Spooning (16 page)

Macie:

• • Bloomingdale's
  

• • Tennis whites
  

• • Fast elevators
  

• • Flowers reappearing on semi-dead plants
  

• • Sample sales
  

• • Any Chanel makeup
  

• • My mother
  

• • My roommates
  

• • J. Lo
  

• • Our humble apartment
  

• • TARA'S PRESENCE IN THIS WORLD
  

Wade:

• • Rhyming poems (or nursery rhymes)
  

• • Smelly markers
  

• • Pearls being still in fashion
  

• • Sunday afternoons in Barnes & Noble
  

• • Dear friends
  

• • Scented soaps (esp. those from hotels)
  

• • My cashmere sweaters
  

• • My sister
  

• • J. Lo
  

• • Free movies in Bryant Park
  

• • Popsicles
  

• • TARA, TARA, TARA
  

Sydney:

• • Newfound cooking skills
  

• • Wine of any flavor
  

• • Spell check
  

• • Double features (for the price of one)
  

• • My friends in NYC
  

• • Reruns
  

• • Starbucks
  

• • Hospital scrubs to sleep in
  

• • J. Lo
  

• • Central Park (my reprieve!)
  

• • TARA IN MY LIFE
  

I
n truth, I was thankful for Tara in my life. I was thankful for her birth, and I'm sure she popped out like the friggin’ finale at a Fourth of July fireworks display. Fittingly, her birthday was two days after Thanksgiving and we celebrated the following Thursday after Sage had returned from her homey Thanksgiving break. Ensconced at Top Shelf with a free birthday shot in her hand, Tara had conceded to the bar manager that the green felt pool table might indeed be marred by her savvy dance moves, and then had chosen the back bar top with its bottle rings and cigarette burns as an ideal dance platform instead. On top of the bar, wiggling her hips, she moved as if the beer were sloshing through all of her limbs at once.

It was no secret that Tara had moved to New York City knowing that her
Sex and the City
fantasies could be fulfilled without guilt. If Miranda could be a successful lawyer/mother with a terrific sex drive, then Tara could certainly be an unemployed coed/hottie with unquenchable sexual compulsions. Now, drunken eyes were ogling from across the room. She stared back—she had chosen her target. I followed her super- hero-like gaze and saw none other than Mr. J. P. Morgan's best friend staring back at her, enraptured.

“Oh, shit! Tara is crossing the boundaries!” I moaned to Syd. In the girls' code of life, as close friends, you can be friends with but not hook-up with someone's ex-boyfriend; you can flirt with but not give a blow job to another's brother; you can like but not love one another's boyfriend's ex-girlfriend; and you can do shots with but not get too close to a current fling's best friend. Too soap opera-y. Think about it logically! If girlfriend A messes up with boyfriend's best friend B, you get a huge fucking mess on your hands; if A and B fall in love, they will cast a shadow on your own wavering relationship; or if B dicks over A, questions of female solidarity arise and A will not understand why you're still friends with B. Loyalties will stomp all over your relationship anyway you twist it! Tara could not finger (literally and/or figuratively) Mr. J. P. Morgan's best friend (aka Mr. Goldman Sachs). No way, no how.

At this point, Tara had turned and was gyrating solely in his direction. Like a snake charmer, she was bringing Mr. Goldman Sachs hither. He was attempting some pathetic dance moves in her direction, but looked more like a Disney character tiptoeing on steroids. Think of Beetlejuice doing his uncoordinated shuffle. When his face reached Tara's crotch, she swiftly bent down (thus revealing her cleavage) and wrapped her arms around his neck. God, was Mr. J. P. Morgan watching? He had to be here, they never did anything social alone. Was he mortified that he and I had looked just as pathetic at our first memorable Top Shelf encounter? My headed whipped from side to side in sheer panic. Where was he? Coat check, nope; bathroom door, nope; dance floor, nope; the Tiki Bar outside, yes. Phew. I could just get a glimpse of him in my peripheral vision. But my relief was quickly squelched as I noticed he was chatting with a nondescript blonde. You know the type. She was short and petite
(but you knew the squat factor would be an issue in her forties); she had shoulder-length hair without layers (too risqué) and had obviously once been a towhead but hadn't yet discovered the wonders of highlights. Not really cute, but pleasant enough with a huge, bonded-tooth smile plastered on her face as he probably engaged her with the details of some finance deal he'd recently closed. Not that I'm the jealous type, but all of a sudden my mind was filled with images of he and she, the two of them with two kids—no scratch that, no kids (no time due to their all- consuming love)—kissing each other good-bye in the morning light, outside of their suburban Connecticut house before he climbed into his BMW and she into her Saab, leaving plenty early for their executive jobs. I was torn—should I thwart the happy hook-up of Tara and Mr. Goldman Sachs or wreck the happy home of Mr. J. P. Morgan and bland girl? I had to call in reinforcements. The closest help was Syd.

I decided to send her after Tara while I headed outside to Top Shelf's Tiki Bar. I do love Syd, but Ms. Space Cadet can get sidetracked even during an emotional crisis. Before I descended the stairs outside, I looked back to see my partner in crime dancing.

“J. Lo!” she mouthed apologetically throwing her hands into the air. At least J. Lo could relate to the situation:

Macie grabbed my arm as I felt the first rum-enhanced breeze from the Tiki Bar hit my face.

“Where are you going?”

“Don't you see?” I said tilting my head in the direction of the too-smiley dirty blonde.

“Oh.”

“Not that I care.”

“No, of course not. But, Charlie, maybe you need to think about you and Mr. J. P. Morgan.” Did I do much else in my downtime? She turned my face away from the two.

“He's a frog.”

“What?”

“He's a frog.
Ribbit
.” She could always coax a smile. “He's a frog and you need to let him go. Your prince is out there waiting for you. Really. And while your prince is waiting, he is passing the time by rescuing kittens, feeding the homeless, and spending time with the elderly. He is trimming your future rose bushes and touching up the trim on your five-bedroom house. He is buffing your Porsche with ab-enhancing deep knee bends. Your prince is waiting. He is not wasting time by looking at others in the meantime. No, he is fine with waiting by himself, alone, not with some plain-looking blonde. Charlie, trust me, your prince is out there.”

“Can't Mr. J. P. Morgan be a filler though?” I asked pathetically.

“No! His nuts deserved to be crushed!”

“I'm on top of things, really,” my tone sounded as convincing as my mother when she was extolling the benefits of liver- wurst to me as a child.

“Plus, I think he has plenty of issues,” she continued.

“Like what?” I begged for more moral support.

“I've always thought that he had gay tendencies,” she said. “See the way he just flicked his wrist while talking? For
Christ's sake, that's just not natural for a straight guy. He's got pleats in his pants, so he's hiding something.” That got another smile. “Sorry to tell you, but he may have some VDs. He's ears are a tad pink and I think that is a sign of something serious.” Macie was trying hard to remain stonefaced. “His feet are too small. For God's sake, he is stepping out of his Gucci loafers. And lastly,” she took a deep breath, “I heard from a reliable source that his mother's father was bald. You know what that means.” Instantly I envisioned Mr. J. P. Morgan with a shiny noggin. Not so cute.

“Charlie, are you happy?” she asked. I paused.

“I think so,” I muttered. “I mean yes,” I stuttered as Mr. J. P. Morgan turned and grinned my way. Part the Red Sea!

“
Ribbit
?” I questioned one last time.

“
Ribbit
,” she confirmed. She grabbed my hand and swung me into a ballroom turn. Giggling, I turned and curtsied to her just as Mr. J. P. Morgan sauntered up. His ears really were kind of pink.

“Where have you been?” he asked with that coy smile of his.

“Here.” Duh! “It's Tara's birthday,” I explained.

“Yeah, I heard. Looks like she's the one giving out the presents though,” he nodded toward Tara and Mr. Goldman Sachs canoodling in the corner. Clearly Syd had failed miserably.

“What's up?” I said. So much for relaxed and cool conversation. I'd lost all of my advanced vocabulary attained from years of Latin classes. Macie's croaking noises still echoed in my brain.

“Wanna go get something to eat?”

Ah, dilemmas! What to do? Finally, the boy had invited me to go get something to eat and I was kind of hungry. An angel
and devil, the angel looking suspiciously like Macie, floated above my alcohol-clouded swollen head:

T
he next morning at work, the e-mails were flying fast and furious …