Pete wanted me to go to a party with him on Saturday night.
“There will be lots of Indian guys there,” he assures me.
I didn’t meet the faux-hawked, sports-coated group of attractive Indian fellows with that private equity look about them because, even though Pete offered to introduce me, I was afraid he’d make it awkward and obvious. That’s kind of his thing.
I did meet a famous author. I can’t remember his name or what he wrote, even though I was sober all night. I had never heard of him. So we just talked about me.
And I met a boy from Alabama. I’m from Georgia, and that’s close. He’s familiar with my hometown. I know the tiny place where his grandparents live. We’ve eaten at the same cafeteria-restaurant. We talked about our choice of footwear in middle school, people dressed in bunny suits, the proclivity of Catholic-school kids to do the hardest and craziest drugs, and the quality of cheese stores in Brooklyn. A really interesting older gentleman keeps telling us that he’s just enjoying listening in because our conversation is so. . . quirky.
Then this Alabama boy and I discover that we even know the same person. And this person just happens to be Harper’s college boyfriend. He says they lost their virginity to the same girl. Small world.
Pete tells me he’s going to go but I should stay. I leave with him anyway. Before I leave, I lock eyes with this Alabama boy. He’s over in a flash and asking for my number.
“My friend from Alabama is moving to Brazil, and when he leaves I won’t know any other Southerners in the city.”
I guess he’s looking for a replacement.