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!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
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.
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