Bushwick, New York
There’s this one hotel downtown where all the off-Broadway gigolos go to meet up with lonely rich cougars. Every night, the same mating ritual: They sing, they tango, they bid the other patrons of the hotel adieu for like 20 minutes on the stairs like a bunch of horny Von Trapps. This is where Brody does his hooking. This is where his pager leads him.
Santana takes Rachel to the doctor to get a proper pregnancy test, and Rachel is ecstatic when she rushes out into Santana’s arms and tells her it was just a Sweeps weeks false-positive. She’s like, “Well, anyway, I’m off to school and also to have more unprotected sex with a prostitute!” Santana admonishes her to sort out her priorities, starting with dumping Brody, and then maybe evaluating how it is that she went from being a driven, talented thespian to being the co-dependent girlfriend of a hooker.
When Rachel refuses to take Santana’s advice, Santana decides to snoop through more of Brody’s stuff, lifting his pager out of his pants pocket and marching herself right up into NYADA to smack him down with some Paula Abdul jams. He’s like, “How did you even get in here?” And she’s like, “Have you seen me?” She explains to Brody how family works. The unconditional love. The support. The way that sometimes you have to cut off a hooker’s nuts and feed them to a squirrell if they keep coming around with a pager. I think they make a deal that if she performs “Cold Hearted” perfectly, he has to move out? Lopez Logic, I think she calls it? I can’t be sure about any of that because there’s a giddy lustful fog filling my brain, extending five minutes before and five minutes after Santana’s performance. Probably this is what dropping ecstasy feels like.