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So, it's July, right? And it's July in New York and that means it's hot, it's really hot, it's so hot you don't really know if you can breathe. Really hot. Feet stick to the asphault hot. What I'm saying is, it's kind of warm. And so, you know, you can't stay in nights in times like that. Especially with a broken air conditioner, and I've got a broken air conditioner. Fucking rock star and I can't get anyone to fix my air conditioner, how's that for you?
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why God made roofs. Well, maybe it was God. Someone made roofs and they made them for nights like this, so you've got somewhere nice to sit where no one needs to talk to you. Especially if it's been a long day, and you feel like your arms are going to fall off and your hands are all blistered from the drumsticks and, hey, it's hot, and you're just daring the first son of a bitch to say something about rooms and fire because it's too obvious a joke.
And the first son of a bitch was the son of a Hammond, but the Valensi one was only a few minutes later. And the first one left hours ago, but the second one still tagged along after me, fucking followed me home, and here he still is.
Anyway. As I was saying, it's hot, and it's only a little bit cooler up here, anyway. But, hey, I'm not complaining. And Nick may be here, too, and he may be babbling and drunk and, I don't know, he's a bit too active and laughing maybe for it to be just drunk but I'm not complaining about that, either. Big fucking deal, right? I mean, it's Nick, and it's not like I mind Nick's company, and it's not like you can really get all up in arms about tipsiness or drunkenness or whatever, not in this band where your comparison is Julian Casablancas, who may be made almost entirely of booze. But, anyway. It's not like I'm sober, either. And it's not like he's bad company, either. If you can say one thing about Nick, even Nick while Nick is drunk, it's that he's usually pretty amusing, usually at least kind of fun.
But I'm not sober and he's not sober and I'm hot and tired and Nick's lucky he's still just amusing me because that's a long way down, that, and he could go over the edge of the building right quick like that. Fuck, I wouldn't even need to do anything. Drunk, right? Just let him slip and he'll go over. But I like Nick, anyway. Well, no shit, bandmates, whatever. But he can be fun, at least. He's amusing, even at his worst he's amusing and that's gotta fucking be worth something, right? He's a funny little fuck and he's fun to be around. Or something.
Well, usually he's funny, sometimes he's just weird. I'm funnier, of course. Funniest fucking son of a bitch you'll ever know, but he's fun, I suppose. Fun drunk, I guess, and I'm sitting here and I'm looking over the edge, down at the city, and he's behind me and I'm trying to cool down and calm down, and I just don't fucking know. He's laughing, though, and I turn around for a second. Just making sure he's not at the edge, but I turn back before he realises I'm looking. I think I do, I guess. I don't know, he wasn't looking at me, was looking over the edge for a second, too.
But I don't know.
And then he's behind me somewhere and he's laughing kind of, giggling kind of, fuck, I don't know. He's there, but I can't really tell what he's up to really.
And then he's behind me a bit more and he's got his face buried in my hair for a second and he's saying something that's apparently really fucking funny to him but I can't tell what it is and I tense up right then and there and I don't know what's going on but he reaches his arms down for a second.
And then, I don't know, Nick's in my lap and he's laughing and he's got his legs on either side of me and he's kissing me and, man, I don't know. Maybe it's a stupid fucking cliche or whatever, but the fourth may have been a week ago but I think I see fireworks or something. Not that I'm telling him any shit like that. Because as it is he's sitting there and he's laughing and it's all 'Shit, Fab. You are such a fag.'
He kisses me and it makes me a fag. Right. I've never even pretended to understand that shit. Nick's shit. Nick. Whatever. Maybe I should point that out to him. In a second. Maybe in a second. In a few seconds. Because he's trying to slip off my lap and fuck no. We can't let that happen, can we? You'd be an idiot if you let that happen. So I grab him again or try to at least, but he slips his way out and all I can hear is him laughing behind me somewhere and fuck. Can't let that happen, can we?
So I stumble my way up and I turn around, but he's not there anymore, he's started to run down the stairs or something. And I could chase him, but maybe I'll just sit here and wait for him to come back, he never could be alone. Not very well, at least.
Maybe he'll kiss me again, maybe he won't, maybe I'll kiss him, maybe whatever, right? But you never need to chase Nick, not really.
So I'm just going to sit here or lie here or what the fuck ever. And I'm going to wait to hear his footsteps coming back up the stairs. And that'll be it, right? We'll see who's what then, when he comes back.
And I flop onto my back and I look up at the sky and I just wait for him to realise I'm not there and for the steps to turn around and get louder and for him to come back. He always does. Never need to chase him, he'll chase you. All about waiting him out.
And I'm lying there, and I'm waiting, and I'm waiting for the steps to get louder, and I'm just waiting and waiting for him and waiting for him to come back, and the next thing you know the sun's come up and it's morning and he's still not there.
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