FOLKS,
I have been advised to finish this bloody thing and post it free on amazon. If I am lucky to get enough hits and buzzes, I can then start charging for it. All emails of encouragement are deeply appreciated!!!
Ruth
x
Friday, September 11, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Chapter Twelve: An At-Home
Amanda, Joan and I had become the three musketeers, each rooting for the other in the tumultuous world of Manhattan dating. Others had drifted in and out of our girls’ nights, but had either found men with which to watch the Fox TV line-up, or had been driven from our pack by derision or disgust.
We were all very different, the three of us: Amanda, petite, with her long tresses, which she tossed artfully over her shoulder to maximum effect, and superb figure (and self-esteem to match); Joan, whose daily efforts at they gym had rendered her sinewy and lithe, had no self-confidence whatsoever, and lived vicariously through Amanda; and me, average height, average build, above-average IQ and highly-tuned bullshit detector.
Amanda went from one disastrous two-week relationship to the next, not really pausing to catch her breath or to weigh her emotions between beaus. Joan’s standards were ridiculously high and she was attracted to so few men, I was beginning to wonder if she was simply being prurient, which would have explained her interest in Amanda’s sex life. And then there was me. Dating as vigorously as Amanda but with as little enthusiasm as Joan.
Our conversations didn’t focus entirely on our current dating lives, or lack thereof: there were office politics and career traumas to discuss, fashion styles to debate, and reputations of ex-lovers to smear. Pity the man who has to face the wrath of all three of us.
On my behalf, Joan and Amanda seethed at the very mention of Jimmy. Although they had never met him, they knew the type, and were baffled, as was I, as to how I could have jumped into the omelet pan with such an obviously bad egg.
I can’t say I blamed them. If Joan had given anyone a chance or if Amanda had ever stopped long enough for her and her latest beau to fall in love, and had been treated as shamefully as I had, I would have been livid too. But it was meI, not them. And it made it terribly hard, because I wanted to confide in my girlfriends and share with them the dark secret of the Mistaken Identity episode that had taken place the day before.
Instead, I turned the topic of what to get Robert and Vincent. They were a fabulous couple in the neighborhood who had just redone their condo and were holding what was described on their elegantly embossed invitation as “an open house.” This fit conveniently into Joan’s ongoing Jane Austen obsession. As one was an architect, and one an environmental designer, and as none of us had set foot in their home before, the housewarming gift was rather a dilemma.
“Candles,” proclaimed Amanda. “Classy, elegant, always useful. And not smelling of firs or anything ghastly,” she added sternly.
“Who made you Martha Stewart’s candle expert?” Joan spluttered indignantly. I was later to find out that Joan frequently burnt woodsy smelling candles to disguise her roommate’s bong water smell. She had bought them by the gross at Pier One the week after Christmas and Amanda had never let her forget it.
“Candles are so passé,” I commented. “Really, I read it in the Sunday Style section.”
“Well if not candles, a plant?” Joan queried.
“Or pussywillows!” Amanda grinned. “Might be the only way to make sure they have some pussy in that apartment.”
Joan giggled but my mind was still on the hefty non-Jimmy chick. The two of them bantered about foliage for a while before I finally came out of my walk down memory lane.
“There’s a new bakery on 2nd Avenue that looks really cute,” I mentioned. “How about a nice blackout cake for two, decorated with lots of pretty flowers?”
Amanda rolled her eyes and pouted: “You always have the best suggestions. Now what are we going to squabble over?”
Robert and Vincent’s new place was spectacular. Without being pretentious, the bathroom was Tuscan, the bedroom Ralph Lauren Hamptons, the living room Victorian English and the kitchen ultra-modern.
Somehow it all worked together. They had found framed photographs and antique chatchkes from flea markets, despite the fact that I would have turned my nose up at them, sitting on Columbus Avenue on some plastic-topped trestle table. And yet in their home, these pieces worked.
“It’s a steam shower,” enthused Vincent. I figured that if you close the bathroom door and had enough hot water, any shower could be a steam shower, but what do I know? Even their bathmat was pristine, rolled into a little basket under the vanity.
I really don’t often dwell on the machinations of male gay sex, but do these two ever flail about on the 200 count cotton sheets, or muss up the immaculately ironed pillowcases? I had tried to use a dozen or so pillows on my bed, and it had given off the appearance of a remainder sale at a pillow store. But the mish-mash of fabrics, textures and colors coordinated beautifully with the plush drapes and the rich, Oriental rugs.
What is that, a gay gene? It would seem not because I reminded myself of my college roommate who was gay and the biggest slob on the planet. He had a cat that was scared to go in his room, because it was a black hole of unlaundered underwear.
I walked from “East Hampton” back to the room that was reminiscent of Sloane Square circa 1880 and drifted into a conversation. A bone-skinny man was telling a very East Village straight couple about his therapist, and this seemed too good a topic to miss.
“He’s a genius,” anorexic-man said. “I was so scared of dating anyone after Kevin and he made me promise to go out with the next man who asked me, provided he wasn’t a gay Manson -- that’s Charles, not Marilyn. Nothing too threatening. My homework, as it were, was to share nothing at all too personal with the date.”
He paused, glancing round the room in a conspiratorial fashion, but in fact, assessing his audience, which had grown, as other conversations had withered and topic-hungry brunch eaters leaned towards him.
“Well, this guy at the gym asked me out. He’s OK. About a six, I suppose, but I did what my shrink told me to, and went on the date. Well, don’t give me vodka, honey! It was going fine until he asked me where my parents lived, and out of my mouth came this: ‘My darling mother lives in Westchester and my father is burning in hell.’ Ooops! Too much information!"
He slapped his hand over his mouth and raised his eyebrows in a playful fashion. There was a three second silence that fell like a black velvet curtain over the immaculate apartment. Then I started giggling, and soon everyone else followed. He smiled at me gratefully and as people moved uncomfortably back into their little groups, and the East Village couple made their escape to what was probably Murray Hill, he moved towards me, brandishing proscuitto wrapped around pencil-thin breadsticks.
“You, I like,” he announced. “You laughed first!”
“Surely that isn’t the end of the story, is it?” I goaded.
“Well, no. I slept with him, of course! But I never told my therapist. He would have been simply livid!”
I held out my hand in greeting. “I’m Rebecca,” I smiled. He gave me the breadstick so that he could shake my hand.
“I’m Sebastian.” Of course he was Sebastian, not Seb: gay men. Full name, remember?
He continued, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Now, what’s a lovely girl like you doing in a place like this alone!”
“Oh, I’m not alone. I came with Amanda and Joan, those two over there by the champagne.”
“Interesting! A lesbian ménage à trois!”
“Oh, God, no - nothing like that! We’re friends. Did you mean ‘alone’ as in ‘without a significant other?’ I had no idea that a date was de rigueur at a housewarming.”
“But, my dear, has no one told you? This isn’t a housewarming. It’s an 'At Home.'”
Sebastian was my new best friend.
Chapter Eleven: The Lesbian Encounter
Sometimes, when on the road to recovery from an injury, you feel as though you’re taking one step forward and two steps back. I remember that from having a broken leg when I was a kid: just when I thought I’d be fine, I’d overdo it and ache for another day. So is it with matters of the heart.
I was doing fine without Jimmy. I’d been without him for almost three and a half years, but had managed not to think about him too hard, or cry over the guy for at least two months. And that’s a start. What is it the alcoholics say? One day at a time?
Only someone who has been through this amount of torture can really appreciate how tough it is to just “get over it.” Maybe we should have our own support group.
“Hello, my name is Rebecca and I’m a love-aholic.”
“Hello Rebecca.”
Anyhow.
Spring had made a brief visit to Manhattan that year. Rather, we had been plunged directly into summer, with no regard for our clothing storage situation. Despite this nagging sense that it would snow as soon as I had pushed all my cashmere to the back of the closet and reinstated my shorts, I went through the bi-annual ritual of clothing reorganization.
It was a cleansing ritual I rather enjoyed, particularly as I had been numb with pain during the previous six or seven closet-switches.
I separated the clothes that I had held onto at least five years too long in the hope that I would have an excuse to wear them and miraculously lose thirty pounds (was I ever that skinny?), and divided that pile into “take to thrift store” and “donate to homeless.” Crinkling my nose in disgust, I vacuumed out the closet, refolded everything, and stood back to enjoy the view: for a whole two days, my closet would look like Martha Stewart had hired a team of WASPy elves to organize me.
Bagging the donations, I set out to a church on 86th Street that I knew clothed the less fortunate, and then schlepped the other bag to my favorite thrift store. Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks and stared. Just stared. An arm-waving, cell-phone user tutted loudly as she ran into my back, but I barely noticed.
Somehow, miraculously, there was Jimmy, walking right in front of me. I recognized his swaggering walk, the way his hair plummeted down his square shoulders, and his North Face backpack. What was he doing here, in a city he despised? Looking for me, maybe?
I waddled as fast as I could to the thrift store entrance on the block, and almost hurled the bag at the blue-haired lady manning the shop. There was no time for the luxury of a tax-deductible receipt. I ricocheted off the door and ran the distance that separated me from Jimmy’s retreating form. About four yards from him, I slowed to a reasonable, confident strut, and prayed that I didn’t look as disheveled as I felt.
Almost parallel now to this body that I knew as well as my own, and now one step ahead, I brushed shoulders deliberately and turned to apologize and look calmly surprised.
“Jimmy! Fancy seeing you here! What a coincidence!”
The words were almost formed in my mouth when I caught the face belonging to the neck that adjoined the shoulder of my Jimmy. It belonged not to my long lost lover, but to a rather butch woman with a lapel pin that read “A Woman Needs A Man Like A Fish Needs A Bike.” She was not amused.
“Jesus!” she griped, “Ain’t the sidewalk big enough for your ass?”
Apparently not.
I apologized profusely and shuffled back to the thrift store to grovel to the blue-haired Brun Hilda in the hope of still getting a receipt for my donation.
Later at home, a pint of Ben and Jerry’s swiftly disappearing down my fast-closing throat, I wondered how I could have been so deceived. Could I no longer tell the difference between a rather butch New York chick and a lithe Californian male? And what about having gotten him out of my system? Clearly, even though I had reluctantly started the dating rituals again, Jimmy was lodged somewhere between my stomach and my heart.
A wise friend of mine had once said that getting over a man is like having a baby: all your friends gather round you and say, “You’re doing so well! Push!”
Certainly, there were going to be more contractions before this particular afterbirth was out of my system.
Chapter Ten: Preparation for Sex
When you are planning to sleep with a new man, timing is of the essence. I don’t mean “should I do it on the first date?” timing, or even working around your menstrual calendar (although it couldn’t hurt).
I also don’t mean all that “will he call me if we do it?” worry. I am talking about being prepared. There is nothing worse than being cured (mani and pedi), waxed, douched and ready to go, with clean sheets and a recently scrubbed toilet, and the opportunity just doesn’t present itself.
So, on my third date with Shaun, I was prepared. Not that we had so much as kissed, but I had a feeling the electricity was mutual, and I was sure that the accidental hand-brushing and the gentle palm on the back routine was not as innocent as it seemed.
It had been a long time, and to be honest, a decent-looking man could ask me where the Brooklyn-bound N train was, and I would tell myself optimistically that it had been a veiled attempt at a pick-up.
“Oh, the nearest stop is 5th Avenue and 23rd Street,” I trill, and he would reply, “How about the nearest Starbucks instead. Wanna join me?”
In reality, he would just mumble a thank you and trudge towards the subway.
I am always wary of bikini waxes; apart from the fact that they hurt like all get-out, I always assume that the little Asian ladies are talking about me.
“Man, you should see this one. You could knit a sweater with this!” And the like. Or my worst paranoia, that there is a web cam hidden somewhere in the back room of these nail salons, and perverts are spying on me at www.gyneewax.com.
Nonetheless, waxed, mani’d and pedi’d (cured), cellulite rubbed to within a millimeter of its relentless existence, there I was, ready to have dinner with Shaun. The doorman announced him promptly, and I made sure I was wearing my casually prepared but not eager expression when I opened the door.
“So, this is your habitat, huh?” he smiled.
“Sure, come on in. Glass of wine?”
There was no answer. His charming smile had become a grin of Congressman proportion, and his eyes were bulging out of his head. I followed his gaze to the television.
“You have cable?”
“Well, yes,” I murmured, in an embarrassed fashion. “I mean, I really only use it for old movies I want to catch. And of course PBS. You know, you can’t really get a signal in the city unless....”
My words faded away like spring rain. I wasn’t getting through to him.
“Can we order in?” he asked hopefully.
Four hours later, I was cleaning up take-out containers of mediocre Thai food, and Shaun was a third into a “Gilligan’s Island” marathon.
“I thought you didn’t watch TV,” I said between gritted teeth.
“No, I said I didn’t have a TV.”
“You said you got so much more done...”
“Well, here’s a case in point! They don’t make shows like this any more. At least, I don’t think they do. How would I know? I don’t own a TV!”
He laughed delightedly. I was happy he found himself to be charming, and cursed the $65 I had spent at the salon.
“Well,” I performed a perfect fake yawn, “I have to turn in soon.”
“Yeah, that’s OK. You don’t mind if I just stay up and watch this, do you?”
Of course I did. But I had been out of this world for so long, I wasn’t sure how to handle it. I hesitated for a moment and then snapped out of my haze.
“Actually, yes, I do mind.”
I strode to the door, which is hard to do dramatically in a tiny apartment, and flung it open.
“Good night, Shaun.”
He barely looked at me, his eyes were so trained on the screen. The commercials had ended and he was straining to see the very last frame before the door hit his perfectly formed ass.
I watched him walk down the street, and saw him take out his cell phone. He was probably calling up likely cable television owners, looking to snag some more of the Professor and Marion. I could hardly believe my eyes as I watched him weave and bob, oblivious to all, and never once “pulling over to the curb.”
Lying bastard.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Chapter Nine: Nice Hands
Three days later found me back in the coffee shop, in what I remembered to be vaguely provocative, attractive clothes, my hair gelled against any frizzing possibilities, and my cynicism dial temporarily set to mute.
Shaun’s profile was amazing: it was as though he’d read my mind as to the perfect man, from his music and film choices right down to his politics. How many men do you know who contribute to both Planned Parenthood and Emily’s List?
There were no pictures attached to the profiles, but I found that refreshing; we would surely have enough to talk about even if we weren’t fiercely attracted to each other, and that had to be more important...
While I was figuring out the most elegant way to sit in a sagging armchair, without the one spring pinging up into my privates, I noticed one of the hitherto-mentioned miserable workers serving a man whose back was turned towards me. She nodded her pierced chin in my direction, and before I could untangle my skirt, which had entwined itself claustrophobically around my pantyhose, he spun around to face me.
“Rebecca?” he said, placing a steaming latte on the table.
“You must be Shaun,” I smiled, desperately wondering if protocol stated that I rise, which, given the circumstances of my skirt and the dead springs in the chair, seemed difficult at the very least.
Shaun saved me by sitting down in a shabby-chic sofa next to me, and shaking my hand. I barely noticed it. I was transfixed by this god sitting before me: chiseled chin, slight designer stubble, and an eminently kissable neck. But I did sneak a peak at his hands. Because that’s the second clue as to whether you will ever end up in bed with a man, the first being whether he is even vaguely attractive. The attraction can grow, but if he has dirty fingernails, or worse, a manicure, it will never happen with me.
Jimmy had nice hands.
I blocked the sneak attack memory from my head, and concentrated on the hand reaching out towards me. Big (a good sign) and muscular, with prominent veins, and - yes! - neat, clean fingernails, void of buffing and polish.
We shook hands formally. Soft hands. Bet they’d feel good on my back. I shook the thought from my head. It had been way too long, but perhaps I should know the guy for more than ten seconds before jumping his lanky bones.
Nice package altogether, lanky though the bones might be. Our hands touched. A definite spark, I thought. I could feel myself blushing and cursed my redheaded aunt for passing on those particular genes.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he inquired politely.
So dating conversation hasn’t changed since I’ve been out of circulation. I replied with the formatted response, which would have come out of my mouth even if I’d been looking at my watch for two hours:
“Oh, no. I just got here.”
“So. You live around here?”
In any other part of the world this would seem like a normal question. But in Manhattan, that could be perceived as a stalker inquiry. Luckily, each block contains so many hundreds of tiny apartments crammed together that giving out an intersection is not particularly informative.
I gave the low numbered avenue and high-numbered street. He was clearly disappointed I had not been able to provide him with a hip cross-section from the West side, but then so was I. I hated the Upper East Side, but it had become more affordable as its West side counterpart had become trendier.
East Siders claim there is no difference, but there is. New Yorkers everywhere are self-absorbed, arrogant pricks. The West side just has a more forgiving, liberal feel. The children on the East side look as though they just stepped out of some dreadful British period film, clad in velvet and lace. The West Side Yuppies dress their offspring in real kid clothes: baggy sweaters, jeans... Maybe it’s because the north-south subways on the West side run from New York University up to Columbia, hence the liberal academics. The East side subway runs directly to Wall Street.
Shaun and I discussed the peculiarities of this geographical anomaly, as well as the way the atmosphere and one’s safety can change in a matter of one block.
“Ah,” he sighed wistfully. “It was great in the ‘70’s.”
I looked quizzical. Most people recall that decade as the one in which New York suffered blackouts, bankruptcy and graffiti on the subways, a time when it wasn’t safe to walk the streets even outside fancy doorman buildings.
“I miss the crack and the hookers,” he continued. “It’s just so safe now. No one knows how to walk fast any more. They’re weaving around on their cell phones, bumping into each other like a lost generation.”
I decided that I should fall in love with Shaun.
“I don’t have a cell phone, either.”
“Well,” he mumbled sheepishly, “I do, but I never, ever use it without pulling over to the side of the curb.”
“You have a car?”
“No, when I walk on the street. You can’t be swerving all over the place. Let’s be honest: most people can’t talk on a phone and walk at the same time.“
“Right.” There was a pause. “Don’t you think you might be a tad defensive about this?”
Shaun laughed, and his eyes crinkled. I liked that his eyes crinkled.
“Yeah, I’m a passionate kinda guy. When I get riled up about something.... well, this is what happens.”
He shrugged adorably, and stirred his latte. I wondered if it was made with non-fat milk, or if I was dealing with a real man.
“What other topics set you off?” I wondered aloud. “I just want to be prepared!”
“Television!” he gasped. “I got rid of mine five years ago and I don’t miss it at all. I use my time better. I read more. I go see movies. It’s great!”
“So... the big game?”
“Sports bars!”
“The Oscars?”
“Ever since they canned the Debbie Allen dance routine, what’s the point of watching it? To see Jennifer Lopez’s breasts? Nice as they are, I can see those on the front page of the Post the next day.”
Wow. I really liked this guy!
Shaun’s profile was amazing: it was as though he’d read my mind as to the perfect man, from his music and film choices right down to his politics. How many men do you know who contribute to both Planned Parenthood and Emily’s List?
There were no pictures attached to the profiles, but I found that refreshing; we would surely have enough to talk about even if we weren’t fiercely attracted to each other, and that had to be more important...
While I was figuring out the most elegant way to sit in a sagging armchair, without the one spring pinging up into my privates, I noticed one of the hitherto-mentioned miserable workers serving a man whose back was turned towards me. She nodded her pierced chin in my direction, and before I could untangle my skirt, which had entwined itself claustrophobically around my pantyhose, he spun around to face me.
“Rebecca?” he said, placing a steaming latte on the table.
“You must be Shaun,” I smiled, desperately wondering if protocol stated that I rise, which, given the circumstances of my skirt and the dead springs in the chair, seemed difficult at the very least.
Shaun saved me by sitting down in a shabby-chic sofa next to me, and shaking my hand. I barely noticed it. I was transfixed by this god sitting before me: chiseled chin, slight designer stubble, and an eminently kissable neck. But I did sneak a peak at his hands. Because that’s the second clue as to whether you will ever end up in bed with a man, the first being whether he is even vaguely attractive. The attraction can grow, but if he has dirty fingernails, or worse, a manicure, it will never happen with me.
Jimmy had nice hands.
I blocked the sneak attack memory from my head, and concentrated on the hand reaching out towards me. Big (a good sign) and muscular, with prominent veins, and - yes! - neat, clean fingernails, void of buffing and polish.
We shook hands formally. Soft hands. Bet they’d feel good on my back. I shook the thought from my head. It had been way too long, but perhaps I should know the guy for more than ten seconds before jumping his lanky bones.
Nice package altogether, lanky though the bones might be. Our hands touched. A definite spark, I thought. I could feel myself blushing and cursed my redheaded aunt for passing on those particular genes.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he inquired politely.
So dating conversation hasn’t changed since I’ve been out of circulation. I replied with the formatted response, which would have come out of my mouth even if I’d been looking at my watch for two hours:
“Oh, no. I just got here.”
“So. You live around here?”
In any other part of the world this would seem like a normal question. But in Manhattan, that could be perceived as a stalker inquiry. Luckily, each block contains so many hundreds of tiny apartments crammed together that giving out an intersection is not particularly informative.
I gave the low numbered avenue and high-numbered street. He was clearly disappointed I had not been able to provide him with a hip cross-section from the West side, but then so was I. I hated the Upper East Side, but it had become more affordable as its West side counterpart had become trendier.
East Siders claim there is no difference, but there is. New Yorkers everywhere are self-absorbed, arrogant pricks. The West side just has a more forgiving, liberal feel. The children on the East side look as though they just stepped out of some dreadful British period film, clad in velvet and lace. The West Side Yuppies dress their offspring in real kid clothes: baggy sweaters, jeans... Maybe it’s because the north-south subways on the West side run from New York University up to Columbia, hence the liberal academics. The East side subway runs directly to Wall Street.
Shaun and I discussed the peculiarities of this geographical anomaly, as well as the way the atmosphere and one’s safety can change in a matter of one block.
“Ah,” he sighed wistfully. “It was great in the ‘70’s.”
I looked quizzical. Most people recall that decade as the one in which New York suffered blackouts, bankruptcy and graffiti on the subways, a time when it wasn’t safe to walk the streets even outside fancy doorman buildings.
“I miss the crack and the hookers,” he continued. “It’s just so safe now. No one knows how to walk fast any more. They’re weaving around on their cell phones, bumping into each other like a lost generation.”
I decided that I should fall in love with Shaun.
“I don’t have a cell phone, either.”
“Well,” he mumbled sheepishly, “I do, but I never, ever use it without pulling over to the side of the curb.”
“You have a car?”
“No, when I walk on the street. You can’t be swerving all over the place. Let’s be honest: most people can’t talk on a phone and walk at the same time.“
“Right.” There was a pause. “Don’t you think you might be a tad defensive about this?”
Shaun laughed, and his eyes crinkled. I liked that his eyes crinkled.
“Yeah, I’m a passionate kinda guy. When I get riled up about something.... well, this is what happens.”
He shrugged adorably, and stirred his latte. I wondered if it was made with non-fat milk, or if I was dealing with a real man.
“What other topics set you off?” I wondered aloud. “I just want to be prepared!”
“Television!” he gasped. “I got rid of mine five years ago and I don’t miss it at all. I use my time better. I read more. I go see movies. It’s great!”
“So... the big game?”
“Sports bars!”
“The Oscars?”
“Ever since they canned the Debbie Allen dance routine, what’s the point of watching it? To see Jennifer Lopez’s breasts? Nice as they are, I can see those on the front page of the Post the next day.”
Wow. I really liked this guy!
Chapter Eight: Life Existed Before Jimmy
Maybe it’s time I gave you a little background. You’ve had plenty of insight into my disastrous love life. Fast or famine, that’s me...
But before Jimmy, I was quite fun. I grew up in a suburb of Baltimore called Towson, which was made less dreary by the fact that there is a university there (and therefore all the hoopla that comes with college students) and that John Waters shot some of “Serial Mom” at my high school.
I was the middle child of three, with my siblings and I getting along just as well as siblings can and do, with no extraordinary tales of woe, deception or angst. My dad worked for a local brewery, and my mom stayed at home through most of my childhood, returning to part-time nursing when my younger sister was in school full-time. An average, all-American family.
My prom date has since gone on to law school, having decided that medicine was not for him. Over-educated, certainly, and probably still a really bad dancer.
I went off to NYU for a few semesters and transferred to UCLA to study film. I really thought I could learn all I would need to know about movie-making in college, but the truth is that while my parents were busting themselves to pay for tuition, rent and a car, I should have just started as a production assistant’s gofer and worked my way up.
After a four-year degree (cum laude, I might add) and a very impressive and expensive education, that’s where I started. My first day on the job, I broke the coffee machine. The PA found me in the production trailer, sitting on the floor in tears. It got better after that, but not much, so after a while, I ditched movie making for something less glamorous (ha): production finance.
The great thing about the film business is that you don’t actually need to be an accountant to go into finance. In fact, it’s better if you don’t know anything about bookkeeping. I was numerate and knew my way around a set, so it was an easy transition, and it led me straight to Jimmy. I entered my trailer one day, booted up my computer, and was faced with a question mark in place of a smiley Mac. Jimmy was the computer dude who fixed it.
He put his hand over mine to steer the mouse to show me some neat tricks I hadn’t known, and then left me his card. There was an instant ripple of anticipation. Of course, I called to thank him, because a computer geek is a useful friend to have. He asked me out, and the rest is clichéd history.
But between college and Jimmy, I went home frequently to see my family: the usual, Christmas or Thanksgiving. They rarely came out to see me, however, because my dad was too scared to face the freeways in California and my mother was a menace on the roads, so he wouldn’t drive with her.
They say (whoever “they” may be) that you should look at your parents’ relationship to figure out where you went wrong in yours, but to tell the truth, my folks seemed to get on just fine. Maybe that’s why Jimmy’s departure from an idyllic relationship caught me so off-guard.
But before Jimmy, I was quite fun. I grew up in a suburb of Baltimore called Towson, which was made less dreary by the fact that there is a university there (and therefore all the hoopla that comes with college students) and that John Waters shot some of “Serial Mom” at my high school.
I was the middle child of three, with my siblings and I getting along just as well as siblings can and do, with no extraordinary tales of woe, deception or angst. My dad worked for a local brewery, and my mom stayed at home through most of my childhood, returning to part-time nursing when my younger sister was in school full-time. An average, all-American family.
My prom date has since gone on to law school, having decided that medicine was not for him. Over-educated, certainly, and probably still a really bad dancer.
I went off to NYU for a few semesters and transferred to UCLA to study film. I really thought I could learn all I would need to know about movie-making in college, but the truth is that while my parents were busting themselves to pay for tuition, rent and a car, I should have just started as a production assistant’s gofer and worked my way up.
After a four-year degree (cum laude, I might add) and a very impressive and expensive education, that’s where I started. My first day on the job, I broke the coffee machine. The PA found me in the production trailer, sitting on the floor in tears. It got better after that, but not much, so after a while, I ditched movie making for something less glamorous (ha): production finance.
The great thing about the film business is that you don’t actually need to be an accountant to go into finance. In fact, it’s better if you don’t know anything about bookkeeping. I was numerate and knew my way around a set, so it was an easy transition, and it led me straight to Jimmy. I entered my trailer one day, booted up my computer, and was faced with a question mark in place of a smiley Mac. Jimmy was the computer dude who fixed it.
He put his hand over mine to steer the mouse to show me some neat tricks I hadn’t known, and then left me his card. There was an instant ripple of anticipation. Of course, I called to thank him, because a computer geek is a useful friend to have. He asked me out, and the rest is clichéd history.
But between college and Jimmy, I went home frequently to see my family: the usual, Christmas or Thanksgiving. They rarely came out to see me, however, because my dad was too scared to face the freeways in California and my mother was a menace on the roads, so he wouldn’t drive with her.
They say (whoever “they” may be) that you should look at your parents’ relationship to figure out where you went wrong in yours, but to tell the truth, my folks seemed to get on just fine. Maybe that’s why Jimmy’s departure from an idyllic relationship caught me so off-guard.
Chapter Seven: Belgian Beer and Smores: Girls’ Night
“One lousy date and you’re giving up?” Joan spluttered in exasperation.
Amanda was subtler.
“So Erik wasn’t a match made in heaven. You didn’t have too tiresome a night, did you?”
“Tiresome?” I asked her. “Who says tiresome? Joan, are you getting her hooked on those Jane Austen novels?”
“Don’t change the subject,” bossed Joan. “Answer her!”
I had to confess that although Erik had not been my Prince Charming, he was also neither a Big Bad Wolf or a Frog (just waiting for my kiss). He was just like The Guy Who Sells Jack the Magic Beans, or some other nebulous character that everyone forgets.
“What do you want me to do?” I whined. “Just go up to strange men in the street and say, ‘Hi, I just got over my boyfriend after three years and I need a date?’”
We were sitting in one of the many coffee shops inspired by the ever-irritatingly successful show Friends. It had overstuffed couches, a sullen but hip wait staff and the same lack of black people (in New York, I swear). I never understood how these places made any money, as the earnest men and women who pay their outrageous $4 for a latte simply stay in one place for hours at a time with no intention of ever getting a refill.
They were getting money out of us, though. Amanda sipped a raspberry beer imported from Belgium and priced as though a plane had been chartered for that express purpose; Joan was enjoying a hot chocolate with enough whipped cream on it to inspire an entire series of porn flicks; I was having a simple mint tea, accompanied by an obscenely large Smores’ fondue, which I justified as a reward for even thinking about dating again.
“This place!” shrieked Joan.
I wiped melted chocolate off my chin and glanced at her quizzically.
“They have a blind date book!”
In an apparent effort to increase their clientele (or more likely to amuse themselves), the staff had concocted a ridiculous scheme whereby a willing victim fills out a form detailing such pertinent information as favorite movie lines and horoscope, along with vital statistics like sports team affiliations and hair color. All these forms go in a book and if someone wants to meet you after having their interest piqued by these scintillating facts, the downtrodden baristas would make the introduction.
It seemed like a ludicrous idea, but I had nothing to lose but my recently rediscovered dignity. After scoffing publicly at the lunacy of such a desperate stunt, I waited for the girls to hail a cab and told them to go ahead, because I wanted to stand outside and smoke a cigarette. Back in the coffee shop, I quietly snuck a form and plonked myself in an all-embracing armchair to commit to paper my various peculiarities.
Amanda was subtler.
“So Erik wasn’t a match made in heaven. You didn’t have too tiresome a night, did you?”
“Tiresome?” I asked her. “Who says tiresome? Joan, are you getting her hooked on those Jane Austen novels?”
“Don’t change the subject,” bossed Joan. “Answer her!”
I had to confess that although Erik had not been my Prince Charming, he was also neither a Big Bad Wolf or a Frog (just waiting for my kiss). He was just like The Guy Who Sells Jack the Magic Beans, or some other nebulous character that everyone forgets.
“What do you want me to do?” I whined. “Just go up to strange men in the street and say, ‘Hi, I just got over my boyfriend after three years and I need a date?’”
We were sitting in one of the many coffee shops inspired by the ever-irritatingly successful show Friends. It had overstuffed couches, a sullen but hip wait staff and the same lack of black people (in New York, I swear). I never understood how these places made any money, as the earnest men and women who pay their outrageous $4 for a latte simply stay in one place for hours at a time with no intention of ever getting a refill.
They were getting money out of us, though. Amanda sipped a raspberry beer imported from Belgium and priced as though a plane had been chartered for that express purpose; Joan was enjoying a hot chocolate with enough whipped cream on it to inspire an entire series of porn flicks; I was having a simple mint tea, accompanied by an obscenely large Smores’ fondue, which I justified as a reward for even thinking about dating again.
“This place!” shrieked Joan.
I wiped melted chocolate off my chin and glanced at her quizzically.
“They have a blind date book!”
In an apparent effort to increase their clientele (or more likely to amuse themselves), the staff had concocted a ridiculous scheme whereby a willing victim fills out a form detailing such pertinent information as favorite movie lines and horoscope, along with vital statistics like sports team affiliations and hair color. All these forms go in a book and if someone wants to meet you after having their interest piqued by these scintillating facts, the downtrodden baristas would make the introduction.
It seemed like a ludicrous idea, but I had nothing to lose but my recently rediscovered dignity. After scoffing publicly at the lunacy of such a desperate stunt, I waited for the girls to hail a cab and told them to go ahead, because I wanted to stand outside and smoke a cigarette. Back in the coffee shop, I quietly snuck a form and plonked myself in an all-embracing armchair to commit to paper my various peculiarities.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Chapter Six: Take Me Out To The Bat
Erik called me the following week. He was the product of Joan’s matchmaking, and I had little choice but to take the call. In fact, we chatted a couple of times before arranging to meet, and it was a delight to check for a local number on the blinking message box for a change.
We arranged to go to a Yankees’ game, which seemed pretty innocuous. It had the security of a big crowd, along with the “at least we’ll have something to talk about” safety factor, and without the silence and knee touching that accompanies movie dates.
In the olden days in the late 1980’s, you could wander up to Yankee Stadium ten minutes before the game and get a pretty good seat. Hell, they were almost giving tickets away with every Big Mac (and large fries). Back then, you could say to your buddies, ‘Let’s meet at The Bat’ and all would be well.
I’m not even sure that The Bat has made it to the new, fancy stadium. I can only hope so, because it was a huge concrete phallus that thrusts up into the Bronx sky on the far side of the stadium from the subway. Before each game, it is littered with bodies strewn about its base, like so many crabs, if you take the analogy further. Which I just did.
Erik had been to games in more recent years, when post-season play seemed inevitable for the team I had watched lose week after week a dozen years before.
“Too many people at The Bat,” he assured me. “There’s this spot I always use: the pay phone just between The Bat and the ticket windows. Not the booths, mind: the windows.”
Meeting by a pay phone, I felt, was a recipe for disaster. Suppose there was a long line? How would I be able to spot my mystery man? As it transpired, a lot else had changed in over a decade, and everyone except me seems to have an umbilical cord tied to their cell phones. As I walked past The Bat on my way to the ticket windows (not the booths), I saw him.
Joan’s description, if you recall, had been “adorable, single, funny and rich.” Let’s take these adjectives in reverse order, shall we? I was in no position to judge the man’s personal wealth, and had not had time to ascertain the humor behind any anecdotes he might have saved up for this meeting, and he had no wedding ring or conspicuous tan line where one had been recently, but I found him less than adorable.
I took this to be a personal failing. What was wrong with me when a perfectly eligible man was not up to my standards? Me, who could give lessons to priests on celibacy. Me, whose last huge crush had swerved violently into a tempestuous love affair, the result of which had been a lost weekend of misery lasting the better part of four years.
We took our seats (box seats, if you must know, by first base) and we cut to the chase. Having already had the obligatory “how do you know Joan?” conversation, along with the equally compelling sibling and parental history, rants on just how much we thought our President was an imbecile, and who makes the best bagel (we both agreed Ess-a-Bagel, but only the original store on First and 21st), we were now faced with an awkward silence. How better to fill this void than with baseball talk?
I reminisced charmingly about the days of Mattingly, Espinoza and Mel Hall, and he told me about growing up watching Mickey Mantle. I recalled the time we were tied for first place with the Toronto Blue Jays, and the fans actually booed the Canadian national anthem, and he matched my story with the time he caught a piece of Paul O’Neill’s bat.
At last, we rose for the National Anthem. Now, I am a purist, and believe that the anthem should be sung without Whitney Houston-ish trills or Roseanne Barr-esque gestures. I was happy when some regular Joe shuffled up to the microphone and sang it straight. At least I think that was his intention. However, this is what came out over the public address system:
“Oh say can you see by the dawn’s early bright -”
Did he say “bright?”
“What so proudly we hail at the twilight’s last beaming.”
“Beaming”? Is this the Star Trek version? I suppressed a smirk.
“Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous flight
O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly seeming.”
They only appeared to be gallant? I stifled a giggle.
He was so confident in his endeavor, that I could only assume that I had misunderstood the words all the way through high school. Then came the clincher:
“And the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting right there”
I lost the battle against hysteria after “Babe Ruth through the night that our flag was still air”
I have to confess that I didn’t really take in much of the rest of his rendering. The last eight bars or so finds baseball aficionados restless for the words “Play Ball!” so thankfully a stirring of the crowd drowned the remainder out.
Erik glanced at me out of the corner of his face, his hat firmly grasped in his right hand over the general area of his left nipple. Maybe he had wax in his ears. Maybe the whole stadium did, but I was certain of what I had heard, and had not been under the influence of recreational drugs for almost fifteen years.
I must be getting better, I told myself, as I rode the subway home. It took until the fifth inning for me to be really certain that I would rather have watched the game alone with a Corona Light and a calzone.
The Yankees won, of course, and Derek Jeter made an astounding play, Bernie Williams hit a two-run homer, and Andy Pettite continued to look like a bewildered adolescent. Erik seemed happy, if not with me, then certainly with the game.
As I ran my bath that night, I knew I wouldn’t be pacing the floor waiting for the phone call that wouldn’t come.
We arranged to go to a Yankees’ game, which seemed pretty innocuous. It had the security of a big crowd, along with the “at least we’ll have something to talk about” safety factor, and without the silence and knee touching that accompanies movie dates.
In the olden days in the late 1980’s, you could wander up to Yankee Stadium ten minutes before the game and get a pretty good seat. Hell, they were almost giving tickets away with every Big Mac (and large fries). Back then, you could say to your buddies, ‘Let’s meet at The Bat’ and all would be well.
I’m not even sure that The Bat has made it to the new, fancy stadium. I can only hope so, because it was a huge concrete phallus that thrusts up into the Bronx sky on the far side of the stadium from the subway. Before each game, it is littered with bodies strewn about its base, like so many crabs, if you take the analogy further. Which I just did.
Erik had been to games in more recent years, when post-season play seemed inevitable for the team I had watched lose week after week a dozen years before.
“Too many people at The Bat,” he assured me. “There’s this spot I always use: the pay phone just between The Bat and the ticket windows. Not the booths, mind: the windows.”
Meeting by a pay phone, I felt, was a recipe for disaster. Suppose there was a long line? How would I be able to spot my mystery man? As it transpired, a lot else had changed in over a decade, and everyone except me seems to have an umbilical cord tied to their cell phones. As I walked past The Bat on my way to the ticket windows (not the booths), I saw him.
Joan’s description, if you recall, had been “adorable, single, funny and rich.” Let’s take these adjectives in reverse order, shall we? I was in no position to judge the man’s personal wealth, and had not had time to ascertain the humor behind any anecdotes he might have saved up for this meeting, and he had no wedding ring or conspicuous tan line where one had been recently, but I found him less than adorable.
I took this to be a personal failing. What was wrong with me when a perfectly eligible man was not up to my standards? Me, who could give lessons to priests on celibacy. Me, whose last huge crush had swerved violently into a tempestuous love affair, the result of which had been a lost weekend of misery lasting the better part of four years.
We took our seats (box seats, if you must know, by first base) and we cut to the chase. Having already had the obligatory “how do you know Joan?” conversation, along with the equally compelling sibling and parental history, rants on just how much we thought our President was an imbecile, and who makes the best bagel (we both agreed Ess-a-Bagel, but only the original store on First and 21st), we were now faced with an awkward silence. How better to fill this void than with baseball talk?
I reminisced charmingly about the days of Mattingly, Espinoza and Mel Hall, and he told me about growing up watching Mickey Mantle. I recalled the time we were tied for first place with the Toronto Blue Jays, and the fans actually booed the Canadian national anthem, and he matched my story with the time he caught a piece of Paul O’Neill’s bat.
At last, we rose for the National Anthem. Now, I am a purist, and believe that the anthem should be sung without Whitney Houston-ish trills or Roseanne Barr-esque gestures. I was happy when some regular Joe shuffled up to the microphone and sang it straight. At least I think that was his intention. However, this is what came out over the public address system:
“Oh say can you see by the dawn’s early bright -”
Did he say “bright?”
“What so proudly we hail at the twilight’s last beaming.”
“Beaming”? Is this the Star Trek version? I suppressed a smirk.
“Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous flight
O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly seeming.”
They only appeared to be gallant? I stifled a giggle.
He was so confident in his endeavor, that I could only assume that I had misunderstood the words all the way through high school. Then came the clincher:
“And the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting right there”
I lost the battle against hysteria after “Babe Ruth through the night that our flag was still air”
I have to confess that I didn’t really take in much of the rest of his rendering. The last eight bars or so finds baseball aficionados restless for the words “Play Ball!” so thankfully a stirring of the crowd drowned the remainder out.
Erik glanced at me out of the corner of his face, his hat firmly grasped in his right hand over the general area of his left nipple. Maybe he had wax in his ears. Maybe the whole stadium did, but I was certain of what I had heard, and had not been under the influence of recreational drugs for almost fifteen years.
I must be getting better, I told myself, as I rode the subway home. It took until the fifth inning for me to be really certain that I would rather have watched the game alone with a Corona Light and a calzone.
The Yankees won, of course, and Derek Jeter made an astounding play, Bernie Williams hit a two-run homer, and Andy Pettite continued to look like a bewildered adolescent. Erik seemed happy, if not with me, then certainly with the game.
As I ran my bath that night, I knew I wouldn’t be pacing the floor waiting for the phone call that wouldn’t come.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Chapter Five: The Fantasy Bar-Keep
“Oh, fuck me, please just fuck me,” Joan murmured under her breath directly at her extra dirty Stoli martini. I gave her a glance.
“If you’re going to hit on the bartender, you have to address those remarks directly to him, not to his cocktails,” I reminded her.
“But he’s so.... pretty! God, what eye candy!” Amanda Greek-chorused.
She was right. There was not a one of us who wouldn’t jump in the sack with Pete, the bartender who made by far the best mojitos in town. He had the deepest blue eyes, with the cutest crinkles, just below which lay crevices of plump dimples. He was beautiful.
“He doesn’t even have to spend the night...” Joan whined.
I was shocked. It was the avowed rule of the members of the Girls’ Night crowd that not spending the night was a no-no. There is little worse than feeling a man slip from your arms as you lie in a blissful half-sleep, listening to him fumble for fallen clothes in the dark, trying not to step on the cat or jangle his keys. Then come the excuses: “I have a barmitzphar to go to early tomorrow.” Or “There’s this business presentation I have to prepare for.” Or worse, “I just can’t sleep and I don’t want to keep you up.”
There must be some phrasebook for men somewhere, because they all use the same lines. None of them sound original or remotely sincere, and they are all repeated by rote like speeches in some horrible community theater production, where the actors aren’t quite bright enough to understand their roles.
Pete strolled over, and I watched him gently polish a glass, and wondered what those hands would feel like polishing me.
“Can I get you anything, ladies?” he asked.
We just beamed at him like lovesick pop fans, but in the next second I was astounded to hear Joan say, “Yes, as a matter of fact you can. How about getting me laid?”
Amanda and I were speechless. This was certainly against Sunday evening etiquette. The law was clear: no play for men. Further, it violated the divide and conquer rule: if more than one woman likes a guy, no one makes a play for him without prior consent of the other female parties. Surely she knew the game? Maybe she hadn’t read our secret manual, the female equivalent of the men’s one-liner booklet.
And Joan, of all people? This sort of daring move was much more up Amanda’s alley. Joan would more likely be the lookout at the well-lit entrance, peering around to make sure no one got caught.
Pete smiled flirtatiously, his dimples dancing in the half-light of the bar.
“Well,” he said slowly, the syllable extending on his beautiful tongue, “There’s my friend Stanley over there. I’m sure he’d love to meet you....”
The three of us followed his nod to three hundred pounds of Homosapien with glasses that must have added another few at least. He had dimples too, but on his elbows, and most every other place I saw. He saw us looking at him and lifted his glass as a toast. We numbly followed suit. Joan chugged her martini.
“I was thinking more along the lines of - “
“He knows what you were thinking, dear,” Amanda cut in before she could further humiliate herself. “Let’s call it a night, shall we?”
Joan sulkily got out her wallet and threw some money on the bar. We added our share, with an over-generous tip as befitting a fantasy stud-bartender, and wandered out onto the street.
“I can’t believe you!” Amanda exploded at Joan. “Could you be a little less subtle, maybe?”
Joan was nonplussed. She excelled at deflecting attention when she needed to. “So, Rebecca, when are YOU going to start dating again?”
The question caught me completely off-guard, which meant that my reply was defensive by default.
“You have to give me time.”
“Time?” she spluttered. “Honey, it’s been almost three years since whatshisname.”
“Yes, I know. It’s not as though I haven’t tried. I just haven’t been ready.”
“You haven’t had a date in three years?” gasped Amanda. “I had no idea things were that bad.”
“No, I have dated some. It’s just that no one was Him. Which is probably a good thing. Anyhow, now that I’m over him, I can move on with my life. OK. Dating. Where do I start?”
“Just try returning a few of the smiles you get when we’re out,” sniped Amanda.
I was floored. I had no idea I got smiles. She went on to tell me that she had thought I was an ice queen, when in fact I was just naive beyond belief. I never have been able to tell when men are hitting on me.
“The only men who ever tell me I’m fabulous go home with each other,” I moaned. “At least they’re not subtle, although I am sick of them being prettier than me.”
“Yeah, well,” Amanda said, “the use of the word ‘fabulous’ should be some indication.”
Joan had this marvelous idea to fix me up with her co-worker’s cousin, who was adorable, single, funny and rich. According to whom, I wasn’t sure, but I thought she was right. It was time to get out there. Wherever “there” was. It sounded like a remote and scary place.
“If you’re going to hit on the bartender, you have to address those remarks directly to him, not to his cocktails,” I reminded her.
“But he’s so.... pretty! God, what eye candy!” Amanda Greek-chorused.
She was right. There was not a one of us who wouldn’t jump in the sack with Pete, the bartender who made by far the best mojitos in town. He had the deepest blue eyes, with the cutest crinkles, just below which lay crevices of plump dimples. He was beautiful.
“He doesn’t even have to spend the night...” Joan whined.
I was shocked. It was the avowed rule of the members of the Girls’ Night crowd that not spending the night was a no-no. There is little worse than feeling a man slip from your arms as you lie in a blissful half-sleep, listening to him fumble for fallen clothes in the dark, trying not to step on the cat or jangle his keys. Then come the excuses: “I have a barmitzphar to go to early tomorrow.” Or “There’s this business presentation I have to prepare for.” Or worse, “I just can’t sleep and I don’t want to keep you up.”
There must be some phrasebook for men somewhere, because they all use the same lines. None of them sound original or remotely sincere, and they are all repeated by rote like speeches in some horrible community theater production, where the actors aren’t quite bright enough to understand their roles.
Pete strolled over, and I watched him gently polish a glass, and wondered what those hands would feel like polishing me.
“Can I get you anything, ladies?” he asked.
We just beamed at him like lovesick pop fans, but in the next second I was astounded to hear Joan say, “Yes, as a matter of fact you can. How about getting me laid?”
Amanda and I were speechless. This was certainly against Sunday evening etiquette. The law was clear: no play for men. Further, it violated the divide and conquer rule: if more than one woman likes a guy, no one makes a play for him without prior consent of the other female parties. Surely she knew the game? Maybe she hadn’t read our secret manual, the female equivalent of the men’s one-liner booklet.
And Joan, of all people? This sort of daring move was much more up Amanda’s alley. Joan would more likely be the lookout at the well-lit entrance, peering around to make sure no one got caught.
Pete smiled flirtatiously, his dimples dancing in the half-light of the bar.
“Well,” he said slowly, the syllable extending on his beautiful tongue, “There’s my friend Stanley over there. I’m sure he’d love to meet you....”
The three of us followed his nod to three hundred pounds of Homosapien with glasses that must have added another few at least. He had dimples too, but on his elbows, and most every other place I saw. He saw us looking at him and lifted his glass as a toast. We numbly followed suit. Joan chugged her martini.
“I was thinking more along the lines of - “
“He knows what you were thinking, dear,” Amanda cut in before she could further humiliate herself. “Let’s call it a night, shall we?”
Joan sulkily got out her wallet and threw some money on the bar. We added our share, with an over-generous tip as befitting a fantasy stud-bartender, and wandered out onto the street.
“I can’t believe you!” Amanda exploded at Joan. “Could you be a little less subtle, maybe?”
Joan was nonplussed. She excelled at deflecting attention when she needed to. “So, Rebecca, when are YOU going to start dating again?”
The question caught me completely off-guard, which meant that my reply was defensive by default.
“You have to give me time.”
“Time?” she spluttered. “Honey, it’s been almost three years since whatshisname.”
“Yes, I know. It’s not as though I haven’t tried. I just haven’t been ready.”
“You haven’t had a date in three years?” gasped Amanda. “I had no idea things were that bad.”
“No, I have dated some. It’s just that no one was Him. Which is probably a good thing. Anyhow, now that I’m over him, I can move on with my life. OK. Dating. Where do I start?”
“Just try returning a few of the smiles you get when we’re out,” sniped Amanda.
I was floored. I had no idea I got smiles. She went on to tell me that she had thought I was an ice queen, when in fact I was just naive beyond belief. I never have been able to tell when men are hitting on me.
“The only men who ever tell me I’m fabulous go home with each other,” I moaned. “At least they’re not subtle, although I am sick of them being prettier than me.”
“Yeah, well,” Amanda said, “the use of the word ‘fabulous’ should be some indication.”
Joan had this marvelous idea to fix me up with her co-worker’s cousin, who was adorable, single, funny and rich. According to whom, I wasn’t sure, but I thought she was right. It was time to get out there. Wherever “there” was. It sounded like a remote and scary place.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Chapter Four: Gimmicks The Phone Companies Use To Rack Up Your Bill
I reached the point at which I looked back at my time with Jimmy and could have sworn he was faking his orgasms (how? by spitting on my back?) and wondered when he could have found time to meet someone else, for that had to be the only reasonable explanation: he had been wooed away by another woman, and, although strangely, I wished her no harm, I wanted her to hurt him viciously.
She would dump him callously, preferably for a better-looking, smarter and funnier man, younger and with more hair, leaving him distraught and forlorn, at which point he would come to his senses and realize that I had been the perfect woman for him all along. He had to be made to suffer.
Despite the fact that none of my friends would tell him my new address or phone number (not that he asked for it), I invested in a Caller ID box, and each time I turned the key in the latch, my heart raced in case I should find the light blinking. When it did, it was usually the Police Benevolent Society or some random cell phone number, whose owner had left a message for Carlos in Spanish. I once tried to return the call as a gesture of goodwill to explain that Carlos would never hear the message, since I had never heard of Carlos, but I was called a “puta” and halted any attempt at phone etiquette from that day on.
I actually got irritated when people who were NOT Jimmy called me. They were tying up my line! I added Call Waiting to my list of services, and many a friend was silenced when they heard a little click.
“Hold on!” I would yell gaily. “I have another call!”
For some reason, I never figured out if my Caller ID box would show an incoming number if I happened to be on the phone already, so I lived in a state of perpetual anticipation in case this was The Jimmy Call, the one I was waiting for.
Then there were those calls that registered “Out of Area” on my ID box with no message. I learnt the #69 trick and called all manner of erroneous dialers with reckless abandon and little concern for their patience or my phone bill, which was soaring with every new service added.
And still he never called.
This compulsive behavior might be perfectly acceptable in a seventeen-year-old girl when the football hero dumps her a week after the prom. But for a thirty-something woman to continue this pattern over a two year period after the “let’s hang out, I’ll call you” conversation, the result was nothing short of pathetic. What sort of loser was I that I would even want a man like this back in my life?
The answer, clearly, was this: a loser in love.
She would dump him callously, preferably for a better-looking, smarter and funnier man, younger and with more hair, leaving him distraught and forlorn, at which point he would come to his senses and realize that I had been the perfect woman for him all along. He had to be made to suffer.
Despite the fact that none of my friends would tell him my new address or phone number (not that he asked for it), I invested in a Caller ID box, and each time I turned the key in the latch, my heart raced in case I should find the light blinking. When it did, it was usually the Police Benevolent Society or some random cell phone number, whose owner had left a message for Carlos in Spanish. I once tried to return the call as a gesture of goodwill to explain that Carlos would never hear the message, since I had never heard of Carlos, but I was called a “puta” and halted any attempt at phone etiquette from that day on.
I actually got irritated when people who were NOT Jimmy called me. They were tying up my line! I added Call Waiting to my list of services, and many a friend was silenced when they heard a little click.
“Hold on!” I would yell gaily. “I have another call!”
For some reason, I never figured out if my Caller ID box would show an incoming number if I happened to be on the phone already, so I lived in a state of perpetual anticipation in case this was The Jimmy Call, the one I was waiting for.
Then there were those calls that registered “Out of Area” on my ID box with no message. I learnt the #69 trick and called all manner of erroneous dialers with reckless abandon and little concern for their patience or my phone bill, which was soaring with every new service added.
And still he never called.
This compulsive behavior might be perfectly acceptable in a seventeen-year-old girl when the football hero dumps her a week after the prom. But for a thirty-something woman to continue this pattern over a two year period after the “let’s hang out, I’ll call you” conversation, the result was nothing short of pathetic. What sort of loser was I that I would even want a man like this back in my life?
The answer, clearly, was this: a loser in love.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Chapter Three: Noticing Grape Tomatoes: The First Step
So the smell was gone. I wandered around in a daze for the next few weeks. Actually, that’s a little bit of an exaggeration, since I seem to spend a large proportion of my normal waking hours in a daze. Let’s just say that I was dazier than usual.
I felt rather strange, as though I had lost one of the five senses, or at least had woken up color-blind. At night, I tried to bury my face in the pillow (yes, the snot-riddled pillowcases had been washed a-plenty, but the actual pillows might still contain some DNA), but the smell was gone. Most peculiar.
A few days later, we were blessed with a gorgeous spring day, breaking the oppressive frigidity of March, and the warmish breeze on my skin felt wonderful. And I actually noticed it, which was quite unusual.
About a week after the odor-evaporation, I was at my weekly Sunday night girls’ get-together. I had facilitated this gathering of neighborhood; we all knew each other from the local stoops and Starbucks, where most were trying to meet that elusive creature known as an Eligible Man.
Sunday nights were reserved for the female gender, and although we could look, speculate and certainly discuss, none of us made a play for the male specimens that lurked around our table. I had ordered a salad and let out a gasp after my first mouthful. Amanda, convinced that I had found a false eye or something equally appalling on my platter, halted in the middle of a lurid retelling of her Saturday night of passion, and stared wide-eyed at me.
“Omigod,” she moaned (presumably in a different tone than the one used less than twenty-four hours earlier), “Are you OK?”
It was a quiet night, and the waiter caught her horrified expression and approached the table, eyebrows raised in anticipation.
“Fresh ground pepper?” he enquired nervously.
I groaned back in delight, in a fashion more reminiscent of Amanda’s escapades from the previous night. “This just tastes SO GOOD!”
The women exchanged glances. Joan challenged me. “Sweetie, it’s the same salad you had two weeks ago. When you said it was just ‘so-so.’ What’s the deal?”
I scooped another mound of dressing-soaked spinach into my mouth.
“The deal is,” I mumbled, “that these slow-roasted sweet red peppers set off the bitterness of the broccoli rabe, and the garlic combined with the soft, ripe Brie, just melts into these tomatoes - and they are amazingly fresh!”
Then to the waiter, “What’s different?”
Joan and Amanda exchanged glances. The salad was a signature dish at this local bistro, and the waiter insisted that there had been no alterations made to the recipe. But something had changed. It was me: I had recovered my sense of taste.
This was highlighted a few weeks later when the breezes began to soften, and air conditioners were lugged in from their precarious perches on Manhattan window-ledges. I dragged out my winter clothes and discarded many an item I had bought since E.J.E. (the End of the Jimmy Era): narrow-leg jeans, high-neck T-shirts, bulky clogs: what had I been thinking? I replaced these with my pre-Jimmy uniform of low, clingy T-shirts and sexy, baggy denims, my cute basketball shoes, and my adorable suede pumps, my cowboy boots, my Lycra skirts. Out went all things asexual. Yes, my taste had returned.
Unfortunately, right in the footsteps of my returning appetite came the weight. Some women can control their eating when they are happy. Not me. I starve myself when I am miserable. Thanks to a high metabolism in my teens, I never went through a chunky phase, having to spend adolescent lunchtimes downing Slimfast and smoking by the bike sheds. OK, I did smoke by the bike sheds, but that was because I wanted to, not as a means of weight-loss. I was always skinny. Up until a few years ago.
The Jimmy breakup had occurred just in time, coinciding precisely with the onset of fat and cellulite. Luckily, I hadn’t eaten properly since his disappearance, so the weight had stayed off.
But my taste buds had been awakened from a long sleep: the fresh, ripe tomato had played the role of the gentle kiss from the magic prince.
I now recognized what I’d been missing, at least on a culinary level. I swept away those unhealthy Ding Dongs, but replaced them with young, plump lamb chops, luscious crisp onion loaves, eggplant parmesan and, if I was feeling particularly sinful and could get the image of cramped baby cows out of my head for a minute or two, plump veal meatballs, floating in a sea of fresh marinara sauce, poured onto steaming bowls of al dente fettuccini, topped with a mound of hand-grated cheese. At least the black pepper wasn’t fattening.
During the ensuing weeks, the Sunday night crowd watched aghast as I waddled to the table, my cute, baggy denims now somewhat closer to my ever-increasing waistline. They stared in wonder as I worked my way through the menu, each mouthful a newfound delight. Food had for almost three years been just fuel or comfort - but now I could really enjoy the flavors, appreciate the ingredients and craved dishes that contained items other than chocolate.
Although chocolate still tasted wonderful. Always will.
I felt rather strange, as though I had lost one of the five senses, or at least had woken up color-blind. At night, I tried to bury my face in the pillow (yes, the snot-riddled pillowcases had been washed a-plenty, but the actual pillows might still contain some DNA), but the smell was gone. Most peculiar.
A few days later, we were blessed with a gorgeous spring day, breaking the oppressive frigidity of March, and the warmish breeze on my skin felt wonderful. And I actually noticed it, which was quite unusual.
About a week after the odor-evaporation, I was at my weekly Sunday night girls’ get-together. I had facilitated this gathering of neighborhood; we all knew each other from the local stoops and Starbucks, where most were trying to meet that elusive creature known as an Eligible Man.
Sunday nights were reserved for the female gender, and although we could look, speculate and certainly discuss, none of us made a play for the male specimens that lurked around our table. I had ordered a salad and let out a gasp after my first mouthful. Amanda, convinced that I had found a false eye or something equally appalling on my platter, halted in the middle of a lurid retelling of her Saturday night of passion, and stared wide-eyed at me.
“Omigod,” she moaned (presumably in a different tone than the one used less than twenty-four hours earlier), “Are you OK?”
It was a quiet night, and the waiter caught her horrified expression and approached the table, eyebrows raised in anticipation.
“Fresh ground pepper?” he enquired nervously.
I groaned back in delight, in a fashion more reminiscent of Amanda’s escapades from the previous night. “This just tastes SO GOOD!”
The women exchanged glances. Joan challenged me. “Sweetie, it’s the same salad you had two weeks ago. When you said it was just ‘so-so.’ What’s the deal?”
I scooped another mound of dressing-soaked spinach into my mouth.
“The deal is,” I mumbled, “that these slow-roasted sweet red peppers set off the bitterness of the broccoli rabe, and the garlic combined with the soft, ripe Brie, just melts into these tomatoes - and they are amazingly fresh!”
Then to the waiter, “What’s different?”
Joan and Amanda exchanged glances. The salad was a signature dish at this local bistro, and the waiter insisted that there had been no alterations made to the recipe. But something had changed. It was me: I had recovered my sense of taste.
This was highlighted a few weeks later when the breezes began to soften, and air conditioners were lugged in from their precarious perches on Manhattan window-ledges. I dragged out my winter clothes and discarded many an item I had bought since E.J.E. (the End of the Jimmy Era): narrow-leg jeans, high-neck T-shirts, bulky clogs: what had I been thinking? I replaced these with my pre-Jimmy uniform of low, clingy T-shirts and sexy, baggy denims, my cute basketball shoes, and my adorable suede pumps, my cowboy boots, my Lycra skirts. Out went all things asexual. Yes, my taste had returned.
Unfortunately, right in the footsteps of my returning appetite came the weight. Some women can control their eating when they are happy. Not me. I starve myself when I am miserable. Thanks to a high metabolism in my teens, I never went through a chunky phase, having to spend adolescent lunchtimes downing Slimfast and smoking by the bike sheds. OK, I did smoke by the bike sheds, but that was because I wanted to, not as a means of weight-loss. I was always skinny. Up until a few years ago.
The Jimmy breakup had occurred just in time, coinciding precisely with the onset of fat and cellulite. Luckily, I hadn’t eaten properly since his disappearance, so the weight had stayed off.
But my taste buds had been awakened from a long sleep: the fresh, ripe tomato had played the role of the gentle kiss from the magic prince.
I now recognized what I’d been missing, at least on a culinary level. I swept away those unhealthy Ding Dongs, but replaced them with young, plump lamb chops, luscious crisp onion loaves, eggplant parmesan and, if I was feeling particularly sinful and could get the image of cramped baby cows out of my head for a minute or two, plump veal meatballs, floating in a sea of fresh marinara sauce, poured onto steaming bowls of al dente fettuccini, topped with a mound of hand-grated cheese. At least the black pepper wasn’t fattening.
During the ensuing weeks, the Sunday night crowd watched aghast as I waddled to the table, my cute, baggy denims now somewhat closer to my ever-increasing waistline. They stared in wonder as I worked my way through the menu, each mouthful a newfound delight. Food had for almost three years been just fuel or comfort - but now I could really enjoy the flavors, appreciate the ingredients and craved dishes that contained items other than chocolate.
Although chocolate still tasted wonderful. Always will.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Chapter Two: The Ding-Dong Diet
Memory is strange. That profound statement was circulating in my head that one auspicious morning while I tried to compose myself sufficiently to turn over the rest of my body to follow it and switch off the alarm. This feat accomplished, I fell back onto the pillow and pondered. I had awoken seconds earlier puzzled, trying to remember something, and not quite sure what.
Shrugging, I swept away the debris of bedclothes and plodded to the bathroom. The first splash of water on the face, followed immediately by a warm towel and heavy moisturizer never fails to make me feel almost alert, and by the time the coffee had percolated and the face cream had penetrated my arid skin, I was human again.
The breakfast television muffled, the fresh New York Times opened (the Sports section already recycled), and milky coffee steaming onto my moisturizer-clogged pores, I suddenly realized what I had been trying to recall: his smell. That completely identifiable smell on the back of his neck: a mixture of organic hair conditioner, generic baby oil, Caroline Herrera aftershave and a dash of musky sweat.
Intellectually, I knew the components. I had, after all, buried my face in his smell for ten months. But every morning for the past thirty-two, I had woken up missing that odor, and today I simply could not summon it from my memory bank.
This was a good thing, surely? I had wasted too many tears over a man who had treated me abominably. My friends were sick of hearing about him, which they only did if they were on my “Friends and Family” phone plan, or after nine, weeknights or on weekends. I, on the other hand, had to live with the fallout of the relationship, and was sick of talking about him.
But pining for Jimmy had been my life for so long that I was rather stumped as to what I was supposed to do now.
There are those out there in professions that cater to angst-ridden, middle-class, single women who would say that my prolonged attachment to a certainly lost love was just a barrier to protect myself from caring again. And they might be right.
But at least I had something to depend on. If I was dateless on a Saturday night, it was because there was no one who could remotely compare to him.
Once he was a dim memory, then what excuse did I have to be alone, other than the reason given by every single women in Manhattan: they’re all taken or gay, and the single ones are either mind-numbingly boring or arrogant pricks. Sometimes both.
I immediately commenced the Ding Dong diet. This consisted of existing almost entirely on caffeine, nicotine and Ding Dongs, a miraculous chocolate treat that could easily survive a nuclear holocaust and would probably be delicious to the cockroaches, its fellow post-apocalyptic roommates.
This nutritionally defunct snacking was accompanied by massive heaving sobs that racked my ever-dwindling body. I ran out of Kleenex and could not face going out to get more, so my sheets became embedded with tears and snot, combined with the remnants of our lovemaking. I stopped going to work or returning phone calls from worried friends. I lost the sympathy of these loyal companions, my job and twenty pounds.
During the sixth week, I woke up one morning (as one does in every blues song ever written. This has always made me wonder how the song would proceed had the subject not woken up one morning but had continued to sleep, or had died during the night), and looked around my bleak apartment, every crevice a memoir of my time with Jimmy.
On a whim, I called a moving company, had dozens of boxes delivered, sold everything I could on eBay, and shipped myself to a new town, just three thousand miles away from Los Angeles, and all memories therein.
When I got to Manhattan, skinny and bitter (the Ding Dong diet had worked and I looked fabulous in a Biafran, Kate Moss way), the smell of Jimmy had followed me. And it wasn’t the smell alone, but his voice, his touch, his hair. I would walk down the street and rush up to someone who wasn’t him. I heard him in every store in town, and whenever I wanted to, I could close my eyes and feel his hands on my skin.
And truth be told, I really wanted to be trailed by these ghost memories. I wasn’t prepared to let go of our time together. It was unthinkable. I had given so much of myself. The fact that the relationship had meant so little to him that he couldn’t even say goodbye bothered me beyond all logic and reasoning. Because there had been no closure, we were still together, surely, if on some elongated hiatus. At any time, I would look up from my desk, or open the door and see him there, sad and serious, begging my forgiveness and professing his love. This in spite of the fact that he hated New York and probably didn’t know I even lived here now.
In any event, that didn’t happen. I managed to get out of bed each morning (a natural progression from “I woke up one morning,” I assume) and get dressed (at least on the weekdays), find myself a new job and gradually meet people in my building, in my office, at the local Starbucks.
Sting, when fronting The Police a thousand decades ago, had once sung that there was a hole in his life, and now I understood. Taking the statement of a broken heart literally, it seemed like all the bulk therein had sunk into my stomach. Each and every one of my internal organs was coated in lead, like so many airplane black boxes. Had I died suddenly, the cause would have been recorded within my heavily coated kidneys, liver and lungs.
Naturally, my kidneys weren’t doing so well, because I needed a few glasses of wine to help me sleep; my liver was suffering as a result of the painkillers I had to down to face work with the resulting hangover, and my lungs were shot to hell from chain-smoking.
It was a passive suicide attempt, no doubt about it. I was unloved and unlovable. The love of my life didn’t even care enough about me to say goodbye, and the self-doubt was crucifying me.
Shrugging, I swept away the debris of bedclothes and plodded to the bathroom. The first splash of water on the face, followed immediately by a warm towel and heavy moisturizer never fails to make me feel almost alert, and by the time the coffee had percolated and the face cream had penetrated my arid skin, I was human again.
The breakfast television muffled, the fresh New York Times opened (the Sports section already recycled), and milky coffee steaming onto my moisturizer-clogged pores, I suddenly realized what I had been trying to recall: his smell. That completely identifiable smell on the back of his neck: a mixture of organic hair conditioner, generic baby oil, Caroline Herrera aftershave and a dash of musky sweat.
Intellectually, I knew the components. I had, after all, buried my face in his smell for ten months. But every morning for the past thirty-two, I had woken up missing that odor, and today I simply could not summon it from my memory bank.
This was a good thing, surely? I had wasted too many tears over a man who had treated me abominably. My friends were sick of hearing about him, which they only did if they were on my “Friends and Family” phone plan, or after nine, weeknights or on weekends. I, on the other hand, had to live with the fallout of the relationship, and was sick of talking about him.
But pining for Jimmy had been my life for so long that I was rather stumped as to what I was supposed to do now.
There are those out there in professions that cater to angst-ridden, middle-class, single women who would say that my prolonged attachment to a certainly lost love was just a barrier to protect myself from caring again. And they might be right.
But at least I had something to depend on. If I was dateless on a Saturday night, it was because there was no one who could remotely compare to him.
Once he was a dim memory, then what excuse did I have to be alone, other than the reason given by every single women in Manhattan: they’re all taken or gay, and the single ones are either mind-numbingly boring or arrogant pricks. Sometimes both.
I immediately commenced the Ding Dong diet. This consisted of existing almost entirely on caffeine, nicotine and Ding Dongs, a miraculous chocolate treat that could easily survive a nuclear holocaust and would probably be delicious to the cockroaches, its fellow post-apocalyptic roommates.
This nutritionally defunct snacking was accompanied by massive heaving sobs that racked my ever-dwindling body. I ran out of Kleenex and could not face going out to get more, so my sheets became embedded with tears and snot, combined with the remnants of our lovemaking. I stopped going to work or returning phone calls from worried friends. I lost the sympathy of these loyal companions, my job and twenty pounds.
During the sixth week, I woke up one morning (as one does in every blues song ever written. This has always made me wonder how the song would proceed had the subject not woken up one morning but had continued to sleep, or had died during the night), and looked around my bleak apartment, every crevice a memoir of my time with Jimmy.
On a whim, I called a moving company, had dozens of boxes delivered, sold everything I could on eBay, and shipped myself to a new town, just three thousand miles away from Los Angeles, and all memories therein.
When I got to Manhattan, skinny and bitter (the Ding Dong diet had worked and I looked fabulous in a Biafran, Kate Moss way), the smell of Jimmy had followed me. And it wasn’t the smell alone, but his voice, his touch, his hair. I would walk down the street and rush up to someone who wasn’t him. I heard him in every store in town, and whenever I wanted to, I could close my eyes and feel his hands on my skin.
And truth be told, I really wanted to be trailed by these ghost memories. I wasn’t prepared to let go of our time together. It was unthinkable. I had given so much of myself. The fact that the relationship had meant so little to him that he couldn’t even say goodbye bothered me beyond all logic and reasoning. Because there had been no closure, we were still together, surely, if on some elongated hiatus. At any time, I would look up from my desk, or open the door and see him there, sad and serious, begging my forgiveness and professing his love. This in spite of the fact that he hated New York and probably didn’t know I even lived here now.
In any event, that didn’t happen. I managed to get out of bed each morning (a natural progression from “I woke up one morning,” I assume) and get dressed (at least on the weekdays), find myself a new job and gradually meet people in my building, in my office, at the local Starbucks.
Sting, when fronting The Police a thousand decades ago, had once sung that there was a hole in his life, and now I understood. Taking the statement of a broken heart literally, it seemed like all the bulk therein had sunk into my stomach. Each and every one of my internal organs was coated in lead, like so many airplane black boxes. Had I died suddenly, the cause would have been recorded within my heavily coated kidneys, liver and lungs.
Naturally, my kidneys weren’t doing so well, because I needed a few glasses of wine to help me sleep; my liver was suffering as a result of the painkillers I had to down to face work with the resulting hangover, and my lungs were shot to hell from chain-smoking.
It was a passive suicide attempt, no doubt about it. I was unloved and unlovable. The love of my life didn’t even care enough about me to say goodbye, and the self-doubt was crucifying me.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Chapter One: Men Ending in Y
I was foolish to fall for a man named Jimmy.
A grown man who resorts to calling himself Jimmy clearly has issues with his adulthood or, as I like to think of it, the hidden grown-up within.
Granted, it seems that anyone who uses the full name James is probably gay. I know dozens of Davids and Michaels and Donalds, all fabulously camp, and yet my friends Dave, Mike and Don are relentlessly heterosexual. So, no James. But Jim, for example, is a perfectly acceptable shortening of the proper name. It’s masculine, muscular and evokes a construction worker (the brawny arms and rippling, tanned chest, not the butt-crack and the beer belly).
I admit that it was Jimmy’s childlike quality that drew me to him in the first place. Irreverent, whimsical, impulsive and just plain silly, the man never failed to make me laugh, and swept me off my feet with what I felt was romanticism, but what was probably just another escape from reality on his part. For the duration of our time together, I really felt as though I was in one of those torturous music-video moments from romantic comedy movies, where the couple frolics through a montage of happy, hand-holding goofy scenes, and we all sigh wistfully and wonder where the nearest Tower Records is so we can rush directly there and buy the soundtrack.
I believe the first one of these awful montages was in "Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid," where our heroes and some woman perform unthinkable and dangerous acts on a bicycle accompanied by Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head, a song I never thought was relevant, since the entire scene took place in bright and gorgeous sunlight.
We played hooky from work, ran off to theme parks on a whim, stayed overnight in motels just for the fun of it, and generally acted like besotted adolescents.
When he just stopped calling, I was rather confused. We had spent every night together for ten months, joined at the hip (or we would have been had he not been so much taller than me; I would have had to wear hooker pumps to raise my hips to meet his). One night he just didn’t come over. I called, we chatted; he wanted to catch dinner and a movie but was in the middle of something complicated involving system software, so could he call me back in half an hour? That’s thirty minutes, people.
Counting up until the morning in question, I had spent one and a half million minutes waiting for that return phone call. I did the math. Although it felt like I had counted every individual minute, each one draining more of my soul.
At first I assumed he had died some horrible and sudden death. Or maybe had concussed himself on a hard surface while crawling around hard-wiring some wealthy person’s home office and suffered total amnesia. Or even short-term memory loss, wiping the past ten months from his brain as easily as data on a SyQuest disk confronted with a magnet. But as the hours wore into days and the days into weeks, it seemed obvious that the same immaturity that drew me to him had led him to act for all the world like a petulant ninth grader disposing of his first crush.
A grown man who resorts to calling himself Jimmy clearly has issues with his adulthood or, as I like to think of it, the hidden grown-up within.
Granted, it seems that anyone who uses the full name James is probably gay. I know dozens of Davids and Michaels and Donalds, all fabulously camp, and yet my friends Dave, Mike and Don are relentlessly heterosexual. So, no James. But Jim, for example, is a perfectly acceptable shortening of the proper name. It’s masculine, muscular and evokes a construction worker (the brawny arms and rippling, tanned chest, not the butt-crack and the beer belly).
I admit that it was Jimmy’s childlike quality that drew me to him in the first place. Irreverent, whimsical, impulsive and just plain silly, the man never failed to make me laugh, and swept me off my feet with what I felt was romanticism, but what was probably just another escape from reality on his part. For the duration of our time together, I really felt as though I was in one of those torturous music-video moments from romantic comedy movies, where the couple frolics through a montage of happy, hand-holding goofy scenes, and we all sigh wistfully and wonder where the nearest Tower Records is so we can rush directly there and buy the soundtrack.
I believe the first one of these awful montages was in "Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid," where our heroes and some woman perform unthinkable and dangerous acts on a bicycle accompanied by Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head, a song I never thought was relevant, since the entire scene took place in bright and gorgeous sunlight.
We played hooky from work, ran off to theme parks on a whim, stayed overnight in motels just for the fun of it, and generally acted like besotted adolescents.
When he just stopped calling, I was rather confused. We had spent every night together for ten months, joined at the hip (or we would have been had he not been so much taller than me; I would have had to wear hooker pumps to raise my hips to meet his). One night he just didn’t come over. I called, we chatted; he wanted to catch dinner and a movie but was in the middle of something complicated involving system software, so could he call me back in half an hour? That’s thirty minutes, people.
Counting up until the morning in question, I had spent one and a half million minutes waiting for that return phone call. I did the math. Although it felt like I had counted every individual minute, each one draining more of my soul.
At first I assumed he had died some horrible and sudden death. Or maybe had concussed himself on a hard surface while crawling around hard-wiring some wealthy person’s home office and suffered total amnesia. Or even short-term memory loss, wiping the past ten months from his brain as easily as data on a SyQuest disk confronted with a magnet. But as the hours wore into days and the days into weeks, it seemed obvious that the same immaturity that drew me to him had led him to act for all the world like a petulant ninth grader disposing of his first crush.
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