THE BRO-MAGNET (17 page)

She thinks about it for a moment, shrugs. “Sure. I could eat.”

We get in the car and drive.

I don’t know what I was expecting. No, I
do
know what I was expecting. I figured that after the opera, we’d go to a nice, quiet, romantic little place – soft candlelight, maybe I’d even order wine instead of beer, you know, the kind of place where sophisticated people go for an after-show bite after they’ve seen a real opera. But I’m driving and I’m driving through all these little podunk towns and all I can find open is…

“Subway OK with you?” I wince out the question.

“It’s perfect,” Helen says. “I’m starved. That popcorn wasn’t very good, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

In fact, after our first handfuls we barely touched it. Dee Pickett might have had great hair, but her culinary skills sucked.

We enter the Subway and wait in line behind the group of teenagers ahead of us. As we wait, we study the menu.

I’m starved too. And what I’d most like to order, despite being a pescatarian most of the time, is the foot-long Italian combo, maybe two. All that meat, all that cheese, maybe add extra onions… But then the counterperson is asking me what I want – I didn’t even hear Helen order; I was too busy dreaming about my sandwich – when all of a sudden it occurs to me: If there’s an opportunity to kiss her later, if this really is a date and there’s even a chance in hell that my lips might touch Helen’s within the next two hours, do I really want to smell and taste like an Italian combo with extra onions? I quickly look through the rest of the menu trying to find a food option that will fill me up without making me smell or taste like anything bad.

“I’ll have…I’ll have…”

And now the counterperson is drumming her fingers against the side of the cash register and another crowd of teenagers are behind us.

“I’ll have…” I reach into the fridge that’s on the customer side of the counter and grab the first thing my hand touches. “This Snapple. This Diet Pink Lemonade Snapple. Yeah, that’s it.”

The counterperson looks at me in disgust. If she were a guy, I’ll bet she wouldn’t be looking at me that way. If she were a guy, she’d probably think I was hysterical. But no.

“You spent all that time,” she says, dripping contempt, “deciding to just have a Snapple?”

“
No
, I’m not
just
having a Snapple. I’m also having a – ” and then inspiration strikes – “salad!” Salads don’t smell as much as sandwiches do, right? Or at least they don’t if you don’t really put anything smelly in them.

“What do you want in your salad?” the counterperson says, bored, as she takes out a plastic container.

“Lettuce,” I say decisively. Everyone knows lettuce doesn’t smell. It’s the ultimate safe kiss food.

“What else?” the counterperson asks.

What else? What else can I put in that’s not offensive?
“Tomatoes,” I finally decide. Everybody loves tomatoes, or at least tomato flavoring, on pizzas and pastas, stuff like that. Tomatoes are safe.

“What else?” the counterperson asks.

“Nothing,” I say because I know onions and peppers are out and while I happen to like olives, I’m sensitive enough to know that not everyone does.

“Dressing?” the counterperson asks.

Is there a dressing in the entire world that doesn’t have some kind of strong smell or taste to it?

“None,” I say.

“Great,” the counterperson says and rings up our order. “One Diet Pink Lemonade Snapple, one salad and one foot-long Italian combo.”

“Wait,” I say. “I didn’t order – ”

“That’s mine,” Helen says, eyes large as she reaches past me to grab her sandwich.

I pay for the food and find us a table.

“Is this OK?” I ask.

Helen looks around the room and sees what I see, that every table is pretty much the same here. It’s a Subway.

“It’s fine,” she says.

We sit, and she starts to eat. And eat and eat and eat.

Me, I just enjoy watching her. Like I said, I’d rather be with a woman who eats than one who doesn’t. If my choice is between a thin woman who doesn’t eat and a less-than-thin woman who enjoys her food without guilt, there’s not even a contest.

Between bites of her sandwich, Helen helps herself to generous gulps of my Snapple. She’s so busy eating, and I’m so busy watching, there’s no opportunity for talking.

And now I’m wondering, worrying really: Is the fact that she ordered the foot-long Italian combo – with what looks like extra onions, I might add – some kind of female signal that there will be absolutely
no
chance of kissing tonight? Or maybe, it’s just that she’s hungry and likes the Italian combo, and she’ll be offended if I
don’t
try to kiss her? But what if
that’s
the wrong thing, she gets grossed out by me trying to kiss her – knowing she has onion breath – and gets mad that I couldn’t figure that out on my own? Or maybe it would just embarrass her and –

“You’re not eating?” she asks, cutting into my kiss quandary and gesturing at my untouched salad with the remainder of her sandwich.

I look at the unappetizing salad: lettuce, tomato, no dressing.

“I guess I’m not hungry after all,” I say.

She pops the last bite into her mouth, balls up the wax paper the sandwich came in, gets up and tosses it in the trash.

“Before we hit the road…” she says, pointing at the restroom door.

As I watch her walk through the door, I think that if she had a girlfriend with her, she could take that girlfriend with her into the tiny bathroom and then the two of them could discuss how the evening’s going. I imagine the conversation would go like this:

Girlfriend: Are you having a good time?

Helen: [message unclear]

Girlfriend: What do you think of this guy?

Helen: [message unclear]

Girlfriend: I mean, c’mon. The tux, that so-called ‘opera’, that salad…

Helen: [message unclear]

With all the unclear messages, I turn my attention to the TV that’s suspended from a corner of the ceiling. There’s one of those cops shows on and the minute the cops read some guy his rights, the poor guy starts confessing everything, just spilling his guts.

Without thinking about what I’m doing, just as if I were at home watching with Sam, out loud I say, “Exercise your rights, idiot. Wait for a lawyer. If you don’t, the prosecutor will – ”

“What’s that?” Helen asks, coming up behind me.

“Oh,” I say, turning to face her. “Nothing. I was just… Hey, did I ever compliment you on your outfit tonight?”

“No.” She gives me a funny look. “If you had, I’m fairly certain I would remember.”

“Well, you do. Look nice, I mean. I mean I like your outfit. That sweater, plus you were smart enough to check out the website so you knew to wear jeans and sneakers… So, ready to go?”

Girlfriend: The guy’s a douche, Helen.

Helen: [message unclear]

* * *

We get back into the Porsche, I key the ignition, turn on the radio to its one station expecting to hear more Golden Earring or Fleetwood Mac and…

Nothing.

OK, Smith, it’s show time, time to put into practice Maury’s advice to ask questions because that’s what women like: for you to show an interest in them. But where to start, where to start…

“What’s your favorite color?” I ask out of the blue.

“Blue,” she says right away, then quickly adds, “no, green. I got in the habit of saying blue because people always say blue, but really, it’s green.”

“Why did you get into the law?”

“Because I like it. I like seeing justice done, when it works out that way.”

“What’s your favorite musical group?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Do you watch
American Idol
?”

“No.”

“What are your hobbies? What do you like to do when you’re not working?”

“I like to – ” She stops for a minute, making me wonder what she was going to say, before she says, “I like to read.”

“If you could be any animal other than a human, what would you be?”

She laughs, but when I glance over at her, in the dark of the car I can’t tell if it’s an amused laugh or a God-you-are-an-idiot laugh or maybe somewhere in between.

“Who are you,” she asks, still laughing, “the D.A.?”

That’s when I realize that maybe I’m executing Maury’s advice incorrectly. Maybe instead of throwing a bunch of random questions at her that she can just give short answers to, I should pick one topic to focus on.

“Sorry,” I say, feeling embarrassed. “I guess I just figured that with the radio not working at all, it might be nice to take the time to get to know each other a bit better.”

“That could be good,” she allows.

“So.” I try to think of something to talk about that will invite more than a yes/no answer, finally settling on…

“Why don’t you tell me about your family.”

“Oh gosh.” She laughs. “Where to start! OK, first, I’m the youngest. I have five older brothers.”

“Wow,” I say, “that must be…” I’m about to say “excellent,” because for me it would’ve been – it’d be practically like having your own sports team all under one roof! But then I realize for a girl that might not be so excellent, that it might feel lonely or as though life is all one-sided against you. “That must have been difficult for you at times,” I say in what I hope is a solemn or sympathetic voice.

“Are you kidding me?” She laughs again. “It was excellent. No one outside of the family ever dared pick on me. It was like I had my own little squad of enforcers. Well, not so little. Plus, they always got into so much trouble, doing things first, that by the time I got around to doing things, my parents thought it was mild in comparison or at least old hat.”

“Are your parents both still around?”

“Oh yes. They still live in the same house I grew up in.”

As she proceeds to tell me about what her parents were like when she was growing up and what they’re like now, about her five older brothers and some of the scrapes they used to get into, I’m thinking: This is good. It’s like we’re having a real conversation.

“Having all those guys in the house,” I say, disguising the glimmer of hope I’m feeling, “there must have been a lot of interest in sports, huh?”

“You’re not kidding.” She laughs. “The TV was permanently tuned to ESPN. Like the radio in your car with that ‘80s music – there was no other station.”

“So then you must, oh, I don’t know,
like
sports? I mean, except for the Yankees of course.”

All the humor goes out of her voice. “No,” she says abruptly, “not at all. I listened to enough of that growing up. Anyway, being the only girl in the family besides Mom, I was always encouraged to be, you know, girly.” Before I can ask any further questions, she turns the tables. “What about you? Tell me about your family.”

Oh, geez. I didn’t know that having a real conversation meant that
I
was actually going to have to answer questions and talk about myself.

“Well,” I begin, and before I know it, I’m telling her about my mother dying right after birth, about Big John raising me and then developing MS later on.

“Your dad sounds sweet,” she says. She probably says that because I left out the part about Big John loving chili and its aftereffects. “But growing up without any women in the house, with no female influence, you must be a real man’s man.”

“Me?” I make a face like ‘don’t be ridiculous’ until I realize it’s the left side of my face that’s smirking and that I’m facing the road. “I’m not a man’s man. I’m a lady’s man.” No, that doesn’t sound right. “I mean I did have a female influence. I had Aunt Alfresca – that would be my mother’s sister – the most female female you ever want to meet.”
Not
. Sure, Aunt Alfresca cooked, but guys in the Mafia and the fire department cook too, and Aunt Alfresca was always the least female female in the world. Honestly, the woman was a human howitzer.

But none of that matters now because I’m making up stories about what it was like growing up with Aunt Alfresca, learning how to make cookies and all that crap that never happened and Helen’s actually
laughing
at my stories. And then she’s telling me stories about growing up with five brothers and how she used to get them to play Tea Party with her, which doesn’t sound like it could be either funny or interesting and yet when Helen tells it, somehow it’s both. And then we start talking about the night we’ve just had and one of us, I don’t even remember which now, coins the phrase Barn Opera, and before you know it we’re both laughing and I’m not even self-conscious anymore as we drive and laugh into the night.

Best. Date. Ever.

* * *

But then I screw it all up when we arrive in front of her house and I walk her to the door. Oh, I handle the mechanics of it all OK. I get around to her side of the car in time to open the door for her, I manage to walk beside her up the path without tripping over my own two Douglas Fairbanks Jr. shiny shoes. But when we get to the door?

“So, I really had a good time,” I say.

Not exactly witty repartee, but nothing offensive either.

“It was fun,” she says, back to the door. “Do you want to…” She jerks her thumb over her shoulder.

“No, I’m good,” I say hurriedly, and immediately realize how wrong that sounds. “I mean, I’d love to come in, but I still have another long drive ahead of me. I’ve already done a lot of driving tonight. You know, something like five hours of it.”

God, I sound like a blathering idiot. Of course I’d love to go inside with her, but I’m too worried. I’ve made it this far without alienating this woman. I just want one night where I don’t blow anything. And if I go inside, I might louse that up.

“So,” she says, looking up at me expectantly.

This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, hoping for all night. This is why I didn’t eat that Italian combo, even if she did. Because this is the moment when I get to kiss the girl.

But what do I do instead?

I put out my hand and say, “So, um, thanks.”

She shakes my hand. “You’re welcome.”

Why didn’t I kiss her? I think as I walk back to my rental car, as I hear the sound of her door quietly clicking shut behind me. Because if I kissed her, what if I loused
that
up? What if she didn’t like the way I kissed and she never wanted to see me again? What if the kiss was the thing that actually blew it all, the thing that ruined this imperfectly perfect night?