“I think this is a job for MasterCard!” said Jazzy.
“Sergeant will kill me. I can only use mine in case of an emergency, Jazz.”
“Trix, you’re going out with your one dreamboat guy. You’ve waited all through puberty for this moment. It’s like your wedding day and you’re going to show up at the altar without a wedding dress. I can think of no bigger emergency than that! We’ll go to Groovy Garments. They’re the fashion industry’s answer to nine-one-one.”
Every time Gavin and I passed in the hall, he smiled his usual smile, but he didn’t stop to chat and said nothing about the concert. At home, my heart raced every time the phone rang. I checked the messages on the answering machine over and over. I would have called Gavin myself, but each time I picked up the phone, my pulse skyrocketed and my hands began to shake so badly, I couldn’t press the numbers.
Finally Wednesday night Sarge told me I had a male caller.
I picked up the phone and said breathlessly, “This is Trixie!”
“This is Ben, from Chaplin’s.”
“Oh…you. I mean, hi!” I added, attempting a perky voice.
“I have a prime opportunity for you. We’re having our Amateur Comedy Contest tomorrow.”
“I know—Joyce told me. But I won’t be able to watch.”
“You’ll be able to perform.”
“Huh?” I asked, distracted. My mind was still on Gavin.
“We had a cancellation. So I signed you up!”
“Signed me up for what?”
“Are you listening? I put you down for the contest!”
Now I was listening. “You did what?” Talent Night Part II flashed before my eyes.
“It’ll be great exposure.”
I was stunned. First, that Ben expected me to perform the very next night, after it had taken me seventeen years to get the courage to do it once. And second, because tomorrow marked the most important event of my life!
“Just perform the same material from Open Mike.”
“I can’t!”
“You’ll do fine.”
“Maybe next time—”
“Next time! Are you crazy? We don’t do this every week! The booker will be there. I had to fight to get you a slot! Do you know how many new comics are dying to perform?”
“A billion?”
“Well, less than a billion. But more than five. Seriously, Trixie, you have to do this!”
“Ben—”
“Be here tomorrow at eight thirty. You go on at eight forty-five.”
“Eight thirty?” The Varicose Veins concert started at eight.
“You only have to do five minutes. You’ll be great!” he said, and hung up.
The phone rang again almost immediately.
“Ben, thanks, but I have other plans!” I confessed.
“Who’s Ben?” a somewhat familiar voice asked.
My heart stood still. I couldn’t say anything—I was frozen. I was on the phone with Gavin Baldwin! I looked to heaven and mouthed the words, “Thank you!”
“It’s Gavin.”
“Oh…from the hallway!” I blurted out. “I meet so many guys in the hallway, it’s hard to keep them all straight.”
“Like Ben?”
“Ben? Oh…Ben. He’s like a brother. A really unattractive brother!”
“Funny onstage and off,” he said in a flirtatious voice. “So we’re still on for tomorrow?”
What could I say? “I’ve waited all my life for a date with you, but I have a few jokes to tell to some drunk strangers…so, thanks, but no.” Instead I said, “Sure. Of course!”
“Good. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty,” he said, and hung up.
I kissed the phone, then ran to my mirror and modeled the pale blue slinky dress I’d bought at Groovy Garments. I gazed at my reflection, wondering how I was going to get out of the most wonderful mess of my life.
At least I had an outfit.
“Ricky and I found this place one day when I couldn’t wait until after school for some lip action,” Jazzy said, leading me down the deserted stairs by the auditorium stage during lunch. “It’s the props room.”
“Wow! This is where Sid said he took cigarette breaks. I bet it still smells like smoke.”
“I never had to use this before.” Jazzy giggled. She switched on a single bare bulb that illuminated a small windowless room full of dust-covered memories from years past: broken Tiffany lamps, yellowed newspapers, beat-up couches, chipped oil paintings, sections of cardboard scenery, a plastic lamppost.
“This is more sticky than the thornbushes of freshman year!” I said, plunking myself down in the middle of a cracked vinyl couch, creating a dust storm.
“If you’re going to be the damsel in distress, at least look the part,” Jazzy said, tossing me a red feather boa. She grabbed a pipe and detective’s hat from a broken trunk for herself and sat in an executive’s chair with her feet up on a desk. She rested her head on a backdrop of a senior artist’s rendition of the New York skyline.
“You’ve got to help me, Jazz,” I said theatrically, twirling the feather boa. “I don’t know what to do! Ha…choo! I could call Ben back and say I’m sick,” I suggested, searching for a tissue in my purse. “Which I will be if I breathe in this dust much longer.”
“The show must go on, darling,” Jazzy said with a puff on her pipe. “Besides, this is a golden opportunity. All you’ve talked and dreamed about is comedy, and now Ben is inviting you to perform at Chaplin’s! You might not get a chance to do this ever again!”
“I may never get another chance with Gavin either!” I pointed out, wrapping the boa around my neck.
“Trix, you’re not telling him no, either. ’Cause I don’t want to hear that you missed your one chance at true lust. Just tell Gavin you have to perform in a contest and you’ll be late. But tell him you’ll make it up to him when the concert is over!” Jazzy said with a wicked grin.
“You are so in the gutter!”
“All right. Let me think,” she pondered, tipping her hat over her eyes. “What time do the Veins start?”
“Eight.”
“And what time is Chaplin’s contest?”
“Eight.”
“But when exactly do you have to perform?”
“Eight forty-five, but I have to be there—”
“By George, I think I’ve got it!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet and knocking over Manhattan. “Chaplin’s is around the corner from the Mosh Pit. There’s your answer. You can totally do both! You hang with Gavin until eight thirty, tell him you have to go to the bathroom, run to Chaplin’s for your gig and then hop back to the Mosh Pit and dance the night away!”
“That’s crazy!”
“Darling, it’s brilliant!”
“I can’t do it!”
“You must,” she insisted.
“It’s impossible.”
“Difficult, yes, but not impossible. Most girls spend half an hour in the bathroom. He’ll never know you’re gone!”
“But I won’t have time to prepare for the contest. I have to sign in, take twenty deep breaths, rehearse my material in the bathroom, drink a Coke, bite my nails. I have a whole routine. And then when I’m back with Gavin, I’ll be disheveled and exhausted. I won’t have the strength to dance. He’ll never smile at me again!”
“Are you going to sit at home and watch Jelly Bean till you’re an old woman? You have to grab life by the horns!”
I caressed the feather boa. “Can I grab life by the horns and watch TV?”
SMILEY-FACE WATCH
Thursday morning I begged Dad to take Sarge to Maggiano’s that night for spaghetti so I could have total privacy for my dream date. He obliged and I slipped him a copy of Golf Digest and a kiss on the cheek as they exited for the evening. Even Sid had called me to prep me for my date: “Don’t be nervous,” he said. “Just pretend I’m with you.”
I was finally going on my sizzling dream date—this was one time I didn’t want to pretend my big bro
ther was sitting right next to me.
I obsessively retouched my coffee-colored lipstick and smoothed out my silky Groovy Garments dress in the hallway mirror. I had dreamed of this day for two long years—Gavin showing up at my house with roses; Gavin bringing me chicken soup when I was home with the flu; Gavin picking me up for the prom; Gavin begging me to elope with him to Las Vegas. But here I was, waiting for him to take me to a Varicose Veins concert in Amber Hills.
I fingered the most important part of my ensemble for the evening—my smiley-face watch—and stared into the hallway mirror.
I anxiously sat in the audience of the ornate theater, wringing my hands. A suntanned, tuxedoed movie-star presenter twinkled from behind the glass podium. “And now the award for Best Girlfriend of Gavin Baldwin—,” he said, opening the elegant envelope. “And the Valentine goes to Trixie Shapiro!”
I was overwhelmed as I rose from my seat. I felt faint walking precariously up the white-marble stairs to the stage. I stood next to the presenter in my strapless glittering silver gown. Tears of joy streamed down my face.
“I wasn’t sure I’d win, so I didn’t prepare a speech—but my mother did!” I pulled a note from my dress that unscrolled to the floor. The audience roared.
“I’d like to thank my agent, Cupid, my clothes designer, Jazlyn Peters, and my real-life producers, Mom and Dad.” I lifted up the diamond Valentine. “And a special thanks to Gavin Baldwin, for always being in the hallway, and for making this night possible!”
The doorbell rang. I nearly jumped out of my dress. I dashed to the door and peeked through the peephole. Gavin Baldwin was distorted, his head bloated, but still gorgeous, and calm—not like me, who stood melting and shaking all at once.
He rang the bell again.
I opened the door to the whole Gavin—sexy in his black-leather coat, a flashing stud earring, brand-new denim jeans, and black boots. His blue eyes glistened, his jet-black hair shined, his smile sparkled bigger than a July Fourth celebration.
Parked on the curb was the familiar Volvo. Now I was going to see my favorite car, but from the inside. I bit my lip. This was my James Dean, my Elvis, my favorite Beatle. I didn’t want to blow it. So I said nothing as we walked to his car.
“I’m surprised I didn’t have to meet your parents,” he said, opening the passenger door for me. “Don’t you watch talk shows? You can’t be too careful dating these days,” he said protectively.
“Don’t you watch talk shows? You can’t be too careful having parents either!”
Gavin laughed.
I melted into the leather seat and caressed its smooth surface with my hands. How many times had Stinkface sat in this very same place? Did she appreciate his love-mobile as much as I? Or was she the kind of girl to put her feet up on the dashboard, smoke cigarettes, and roll down the window when the air-conditioning was on? Why should I care? Stinkface was somewhere else right now, and I had the best seat in the house—or rather, car.
I flipped down the visor and looked in the mirror to prove to myself that I was really sitting in Gavin Baldwin’s Volvo. I smoothed my lips together, and he caught me out of the corner of his eyes. I was embarrassing myself already and I’d only been with him for two minutes.
I quickly flipped up the visor. “It’s a new flavor from Nifty lipstick,” I confessed flippantly. “It’s called Luscious Latte.”
“Cheaper than an espresso—”
“And half the fat!”
We both laughed. Then there was a long silence as he fiddled with the radio and I adjusted my dress.
“Have you ever seen the Veins before?” Gavin finally asked.
“Does cable count?”
“I guess.”
“Then yes. My seats were amazing!”
“They are actually taller than twenty-five inches in person.”
I laughed.
“Finally I get a reaction from you. I was beginning to think you didn’t laugh at other people’s jokes.”
We passed Chaplin’s on the way to the Mosh Pit. The club’s sign seemed to shout: “Trixie Shapiro! Don’t forget about me!”
“You go to Chaplin’s a lot?” he asked, also noticing the sign.
“Does tonight count?” I wanted to confess. “More than I care to admit,” I answered instead.
My watch smiled 7:45 as we stepped out of the parking lot. But a more watchful clock ticked loudly inside my head.
My plan was to tell Gavin at 8:35 that I was going to the bathroom. I calculated I would be gone fifteen minutes, which included running to Chaplin’s, performing, and running back. Upon my return, I’d say, “You should have seen the line!”
Gavin held both tickets as we entered the Mosh Pit, confirming our status as an official couple. I yearned to bump into some trendy gossip queen, but we didn’t see anyone from Mason as we pressed through the crowd.
By 8:20 we were dancing to the beat of the Varicose Veins, and several times Gavin even pulsed his body right up against mine. I tingled all over, but became distracted at the sight of my watch. It was suddenly 8:36.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
But Gavin continued to dance.
“I’ve got to go to the bathroom!” I shouted.
“I can’t hear you!”
He stopped dancing and leaned in close. As I fell asleep each night, I had fantasized whispering millions of things into Gavin’s ear, but “I have to go to the bathroom” was not one of them.
“I’ll go with you,” he said.
This was definitely not part of the plan. What would Jazzy do now?
“No, really. It’ll only take a minute.”
“You shouldn’t go alone.”
“I’ve been going to the bathroom alone for years!”
If there was ever a moment a girl didn’t need Mr. Sensitive, this was it. Why couldn’t Gavin be more like Eddie? Eddie wouldn’t have cared if I left with a motorcycle gang I met while waiting in line for a bratwurst.
“Let’s go,” he said firmly.
On any other day I would have fainted away at the notion that Gavin Baldwin insisted on going with me to the girls’ room.
“I can go alone. I have to go alone! It makes me nervous…I mean…”
He firmly grabbed my hand and led me toward the rest rooms.
He was holding my hand. It was the most perfect hand in the world. But this was getting totally out of control, I thought, as we squeezed through the crowd, looking for the rest rooms. The first time Gavin holds my hand and I want him to let go.
The women’s room loomed ahead. What was I doing? I was leaving this sexy superdude to stand before a crowd of drunken strangers.
“I’ll wait by the T-shirt stand,” he said.
I opened the rest room door and looked at my terrified face in the mirror. I took a deep breath and then peeked my head out the door. Through the crowd I saw Gavin holding up a Varicose Veins T-shirt to the salesperson.
I crept out behind two wide bodies. Then I bolted toward the exit sign.
I ran to Chaplin’s, cursing my fashion pride as my toes smashed against my high-heeled boots. Next time I get in a mess like this, I wear sneakers.
I arrived at the club panting.
“Where have you been?” Ben asked at the door.
I tried to catch my breath.
“Never mind! I’ll sign you in. You almost lost your slot! But it’s your lucky night, girl. We’re running fifteen minutes behind,” he informed me, heading toward the judges’ table.
Fifteen minutes? I checked my watch. It was already 8:50.
I didn’t know whether the other comics lacked talent or if it was my own anxiety that made their jokes as stale as three-year-old bubble gum. After all, I could have still been dancing with my dream angel, happily wondering if he would kiss me. But instead I was sitting alone in a smoky club, listening to a pilot talk on and on about flying. Where were the punch lines? Had he left them in the cockpit?
Weeks ago I might have been sympatheti
c to this man, standing up and making a fool of himself. But all I could think now was, why isn’t he being cleared for takeoff? Why is he wasting his time? Why is he wasting my time?
My watch was ticking louder and louder, the smiley face staring back at me cheerfully.
A college-age guy wearing a Giants cap, a white Miller Lite T-shirt, and torn blue jeans sat down beside me. “Are you performing, little lady?”
Normally I would have been put off by such a remark and responded with a sarcastic comment. But instead I made an exception and answered his question.
“So how old are you?” he asked.
“Forty-four,” I replied.
“Well, you don’t look a day over sixteen,” he said with a wink. “Can I get you something?”
“Are you a waiter?” I asked.
“At one time or another we’re all waiters.”
I should have asked him a million questions, but I was too distracted to think clearly. I could see Gavin trying to look into the women’s bathroom—or dancing with a supermodel.
Smooth Operator returned, setting down a beer and a Coke, straws poking out of each drink. “Here you go, little lady. I’m Cam.”
“Trixie,” I responded. “So, this isn’t your first time, I take it?” I asked, taking a sip from the straw.
“Do you always ask that to strange comics who buy you drinks?”
“Do you always sip beer through a straw?”
“I may look rugged on the outside, little lady, but on the inside I’m as meek as a lamb. I’m not in the contest. I’m featuring this week. They’re giving me time tonight so I can get a feel for the room.”
“I thought you looked familiar.”
“You’re one of my five fans, eh?” he asked, cozying up to me.
“I saw the poster in the lobby.”
“Oh,” he said dejectedly. “Tell me, where’s a good place to unwind in this town after the show?”
Normally I would have been flattered to be chatting with a professional comedian about Chicago’s nightlife, but tonight I had to get back to the Mosh Pit.
A honky-tonk comic with an acoustic guitar bounced off the tiny stage.
“You’re next,” Ben called, waving to me from behind the judges’ table.