The Night I Met Jack

I remember the night I met Jack. It was sometime after 1:00 a.m. on November 30th, 1999. Christina and I had been hanging out after work at the downstairs bar at Penang’s, a Malaysian restaurant on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The bartenders there treated us well. Was it free drinks, extra booze, or engaged conversation? It’s hard to recall, probably a combination. The restaurant closed at 1:00 am, and Craig invited us to meet him after work at a bar down the street. We went ahead of Craig to Peter’s on Columbus Avenue between 68th and 69th streets. I was warm from the Cosmopolitans and didn’t notice the cold November night. The taxis and cars whirled past us. 

Christina had a crush on Craig, but Craig had a crush on me.

Craig walked in and breezed past us without a glance. Christina pulled her sad puppy dog face. “He’s ignoring me,” she whined. Craig was talking to a couple of guys – one of them was Jack, my future husband.

I was pretty sassy back then. I walked up to Craig and said, “Hey, Craig, you walked right past us. Is that any way to treat your friends?” I teased.

Craig, with his blonde rockabilly hair, smiled at me, his grin wide. “Hey, meet my friends, Andrew and Jack. Jack’s in the band RoxVox.”

They both said hello, and I immediately had a visceral reaction to the tall man with splotchy blond streaks in his dark hair. His skin was pale and effervescent. My heart fluttered, my gut tightened, and a smile painted my face.

“Oh, cool. Well, nice to meet you guys.”  I said nonchalantly. “Say, do you want to dance?” I said to the man named Jack.

He smiled and spoke with a British accent. “Where are we going to dance?”

“Outside on the street! I have a boombox with mad bass. We’ll throw a dance party on the street.”

The three men grinned. “Sure!” They said, like obedient dogs.

I pulled my boombox out of my handbag and expanded it to half my size. “Could one of you carry it? It’s always a bit awkward when I have to do it myself.”

“No problem,” the British guy said to me. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure, I’ll have a cosmo,” I said, locking my eyes with his.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, his sultry voice luring me. I blushed.

We had a couple of drinks at the bar. Poor Christina was sitting at the end of the bar, nursing her drink, looking down, and concentrating on her drink. Poor self-pitying, Christina. She’s missing out on a good time.

“Hey, Christina, come join us!” I encouraged, keeping an eye on Jack, as he would never leave my sight now.

Andrew said, “I’m ready to dance with you, babe.” I glared at him.

“I have a name. Don’t call me babe.”

“Sorry. Yes. I just got carried away,” he said solemnly.

The five of us walked out of the bar, drinks in hand. Jack carried the boombox. I like him, I thought to myself. We got outside, and I put on the beats. Kenny Loggins’ “Footloose” blasted out, and Christina and Andrew started dancing. Blood rushed to my cheeks; so embarrassing.

“Oh, that wasn’t supposed to be there! That was a joke from a dance class earlier.” I switched discs. This time, it was Moby. Moby I could groove to. I started dancing with Jack. He was a fierce dancer, and the three others stopped and watched us. Soon, the 2:00 a.m. crowd circled around us, drawn in by the music and the energy of our impromptu street performance.

Someone from an apartment above yelled out of the window, “If you don’t shut up, I’m calling the cops.”

Jack turned down the music.

“Hey, let’s go back to my place and order Chinese food,” said Andrew, his corkscrew curls bouncing on his shoulders.

Jack looked at me. “Are you coming?” His almond-shaped eyes mesmerized me. I smiled at him. “Sure, I’m game, but I don’t want Chinese food.”

“Yeah, me neither. I never eat and drink,” he said to me, a slight smile parted his lips.

I folded the boombox back into my bag, and we started to walk down Columbus Avenue to Andrew’s place. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp concrete and a hint of cigarette smoke, the remnants of a bustling evening fading into the quiet of the late hour. The night air was crisp and biting, carrying the faintest whisper of the Hudson River in the distance, mingling with the earthy coolness of Central Park just a block away. I was tipsy and twisted my ankle on a curb in my 4” heeled boots.

“Ouch!” I said, leaning down, rubbing the pain away. “I don’t know if I can put pressure on it,” I said, discouraged.

The three men all said, “I’ll carry you!”

I looked at the three of them: Andrew with his salt and pepper corkscrew hair, Craig with his Colgate smile, and Jack, perfect in every way. “Sure, thanks, Jack,” I jumped on his back, and he carried me to Andrew’s place. I rested my head on his broad shoulders; his leather jacket cooled my flushed cheeks. 

Christina was lagging behind, whining. Poor Christina. “Wait for me!” She complained.

We arrived at Andrew’s apartment. Jack set me down gently, and I smiled up at him. We sat down on Andrew’s L-shaped black velour couch; the air hung heavy with the scent of stale cigarettes. Jack brought me a drink from the kitchen and sat beside me. 

Christina sat down next to me on the other side. “Craig’s not talking to me. He doesn’t like me. Will you talk to him?” she pleaded.

I leaned into her and answered quietly, sympathetically, “Go talk to him yourself.” Christina moped and took another sip of her drink.

Jack put my hand in his, and I felt an electric jolt of energy, like the start of something I couldn’t yet define. I felt a connection to him, one that would never leave me. The rest is history.