by Laurie Graff
“You don’t think he would’ve changed?” I asked, wanting them to say yes; for me, for Edward, for unfortunate relationships everywhere.
“Of course he wouldn’t change. Forget about that,” said Gloria.
“That’s right,” said Gladys in a singsong voice, reminding me she wouldn’t even introduce me to her own son.
“I have a question,” said Marion Rosenblatt, the woman next to me whose full name I knew because it was written in script on the front of her book. “Why did the author have to write so much sex? I could have enjoyed the same story and it would have been enough for me to read it in one paragraph. I have nothing against sex, believe me, I am far from a prude. But I don’t have to read where he touched her, how he touched, he touched her here, he touched her there, up, down, out and under, over, in...oy vey, why do I have to know all that? I ask you, is that any of my business?”
The woman had a point. Sex was your own business. But didn’t people always stick their nose in someone else’s? Inquiring minds did want to know. They wanted to know what you did and how you did it. And then they wanted to compare.
“So what happened with Marv and your friend?” I asked my mother. I wondered now if her friend had told tales of Marv’s sexual gymnastics that had scared my mother off.
“Nothing. She was done with all that. She only wanted some company for dinner or a movie. And to be honest I don’t think I’d want much more. At this stage in my life I don’t want to start with that. I was very happy with Henry. That’s enough to sustain me. I can’t be bothered.”
Is that what happened? You can’t be bothered? I can’t not be bothered.
“But he’s kind of cute, right? Couldn’t you, like, kiss him and see? Maybe you’d like it, Ma. Maybe you’d want to. A little sex isn’t such a bad thing. It helps people live longer.”
“I’ll live long enough without it. If I don’t have a special feeling, then forget it.”
“But if that part is special, then can’t you get the feeling?”
“Go ask the book club,” said Millie, picking up the remote to turn the volume back on. “Discussion over.”
I thought about Marv. His teeth were good, he still had hair and at night he could drive. It made a girl wonder.
“So, let me ask you something, Millie. If we had grown up together, if we were the same age, do you think we would have hung out? Do you think you and I would have been friends?”
“Somehow, Karrie, I don’t think we would have been in the same clique.”
“Do you ever think what your life would have been like if you were born when I was? I always think about grandma. What she would have been like if she was able to be independent. If she had gone to college.”
Millie reflected. My grandmother had not allowed my mom to finish. She insisted she go to work. She was only a girl. She’d get married. What did she need to know from college?
“Well, I definitely wish I’d finished,” Millie said.
“I think you could have gone to law school, Ma. I think you would have been a lawyer.”
“Me, too. I think I would have liked that.”
“Yeah. I bet you’d have made partner, you’d own a co-op on the Upper East Side, you’d have a share house in the Hamptons...”
“And I’d be single!” shouted Millie.
We laughed.
“Yeah, you’d be single,” I said.
I was ready to hit the road after I hit the hay. My thoughts already turning from a Millie my age, to New York and tomorrows.
Thirteen
You should always put your frog through a test to see it eat, as difficulty with eating may indicate serious problems.
“Oh my God,” I said, looking up at Brooke, who was standing on a small carpeted platform while a seamstress expertly pinned what was going to be a magnificent wedding gown. “You’re breathtaking,” I said, watching her blush under the compliment.
“It looks like it’ll work out,” she said of the sensational dress when we were leaving the store. “Can you believe it’s only four months away? There’s not much time left.”
“There really isn’t,” I said, hoping there was at least enough to insure that I wouldn’t wind up at the wedding stag.
“So, Karrie,” said Brooke. We had walked a block in an uncharacteristic silence before she asked. “Has he called?”
“Oh, yes. He’s called.”
For all of his protestations, it seemed that what Edward liked to do best was call. But he had done more than just call. And so had I.
Edward had swept in after the New Year with resolutions I had swallowed hook, line and seduction. He had kept me warm and cozy in the year’s first and most amazing snowstorm, my resolve to do nothing with him but talk quickly melting like snow. Drunk on the wine and the promises Edward had poured on over dinner, we left the restaurant to find the city painted white. Our feet making the first tracks in Central Park, we fell onto the Great Lawn making angels in a snow that continued to fall. Wet and wanton, we went back to my place and made love.
“What did he say? Was he apologetic? Does he want a relationship?” asked Brooke, as I thought ahead to the next time.
Two weeks later, after I received no response to an e-mail or my phone invitation to dinner, Edward called twice a day, three days in a row, to pave the way to a tryst. The tryst to nowhere. We blossomed quickly before wilting, just like the two dozen yellow roses he had brought me that night.
“Well, he told me he was unavailable to me and he didn’t know why,” I told Brooke, skipping over the sexy parts and going straight to the pain.
The pain that continued. One I felt every time I logged on to the J-Spot and saw that Edward was logged on, too. He was always there, constantly searching, causing me to do the same. But I wasn’t searching to meet new men. I only searched to see if he was. Always hopeful his searching meant he was still free, and had not met someone new.
The J-Spot told you exactly what date and time the person you were searching for had logged on. Several times a day I did just that, in my search to find him. It was too much information. It was all too much, and it was driving me mad. I’d been out of high school a long time, but felt like I was back. The J-Spot was practically a virtual high-school hallway where you continued to run into your ex during passing. Whether you were flirting with someone new, or just trying to get to class.
“He didn’t know why he was so unavailable?” asked Brooke. “That’s not good.”
“Well, it’s not really bad,” I said, not wanting Brooke to know how bad it really was. “He said he was trying to figure it out, and maybe next time we talked he’d have an answer.”
“And has he called?”
“Well...no.”
No, he hadn’t called and, thankfully, I had officially stopped. But it didn’t stop me from hurting yesterday when the only flowers I got were from Fred, who insisted we buy each other pink and red carnations. Fred was stuck in a similar spot with Babalou, who canceled their Valentine’s date because he was out of town and snowed in. Or more likely snowed under, said Fred...if I caught his drift.
“Well, I bet a lot of new people are on the J-Spot today. The day after Valentine’s Day is probably great for business. Why don’t you log on and try again?” suggested the always enterprising Brooke.
“You know, my subscription is up the end of this month and I was just going to let the whole thing go. Six months, Brooke. Half a year with that. I think it’s time to log off and shut down.”
We stood in front of the Prince Street subway station, preparing to go our different directions.
“I know relationships are hard, Karrie, and...it’s just that...well you want to be with someone nice. Would you say that Edward is a nice guy?”
I looked at Brooke as I thought about Edward.
“Uh, no, actually. I couldn’t say that he is,” I told my friend.
“Oh, Karrie!” Brooke’s voice came out more like a cry, as it was way too late for a warning.
“I know. I’ve been there, too,” said Brooke. “You remember Joe.” Brooke looked away as she recalled the relationship I heard so much about when she and I had first met. “But you can’t have a life with those guys. Go back online and give it one more try. And if you still don’t like it, then just let the subscription expire.”
I felt anyone who was going to be married in a dress like that was worth listening to.
I gave it one last shot, and when I logged back on I found I had mail. But I went through the same highs and lows as before when I wound up deleting the prospects before me. Then I changed my search by checking off that I only wanted to see the profiles of men who were five foot nine and over, eliminating all men five foot eight, eliminating Edward once and for all. The new search began, but it reminded me, again, of high school as the same familiar faces passed before me. And then I got more mail.
Looking up MatchMan I finally felt encouraged because for starters, in his photos he was really pretty cute. A cognitive shrink with partial custody of his daughter, he conveniently lived a little farther uptown. I composed a sweet response and sent it off. Maybe Brooke was right. After all, you never know.
Between the news I had booked a national radio spot for a wireless service and my anticipation of hearing back from MatchMan, my spirits were high. It was a good thing, too, because they sank when I got a call from Ryan about the one-act festival.
“What do you mean I have to audition? Brockman said I was doing it. He said he wanted me. That I was the perfect actress to play Time.”
“Well, you’re not doing it. Neither is Brockman. He just got a paying gig to direct out of town. Regional thing. The show’s off.”
“So where does that leave me?”
I saw where that left me. Nowhere. I’d been so obsessed about my social life it hadn’t occurred to me I’d lost my theater career along the way. That I could be this upset about a non-paying show in a workshop was more upsetting to me than doing the dumb play.
“It leaves you available to audition for The Playmaker. It’s a cool piece and a good friend of mine, Ivan, wrote it and is directing. He wants funny, attractive women who can play a couple of different parts. One of the women is already cast, but he needs another one and I thought of you. So just meet him, okay?”
Ryan and I sat in a silent pause that sounded like no was my answer.
“Come on, beauty, I’ll give him your number and just meet him. Ivan’s really funny. He quit his day job and started doing stand-up. I think the two of you might even, you know...! And hey—he’s Jewish. And I think he’s even gotten like, more Jewish.”
More Jewish. I knew what that was code for, even from an Episcopalian like Ryan.
“You know, Ryan, the play is one thing, but give me a break. You think I want to date some unemployed guy turned comic turned religious as part of some sort of mid-life crisis!”
“How’d you get all that? Wow—you’re like one super perceptive chick.”
Super perceptive chick! Hanging up the phone I thought how nice it would be to be wrong. How nice, for a change, to have a hope that Ivan would turn out to be together. What I had found amusing and odd behavior ten years ago was now just downright annoying. My social circle wasn’t doing anything to elevate me. I wished I could slip into someone else’s.
But a few nights later I found myself walking to the Starbucks on Eighty-sixth to meet and discuss the script with Ivan. The days had passed without word back from MatchMan. I was trying not to let anything burst my balloon, yet I watched it deflate when I walked through the door. Because I immediately knew that the skinny guy in the old flannel shirt, the one alone with a cup of coffee, the one who looked drained from life when his eyes shifted up to see who’d just come in, was Ivan.
I sensed when I sat down with the stand-up our time together would be anything but funny.
“Karrie,” he said, rising to the occasion. He gave me a shy once-over that indicated he approved.
“Ivan. Hello,” I said extending my hand, receiving a limp response that made me realize good handshakes needed to be practiced. Don’t leave home without one. “Nice to meet you.”
“Do you want anything? I already have coffee.”
“Come with me,” I said, walking us over to the counter.
I ordered a small decaf, picked up the coffee and opened my wallet to pay.
“I can get that if you want,” said Ivan, running his hands over his jeans and questioningly into his pockets. “I think. Let me see what I’ve—”
“Thanks, Ivan, but I have it, its fine.”
Oh boy, here we go. It was all so predictable. Ryan had obviously told Ivan of the romantic potential, as Ivan had that look in his eye. And here he was, wooing me by not being able to buy me a cup of coffee. What a way to a woman’s heart. I could not stand this anymore. What could these men be thinking? Were they ever embarrassed? Maybe they needed to be. Maybe something should be said.
If we discussed the play fast I would get out in under half an hour. I thought that the easier option than walking out now, and having to get into it with Ryan. But I would need cake. I pointed into the glass casing to the decadent chocolate one with icing.
“That looks really good. Ivan, you want to share?”
“Oh, that’s okay,” he said. “I brought my own.”
“What do you mean?”
“I brought my own,” he repeated.
“You already bought cake?” I asked.
“Muffin. I brought my own muffin.” He paused. “From home.”
I took a moment to digest this.
“I don’t think you’re allowed to do that.”
“Sure you are. I did it,” said Ivan. “It’s okay.”
“Does Starbucks think its okay?”
“Who cares? Why wouldn’t it be?”
“It’s just that Starbucks is in the business of selling muffins, not having people bring them here to eat them for free. You’re allowed to bring your own laptop but I think your pastries have to stay at home.”
I had only a coffee when we walked back to the table. It was unlikely I’d be there long enough to even drink it, let alone to sit down and eat cake.
“Well,” said Ivan, back at the table sipping from the container he’d left. He was thirsty, but even if his hunger panged I doubted Ivan would crack open his knapsack and pull out that muffin now. “I just come here for the ambiance. I have dietary laws prohibiting me from eating their food. I’m Orthodox. I’m very religious.”
I observed Rabbi Ivan’s attire.
“How religious?” I asked. “I mean, I’m just curious,” I continued, wanting to understand this down to the very last drop. “You’re not wearing a yarmulke,” I said, pointing to his uncovered head.
“I usually wear a baseball cap,” said Ivan.
“But you’re not. You’re not wearing anything. How religious can you be if you’re not wearing anything on your head?” I was on a mission, and I was going to bust his muffin wide-open.
“I know the kashrut and it doesn’t include Starbucks muffins,” said Ivan. “Only their coffee.”
“I know the dietary laws, too, and I think the muffins are kosher. I think the New York Times said Starbucks is kosher. In fact, I think the rabbi at my synagogue made an announcement that it was. Look at them,” I said pointing to a man wearing a yarmulke seated with a woman by the window. “Look,” I said, pointing to the kosher couple. “Let’s see if they got a muffin.”
“Karrie, I don’t want to talk to you about this anymore,” said Ivan.
He was exasperated. I was making him crazy. On top of it, he looked as if he might just keel over from malnutrition if another second went by without him taking a bite out of his muffin. The muffin he brought from home.
“The coffee is in an urn and it’s poured into a paper cup,” Ivan exp
lained, trying so hard to make his point and move on. “But I don’t think that the ovens where they bake the muffins are kosher and that’s why I can’t eat them. And I don’t have to explain to you why I don’t cover my head. Okay? Okay? Are you satisfied? Are you satisfied now, Karrie? We’re here to talk about my play.”
His play. Well, this audition sure wasn’t going very well.
“Yes. Your play. Out of curiosity, are the women in your play Jewish?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s generic. It doesn’t say.”
“Oh. I just thought that since you were religious you might write about women in that world. But, uh, I was wondering...do you only go out with religious women? I mean since you are.”
Ivan stared at me before he answered. It was as if for that split second he had seen himself through my eyes. And then he became, rightfully, angry.
“You know, Karrie, it’s really none of your business who I date, but no. I don’t go out with religious women. The women I go out with usually aren’t even Jewish.”
“Oh, I see. So you’re a religious guy who dates shiksas. Gee, I’d think it might be hard to date someone who wasn’t kosher let alone someone who wasn’t religious, not to mention someone not even Jewish. If you’re so religious and all.”
I didn’t even know what I was trying to prove, I was just fed up. I had reached my limit. Constant hypocrisy, constantly going nowhere. Always running in place, always excuses. Tell me you already ate, tell me you’re broke, tell me you date women you know you’ll never marry because you know you never will. Just tell me something true. Don’t use religion to back door your way out of what you don’t want to do in life. And don’t use it to back your way out of a dollar-seventy-five muffin.
“Why do you think you hate men?” asked Ivan.
“Men I like, it’s dishonesty I have trouble with.”
“My play is funny and I need a funny woman. Do you think you’re funny?”
“I think I wouldn’t be a great fit with your play,” I said as I stood. “I think I should go,” I said, taking my coffee with me as I headed out the door.
