THE BRO-MAGNET (6 page)

Bonus Exhibit
: I’m at Shea Stadium, back when it was still called Shea Stadium. My team’s just actually won a game after a horrendous dry spell and I do something I’ve always wanted to do, my whole life. I wait until the stadium’s nearly all cleared out and when there’s practically no one left but the cleanup crew, I vault down the field and run the bases.

The cop – of course, there has to be a cop – tries to stop me as I near home plate, but since this has been a lifelong dream, I circle around him and tag home before letting him cuff me.

Just in case you don’t know this, it’s against the law to do what I just did.

But as I’m standing there in cuffs, the cop and me get to talking, one thing leads to another, turns out we have a lot in common, he’s always longed to run the bases at Shea too, plus he laughs again when he recalls that as I ran the bases I used a running style that, let’s just say I always refer to it as The Funny Run.

The cop tells me that normally he hauls people in for doing what I just did, that he should haul
me
in. But then he just uncuffs me instead.

“That run.” He chuckles again. “And hey, it’s just me here and the grounds crew. We’re all overworked and underpaid and we almost never get anything to laugh at, not like that.”

The Funny Run is a crowd-pleaser.

There’s just one problem. While the cop might think I’m funny enough to let go, while the cleanup and grounds crew might think I’m hysterical, my date does not find my running the bases and nearly getting arrested to be humorous at all.

That’s right. I did all this while on a date.

Guy’s Verdict
:

Never mind. I think you get the picture by now. We don’t even need to get into Bonus Exhibit 2, the one in which I commandeer one of those construction caterpillars on Halloween while wearing a vampire costume, driving it down the center of the Merritt Parkway with my black cape flying behind me.

Suffice it to say that in a world where the average masculine aspiration could be summed up as, “Women want me, men want to be me” – an aspiration I might share if I felt I had any control over such things – what I’ve managed to achieve instead is more like, “Women don’t want me, men want to be with me.”

And that, Dear Jury, all of the above, would fall under the heading of Nature.

Apparently it’s just my nature to be a man’s man.

They say one of the definitions of insanity is doing the same exact thing over and over again, hoping to get a different result. I’ve spent my whole life doing the same thing over and over again, which is essentially to be myself – you know how everyone always says to “just be yourself” – hoping that
this
time it’ll work out with some girl even though it never has in the past.

Just being myself and hoping for a different outcome, over and over again – could this mean I’m insane?

I step out my front door the same time as Sam steps out of hers. There’s a light snow falling that should stop as soon as the temperature rises a bit, and Sam pulls the fur-trimmed parka hood over her head as we trudge side by side to the work truck. It still says Big John’s on the side even though it’s my business now. I don’t have the heart to change it. Neither of us says a word until we’re buckled in and I turn the radio on to my favorite station, The Wave, which is “All Sports All The Time,” as the saying goes.

“You and Renee make up yet?” I say.

“Pfft.”

“I’ll take that as a no. Ready to hit it?”

“Ah, Mondays,” Sam says in response.

* * *

A lot of people I know who do work on houses – construction, window washing, masons, other house painters – like to get to work as early as possible. Me, I tell customers nine-thirty but it’s always more like ten, ten-thirty by the time I arrive. My intentions are good, but it’s a long drive from Danbury to most of my jobs in the wealthier part of Fairfield County, plus there’s traffic to consider and always a bunch of stops to make before really getting going.
First stop: the paint supply store to get some tape and other supplies. Sam loves to tease me about this.

“It’s crazy,” she’s pointed out to me more than once. “Why don’t you buy in bulk? You run your business like you could be quitting and going on to do something else any second.”
“Well,” I like to say back, “you never know,” even though I’ve been doing this for eleven years now and will likely do it until I’m too decrepit to stand on a ladder anymore. It’s the principle of the thing. And sure, I guess I could buy a few things in bulk at the colossal hardware store, but it’s good to support the little guy. Seeing me come in every day helps Pete believe his business is still going strong.

After the paint supply store, it’s time for Leo’s Coffee Shop right next door.

“You coming?” I ask Sam as I hop out of the truck.
“Nah,” she says. “Just get me the usual.”

“OK,” I say, leaning in and putting the key back in the ignition, giving it a turn. “I’ll leave the heat on for you,” I say against the sound of The Wave surging back as the engine turns back on.

Leo’s Coffee Shop is so old – this is where, if I were a stand-up comic, the crowd would shout back, “How old is it?” But the truth is, I got no punch line. It’s just really old. Like Leo.

There’re two people waiting in line at the counter and another two at a table in the corner. Add me, and that makes five simultaneous customers. Business, for Leo’s, is booming. Leo must be stoked.

As I wait my turn I pick up a copy of the
Post
, turn it over to the sports pages.

“What can I do you for?” Leo asks when it’s finally my turn.

“The usual,” I say and he pours me a large cup of black. I survey the room. “You’re busy.”

“Yeah,” he says, “it’s a regular rush hour in here. It’s been like this all morning. A few more days like this, and I’ll give those idiots a run for their money.”

By “those idiots,” he means the national chain with their designer coffees that set up shop down the street when I was still in high school, stealing most of Leo’s customers. I could go there too, but I don’t like designer coffee and I do like Leo.

“That’s right,” I say. “You’ll get ‘em yet. It’s just a matter of time.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Leo nods emphatically. “The girl with you today?”

“Oh, right. I almost forgot. Yeah, give me another large, but don’t forget to add extra sugar and extra cream. Oh, and if you’ve got any chocolate syrup kicking around – ”

“I know, I know.” Leo moves to make Sam’s coffee. Leo refuses to put any kind of syrup in his customers’ coffee – “Syrup is for sundaes,” he likes to say – but he’ll do it for Sam.

“Oh, and I need something to go with that,” I say.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something sugary. Whatever you’ve got that’s got a ton of frosting on it.”

Whenever Sam drinks, which is often, she likes something sweet the next day. She says it doesn’t really help with the hangover. It just makes her happier.

Leo brings me Sam’s coffee and puts it in a bag along with a carrot cake muffin that’s got about an inch of frosting on top. He nods his head at the newspaper. “So what do you think of the Mets’ chances this year?”

“Oh, geez,” I say. “Spring training hasn’t even started yet and already there’s this nonsense, all this fuss they’re making about Beltran’s unauthorized off-season operation. Do they really think this’ll help matters any?”

“I know, right? But what do you think of their chances?”
“Well, a guy can always dream – ”

“But they’ll still break your heart. It’s the Brooklyn Dodgers all over again.”

Minus the part about Beltran, Leo and I have this same conversation, almost word for word, every morning.

I hear a polite cough behind me and I turn to see that another customer’s come in.

“Oops, sorry,” I say to Leo. “Better get out of your way. Looks like you’ve got another rush.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Leo calls after me, his daily warning.

“I wouldn’t even dream of trying!” I call back. I’m not even sure what that means exactly, in this context. It’s just what I always say to Leo. Every day.

Back in the truck, it’s nice and toasty now, but…

“What the fuck, Sam?” In my absence, she’s slipped a CD on. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you switch off The Wave in favor of some chick music?”

“What did you expect me to do? Sit here listening to
your
stupid sports station while I freeze my butt off?”

“But you love sports.”

“I know but I love to
watch
sports. I don’t need to hear people talk about it every second.”

“Here’s your stuff.” I hand her the bag.

She peeks inside. “Ooh! Frosting!”

“You’re welcome.” I key the ignition, pull out of the parking lot, wonder how long I have to listen to this music before I can switch it off and turn The Wave back on.

Actually, the music’s not too bad.

“Who is that?”
“Allison Iraheta.”

“You say that like it should mean something to me.”

“She came in fourth on
American Idol
last season.”

“Hey, wasn’t that CD you slipped in last week by someone else who came in fourth on a previous season?”

“So?”

“What’s with you and people who come in fourth?”

“Four is my numerology number.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“Plus, I like losers.” I glance over. She’s got frosting on the tip of her nose and she’s giving me a meaningful look. “Sometimes, in their own way, they wind up winning.”

“Deep, Sam. Really deep.” 

* * *

We’ve been at the job for about a half hour, just taping so far. I’ve got my earbuds in, listening to The Wave. They’re still talking about the Beltran thing, but now they’re taking callers. I expect to hear some guy going on about the Mets but it’s a woman caller.

Huh. The Wave almost never gets women callers. It’s not like there’s a written law or anything but…

“They did it without Washington and Jenkins,” she says and immediately I know she’s talking about the Jets, not the Mets. I also immediately know that she has a sexy voice. “Can you imagine what they’ll do under Ryan next season?”

I can. And like Sexy Caller, I’m excited about the Jets’ prospects too. No one expected anything from them last season – rookie coach, rookie quarterback, plus, you know, they’re the Jets, they’re supposed to break your heart even worse than the Mets. You have to learn to like the pain of defeat or you’ll go crazy. But sometime last fall, something changed. Even though everyone still expected the Jets to lose every week, they kept winning to the point where it felt like it wouldn’t matter if they lost a game. They’d already won.

“Actually,” Stanley, one of the co-hosts of The Wave cuts off Sexy Caller, “we were focusing on the Mets this morning.”

But Sexy Caller’s not having any. “I remember how you laughed at Ryan last fall,” she goes on. “What did you call his color-coding system again? ‘Football for Preschoolers’? I just think you should man up and admit – ”

But I never learn what she wants Stanley to admit because there’s a tap on my shoulder.

Fucking Sam. She’s probably interrupting The Wave to have me listen to some Allison Iraheta song.

But when I turn around, it’s not Sam. It’s Steve Miller and he’s standing there in his bathrobe, holding a big mug of coffee, dark hair disheveled, dark eyes looking like he had a rough night. This is not the first time I’ve seen him in his bathrobe looking like this.

“Oh, Mr. Miller.” I take out my earbuds. “Hi.”

“It’s Steve. How many times are you going to paint my dining room before I convince you to call me Steve?”

“Steve. Right.”

This first-name basis thing is both good and bad. It’s good because I’m pretty sure he’s a year or two younger than me, so it always feels weird calling him Mister. But it’s weird calling him Steve because, well, he’s a lawyer and I’m doing work in his house. I don’t really care about the lawyer thing so much – after all, I could have been one if I hadn’t agreed to go into business with my dad – but one thing Big John always instilled in me is that it’s important not to get too familiar with customers so as to maintain a more professional business relationship. Of course, some of my customers don’t make this too easy.

“Katie let you in all right?” he asks, referring to his wife, who I’ve never seen looking rumpled in a bathrobe and who always gets off to work on time. 

“Yup,” I say, self-evidently, “we’re here.”

“And she got off to work OK?” Before I can even nod, he adds, “Good, good.” He gestures at my earbuds with his mug. “What are you listening to?”

“The Wave.”

His eyes light up. “I
love
that show! What are they saying about the Mets’ chances this year?”

“Oh, you know,” I say, and I launch into pretty much everything I said to Leo back at the coffee shop, including the stuff about Beltran.

“That sucks,” he says, very unlawyerly. Then be brightens. “Hey, Johnny, you should come to Opening Day with me. My firm has season tickets.”

Before I can answer, I hear a snort from the other side of the room.

I look over Steve’s shoulder and open my arms in a “What the fuck?” that I direct at Sam. But she just shakes her head and smirks, putting her own earbuds in before going back to taping.

“What was that all about?” Steve asks.

I don’t know and I’ll have to wait until later to find out, but in the meantime I figure I’ll fix Sam’s wagon.

Laying my finger next to one nostril, in a hushed voice I confide, “Major coke problem.”

I can’t believe I said that, just to get back at Sam. What kind of employer would say such a thing about an employee? Big John would never say that to a customer about me. But Steve doesn’t seem bothered by my indiscretion.

“Oh, that’s sad,” he says. “Such a pretty girl. Beautiful, really.” A thoughtful look crosses his face. “You two ever…”

It takes me a while to realize what he’s getting at here, and when I do…

“
Sam?
” I shake my head vehemently. “God no. She hits for the other team.”