Later that evening, the doorman hailed a cab for us as I stood clutching Cora’s hand on the sidewalk. It was nice having someone do things for me; that was what money did for you. It was a tool that opened doors and forced respect, two things I had struggled with my entire life. Finally, I understood its power.
Wearing the puffy down jacket over her dress, Cora was quiet, watching impeccably dressed women coated in the finest wool depart the golden door confidently as their Jimmy Choos clicked out a morse code on the pavement. I watched her shrink in their presence, and I hated it.
Our taxi pulled up and we climbed in. I gave the instructions to the driver. He eased out into traffic, and I studied Cora looking out the window.
“A penny for your thoughts,” I whispered.
“Sorry,” she answered quickly and then turned toward me. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for the limelight like you are.” She glanced back out onto the street of immaculate designer showrooms and boutiques ostensibly to prove her point. “I mean, I don’t even know who Michael Kors is. I’m a fish out of water here.” She shifted in the seat, and I pulled her cool hand into mine and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“Try to look at it as an adventure, sweetheart,” I offered. “We are so far away from our normal life, no one knows who we are, so we can reinvent ourselves and be anyone we want to be here.”
“But I’m just fine with who I am,” she argued. “My simple life back home is enough for me.”
“Hmm.” I settled back into the seat, contemplating her statement.
Was it enough for me? I wasn’t sure anymore. If I chased my dream to fill auditoriums and clubs in every city, where would Cora fit in? Would she even want to fit in at all?
The darkened streets sped by as I turned over these questions in my mind. In twenty minutes, our driver pulled up to Impresso, the most highly rated new restaurant in New York. I bribed the hoity-toity concierge to get us a table, and he came through. Another opened door thanks to the ease of my two new best friends—Ms. Fame and Mr. Money.
Cora’s eyes widened as she looked out onto the street. I tipped the driver, and he sped away, leaving us in front of the restaurant. Masses of people rushed by on the sidewalk with earbuds in their ears, lost in their podcasts and music. Weaving in and out in figure-eights, they sped on foot to their individual destinations. We were enveloped in a sea of people, and yet everyone reeked of loneliness. Cora glanced at the menu posted on the wall outside the restaurant and gasped.
“One hundred and twenty-five dollars for a steak? That’s insanity.”
“We’re splurging tonight,” I dismissed. “Stop worrying about it.”
“I don’t want you to spend your hard-earned money on me like this.”
“What if I told you I’m using some of my easily earned money? The kind that just dropped in my lap? Would that make it easier to stomach?” I flashed a lopsided grin at her and pulled her into the open door that was being held open for us by the hostess.
It took a moment for our eyes to adjust to the candlelight. At a cherry wood stand, an angular hostess with a high ponytail and cheekbones that were slashed from granite narrowed her eyes at us.
“Niles from the Baccarat said you would be holding a table for us.”
“Ah, yes. Follow me.” She stomped between the tables like it was a runway at a Versace show, leading us to a booth with high benches that would ensconce us in velvet luxury. Warm light spilled from the candles in crystal votives as we struggled out of our coats and placed them in her arms. Her nose wrinkled in disgust, carrying our dirty jackets, but she fought her way through it and stomped away.
Cora opened the menu, overwhelmed immediately at the wine list and entrees listed with the words ‘market price’ instead of a dollar amount. I gently pulled the menu from her hands with a flourish.
“Allow me,” I said, glancing at the appetizers. Our waiter appeared dressed in all black, wearing a long apron with a towel draped over his arm.
“Welcome to the Impresso. I am Dustin, and I will be taking care of you this evening.”
I smiled up at him.
“Tonight, the chef’s special is fresh sea scallops in a cream and saffron reduction with baby leeks that have been flash-fried, served on a bed of pork belly.”
“Yum,” I said, even though I had no idea what half of what he said even meant.
“I see you are perusing our wine list. Have you made a selection?”
I closed my eyes, swirled my finger above it, and randomly landed on one. “This?”
“Great choice. I’ll return with the bottle.”
Cora laughed. “This place is so fancy. Do you even know what a saffron reduction is? Or pork belly?”
“My lady, pork belly is bacon for those with a highly sophisticated palate,” I said in my most haughty tone. “We cannot be expected to lower our standards to eating the poor man’s breakfast meat. Oh no! We must elevate it and call it something entirely different to prove our status.” I pronounced the last word “state-us” in a terrible English accent.
“You sound like Niles.” Cora relaxed with the joke. “I think I’d rather just have bacon,” she admitted. “The word belly makes it a skoosh cannibalistic, don’t you think?”
“We can leave if you’re uncomfortable,” I offered. “Or—” I tipped my head and paused with a smile, “—we can blow a wad here and have one of those once in a lifetime experiences.” I paused. “That’s got my vote.”
“You’re right,” Cora relented. “I have nothing to prove to these people.”
“Damn right you don’t!”
She picked up her water glass and held it delicately with her pinky out. “Freddie Dahling,” she said with a breathy English accent. “I must have the pork belly. I am simply famished.”
“That’s my girl.” I encouraged her with a smile.
The waiter returned and made a huge show of opening the wine and handing the cork to me. “Why are you handing me your garbage? Is there a trash can under here?” I asked and swept the table cloth to the side to look under the table. Stunned, Dustin looked at me robotically and blinked.
“Do you not wish to smell the cork, sir?”
“But of course.” I enthused and hoisted the reddened end to my nostril, inhaling like I was shooting an eight-ball of cocaine that made Cora giggle and the waiter’s eyes twitch.
He poured a tiny serving into my glass. “Why you gotta be so stingy, Dustin? I bought the whole bottle, didn’t I?”
His forehead wrinkled, but he pushed through the confusion and answered, “Why, for you to taste and approve, sir.” I had to hand it to Dustin, the man was unflappable.
“Well, considering that my two requirements for drinks are that they are wet and can get me drunk, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that this will work just fine.”
“Of course,” he muttered as he filled our glasses and then rested the bottle wrapped in its white linen cocoon on the table and promptly left.
Looking around the poshly appointed restaurant at all the muckity mucks sipping champagne and gorging themselves on frog legs and caviar inspired me. I pulled out my phone and tapped on the fart machine app. I tucked the phone between my legs, cued it up, and added a thirty-second timer while Cora studied the menu, trying to decode what the hell Prix Fixe meant. She was distracted by her calculations and questions as our server glided back to the table with a basket of bread, olive oil, and parmesan cheese. He deposited it between us and said he’d be back to take our orders when, seconds later, the first loud fart burst through the undercurrent hum of the restaurant’s ambient noise, amplified by the wooden bench I was sitting on. Cora jumped, and I started to shake with repressed laughter as Cora’s eyes snapped to mine. The patrons around us went silent, searching for the source of the offensive sound.
“Freddie,” she hissed and then started to chuckle herself. I took it as a sign she wanted me to continue, so I pressed another thirty-second delay and waited.
Thirty seconds later, an even louder and longer flagellation filled the air. This time Cora and I clamped hands on our mouths to prevent the shrieks of laughter from escaping. I looked up in time to see the stomping hostess drilling us with a death glare, and it just egged me on. I pressed the button one more time, and a squeaky, moist, burbling, gassy fart burst through the speaker. I stifled my giggles, enjoying watching Cora’s nostrils flare and seeing her shake with effort to contain her laughter.
“You’re gonna make me pee,” Cora said, clutching her stomach. “It hurts.”
Win column. Check.
The angry gazelle appeared at my side. “Sir. If you continue to disturb our other diners, you will be asked to leave.”
“I’m so sorry, I had a colonoscopy yesterday and I can’t help it.” I smiled sweetly at her. “It’s a bodily function.”
“One more complaint and you are going to have to tend to your bodily function elsewhere,” she said before swinging her high ponytail away and stomping back to her perch, where she continued to shoot us daggers with her eyes.
Cora’s face was reddening from embarrassment and repressed laughter. She sighed and shook her head at me. “You’re crazy.”
“Just for you, sweetheart.”
Dustin appeared at my side, no doubt summoned by the angry gazelle’s instructions to get us in and out. “Have you made your selections?”
“We both would like to try the Prix Fix-E thingy,” I answered.
“You mean the Prix Fixe?” he corrected with obvious disdain.
“Yes, my good man.” I skooched my fingers away, encouraging him to leave as soon as possible.
Cora was becoming shifty and uncomfortable. “I feel like we’re an exhibit at the zoo,” she said softly out of earshot of the other guests whose eyes kept darting our direction.
“Screw ‘em!” I said and hoisted up my glass with a flourish and sipped thoughtfully.
Three courses later, we were stuffed with fancy food and escorted out the backdoor of the restaurant like a dirty secret. I pulled Cora’s hand into mine and started walking to the park where there was a line of carriages set up and waiting for tourists like us.
“Fancy a ride?” I asked her, and she nodded eagerly. The driver got us settled into the carriage and offered us hot chocolate from a thermos and a warm blanket. Cora snuggled in next to me with a contented sigh as the driver eased the horse out onto the road, and it began its jerky trek down the moonlit streets. Fat snowflakes began to gently fall from the dark sky, lit by rogue stars and a bright crescent moon.
“It’s just like in a movie!” Cora cried as she stuck her tongue out, tasting a flake.
“Might want to be careful there, darlin’. This is New York snow—smoggy and smoky, not the pristine, fresh Midwest snow you’re used to.”
“You might have a point there.” She laughed as the big flakes settled on my head, and she brushed them off. The horse continued to pick his way down the streets. The wheels creaking under our weight, his horseshoes clicked and clacked on the pavement while the blanket was warm and toasty across our laps.
This is it. Kiss her, you fool. It doesn’t get any better than this.
It was perfect, so I decided to go for it. In the middle of a New York snow globe, riding in a horse-drawn carriage, during the most romantic moment of my life, I delicately clasped her hand in mine. I leaned in to gently place my lips on hers, and at that precise fairytale moment, when all the stars had aligned, the horse decided to take a royal shit. The sheer quantity of which stunned even me. It just kept coming and coming; impressive black piles hit the pavement and splattered out onto the ground. Seconds later, the stench hit us like a tidal wave, a scent so pungent and thick you could almost taste it. It flooded our nostrils as Cora snorted in laughter.
“Cock blocker!” I shouted at the horse, plugging my nose. Cora’s giggles were muffled by her hands that covered her mouth and nose and neither of us could stop laughing. We’d stop and then the giggles would start up again, unable to be contained. My abdominal muscles shook and strained from the effort. Twenty minutes later, the driver deposited us right where we started and offered Cora a red rose that she brought to her nose to inhale its sweetness.
“Now? You give that to her now?” I asked. “Dude, where were you with that a few minutes ago? That’s when we really could have used it!” He just shrugged his shoulders, flipped open the door, and pulled the makeshift stair out for us to descend.
I held a hand up to help Cora alight from the carriage and then tucked her hand into my arm to escort her back to the hotel. “How are your feet? Should we get an Uber?”
“Let’s walk,” she said. “It’s not far, and New York with its jewel box lights gleaming in the skyscrapers is so pretty in the snow.”
“It is. Covers up the dirt and stench of this cesspool. Almost makes it beautiful,” I agreed.
We walked quietly as the snow kept falling.
“You know what I’ve always wanted to do?” Cora asked.
“Get a tattoo that says Property of Freddie Angel on your ass?”
She yanked her arm from my bicep and punched me with it. “No, goofball. One of my favorite childhood traditions was watching them light up the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center.” Her voice took on this misty milky quality that pierced my heart. “They would pan down to the people skating on the ice rink, and it just looked so dreamy and romantic.” Her eyes flickered across to mine as her lips turned up in a quick smile. “Is that stupid?”
“Not at all! Let’s do it!” I offered eagerly.
“Really?” she cried. “Do you even know how to ice skate?’
“How hard can it be?’ I asked. I hailed a cab, and thirty minutes later, we were standing in the long looping line for skates at Rockefeller Center. Cora’s face softened and her eyes glinted with excitement watching skaters circle the ice. I brushed a flake of snow from her cheek, then paid for our tickets when we finally arrived at the front of the line, then we hauled our rented skates to benches where we sat to put them on. I laced up my skates as Sinatra swooned, “You Make Me Feel So Young.”
Perfect moment, perfect song. Win column, check.
The stars were out in force, poking through the black satiny cover of night, littered casually across the sky. “Look, Freddie. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” There was a wistfulness in her voice that I had never heard before, reducing her to a little girl. She stood shakily on her skates, her ankles leaning in as she walked to the ice, and I struggled to catch up. Walking on a narrow metal blade definitely isn’t as easy as the hockey players make it look. I stumbled then caught myself, then tentatively inched out one shaky foot onto the ice as I watched Cora take off. She glided effortlessly over the ice while I pushed off with one foot a little too fervently and lost my balance clawing my hands in the air like a cartoon, before landing hard on the ice with a crunch.
“That’s going to leave a mark,” I mumbled under my breath.
“You’re a disaster,” a voice screamed from the back of my mind. I pushed it away and crawled to my knees and then to a precarious standing position, scanning the crowd of skaters for Cora. A few seconds later, she glided next to me, and I was so excited to see her, I lost my balance again and scissored down into the worst splits an adult male has ever attempted. All my joints snapped, crackled, and popped in protest.
Cora dissolved into a pile of giggles, and I reached out a hand to her.
“Help me,” I begged. “I think I’m stuck, and I definitely pulled a groin muscle.”
She struggled to pull me to my feet, and I clutched her like a drowning man.
“You realize, if one of us goes down, we are both going down, right?”
Not wanting to hurt her, I pulled my hand away and willed my feet forward on the bumpy ice. “I have to say, I thought it would be a lot smoother,” I admitted, marveling at the pock-marked ice sliced with grooves from the hundreds of skaters that had taken to it before us. “Isn’t smooth as ice a thing?” I mused out loud. “I swear it’s a thing.”
I followed her lead in the counterclockwise circle that we traveled in, tentatively increasing my speed to keep up. My thighs and calves burned from the concentrated effort that felt foreign to them. I hadn’t physically exerted myself like this in almost a decade. “Don’t let me hold you back,” I shouted into the void. “Skate your heart out until you’re tired, then come find the old guy who brought you here.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. “I am fine hanging back and skating with you.”
“I insist,” I said with a little bow that was my chivalrous downfall and collapsed onto the ice again, this time taking out a four-year-old who came up behind me too quickly.
“Freddie!” Cora shouted over her shoulder. “Do you need help?”
“Save yourself. I’m fine.” I helped the stunned kid find his feet, and he disappeared into the mass of skaters circling around me.
She skated away into the crowd, and I got up onto all fours and then placed my skates back on the ice and pushed off. My ankles were exhausted and tight.
How do hockey players do this for hours?
“You’re no hockey player, dumb ass,” a woman cackled. “Maybe a hokey player.”
“Shut up,” I mumbled.
I skated two more looping circles and then found a bench to sit on to wait for Cora to come circling around again. I rested and rubbed my knee, which was starting to ache. Cora zoomed by and then surprised me by executing a perfect spin in front of me.
“Bravo!” I shouted and stuck two fingers into my mouth and whistled loudly at her. She skated away into the fray again as I waited. Twenty minutes later, she skated to my bench, her face flushed pink with effort and her eyes sparkling.
“You ready?” she asked.
“I can sit longer if you want to close this place down.”
“I think I’m tired. Let’s head back?”
I was relieved to hear that because I was in dire need of some ibuprofen, but truthfully, I would have sat my frozen ass on that bench as long as Cora wanted me to.
I unlaced my skates and stretched out my toes, slipping them back into my shoes I had a newfound appreciation for. In the span of an hour, the death blades strapped to my feet made even my pinched dress shoes feel like wearing marshmallows.
“Here, I’ll return our skates,” Cora offered, and she picked up both pairs and ran them back to the counter.
She returned with a smile. “That was awesome. Freddie, I crossed something off my bucket list tonight.”
My soft heart burst open and bubbles rushed in. I wasn’t used to being the guy who made dreams come true. The way Cora looked at me now put me on a pedestal. Her eyes shone with happiness, and I was the man that put it there. It was the highest high in my entire miserable existence. I wish I had savored that moment more. The problem with highs is that they don’t last.