The jukebox wakes up and sings for them so soft
And in the background pirates and rabbis and bears walk in after them
But Claude and Allie don’t notice cause they’re lost in conversation
If you’re waiting for a punchline, you’ll have to wait until you’re old
As five years later the story’s still being told
It’s over in less than a minute, but he gets a response like it’s the end of a long concert. But then, unlike at the end of a long concert, he is mostly ignored, as Allie and Claude come into the crowd and start the chain of hugs and kisses and congratulations. True to her word, after the proper documents are signed, Judge Pao deftly persuades them to move their celebration out into the hall. The couple and many of their family members thank J as they leave, as if he is a one-man reception line as they pass into the next chapter of their lives.
“That was great,” Nick says to him as the information for the next couple is texted in from the reception area. “Now let’s do it another dozen times.”
Just over a year ago, J had made the ridiculous mistake of allowing his manager to book a small tour in France the same week thatFrance’s team was in the World Cup. When they’d booked the dates, they hadn’t realized it was the World Cup, and they certainly hadn’t known that France would make it as far as they did. The results were demoralizing—empty crowds from Paris to Marseilles. At one venue in Lyon, J was nearly drowned out from the cheering and groaning and ref-baiting at the bar. And, worse, there weren’t many English speakers present, and J’s story-songs didn’t really carry on tunes alone. The audience reaction ranged from quizzical annoyance to quizzical disdain. Even though he knew the reason for the poor performance, he couldn’t stop feeling like a failure. On his short flight back home, he nearly didn’t put up a fight when the flight attendant told him his guitar was too big for the overhead compartment. He was ready to leave it on a bench, for a more successful singer to take.
Once he got his luggage and got through customs, he readied himself for the trudge to the taxi stand. He saw the drivers waiting with their plaques, none with his name on it. He saw families reuniting delightedly. And he saw a whole bunch of balloons, as if someone had come from a child’s birthday party. It wasn’t until he heard his name called that he realized it was V holding the balloons. V, who wasn’t supposed to pick him up, had come to drive him home. The previous night, he’d called her and told her what had gone wrong. And now, she was the one thing that had gone right.
They didn’t embrace tearfully; that wasn’t their style. Instead J said, gesturing to the balloons, “Did you mug a clown on your way to the airport?”
And she replied, “I figured you’d want to pop them on the ride home.”
She had brought a hairpin and left it on the passenger seat, and as they drove back to the city, he’d popped the balloons as they both screamed, not so much out of delight but from the sheer desire for catharsis.
It made him feel better.
By the time they got home, the tour was already a story, a bad but funny story.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Look, I’m not your car service,” V told him. “But I can tell when you need it. And if you need it, I’ll be there.”
Fast forward a year or so.
(Why is it that we sayfast forwardbut neverfast backwardorfast rewind? Is it that losing time is a much quicker process than the attempt to get it back?)
J arrived again in New York. Julia was home, but luckily said he could still stay at her place, on the couch. J had looked up the Ace Hotel, and even with a discount, it was still more than he wanted to pay, and possibly more than he could afford. He still smarted that V hadn’t offered, almost as if she’d forgotten how expensive touring could be. And this wasn’t even touring! This was a free gig for some publicity. And an excuse to come back to New York.
At JFK, the immigration officer actually tallied up the time J had spent in America recently, to make sure he hadn’t visited longer than his allotted ninety days. (Apparently, he only had thirty-seven left.) Harried, J rolled his suitcase through the last-chance duty-free and escaped the sliding doors into the outer ring of New York.
He knew V had no idea which flight he was taking. He knew V was busy, and that the AirTrain awaited. And yet...as he saw the drivers with their plaques and the families reuniting, he couldn’t help but look around, to make sure she hadn’t come to surprise him. It was the slimmest of slim chances; he knew this. And still, the disappointment he felt wasn’t slim at all.
The second wedding party is dressed entirely in Yankees gear. The bride and groom wear jerseys that have BRIDE and GROOM written on the back where the players’ names ordinarily would be, as well as the number 7. The wedded couple isn’t wearing caps, but everyone else is.
J desperately tries to remember anything he can about baseball for when it comes time for him to sing.
You make me feel like I’ve hit a home run
With the odds: a billion to one
The ball’s on fire, leaving the stadium
I’m doing my victory run
First base, second, third, and fourth
I’m back where I begun
I want you on my team from now on
