The Fussy Virgin

by McGarvey Black

  Lorenzo squinted at his friend.

  “She also had a beagle growing up and so did I,” said Patrick triumphantly. “She’s been to Ireland twice. Maybe that means she’s of Irish descent. She could have fair skin, light eyes, freckles and red hair.”

  “Or, she could be black Irish, with dark hair and eyebrows,” said Lorenzo.

  “I think she lives somewhere in New York or New Jersey.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “When I started to ask her out, she was in the middle of answering and said she ‘lived in New,’ and that’s when the call dropped. She said she had gone to a writer’s group that same day near East Third Street, so it has to be New York, right?”

  “Patrick, there are East Third Streets in half the towns and cities in this country and ‘New’ could be Brunswick, England or Zealand.”

  Patrick hung his head. “If I don’t hear from her by Monday,” he said, “I’m not going to, am I?”

  “I don’t get it. You typically date four or five women at the same time,” said Lorenzo. “They called you Houdini in college, remember? A few weeks of dating and you disappeared, like Houdini.”

  “Not my proudest moments.”

  “I’ve never seen you this serious about anyone.”

  “I can’t explain it,” said Patrick, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Then, keep the faith, my brother. She’ll call.”

  14

  One Week Later

  On a warmish winter Saturday morning in Manhattan, after borrowing a couple of bikes from friends, Callie and Jess pedaled slowly along the Westside Highway bike path that ran along the Hudson River. It was windy and the water was choppy but the bike path was loaded with cyclists enjoying the “balmy” weather.

  The night before, Jess had convinced Callie to wear a sign. “It’s the only way,” Jess had insisted.

  “What if someone I know sees me? I’ll be mortified,” Callie protested.

  “Everyone’s already covered up with hats and gloves, and you’ll be too. No one will know who you are. He’s tall but that’s going to be hard to tell if he’s on a bike. If you wear a sign on your front and back, maybe he’ll spot you. A sign is the only way you might have a scintilla of a chance of finding him.”

  After much debate the two friends honed in on what the sign should say. “It can’t be long, only a few words that someone can read from a distance,” said Jess.

  They agreed on the following:

  Amazing Valentine’s

  Phone Call

  Disconnected

  Want to Find You

  They wrote the sign with big red block letters and attached it to Callie’s front and back.

  “I’m now officially a loser,” said Callie, face red, as they got on their bikes.

  Once on the westside bike path, the two women rode slowly, examining each male face they passed trying to make the signs on Callie’s front and back as noticeable as possible. Several times people asked them what it meant and Callie and Jess explained. After three hours, they were cold, had no leads and needed a break.

  “This is stupid,” said Callie, assessing the futility of their endeavor. “I’ll never find him this way. Like you said, I don’t even know what he looks like. Besides, everyone is wearing bike helmets and sunglasses and on top of that, I have no idea if he rides here anyway. Or, if he even lives in New York.”

  “It was kind of a reach.”

  “I’m not going to find him, am I?” said Callie. “I thought the universe brought us together because he was the one, but maybe the power went out because we weren’t supposed to be together, and the universe corrected itself.”

  “I’ll admit, hanging out on bike paths today hasn’t been terribly productive,” said Jess.

  “I’ve got to put this behind me,” said Callie dramatically. “I had one magical night on the phone and maybe that’s all it was supposed to be—a Valentine’s Eve memory that I can take to my grave.”

  “I’m cold,” said Jess. “Let’s go get some hot chocolate at a diner, and we’ll talk about something completely different. I’ll tell you more about Henry.”

  “He did seem nice,” admitted Callie as she removed the sign and crumpled it into a ball. “I didn’t pay much attention to him when we met because I was so distracted by the Mystery Man.”

  They waited for the traffic lights to change so they could cross east over the Westside Highway. As they reached the other side of the wide street and turned the corner, Patrick Walsh streaked down the bike path along the Hudson on his way to the southern tip of Manhattan.

  15

  The Fussy Virgin Guide:

  “Avoiding the Puddle of Goo”

  One thing we know: men and women operate with completely different sets of rules. According to research, women often mistake men’s sexual interest as expressions of friendship. Conversely, men misconstrue women’s expressions of friendship as sexual interest. With that huge difference in perception, no wonder finding a partner is so challenging.

  After a few disappointments, we might stop holding out for the perfect person. We tell ourselves that locating the elusive Mr. Right is akin to finding a needle in a haystack. This lack of faith gives birth to the new creature I call—Mr. Right Now. Unfortunately, Mr. Right Now almost never becomes Mr. Right.

  At first dabbling with Mr. Right Now seems like a great idea. You give each other assurances that it’s only for fun, it’s free and it feels good. But it’s like being on a ship with no lifeboats. Eventually, one or both of the couple’s feelings about the parameters of the relationship is bound to change.

  It starts at a party with friends one night. You and Zander share an Uber and kiss in the back seat. Next thing you know, it’s morning and you wake up in Zander’s apartment. You like him well enough, and he likes you but you know quite well he’s not Mr. Right.

  Time goes on and you and Zander get together periodically when one or both of you are feeling amorous or lonesome. It’s fun, and exciting because it’s a secret. You and Zander agree to keep your relationship private which makes the whole thing more titillating. One night, after you’ve had a few glasses of wine, you blab to your girlfriends that you’ve been “hanging out” with Zander. They look at you like, “Ya think we didn’t know that?”

  You’re stunned.

  Now, you and Zander are public. Everyone knows he’s not your boyfriend, he’s your “friend with benefits.”

  Six months later, Zander has actually grown on you. He’s not bad looking, kind of funny and makes you laugh and he’s got a decent job. You start thinking, could Zander possibly be Mr. Right, without the Now?

  Here’s the problem. You and Zander have an iron-clad deal. How do you go to him now and re-write the terms of your arrangement? So, you say nothing, and pretend these new feelings you have don’t exist. You even laugh when he mentions other women, as if it didn’t matter.

  Now, your stomach is in knots because the more you deny your feelings for Zander, the more intense they become. You have emotions of love (you think) but are afraid to tell him, fearing if he learns about the game change you’re trying to maneuver, he’ll take off and leave you in a puddle of emotional goo.

  It could go the other way, too. Zander could be the one who gets shot by Cupid’s arrow and starts looking at you with stars in his eyes. You’re not feeling it, and are solely there for the romantic romps. One day, you get a whiff of Zander’s undying affection and he spills the tea. That’s when he becomes too needy and you run, leaving him alone in a romantic abyss.

  Bottom line: Don’t settle for “Mr. Right Now.” Someone will inevitably end up in a puddle of goo.

  16

  February 2017

  After seven days waiting to hear from his Mystery Woman, Patrick reluctantly acknowledged the call wasn’t coming. Whenever he tried a legal case, he approached it from every possible angle by creating an alternative list of hypotheticals. Employing the same tactics he used while preparing for
a trial, he drafted different scenarios, hoping to identify the elusive MW.

  Sitting on his black leather couch in his living room, he made a list of everything he knew about her and tried to remember her exact words.

  When I started to ask her to meet me in New York her voice sounded enthusiastic. It felt like she lived in or near the city. But, I guess she could be anywhere.

  He began to write.

  Scenario #1: Mystery Woman doesn’t have my number because survey calls are randomly generated, therefore she has no way to retrieve the number and call me back. She felt the same connection I did!!!

  Scenario # 2: MW has my number and felt the mutual connection but feels uncomfortable calling me back because it would seem unprofessional.

  Scenario #3: MW has my number but is not the least bit interested and hasn’t given me a single thought since the power went out. Ugh!

  Patrick decided to go with Scenario, #1. The call was dropped because of the blackout and MW had no way to find him—but she felt the same way.

  He considered calling all the telemarketing companies in New York City to see if he could find her. He mulled over and practiced out loud how that conversation might go.

  “Hi, my name is Patrick Walsh and I received a political survey phone call on the night before Valentine’s Day. The interviewer was a very professional woman and I enjoyed answering her questions. Unfortunately, our call was interrupted by a power outage, you know that big one we had in New York City. I was hoping to get back in touch with her so I could complete her survey. What? You don’t give out the names of your researchers? I can understand why, there are a lot of crazies out there but this was an unusual situation. I was going to help her with something and we got disconnected and…”

  Patrick groaned. No matter how he changed his phone pitch, it sounded weird, creepy and stalker-ish. He chastised himself. No company was going to give out information about a female employee to some pathetic loser calling on the phone. He scratched that idea.

  He came up with Plan B—the Mystery Woman was a writer and went to writing groups. She had told him she was on the hunt for a good one and had been to a number of them already. Maybe someone at one of the writing groups would remember her or know her name? Surely, they wouldn’t forget the woman who read Hemingway.

  Patrick did a Google search for “writing groups” in Manhattan. There were over 300, a daunting number. He tightened the parameters and looked for writing groups on the Lower East Side of New York. There were nearly fifty and he clicked on all of them. Many of them met at night but only fifteen on the Lower East Side met during the day. He knew for sure: the group she told him about met during the day and on a Friday. There were only three writing groups that fit that day and time. If the MW was in New York—and he didn’t know if she was—it had to be one of those three. He planned to go to each group over the following three Fridays.

  The first one was held at a diner on East Seventh Street. He entered the fast-food restaurant decorated in orange and beige. Scanning the room, he spotted a group of ten people seated together at two tables in the rear corner.

  “Is this the Gutenberg Writing Group?” he asked to no one in particular.

  A cute twenty-something girl with short brown hair and dangly silver earrings nodded enthusiastically. She gave Patrick a hungry look and pulled out the chair next to her. “Guilty,” she said, laughing. “Sit next to me.”

  Never having attended a writing group, Patrick had no idea what to expect. He wanted to blend in so he wouldn’t come off like some kind of deranged nut.

  “I’m Phillip, I lead this group. Welcome,” said a man with a long gray ponytail.

  “I’ve never been to a writing group before,” said Patrick, pretending to be nervous, “and I’ve just started writing. Some writer friends of mine suggested I try a critique group to get my creative juices flowing.”

  “You’ve come to the right place,” said the leader.

  Over the next three hours and many cups of coffee, members of the group took turns reading a passage from the novel or memoir they were working on. After each person read, the group volunteered helpful ideas and suggestions. Most people were diplomatic, some were not, but no one was mean, not at all the way the Mystery Woman had described her negative writing group encounter. Overall, Patrick assessed this group as helpful and benign.

  When it was his turn to read he looked uneasy and cleared his throat. He had brought an essay he had written in college. It had been tucked away in one of his yearbooks and he decided to take it out for a ride. The group listened and after he finished they offered some fairly good and thoughtful critiques.

  “Thanks,” said Patrick, making notes on his paper as they spoke. He was so engrossed by their feedback that he almost forgot why he was there. Before the group broke up, Patrick made his move. “I had a friend who used to attend writing groups in this neighborhood. She had this funny thing she’d do where she’d read sections from famous authors’ books. Did she ever come to this group?”

  The members of the Gutenberg Writing Group shook their heads. Strike one—but at least they liked my essay. Nice.

  The following Friday he went to another writing group that met in a bookstore on Delancey Street. Like the previous meeting, everyone read, everyone critiqued and at the end, Patrick asked if a woman had been there who read a Hemingway passage. He could see by the bewildered looks on their faces that no one knew what he was talking about. Strike two—and this writing group wasn’t as enthusiastic about my essay.

  On the third Friday, Patrick visited a writing group called the East Side Author’s Workshop on East Third Street held in the basement of a church. He walked down the metal stairs and pushed open a big fire door. The large interior of the room was painted light yellow and had several tables grouped in a U-shape in the center of the room. The twelve people seated at the tables turned and stared at him when he entered. Instantly, he sensed a negative vibe and thought he might have hit the jackpot. A red-headed woman got up from her seat and walked directly towards him. “You here for the writing group?” she asked, giving him the once over.

  Patrick nodded.

  “I’m Corrine.”

  “Patrick.”

  “What do you write? Let me guess, you look like a memoir type,” said Corrine, sizing him up. “I’m writing a memoir, too. I hope you at least had something interesting happen to you. Nobody wants to read a long slog about an uneventful life. Boring.”

  She seems nice.

  Before he could respond, Patrick was rescued by a balding middle-aged man with glasses who appeared to be the group leader. “Ignore Corrine. She bites. The rest of us only bark,” said the leader, chuckling. As with the other groups he had been to, each person read a passage of their work that was followed by a group critique.

  When it was Patrick’s turn, he declined to read. “I didn’t bring anything with me today, I figured I’d just listen,” he said.

  “I hope you found the meeting helpful,” said the leader encouragingly. “We’re always looking for new blood to keep things lively.”

  “I’ll bring something to read next time,” said Patrick. “I used to know a woman who attended a lot of writers’ groups in this neighborhood. She had this funny little thing where she would read obscure writing from famous authors to see how the group would react. She ever come to this group?”

  “Oh yeah, she was here,” said Corrine, sitting up straight, eavesdropping from across the room. “Hemingway, wasn’t it? Kind of a dirty trick, if you asked me.”

  “Nobody asked you, Corrine,” said the leader, making a face. “I remember her. About a month ago. She only came that one time. In retrospect, we might have been a little rough on her.”

  “That must have been my friend,” said Patrick getting excited.

  “Petite, dirty blonde, green eyes, turned-up nose, freckles?” said the leader. “Sound like her?”

  “Yes,” said Patrick, smiling. “That sounds exactly like her. C
an you remember anything else? I’ve lost touch with her and she moved. I’d love to find her again.”

  The leader thought for a moment. “Do a search for her on Facebook or Instagram. That’s what I’d do.”

  “I already tried,” said Patrick. “No luck. She’s not into social media.”

  “She looked a little like that actress,” said the group leader. “You know, the one who was in the movie La La Land and The Help. What’s her name?”

  “Emma Stone?” said Corrine, rolling her eyes. “Frankly, she wasn’t that cute and she twirled her hair in her fingers the entire time she read her bogus short story. I found her irritating.”

  “Did you get her contact info? Maybe an email or phone number?” asked Patrick nonchalantly.

  “Never got the chance. She blasted out of here before I could,” said the leader.

  “Do you remember anything else?” said Patrick.

  “Yeah,” said Corrine, looking bored. “She acted like a diva but was carrying a beat-up Museum of Modern Art tote bag that had stains all over it.”

  “That sounds exactly like her,” said Patrick, smiling. “She loves modern art.”

  17

  March 2017

  After crashing the writers’ group on East Third Street, Patrick had learned several definite things. His Mystery Woman had dirty blonde hair and green eyes. She was petite, and attractive enough for Corrine to dislike her. She also apparently looked a bit like Emma Stone which in Patrick’s opinion was an extremely good thing. He also learned that the MW owned a tote bag that said Museum of Modern Art/MoMA. She told him on their call that she loved modern art. The MoMA bag confirmed for him that it was definitely her.

  Maybe she volunteers at the museum or has a season pass. If she could attend a writing group in the middle of a workday and called him at night, she must work odd hours, not Monday through Friday, nor nine to five.