24

“God gave us all a penis and a brain, but only enough blood to run one at one time.”

—Robin Williams

 

 

 

As I lay, head throbbing, trying to get out of bed and don a pantsuit fit for touring prospective parents, I tried to piece together the prior evening, since I truly didn’t remember getting home. Thank God I’d had a relatively quick divorce settlement or Sherry Von would have had PIs trailing me to see if I was some lush and unfit mom, not that I ever would have pounded like that were Miles not with Tim. Thirty-four is too old to be on the hooch like that, I thought, even if for one night in eons.

Then I remembered all of us stumbling outside onto the Bowery, Kiki kissing some chef boy, and Nick putting his arm around me. His motorcycle jacket felt tight around my shoulder and I felt protected. I remembered my speech wasn’t that clear as I uttered something about there being no cabs and he said, “I have a ride.” In Tim’s world, that meant a chauffeur-driven car waiting outside. I said, “Great,” and was then led by Nick through the cold air to a motorcycle in front of the old CBGBs. It was starting to come back to me: My mom would have spazzed. I stuttered something about this maybe not being such a good idea, picturing myself in a full-body cast peeing through a hole cut out of the plaster into a bedpan.

“Come on, Holly. Chill out. Live a little.” At least he had a spare helmet so I wouldn’t be some decapitated headless horsemom with brains scattered along Park Avenue. I am so not wired for risk. If I hadn’t been drunk, it would be safe to say I would have gotten on that hog over my dead body.

But there I was. Flying up First Avenue. Though my thoughts were hazy, I remember thinking that if someone I knew could see me, they would probably faint in shock. Or at least thought I’d gone off the deep end. Holly Talbott with some guy on a motorcycle? Not a chance.

When we got to my neighborhood, the night doorman was already on duty (translation: asleep on the lobby couch), so there was no one to witness my very un-uptown chariot’s arrival. Nick helped me off the seat, dress pulled up by my thighs. It was semi-undignified but, dare I say, badass?

“Holly. That was fun—”

The next thing I knew, he had kissed me, hard. He put his hands on my face and leaned me against his bike, grabbing my back as his mouth moved on mine forcefully. I finally had my own taste of a no-strings-attached kiss. It was a very rock-and-roll moment for me. I’d always been a prude, “saving it” for my first love. But I was now taking a page from Kiki’s book—a little black book—and while making out was phenomenal, with the sound of Nick’s leather arms moving around me as a sound track, it was also just a page from the book and not the whole book. In other words, I might have been able to engage in street-corner kissing, but I would not be sleeping with Nick. When I finally disentangled myself from his embrace and looked at him, he knew right away I would have to bid adieu and that he would not be scoring beyond this, but he was very cool and simply took my hand, gave it a squeeze, and got back on his bike.

 

 

 

After a long day of tours, I scooped up Miles and took him out for an early dinner in our favorite old-school diner, Three Guys, on Madison. He was so excited about some game Tim had scored tickets to, and I tried to just nod and be excited for him, but I knew this would mark the beginning in a grand game of one-upsmanship, where I was the Lame One because I wasn’t ever going to be able to get backstage passes at concerts the way Tim could through his connections, or go to the Super Bowl or Olympics or God knows what else. While my ex provided Le-Bron James, I could only offer a grilled cheese.

It was cold on our walk home, but the twinkling Christmas lights that had sprung up everywhere somehow warmed us. Thanksgiving was a week away, and the vision of a majestic streaming row of glittering trees down Park Avenue soothed our bones despite the arctic chill in the air.

After some hot chocolate and homework, Miles was ready for stories and we climbed into his bed, piled among stuffed animals and fluffy pillows. He was in his favorite Spider-Man pajamas and leaned on my shoulder as we read Rotten Ralph, about a mischievous cat who did mean things like take a bite out of every cookie at a birthday party. But it had always made me smile since it mirrored the other side of childhood, the kooky one that is sick of the incessant litany of brush-your-teeth, wash-your-hands, manners manners manners. And somehow through the prism of my wild night before, I was happy to break free from my own locked-in rules of what was acceptable and go crazy. Maybe not rotten, per se, but definitely, and happily, a little less tame.