Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist. Rachel Cohn
need to go somewhere,” she tells me. “I promise I’ll bring it back.”
I’m reaching for the keys in my pocket. I’m thinking I’ll go with you. I’m thinking of passenger-seat conversations and making song dedications in my head. Her face lit by that nighttime driving light – two parts dashboard, one part headlight strobe from the opposite lane. I am remembering that so much.
Fuck, I loved her then. And then is blurring into now. I’m thinking why not? I’m thinking we’re still the same people. And a voice outside of me is saying, “I’m afraid the car’s already full. No room for you, Tris. Sorry.”
This Norah girl’s grinning now, all transparent sweetness and light.
“Excuse me?” Tris asks.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t clear. Let me try again. FUCK OFF.”
“I think turning off to fucking is your department, Norah. Now why don’t you take Drunkzilla here and go find some nice Weezer fans to rock-tease. I’m talking to Nick, not you.”
And I’m thinking: She’s fighting over me. Tris is fighting over me.
But for some reason it’s Norah who’s putting her arm around me and putting her hand in my back pocket.
I’m about to shudder her off, but then Tris says, “Come on, Nick – we’re really late and need the car. I’ll pay you back for the gas.” And I know right away that I’m not a part of her “we.” I’ve been fucking exiled from her “we.”
“I’m going to find Randy,” Caroline decides.
“Hell, no, you’re not,” Norah says, taking her arm from my shoulder and linking it around Caroline’s elbow. Which leaves us in this weird we’re off to see the Wizard pose, with Tris blocking us like the Wicked Witch of the Past.
She could have me so easily. But instead she snorts and says, “You can take him. I only wanted his car.”
And with that, Tris leaves me for good. Every time I see her, from now until I die, she will leave me for good. Over and over and over again.
Norah takes her hand out of my back pocket and steadies Caroline with her full body. It’s my turn to lead now, and I can barely do it. It’s not that I’m drunk or stoned or spiraling high. It’s just that I’m defeated. And that’s impairing all of my senses.
There’s only one hopeful chord in this cacophony, and it’s this girl I’m following. I know I could tell her to get a cab – I have a feeling she can more than afford it – but I like the idea of leaving with her and staying with her. She says good-bye to the club manager as we reach the door and are released onto the street. The sidewalk is full of smokers, talking or posing their way to ash. I get the nod from a couple of people I vaguely know. Ordinarily if I left with two hot girls, there’d also be some looks of admiration. Maybe it’s because of the clear anger between Norah and Caroline, or maybe it’s because they all think I’m gay – whatever the case, I get no more congratulations than a cabdriver does for picking up a fare.
I know I should offer to help Norah propel Caroline forward, but the truth is that I don’t feel like I can carry anyone but myself right now. The streets are empty. I am empty. Or, no – I am full of pain. It’s my life that’s empty.
I stumble for my keys. Tris will not be waiting for me inside the car. Tris will not be waiting for me ever again.
I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have been anywhere that she could find.
We’re at my car.
“What the fuck is that ?” Norah asks.
I shrug and say, “It’s a Yugo.”
So this is what my promising life has been reduced to. The Jewish princess from Englewood Cliffs, fucking valedictorian who chose a Catholic girls’ high school to accompany her best friend through the experience, who chose to turn down Brown, the girl whose possibilities now that she’s about to be let loose upon the world should supposedly be infinite, is sitting through the middle of an April night in the passenger side of a Yugo that smells like Tris’s patchouli aromatherapy oil. Perhaps it’s only the vehicle that won’t start, but it feels like it’s my life that won’t start. Yes, this Yugo with the passenger-side seat metal coming through the torn seat fabric, scratching against the back of my thigh, this Cold War relic that won’t respond to Nick’s turn of the ignition key, is like a fucking metaphor for my sorry-ass life: STALLED.
Nick might be a bass god but he’s also a parking god because he scored a spot right in front of the club, the unfortunate consequence of which is that now my stalled ears are receiving the listening benefit of the band playing inside the club and they’re really fucking good and that’s really pissing me off. I’m not sure if I backed into my life by getting into this Yugo with my new almost-boyfriend, or if I backed out of it by leaving the club to save Caroline once again, but whichever end it is, I’m left wanting more music. It’s still Hunter on the stage but now I can hear that the Dev dude is singing some strange harmony with Hunter on another Green Day cover, “Time of Your Life.” Hunter Does Hunter have accelerated the lite-FM classic song (because how much more punk can you go than producing an elevator song staple – bless you, Billie Joe) up to Parliament tempo and I swear there’s a DJ mixing a sample of that Michael Jackson freak moaning about how Billie Jean is not my lover, the kid is not my son into the groove. How is that possible and why does it sound so damn good and if the Yugo doesn’t start within one second I am outta here, I don’t care how tempted I am to try for another seven minutes of being Nick’s girlfriend after we’ve got Caroline back to my place. For a poor schmuck, he’s temptatiously fucking cute.
“Do you hear that?” I ask Nick.
“What? Is the engine starting?” The poor schmuck is not only cute and a great head-bob thrash-dancer, he’s probably a good guy. At least he proved deft at maneuvering a drunken Caroline goddess into the backseat of a freakin’ Yugo and making her think it was her idea. Let’s not forget the part about him being a great kisser. He deserves better than a Tris – and a Yugo.
I tell him, “No. Dude. Listen up, that rhythmic banging inside the club? It’s called drumming. It’s, like, famous as an underlying staple of sound since primitive cultures.” I play drums on the glove compartment of the Yugo. The compartment pops open from my banging. A Polaroid of Tris is taped inside the compartment. I rip it out. Bloody hell! Caroline isn’t paranoid – Tris really did swipe Caroline’s vintage cut-off white T-shirt with Flea’s autograph over the left breast area. I toss the picture out the window and turn to face Nick. “Your fucking band needs a drummer. I saw you grinding to Hunter’s earlier Green Day cover of ‘Chump’ back in the club. I know you feel rhythm more than just your heart-attack-inducing bass skills. Think about it. What would ‘Chump’ have been without Tres Cool? Get a drummer for your band, guy. Really.”
Caroline has yet to reach her warm-cuddly drunk stage, post-heave and pre-slumber, which would put her in inquisitive stage about now, and right on schedule, from the backseat, she interjects, “Really,” because Caroline is always picking up sentences where I leave ’em off. “Driver person. Hey!” She taps Nick’s shoulder from behind him. Nick looks around to her but quickly turns back around to face me. Such a pretty girl, such rancid tequila breath. Caroline wants to know, “Why would you wear such ugly shoes? Answer me, driver person. Please?”
“The shoes go with the car, Caroline,” I tell her. “Yugo drivers are required to wear torn-and-graffitied hi-top Chucks shit on their feet. It’s like a rule. It’s in the manual.” I pull the Yugo car manual from the glove compartment. A chewed-up wad of gum extends from the manual back to the compartment.