Just 25 Minutes, Tracey Thompson

Just 25 Minutes

It all started in this run-down club in the heart of Queens that my godfather owns. It was filled to the brim with post punk-alyptic Ramones wannabes. The kind that wear skinny jeans that are closer to leggings and sport a healthy dosage of guy liner. It’s the type of crowd where I look around and can’t help but think, “ah yes, these are my people.” Not that I’m punk rock so to speak. I’m more of the uptight girl from Midtown, double majoring in raging maniac and control freak. But the heart longs to be what it longs to be. I was sitting in the back of the club nursing a heavily non-alcoholic ginger ale. I was in charge of getting Henry home tonight. He was on the dance floor, no-doubt flirting with some shmoe of a band member. Hopefully he picked a guy with a car this time. I flipped open my phone to check the time: 2:30. I was in no mood to sit in the back of a club drinking diet sodas for the next few hours. I decided it was about time that I left. I mean Henry always does this. He convinces me to go to some club with shit bands, and then ditches me for the closest warm body he can grope. A word of advice: be careful whom you choose as childhood friends; you tend to be stuck with them. The band that was playing just finished. Their performance sported the usual angry fast beat of the same four chord progressions. Their name was something along the lines of Le Tigre’s More Attractive Older Cousin Le Panther. They had a lead singer who not so much ended the performance with a fizzle but a bang, literally. The hands of the crowd were up and pumping to the beat of the song. The singer was hopping around the stage in a pair of leather pants that were definitely tight enough to lower his chances of ever being able to have children, and he belted out the last line of the chorus, “ARE YOU READY FOR ME?” He jumped out towards those pumping hands. It was like watching the red sea part for Moses. Needless to say, he was nursing his injuries with an ice pack while the next act played.

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I paid for my ginger ale, and got up to find Henry when I felt someone tap my shoulder. I turned around to see the drummer of the band that was just playing standing behind me. I’d been watching him while he played. He lacked the natural sense of rhythm and time to be a drummer but made up for it with intensity. He was cute in a little puppy type of way, troublesome and desperately needing to be housebroken. His hair was stuck to his face from sweat, framing his rosy cheeks. He couldn’t have been more than a year or so older than me, probably around eighteen. “Hi, I’m Tom,” he outstretched his hand to shake mine, a real gentleman. “And you need a drink.” The mass of people around the bar threw him against me. He leaned over me balancing himself on the bar counter. I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could some girl pulled him back. She stood at the height of five-foot nothing and was made of pure anger. She shrieked into his ear, “WHERE IS VLAD?” her fingers impatiently tapping her hips. Tom shrugged, “I don’t know. Last time I saw him he was backstage packing up the speakers in the van.” Van? I think I just found my ride. The girl just rolled her eyes and fiddled with her eyebrow piercing, deciding whether or not to interrogate him more, and then stomped off. “Great friend you got there. I mean she seems a little short tempered but…caring,” I said after a beat or two of silence. “Oh Jen, she’s not so much short tempered as just short,” he responded. I laughed, trying to be flirty; I sounded more like a dying jackal. I’ve practically come to prostitution to get a damn ride home. The things I do for Henry. I stopped laughing because I saw Henry on the other side of the club. He was talking to a man sporting what I have to say was the most voluptuous

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duo of a Hasidic man’s payis and a Mohawk I’d ever seen. Two drag queens flanked the man, and were playing with his payis, hanging on to every word Henry was saying. I turned back to Tom. “So where were we. Ah right, I was buying you a drink and you were falling madly in love with me,” he raised his hand to signal over the bartender. “Was I now? Those horrible pick-up lines do make a girl thirsty,” I retorted. He was about to respond when Henry came and plopped down next to me. The glitter on his face sparkled under the club’s dim lighting. Henry looked at me, panic in his eyes and said, “Hello dearie. I’m in desperate need of a quick getaway, some duct tape, and clear nail polish if you have some. No time to explain; let’s just say I may have angered some drag queens and a Hasidic jew. You know, with the joke about when a Chinese man who walks into a-” I put my finger on his lips silencing him. “I know the one you’re talking about. That means we have about ten minutes before they find us, and you get put in a political correctness seminar.” I turned to face Tom. “I guess those drinks are going to have to wait,” I pulled out my clear nail polish and handed it to Henry. Tom was flirting with the bartender when I turned back around and interrupted, “Hey Michelle, do you by any chance have a spare roll of duct tape I could borrow?” “Sure thing sweetie,” she said. Henry gave me a look. “What? I made a friend,” I said. “We’re so going to talk about how all you did tonight was drink soda at the bar, again. But more urgently, where are we going to get a ride,” he replied. Tom interjected saying, “You need a ride? I think I can supply.” Henry turned his head to inspect Tom. “Perhaps we won’t have to talk about the diet sodas. Good taste, dearie. He’s absolutely delectable.” Henry said.

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Tom grinned like he just found gold. “Why, thank you. Henry, is it?” I scowled. “We’ll have time for a big ole flirt later. Where’s the goddamn car?” I asked. “What about the duct tape?” Henry asked. “No time,” I said, following Tom to his car. Tom led us through the crowd of people to the door leading to the back lot behind the club. Outside it was humid, the usual for August. There were some places that aren’t suitable for living and one of those places was New York during August. It’s the sort of weather where walking around is more or less easier than walking through a brick wall Tom stopped in front of, what charitably speaking, qualified as a van. It looked like someone had decided to play Frankenstein with the car. It was two tons of machine that reinvented the term “screaming metal death trap.” Tom started talking to his buddy who was loading band equipment in the van. I guess this guy was Vlad. Henry and I were standing there, waiting for Tom to give us the okay to get into the van, when I turned around to face the club’s back door. The door slammed open, and the Hasidic man who Henry was talking to earlier stepped outside, practically shooting steam out from his ears. “HENRY. I THINK ONE OF THE GUYS FOUND US,” I screamed. Henry turned around to face the guy. When the man saw Henry he bellowed, “I may be a Zionist but I’m no pacifist, bitch.” “Look I didn’t mean any harm by what I was saying,” Henry said backing up slowly towards the van. Vlad hopped into the car trying to start the engine without much luck. Tom walked between the man and Henry. “Listen. My friend here didn’t mean any harm by what he said. Why don’t we just keep things civil?” Tom said, trying to cool down the situation. While he was talking, two leggy men teetered on their stilettoes out of the club towards us, anger in their eye-shadowed eyes. Mischief flashed over Tom’s face. “Sorry,” he said to the man right

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before he sucker-punched the Hasidic man in the nose. He fell to the ground trying to stop the blood with one of his hands. “GO GO GO GO GO,” Tom screamed as we all piled into the back of the van and Vlad drove off. By the time we drove a couple blocks I figured we were safe. I laid my head against the wall of the van, closing my eyes and sighing. “Where to, my little pretties?” Vlad called from the front seat. Henry had already crawled to the passenger seat, no doubt flirting with Vlad. “West 29th and 9th street,” I replied before Henry could. Tom scooted next to me, trapping me between him and the wall. “I don’t think I ever caught your name?” Tom said. “Hard to catch something I’ve haven’t thrown,” I retorted, scooting closer to the wall in order to get away from him. Tom smirked. “No harm in pitching a ball or two. Every one loves a good game.” There was a foot between us. I scoffed, “Shut up.” There was six inches between us. “Make me,” he responded. There was three inch between us. “Margo. My name’s Margo,” I said with two inches between us. I yelled to Vlad with one inch between us, “Henry can choose where we go!”

Tracey Thompson ’16

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