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I turn my attention to the stage as a woman climbs up hesitantly and walks up to the microphone. I catch her eye, nod vigorously, and give her two thumbs up.
She grabs the microphone and starts pacing and talking, and her voice rises. She’s crying out about rage, disappointment, and feelings of rejection. She’s full-figured and sometimes she wishes she could disappear. She never felt like she was enough.
To my surprise, Paxton is nodding along sympathetically. “Yeah,” he yells, pumping his fist.
I’m about to say something snarky, like, Really? You, Paxton Saul, empathize with a woman who feels like she’s invisible, who feels like she’s not enough? In fact, I wonder if he’s making fun of her, which makes me mad. It takes a lot of guts to stand up on stage and spill your soul like that.
She finishes, and the crowd applauds, and she descends from the stage, tears running down her cheeks. A woman hugs her.
When she walks by us, Paxton holds up his hand and high-fives her, and they exchange a look of complete understanding. She walks on, and her shoulders have lifted, and she looks as if she’s shed a burden.
Then it hits me.
Paxton really doesn’t feel like he is enough.
On the surface, he’s all pretty-boy swagger, he’s the hockey god, he’s the shampoo model. Here in New York, he’s a living deity. Everybody wants to be him, or be seen with him, or sleep with him.
Underneath it all, though, he’s still the youngest kid in the family who feels like an afterthought, who’s always trying to be as good as his big brothers. Always trying to be noticed like them, to share in that warm, warm spotlight.
But he never could. He wasn’t born with a tank for a body. He wasn’t built for football, and he didn’t love football, and he was like a changeling in his own family.
Before I realize what I’ve done, I’ve reached out and grabbed his hand and squeezed it.
He squeezes back.
I sit there like that for a long, long moment. It feels so right. Finally, I disentangle my fingers from his, as a man climbs up on the stage and does a rap about how he’s still searching for love.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Paxton asks, draining the last of his beer.
“Probably not. Does it involve hockey or mob movies or shampoo?” I try to guess. “Or really bad fishing dates?’
He leans in. “No, I’m thinking that I hope this guy gets together with the girl who was just on the stage.”
“Oh my God. Paxton, are you secretly a big romantic softie teddy bear?” I gasp.
“I didn’t think it was a secret.” He smiles at me. “I’m quite the catch.”
“Don’t make me think about fish,” I beg him.
“Yeah, sorry I nearly killed you.” He winces. “I actually thought you might enjoy being out on the water. If you’re not violently ill, it’s pretty amazing being out there in the middle of the bay, with the sun and the waves and... Anyway, I’m sorry.”
He was actually hoping I’d have fun on that date. He wasn’t being petty and snarky like me. I mean, I took him to a society of possum fanciers, and I paid a comic to roast him. He is turning out to be the ultimate good sport. What am I supposed to do with that?
“Listen, that was entirely on me. I should have told you how I get seasick. I should have taken Dramamine and had us wait for an hour. It was really beautiful out there. I appreciate the thought.”
Why am I not hating this date?
“I’m going to get the next round,” I inform him. He starts to protest. I shake my head. “Nope. Nope-aroni. I have to contribute something other than my sparkling personality.”
“Oh, but that’s more than enough.” He winks at me.
I stand up and make my way towards the bar. The room has gotten even more crowded.
At the bar, I have to wedge my way in between a skater girl and a man who keeps stroking his lush hipster beard. The bartender is rushing from one end to the other.
Someone taps me on my shoulder. “Hey, you come here often?” a familiar voice says.
Oh my God, I should have guessed he’d come to a trendy poetry place like this. It is Professor Alex Nass. The Nass-hole himself.
