quickly walk past him and out of the bathroom. Once I’m in the main MSG corridor again, I pull out my cellphone to see if he’s tried to call. Nothing. So I text him: Where are you?
And then I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Then I text him again: Kyle, are you okay? Are you sick? I tried to find you in the bathroom. Nobody was in there. Are you in a different bathroom?
Send.
He writes back: So sorry. Friend texted me to say someone found the keys and broke into the apartment! Was kind of my fault so left to help him out. Tomorrow?
The rest, as they say, is history. Except this is my life, so it’s not good history, like the end of apartheid or women’s suffrage. This is A-bomb history, Jonestown history.
Much like Jim Jones offering up the Flavor Aid, I wake up to a text from Kyle, asking if he can take me to breakfast at Norma’s in the Parker Meridien hotel.
The menu is obscene. Not just because of their beyond gluttonous menu items, which they have aplenty (Caramelized Chocolate Banana Waffle Napoleon, anyone?), but because they have a “Zillion-Dollar Lobster Frittata” that costs a hundred dollars, and in casethat’s not enough, you also have the option to “supersize” the caviar portion for the totally reasonable price of a thousand dollars. Are. They. Kidding. Me. I’d like to meet the person who spends a grand on a plate of eggs. And then smack them.
“So what happened with your friend’s place?” I ask. “Was he home? Did they catch the burglars? Did anything get stolen?”
“It was awful,” Kyle answers. “A neighbor noticed something was up, and he called my buddy and my buddy called me to see if I was moving stuff out of his apartment, and I told him no and he said to get to his place as fast as I could and that he was calling the police.”
“Oh my God. Weren’t you scared? I mean, what if the burglars were there when you got there? Were they?”
“No … Well, yes, but the police got there first, so they already had them handcuffed.”
“That is unbelievable,” I say. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny voice is suggesting to me,
That really is unbelievable
. But I dismiss it and move on.
“I know, right?” He shakes his head and looks away. I’ve noticed he hasn’t made a lot of eye contact with me, and I’m wondering if he’s decided he doesn’t like me as much two days later or if the subject of the break-in is just making him uncomfortable.
I decide to change the subject. “Anyway,” I say, in that oh-so-awkward way when you actually have nothing to say but you’re trying to signal a change of subject. I settle on, “This place is great.”
“It’s awesome,” he says. “I try to come here whenever I’m in New York. I love to bring people who haven’t been here before.”
“Virgins,” I say.
“I hope not,” he says with a wink, and now he’s making eye contact again. Conversation becomes easy, and from Norma’s we walkto the MoMA. I’m typically not even a museum person but read about the Tim Burton exhibit a couple years ago and was so bummed to have missed it.
Kyle pays for our entrance. “After you, m’lady.”
We spend the rest of the day wandering aimlessly throughout the museum, making up stories behind the paintings, much like we did with the passengers on our flight. By four o’clock we’re back in the comfortable groove that made me think I could really like this guy.
Somewhere along Fifth Avenue, Kyle abruptly stops walking and lets go of my hand. We’d skipped lunch because we were still stuffed from breakfast, but our stomachs are both starting to grumble so we’re discussing what we’d like for dinner when he just oh so casually reclaims his hand.
“We don’t have to do Indian,” I say, trying to make light of the situation.
“Sorry,” he says. “Be right back.”
Kyle ducks around the corner, and I stand alone on Fifth Avenue, wondering if he’s having stomach issues again and if the mere mention of
And then I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Then I text him again: Kyle, are you okay? Are you sick? I tried to find you in the bathroom. Nobody was in there. Are you in a different bathroom?
Send.
He writes back: So sorry. Friend texted me to say someone found the keys and broke into the apartment! Was kind of my fault so left to help him out. Tomorrow?
The rest, as they say, is history. Except this is my life, so it’s not good history, like the end of apartheid or women’s suffrage. This is A-bomb history, Jonestown history.
Much like Jim Jones offering up the Flavor Aid, I wake up to a text from Kyle, asking if he can take me to breakfast at Norma’s in the Parker Meridien hotel.
The menu is obscene. Not just because of their beyond gluttonous menu items, which they have aplenty (Caramelized Chocolate Banana Waffle Napoleon, anyone?), but because they have a “Zillion-Dollar Lobster Frittata” that costs a hundred dollars, and in casethat’s not enough, you also have the option to “supersize” the caviar portion for the totally reasonable price of a thousand dollars. Are. They. Kidding. Me. I’d like to meet the person who spends a grand on a plate of eggs. And then smack them.
“So what happened with your friend’s place?” I ask. “Was he home? Did they catch the burglars? Did anything get stolen?”
“It was awful,” Kyle answers. “A neighbor noticed something was up, and he called my buddy and my buddy called me to see if I was moving stuff out of his apartment, and I told him no and he said to get to his place as fast as I could and that he was calling the police.”
“Oh my God. Weren’t you scared? I mean, what if the burglars were there when you got there? Were they?”
“No … Well, yes, but the police got there first, so they already had them handcuffed.”
“That is unbelievable,” I say. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny voice is suggesting to me,
That really is unbelievable
. But I dismiss it and move on.
“I know, right?” He shakes his head and looks away. I’ve noticed he hasn’t made a lot of eye contact with me, and I’m wondering if he’s decided he doesn’t like me as much two days later or if the subject of the break-in is just making him uncomfortable.
I decide to change the subject. “Anyway,” I say, in that oh-so-awkward way when you actually have nothing to say but you’re trying to signal a change of subject. I settle on, “This place is great.”
“It’s awesome,” he says. “I try to come here whenever I’m in New York. I love to bring people who haven’t been here before.”
“Virgins,” I say.
“I hope not,” he says with a wink, and now he’s making eye contact again. Conversation becomes easy, and from Norma’s we walkto the MoMA. I’m typically not even a museum person but read about the Tim Burton exhibit a couple years ago and was so bummed to have missed it.
Kyle pays for our entrance. “After you, m’lady.”
We spend the rest of the day wandering aimlessly throughout the museum, making up stories behind the paintings, much like we did with the passengers on our flight. By four o’clock we’re back in the comfortable groove that made me think I could really like this guy.
Somewhere along Fifth Avenue, Kyle abruptly stops walking and lets go of my hand. We’d skipped lunch because we were still stuffed from breakfast, but our stomachs are both starting to grumble so we’re discussing what we’d like for dinner when he just oh so casually reclaims his hand.
“We don’t have to do Indian,” I say, trying to make light of the situation.
“Sorry,” he says. “Be right back.”
Kyle ducks around the corner, and I stand alone on Fifth Avenue, wondering if he’s having stomach issues again and if the mere mention of
Similar Books
