Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist

I didn't even bother with foreplay, I lunged right in like I was Tal after too much Manischewitz Passover wine. I knew it was too soon, Nick was too raw, but I was goddamn ready to thaw and prove I wouldn't leave him cold. And I thought I did prove that, I mean I had him, at least I thought I did, I mean he responded, sort of, at least I thought he did, or maybe what I thought was response and mutual attraction was merely the fact that he's a guy, and an Elmo doll could accidentally graze it and it would respond. But the moment passed so quickly and if I am being honest, I know it only half responded and barely that because Julio probably knew it was Sub Z calling.

I will not do any more instant replay of that scene. I will not.

I am so humiliated.

I can feel the humiliation burning my face, branding me, making me hotter than frigid could ever imagine being, hot with hate. I hate the regret, pumping through every artery of my body, craving a cheeseburger right now. I hate time and I hate this night and if I truly believed in God outside of that momentary lapse of faith, I'd hate Her too.

I even hate Where's Fluffy. My former favorite band, now destined to be remembered for the rest of my life as the band I was listening to when I went down like the Titanic, ahem. I hate Caroline for being passed out when I really need to talk to her. I hate Tal for all the times of No, touch it this way and You're doing it all wrong, Norah, because now Nick, my first shot at redemption, knows it too: I have no fucking idea how to do this. It's like that mythic God takes human beings at creation and divides us into subsets: Group A gets the hot looks, sex appeal, and lots of action with natural ease (Caroline); Group B is the makeover prospects who will figure it all out and eventually get their action (Tris); and Group C is the rest of the poor schmucks (me) for whom God has decided, You're on your own. Don't expect much.

I kind of hate Nick right now, too, but there's someone else higher on my list, someone I hate more than Saddam Hussein and any asshole named Bush combined, hate more than that fuckhead who canceled My So-Called Life and left me with a too-small boxed DVD set that does not answer the questions of whether Angela and Jordan Catalano ever did it, or if Patty and Graham got a divorce, or if there really was something to all that lesbian subtext between Rayanne and Sharon. I need to fucking find that person I hate most, so I can hopefully at least kill that other hate, the one called regret.

The crowd is surging toward the pit. The band is between songs and an inconceivable lull is taking place onstage while Lars L. gets in tune and adjusts the mic against the feedback Nick probably fucked up when he tried to help Toni with set-up. Lars L. knows the potential of the crowd to turn against the band if given even a moment of silence and he must be noticing the crowd surge because he shouts at the audience, "What the fuck should we play next?" and a mohawked punk at the top yells, "Just play fucking something!" and the punk hasn't even finished the statement before Evan E. yells out ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR as he drum-bangs, and in a psychedelic flash Owen O. is raging out Where's Fluffy's cover of the gospel song "I'm Living on God's LSD." For a moment I forget about hate because my body has to thrash to this divine intervention of sound. For one minute of that two-minute song, I am lost to hate because I am lost to Owen O. and Evan E. and Lars L. because they are G. Gods, and everyone here knows it, feels it, shares it.

But then I see the fists waving in the pit and I hear the Oi's and I see a live person being passed around on the extended arms of the crowd, and even in this poor lighting I couldn't miss the bumblebee colors worn by the queen bee. Tris is the crowd-surfer, taking her shot to get passed to the front of the stage and hopefully be ushered backstage.

And I am back at hate.

I part that crowd like I'm fucking Moses, I mean seriously, I am like a five-star general, Commander Pissed-Off Bitch in her own personal marine tank, hurtling through the desert and no one better fucking get in my way. I am in the middle of the mosh within seconds and when it's my turn to propel Tris forward to the stage, instead of letting her legs pass over my upturned palms, I grab for her feet instead and she falls to the ground and the crowd doesn't care, they've gone on to someone else being passed around and Lars L. is pointing at the new victim and nodding YES to the security goons.

Tris stands up from the floor, then holds her hand against her forehead. "THAT FUCKING HURT!" she yells at me and only if she had also snarled "OW!" like Nick could I hate her more right now. I grab her hand from her forehead and lead her through the masses, a stormtrooper with a hostage now. I don't bother to say "bye" to Dev and Hunter, watching us leave from the periphery of the slightly opened eyes of their French kiss.