Good looks combined with athleticism, wit, and smarts cando that to a person, catapult them to unfettered popularity. Everyone wanted apiece of him and was happy with whatever time or attention they got from Lenny.Including me.
Only, I didn’t get much.
Until senior year, when luck had me working side by sidewith Lenny as coeditors of the yearbook. I used to cancel staff meetings and“forget” to tell him, just so he and I would end up alone in some scienceclassroom after school, talking about nothing and everything at the same time.There was one intense month of work—March, I think—when we had to finalize allthe photos and cram to get all the layouts done and submitted to the printer.We pulled a bunch of all-nighters at my house, the cut images and graphicsspread out before us in a jumbled mess, the soft glow of basement light makingthe damp, unfinished space seem almost romantic, and I’d think, Now he’sgoing to kiss me.
But he never did.
But then he’d look at me and smile, and our hands wouldtouch just the tiniest bit as we passed the Scotch tape back and forth, and acurrent would pass up my arm. And then I’d think, Now he’s going to ask meto the prom.
But he never did that either.
Which is why this online attention I’ve been getting fromMC Lenny Katzenberg since the reunion is most unexpected, although not, in fact,entirely unwelcome.
Lenny’s video comes up on YouTube. He is dressed in jeansand a graphic tee. He’s this tall, kind of nebbishy Jewish kid fromWestchester, who went to Yale and now spends his days as an accountant. Hespends his evenings and weekends putting together rap lyrics with synchronizedmusic. Then he records himself and edits together an iMovie to put up onYouTube. Sometimes his skits and songs are performed alone, and sometimes withothers, like random New Yorkers, or an on-again, off-again girlfriend. A fewhave been politically charged. Others have been crude or somewhat sexual.Sometimes these mini-movies involve rather complicated choreography. They arealways really funny and cutting-edge.
This one doesn’t disappoint. It’s about the latest health carebill being voted on by Congress. It’s typical Lenny: left-wing and liberal,with clever rhymes and a touch of Justin Timberlake.
I’m slightly distracted by Lenny’s companion. A woman withthe longest legs I’ve ever seen is wearing a tight, white, short-skirtednurse’s costume and gyrating her hips around him while he raps his way aroundHMOs, PPOs and HDHPs (“How the fuck am I supposed to know which one is rightfor me?”). I wonder who this “nurse” is, and if they’re more than friends.
But then Lenny’s hazel eyes shine, and I’m back in themoment with him. He looks right through the camera and into my eyes, like thisis all just an elaborate private joke between the two of us. A playful smileturns up one corner of his mouth, into his trademark impish grin.
I forward it to Kat. This should give her another neededpick-me-up.
“Who knew a smart dweeb could be so friggin’ hot?” she hadcommented the first time we watched one of Lenny’s videos. We were huddledtogether in the back corner of the middle school’s computer lab during a freeperiod, staring thirstily at the screen as Lenny shook his ass at us.
“I did!” I had exclaimed. “Always! I had the best time onthose temple retreat weekends!”
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure I’d brag about that.” She’d thengrabbed one of her curls, pulled it out straight, stuck it into her mouth, andsucked on it. She turned back to study the screen in contemplative silence.“Although, that guy does have something. I just can’t put my finger on it.”Silence, except for the sucking of hair. “Wait! Is he married?”
“No. He’s thirty-nine and single, never been.”
“I got it! He’s gay!”
“Kat, he’s not gay. He’s just funny and unafraid ofbusting a move on the international Internet circuit.”
“Yeah. Children, are you listening?” She had pretended toaddress a class of kindergarteners. “That spells g-a-y.”
Lenny breaks out the Michael Jacksonpelvic-thrust-with-hand-cupped-over-genitals move, and I snort heartily inresponse. Kat is going to die when she sees this.
Someone is suddenly tapping me on the arm. I look up frommy phone and notice that all the jurors—plus the bailiff—are staring at me.
“Having a good time, miss?” Delilah accuses.
“Yes! I mean, sorry. Just a funny video on YouTube. I’llturn it off now.”
“You do that. Then follow me.”
“Why? Am I in some sort of trouble?” I panic. “I know I’mnot supposed to have my phone…”
Several jurors chuckle. Delilah does not. “No, miss. Everyone of you is supposed to follow me. Judge Banks has called you into thecourtroom.”
“Oh! Great. Guess I didn’t hear.” I gather mybelongings and line up between jurors three and five. Then Delilah opens thedoor and we file through.
The judge is standing before us in her black robes, and sowe remain standing. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she begins, “I am JudgeBanks.” She looks to be about sixty or so, with the kind of Hillary Clintonhair popular with power-women of a similar age. “I would like to thank you foryour time. This case has been settled. You are free to go.”
“Yes!” Carrie hisses under her breath. Others clap.
Crap! This can’t be happening. But here we go,being led like sheep by Delilah, back out of the courtroom and through ourwaiting area. “If you’ll all follow me downstairs, I’ll hand you the officialpaperwork saying that you’ve been dismissed after two days of service.” Myheart is beating out of my shirt. My mind is a tornado of thoughts, a whirlwindscreaming, Disaster, disaster! Delilah keeps talking, but I can’t makeout the rest. We follow her down the elevator and to the administrator’soffice. I think I might faint.
All around me, people are smiling and
