Thunder Jackson

“You’re not from here.”

“No.”

“I can tell.” The bartender ducked behind the bar to grab another glass as the evening rush picked up. I carefully grabbed my highly overpriced Jack and Coke, and made my way out of the Glass Center Bar on top of the Gansevoort Hotel.

The entire rooftop had been converted into a series of veranda-esque tables with white draped silk flowing in the western breeze off the Hudson. The sun had just set and I was meandering through the growing crowd of posh fashionistas and horny photographers. The entire scene was overdone in that Meatpacking-Thursday-night sort of way. Fashion week was raging throughout Manhattan and I was there because in some strange twist of fate, I had found my way into the fashion industry.

“Are you serious?” 

“Yes! The Kardashians themselves. Swear to God!”

This piece of conversation quickly passed me in stilettos and chunky heeled boots.

This was the common theme of the night among the guests. The Kardashians owned the hotel, and in a series of tweets, announced they would be attending the rooftop that evening. I didn’t really know who they were at the time, nor cared. At this point in life, I still don’t care.

I had no idea what brought me up to the rooftop bar in the first place. I was too broke to head out into the city, too bored to stay in my room, but too lonely to not be around people. So I paid $24 dollars for a whisky and coke, and pretended to wait for someone that didn’t exist. 

I looked out onto the unravelling city before me. I took a breath, and sighed.

How the fuck did I get here?

I shook my head. Now what? There was no plan on what to do next. It was as follows:

Step 1. Leave room.

Step 2. Go to rooftop.

Step 3. ?

I sat down at one of the immaculate tables for a few seconds before being told it was reserved. I apologetically stood up as the stern looking bouncer watched me leave. I settled into the corner on the far western side of the building. I looked over my shoulder and was back in my sophomore year homecoming. 

It was that classic nightmare of a scenario for me when I was sixteen. I had worked up the nerve to ask the popular girl to homecoming, she obliged, only to see her recent ex-boyfriend dancing up a storm surrounded by the school’s most popular athletes. She ran, actually ran to him and apologized in one breath over her shoulder at me. “…uh, sorry, I have to blah blah blah.” I looked down at my casted right arm (I’m not joking, I had broken my arm a week before) and resigned to taking pain-killers for my sixteen year old broken heart.

“It’s like prom all over again, right?” She was short. Maybe five foot, two inches tall with a big mass of curly hair that blew wild in the wind. Her eyes were framed by thick black glasses and sat on a cute button nose above her full lips. She was dressed in the opposite form of the occasion: denim, black flats, raglan shirt with the cast of Wet Hot American Summer ironed on in the center.

I blinked, “Unbelievably accurate synopsis.”

She nodded, “I can tell by the quivering lip and the single tear.”

I smiled, “It’s that obvious.”

“That or your weeping at the cost of that drink. Christ, it’s overpriced.”

“Right? It’s bullshit.”

“Yeah, I had to let the bartender squeeze my boob to get a napkin.”

I laughed.

“Oh thank god, you knew I was joking. Cool, you have a sense of humor. That means you’re an actual human being.”

“Last time I checked. Yeah.”

She leaned in close to me, lifting her left hand up to her mouth,“We don’t belong here.”

“Not at all.”

“What are you doing here? You first.” She quickly looked me up and down.

“I’m with Fashion Week.” It was weird to say that out loud.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I know you can’t tell from what I’m wearing, but it’s true.”

“No, I mean, I’m here because of that to.” Her free hand pressed against Michael Ian Black’s face on the print of the raglan.

“No shit.”

“Yeah, I’m a runway model.” She stepped back and presented her shirt.

“I love that movie.”

“Dude, right? No one knows this shit over here on the East coast.”

“You’re not from here?”

“No one in New York is from New York. I’m from Los Angeles.” Her glasses slid down her nose, and she pushed them back into place.

“No shit.”

“Yeah. Are you from LA? Cali?”

“Houston.”

“Wow. That explains the jack and coke.”

I shrugged, “I’m a simple man.”

She took a moment, and eyed me behind a thick curl that fell over her glasses. I didn’t know this woman, but I was more than relieved and curious for her finding me. “You’re a good guy, right?”

“I try to be.”

She closed her eyes sending thick lashes darting together in a mascara butterfly, “Good. C’mon, let’s go.” She grabbed my arm, pulling it with a concerted effort with her tiny frame. “My god, you’re a solid one aren’t you.” I shrugged awkwardly and stumbled after her.

“So what brought you out to New York?”

“I’m a stand-up comedian,” she blew a curl up with pursed lips, “well, I mean, that’s what I want to be.”

“That’s badass.” I took a sip of a well-priced jack and coke. We had found our way into a basement jazz club near the East Village. The tiny room was packed with regulars who smoked and drank their way through the heat. The low grade hum of the a/c struggled against the din of patrons.

“You think so?”

“I do. I’m a performer myself actually. Well, I used to be until the day job thing kicked in.”

“And that?” Her eyes pointed to my wedding ring.

“Yeah. I guess you could say that.”

She took a sip of her beer, “Yeah, I got out of that before I left.”

“You were married?”

“I was going to be. But he didn’t want to move with me.”

“Ah.” I nodded to myself, letting my gaze find the mirror behind the bar.

“Yeah. He thought it was a terrible idea. Makes sense. He’s a computer programmer and I mean, he has a good job out there. I couldn’t expect him to uproot his life and move for my dreams.”

“Yeah but still.”

She smiled at me, “You’re so cute when you try to justify bad decisions.”

“What? C’mon, marriage is about supporting one another right?”

“Would you drop your life and move on the dreams of your wife?”

I leaned back and gave the thought a genuine consideration. The truth was my wife didn’t have any dreams. None that she talked about or really aspired to. I was the one always steeped in ambition with no end in sight. At the tender age of twenty-four that was my right.

“She doesn’t have any dreams, does she?”

“None.”

“Don’t let it bother you.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“A week.”

I stopped mid-sip. “A week?”

She nodded, “I don’t know anyone out here. At all. You’re the first guy I’ve spoken with to be honest.”

I looked at her admiringly, “That’s incredible. You dropped everything and moved to New York for your dream,…a week ago.”

She nodded again, but her excitement faded to a sadness in her eyes.

“Wait,” I deferred the passing emotion, “How did you get to the Gansevoort Hotel rooftop without a room or money or being on the list?”

“I pretended to be part of the Kardashians production team. They were making their way into the lobby with this huge crowd around them. I fell in line with them and just acted bossy. They were so busy yapping with each other, they didn’t notice me at all. When the elevator hit the top floor, I just sauntered in.”

My mouth was still in mid-sip, “That’s hilarious.”

“I am an aspiring stand-up comedian.” She adjusted her invisible suspenders.

“So you get off at the top, and then what was your plan?”

“I didn’t have one.” She shrugged lifting her beer, “I just walked around for a bit, then I saw you.”

“And you couldn’t resist me.”

“No. I couldn’t resist the other person who clearly was as uncomfortable as I was.”

I smiled holding her gaze a few seconds longer, and she held mine back.

“And I’m the first person you’ve come to know in New York City?”

“Yeah. I moved in to my building on Sunday. I was terrified. I mean, I arrive, all my stuff is left all over the lobby of my shitty apartment building. After two hours of tracking back and forth, I finally get all my shit put away and pass out. Monday morning, I wake up at seven in the morning because of the time zones. Then it hits me, I don’t know what I’m doing.” She takes a drink, then sets the beer on the bar with a thud. “What do I do? Hide in my apartment until Thursday.”

“Today?”

“Yeah. I called around looking for an agency or some sort of firm to help me out. The chick that was supposed to be my contact here bailed. So, I have no one.”

“Had no one.” I corrected her with a wink and nod.

She paused, then smiled, “Had no one. Then, around two o’clock I got dressed and after a short meltdown in my tiny bathroom decided to do something entirely unorthodox.”

“What’s that?’

“I left my apartment, and rode the subway to get to the Meatpacking District.”

“And here you are.”

She nodded opening her arms unenthusiastically.

“I’m honored to be the first person you’ve met in New York City.”

“You should be.” She looked at me over the ridge of her beer mug.

We shared a moment together, tucked away underneath the city. I looked over at her and through her curls, I saw the sadness overwhelming her again. She felt so lonely through it all. Despite the unwavering lectures and attempts of dissuasion from her friends, she pushed through with her plan. Her parents, back in Los Angeles, told her she would always have a home when she needed one, and she missed them more by the hour.

I couldn’t bare the thought of her going back to her small apartment in Brooklyn. Edging up the stairs to the lobby, into the decades old elevator that gets stuck every week. Down the hall, with the faulty bulbs that blink through filament thin connections, musty smells of red carpet that tatter up on golden carpet fasteners anchored at her door.

“You know,” I nudged her with my shoulder, “I got an idea.” I stood up and motioned to the bartender to close my tab.

“Yeah? What?”

“I know a place a little further down in SoHo.”

“We just got here.”

“Mmm,” I shook my head, “C’mon, let’s go.”

She sighed, and began to dig her way through her hobo bag.

“I got this to.” I said.

“What?”

“The beer’s on me for dragging you away so quickly.”

“Fair.” She said perking up a bit as she hopped off her stool. She lifted her curls into one hand, and wrapped a rubber band around them in two quick successive twirls of the hand. “What’s this place like?”

“I signed us up for a dance contest!”

“Wait, what?”

“C’mon, it’ll be fine. You know how to dance! We’re both Mexican. You’re Mexican, right?”

I had just returned to our place at the bar after taking a piss. We were at Thunder Jackson off Bleeker and Sullivan. The large wooden window shutters were open to let the night air move through one side of the building, glide over the metal 1950’s chrome bar stool backs, and past the tungsten lamps to Mercer Playground. 

The Beatles “Twist and Shout” was mid-track through the jukebox. People in and out of the bar bobbed up and down to the drums while the rest of the city continued to rush through the night. I laughed, took a sip of my whisky, and loved life.

“Actually, I’m half indigenous, and Basque-Spaniard decent.”

“Oh shut the fuck up, you’re Mexican. C’mon, let’s dance!” Her eyes were excited, not frenzied, but thrilled to be having fun in her new city. She pulled me forward with her to the center of the very narrow dance floor. She slid her arms around my neck and pulled me closer than I expected towards her body. Her lips parted slightly as she motioned me closer. I leaned down and she whispered in my ear, “Those guys over there were relentlessly hitting on me while you were in the bathroom. I told them you were my boyfriend. So, you are for tonight. Ok?”

“Babe, we’ve been together for years.” I said with a grin.

“Wrong. We’ve been dating for a few months,” she said this as she swayed her hips awkwardly. It was then I realized we were going to lose the dance contest.

“Can you not dance? What kind of Mexican are you?” I said giggling.

“I’m a pale one from LA. I didn’t claim to be La Raza or anything. So shut up, dance with me brown man!” 

I burst out laughing more. She pulled me closer and kissed my cheek softly. I shut up, and danced. I looked out as we made a gentle circle around the black and white checkered tile. The men she spoke about were watching us intently. They were older, mid-creepy-forties-older. One shot me a look as he thought about coming over to have a few words with me and I looked back to him with a nod. He stood up from his barstool but stopped in his tracks, looked past my shoulders, then begrudgingly followed his friends out of the bar.

I was a twenty-four year old kid dancing awkwardly to The Beatles. There was no way I could have scared him and his crew with a nod. We continued our circle and I saw what had drove him away: the 6’7” three hundred pound bouncer standing behind us. The huge block with a stern face quickly smiled to us, and stepped back to his position by the door; as if to say, “Don’t worry about them man. Enjoy your adorable girlfriend for the night.”

And so I did.

When the last guitar chords rang out from John’s guitar, we came to a stop. The room was spinning slightly, and I felt hotter than usual. I shrugged it off when I saw how happy she was. She was applauding with everyone else, red lips in a smile. I gave her my best attempt at a flirty grin, and she burst out laughing on cue.

“Oh my god, I love it.” she said.

“Savor that. I only break that look out on special occasions.”

“You almost had your ass handed to you by three creepy old men. Special enough for me!”

“I could have taken them!” I said half-heartedly defensive.

“I know you could have babe. I know.” She pet my chest lovingly as we made our way to a free booth near the magazine rack. When she plopped down, she didn’t have the hesitation to allow the kind of joy she was experiencing in. She was there, with me, in the moment. 

“I can’t believe I did it.” She said turning to look at the scene around us. It was the kind of view that happens in well thought out movie sets, not real life. A bar tender quickly rushed from one side of the bar to the other while a mixed crowd of hipsters, artists, aspiring novelists, unwinding attorneys, and tourists mingled in the smoke filled air. Moments like those spin a need to grab a camera and capture it all forever. I had no camera, so I entrusted myself to write it all down later. Details and all. 

“I’m so proud of you.” I said.

“I am to. I mean, I’m still amped!”

I had pulled her up out of the basement dive bar in a state of spontaneity. I hailed a cab and after a short stint barreling down Hudson and hanging a hard right to Sullivan, found our way into a small comedy club next to Thunder Jackson. It was pure kismet that we happened upon a comedy club next to the only place I knew in New York City at the time. Of course, I casually strolled into the comedy club and registered her as part of the open mic list. An hour and a half later, six beers, and three shots between the both of us, she was on stage. Her first real open mic in New York City.

She was hilarious.

Nervous at first, but once she got her first big laugh, she was on her way.

It was an ecstatic five minutes of back-to-back jokes tinged with sardonic humor and self-deprecation at its best. She was good. She didn’t appear to be remotely new to the gig at all. It was as though she had been a career stand-up, forged by the road, hardened by the wood panel rooms two miles south of the airport, and established a confidence that dared any heckler to unleash her wrath.

It was after her blistering five minutes that I noticed her hand shaking as she put the mic back into the clip, bowed, and walked off stage with a huge grin fighting through a casual expression. 

“I’m so proud of you!” I said again.

She looked at me with her chin tilted down, looking up with those batting eyelashes. “Thank you,” she said with the most sincere tone I heard from a person I had just met a few hours ago. 

It was as though we had lived years in the span of a few hours. Not the bad kind of years that make you grow weary of your lover, nor the years that jade you with routine dinners, repeated conversations about tedious day job stressors, and the same bedtime actions that make you wonder what it’d be like to reach back through the years to find that sense of joy being together in bed once inspired. No.

The flash of years we would have had together were the kind spent chasing one another through used furniture stores while trying to afford rent the following month, making fun of wealthy business tycoons on Wall Street, then crashing a fashion industry meet and greet on the top of the Gansevoort Hotel, which we had already done in real life. It was the kind of years you spend with your best friend, who is too short to be a runway model, and knows your not big enough to ever compete in the UFC, but neither one cares because, fuck it, you have your best friend for a lover.

Not many people can say that in their lives and mean every word.

And if they do say it, for the most part, it doesn’t stay that way.

It is in those moments I find the revelations of life, tucked away in the in-between, easily lost if you’re not paying attention. The moments that show you a sense of satisfaction that begs to be savored but not held onto. Let the moment go when it times to say goodbye, but hold it close when nestles into your sentimental heart.

“I figured, you went into that club and signed me up for the open mic. So, I had to get you back.”

“Thus the dance contest.”

She nodded deviously with a red tipped fingernail pointing at me in sync.

The whisky burned my throat, the room grew hotter.

“When are you going back to life?” she asked.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.” I shrugged, “We all have to go back to life eventually.”

“This isn’t life?”

“Not mine.” I said with a tilt of my whisky.

“What’s it like? Having a wife? A house hold.” She leaned forward, head in her hands, elbows on the table. Her eyes were still overjoyed in their alcohol-adrenaline filled stupor. She seemed to be viewing me through the lens of society instead of her own black-framed lenses. It’s an interesting transition you make when the world ceases seeing you as a person and more as a title. Husband. Rather than Human. 

I took a sip.

“Oh,” she said. Her hand grabbed my own on the table, “You’re not what you think you are to me.” 

“What would that be?” 

“Some married guy with the usual bullshit expectations the world levels at him. It’s why I didn’t want to get married. Who wants to be a wife? All the assumptions, all the general expectations, all the social norm shit. Pass. I’d rather be a struggling stand-up in poverty than some labelled piece of normalcy.”

I couldn’t see her being any part of the normal world. I couldn’t picture her wearing some drab clothes, behind a desk, making calls to clients, highlighting appointments in yellow, attending company outings with the fam.

“So what am I to you?” I asked.

She blushed for the first time in New York. She glanced at the bar, then back at me, “Honestly?”

“Yeah, of course. I mean, we just met, there’s no judgement.”

“I think you're the kind of guy I’d wish wouldn’t leave.” 

“We’ve got,” I glanced at my watch, “five more hours.”

“Oh shit, we’re up!” She slid out of the booth as “Let’s Twist Again” came in with the crashing hi-hats and snare. “Remember, don’t suck.” She said as we made our way to the checkered tiles once more.

I opened my eyes to see the horrendous floor-to-ceiling print of a 1970’s model wearing huge shades in the style of Jacklyn Kennedy pre-assassination. I sat up, blinked a few times, and felt the room spinning faster than usual. I looked over to see the no longer aspiring stand-up comedian, but the real-life stand up comedian.

She slept as I imagined she would: mouth way open, makeup smeared from dance-sweat, snoring loudly, hair run amok. I smiled with a small chuckle. 

Awesome.

I didn’t remember much after the dance. A bit of the cab ride back to the hotel, a hint of lobby chandeliers, which brings me back to the moment of waking up. An involuntary “oof” slipped out of my mouth as I navigated my way to the mini-bar. My mouth was so dry, I could feel the cracks in my lips breaking.

The digital nagging started to fade in, compounding my headache. At first I thought it was some kind of ghost, but found my phone violently dinging, the little Z-icon going off. Red digital numbers began to coalesce on the screen.

5:45 a.m.

5:45 a.m.

5:46 a.m.

I rubbed my head, clearing my thoughts. What happens at 5:45 a.m.? My eyes looked to the corner of the room to fall upon my luggage, clothes strewn around in a circle. 

It was a guttural call to action when I realized my car to the airport would be arriving in a few minutes. The quick shot of adrenaline sobered me as I stooped down to open my luggage and violently threw everything I had brought with me into its compartments. In the remaining minutes left before I drunkenly staggered to the elevator, I came to rest over the sleeping girl I met in New York City.

She stirred for a moment, her long eyelashes opening to reveal distant eyes still making their way to consciousness.

“I have to go. I have the room until tomorrow. I left the key on the table. It’s yours if you’d like.” Her arms came up and wrapped around me slowly.

“Did I take advantage of you?” she whispered playfully in my ear.

“No,” I said laughing, “I kept my honor.”

She let out a relieved sigh, “Thank god. Ok. Back to life with you.” 

“Back to life.”

I kissed her forehead and she drifted back to sleep. I lingered a few seconds, watching her tiny frame silhouetted by the lamp that had fallen over in the corner. She was beautiful, lonely, but pushing her way through a world overwhelmed with safe-decisions and dead dreams. I would miss her.

In another life,…maybe.

She let out a long snore, and I watched the door click shut behind me.