THE BRO-MAGNET (23 page)

Before this moment, I tried to convince myself that other conversations were going on in the room, that people were not hanging on my every word. Well, allow me to disabuse myself of that notion.

“You not only know her favorite color,” Drew says, “you also know the
history
of her favorite color?”

“Well, I don’t know as that I’d put it quite like – ”

“This is getting serious,” Stacy says. Then she punches Drew in the shoulder. “Do you even know my favorite color?”

“Reddish-purple,” Drew says proudly.

Stacey looks slightly mollified then her eyes narrow. “And before that? My favorite color before reddish-purple?”

Drew looks panicked. “Canary yellow?”

“
Sunshine
yellow.” Stacy punches him again. “Schmuck. You don’t know the
history
, not like Johnny does with Helen.”

I feel kind of bad for Drew’s shoulder, but it’s nice having the spotlight taken off me, however briefly, that spotlight returning when Steve says:

“I’m sorry, I wish I could help you out. But you already know more about Helen than I could ever tell you, what with your knowing the history of her favorite color and all.”

“Well, what about that other guy she’s seeing too? That friend of yours, Monte Carlo?”

“Hold on here,” Aunt Alfresca says. “That bitch is stepping out on you already?”

“She’s not a bitch,” I say, “and I don’t think you can call it stepping out. I mean, I’ve only taken her out a few times. It’s not like we’re married or something.”

“Are you
thinking
about marrying her?” Sam says. “This is more serious than I thought.”

I ignore Sam.

“Seriously, Steve,” I say, “what do you know about Helen and Monte Carlo?”

Suddenly Steve looks uncomfortable. A minute ago he was all happy to help, even if he couldn’t, but now he’s wary.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” he says. “What are you talking about?”

“One time when I was painting Helen’s house, back before I took her out the first time. We’re getting along just fine and all of a sudden she changes her clothes, next thing I know I look out the window and she’s getting into a car with your pal Monte Carlo from Jersey. Then, the day after I took her to the opera, I called to see if she wanted to do anything that day and she said she was busy. I figured she must have had another date with him.”

“What days were this?” Steve wants to know.

“What days? I don’t know.” I start doing the math. “Let’s see… The time I was painting, today’s the twenty-four-day anniversary from the day I painted that room. And the other? Today’s the seventeen-day anniversary from when I took her to the Barn Opera, so the day after would have been sixteen days ago.”

“Oh my God,” Stacy says in a hushed voice, “Johnny’s remembering significant dates.” She looks at her husband. “Do you still remember all our significant dates?”

Drew takes his sore shoulder and quickly excuses himself to the bathroom.

“Actually,” Steve says, “I meant days of the week. Do you remember what days of the week those things happened on?”

I don’t even need to think about this one. “The first time was a Saturday and the second was a Sunday.”

“Oh,” Steve says, looking relieved but still wary. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing. I’m sure there’s nothing romantic about it in the slightest.”

“How can you be so sure? You said you don’t really know Helen outside of work.”

“True, but for one thing, if something were going on between Helen and Monte, he’d be bragging to me about it. And for another, I’m sure they were just doing lawyer stuff together.”

“Lawyer stuff? On the weekend?”

“Yeah. You know how it is. We’re all colleagues. And sometimes we need to get together and just talk over cases and, you know, lawyer stuff.”

“But what kind of cases would they have to discuss? He practices in a different state plus they’re on other sides of the law.”

“Well, see, that’s what makes it ideal. Them being from different states, they can just practice on each other – you know, do a little moot court.”

Even Steve’s wife Katie is looking at him like he’s nuts with this one. “Really, Steven. You say they’re doing a little moot court?”

Steve puts his hands out, palms up. “It’s the truth. I swear.”

“It sounds like things are going well for you,” Alice says. “I’m glad. But you need to kick it up another notch so you don’t lose momentum.”

“How do I do that, kick it up another notch? I’ve already taken her to the Barn Opera and the circus/carnival.”

“I agree, the Barn Opera does sound as though it would be tough to beat.”

I can’t tell if Alice is serious or if she’s mocking me.

“So what do you suggest?” I ask.

“Invite her to dinner,” Alice suggests. “Women love it when a guy invites them to dinner.”

“You mean like a restaurant?”

“No, I mean here. Any guy can take a woman to a restaurant. But when you invite a woman to dinner and then actually prepare the meal for her, now
that’s
something special. Just don’t make spaghetti. Guys who think they can win a woman over with a plate of spaghetti are just dreaming.”

“Invite her to dinner!” Sam says.

“Invite her to dinner!” Big John says.

Before I know it, everyone’s saying it.

“What are you people,” I say, “a Greek chorus made up of mice? I swear I feel like I’m in one of those movies where there’s a whole bunch of brain-challenged mice always screaming stupid things.”  

“Hey, don’t insult us,” Billy says. “We’re all just trying to help.”

“And you need a
lot
of help,” Alice says.

“OK, fine. Say I do invite her over for dinner. What do I prepare if I’m not going to be making spaghetti?”

“Oh, no no no no no.” Alice wags a finger at me. “No way are you ready to discuss the menu yet. First, you’ve got to prep this place.”

What’s she talking about? You prep a person for surgery. You prep for an exam. You prep a wall before painting it. But how do you prep a condo for a dinner date?

“What are you talking about?” I say.

“Well,” Alice says, as though the answer’s obvious, “you can’t invite a woman to dinner at a place that looks like
this
.”

“Absolutely not.” Stacy shakes her head.

“Any woman in her right mind would run for the hills,” Aunt Alfresca says.

I look around my humble abode.

“What’s wrong with this place?” I ask.

I look at Sam for support, but she just shrugs, clueless. “I don’t see anything wrong with it,” she says.

“Try
everything
,” Alice says.

“
Everything
?” I echo. “Isn’t that a little extreme?”

“Not even close to being extreme,” Alice says. “The paint job, the furniture, the lighting fixtures – everything’s got to go.”

“What’s wrong with the paint job?” I feel particularly sensitive about this. I mean, paint: it’s who I am. And now it’s like she’s telling me it’s who I’m not, like telling a surgeon he just removed the wrong organ. Paint is one thing I know. Maybe Alice is right about everything else, but she’s got to be wrong about this.

“It’s not the
job
. It’s the colors. You need colors that will say, ‘I’m not just a guy who regards where I live like it’s a large dorm room, a way station to some more important place in life that I may never get to. I’m a guy who knows how to make anywhere I live a home. I’m strong, sturdy, sensitive, fun and I know how to make a mean shrimp scampi.’ Actually, I was going to say beef bourguignon – you know, the whole Julia Child craze; if you made her beef bourguignon, she’d be naked before dessert – but I know how you feel about meat.”

I’m speechless. I mean, I always knew paint made a statement, of course I did, but I always thought it made one statement per color, not this smorgasbord that Alice is describing. How could I have been so wrong about something so essential to my being?

“Seriously?” I say. “The right paint color can say all that?”

“Well, not on its own,” Alice concedes. “That’s an awful lot to expect from a single color. But when combined with the right furniture choices – tasteful pieces that don’t say, ‘This is here because I watch so much sports on TV’ – and the right accessories…”

Alice proceeds to take me on a tour of my own home.

Of the main floor bathroom, she says, “You need a soap dispenser here. Every time I come over here and use the bathroom, I wonder, ‘How am I supposed to wash my hands? This guy doesn’t believe in soap.’”

In the kitchen, she says, “Paper towels are fine for spills but they’re not meant to be used for everything. You need real napkins for when you eat and dishtowels. Some soap would be good in here too. Consider getting a scourer that doesn’t look like you’ve had it for ten years. That thing is gross, Johnny.”

She shows me how none of the rugs I have are any good (“Seriously? A football-shaped area carpet with ‘Go, Jets!’ on it? How old are you again?”) and how all the things hung on the walls have to go (“Try to think beyond poster art. I know it will be hard for you, but just try.”)

Her suggestions for my bedroom – “just in case” – are so extensive, I feel compelled to take notes.

And then we get to the basement.

“Really? I’ve got to do the basement too?”

“Everything,” Alice says firmly. “What if she comes down here for some reason? It’ll be awful for her after seeing what you’re going to do with the rest of the place – everything being all normal and then discovering this. It’ll be like in
Psycho
when they look in the basement and there’s skeleton Mom in her housedress.”

Alice looks around the room. “The sports memorabilia? Outta here. The dogs-playing-poker painting? Outta here. The chandelier with all the hula girls for lights?”

“Not the chandelier with all the hula girls for lights!” Steve interjects. “But I love that thing!”

Much as I love that thing too, even I can see that a woman might not appreciate its appeal.

“I get it,” I say. “Outta here. I suppose next you’re going to tell me that the pool table’s gotta go too?”

Alice considers this one. “Nah, the pool table can stay. It’s the right kind of manly. You know, Paul Newman,
Color of Money
and everything. But everything else?”

“I get it,” I say again. “Outta here.”

We all troop back upstairs. And as I’m trooping, I’m thinking of all the things I have to do before I can invite Helen over for dinner, before I can kick things up a notch. Who knew a guy had to do so much,
change
so much, just to get the girl?

“Thanks for all the help,” I tell Alice once we’re back in the living room.

“Don’t thank me. I’m doing it for me, not you.”

“How’s that?”

“The way I figure it, the happier you are in your world, the less I have to see you in mine.”

“Oh. Well, whatever the reason, thanks anyway.”

“One other thing,” Alice says.

“Hmm?”

“You need to get a cat.”

“A cat?”

“Women love cats.”

“Word,” Billy says. “A cat is the way to any woman’s heart.”

“I am
not
getting a cat,” I vow.

“And that Christmas tree,” Alice says. “It’s June. That thing’s got to go or she’ll think you’re a freak.”

“Really? The Christmas tree?”

“You said you were leaving it up until something good happens,” Sam says.

“True.”

“So maybe you meeting someone you like enough to have over for a dinner you’re actually going to prepare is that good thing?”

“Aren’t we ever going to have cake?” Big John says.

“Throw pillows, Johnny? Really?” Sam says.

“I know, right? But they’re on The List.”

The List is a sheet Alice foisted on me, things she felt I needed to get to properly decorate my place so Helen will find me to be the perfect male, and Sam and me are in Home Goods.

“So what do you think?” I start holding up pillows for Sam’s inspection. “The red? The green? The gold?”

“Definitely not the red. With the new green couch it’ll look too much like Christmas or something, like you’re obsessed with the holiday, like you’re the kind of guy who leaves his Christmas tree up for months after the fact just waiting for something good to happen – like, you know, a freak.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“And not the green either. It’s the wrong green. It’ll clash with the couch.”

“So the gold then?’

“Definitely.”

“Velvet stripes, braided cord or plain silk with tassels?”

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

“I know, right? Still, velvet stripes, brai – ”

“All three. I don’t know much about decorating, but I’m fairly certain that since people always talk about ‘throw pillows’ plural, not ‘throw pillow’ singular, if you don’t get at least three you’ll look like you don’t really know what you’re doing, plus chintzy.”

“Thanks, that actually sounds like good advice.”

I wrap my arms around all three pillows, which takes some doing.

“You know,” Sam says, picking up one of the red ones, “maybe I should pick up a couple of these. In case I get lucky this weekend.”

“What’s going on this weekend? Did I miss something?”

Well, did I? I have been pretty obsessed with the Helen situation lately. Wars could start and end, even crazier stuff could happen like, I don’t know, Big John and Aunt Alfresca falling in love, and it would all totally zoom right over my head.

“No, you didn’t miss anything,” Sam says, “because I didn’t say anything about it before. I was kind of worried you’d laugh at me.”

“Oh, good. I get a chance to laugh at you for a change? I definitely want to hear this.”

“I’ve decided to try speed-dating.”

Sam waits.

“You’re not laughing,” Sam says.

“Maybe because I don’t think it’s funny. Worrisome, maybe, but not funny.”

“Why worrisome?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t it a little shallow, interviewing a whole bunch of people in rapid succession in the hopes of finding a spark?”

“Nah, I’m thinking more like it’s super-efficient. I’ll be able to talk to forty women in two hours. Normally it’d take me forty separate trips to the bar to accomplish so much. I’m getting older. I’ve done slow dating and that hasn’t worked out for me, so I figure why not try something with a little speed? And if I have nothing to show for it at the end of the night, I will have wasted only one night, not forty.”