Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir (16 page)

“Yeah, well, at least I can dress.”

OLIVER DURÁN INSISTED HE HAD IT, THE TAB FOR MY
bowl of coffee at Columbus Avenue Bakery. “Really, it’s my pleasure,” he insisted as he extended a bill to the cashier. Chivalry wasn’t dead. It was five-foot-eleven, Cuban, and wearing faded Levi’s with Jesus sandals. “May I join you?” he questioned before I’d chosen my seat. Instead of answering, I thanked him, then walked to an empty table, set my coffee down, and bowed my hand toward the empty wicker chair beside mine. I couldn’t decide if he was cute.

He joined me at the table with a wedge of quiche, iced tea, and five sugar packets.

“Someone has cavities.”

“Yes,” he said, “sugar is my one joy in life.”

“God, that’s sad.”

He snickerwheezed as if Dastardly were beside him, then stirred the contents of four packets into a brown iced-tea cloud with his straw. “Yeah, work sucks the life out of me.” He licked his finger and dipped it into the remaining packet of sugar. “So I suck my share of it right back.” That’s when he licked his fun-dip of a finger and allowed a full smile to escape.

His mouth was something you witnessed. All I saw were fangs. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone else had seen them. I’m not talking slightly long incisors here; we’re talking Stephen King’s
Cujo
. I held my breath.

He detected my newfound panic and served up a warm, “Don’t worry. I don’t bite unless you want me to.” I rolled my eyes and began to twirl my hair.

After twenty minutes, I learned he was a pediatrician. Something in me fell when I heard it. What if this was the familiar Phone Therapist warned against? I mean, was it asking too much, meeting a man without a pager and call schedule? He invited me to dinner, and I panicked. “It’s just a date, Stephanie. Not espionage.” I thought he might have been quoting a movie, so I laughed and decided to accept despite his MD. After a while, I felt comforted by him. I didn’t have to work hard or sell myself. For once I just listened and thought, “me too.” When Oliver mentioned fondue and live music at Joe’s Pub, I spoke up.

“A man who eats cheese? I might just love you.”

“Who doesn’t like cheese?”

“My ex-husband wouldn’t even look at it.” I was glad I’d said it. Oliver struck me as someone who might be mildly uptight. I needed to get the
Oncewife
thing out of the way now.

“You were married?” I nodded. “But you look so young. When did you wed, at like twelve?”

“No, I was too busy wetting the bed back then to wed.” Good girl, pile on the embarrassments. Underwhelm the guy.

Actually, it would take quite a bit to underwhelm Oliver. He was as safe as celery (more on that later) and “in like” with me from the start, especially after learning of my adolescent proclivity to wet the bed. Turns out, he was kind of hoping I hadn’t outgrown the habit, but that’s a whole ’nother book.

“WOULD YA TAKE A TWENTY-MINUTE TIME-OUT FROM
your damn dating schedule and make time for your friend? I need to talk with you.” It was Smelly, phoning me from her office phone, and she was whining. “I’m having a panic attack over here, Steph.” She used
panic attack
as liberally as I did, attaching it to everything from cooking dilemmas to erroneous “reply to all” work e-mails.

“All right, shoot.” I turned my instant message status to “away” and gave her my full attention.

“He still hasn’t called me back.” “He” was Alan Ryan, a twenty-four-year-old Abercrombie replica she’d met on a flight from Oregon to New York. They had been
casudating
for months. He’d e-mail often, paragraphs about how he was spending his day, the bitch-grinding he had to do as a sales associate for Henri Bendel’s, how his younger sister would be in town, did Smelly have any “typical New Yorky things” his sister should do? But when it came to making plans, he never asked my intellectual property attorney friend out. Instead, Alan and Smell called each other late at night when one of them was drunk or bored. They’d meet up at a bar and lose a bottle of wine between their chance sentences and deliberate gestures. He’d declare how pretty she was and hoop his arm over her shoulders, resting it on her, heavy. They were hardly friends with benefits. They’d have to be actual friends for the term to apply.

“Have you tried e-mailing or IMing with him yet today?”

“Please, he says he can’t IM with me and get his work done.”

“Oh, that’s bad.”

“What?” Smelly panicked.

“If he can’t IM and still get his work done, he’s a wretched multitasker. You’ll never achieve simultaneous orgasms.”

“Will you be serious, please?”

Serious meant the straight-up truth. It meant I’d have to be sensitive to her feelings, understand, empathize with where she’s been. Think of her entire life’s journey and respond in a deeply feeling way.

“You huss, you slept with him, didn’t you?” There was an urgent silence, as if the words “slept with him” were a blade, splitting her tongue and leaving her mute.

I imagined she closed her office door before answering, “Is that bad?”

“Well, you two aren’t exactly exclusive, so maybe he’s bored now that he’s bedded you down. And from the alarm in your voice, you’re giving me the feeling you want more with this guy. Smell, you gotta go on an actual date first, don’t ya think?”

“He doesn’t date, though. That’s what he said.” I am not sure how to respond to this.

“What do you mean he doesn’t date?”

Smelly laughs in response. It’s her nervous laugh, the one that happens when combative saleswomen affront her, when someone steals her taxicab in the rain, when she’s insulted. “Well, what the fuck is that, Smell? He meets you out and lets you buy him wine? You
hang out
, and that’s that?” Silence. “Okay, listen. You know how my sister refuses to date? Well, she resists it because she’s not ready to deal. It’s not that she doesn’t want to meet someone. She just doesn’t want the anxiety that comes with ‘does he like me?’ and ‘will he call?’ On occasion she’ll meet a guy who tries to persuade her into the nondate. You know, let’s just happen to meet at the bookstore and read magazines together. But at the end of the day, even if he thinks it’s a date, she doesn’t. She doesn’t want to because she’s just not ready.”

“Please, I’d settle for that. He doesn’t even ask me to the bookstore.”

“Smell, you’re not supposed to relate to Lea in that scenario. The boy is telling you he’s not ready to date, and you’re not listening to him. And listen to what you just said. I’d settle for that?! What the fuck, Smell?” I took a breath and continued in a docile tone. “Okay, explain this to me like I’m a four-year-old. Why do you want to be with this guy?”

“Well…” she hesitated. “Steph, you haven’t seen him. He’s so damn cute.”

“Yeah, that’s another thing, lady, why haven’t I seen him yet? Why would you want any type of a relationship with a guy whose friends you haven’t met and who hasn’t met yours? I mean, part of knowing someone is knowing what they’re like in a group setting.”

“Ugh, I know. Why do I want him so much? What’s wrong with me?”

“Good question, love. Answer it. Not what’s wrong with you, but why do you want him so much? Do you have similar interests? Oh, wait. You wouldn’t know, now would you? Because you two haven’t actually done anything together. I’ll rephrase, Counselor. Do you have similar taste in wine?” I was being harsh. It’s what I did with Smelly because she let me, because I’ve known, since we were roommates in college, that it was the only way to get through to her. Smelly was the type who would yes me to death and agree, “You’re totally right,” but then she wouldn’t do anything about it—except complain again a few days later about the exact goddamn thing.

“I don’t know why I want him so much.”

“Fine. I’m going to tell you. It’s because you love being anxious.”

“No I don’t! Are you insane? I hate feeling like this! I can’t get any work done.”

“Okay, let me ask you this. Do any of those other boys who keep calling and asking you out make you feel anxious?”

“No, but I don’t want any of them. They’re boring.”

“But Alan excites you, right? Like, you get butterflies and all keyed up when you think you might get to see him, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Yeah, well. Welcome to my world, honey. And you know what I’ve learned? Boring is better than Bastard, okay? Whenever I explored the relationships that began with that ignition and spark, I was usually left sobbing into my pillow wondering how I ended up so sad again. Smell, sparks can lead to fires, and then to fire escapes, where all you’ll want to do is flee the damn scene of your crimes.”

“So what do I do?”

“You learn to be friends with someone, get to really know them before you get all excited about the guy. You have to keep it tempered and figure out if you even like him, for who he is, not how he feels about you. I know it’s not easy. Believe me, I know. But this thrill you feel for Alan is probably only there because things are new and uncertain. It’s not about him. It’s you, caught up in you. Your mind craves anxiety, the good exciting kind and the bad I-can’t-function-at-work kind. You need to deprive your body and recognize that your propensity to chase codependency is leading you toward a fat, greasy life of miserable.”

“Oh, wait. That was good. Say it again, so I can write it down and reread it later.”

“Oh, shut up. You should be glad I’m not charging you for this shit.” I should have been taping myself, so I could play it all back later when I needed to hear it.

“Okay, I know you’re right, Steph. I mean, let’s face it. Even if he were into me, realistically it would never work out.” I heard her say the words, but I knew she didn’t believe them. She wanted him to call. She was tapping the refresh button on her e-mail to see if anything new had arrived from him. “He wants to move back to Wyoming and live on a ranch, which is a shade away from a farm. And I can’t live on a farm. I need to be near water and good restaurants.”

“I could definitely live on a farm!” I thought of the movie
Baby Boom
. Of peacoats, hot caramel apple cider, mittens, and firewood. “Well, I think.” I imagined I was sure.

“Nice, Steph.”

“No seriously, if I were married and had a baby to raise, I could occupy my time with writing and cooking. I could decorate and organize, make my life into some Martha Stewart catalogue with wreaths and holly. I’d have time to stack my linens and tie them with ribbon. I’d have a frickin’ guest room with guest bathrobes and slippers, an enormous kitchen, and I could buy in bulk, so I wouldn’t need to go to the inconvenience store for formula or diapers. But once the kids were grown, I think I’d lose it on a farm. The novelty of brown eggs and red roosters can only get you so far.”

“Well, I just wish he were into me.” Poor Smell.

“No you don’t. You really don’t.”

“Of course I do.”

“No, Smell, you don’t. Look at Jonathan and Brian. They’d both gladly give you a testicle Tuesday for a date today. And you want no part of either of them. You think they’re wimpy. You only want Alan because he doesn’t want you back. If he actually did like you, you’d complain you couldn’t handle anything serious now with a man who wanted to be a dude on a ranch. Smell, you don’t even like ranch dressing.”

“Yeah, I think that’s why I like unavailable men. Deep down, I’m not ready for anything serious.” Lovely. At least I got her to say it aloud. Perhaps Smell was on the same side of the scrimmage line as her dude after all. Neither of them was ready for more than the casual pass.

“It also makes you feel more worthy. It’s like the line outside the hot new nightclub. People stand on it because it’s there. If they can get in, they feel more important, more worthy. It’s the same thing with relationships. But once you make it inside, you’re often left wondering, ‘all that waiting and working with the doorman just for this?’ You need someone who’s your friend first.” Almighty Christ, I sounded like the fable about the tortoise and hare. “Just trust me on this one, babe. Look, you’re not the only one who chases damn funnel cake, but you need to stop.”

She’d heard my theory on funnel cake and celery stalker men before. Most men were either like funnel cake: delicious and interesting, but who at the end of the day just aren’t good for the heart or complexion. Or they were celery: a sensible, healthy choice that didn’t really bring much to the table but an occasional crunch. If you OD on celery, you end up bingeing on cake behind closed doors.

Funnel cake, while warm and delicious, is difficult to make. But you go there because you long for it like the double-twist stomach-dropping roller coaster as soon as you arrive at the amusement park. Wet ribbons of batter crackle and pop until golden and crisp, yielding in the center. The steamy swirls of tender yellow dough absorb confectioners’ sugar like pores. When the luxurious fat melts on your tongue, you exhale. You’ve got sticky batter, dribbling down spouts, leaving rings on your clean countertops, splattering oil growing darker and beginning to smoke. Layers of paper towels and oil-draining weapons clutter your space. With funnel cake, you’ve got steps to follow. Procedures. Rules.

No one makes rules about celery. It’s always around for the snacking. You choose it when you’re dieting or trying not to consume too many wings over football. Come to think of it, you don’t even bother eating it while you diet. Instead it’s a conduit for blue cheese. You use it to make stocks and stuffing. It becomes filler, pantry almost.

“Alan is your funnel cake. You keep thinking if you spend more time with him, he’ll come around and suddenly open up to you and make you a priority. It’s as if you want to convince him of something. You’re keeping Alan in the picture thinking he’ll grow up and suddenly become caring. You’ll be the one. Suddenly he’ll be sensitive.”

“Yes, that’s it. That’s exactly it. I want to know why he isn’t crazy about me. I mean, he says he doesn’t like dating, but come on.”

“Alan knows Alan a lot better than you do, so listen to the boy. And Smell, you shouldn’t need him to tell you how great you are. You should know that without him.” Oh, this was so my problem too.