You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(17)

“Real men don’t wear hot pink billboards.”

He throws a raggedy old flannel at me, but I can’t do this. It’s your shirt. It’s my sex shirt. “Well, I’m just about to go, so…”

“You’re in my shop, Joseph. And I’m taking that blouse home to burn it in the fireplace.”

No. You gave me this shirt. You want to see it on your bedroom floor, but then something bizarre happens. Butterflies swarm inside of me and number eight is motherfucking great…

#8 YOU LIKE ME FOR ME AND CLOTHES DON’T MATTER



No stupid shirt can come between us. I strip like a convict and don his old, ugly flannel and head to the subway.

To you.





6


Dream nights are supposed to come the hard way, after a few nightmares. So of course, I get all the way uptown only to get a frantic phone call from you. Barry needs you downtown just in case, so you are stuck there waiting for the green light.

“And believe me, Joe, I know how ridiculous I sound. ‘On call’ like I’m a doctor or something. Anyway, I got antsy after I got ready at work so I’m doing time at the Beanery. I was thinking you could wait with me if you don’t mind coming…Do you want to come?”

Fuck yes, I do! The train can’t move fast enough but a thousand minutes later I’m downtown, flying up the stairs in my stupid smellier-by-the-second shirt. I feel good. We’re on track. I love the way you take your work seriously but walk it back a second later. Like I’m a doctor or something. I love that I’m not scared to show up for sex night in this oversize ugly flannel that reeks of stale cigars.

And when I walk into the Beanery, I almost collapse. You didn’t just get ready for me, you went all out for me. Hot pink bra straps under a see-through shirt. A skintight skirt. Eyelashes that will come off when I fuck you, when I move your mountain.

Down, Portnoy. Not just yet. I roll up to the counter. “Hello, Sitcom. I like your skirt.”

You startle. “Wow, um, thank you. I guess I got a little carried away.”

The barista laughs. The guy who gave me the free muffin. “I guess grunge is back.”

You ignore his dumb jab, and you pat my chest. “Now, this is not a Ralph Lauren.”

I kiss you on the top of the head. A little bold, but fuck it. You’re mine. The barista goes back to wiping the counters, and I tell you about Mooney, about the shirt.

You put your hand on my leg. “Joe, seriously. It’s fine. I get it.”

You really are the coolest girl in the world and the barista grabs his messenger bag. Same as yours, I think, and maybe I should have brought mine. “I’ll walk out with you guys,” he says. “And it’s Dick, by the way.”

I shake his stupid hand. “Joe.”

You ask Dick what he’s up to tonight. He looks around like he’s waiting for someone. The poor guy does that a lot. I feel lucky. He’s alone, and I am not. I have you.

“Well,” he says. “I was supposed to pitch this financier about my movie.”

You light up like he doesn’t make our coffee. “So cool, D!”

He shrugs. You are kind, the type of girl who lets the generic insecure barista talk like he’s the man, like he’s Harvey Fucking Weinstein. You’re as caring as Miss Frascatore and I know you see what I see. Overdone muscles and insecurity. The too-tight T-shirt. Imagine being Richard and choosing to be Dick. You are too nice for your own good, and he’s never gonna shut up, so I sling an arm around your shoulder.

“Well, dude, good luck with everything, but we gotta hit the road.”

“All good,” he says. “I’m jonesing for some mattar peetar, so I’m gonna hit up this rad Indian place a few blocks away. You kids have fun.”

You grab my hand. You squeeze. “Actually,” you say, “I too am kinda dying for some good matar paneer. What do you say, Joe?”



* * *



—

No no no. We are sitting on the floor of Malai Galli. Our asses are on old green pillows. The floor is as hard as the food is spicy. I don’t get it, Vail. Dick is on our date and he’s at it again, going off on his solo trip to Costa Rica. He despises New York beaches because he prefers soft sand, and you say you are the same. I don’t know shit about sand and the only reason I don’t haul off and punch him is that he keeps looking at me like he feels bad, like he knows he’s not supposed to fucking be here, like he knows we’re not supposed to be talking about some movie he’ll never make.

“Sorry,” he says. “I get started on my feature and I can’t stop. Gonna dedicate it to my brother. Use the earnings to make a doc about him.”

He kisses his dog tags and you tell him he doesn’t have to apologize and you’re right. None of this is his fault. Dick is not the bad guy. His brother died in Kuwait—that’s how he got the dog tags—and you don’t read so you don’t know The Body by Stephen King, but you might’ve seen the movie Stand by Me. If we’re ever alone again, I will tell you that Dick is like a beefy gym rat version of Gordie Lachance minus the brains.

“Ooh,” you say. “I am living for this pakora.”

You don’t sound like you. You’re different tonight. Preening and polite. What happened, Vail? What did I do? You showered for me. You got dressed up for me. Your blouse is a gauzy plastic bag, and your bra straps are hot pink. I have a feeling that your friend in the makeup department did your eyes. The black lines are blurrier, smokier, and you look hot, ready to lure my Portnoy into your Beckinsale, but what the fucking fuck? WHY ARE WE HERE?! We had plans and the table is too low and too little and Dick’s T-shirt is too much. We get it, kid. You have muscles. Tattoos. You surf. He does things, and they show up on his body. Me, I read things. I’ve never been more aware of it in my life. There’s a difference, there is.