. “And here we’re passing the lovely Penn Station, which is the busiest train station in all of North America, serving up to a thousand people every minute and a half.”

“I’m starting to feel like one of your first graders,” I tell him. “Like maybe I should be taking notes for a pop quiz.”

He grins. “Back to the personal tour, then. I once got hit on in a Penn Station bathroom by a six-foot-tall transvestite. He—or she, I guess—was actually very pretty, though I did turn her down. And I think I can tell you in fairly good confidence that the Sbarro by track seven serves the worst pizza in the world.”

The wind rips around the buildings, and I lean in close to Jacob as the bus rumbles downtown. The tour guide starts to say something about the Chelsea Hotel a block and a half west of
us while Jacob points out bars that he’s played in the neighborhood.

“Hey, look,” I say, nudging his arm. “There’s Loehmann’s, where I once bought a Marc Jacobs sheath for eighty percent off, and where Bea knocked over an entire rack of sunglasses when she was overcome by the urge to demonstrate the running man.”

Jacob smiles. “See? You could be a tour guide, too.”

As Jacob goes on, I learn that his friend Damian organized a flash mob at the corner of Twelfth Street. I find out that Greenwich Village was once marshland, and that the area beneath Washington Square Park was a potter’s field.

“So, there are something like twenty thousand dead bodies under you as you drink your latte and watch the dogs in the dog run,” Jacob says. “Pleasant, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, really,” I say. I shiver and pull my scarf tighter around my neck. “I’m freezing. When is it going to be spring?”

Jacob puts his arm around me. “We’re actually within walking distance of my apartment. Should we get off?”

I nod. My nose is beginning to run. Jacob offers me his sleeve to wipe it on, which is kind of gross, but it also might be the sweetest thing a guy has ever done for me. (I don’t take him up on it; I wipe my nose on my own sleeve.)

We get off at Christopher Street just as the tour guide is describing for all the people of Kansas and Wisconsin the history of the Stonewall Inn and the three-day riot that was the beginning of the gay rights movement.

“Thanks,” Jacob says to the tour guide, tipping him five dollars. The guide doffs his hat and continues his monologue.

Jacob takes my hand as we walk east, threading our way through the crowds of shoppers.

How strange and nice it is to walk down the street with my hand in someone else’s. I can’t believe I’ve lived almost two decades on this earth and I’ve never done it before. People passing us will think we’re a couple. And, I don’t know, maybe all of a sudden we are.

On Fifth Street between Avenues A and B, we come up to a narrow, slightly shabby-looking brick building with graffiti tags on the concrete steps leading up to the front door.

“Home, sweet home,” Jacob says. “I’m on the fourth floor.”

I follow him up the narrow stairway, favoring my left ankle, which has been bothering me ever since the killer bourrée section in
Recluse.
The hallway smells like Chinese food and feet.

“It’s not that fancy,” Jacob says as he opens the door into a railroad apartment, “but the price is right. It’s actually my uncle’s place, but he never comes into the city anymore. He just paints out at his cottage on the North Shore.”

Although the apartment is small, it’s also inviting. Unlike my place, his shows real signs of being inhabited: Posters and pictures hang on the walls. There are end tables bearing stacks of books and papers and mugs with cold coffee resting on CD cases. Two guitars lean against the wall in the corner. It’s not messy, exactly—just lived in.

“Okay, so the next order of business is lunch. I know how to make about ten different things,” Jacob says, taking my coat and hanging it in an overstuffed closet. “They’re pretty much all pasta, because that’s pretty much all I eat. I can do penne
arrabiata, spaghetti aglio e olio, puttanesca—ramen, if that counts as pasta.”

“Pesto,” I interrupt. “You like it so much—you must make pesto, right?”

“I usually make that by opening a jar,” Jacob confesses. “But my arrabiata is from scratch. Can I interest you? It’s really spicy.”

“Sounds great,” I say.

I follow him into the tiny kitchen, where he peers at me over the counter, holding up a large cast-iron skillet in one hand and a dishrag in the other. He mimes the act of washing. “Note how I make sure my pans are free from any petrochemical coatings.”

I lean over on the counter, resting my elbows on a stack of
Rolling Stone
magazines. “I hear petrochemicals are the new oregano.”

He grins. “You’re so ahead of your time.”

I watch him knocking around in the kitchen for a while, and then I get up and peruse his music collection and his bookshelves. I’m not snooping; I’m just getting acquainted with his taste. Jacob seems to like a Japanese novelist named Oé, and he has about twenty different Neil Young albums.

I sink into the couch and pick up an old issue of the
New Yorker.
But I don’t read it—I just close my eyes.

“Bud Light for your thoughts,” Jacob asks, coming around the counter and handing me a beer bottle. He’s wearing an apron that says
Kiss the Chef
. “I know you’re more of a wine girl, but I forgot to go to the store earlier.”

I take a tentative sip and wince just a little; I’m not a big fan of beer. Also, it’s still only two in the afternoon. I stare at my
discolored and blistered feet and wiggle my toes. My toes that I dance on every single day.

Jacob sits beside me on the couch, and I tuck my feet up underneath me. He has sauce on his cheek. “So… your thoughts?”

“Well, despite my skepticism, the bus tour was pretty cool,” I admit. “It’s good to know that there’s more to the city than the Manhattan Ballet.” I point to his cheek—“You’ve got a little something there,” I say—and he uses a corner of his apron to wipe the sauce off.

“Thanks,” he says. “And now brace yourself because this might just blow your mind…. There’s more to the world than just
New York City
.” His eyes widen, and he mimes an explosion with his hands.

“Wait, what?” I feign shock. “You mean, we won’t fall off the planet if we walk below the financial district?”

Jacob shakes his head slowly, with an expression of utter seriousness. “Crazy, right? That reminds me—I found this place that rents kayaks by the hour. I thought it would be fun to see the city from the Hudson,” he says.

“
È fantastico
,” I say hesitantly.

He looks surprised. “I’m impressed! Have you been practicing?”

“Yeah, a little,” I admit, smiling. “I bought an Italian app for my iPhone last week. I want to be able to hold my own when we finally get to watch a Fellini film.”

“I—wow—that’s so cool,” he says.

I look earnestly into his eyes. “I’m envious that you have the time to explore so many different things.” Then I giggle. “Oh,
and I also know how to say
He has a large hat
and
Where is the beach?
”

His blue eyes light up, and he gives me the biggest grin I’ve ever seen.

And then his expression turns more serious, and he’s looking at me in a way that he never has before. He leans toward me, and in another second his lips are on mine, soft but insistent. Almost as if it belongs to someone else, my hand reaches up his back, and my fingers find their way to the warm skin of his neck, into the shaggy ends of his hair. His arms tighten around me, and I feel like I’m melting into him.

Eventually he pulls away from me, and he reaches out and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “Have I mentioned that I like you?” he asks.

I nod. Outside a car alarm goes off, and then another. Jacob’s radiator hisses and knocks as the heat comes on.

“I think it would be nice if you liked me, too,” he says. “Do you?”

And I just nod again. It’s like the first night I met him, when I couldn’t say anything at all. Jacob leans in and kisses me again. In the kitchen I smell something burning, but I don’t say a word. I lean back on the couch and he bends over me. I feel his weight. We keep our eyes closed. We sink into each other.

“You know, I—” Jacob begins to say. His mouth is on my neck.