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“Wait, it gets better?” My stomach tightens in anticipation. I could really use some more good news.
“They’re gonna dress Nick in a full-on Elvis costume.”
It does get better!
His jaw drops and the cigarette tumbles out of his mouth. I can see it now, Nick trading in his black Wayfarers for an elaborate gold pair. I start snickering at his mounting humiliation. That’s going to be hilarious.
“You think that’s funny, huh?” Nick asks.
“You in a bell-bottom spandex jumpsuit? Please, that takes the comedy cake!”
He wags a finger at me. “Just so you know, Andy Kaufman and Eddie Murphy did Elvis impressions.”
I don’t know about Andy Kaufman, but how could I forget Eddie Murphy’s Elvis bit from Delirious? “That’s right! Eddie’s was spot on.”
“There’s something else you should know about tonight,” Bernie says.
“Let me guess. Nick has to end every joke with, ‘Thank yooooou, thank ya very much.’ ” I break out my Elvis timbre, feeling it all the way down to my pelvis. Had my inner Elvis made an appearance last night, I wouldn’t have had to put on a show.
“Sorry, kid,” Bernie continues, “but you have to dress up like Priscilla.”
Bless my heart.
I should’ve seen it coming. Nick snorts a laugh and I roll my eyes. “Thank you, Bernie.”
“I emailed you the details. Good luck.”
Nick ends the call and we stare at each other, our cheeks a little too pink for first thing in the morning. I look at him, wondering if my crush is still alive or if the sex smothered it. He smiles and runs his fingers through his hair, his bare abs popping as he lets out a satisfied exhale.
Yeah, it’s still alive.
“So,” he begins. “How you doing?”
“Good,” I say, hugging my knees to my chest.
“Good, because I want you to know I don’t usually sleep with comics I tour with.” Does that mean he sleeps with stand-ups he doesn’t tour with? Not that it should matter, the deed is done.
“I haven’t slept with any comics,” I say.
“Really? Never?” he asks.
I shake my head. “It’s not like a hard-and-fast rule or anything but I figured it’s better not to complicate my comedy career with sex.” Saying those words sends a chill down my spine. Yes, I like Nick. Who wouldn’t? But did I just make a rookie mistake the very moment I’m trying to go pro?
“I suppose that’s smart. Maybe it’s better we stay out of each other’s pants for the rest of the tour. Go back to being Jerry and Elaine.”
No sex the rest of the tour, huh? Is he trying to respect an appropriate boundary or is he done with me? I don’t know and I can’t bring myself to ask if last night meant anything to him. I’m not even sure what it meant to me. And until I do, keeping things professional sounds like a plan.
“Good idea,” I say, wringing my hands.
Nick’s phone rings again. But this time I don’t think it’s Bernie. He silences it. “I’m gonna get some air.” He slides on his jeans and shoes, and I watch him leave the room.
—
After I wash last night off my skin and out of my hair, I wrap myself in a rough, bleach-scented terry towel, clear the misty mirror with my hand, and wipe the smudges off my lenses with a washcloth. That’s when I notice a small green speck of something stuck in my teeth. Upon closer inspection, I conclude it’s leftover spinach dip from the club.
“Yuck.” I cringe with freshly flushed cheeks. That was there since last night? When we were kissing? Did Nick see it? Of course he did. He must’ve told himself to totally ignore it and keep going. According to Patrice O’Neal’s stand-up, when it comes to men and sex, the bar is relatively low. Damn little horndogs.
Like any self-respecting woman, I first try to weed the spinach out with my nail. When that doesn’t work, I scrub the clogged nook with my toothbrush. Still stuck. And of course, of all the things I packed, dental floss wasn’t one of them (try not to judge me). I glance around the sink for some kind of helpful apparatus. Any chance the cleaning staff left some floss next to the bar of soap? Nope, this is not The Plaza.
