January 15, 1999

Of all the lounges in all the casinos in all of Las Vegas, I had to walk into her's.

Meeting her was not on the itinerary. I was supposed to come to Las Vegas, attend the convention, drink a little, gamble a little, be bored a lot, and go home. If only it had turned out that way, I wouldn't be in this funk.

Nikki was a dancer and back-up singer in Kid Creole's stage show at The Desert Inn on The Strip. "Kid Creole and The Coconuts" the sign said. Nikki was one of the nuts.

She was so beautiful. She was one of those girls that is so pretty that most guys would never even think of asking her out. But not me. No sir. When the show was over, I got up from my table, walked backstage, and with total poise and confidence said:

"Uh...um...you were um...really good tonight....and...um...I was wondering....um...if you'd like to maybe...ahem...(cough)...go out?"

So much for poise and confidence. All the blood in my body had rushed to my head. My face must have been as red as a kickball. I thought I was going to pass out right there.

But before I tipped over, she said "Alright."

I hadn't expected that. My standard "oh-that's-okay-not-a-problem" was already locked and loaded. Her affirmative answer threw me off. "Well alright then" I said.

We spoke on the phone a bit later that night. Nikki had the most charming British accent and a warm wit that was sophisticated without being the least bit pretentious. The more we chatted, the more comfortable I became. She was a very soothing person.

We arranged to meet the following afternoon. We'd only have a few hours as she had to do another show and I had to fly home. So there was a chilling sense of futility from the beginning. That morning I ran for half an hour, did some push-ups and crunches, trimmed my sideburns, cleaned the wax out of my ears with my car keys, and removed all the lint from my navel. After a shave and a shower, I put on a decent suit and my new Italian dark blue shirt. Then I combed my hair, shined my shoes, and slipped on my gold class ring. I was psyched. I was ready. I was...

....I was going to have to find something to do for the next four hours. (It was only 11:00 a.m. and I wasn't meeting her until 3:00 o'clock!)

The wait was excruciating. While I was so excited to be going out with her, I wondered just what it was I was trying to accomplish. Suppose we did hit it off. Then what? I was leaving that night and in six weeks, Nikki was flying home to London. A rational, disciplined man would never have put himself in this spot. But I have never been accused of being rational or disciplined. I know this will sound foolish considering I'd only known this girl for a handful of minutes, but I found myself completely taken by her.

At dinner, Nikki was a complete delight. Any man would have been drawn to her. She was funny without being mean, kind without being insincere, and interesting without being a bore. And those eyes. Nikki had these fantastic blue eyes that seemed to capture all of the light in the room and throw it all back my way.

Nikki had been performing on-stage since she was six-years-old. Before this stint in Vegas she'd been the lead in the London production of Starlight Express.

"Oh, the roller skating thing?" I asked.

"That's the one" she replied.

"That's fantastic!" I said.

"Why thank you, thank you very much" Nikki joked in her very good Elvis voice.

I was having such a wonderful time. We talked about art and movies and family. Nikki considered abstract expressionism lazy, as did I. She'd loved the story of the Titanic since she was a kid, as had I. She had a warm, supportive, loving family. And I...well...two out of three ain't bad.

And I'm telling you, that accent was simply intoxicating. I loved everything she said. Every word was a joy.

But then she uttered the four words I hate the most. (More than "I'm really a man" or "I'm calling the police.")

She told me, "I have a boyfriend."

Those words seemed to come out of nowhere and hang awkwardly in the air until I pulled them in with my old, trusty, "oh-that's-okay-not-a-problem" routine. I smiled and acted as if everything was okay, but I was really sad about her admission.

She said that she was having a fantastic time and that she really enjoyed my company, but that before I got the wrong idea, she needed to tell me that she had a quite wonderful significant other. She wasn't mean about it. Just factual. I admired her fidelity and her honesty.

At least for awhile I acted like I was fine with the whole boyfriend thing, but then I told her the truth. I told her that I really thought she was an extraordinary woman and that I was really drawn to her and that her boyfriend was really very lucky. She didn't say anything mean or stupid when I said all those things. She may have been a bit embarrassed, but she didn't say anything mean or stupid. Even in a delicate moment like this, she was fantastic.

Although I was moderately crestfallen, the conversation on the way back to her hotel was surprisingly very pleasant. We joked around a lot. At one point I took off my Yankees cap and, in playful frustration, swatted her on the shoulder with it.

"I can't believe you have a boyfriend!"

In the parking lot I hugged her goodbye and asked if I might come out again for a visit. She said sure. Even though she was already spoken for, I knew I was going to miss her terribly and that if didn't see her at least once again before she left for England, I'd regret it.

I had two hours to kill in the airport. The place was practically empty and silent, except for the whirring and buzzing and ringing of the infernal slot machines. I bought a pad of paper and tried writing about what had just taken place, but everything kept coming out sounding too sad or too melodramatic or both.

Here are a few examples:

"Gate B2 of the McCarran Airport in Las Vegas is the loneliest place in the world right now."

"It feels like there's a bucket of ice water in my stomach."

"In a dark night filled with silent icicle people, she was a warm campfire."

That last one is making me laugh right now. Sometimes I'm really stupid.

The titles I came up with for my sad story were pretty good, too. "Grieving Las Vegas" and "Starlight Depressed."

All joking aside, I really was sad. In fact, after I'd thought about the whole thing for awhile, I was downright miserable. She was such a fantastic girl and, although the rendezvous was brief, I had felt something real toward her. (Look, I can't explain it either!)

After a long, sleepless flight filled with turbulence, stinking feet, a drunken snoring Russian, and loud angry Arabs, I landed in New York in the middle of a blizzard. "Well this is just perfect" I thought. Less than twelve hours earlier, I was in a warm, sunny, desert climate with a wonderful woman who, under different circumstances, could have one day ended up my wife. Who knows? Stranger things have happened. Nikki Sosnicky. That's got a nice ring to it. (Of course, I would never mention that passing thought to her; she'd probably freak out.)

(Note to my female readers: Even though we play it cool, every guy on his first date with a girl pictures what she would be like as his wife. I know this because we guys talk about this stuff at our big, secret, all-male council fires.)

I went right from the airport to work. "How was it?" everyone asked. I told them about the boring convention and about the lovely Coconut Girl.

"She was in Starlight Express" I said proudly.

"That roller skating thing?" about five different people replied.

"That's the one" I said each time. (I started to wonder if anyone had actually ever seen Starlight Express or if they'd all simply heard on TV or read in a newspaper that it was a show done on roller skates.)

I was depressed for the rest of the afternoon. When Vincent Van Gogh got really upset about a special girl, he cut off his ear. Well, I didn't do that, but I did go out and get a haircut. True, there was no blood involved, but it was a really, really short haircut.

When I got home, I turned on the TV to cheer me up. Friends was on, but wouldn't you know it, it was an episode in which Ross is miserable in New York because his British girlfriend Emily is in London. Then I flipped the channel and saw a tourism commercial for Las Vegas. "Come to Las Vegas" a woman's voice taunted me. Perhaps public television would give me some refuge from my grief. But even they let me down with their documentary on Monet. (The French impressionist was the favorite of the both of us.)

"It's a cruel world" I thought as I lay down in my own sadness. It's cruel that I could fall for someone so quickly. It's cruel that we couldn't be together. It's cruel that I don't have cable television with it's wide variety of channels, one of which would certainly have made me feel better.

But the truth is, it's a really good world. I'm glad I got the opportunity to spend even a little bit of time with Nikki. She was like one of those shiny pennies one finds by accident on the road of life. Her memory will always be in my pocket. Maybe our paths will cross again. Maybe they won't. But knowing that she and those like her are on this planet with me is a comforting thought. Her boyfriend really is lucky and maybe someday, I will be too.

 

As Always, Thanks For Reading,

Broadway Jim Sosnicky