A quick trip to the mailbox would be a good idea to see how hard it will be to walk in the parking lot. I feel the urge to grab on to things as I make my way to the front door. Lately I have been lazy and opting for more comfortable shoes, but tonight I want to feel young and sexy. No one needs to know I’m infertile and pre-menopausal. I hold onto the front porch railing as I make my way to the driveway, since stairs pose their own challenges. I am so tall! I must be 5’10” in these shoes. No shrimpy men are going to bother me tonight. Oww—damn it! I almost twisted my ankle on the last step. Hopefully there won’t be any at Lorenzo’s.
The driveway is sloped but I am handling it like a pro—look Mom no hands! These shoes have some ankle support. They’re almost like stiletto hiking boots. Who is that talking a few houses up the street? I squint to see—the sun is going down and my eyesight is not perfect. I can finally make out my neighbor, Joe. He and his wife, Sarah, have four kids ranging in age from two to ten. It makes me tired just thinking about it, but the little girl is adorable. She comes over to my yard sometimes when Dixie is out, dressed in her snow boots and her sister’s ballet tutu, pointing and asking to pet my “doogie.” Then Sarah sends one of the other kids over to collect her and yells out an apology. She must think I don’t want to be bothered by kids since I don’t have any, but who can resist the bouncy curls and sweet chestnut eyes? She reminds me of Jackie when she was little, always chatting up the neighbors until my mother called her home.
Joe is talking to Brandon. For a young stud in suburbia, he’s certainly making the rounds. I can’t imagine what he has in common with any of these men. They’re probably talking about lawn mowers, mulch and other things he is unaware of as a new homeowner.
Mesmerized by my thoughts, I don’t notice Jane’s cat, Butterball, running over to rub himself against my leg, and I’m startled by the contact just enough to lose my balance on these precarious shoes. The same ankle twists and I start to go down, but have the good sense to grab onto the mailbox for support. Except the mailbox isn’t stable, since it came loose from the base last year and I never fixed it. So I am hanging on for a split second in safety before it begins pulling me towards the ground. I almost have a chance to right myself but the other shoe has given way now too, and…I’m sprawled out in the yard. Clutching the mailbox to my chest.
Luckily the grass isn’t wet, since the sun today could have dried the protected wetlands. What I dread more than anything is being spotted, and the neighbor men running to my rescue. If I am going to fall off my shoes, hugging my mailbox, onto my own lawn, I would like to do it in private, thank you very much!
I dare to sit up and peek over at the guys, and unbelievably they are still yapping away and have not even noticed me. I am guessing Joe is trying to keep an eye on his brood while Brandon’s back is to me. They appear to be engrossed in all the home repair talk—plus it’s baseball season! Men are oblivious to everything when they’re talking about sports and hardware. Hopefully none of the kids will take a header off a bike or bash skulls on the trampoline.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There were no bars in strip malls in New York—at least not that I remember in northern Westchester County. They also don’t sell fried chicken at gas stations, as they do here. However, when I make these comparisons I am also reminded that moving here increased our standard of living by a huge margin. The quirky differences of life in the South are easy to accept when you consider that you can afford a nice home for the same price as a posh trash can or fancy lean-to in New York.
Lorenzo’s is in a grocery store shopping center. My ankle still hurts a bit, but luckily there is ample parking and I whip into a close space and emerge from my car. The band has already started and it sounds like there is a large group assembled on the patio. Lorenzo’s is an Italian restaurant, with a semi-enclosed patio area and dance floor. I’m self-conscious now that I’m walking in alone, and I wish I had met Rebecca at her condo and ridden here with her.
I pay my cover charge and scan the room. A bunch of people are dancing and the band is playing a Tom Petty song. I weave through the crowd and make my way to the bar. I shout my drink order to the bartender and hand over my credit card to start a tab. As soon as I get my Bahama Mama, someone pokes me in the side.
“Hey, you made it! Yay!” Rebecca is already a little toasted.
“It looks like a good crowd.”
We start the rounds of introductions. It’s so loud that I barely catch any names. Maybe when the band takes a break it will be easier to have a conversation. I suddenly feel awkward at this height and wish I had worn something that would let me blend in with the masses.
“Are you going to be okay in those shoes?” Rebecca is yelling so I can hear her over the Billy Squier cover. I was about three years old when this song came out.
“So are we going to dance?”
Before I get this sentence all the way out, the band starts playing “Rebel Yell,” and Rebecca drags me out onto the jam-packed dance floor. This is her favorite song so I am obligated to join her. There must be seventy-five people smashed into this little space, so that we have to dance without moving our arms too much, unless we want to give someone a black eye or knock their teeth out. I’m glad there are a lot of people around me. They’re forming a human force field that may protect me if I start to wobble or go down in these shoes.
“Hot shoes!” The woman next to me shouts her approval, and points out my footwear to her girlfriends. It is hot in here. Whew…uh oh…here comes some weird guy dancing over my way. He seems to view my presence on the dance floor as an open invitation to touch me, as if we are at an orgy instead of an eighties cover band show. Didn’t his mother teach him that grabbing random women in the waist area is unacceptable?
I wiggle away from him and move over to the other side of Rebecca, where the shoe admirers are dancing in a group. This is much safer. I let the music infuse me with good memories of being in first grade and hearing this song on the radio. I had no clue what it was about—it sounded like a little girl wanted to stay up past her bedtime and dance with this nice man with the spiky hair. At six that was the only thing I could imagine wanting more of at midnight, except ice cream or another drink of water.
The song is over, but not before I’m grabbed again—this time by a gyrating guy who is unsteady on his feet, even though his shoes are flat. I maneuver away and find the closest chair.
“This is fun, right?” A breathless Rebecca follows me to the table.
“Yes, Rebecca. It’s great!”
She flings herself into the chair next to me and wipes her forehead with a napkin. Her long, thick hair has grown two sizes from the heat and humidity, so that her look matches the era of the music. She’s wearing a short denim mini skirt and a tank top, but comfortable looking shoes.
“So how many of these guys have you dated?” I glance around the room at the array of single middle-aged men.
“Too many. That guy over there (she points to a fairly cute guy holding a beer). Tom, the one going outside to smoke, that guy you were dancing with—”
“You mean the groper?”
“No…yeah...I don’t know. Was he groping you? Define groping?”
“He grabbed my waist!”
“Men usually touch you when you’re dancing. Unless they grab your ass or more it doesn’t count as groping.”
“Being on a dance floor should not be an open invitation to be molested.”
“Claire, you need to loosen up. Have another drink and just let the music take you away…” Rebecca pulls herself to standing and starts rapidly shaking back and forth to the music. If she isn’t careful she is going to need a hip replacement in a few years.
“Hi, Becca! This must be your little friend from work?” A tiny woman has approached the table and is leaning in to shake my hand. It’s odd that she would refer to me as “little” because she looks like she needs a booster seat to drive home. “Hi, I’m Sherry!”
“Hi, Sherry. I�
�m Claire.” I shake her doll-sized hand.
Sherry quickly sits down, with bird-like movements. She looks like a kindergartener sitting at the big people’s table. “Rebecca told me her friend from work was coming. You look so pretty. I saw you dancing. You’re so tall, but so skinny—I hate you—but of course those shoes are huge! I would fall right on my face in those. So are you having fun?”
I proceed to talk with Sherry (actually she is doing most of the talking) about the Meetup group and her divorce—it has been four years and she has two elementary school-aged kids. She is friendly but it is so loud in here, and I’m having a tough time hearing her. In the meantime, Rebecca has brought me at least two more drinks, which I have barely touched. I must interrupt Sherry for a moment, so I can order something to eat. Surely she will have to stop for a breath at some point. A waitress walks by occasionally, but she is serving the one hundred plus people in attendance by herself.
“—and I will not date a man who is not at least six feet tall. And he has to earn at least six figures and I prefer they not have kids at home. If they have to pay child support that cuts into the money they can spend on me. Do you have any kids, Claire?”
When I hear women talk like this I can understand why men can be assholes. She has kids at home, I’m betting that her job as a social worker does not pay six figures, and why does she need a man who is that tall? I am not even six feet tall in these enormous heels, and Sherry is like a dwarf compared to me. I may be taller than her on my knees. Does she need a man she can climb?
“Sherry, I’m so hungry and I have to pee. I need to order some food and find the ladies’ room.”
“Sure, honey. It’s right through those doors on the left. The waitress will come back. What do you want if I see her?” She points towards the menu.
I ask Sherry to order me the burger sliders and wander off in search of the ladies’ room. My feet hurt a lot now, and it’s difficult not to limp. It was nice of her to offer to order my food, but I forgot that meeting new women friends for my “girl posse” is going to involve hearing about divorces, exes and custody battles. Suddenly I’m wishing I had stayed home. I don’t want to tell a whole bunch of people why I was married for ten years and I don’t have any children. It’s also impossible to meet people and have a decent conversation in this environment. I decide that I’ll eat my food, check on Rebecca’s level of inebriation, and head out.
On the way back to the patio I’m stopped by a guy who looks thrilled to see me.
“Hey, I saw you on the dance floor. Nice moves…I’m Andy, a friend of Rebecca’s. You work with her right?” He is still moving to the music in the most awkward white guy way.
I shake Andy’s hand and then I remember he is groper number one, and one of the men Rebecca dated. Before I can do more than tell him my name I’m back out on the dance floor. This time the band is playing “867-5309 Jenny” by Tommy Tutone, and Andy’s hands are on my waist. I give in and decide that maybe Rebecca’s right. This isn’t so bad. After all last night I was groped in my own house and had to tuck and roll to escape rubber tentacles. At least we’re in public and I won’t let Andy walk me to my car. I learn my lessons slowly, but I have a couple of them down. Don’t bring home strange men, especially when blasted drunk. Check! But I still haven’t eaten, and that’s how I ended up blasted drunk. That was on the new rule list, too. Food before alcohol. But I haven’t had much to drink tonight, and my little burgers are probably already waiting for me on the table. I am perfectly sober.
High Fidelity is not a bad band at all, and Andy isn’t a bad dancer. The song is coming to an end, and Andy grabs my hand and pulls me into a twirl. My weak ankle wobbles and the velocity of the spin flings me out of Andy’s grasp and across the dance floor. If I were wearing normal shoes (like a responsible adult who eats proper meals would wear), I would be able to regain control of my body and stop it from hurling directly towards the band.
The song stops and Andy makes a lunge for me, but it’s too late to prevent me from crashing into the guitar player, bouncing off the keyboard, and landing at the feet of the drummer. The sound of the cymbals crashing is the last thing I hear before it all goes silent.
CHAPTER NINE
It’s hard to believe that I feel worse than I did the previous morning, but I do. Much worse.
“Claire, don’t you have any coffee in this house?” Rebecca is apparently rifling through my kitchen cabinets and making far more racket than is necessary.
I wish I could yell but I can’t find my voice. How did I get home? I was talking to Sherry about her dating woes, and then Andy asked me to dance. Uh oh…shit.
“I remember, you don’t drink coffee, and you only used to own a coffee maker for when Ron’s psycho mom came to visit. Right?” Rebecca pops her head in my bedroom door. “Ooh, you don’t look so good.”
Wasn’t she blasted drunk last night? How does she not get sick? She is almost ten years older than me. “My head is killing me. I remember what happened now. Is anyone going to sue me? Did I go to the hospital? Where’s my car?”
“You did make quite a scene. The guitar player said he was happy you don’t weigh much more than a mouse or he would have internal injuries. Haha…”
Suddenly I burst into tears.
“Claire honey, I’m sorry. Don’t cry. You need to stop wearing shoes you can’t stand up in. You could really hurt yourself.”
Now I’m bawling.
“Okay, okay…” Rebecca wrings her hands and frowns. She comes over and pats my hand, and reaches for the tissue box on the nightstand. Dixie comes running into the room and tries to jump up on the bed. All I see is her little head appearing and disappearing, over and over, as she frantically tries to propel herself up on her short little legs. I reach down and pick up her wiggly little body. She is too excited to see me to settle down.
“Hi, Sweetie. Mommy missed you, too.” I let her give me kisses because at this point I need any comfort I can get.
“Claire—seriously—you need to make better choices.”
I am not crazy about receiving a lecture from someone who was already slurring her speech at nine o’clock last night, but she’s right—I’ve been out of control lately.
“You were the one who told me to relax and have another drink so I would enjoy the men feeling me up on the dance floor. Thank God I didn’t get drunk on top of sustaining a brain injury.”
She sighs and says, “At least it’s Sunday. You can rest all day and I’ll check on you later. You will probably be a little sore—your head and your shoulder took a beating. There were a couple of nurses there last night, and a volunteer EMT. They checked you out and thought you were okay to go home and sleep it off. But if your head hurts too much we should go to the ER.”
“Thanks, Rebecca. I’m sorry I humiliated you in front of your friends.”
“You didn’t. Maybe next time you can come to an event that is quieter and more casual. Get to meet a few more people. That place was a madhouse. I left you some soup if you’re up to eating, and I told Jane to check on you later.”
“When did you see her?”
“I took Dixie out this morning and she was taking her son to a soccer game. I also saw a cute young guy across the street. Who’s that? He looks familiar.”
“That’s my new neighbor (why is he always outside?). He’s a nice guy. A writer. He was supposed to send me his book to read.” Oww. Just trying to sit up in bed hurts every muscle in my body. I feel like an old woman who just survived three rounds with a kangaroo.
“Maybe it’ll be Pulitzer Prize winning material, and you can pass it on to Pam. I have to go now. The cats are starving and I’m not exactly the poster girl of wellness either. The drinks are too strong at that place. I hardly ever drink like that.”
“Where the hell is my car?”
“In the driveway. Andy was already giving Sherry a ride home—they both live closer to this side of town and they carpool a lot. The three of us drove the three cars
, and they drove home in Andy’s car, so I could stay with you and we could avoid the trip of shame to Lorenzo’s to retrieve your car this morning. I didn’t think you would be up for that.” She smiles and pets Dixie, who has now settled down to sleep on me.
“I need to send them a fruit basket or flowers or something. That was so nice of them. Wait, are they dating?”
“Are you kidding? He isn’t tall enough for her. I gotta run, Sweetie.”
Rebecca leans in to give me a hug and Dixie sneaks in a lick. She wipes the dog slobber off her face.
“Thanks, Rebecca. See you at work tomorrow.”
“Feel better, Kiddo. Hey, maybe I should have told the cute guy to check on you later. Hmm...on second thought maybe you should let the color return to your face before you talk to him again.”
“Good bye, Rebecca!”
The last thing I plan on doing today is talking to Brandon, but I would like to see if he sent his manuscript. Maybe I can find a new author and have some success at work, since I’m not excelling at my personal life. I reach for my phone and remember I only gave him my work number and e-mail. As I ponder where my Blackberry could be I start to doze off and fall into a deep sleep.
I wake up hours later to the sound of lawnmowers—yes, plural. One of the worst things about living in a suburban neighborhood is the weekend symphony of roaring motors. It sounds like the monster truck show is doing a special performance in the cul-de-sac, except no one jumps over their sheds with the lawnmowers or names them things like “Gravedigger.”
I roll over and sit up. Dixie is awake now and I let her down off the bed. My little napping partner is going to need to go outside. I look like hell but I gather my hair up into a sloppy ponytail and pull on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.
There Are No Men Page 8
