Free Take Your Shirt Off and Cry: A Memoir of Near-Fame Experiences by Nancy Balbirer Page A

the play. This would be our first
     time having dinner; we had thus far seen each other exclusively during daylight. He suggested John’s, an Italian restaurant
     in the East Village. His vibe on the phone was disquietingly datelike. Also, John’s was well known as one of those Very Romantic
     Places—incredibly dark and lit only by what seemed like thousands of candles, erotically dripping white wax. It was adored
     for its cheap Chianti and fabulous spaghetti and meatballs, both of which were hungrily sucked and slurped by hipsters in
     a pre-sex haze.
    I decided that this was an opportunity to set Ned straight about everything. I needed to tell him (a) that I was not in a
     place to jump into another “thing”; (b) that I was feeling pushed and that if there was the possibility of a “thing” with him, it would have to evolve organically, and my timeline and pace would have to be respected;
     and (c) after all these years, how I felt about the Pass.
    “Gosh, you look great! What a delightful skirt!” Ned gushed as we got settled and started perusing the menu. “I’ve always
     said you look so pretty when you dress like a girl.” As cool as Ned was, he also had an archaically corny side to him that
     gave off the whiff of a closet sexist. While he applauded the fact that I had “a mouth like a sailor” and was thoroughly impressed
     with the vigor with which I uttered the phrase “Fuck you,” he couldn’t contain his belief that, in the end, I should “act
     and dress like a girl.” It pissed me off royally whenever he brought it up, but he was always careful to couch it as something
     I should experiment with “to get acting gigs.”
    Ned and I ordered spaghetti and meatballs, a mixed salad, and Chianti, and as we ate I felt him staring at me.
    “Ned, listen, I’m—can I talk to you about a couple things?”
    “Of course! Shoot.”
    “Well . . . it’s just that I’m feeling . . . pushed . Like, I’m sort of getting the vibe that you might be wanting something . . . more. More than I can . . . commit to. And
     you know how fucked up I’ve been. I’m just—I’m not in a place—”
    “Naw, naw . . .” Ned put down his Chianti and grabbed my hands and looked directly, intensely into my eyes. I could tell he
     was pretty stoned.
    “We are totally copacetic , you and me.” But he winced a bit, and that’s when I saw it for the first time: the chink in Ned’s armor. Beneath the smile,
     the mettle, the ballsy confidence, Ned seemed scared—but of what? He pressed on, cajoling me and convincing himself.
    “We’re pals, you and me—great pals!”
    Taking a deep breath, I pressed on.
    “Look, Ned. I wanna talk to you about something else, and it’s pretty huge and weird and . . . it’s hard. This is hard for
     me.”
    “I’m all ears.”
    I took another deep breath.
    “Remember what happened that night seven years ago, after we had dinner together and we went back to your place to hang and
     sing some songs?”
    “Uh . . . no,” Ned smiled. “Should I?”
    “We went back to your place. After the Westbank Cafe. We went back to your place, and we sat on the couch, and you started
     playing that tune by The Band . . .”
    Ned looked at me blankly.
    “Yeah?” He shrugged.
    “So—none of this is ringing a bell?”
    He shook his head.
    “OK, well, did it ever occur to you why I stopped speaking to you for seven years?”
    “You stopped speaking to me?” Ned looked perplexed. “I just thought we, you know, fell out of touch. I was with Binky and,
     you know . . .”
    “Right. You were with Binky. You were also with Binky when you made a pass at me in your apartment seven years ago.”
    “What?”
    “Binky was out of town,” I continued. “You invited me over. We were on your couch. You were playing guitar and started singing
     that tune ‘Take a load off Fannie’?”
    “ ‘The Weight’! Fuck! SUCH a GREAT tune!” Ned started singing, conducting with his fork. “ ‘