“Of course, you can ask him. It’s a great idea.” She beams, and Alicia looks up and says, “Lindsey should be finished setting up dinner. We can discuss the fifth date when we’re done.”
“No sense ruining a fantastic night with dating talk,” I say hopefully.
“Nice try,” yells Lindsey from the kitchen. At least the spaghetti will be good.
I should have known something was up when Alicia didn’t mention Larry Wilkinson’s age at dinner. We talked about destination choices, and it felt nice to be involved. Alicia said it was necessary, because Larry stubbornly refused to choose a venue, and they wanted this date to stand a chance of impressing me (as if I’m some high maintenance super bitch). I chose drinks and appetizers at McGovern’s in downtown St. Paul, hoping the outdoor seating might give me a lot of escape routes. Scaling a fence would be no problem for me if he started talking about lawyering, even if Keeley stuck me in her skin-tight clothing and stilettos.
I (meaning we) chose an outfit, jewelry, makeup and hairstyle, and though I resisted their attentions, I sort of enjoyed it. It’s been a long time since my friends, and I got together and had a good conversation about relationships. Lindsey and Keeley are usually unwilling to discuss Alicia’s marriage or children, possibly because they’ve never had either, and Alicia can’t stand Keeley’s whining about the awful men she dates or Lindsey’s numerous conquests, be they real or imaginary. It was nice to be the center of attention for something positive, instead of being the relationship pariah.
Larry beats me to McGovern’s by at least twenty minutes, because I get there with fifteen minutes to spare. Parking can be ghastly on the weekends, so I left my house with plenty of time for mulling about in traffic and waiting for people to parallel park poorly.
Keeley’s clothes fit better than I thought: pale pink pencil skirt, nude lace camisole, and lilac lightweight cashmere sweater with short sleeves. Somehow the outfit makes me look tan, or it might have been that lotion Keeley gave me. I’ve never trusted self-tanner after the “orange ankles and elbows incident” of 2002.
The host leads me out onto the patio, which is crawling with the early bird happy hour crowd. It’s mostly people over thirty who can’t make it to late night happy hour anymore. Lacoste polos, pleated Brooks Brothers trousers, and stylish loafers abound, and there are nary a pair of plaid shorts in sight. Not quite comfortable in this setting, I manage to hold my head high, try not to fidget and hope I’m not sweating. I really should thank Keeley for the clothes again. I thought she was crazy when she showed me the options, but I’m a convert.
There is only one person sitting alone on the patio, but there’s no way he can be my date. He looks at least fifteen years older than me, if not more. I wonder where the host is taking me. Oh shit. She’s taking me right for that guy. He stands and clasps his hands, not quite looking at me but more to the side of me. I’m reminded of the movie Rain Man for a moment then feel terrible for the comparison. He’s just nervous.
Cassandra?” He holds out his hand and finally meets my eyes. He’s good-looking but nothing spectacular. Over six feet and broad-shouldered with a designer button-down shirt and linen pants. His footwear throws me off: open-toed leather sandals. I’ve never met a man this old who wore open-toed sandals. “Lovely to finally meet you.” His voice is gentle, not what I expected either. My idea of a lawyer is booming and authoritative.
“You too.” He pulls out my chair and pushes it in as I sit. How gentlemanly. He moves with care, graceful for a man his size, and I can see that he might be more suited to a courtroom full of people instead of with just one woman young enough to be his daughter. Or niece at least. His languid movements and soft voice might lull any jury or judge into submission.
“Have you ever been here?” I ask and wish our table had an umbrella. Even with sunglasses I shade my eyes. “The food’s really good.”
“I’ve never been. Just moved here about five months ago from Bismarck.”
“North Dakota?” Another thing the girls failed to mention. I hope he doesn’t catch the slip-up. Maybe he’s never talked about it online.
“Yup. I joined that website when I moved here. It’s easier to meet new people online these days.” He pauses and looks for the server. “I thought I put that in my profile but maybe I forgot.” Crap. “Once I write those things, I rarely proofread them. Do you find it difficult to write about yourself? You’re writing, trying to think of all these great things you’ve done in your life, then you realize you haven’t done all that much.”
“I suppose so,” I say, unable to identify with his comments. I had to write an essay about my accomplishments in my college applications but haven’t navel-gazed since. “I try to be truthful. Some people make things up to seem appealing.”
He nods frantically and says, “I know! And what about people who don’t post pictures? I can’t bring myself to talk to them, because what if they’re lying? What if Amanda turns into Arthur on the first date?”
“That would be awkward,” I say and smile despite my misgivings. I shouldn’t count Larry out because he’s a bit older than me, but I can’t help feeling like Dolores Haze pursued by Humbert Humbert. I wonder if Larry’s familiar with Russian literature and is thinking the same thing. Then I remember that men rarely pay attention to age unless the woman is older than them. She becomes a rabid, stalking cougar, waiting to sink her claws in his flesh. And men wonder why certain women are gay.
The server wanders over and seems incredulous about our pairing but doesn’t make any comments like “what would your daughter like tonight, sir?” Too seasoned for that, the server takes our order then retreats, most likely to spread the news among the staff that there’s a gold digger at table forty-one with hardly any clothes on. Suddenly feeling more self-conscious of my body than when in front of full-length mirror in department stores. I squirm and readjust my position.
“So,” he says, “what do you think about the new social security bill?”
And he’s lost me.
Too much wine at bar after date, had to call cab, get home, call Keeley, yell at answering machine, “why old guy terrible date who knows anything about new health care plan?” Going to sleep now, night night.
My phone rings on Saturday morning, and I’m on the couch. Why am I not in bed? Why isn’t Prospero whining for food? I lift my face off the pillow, but it clings to my cheek and hurts a bit when I pull it off. I try to get up and pain shoots down my lower back. I crumple forward and tumble off the couch and into the coffee table, upsetting my books and coaster stack. They fall and crash so loudly on the floor that I moan and cover my ears.
“Shut up, phone!”
Meowing drones from behind me, and I pull myself up using the couch and look around. Everything looks fuzzy and spinny. Why can’t my stupid body handle alcohol anymore? It never used to be this bad in the morning after drinking a bottle of wine. Or was it two? Counting the two glasses I had at McGovern’s…no idea how much alcohol was consumed last night.
My bedroom door is closed, and the meowing becomes more agitated. Prospero can hear me moving. My phone finally quits it alarm. I stagger toward the bedroom and push the door open. Prospero speeds past me and right for his litter box in the hall closet. My poor baby! He’s been in there all night! I hope he didn’t poop in my closet. I trip over my strappy sandal from last night and sprawl on the floor, luckily stopping the fall with my hands instead of my face. Ugh. Must remember not to drink when relieving sorrows. But how else to relieve sorrows? Chocolate is out.
My phone beeps with a new voicemail. When I check it, Mom’s voice bellows through the apartment, “Cassie? Are you there? Pick up it’s your mother! Are we still on for lunch today? Cassie? Oh that girl—”
The phone cuts her off and I rub my forehead. It feels like someone’s beating a drum in my brain. I lay on the floor until Prospero rubs his head against my butt. I have no clothes on, just underwear and bra. Wonder where top and skirt went. Should feed
annoying feline before searching for clothing.
When I get up, I see the skirt laying on my bed, which is unmade. The sweater is on the floor next to my hamper, and the lacy camisole is draped over my bedside lamp. Prospero slept on the sweater; long silky cat hairs adorn the cashmere like fresh-mowed grass clippings. I put the sweater in the dry-cleaning pile along with my silk top from the ill-fated improv night.
Prospero scampers about and mews for breakfast.
“Enough, cat. Mommy’s hungry too.” My voice makes him race around faster, and I lurch into the kitchen with him at my heels. As I pour him some food, I ponder what happened last night. My laptop sits open on the kitchen counter. Maybe I wrote something in my journal. Sure enough, when I shift the mouse pad around, Microsoft Word pops up, and I read a lot of rubbish. I didn’t know it was possible to slur in print. I delete the offending words (not really words but a gibberish language only intelligible by drunk people) so the girls won’t get more ammunition.
I better call Mom back before she phones all my friends and co-workers to organize a search party. I also need to phone Alicia and suggest I receive accurate date information before agreeing to meet one of these suitors ever again.
I should call Keeley too and apologize for drunken ranting and ask if we’re still on for dancing tonight even though I called her an irresponsible cow. Or at least I think that’s what I called her, as the journal is unintelligible. Hope she forgives me long enough to let me complain about the date.
Keeley understands about the phone call. She expected it, in fact, and apologizes profusely for not telling me the whole truth about Larry.
“I thought he was a bit too old for you, but Lindsey made rule three just to include Larry in the running.”
“I’m supposed to date my father’s friends now? I’m not that desperate.”
“He wasn’t that much older than you.”
“You know exactly how old he was. If I had to hear about the Rolling Stones concert in San Francisco one more time.” She giggles and asks me if we’re still on for dancing this weekend. I say yes and inquire if Justin will join us. When she says yes, I feel the same feelings any third wheel experiences: shame and loathing. I wish it were just us girls, but I suppose Keeley deserves a date now and again. I can’t go hogging all the single men in the Twin Cities.
Dancing was great! I haven’t had that much fun out with Keeley in a long time. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t feeling pre-date pressure and was happy not to worry about clothes and makeup. Keeley and Justin really hit it off. I think she likes him a lot, as she danced with only him all night.
Keeley found this great salsa club a few years back, and we frequent it at least once a month. The mood is low key, and the Spanish music gets everyone riled into a frenzy of spinning ladies and light-footed men. When you hear drums and horns it’s hard not to tap your feet and move your hips with the rhythm.
When we go out, Keeley wears flowing skirts that twirl around her body and tight-fitting tank tops that wind up covered with sweat by evening’s end. She’s a popular partner, very able on the dance floor. Many men gave Justin death glares when Keeley kept choosing him for a partner. To my surprise, Justin wasn’t too bad either. He spun, dipped, and danced Keeley about like a seasoned professional. They looked like a couple.
When we took a break and Justin went to grab beers, Keeley couldn’t contain her glee. She grinned and kept talking about how wonderful the place looked and wasn’t the music exceptionally good tonight, almost like they were playing just for us. By “us” I assumed she meant Justin and herself, but I nodded and smiled, encouraging her to keep dancing with Justin and have a good time.
Even I found some dance partners, though I’m nowhere near as good as Keeley. My favorite dancer, Dominic, was there, and we shimmied most of the night away. It felt nice having no obligation to talk to him, just dance.
Monday, after spending most of Sunday on the phone with Keeley hearing about how handsome Justin is and “isn’t he a phenomenal dancer, Cassie,” the man in question suggests we get lunch together. Kevin’s on a short vacation, so it’s just us, though Carly tries to wrestle the restaurant out of us.
“Going to lunch then?” she asks. “I always bring a lunch, but I forgot it today.” She sighs and glances hopefully at Justin, knowing I’ll never invite her.
“That’s too bad,” says Justin. “I’m sure the cafeteria downstairs is open.” He grabs my arm and we head for the elevator, trying not to laugh. “She better not follow us,” he whispers. “Kelly made me partner with her on this new manuscript, because it’s pretty huge, a bitch to edit, and she’s driving me crazy.”
“I know what you mean. When she first started, Kelly assigned her to me. We got along so horribly that now Kelly never lets us near the same computer.” Anyone who believes that a sentence can NEVER begin with “and” or “but” is clearly out of her mind. “The only time we see each other is in Kelly’s office every morning.” Which makes me wonder why she wanted to join us for lunch. Perhaps she’s finally realized that no one likes her and her spurious opinions about Keats and Walden Pond.
We walk to the Asian market near our building and buy sushi, salad, and a liter bottle of sparkling water. He chooses a spot outside in the shade so we can people-watch. We sit and Justin opens two chopsticks packets and breaks them apart, handing me a set.
A woman saunters by with a well-coifed Alsatian at her heel, and Justin laughs.
“Once the State Fair starts, I’ll really have some people to watch! But I guess people who dye their pet’s fur to match their hair will do for now.” But I’m not interested in the passersby.
“So,” I say after swallowing a California roll, (God I love fresh ginger), “did you have fun with us at the club?” Mouth full, he nods, and then says, “It was really hot in there. I haven’t been dancing in a long time, but I don’t remember it being that hot.”
“But you had fun?”
“Sure. It was nice to get out and have some beer. Let off some steam.” He’s not mentioning Keeley, not expounding, soliloquizing, or pontificating about her brilliance, her beauty, nor her dancing ability. Why is he not commenting on her perfect body? Her eyes? Usually that’s all men can talk about when they see Keeley. Even Kevin thinks she’s hot and he’s not into perky breasts.
“You and Keeley looked good together. Every guy in the place was ready to take you out back and pummel you.” He doesn’t look at me but pours out the water in two paper cups. He’s thinking about what to say, not sure how to begin. Oh crap.
“She’s very sweet,” is all he says before helping himself to salad. His sunglasses slip off his head and cover his eyes. “What kind of dressing did you get?”
“Sweet?” That’s it? I’m so confused I don’t notice the tuna sashimi fall from my chopsticks.
“And nice.” I know exactly where this is going. It’s what I’ve said about every guy Mom or Joel or my friends have tried to set me up with. They’re good-looking, smart, funny, have a good job, drive a nice car, aren’t bald or over forty, but they’re nice. You never want to be labeled “nice” by someone you find irresistibly attractive. It’s pre-relationship poison, like seeing “Have a nice summer” plastered all over your high school yearbook. If someone you like says you’re “nice,” you have no hope of sleeping with him or her, much less ever seeing him or her again. I get an image of Keeley bound up in bandages like a leper and am furious.
“She’s way more than nice. She’s every man’s dream girl.”
“Well sure,” he says and shrugs. “She’s beautiful. Has a great body. It’s just…”
“Just?”
“I don’t know how to say it,” he scratches his head, looking for the right words. “Our minds don’t mesh. I guess that’s the right way to put it.”
“You mean she’s not smart? She has a bachelor’s degree in psychology.” Angry, savage thoughts race through my mind as the protective girlfriend gene kicks in. I’m ready to tear Justin
apart if he even hints that she’s not intelligent enough for him. Every woman can render a man testicle-less when her friends are threatened with slanderous words.
“She’s very smart,” he says, sensing danger, “just not my kind of smart.” He looks bewildered, like a cornered rodent. I feel a small amount of guilt, but he needs to explain himself. “I didn’t connect with her is all. No mental sparkage.”
“I see,” I say and focus on my food.
“Don’t be like that. Haven’t you said the same thing about the guys you’ve been dating?” I nearly choke on lettuce and pound my chest to dislodge it. His sunglasses are back on his head. Justin glances sidelong at me, a determined look in his eyes, like he’s found my one weakness.
“Did Kevin let you read my journal?”
“What? No! It’s just…you haven’t talked about any of these guys except to say how terrible the dates went.”
“So, you’re assuming I dumped them because there was no…”
“Spark.”
“Well, there wasn’t.” How dare he turn this bitter mental diatribe against me? I was having perfectly malevolent thoughts about him before he mentioned my dating record. He looks smug and says, “I’m sorry I didn’t like her more, but I don’t want to lead her on.” Dammit, then he gets noble! Why can’t he just let me be pissed at him?
“She likes you a lot,” I murmur, and he’s apologetic, saying he’ll call her. “That’s nice of you,” I say, “but I can talk to her.” We’re quiet for a moment. Small birds cluster around the tables and pick at crumbs. They hope we leave behind some morsels. I wonder how the birds survived here before there was a city. How did they eat? I’m sure they had more natural foods like seeds and such. Are we making the wildlife around us unhealthy by feeding them our leftovers and garbage? Too deep of thoughts for Monday lunch.
“Why’d you agree to do this dating thing?” Justin asks, and the question surprises me. I didn’t think he was interested in my love life. He hasn’t inquired about the three men I’ve met so far, and he said Kevin didn’t show him the journal.
Men of the Year Page 8
