So I guess if you live in New York in the most perfect place ever with the coolest stuff ever, the first thing you’re supposed to do is leave. I mean, seriously. Why would we want to stick around a giant, empty, superfantastic space in the middle of this whirling dervish of a town? We couldn’t be bothered. How gauche! No one actually stays anywhere superamazing. I mean, why would we want to do that when we could get into a cab and go to Brooklyn to a packed, greasy space filled with weirdos and smoke and something that looks like smoke but kind of smells and tastes like cotton candy and projections everywhere and a zillion people dancing to some kind of throbbing, repetitive mating call?
In case you can’t guess, I’m not happy to be here.
There are a couple of reasons for that.
Whatever this drug is supposed to do, it’s not really doing anything but making me feel like I’m about to throw up, and then I’m okay, then I’m about to throw up, then I’m okay. Remy says it hasn’t kicked in yet. Maybe she’s right. Not sure. But if I am gonna be feeling like this, the last place I want to be is around a bunch of people who you have to wonder what they are doing with their lives to be here in the first place.
And then there’s Milo. Something odd and tantalizing just happened with Milo. On our way into this godforsaken place . . . there was an incident. You see, there was a girl. And not just any girl. Like, a supermodel-looking girl. With long dirty-blond hair and a gap between her teeth. But a foxy gap. Like, she’s the kind of girl that makes a gap between your teeth look glamorous.
Now, normally, this is the kind of girl you would see all sorts of guys rushing over to, but that’s not what happens. No, no. Remy and I both step back and watch as this girl bum-rushes Milo, plants two palms on his chest, and literally pushes him back with brute strength.
“WTF?!”
Milo looks vaguely amused but a bit nervous.
“WTF?! WTF?! WTF?!” Just those letters over and over. And now she is just pushing him backward and he is getting pushed. And people are starting to look over. Remy and I exchange the international look for OMG.WTF.com
“Hi . . .” Milo trails off, his cheeks flushed.
“Hi? That’s all you have to say to me? HI?!”
“Um . . .”
“Yeah, whatever, HI. You know what . . . fuck you!”
And gap-toothed-yet-beautiful storms off.
Now there is just a circle of people staring at Milo, who looks around sheepishly.
“Sorry . . . that was my dentist.”
A few chuckles, a few eye rolls, and everyone gets back to the party.
So, as you can see, Milo is becoming more and more mysterious by the minute. I mean, I thought it was pretty clear that he was the most excellent swoon-worthy person of all time, but maybe he isn’t after all. Maybe he’s a jerk? I mean, that dentist comment wasn’t the nicest. Also, I thought it was pretty clear that I was supposed to be in love with him and all, but that’s not what’s happening, either. And he is presently transforming into some kind of weird turtle who is quiet, withdrawn, and only answering questions with one-word sentences.
Guess that dentist really had an effect.
If you don’t believe me, even Remy is noticing. It’s like he can’t even look at us.
Maybe I shouldn’t have admitted I’m from Iowa. He probably just thinks I’m some dumb hillbilly. I mean, the art on my dad’s walls is not on loan but was straight-up bought from maybe a garage sale or the ROSS Dress for Less, and there’s a kitchen witch involved and also something depicting a cat sleeping in a meadow outside a barn at sunset. There are no giant paintings of Campbell’s tomato soup, but there actually is Campbell’s tomato soup. If you open the top cupboard to the left, you’ll find it.
So there’s that.
That might explain the fact that my mysterious future imaginary husband Milo might as well be in Timbuktu right now, let alone standing right next to me in the middle of this sweaty party or bacchanalian festivity or whatever this is. I am noticing that some of these people are probably too old to be doing this. I mean, like . . . I’m not sure what the cutoff point is for gyrating in sparkly clothes, but I can tell you some of these people are really pushing it.
If you think this is Remy’s cue to look over at me and say, “C’mon, isn’t this fun?!” and then start dancing crazily with that spangly stranger over there in short shorts, then guess what? Wrongo.
Remy looks just as annoyed as me. She’s yelling into Milo’s ear over the music and he’s shrinking and looking around a bit, at a girl wearing what can only best be described as a zebra sequin bathing suit minus the stomach part but with a silver circle attaching the top to a skirt. It’s very confusing. And the girl herself looks confused by it. Or maybe she’s just wondering where the rest of the zebra went.
Milo nods at Remy, and suddenly I am whisked out as if on a kind of people–conveyor belt back into the brisk Brooklyn air.
“God, that was horrible.”
I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard Remy say anything negative.
“I know. So B and T.”
“B and T?”
“Bridge and tunnel.”
“Like, the people that have to take a bridge and/or tunnel to get here,” Milo fills in.
“Wait . . . didn’t WE have to take a bridge to get here . . . to Brooklyn?”
“NO!”
But definitely yes.
Still, they both say it. I think this is the most emphatic they’ve been all night. Possibly ever.
Here’s the good news.
Our Ecstasy is kicking in.
Here’s the bad news.
Now Milo is puking in the gutter.