THE BRO-MAGNET (27 page)

A person might not think a person could get such a quick buzz from something called Prosecco, but between the sparkling white Italian wine and the hot July sun…

By the time another woman shows up at the cookout, I’m pretty confused. This woman looks familiar, but I can’t place her. Did I ever date her briefly? Pick her up at a bar, have sex with her and then when I called the next day to ask her out, she said no thanks?

“John,” Helen says, “I’d like you to meet my best friend, Carla.”

Shit, I hope I never dated her or slept with her. This could get awkward.

“Carla was with me that day at the Yankees game,” Helen adds.

Phew
. That’s where I know her from. It’s Rumpled Suit.

Now it’s Carla’s turn to look surprised as she shakes my hand, her grip like a baccala.

“This isn’t the guy,” she says.

What guy?

“The first time you went out with him,” Carla goes on, “you told me it was one of the guys from the game and you described him to me. The one you described was one of the suits.”

Of course. Carla must be talking about Monte Carlo. That time I was painting Helen’s house and I saw her get in the car to go someplace with him. Helen must have told Carla about that and then when Helen went out on a date with me and kept going out with me, Carla must have thought she was always talking about the same guy. Of course, Helen doesn’t even know I know that she went out with Monte Carlo.

“You’re right,” I say. “I was at the game, but I did not have a suit on.”

“I know,” Carla says. “You were the one with the hot dogs. And the beer.”

“That’s right,” Helen says, turning to me with a question on her face. “I forgot about that part, you drinking beer that day. But you don’t even like beer. You prefer wine, like me.”

“That’s true,” I say, rushing to cover, “but just like I don’t eat meat and yet I’ll eat it at someone else’s house or at the ballpark, because it’s the thing to do, I drink beer the few times I’m at the ballpark because
that’s
the thing to do.”

“Riiiiiight,” Carla says, and I can tell she doesn’t believe me, nor does she particularly seem to like me as she scans the gathering, as though looking for someone more interesting to talk to.

I’ve been known to have that effect on most women.

The group that have been playing tag football disassemble – and may I say how proud of myself I am for thinking up a word like disassemble when I’ve got a Prosecco head – as the brothers head toward the sidelines in a herd, passing by us and stopping only long enough to grab burgers and dogs from the platter Helen’s father has set up by the grill and more beers from the cooler.

“Hey, Hel,” Frankie calls over. Hel – I’ve never heard anyone call her that before, probably because I never thought to. “The game’s about to start. Aren’t you coming?”

Helen looks at her oldest brother like he’s slipped a screw. “Are you crazy? You know I’m not interested in that stuff.”

“Right,” Frankie says, “I forgot for a moment.” He turns to me. “How about you, John. You gonna watch with us? Leave the women to talk out here about what Neanderthals we all are?”

How much do I want to say yes right now? Oh, not to the women-talking-about-us-being-Neanderthals part. The other part. The
baseball
part. And for more than one reason. I haven’t missed an All-Star Game for as long as I can remember
and
I’ve already turned down an offer to play tag football and accepted sparkling white wine over beer – bad enough I’m drinking wine, but does it have to sparkle? If I refuse to watch the game on top of that, won’t Helen’s brothers think I’m a douche? And isn’t part of the purpose of my being here today to get them to like me? But if I go with the guys, Helen might think I’m interested in that stuff, which of course I am, and then –

I take so long internally debating the pros and cons, that Frankie feels the need to prod me along by saying, “The All-Star Game?” As if I might not know what game they’re all going to watch.
As if
. “You know,” he adds, “baseball?”

Ouch
.

“No, thanks,” I say at last. “I’m not really interested in all that stuff either.”  

“Suit yourself.” Frankie shrugs and jogs toward the house, Frank Senior falling in behind him.

Yes, that is what I’m doing. I’m suiting myself.

* * *

So as the Troy boys hang in the house, watching the game, only coming outside when they need more food or beer, I hang with the ladies, drinking my Prosecco. When they talk fashion, I agree that the new fall line of colors looks promising, particularly the emphasis on forest green. When they talk recipes, I share my disaster story about the shrimp and the green onions. The women all think this is hysterical, charming even. For a brief time, I even hold onto Helen’s great-aunt’s ball of yarn for her while she knits. Who knits outside in the summer?

When I start talking knowledgably about GH – a show I’ve become addicted to, I might add – the group of gals practically cream themselves.

There’s also a lot of talk about the upcoming wedding between Mary Agnes and Frankie, just three months away.

“It’s in October,” Mary Agnes tells me. “It’ll be on the seventh game of the World Series if it goes to seven games.”

I comment not at all at this, inside thinking: What a sacrilege!

“Frankie was worried about the date at first,” Mary Agnes goes on, “but that date is my lucky number and, besides, there’s no way the Mets are going all the way this year.”

Well, she’s right about that.

And then it hits me: For her to say that, Helen’s brothers must be Mets fans. Man, I wish I were with them right now. What great guys they all seem like to me. Instead, I’m out here with the ladies, who, against all odds, seem fairly impressed with me.

I wonder what the guys think of me?

They probably think I’m a douche.

* * *

In between all the ladylike chatter, Helen keeps popping in and out of the house, I’m guessing to offer the guys more refreshments or to get stuff for her mother.

Now it’s my turn to pop. Who knows how many glasses of Prosecco I’ve had? It’s definitely easier on the bladder than beer, but not by much.

I lean toward Mary Agnes, ask in a whisper, “Where do I go to – ”
Do not say ‘pee’ in front of Helen’s soon-to-be sister-in-law, Johnny,
I remind myself. “That is to say, where is the – ”

Mary Agnes points toward a pair of sliding glass doors. “Through there’s the family room where the boys are watching ‘the big game’” – she says it just like that, using tolerant yet amused air quotes. “You’ll find the little boys’ room across the hall from that. Marlene reserves it for the brothers. The seat’s never down in there.”

“Thanks,” I say.

* * *

I slide the glass door open. Immediately, I’m hit with the sound of a baseball game in progress and the sound of people watching the game yelling at the screen and the sight of…

Helen, perched on the arm of the plaid La-Z-Boy that Frank Senior is sitting in.

She practically leaps up, wiping her hands on her shorts as though to get rid of dirt even though I don’t see any.

They were probably talking about me, the thought occurs. She was probably asking them what they think of me and they were telling her what a douche they think I am.

“We were just talking about plans for Frankie and Mary Agnes’s wedding,” she says, heading straight back outside again.

I so want to check the game out, see what’s going on, but I can’t risk showing any interest in sports, so I just keep my focus straight ahead as I point across the room at the door to the hall. “I’m just here to…”

I cross the room before I can say anything more stupid sounding. God, what a douche am I.

I’m through the door and on the other side of the hall when I hear something that stops me.

“That guy Hel brought to meet us,” one of the brothers says. Since I can’t see him and I don’t know all their voices yet, except for Frankie’s, I can’t tell which one. Dougie? Sammy?

“I know what you’re going to say,” another brother says. “He’s not exactly what I’d have picked out for her.”

“You’ve got that right,” yet another says. “He’s not interested in sports, he’s drinking sparkling wine.”

“He even held Aunt Clara’s ball of yarn,” a fourth says. “I saw him.”

“And yet,” Frankie says, “and yet there’s just something about that guy I really like. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but there’s something there.”

“Exactly,” Frank Senior says, belches. “I think he’s a keeper, the first one she’s ever brought home that is.”

Thank you, Lord!

And now I can pee.

* * *

I’m feeling so good when I come out of the bathroom, in more ways than one, that as I pass back through the family room I let my guard down, just for a second.

Beltran’s at bat and without thinking, out loud I say, “Yes! Beltran! Way to show them that all that pre-season nonsense was just that: nonsense.”

“You know who Beltran is?” Frankie says, startled. “You don’t like baseball and yet you know who Beltran is?”

“His name’s right on the back of his uniform.” I point at the screen, covering quickly. Good thing they’re not Yankees fans. The Yankees don’t wear their names on their uniforms, so how would I ever explain knowing who A-Rod or Jeter is? “Anyone can read that. It’s right there.”

“No no no.” Now Frankie’s turned a one-eighty in his chair to look at me. They’ve all turned one-eighties. “That stuff you said about pre-season. You wouldn’t know that if you didn’t know the game. So how come you’re not watching with us?”

“Truth?” I say, and only as I’m talking do I realize it is the truth. “Normally I would want to watch, but I’d rather be with Helen. And anyway, even though I was barely alive when it happened, the free agency of the late seventies closed the coffin on any drama the All-Star Game might offer and the introduction of inter-league play of a few years ago nailed it shut.”

“Did you hear that?” Sammy says. “ ‘The free agency of the late seventies’? ‘Inter-league play’?”

“Oh, you do
so
know baseball,” Dougie says.

“And did you see the way he threw that football earlier?” Johnny says.

Jerry doesn’t say anything. I’m beginning to realize he’s not much of a talker.

“I know, right?” Frankie says. “I told you there was something about him I liked. Some guys, you can just tell about.”

“Exactly,” Frank Senior says. “I told you he was a keeper.”

I can’t believe he just said that about me again. He even said it right in front of me!

But wait a second…

“Look,” I say nervously, “you can’t tell Helen about this.”

“About what?” Frankie asks.

“Any of it,” I say. “She can’t know I know about Beltran or sports or any of it, let alone that I love it all.”

“How come?” Frank Senior asks.

“Because the me that she likes isn’t supposed to.”

“You know that’s kind of a crazy sentence?” Frankie says. “Like on a whole lot of different levels?”

“I know,” I admit freely. “Be that as it may. And I know I’m asking a lot, too much really. It’s your first time meeting me and I’m already asking you to lie to your sister for me.” I turn to Frank Senior. “And your daughter.”

He shrugs. “Well, it’s not like you’re asking us to lie about something you did with another woman. Now
that
we would have a problem with. But if all you want us to do is keep your interest in sports from her because for some strange reason you think it might put her off…” He shrugs again.

I
love
this man.

“Say no more,” Frankie says. “Like Pop says, you’re a keeper. I’m in.”

“I’m in too,” Sammy says.

“And me,” Dougie says.

“And me,” Johnny says.

Jerry just smiles, but I get the picture. 

And the picture is that it looks like I’m in too.

* * *

“What was that all about?” Helen says when I come back outside. “You were in there for an awful long time.”

“Just doing some male bonding,” I say. “Nothing to worry about. I think your family likes me.” I’m stunned. “I mean, they
really
like me.”

“Why are you so surprised?” Helen smiles. “I’m not.”

And then I become even more stunned as I look at the women in Helen’s family and realize most of them seem to like me too.

“Hey, Aunt Clara,” I say, “you got any foolproof recipes for shrimp?”

* * *

A few hours later, the game’s over – I don’t even know if the National or the American League won and I don’t want to know; it’s just the stupid All-Star Game after all. The Prosecco buzz has faded, the grill is shut down, marshmallows have been toasted and eaten, the fireflies are out and I’m realizing it’s time I shove off before I wear out my welcome.

Helen walks me to my truck, her hand entwined with mine.

“Jerry asked me if we could watch his kids for a few hours on Thursday night while he and Susanne go see an R-rated film. You up for it? I’ll tell him no if you’d rather not.”

I can’t believe Jerry actually talks to somebody, but what I really can’t believe is the words coming out of my mouth when I say:

“Yeah, I’m up for it.” I even smile when I say the words because I
am
up for it. Six months ago, if someone had asked me if I’d ever be up for babysitting someone else’s kids, the answer would have been a resounding
no
. No, I have no experience. No, I don’t think I’d be up for it. But six months ago, I didn’t even have a cat. None of this had happened. Now anything seems possible. I’ll bake cookies with the kids. I’ll teach them how to play kickball. Surely playing kickball well won’t expose me as a sports nut. Everybody plays kickball.

I’m about to kiss the girl when Frankie trots over.

“Hey, John, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Alone?”

“Nah. I guess it’s OK if Hel hears this too. Listen…” Frankie pauses, as though unsure how to begin.

Oh shit, I am so busted. He’s going to tell Helen everything.

“Listen,” Frankie begins again, “I know this is pretty unorthodox, but would you consider being Best Man at my wedding in October?”