Shadows of Former Selves

Originally written Sunday, December 18, 2005

Jeanine had called me earlier to ask what she should wear—as she’d mentioned the other day, she’s not really the goth type. I told her that I’d be more or less guessing, myself, since I’d never been to this particular one, but goth clubs tend to be fairly laid back, and that I was just planning on digging up some stuff from my old Rocky Horror days (I didn’t mention that those days took place in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, when it was still playing at the Waverly and it wasn’t too unusual to see apparently middle-aged folks there, as I was at the time). Since we were also planning to go directly from dinner to the club, it would preferably be something versatile. “Wear something black and sexy and you can’t go wrong,” I said.

“Well then, maybe you should show up a bit early to tell me whether I look sexy enough!”

My pleasure, I thought.

What I dug up for myself was a black bustier and calf-length slip. With a red velvet blazer over the ensemble, it would be in no way inappropriate for going out to dinner, what with how much trendy fashions these days resemble what we used to consider underclothing. I found a velvet drawstring bag that was larger than most people would take clubbing, but I needed room for my wallet, keys, cell phone, and charm, as well as the device Patrick had referred to when he’d suggested looking after Moshe the old-fashioned way: a wooden stake. But more about that later. I know I’d previously thought I wouldn’t bring the charm along, but I was becoming increasingly protective of it. I wasn’t planning on bringing it into contact with my heartbeat; I just didn’t feel comfortable leaving it at home unattended.

When I picked up Jeanine, she’d put together a tight black t-shirt that revealed cleavage I didn’t know she had and low-riding jeans encircled by a studded leather belt. Around her neck she wore a choker that matched the belt; I might more aptly call it a collar. I was a little relieved and a little disappointed by the collar, relieved because she wouldn’t be mistaken for Moshe and Trudy’s type and disappointed because, well, I happen to like nibbling on necks, too. She pulled on a fuzzy bolero that looked like something I might have owned in the 1950s, and we were on our way.

Dinner went very nicely. On some levels, it was better than I’d hoped. We had much in common, although I realized I’d need to keep some of our similarities to myself for now. She’d earned one of her graduate degrees at NYU, for instance; I’d been attached to the Columbia law library many years ago, but it was too soon to begin any interscholastic rivalry. She also has exquisite taste in wine, but it wouldn’t have been prudent to tell her I knew the original owners of her favorite Argentinean winery (est. 1927). Of course, she is turning out to be a rather engaging woman even beyond our superficial likenesses. But as the number of details on which I could not expand with her accrued, I grew frustrated.

In retrospect, that frustration may have been why I found myself consumed with noticing her faults during much of the meal. It began with her teeth, which I hadn’t previously noticed were a little bit crossed in the front, while her canines were set far up in her gums; they were also tinted like a smoker's, even though I knew her not to be. I tried to focus on her eyes when she spoke, but my gaze kept gravitating to her mouth. Then there were her breasts: I could see from her form-fitting top that one was bigger than the other to a greater degree than are most women’s, including my own. And then there was the way that her side of the conversation would frequently go off-topic in a pointless, rambling sort of way. It’s not that any of these things were dealbreakers; overall I still found her compellingly attractive. In fact, like her grating Neil Young appreciation (and impersonation), her foibles add to her appeal. I know myself, though, and I recognize that I was already collecting characteristics about which I could change my opinion at some undetermined point in the future if I need a reason to cease being interested in her.

We arrived at the Crypt around 10:00, right about the time when there were enough people trickling in for the place not to look embarrassingly empty. My boys weren’t there yet, but we saw Trudy and Moshe almost immediately. Or perhaps I should say I saw Trudy. Moshe, on the other hand, did not register as Moshe in my awareness until I’d looked a second or third time and heard him speak. Trudy, I gathered, had done a good job on him. His wire-rimmed glasses had been replaced by dark eyeliner, and his hair was straightened, spiked, and black. I couldn’t tell for certain in the dim light, but it seemed he wore a light-colored foundation that left his complexion as pale as ever, but it was a more consistent shade of pale and certainly less pasty. His pleather pants and t-shirt-with-generically-silly-quip appeared to be standard Hot Topic gear (which made me imagine the vaguely amusing scene of Moshe the shopping mall pianist dropping by the last store the retail kids might have expected him to enter), but he wore the whole get-up as if it were made for him. He’d have no trouble finding a willing partner or two tonight. That was the good news. The bad news was that Trudy might think he wouldn’t need supervision if he could procure his own meal. The responsibility would fall to me to keep an eye on him.

The events of this day to be continued....