Spooning (12 page)

F
inally, the big night arrived. We all stood by in the living room at 7:00 P.M.

“Where is everyone?” Tara asked for the umpteenth time. I looked around and realized that we were all standing in a line, facing the door. Macie was wringing her hands, and I was picking at my Wonder Woman wedgie.

“No one ever shows up to these things on time,” I reminded them with the authority of an established New York socialite. “I mean, we're never on time to things.”

“But we're girls.”

“Are we hosting a ‘Thing’?” Syd asked as she picked at the corn flakes topping Macie's Funeral Potatoes. Syd had initially had a mini conniption fit when Macie had taken the box of corn flakes from the cupboard and had begun to pulverize them. She was finally appeased when Macie bought her a box of Lucky Charms as a breakfast cereal replacement.

“Yes!” Wade shouted as if in mid-orgasm (out of character for her). “Girls, this is our first official Thing!”

“Another first. I don't know if I can contain myself. I haven't had so many firsts in a long time,” pondered Tara.

Our Thing. Hmm. My first official Thing. I stood a little taller in my foil-covered boots just as the doorbell rang.

Somehow, our innocent invitees had taken it upon themselves to invite more friends—the whole word-of-mouth
effect. No one likes to be alone in New York City, thus New Yorkers gravitate toward crowds. They surround themselves on all sides, buffering themselves from the taxi horns, police sirens, and other lonely people. And suddenly, our intimate Sinful Singles' Holy Halloween dinner party had turned into a Holy Shithouse Halloween. Within the first hour, the elegantly arranged dinner table and chairs, assembled from various rooms and a friendly neighbor's apartment, had been banished to the corners to make room for dancing. The delicately strung spiderwebs were torn and someone had eaten out the insides of Wade's canapés. Wade had doctored up some small menus announcing our festive feast:

They were now serving as coasters. Our first course had been stuffed into a plastic container (Note to self: Beans are not a group fave.), and the guys had dug into the Funeral Potatoes using coffee mugs instead of the etched glass dishes I had borrowed from work. But the Devil was cavorting with our resident Angel, and the male Tooth Fairy was dirty dancing with a Cinderella. Our first Thing was a success.

I barely heard the praise for my star-spangled butt as my attention was focused on finding my jolly green giant. Three hours in, as the clock ticked toward eleven, I finally saw a green entity. My Hunk had entered the building. I ran, lasso in hand, to the far side of the room, draped myself over his shoulders, grabbed his strong jawline and planted my most super- powered kiss on his gorgeous mouth. I was in a go-get-'em kind of mood. Forget the candy, I wanted the treats! He returned my kiss with a passion I could only equate to long-lost lovers on a deserted island. I swear it lasted so long I was breathing through my ears. He grabbed onto my golden-cinched waist and I simultaneously praised the weeklong water diet I had been on.

“Wonder Woman, wow!” I figured he was referring to my eagle-bearing cleavage. “You can take me down anytime.”

Now! I was thinking, Now! I opened my eyes and … I wasn't sure what I was staring at.

“You're not the Hunk—I mean the Hulk.”

“No, I'm the Boogeyman!” a green guy with a pimply- looking mask said with pride.

“Not the Hulk,” I repeated, ready to cry.

“No, but I am in your dreams. And now you'll definitely be in mine!” Oh, the lines! He reached for me, but I wiped my hands on my fishnet tights (I'd modernized Wonder Woman a
bit) and backed away. What the hell had happened to my Hulk? Figures I'd end up kissing a snot-covered slob. Feeling the need to redeem myself, and feeling slighted that Mr. J. P. Morgan had blown off my exclusive invite, I made my way through the throngs, seeking a cute boy to kiss. I knew Tara would be surrounded by such boys. True to form, she was backed, willingly, into a corner with five guys. I assessed the options and zeroed in on a Greek God.

“
W
ho am I? Who am I really?” My train of thought during my sexual romps would be a psychologist's wet dream. For instance, now, with my wrists wrapped in Greek God's fake ivy, I was thinking about how far I had come in three months. True, I had not conquered the corporate world or received a marriage proposal, or wrangled any sort of commitment for that matter from Mr. J. P. Morgan, but I did have a little white square box of an apartment in one of the greatest cities in the world. The cutie on top of me, on the other hand, still hadn't moved out of his parents' house. He had explained to me that he just didn't feel the rush to join the corporate race, especially considering he had no idea what interested him. His major in Classics hadn't given him a clear direction. (Classics at my college had been the jocks' choice of study since they only had to read and write glorified stories about mythological gods—all of whom they desired to emulate.) Now he told me that he was seriously thinking about law school (an easy extra three years of prestigious noncommitment). But in part I envied his carefree spirit. I especially admired it when he'd captured my mouth in the middle of dancing to “Oh, What a Night!” We had snuck off to the bathroom and the
Grease 2
bowling song
about “scoring” had blasted from my inner core. “We're gonna scorrre tonight, we're gonna scorrre tonight!”

Soon enough, the sink's ill-placed faucet brought me back from my drunken haze. That and Syd's voice shouting on the other side of the bathroom door.

“Charlieeeee!” she called, pounding on the door with her fists. “Phoneeeeee!”

I quickly held out my wrists to Greek God waiting for him to untangle the ivy, then plopped an apologetic kiss on his cheek. I stood, readjusted my crown, and gathered the other hastily strewn parts of my costume. I flung open the door and stepped out into the drunken masses. Syd handed me the phone and I pushed my way through the crowd to get to my bedroom.

“Hello,” I answered.

“Hellloooo to you Miss Charlie-poo.” It was J. P. Morgan. “Whatcha dooooing?” he asked, slurring his words. I looked down at my watch. It was midnight and he was definitely out partying. Wherever he was, he was completely piss drunk.

“Our party is still going on.”

“Oh yeahhhhhh, the party.” I wanted to scream. Had he not gotten the Evite reminder?

“Yep!”

“How's that
thiiinng gooooing
?”

“This
Thing
's okay.”

“Um, I just finished work.” I could hear loud voices and clanking glasses in the background.

“
Where are you now
?” “Whaattttt?” “Where are you now?” Did I really need to yell? I was Wonder Woman. Wonder Woman didn't yell.

“Met some of the guys out, ew-up-rpp.” What was that? Was it a burp? What, from too much Scotch?

“Are you going to swing by now?” Ever hopeful.

“Nah, don't have a costume. Sorry, babe.”

“You don't need a …” and then I stopped. What was I doing trying to convince him? This was supposed to be our honeymoon-slash-wooing phase. He should have been running my way. Something rumbled in my stomach. Too many Funeral Potatoes, I thought.

“Gotta run! Someone is looking for me,” I lied. I didn't tell him that I had been looking for him all night.

“
I
think I lost my costume,” Syd mourned the next morning. We had found her passed out on the toilet at about 9:00 A.M. Her white gown had pooled around her ankles while glitter mingled with the drool escaping her mouth.

“Do you think it's drugs?” Macie had whispered. Just then Syd's head popped up.

“No, no drugs. Iss jusss bee'a—” She had slurred before falling off her heavenly throne.

Now Tara demanded, “What do you mean you ‘lost it’? You were an angel, what could you lose?”

“Well, a pimp daddy walked off with my wings, and I think I gave Elvis my halo,” she admitted before curling up on her bed in the fetal position.

“You are indeed a fallen angel!” Tara cheered. “Congratulations!” The comment actually mustered a blush from Sydney.

I was sitting on the couch twirling a hastily constructed ivy crown around my finger. God, a diamond ring would look so much better than this fake leafy thing. And I had thought it
had looked so good the night before—must have been how those green eyes complemented the wreath. I tossed my hookup token on my bedroom door: the splendor and spoils of victory. It would hang there for about a month, until the dangling dust bunnies annoyed Macie to the point where she made some comment about resting on my laurels.

“What's up with you, Charlie?” Tara prodded as she shoved some cold leftover Funeral Potatoes into her mouth. “You look like someone died.”

“Well, J. P. was a no-show—”

“Surprise, surprise,” muttered Tara.

“And then I hooked up with some random Adonis.” I continued. “Should I feel guilty?”

“Guilty? Nah,” Macie dismissed. Macie was in a lotus yoga pose, sporting quite an afterglow from her own holiday escapades.

“You were spontaneous,” Tara threw in.

“Would J. P. feel guilty?” I wondered aloud. Wait. Had he been hooking up? My heart hiccupped.

“Did he call yet?” asked Tara.

“Nope.” I paused. “So what about Greek God?”

“What about him?” Tara demanded. “Mr. J. P. Morgan didn't show up. Nor did he call until almost midnight. What were you supposed to do, wait?” Syd rolled over and gave me weak thumbs up in agreement. I sighed. The drama of it all. After my escapade with the Greek God, I'd realized that not much had changed in the past few months after all—and I'd decided that I was going to change the fact that not much had changed. I was sick of no strings, college-style hookups. I wanted exclusivity. I didn't even know how to spell the word, but I wanted it.

“You were Wonder Woman, for God's sake! Mighty, independent—”

“And flying solo,” I finished.

“Mr. J. P. Morgan needs to be kicked off his mighty throne,” murmured Syd from her bedroom.

“Or knocked off the toilet,” laughed Macie.

“At least I'm not pregnant!” Syd added.

“You were expecting to be expecting?” Wade questioned. Tara, Mace, and I rolled our eyes. Syd had this intense fear of becoming with child. She had an economy-sized box of pregnancy test sticks in the bathroom. At least once a month she would tear out of our little bathroom singing the praises of her empty uterus. You'd think that anyone with such a fear would just abstain from sex, but not Syd. No, her reassurance rested in that narrow white plastic stick. And don't think that she was above bragging about her expertise at holding the stick steadily under her flowing stream of urine. (P.S. Pregnancy Test Makers: Talk about lack of dignity in a stressful time, please advise.)

“Well, he did call last night,” I ventured.

“And that redeems him? Did he actually come over to see you and spend time with you?” Macie, ever the realist, asked. I shrugged.

“You should be in the Salad Stage,” she continued.

“The what?”

“The Salad Stage. You know, that beginning stage—when you meet someone exciting and everything is light and refreshing. Nothing is complicated yet. You're still honeymooning over the idea of a budding relationship. It's the best phase, the Salad Stage. And relationships, with food or men, are not supposed to be that complicated. They should be easy.”