Here’s what I love about big-city folk. They’ll show up at your dorm room in the middle of the night, slurping cones from 31 Flavors in one hand and cradling sleeping Chihuahuas in the other, asking if you want to play Pictionary in the study lounge, like that’s normal. In Schenectady, I assure you, this doesn’t happen. In Schenectady, you have two parents (male/ female), who generally stay together, and who would freak if their kid’s school friend showed up at their home in the middle of the night. The big-city girl arrives under the guise of playing a board game, but really she’s there to replay the epic smackdown scene that may have cost this girl her best friend. Oh, don’t forget the part about the big-city girl bringing along he who looks like a farm boy, with the body of the Hulk and the face of that kid from A Christmas Story who gets his tongue stuck on the icy pole.
I knew it would be exciting to move to New York City, I knew it would be worth the second mortgage Mom and Dad had to take out on the house to finance my NYU education, but I didn’t know it would take waiting until sophomore year for interesting things to finally happen. Freshman year was avoiding keggers and watching half of the Long Island / New Jersey diaspora go wild in their first year of freedom-from-parents. I merely observed this freshman madness. I am the Velma. I am the girl with the bowl haircut and the sensible sweater—the investigator, not the cause of investigation. I am not the thinnest, the prettiest, the coolest, or the loudest. I blend in easily, as should a girl from Schenectady. I am the girl whose freshman year was responsible and dean’s list–worthy, the girl who spent her time studying, joining the school newspaper, and learning the difference between, say, a wacky-but-cute NYU guy named Robin who’s worth engaging in conversation in Washington Square Park and just plain wack jobs who only want to sell you dope or Jesus in Washington Square Park. Basic stuff.
But then came sophomore year. That’s when the girl from Schenectady met Naomi from West Ninth Street. She didn’t have to go wild her first year of college. She grew up in the heart of Greenwich Village. Freshperson madness would be too old-school for her. She’s seen it all, done it all. I’m pretty certain.
Here’s why I feel sad for her, though. Naomi’s so city-girl tough, she won’t allow herself to cry, even though it’s obvious she really wants to. Instead she reclines on the worn-out sofa in the study lounge, licking the sprinkles off her Jamoca Almond Fudge ice cream scoop, with a dog named Cutie Pie or Cutie Patootie, I’m not sure, taking what appears to be a much-needed nap on her stomach. Which is shaking from Naomi’s sob-avoidance, or just appears to be from the dog’s vibration. Naomi stares blankly at the ceiling while her latest appendage, who actually answers to “Bruce the First,” sits in a chair opposite her, assuring her the fight was Ely’s fault. He has a Pink Bubblegum flavor cone in his one hand and uses the remote control in his other hand to switch between sports score rundowns on ESPN and some late-night Dr. Phil replay. He has some involuntary twitching problem every time the word Ely is uttered.
Awesome. I love New York.
“So does this mean you and the other Bruce are officially broken up now?” I ask Naomi. That guy was both too nice and too boring for a girl like Naomi. She’s way out of his league. It’s interesting, since that’s the type she appears to go for. Guess that’s what happens when the only guy you want is the only guy who won’t have you.
I don’t bother with dating. There is the problem of no one actually asking me on a date, but I choose not to think of that problem as a problem. It’s a solution. The Velmas of the world do not intern at CNN, hope to be accepted at Columbia J-School after graduating NYU with honors, and go on to win Pulitzer Prizes by getting bogged down in relationship drama. That’s a problem for the Daphnes of the world. Daphne, you bitch, you can’t even drive the damn van.
“I guess so,” Naomi mutters. Her jaw clenches, trying to stifle a sob, and I want to grab her hand and tell her everything will be okay, only her hands are occupied by ice cream and dog, and truthfully, I don’t think everything will be okay for her and Ely. “Definitely,” she adds. “Of course. Bruce the Second is history.” An involuntary tear streams down her face, and I know that tear’s name is “Ely” and not “Bruce the Second.”
“Hey, Bruce the First,” I say, which sounds so funny coming from my mouth. Nobody in Schenectady ever called someone a name like that. At least not on my street. I’m so glad I didn’t go home this weekend, even though I’m really missing Mom’s lasagna and Dad’s boastful griping about my tuition bill. “I’m a Robin, and I’m friends with this film student guy, also named Robin. Isn’t that neat?”
“Neat?” he asks me. “Neat? Where are you from, anyway?”
“Schenectady!”
“Crazy!” he says. I’m not sure if he’s being rude or he just doesn’t like any attention that’s not focused on Naomi. I am sure his tone suggests an awful lot of hubris for a high school junior boy hanging out in the middle of the night in an NYU dorm, even for a mere high school junior who grew up on West Ninth Street.
“Leave us,” Naomi commands Bruce the First.
So much for his hubris. Bruce the First jumps to his feet and grabs for the dog. “I think I’m finally ready to fall asleep.”
“Are you still here, Bruce the First?” Naomi snaps, sitting up and pointing at the door. “DID I NOT JUST SAY ‘LEAVE US’?”
He’s gone like that and I must probe Naomi deeper. “And Ely says he’s scared of you? Huh, go figure.”
Now, alone with me, she cries. She sputters. “Ely . . . betrayal . . . how could he kiss a Bruce? . . . he’s all I’ve ever had . . . no, Ely, not Bruce Two!, who cares about that Bruce? . . . I’m all alone now . . . I knew it would happen eventually . . . how could we survive our parents and my lies and his complete lack of desire for me and my complete not lack of it, but still . . . fuck . . . [sob sob sob] . . . I love him, friend or brother or whatever shade of Ely . . . sure we’ve gotten in fights before, but this is different . . . it just is, Robin . . . it’s like a sacred trust that’s broken . . . [sob sniffle sob sniffle] . . . don’t you have a Kleenex-brand tissue, cuz this generic one you have here is really harsh on the skin . . . no, I’m not lying . . . [real Kleenex found and offered to her, snort and blow, sob sob, snort and blow] . . . thanks, Robin . . . you’re the closest friend I have left now . . . Naomi & Ely—we’re lost to each other now.”
I really should text-message that other Robin about Naomi’s presence here tonight; he wants to make a documentary about her and call it Hot Child in the City, but the real-time footage of her at this moment would be too sad and vulnerable and potentially flamingly soap-operatic, so I don’t. Instead I sit down next to Naomi and let her cry it out onto my shoulder. There, there, city girl. Gosh, her hair smells good. It’s weird, because Velmas aren’t supposed to have this kind of problem, but my heart pounds a little harder with Naomi pressed against me, and it’s not like I have any desire to be one of those college-girl experimental lesbians, but Naomi does have some magnetic effect on people. I can understand why that other Robin chases her for film footage and not me. Fascinating.
Name-twin powers truly can activate—the shape of he- Robin stands at the lounge entrance as if he knew me-Robin was summoning him. He’s wearing that blue Hawaiian shirt that makes me feel like I can almost smell the flowers pictured on it. The husky, sweet, imaginary scent those flowers give off could almost inspire a Velma to flip out into some very Daphne-style drunken antics. Aloha.
“ ’Sup?” he asks.
How strange. My mouth feels parched and water is not going to cut it right now, because what I crave is taste. It’s probably for the better that I am not a party girl and the only fizzy drink I can stomach is ginger ale. Back home there is this place called the Lost Dog Café that makes the awesomest ginger ale, with like fresh ginger. You have to drive all the way to Binghamton to get it, but it’s completely worth the trip.
He-Robin’s eyes investigate the room. “Where’s your other half, anyway?” he asks Naomi. “Isn’t it like some law that if you’re out and about in the middle of the night, the Ely appendage is with you?” His blue eyes, lit by shirt, light up bluer still, sparked by idea. “Hey, I know people on the twelfth floor. You just say the word and I will get the karaoke machine down here for you and Ely to do High School Musical again.” He holds up his text pager. “I know the people and I’ve got the necessary accessories, if you know what I’m saying, to get a scene happening in here.”
Say yes, Naomi, I think, please say yes. With the other Robin here, there’s a wild and amazing party just waiting to happen.
“No way,” Naomi says. “Lame-ass parties in this dorm building are what started all the trouble in the first place.”
Darn.
Robin snorts. “No one from Bruce’s floor has ever figured out how a girl like you ended up making out with an econ major like him at that party here last semester.”
“He’s an accounting major,” Naomi corrects.
“Dude, you don’t even know your own boyfriend. Bruce is an econ major with a possible minor in accounting. He hasn’t decided yet. He’s also intrigued by anthropology.”
“Dude,” Naomi shoots back. “Guess I don’t have to give a fuck, seeing as how Bruce is not my boyfriend anymore.”
“Makes sense.” Robin nods knowingly. “You’re way out of his league. Everyone said so. But seriously, I hope there’s not some trickle-down negative aftershock of depression if you dumped him, because I was going to hit Bruce up to help me study for my—”
“Shut the fuck up, Robin,” Naomi says. “Can you not see I’m in mourning? Show some fucking sensitivity.”
God, I love Naomi. She talks to boys so easily. I don’t know how she does it. She’s like a miracle worker.
“Knew I shoulda brought my Super 8 downstairs,” Robin mutters. “Naomi mourning Bruce. Woulda been classic.”
“Mourning Ely. ELY!” Her flip-out moment ends with the vibration of her cell phone. She wipes the tears from her face, embarrassed, then opens the phone. She looks up at me. Mood stabilized. “Text message. From Gabriel the hot doorman.” That doorman is a fine specimen of hunk, even to a Velma like me, who normally wouldn’t notice such endowment, I mean such shallow observation of one man’s resemblance to either of those main guys from Aerosmith (not the drummer, the other two), who both simply ooze sexual appeal no matter how geriatric they get. I could aspire to be a Daphne if I thought it would attract the likes of either of them to me, or that Gabriel guy, or even the other Robin guy. I’d be a Daphne from Albany for any of those guys. Crazy!
“You text-message with your doorman?” I ask Naomi. I might officially worship her now.
“Yeah, but don’t tell Ely. Gabriel’s currently number two on the No Kiss List.”
Tears, welcome back.
“You gonna be okay?” I ask Naomi, pulling her into another embrace.
She nods onto my bosom, I mean my sensible sweater, stifling a sniffle. Then she looks up at me, goddess face, resplendent in the glow of tear-stained cheeks. “Gabriel’s shift just ended, and he’s headed over to some club on Avenue B. He’s in this band called The Abe Froman Experience. Their set’s gonna start in about an hour. That’s gotta be a better diversion than any dorm party that could be brewing here.”
A Velma is obligated to remind Naomi, “I thought you wanted to slow down.”
“Vrrroooommmm,” Naomi answers. “Wanna go, Robins?”
DO I!
Awesome.