The Met was quiet on a Tuesday afternoon.
Henry walked through the special exhibition. "Landscapes Clear and Radiant: The Art of Wang Hui." High ceilings. Soft lighting designed to protect the ancient scrolls. The sound of his footsteps echoed softly against the floors. A few other visitors moved through the galleries—couples speaking in hushed tones, a tour group clustering around a guide, an elderly man sitting on a bench staring at a landscape scroll.
He stopped in front of a hanging scroll. Mountains rising through mist. Trees clinging to impossible cliffs. The brushwork was delicate, precise. Wang Hui had that quality—making nature feel both vast and intimate at once.
'Seventeenth century,' Henry thought, reading the placard. 'And still looks alive.'
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He stepped away from the painting, checked the screen. Andrew Garfield.
Henry answered. "Hey."
"Henry, mate, you busy?" Andrew's voice came through, slightly rushed.
"At the Met. Why?"
"Perfect, you're still in New York. Listen, do you want to go to SNL?"
Henry paused. "SNL? Like, Saturday Night Live?"
"Yeah. This Saturday. I've got tickets."
"How'd you get tickets?"
"A friend gave them to me. He was supposed to go but something came up with his schedule. Conflicting shoot or something. Anyway, he can't make it and asked if I wanted them."
Henry moved toward a quieter corner of the gallery. "That's generous of him."
"Yeah, well, there's a bit of a complication."
"What complication?"
Andrew hesitated. "The tickets aren't transferable. They're in his name. So we'd need to... you know. Get around that."
"Get around it how?"
"Fake IDs. Just for the night. Nothing crazy."
Henry blinked. "You want to forge IDs to get into SNL?"
"I know a guy who can do it quick. It's not a big deal. People do it all the time."
Henry didn't respond immediately. He looked back at the Wang Hui scroll. Mountains emerging from mist. Trees and rocks rendered with careful precision. Calm. Timeless.
'This is stupid,' he thought.
But also.
'This could be interesting.'
"Henry? You there?"
"Yeah, I'm here." Henry exhaled. "When would we need these IDs?"
"Tomorrow. We'd meet the guy tomorrow, get them done, then we're set for Saturday."
Henry rubbed his face. This was objectively a bad idea. Minor crime. Could get caught. Could get banned from SNL. Could end up as a ridiculous story he'd have to explain later.
But also—he was curious. He wanted to see SNL live. Wanted to see how it worked behind the scenes, the energy of it. And honestly, the slight risk made it more appealing.
'When did I become the kind of person who does this?' he thought. Then immediately answered himself. 'Nah I've always been like I just stopped myself'
"Alright," Henry said. "I'm in."
"Yeah?" Andrew sounded pleased. "Brilliant. I'll text you the address. Meet me there tomorrow around two?"
"Two works."
"Cheers, mate. This is going to be great."
"Or a disaster."
Andrew laughed. "Same thing."
They hung up.
Henry stood there for a moment, phone still in his hand. Then he turned back to the scroll. Mountains and mist. Serene and unchanging.
"Don't judge me," Henry muttered.
He moved on to the next gallery.
The next day, Henry met Andrew in Brooklyn.
The address Andrew had texted led to a residential street in Williamsburg. Brick buildings, graffiti on some walls, a bodega on the corner. Not sketchy exactly. Just... lived-in.
Andrew was waiting outside a building, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. He grinned when he saw Henry. "You actually came."
"You doubted me?"
"Little bit, yeah."
They went inside. The building was old—narrow staircase, peeling paint, the smell of someone cooking something with too much garlic. They climbed to the third floor. Andrew knocked on a door marked 3C.
A voice from inside. "Yeah?"
"It's Andrew."
The door opened. A guy in his late twenties stood there. Thin. Beanie. Flannel shirt. He looked like every other art student in Brooklyn.
"You brought someone," the guy said, looking at Henry.
"This is Henry. He needs one too."
The guy studied Henry for a moment, then stepped aside. "Come in."
The apartment was small. One room, really. A futon against one wall, a desk covered in equipment—laptop, printer, laminator, stacks of blank plastic cards. Posters on the walls. Radiohead. The Strokes. A Basquiat print.
"Sit," the guy said, gesturing vaguely.
Henry and Andrew sat on the futon. The guy pulled up a chair at his desk.
"Names?" the guy asked.
Andrew pulled out his phone, showed him something. "These are the names on the tickets. We need IDs that match."
The guy squinted at the screen, nodded. "Easy. Photos?"
"We need to take them now," Andrew said.
The guy sighed. "Fine. Stand against that wall. The white one."
Henry stood. The guy held up a camera—not a phone, an actual camera—and took his photo. Flash. Then Andrew's. Flash.
"How long does this take?" Henry asked.
"Hour. Maybe less." The guy was already at his computer, pulling up editing software. "You can wait or come back."
"We'll wait," Andrew said.
The guy shrugged. Started working.
Henry and Andrew sat back down on the futon. It was uncomfortable. Springs poked through the thin cushion.
"You do this often?" Henry asked quietly.
"What, fake IDs?"
"Yeah."
Andrew shook his head. "First time, actually. But my friend vouched for this guy. Said he's good."
"Comforting."
Andrew smiled. "We're not robbing a bank. It's just SNL."
"Still illegal."
"So is jaywalking."
"Not the same."
"Close enough."
Henry leaned back. The guy was clicking away at his computer, occasionally glancing at a second monitor. Professional. Efficient. Clearly done this before.
'This is insane,' Henry thought. But also. 'This is exactly the kind of stupid thing I'd never have done before.'
Before. Meaning his first life. That life had been careful. Calculated. Every decision weighed for maximum safety and minimum risk. And where had that gotten him?
Dead. And back here. With a second chance.
Maybe stupid decisions were underrated.
"You're smiling," Andrew said.
"Am I?"
"Yeah. What's funny?"
Henry shook his head. "Nothing. Just thinking."
"About?"
"About how this is a terrible idea and I'm doing it anyway."
Andrew laughed. "That's the spirit."
They waited. The guy worked. Typed. Printed something. Laminated it. Cut it. Did it again.
After about forty-five minutes, he turned around. "Done."
He handed them each an ID. Henry looked at his. New York driver's license. The name matched the ticket. The photo was his. The lamination was smooth. It looked... real.
"This is good," Andrew said, examining his own.
"It should be. I charge enough." The guy held out his hand. "Two hundred. Each."
Andrew pulled out cash, counted it. Henry did the same. Four hundred dollars for fake IDs to watch a comedy show.
'Worth it,' Henry decided.
They left the apartment. Walked back down the narrow staircase. Outside, the afternoon light was fading. Cold. Gray. January in New York.
"Saturday," Andrew said. "Meet at Rockefeller Plaza. Six-thirty?"
"Six-thirty," Henry confirmed.
Andrew grinned. "This is going to be brilliant."
"Or a disaster."
"Same thing," Andrew said again.
Henry watched him walk away, then looked down at the fake ID in his hand. The photo stared back. Same face. Different name.
'What am I doing?' he thought.
But he already knew the answer.
Living. Actually living.
He pocketed the ID and headed back toward the subway.
Saturday arrived cold and clear.
Henry met Andrew at Rockefeller Plaza at six-thirty. Andrew was already there, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, breath visible in the freezing air.
"Ready?" Andrew asked.
"As I'll ever be."
They walked toward 30 Rock. Turned the corner.
And stopped.
The line stretched down the block. Then around the corner. Then kept going.
"Christ," Andrew said.
Henry stared. Easily two hundred people. Maybe more. Some had camping chairs. Sleeping bags. Thermoses. One group had a full cooler.
"How long have they been here?" Henry asked.
A girl near the front of the line overheard. "Since Thursday," she called back. "Some people got here Wednesday."
Andrew looked at Henry. "Wednesday? The show's on Saturday."
"I know," Henry said.
"That's three days."
"I can count."
They walked along the line, looking for where it ended. It kept going. Block after block.
"This is mental," Andrew muttered. "People camp out for three days to watch a comedy show?"
"Apparently."
"In January. In New York. Where it's bloody freezing."
Henry glanced at the people in line. They looked happy. Excited. Trading stories. Sharing food. Like it was an adventure.
"It's a culture thing," Henry said. "American television is... different."
"Different how?"
"It matters more. Or people act like it does."
Andrew shook his head. "Back home, you'd just buy a ticket and show up."
"This isn't back home."
They reached the end of the line finally. A couple in matching SNL hoodies stood there, looking equally committed.
"Mental," Andrew said again. But he was smiling.
Henry checked his watch. Six forty-five. They had time.
"Come on," Henry said. "Let's find the entrance."
They walked back toward the building. Found the staff entrance. A security guard stood there checking IDs and tickets.
'Here we go,' Henry thought.
They joined the shorter line of people with actual tickets. The line moved quickly. When they reached the guard, Henry handed over his fake ID and ticket. Tried to look casual. Bored, even.
The guard glanced at the ID. Glanced at Henry. Looked back at the ID.
Henry's heart was pounding but his face stayed neutral.
The guard handed it back. "Go ahead."
Just like that.
Andrew went next. Same process. Same result.
They walked through.
"That was easy," Andrew whispered once they were past.
"Too easy."
"Don't complain."
They followed the crowd through the corridors. The energy was different inside—electric, anticipatory. People talking in excited whispers. Staff members rushing past with clipboards and headsets.
An usher directed them to their seats. Studio 8H. The actual studio where SNL filmed. Henry had seen it on television a thousand times. Now he was standing in it.
The space was smaller than he expected. More intimate. The stage was right there. The cameras. The lighting rigs. The Weekend Update desk. All of it real and immediate.
They found their seats. Middle section. Good view.
"This is brilliant," Andrew said, looking around.
Henry had to agree.
The audience filled in around them. The energy built. A warm-up comedian came out, got the crowd going. People cheered. Laughed. The whole room buzzed with anticipation.
Then the lights dimmed.
A voice over the speakers. "Live from New York, it's Saturday night!"
The crowd erupted.
The show started.
Cold open. Rachel Maddow Show parody. Fred Armisen as Rod Blagojevich, the disgraced Illinois governor. Abby Elliott as Rachel Maddow. Political satire about the scandal. Henry didn't know all the details but the audience was eating it up.
Then the signature moment. Someone broke character. "Live from New York, it's Saturday night!"
The crowd erupted.
Neil Patrick Harris came out for his monologue. Doogie Howser jokes. Self-deprecating humor about being passed over to host twenty years ago for Fred Savage. The audience loved him. He was charming. Confident. Made hosting look easy.
The sketches rolled. A Today Show parody with Kristen Wiig. Then "Save Broadway"—a big ensemble piece with the cast dressed as various Broadway characters worried about the economy. Taylor Swift made a cameo. The audience went wild.
Henry sat up straighter.
'Taylor,' he thought.
He hadn't seen her in person since... when? Last summer? They'd texted a few times. Occasional calls. But life had gotten busy. She'd been on tour. He'd been working on the film. Time had just... passed.
She looked good up there. Confident. Natural. Like she belonged on that stage.
'I should try to talk to her after,' Henry thought. 'If I can get backstage.'
Penelope. Kristen Wiig's character who one-upped everyone. Henry had seen clips of this before. Liza Minnelli showed up as a surprise cameo. The crowd lost it.
Then a digital short. "Doogie Howser Theme." Neil Patrick Harris singing and dancing. It was absurd. Perfectly timed. The kind of thing that only worked on SNL.
Weekend Update. Seth Meyers behind the desk. Sharp jokes about politics and pop culture. Charles Barkley did a bit about college football. Will Forte came on with something about the BCS. The audience ate it up.
More sketches. "Two First Names"—a game show parody. "Fran and Freba"—Kristen Wiig and Casey Wilson as weird party guests. Then "Frost/Other People"—a parody of Frost/Nixon but with Neil Patrick Harris interviewing 70s icons. Paul Lynde. David Bowie. Bing Crosby as a coked-up walrus. It was bizarre and hilarious.
The final sketch before goodnights. "Whopper Virgins"—a parody of Burger King's ad campaign. Bobby Moynihan was killing it with his goofy, laughing character.
Then Taylor Swift performed. "Love Story." The crowd sang along. She did another song. The energy never dipped.
Henry watched her perform. She'd gotten better. More polished. The last time he'd seen her perform was smaller venues, less production. This was different. Bigger. But still her.
'Definitely need to say hi,' he thought.
Before Henry realized it, the show was ending. The cast gathered on stage for goodnights. Neil Patrick Harris thanked everyone. The band played them out.
Ninety minutes. Gone like nothing.
The lights came up. The audience started filing out, still buzzing with energy.
Henry and Andrew stood. But Henry didn't join the flow toward the exits.
"Hold on," Henry said.
"What?"
"I know Taylor. I'm going to try to get backstage."
Andrew blinked. "You know Taylor Swift?"
"Yeah. We're friends. Haven't seen her in a while though."
"Right. Of course you do." Andrew shook his head. "Alright. Lead the way."
Henry spotted a staff member with a headset. He walked over. "Excuse me, is there any way to get backstage? I'm a friend of Taylor's."
The staff member looked skeptical. "Everyone's a friend of Taylor's."
"Fair. Can you just tell her Henry Stein is here? She'll know."
The staff member sighed but pulled out a phone. Typed something. A minute passed. Then another.
The phone buzzed. The staff member read it, then looked at Henry with new eyes. "Alright. Follow me."
Henry and Andrew exchanged glances. They followed the staff member through a side door, down a corridor. The backstage area was chaos—cast members still in costume, crew members breaking down sets, people rushing everywhere.
The staff member stopped at a door. Knocked. "Taylor? Someone here for you."
The door opened. Taylor stood there, still in her performance outfit, makeup still stage-perfect. Her eyes widened when she saw Henry.
"Henry? Oh my god!" She pulled him into a hug. "What are you doing here?"
"Came to see the show. Didn't know you were performing until we got here."
"We?" She looked past him at Andrew.
"This is Andrew. Andrew Garfield. He's an actor too."
"Nice to meet you," Taylor said, shaking Andrew's hand. Then back to Henry. "I can't believe you're here. It's been so long. How are you? What have you been up to?"
"Working. Finished filming a movie actually. What about you? Tour's going well?"
"Yeah, it's been insane. Non-stop. But good insane." She smiled. "You look good. Different. More... I don't know?"
Henry laughed. "Thanks?"
"No, I mean it. You seem more settled."
Someone called Taylor's name from down the hall. She glanced back. "I have to go. There's this whole after-party thing. Are you guys free? You should come."
Henry looked at Andrew, who nodded.
"Yeah, we're free."
"Perfect." Taylor grabbed a piece of paper, scribbled an address. "It's at this place in Midtown. Should start around eleven-thirty. Just tell them you're with me."
She handed Henry the paper, hugged him again. "Don't disappear for another six months, okay?"
"I'll try."
"You better." She smiled, waved at Andrew, then disappeared back into her dressing room.
Henry and Andrew stood there for a moment.
"So," Andrew said. "We're going to an SNL after-party now?"
"Apparently."
"With Taylor Swift."
"Yeah."
"Using fake IDs that we definitely shouldn't use again."
Henry looked at the address. Looked at Andrew. "We'll figure it out."
Andrew laughed. "This night just keeps getting better."
They headed back through the corridor, past the chaos, back toward the exit.
"Drink first?" Andrew suggested. "Before the party?"
"Drink first," Henry agreed.
They walked out into the New York night. Cold. Clear. The city alive around them.
"Drink?" Andrew suggested.
"Drink," Henry agreed.
They headed toward the nearest bar, still laughing about the show, about the line, about the whole ridiculous adventure of it.
'This,' Henry thought, 'is what living feels like.'
And for once, he wasn't overthinking it.