Roman and Jewel

by Dana L. Davis

  I slide closer to him. “I don’t think that sounds weird at all, Zeppelin.”

  “Broadway was never my dream. But music is my life. It keeps me eternally connected to her.” He pauses to gently caress my cheek. “I know she’s with me, Jerzie. I feel her around me. So many random miracles happen in my life. I know I’ll always be okay. I know she’s looking out for me.” Now the sadness returns to his eyes. “But who’s looking out for Lorin? Her sister is disabled and can’t work, so she financially supports her and her sister’s two kids. And Damon hadn’t been able to find a job after Sing Star. Nobody would hire him. He was living with different friends. Couch surfing when he got the gig. And the production paid for Angel’s work visa. He can’t stay in the country if he’s not working on Roman and Jewel.”

  Of course I understand now. “You’re an amazing friend, Zeppelin. Don’t ever change.”

  He pulls me close to him. “How long do we have? Before you have to get back? I can give you a ride.” He traces my lips with his finger.

  “Before Cinny’s party ends,” I admit. “I’m a little like Cinderella, needing to get to the ball before midnight instead of away from it.”

  “If you don’t mind riding on my bike, I can get you there before you turn back into a pumpkin.”

  “In a parallel scenario...” I frown. “Wouldn’t your bike be the thing turning into the pumpkin?”

  “Why are you such a nerd?” He smiles. “Promise you’ll never change.”

  And suddenly we’re kissing. And I’m not so sure if I’m doing it right, but I do remember that Zeppelin said there are one million nerve endings on our lips, so hopefully he’s happy to have my lips touching one million parts of him. It’s only when his hand slides under my shirt that I tense. He immediately stops and pulls his hand away to lovingly touch my cheek.

  “You’re in control, Jerzie,” he whispers. “I’m happy to just lie next to you. Being with you is all I need.”

  “But you said you’d teach me things.”

  “I’ll teach you everything I know. We can learn the rest together.”

  It’s dawning on me that this touching thing goes both ways. I can finally run my fingers along all the muscles on his stomach. So I do that, reaching under his loose-fitting T-shirt. Which I guess prompts him to pull the entire thing off. And if I thought Zeppelin felt warm before, he’s practically a furnace now that he’s half-naked. I rest my hands on his chest, and for the first time, I feel his heart beating quite fast. As fast as mine.

  We lie together for a while, kissing, holding one another tight. Touching in ways that sends energy pulsing through all parts of me. With every movement he makes, he pauses to whisper into my ear, to ask me if I’m okay.

  I freak out only a little bit when he reaches into a drawer beside his bed and pulls out a box.

  “Condoms?” I ask softly.

  “I mean...” He laughs. “I know it’s been a billion years. But I’m really in no rush. I’m gonna be your first everything. Including your first perfect gentleman.” He hands me the box. “Happy birthday, Jerzie.” He smiles. “Billion-year-old boyfriends know everything.”

  Of course he would know it’s my birthday. But... “It’s the same day as—”

  “I know.” He nods sadly. “Just another message from Mom. My darkest day turned bright from now on.”

  I sit up in his bed and with trembling hands, untie the simple red ribbon on the small box. Inside is an engraved silver bracelet. I study the inscription:

  Maybe this time...

  It’s the song from Cabaret. The beautiful lyric. The one that makes me cry. Zeppelin’s gentle hand wipes tears as they slide down my cheeks. He slips the bracelet onto my wrist. It feels cool, sending a shiver up my spine.

  “Maybe this time.” He wraps his arms around me.

  “Definitely this time.” I rest my head on his shoulder.

  “I love you. I really do.”

  “I love you, too, Zeppelin.”

  “Oh Blessed, Blessed Night”

  Riding on the back of Zeppelin’s motorcycle, my arms wrapped around his waist, my head resting against his back, the wind rushing by so fast, the city so monstrous, so garish around us, it feels as if we are the only thing quiet; we are the eye of the great, raging hurricane known as New York City. I close my eyes and try to capture my feelings the way a camera can capture a moment in time. I want to remember this forever. Being here, with him.

  Zeppelin slows to a stop at a red light and turns to me, shouting over the roar of his bike and the nighttime city traffic. “You up for a quick detour? It won’t take long. Promise.”

  I nod. We’re in Times Square, close to our final destination. A quick detour can’t hurt. He turns into a parking garage, and within a moment, we’re parked and walking arm in arm.

  Times Square at night—it needs one of those signs for when you arrive. Like the ones you see at theme parks, in line, before you get on a roller coaster. The WARNING in big bold letters, followed by a list of people who should turn back:

  People with heart problems.

  People sensitive to bright, flashing lights.

  People who don’t like to be scared shitless.

  Zeppelin holds tightly to my hand as he steers through the crowd. I wouldn’t call it bumper to bumper—more like arm to arm, because the people pileup is real. If I was walking with Aunt Karla in this kind of foot traffic, she would have veered off the main roads and found some sort of shortcut. Through a back alley. Around a building. Through a building.

  I marvel at the woman’s savvy traffic-avoidance navigation skills, but am also marveling at the way Zeppelin appears to revel in it all. He seems unaffected by the melee. Happy even. I give myself permission to be unaffected, too. And suddenly, I’m swept away by the magic of this strange section of midtown, where anything goes and everything incites the senses. My neck tilts back, my mouth watering as I inhale the aroma of street food and gaze up at the flashing neon billboards as big as our house back in New Brunswick, my ears buzzing from the roar of the crowd, heart racing from the warmth of Zeppelin’s hand holding mine.

  A man on skates, dressed in gold spandex from head to toe, spins in fast circles. Even his head and face are covered in gold spandex, and I wonder how he’s breathing. He’s attracting a ton of attention, spinning and spinning in front of the iconic red stairs, where people can sit and gaze peacefully.

  “Never trust a man dressed like an Academy Award.” Zeppelin holds on to my hand a little bit tighter, and I smile.

  We turn down Broadway, and a show must be letting out, because hundreds of people flood through the doors of a theater we’re passing, looking relaxed after a night of what I’m sure were phenomenal performances. Couples walk together, kids chat excitedly. Zeppelin steps around a cluster of older women who hold their Playbills tight as they load onto a tour bus. He moves to a stage door, where a line is forming.

  “Marcel!” He shouts over a crowd-control gate to a beefy security guard, who waves at him.

  “Zepp! Yo. Where you been, man?”

  “Hibernation,” Zeppelin says. “Hey, help me out? Can you let us in across the street?”

  Marcel nods. “No doubt. Show just let out. Gimme like ten, and Imma get somebody to cover me here. I’ll meet you over there.”

  “Cool.” Zeppelin turns to me. “We’re gonna cross.”

  He pulls my hand, and I follow him, weaving around cars stuck in crawling traffic. We quickly make it to the other side. Half a block later, we approach another theater, this one seeming all shut down like it’s a Monday, the only day the theater takes off. But today isn’t Monday.

  I place my hands over my mouth, not sure why it took me so long to realize where we are. This is the Broadway Theatre. This is where Roman and Jewel will be running.

  “This is us. Well, I mean, you.” Zeppelin smiles
weakly.

  “What are we doing here?”

  He steers me to the stage door. “Robbie and I have been emailing back and forth all week. He told me they’d be finished with the set, but they’re having some pretty intense tech issues with the floor and flew in an expert from London who could only work during a certain time window. So I think they might be here now. Marcel’s gonna let us in. Pretty sure no other cast member has set foot on this stage. You’ll be the first. As it should be.”

  I clap my hands excitedly. “So cool, Zeppelin.” Of course, then I realize this moment that is making me so giddy might cause him some pain. “Wait. Are you sure? We don’t have to go in. I feel bad.”

  “Don’t. It might be the only time I get to share the stage with you.”

  Those words sting. A lot. “What if I talked to them? To Angel and Damon and Lorin? I could get them—”

  “No.” Zeppelin shakes his head. “Whoever did it probably did it as a joke. I’m gonna guess they never intended for it to go viral, and I sure as hell don’t think they ever thought they could lose their job over it. Robbie’s looking out for me. He got me an audition for a show that’s looking for a very special actor to play Kurt Cobain.”

  “Kurt Cobain?” How perfect would Zeppelin be as Kurt Cobain?

  “It’s called The Death of Rock ’n’ Roll. It’s the story of Nirvana. Off Broadway. Premiering at the Public Theater.”

  “That’s where Hamilton started!”

  “I know.” He grins.

  I lurch forward and hug him. Zeppelin would be great as Kurt Cobain. But he was born to play Roman. I’m about to speak these very words when the security guard Marcel makes his way to where we stand. He and Zeppelin do that overly masculine “hug” guys do where they bang shoulders and slap each other on the back.

  “This is Jerzie.” Zeppelin introduces me to the beefy guard.

  I wave. “Hi.”

  Marcel tips his head. “Nice to meet you, Queen.”

  I watch him unlock the door and motion us to go through. “Text me when you’re leaving so I can make sure everything’s all locked up.”

  Zeppelin holds up empty hands. “No phone.”

  I whip out Judas’s phone. “I can text you.”

  Marcel gives me his number, and I save it in Judas’s contacts.

  “If anybody asks,” Marcel says, “it wasn’t me who let you in. I’m not playin’ with you, man.”

  “No doubt.” Zeppelin laughs.

  After Zeppelin and I step through, the heavy door slams shut after us. Technically we’re still outside. It’s that space in between buildings. Night sky above us. Zeppelin leads me toward a door at the end of the walkway. We pull it open and step through.

  It’s pretty dark, so we use the light from Judas’s cell phone to guide us around a few corners until, at last, we are literally backstage in a Broadway theater. It’s not glamorous. It’s the opposite, in fact. Stage lights on the floor, Fresnel lights lining the walls and hanging from the ceiling. Scaffolding. Setups of laptops and computers. Giant, dusty speakers. Multitiered carts stacked with equipment. Metal ladders, wires, cords—is that a helium tank?

  Zeppelin and I crouch between some of the larger light fixtures on the floor. In front of us, the main stage is pretty much disemboweled, and crew members are working with a mass of wires and cables. A man who looks like he’s in his forties, with short, curly blond hair and a heavy British accent, laughs and chats with Alan Kaplan.

  “That’s the technician they flew in,” Zeppelin whispers, his breath tickling my ear.

  “As long as it works, I don’t actually care how it works.” Alan yawns. “You could be under there for all I care.”

  I can’t believe he’ll be at rehearsal bright and early tomorrow morning after having spent the night here. Broadway must never end for him. Behind them, I note the tiered rows of empty theater chairs. Hundreds of them, all upholstered with that classic, lush red fabric that looks like velvet. To think, people will be sitting in these very chairs so soon. Watching the cast of Roman and Jewel. One day, maybe even watching me.

  I glance up at the wood carved ceiling. I do this whenever I visit Broadway theaters. Staring at the ceiling with my cell phone pointed up like your basic Times Square tourist who crowds up the sidewalk by stopping midstep to stare at buildings. But this ceiling...you’d swear Michelangelo rose from the dead to supervise its intricate, detailed construction with all the violet and indigo colors. Surrounding the proscenium are gold archways lined with crimson and heavy, red velvet curtains that look plucked straight from a theater in the Southwark district of London, where Shakespeare’s plays were performed for the very first time. I imagine these curtains traveled through a time warp to get here.

  Zeppelin and I crouch and watch. I’ve no idea why this group of men, working hard to prep a stage against the backdrop of an empty theater, is so mesmerizing. Why did Zeppelin think I would enjoy this so much? How did he know?

  I’m not sure how much time has passed when I get distracted by Judas’s phone, lighting up in my hand. It’s a text message from an unknown number:

  Jerzie. It’s Judas. You need to get here. Damon is letting me text from his phone. Hurry UP.

  My stomach churns. The party’s not over for another hour at least. I compose a message back:

  Judas. Headed that way. Everything ok?

  He texts back: Eh. I’ll explain when you get here. You’re not on the list though, so be creative about how to get in. But get in Jerzie. You gotta.

  I place a hand on Zeppelin’s shoulder. He turns to me. I show him the messages.

  “What do you think happened?” he asks softly.

  “No idea,” I whisper. But that’s a lie. Because whatever has happened, I’m certain it involves Cinny being her very terrible self.

  “A Plague o’ Both Your Houses!”

  We opt to walk to Slate. It’s only a few blocks away and saves us from having to find new parking for Zeppelin’s motorcycle. He squeezes my hand tightly as we near the building on Fiftieth. A red carpet has been rolled out in front of the new storefront. There are reporters, camera people, and security guards lining the carpet. Screaming teenagers crowd the sidewalk, holding up cell phones, taking flashing photos, selfies, and videos. There’s a monster traffic pileup as drivers slow to see what all the commotion is about. It’s chaos. If I’m not on the list, how exactly are we supposed to get in? I look at Zeppelin, hoping maybe he might have some sort of solution. He seems as dumbfounded by the scene as me.

  An idea forms.

  “I think I know what to do!” I shout over the roar, pulling an Aunt Karla and expertly weaving through the crowd until we’ve pushed to the front where the gates are set up. “Zepp!” I scream. “I’m gonna jump over!”

  He widens his eyes. “Serious?”

  “I’m so serious.” The crowd-control gates reach to about my chest. We can easily jump over. I mean, I might need a boost. “You have to do it with me.”

  “So, breaking in is your idea?” He points. There are quite a few security guards stationed at different points, and two police officers, that I can see—there are probably more—stand near the front entrance. “You cool with being arrested?”

  “We’ll be fine. I think.” I hope.

  “That’s the kind of confidence I like to hear.” He places a hand on my back. “You sure about this, Jerzie?”

  I kiss him on the cheek. He always feels so blazing hot. “I’m sure. Let’s jump overboard.”

  Thankfully Zeppelin asks no more questions and moves fast. He gives me a boost, and then in a matter of seconds he’s jumped over after me. I grab his hand and drag him along as I push around a few photographers to rush onto the red carpet.

  I look over my shoulder. One of the police officers makes eye contact with me. Shit. Now two security guards are approaching from
opposite ends. Zeppelin and I exchange worried expressions as we stand, dead center on the red carpet like two deer facing fast oncoming traffic. But then my glorious plan takes flight.

  “Look! It’s Jerzie Jhames! It’s Cinny’s best friend!” a voice screams.

  Someone recognized me. Thank the internet, they recognized me.

  The screams amplify, and reporters call out. I grip Zeppelin’s hand tight, watching the security guards retreat to their assigned positions. We’re safe.

  I smile at the cameras, as if standing dead center on red carpets is something I do. I wave. I laugh. I pose.

  “Jerzie Jhames!”

  “Jerze! Over here.”

  “Jerzie, can I get a smile!”

  “Right in this direction, Jerzie!”

  “Jerzie, who are you wearing?”

  “Jerzie Jhames, who’s your date?”

  This question, I take a moment to shout an answer to. “Zeppelin Reid.”

  “Zeppelin!” they yell.

  “Zeppelin Reid, over here!”

  Zeppelin leans down to whisper in my ear. “I have never been more impressed with you.”

  I laugh. If I’m being honest, I’ve never been more impressed with myself.

  “Jerzie and Zeppelin! Can we get a kiss from Roman and Jewel?”

  I turn to Zeppelin. I can hear the click click click of dozens of cameras as I step on my tiptoes, and Zeppelin leans in so that our lips connect. He wraps an arm around my waist, and I rest a hand on his cheek. Real-life Romeo and Juliet. Reunited at last.

  We wave to the crowd and move toward the entrance. The two doormen simply step to the side. Neither bothers asking who we are, since people are still screaming our names. And suddenly we are through to the other side.

  We’re in.

  Music blares. Lights are dim but the unique setup shines bright, since most of the furniture and accessories seem to be glowing neon. Feels like we’ve stepped through one of the billboards from Times Square and into an alternate dimension.

  The best way to describe Slate: it’s sorta like an adult, indoor playground. It spans three different floors. There are giant Connect Fours, human-size chess pieces on life-size boards where partygoers engage in laughter-infused competition. There’s also the focal point of the entire place, a monstrous, spiral tube slide, like the kind you’d see at a children’s park. It must start somewhere on the top floor and twist all the way down to the main level. How fun. Over the roar of the music, I can hear the sound of heavy pins falling onto hardwood from the bowling alley upstairs. People are crowded around all of the many bars Slate has positioned on each floor. Just as I’m about to compose a text to Damon’s phone, I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to face my brother, his silver tie glowing under the neon lighting.