Just This Once

by Judith Arnold

  “Did you really want coffee?” Loretta asked as she pulled the mug imprinted with her name from a shelf near the machine.

  “Nah.” Bob usually drank his coffee whipped, sweetened, laced with Bailey’s Irish Crème or otherwise doctored. Frappuccino was a current favorite of his. “I wanted to find out why you got all squirmy when Gilda started talking about age and marital status.”

  “I wasn’t squirmy.”

  He grinned and lounged against the counter.

  “Look. I’m about to lose my job—”

  “You don’t know that. We’re all vulnerable.”

  “I’m more vulnerable.” She hated the whiny undertone in her voice, and cleared her throat to get rid of it. “I’m in a lousy mood, okay?”

  “Because you’re twenty-nine and single?”

  She might have disputed him—but in an odd way, he was right. “I spent yesterday with my family,” she said, then made a face. “They’ve got a nice Italian dentist they want me to meet.”

  Bob laughed. “He’s probably a great guy,” he said. “He’d probably spend the entire date analyzing your bite and discussing new products to combat gingivitis.”

  “I’d rather join a nunnery. In fact—” she filled her mug with coffee “—I’d rather get gingivitis.”

  “They’ve set up other blind dates for you, haven’t they?”

  Her scowl deepened. “They’ve tried. I’ve always resisted. But now—well, I’m twenty-nine!” She gasped melodramatically. “Maybe I’m supposed to be desperate. If I don’t get married soon, all the nice Italian dentists will be snatched up.”

  “Some dentists are really nice,” Bob said. Loretta couldn’t tell if he was taunting her, but he seemed serious. “When I was a kid, my dentist had this big bowl filled with toys, and after a cleaning and fluoride treatment, I was allowed to choose a toy from the bowl. They were great—balsa gliders, yoyos, whistles, stuff like that. My little brother screwed it up, though.”

  “How?”

  “The fluoride treatments used to make him gag. Once, when he had one of those treatments, they brought him the bowl and he vomited into it. They never gave out toys after that. But Dr. Lunan was a nice guy. And I like the dentist I’ve got now. Dr. Wong. She’s young, she’s Asian, she doesn’t speak English very well but she’s gorgeous, so who cares?”

  “You ought to marry her,” Loretta muttered. “You’d make my parents happy.”

  “I don’t want to make your parents happy,” Bob argued. “You don’t want to make your parents happy. I don’t want to make my parents happy.” He lifted her mug. “Come on. If we hang out in the lounge too long, they’re going to fire us.”

  A weary breath escaped Loretta. She felt weighted down, as if her clothing was wet and her shoes had lead soles. The pressures from her family were nothing compared to the pressure of having a pink slip dangling above her head. Why would she want to stay twenty-nine for the next ten years? This was her second day as a twenty-nine year old, and so far twenty-nine was shaping up to be pretty awful.

  She followed Bob and her coffee down the hall. They arrived back at the staff room in time to see Kate running her fingers feverishly over the plate in search of one final crumb of the cake.

  Bob set the mug in front of Loretta’s chair, then loped around the table to his own seat. “I’ve got an idea for a show,” he announced.

  Loretta eyed him suspiciously. Something they’d discussed in the coffee lounge had inspired him. She scrambled to figure out what. Not her, she hoped. She’d already inspired the whole twenty-nine-years-old-forever idea. She didn’t want to be the inspiration for any others.

  “Blind dates,” Bob said. “Your worst blind date.”

  “It sounds scuzzy,” Gilda observed.

  “It could be—but it could also be funny. Think about it. I once went on a blind date with an acrobat from the Big Apple Circus. I thought, wow, flexible joints, this could be one hot date. It was ghastly, though. She spent the entire dinner lecturing me on kinesiology and the differences between circus trailers and trailer-park trailers. She hadn’t read a newspaper in a year. She was the most boring conversationalist I ever met.”

  “But was she flexible?” Kate asked.

  “I never found out.”

  “I’ve had some pretty bad blind dates, too,” Kate remarked. “I made the mistake of marrying one of them.”

  “Well, here’s an idea,” Loretta said, relieved that this idea seemed to focus on Bob and Kate. “Maybe you two could go on the show and discuss your bad blind dates. Maybe we can even locate those blind dates and bring them on the show to get their perspectives. It could be funny,” she added, because Gilda looked skeptical.

  “I already know where my first husband is,” Kate said. “He lives in Piscataway and he still hits me up for money every now and then.”

  “Wait a minute.” Gilda raised a hand to silence them, then jotted something in her notebook. Someday Loretta wanted to steal that notebook and leaf through it. It was probably filled with meticulous notes on every show idea and conference the team mentioned—but who knew? It could be full of shopping lists or stream-of-consciousness erotica. Gilda never let anyone see it—not even her own daughter.

  She finished writing, clicked her pen shut and directed her gaze to Bob. “So we’d have poorly matched blind-date couples appear together on the set? How could we make sure that would be fun? Some of the guests might want to kill each other.”

  “It could be hilarious,” Kate said. “It wouldn’t have to lead to bloodshed if we set it up right.”

  “Blind dates from heck.” Bob’s eyes glowed like neon and he jiggled one of his feet, tapping the sneaker sole against the floor in a rapid tattoo. “Light and funny, no blind dates from hell. Then, to make it even cheerier, we could do a segment where someone is introduced to a blind date right on the show.”

  “There’s the potential for embarrassment, but also the potential for true love.” Kate beamed. “How warm and fuzzy can you get?”

  “Fuzzy, not scuzzy,” Bob quipped. “If it worked, we could do regular blind date segments. I bet we’d have desperate single women lined up all the way to West End Avenue, begging for the chance to go on the show and meet a blind date.”

  “What about desperate single men?” Loretta suggested. She wasn’t so enthusiastic about this idea. Becky Blake Sails the Love Boat? Yuck. But if everyone else on the staff loved it and she argued against it, she’d stick out. With the lay-off threat looming above them, she didn’t want to stick out.

  “You know,” Gilda said, “we’ve got a lot of singles on the show’s staff. Not just in this room, but the technicians, the camera operators, Shirelle in make-up, Patrick the stage manager—”

  “He’s gay,” Kate reminded Gilda.

  “Gay men go on blind dates, too.” Gilda gave Loretta a smile that sent a chill down her spine. “We could start with you, Loretta. We could set you up on a blind date right on the show. Then you could come back a week later and report on how the date went.”

  “No way.”

  “Becky’s going to love this,” Kate said. “You volunteer for the first blind date, Loretta, and your job will be secure for life.”

  “You think so?” Loretta didn’t want to believe her, but who knew? Maybe if she showed true courage and loyalty by letting Becky use her on the show, Becky might think twice about firing her. It was still a wretched idea…but she didn’t want to lose her job.

  “I’ll talk to Becky about it. She’s going to think it’s cute,” Gilda predicted. “Twenty nine and unmarried, Loretta. You’re our perfect guinea pig.”

  “I’m not a guinea pig,” Loretta protested, wishing they weren’t all gazing at her with such delight.

  But Gilda was already on her feet. “I think this is exactly the kind of thing Becky is looking for,” she said. “Topical, entertaining, but scuzz-less.”

  Once she was gone, Loretta shuddered. “My paren
ts warned me this was a terrible job.”

  “Sometimes parents are right,” Kate said benignly, then lifted the paper plate as if hoping against hope that one more crumb might be lingering on it.

  “Not mine,” Loretta insisted. If her parents had been right, she would be married to Gary Mancuso right now, shopping for a split-level on Long Island and discussing when to start having babies.

  “I wish I were single,” Kate lamented. “I’d kill for a chance to win points with Becky. Loretta, you’re going to appear on that show, find true love, and get a promotion, while Bob and I are going to be vying for position on the unemployment line.”

  “Not me,” Bob disputed her. “I’m the one who came up with this idea. If Becky likes it, I’m golden. In fact, I may volunteer to be a guinea pig, too. Maybe they’ll find my dream woman—someone bright and pretty and double-jointed.”

  “Or maybe they’ll find you a dentist,” Loretta warned. If only she could guarantee that they’d find her a decent blind date, someone with whom she could spend a pleasant evening and report back to the show with amusing anecdotes about their time together. Someone with tawny hair and hazel eyes, maybe. Sexy eyes. And the guts to take on a cell phone twit.

  Cleaner clothes, though. No grass stains. And clean-shaven. Loretta didn’t like stubble.

  Okay. She might just survive this, and wind up with her job intact. Twenty-nine, single and securely employed—was that really too much to ask for?

  Chapter Three

  Solly was waiting for Josh in the TV room at the West Side Senior Center, just a few blocks from the IRT station at 66th and Broadway. Solly always dressed sharply, and today was no exception. In a pressed green polo shirt, khaki trousers and clean white sneakers, he looked ready to hit the links, the lanes, or a Broadway matinee. He was short and trim, his face freckled but relatively unwrinkled and his eyes smiling behind stylish wire-framed glasses. Although he’d retired five years ago from his executive position at a retail apparel chain, Solly still knew how to put himself together.

  Josh liked him—not just as a chess partner but as a friend. When they’d started their weekly games a year ago, Josh had viewed the routine as a charitable act. Melanie had asked him to come in and socialize with the old folks—“You’re young and healthy and they’re approaching the tail ends of their lives,” she’d pointed out. So he’d journeyed over to the center one slow day to make nice with the neighborhood elders who gathered there to eat, socialize, attend lectures and play bridge. Solly had latched onto him and said, “You play chess? So come, show me what you can do.” He’d proceeded to beat Josh in seventeen moves.

  They didn’t keep track, but Josh guessed they’d accumulated an equal number of victories and defeats over the months of Mondays they’d faced each other across the battered wooden board in the TV lounge. Solly might be closing in on his eightieth birthday, but he’d lost none of his stuff, as he liked to remind anyone within earshot. “I’m still all there,” he’d boast. “Up here—” he’d tap his index finger against his brow “—and everywhere else, too.”

  Josh knew better than to question his claim. He’d clearly lost none of his mental “stuff,” if his skill at chess was any measure. As for his “stuff” everywhere else, well, a few female regulars at the center seemed prepared to testify that he was all man.

  One of them, Phyllis, greeted Josh with a lusty “Hi, bubby!” and perched herself on the arm of Solly’s chair as soon as he and Josh settled themselves at the corner table away from the TV and got to work arranging their pieces. Phyllis was about Solly’s age and a few inches shorter than him, a compact woman with cropped orange hair and deep creases stretching from her nose to the corners of her mouth, giving her upper lip a triangular shape. She wore bright lipstick and slim-fitting warm-up suits in colors so vivid they strained Josh’s eyes. Most of the rooms in the center were furnished in drab neutral hues, but Phyllis arrayed herself in hot pinks, loud turquoises and lime greens, all of which clashed with her hair. “So, you boys want I should get you some lunch?”

  Solly eyed Josh above his row of pawns. “You hungry?”

  Josh shook his head. On Mondays, he usually grabbed something on his way back to his office after the game—a sandwich from the deli across from Lincoln Center on Broadway, or a Sabrett’s hotdog piled high with sauerkraut, and a cream soda—and ate at his desk.

  “They made the pot roast today.” Solly motioned with his head in the direction of the dining room. “They always overcook it so it’s as dry as dead leaves, and then they drown it in gravy as if that could bring the leaves back to life.”

  “It’s fattening, the way they make it,” Phyllis added. “That gravy, you can tell. High in fat. Who needs it? I could get you boys some fruit, though. You want a nice piece of fruit?”

  “No, thanks,” Josh said, waiting for Solly to make a move.

  Solly glanced up at Phyllis. “You know what I’d like? A cold drink. You think maybe you could get me a shpritzer? With a slice of lemon.”

  “I know how you like it.” Phyllis patted his arm, then stood. She wasn’t much taller on her feet than she’d been propped on the arm of the chair. “How about you, bubbela?” she asked Josh. “You want a shpritzer?”

  “A glass of iced tea would be good.”

  “Sweet? You want with sugar?”

  “Just a slice of lemon would be great.”

  “My two boys, both with a slice of lemon. All right, I’ll be back.” She left the room, moving at a bouncy gait.

  “She’ll be back,” Solly muttered, nudging his queen’s pawn forward.

  “You don’t want her to come back?” Josh mirrored the move.

  “Are you kidding?” Solly flashed him an easy grin. “A beautiful woman like that, leaning up against me while I play? Why wouldn’t I want her to come back?”

  “You tell me.”

  Solly contemplated the board, but Josh knew he was also contemplating the question. “She’s a little aggressive, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s looking for a commitment.”

  “And you want to play the field.”

  Solly shrugged and moved his knight. “It’s a great big beautiful field. You get to be my age, Josh, you’re alive, you’re single, you don’t drool, you know a few dance steps, you know the difference between Beethoven’s Third and Beethoven’s Eighth… Not to brag, but I’m a catch. And there are a lot of ladies out there, you know what I’m saying?”

  Josh grinned. “I know, Solly. You’re the stud of the West Side Senior Center.”

  “I’m the stud of the West Side, period. Now, are you gonna let me win today?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Laughter and voices spilled out of the TV at the other end of the room. Two plump women sat on the sturdy plaid couch in front of the screen, but one was squinting over a needlepoint project and the other was thumbing through a magazine, so Josh doubted they were paying much attention to the show. He could probably change the channel without any objection from them—if he was interested in watching a particular daytime television show.

  Of course, he had no interest in viewing the Becky Blake Show. It probably wasn’t even on. It started at eleven and probably ran no longer than an hour, which meant that at—he glanced at his watch—12:10, it would already be over.

  Phyllis returned, carrying two plastic tumblers. She set them on the table. “Such a waitress I am,” she said. “You should give me a tip.”

  Solly kissed his index finger and touched it to Phyllis’s cheek. “There—the tip of my finger.”

  “You’re so romantic!” She whacked him affectionately on the shoulder and settled back onto the arm of his chair.

  “Listen, sweetie, I adore you, but I don’t want you kibitzing while I play.”

  “You can’t kibitz chess,” she said. “You can only kibitz bridge.”

  “I never knew that. Is that true, Josh?”


  Josh studied the board for a moment, then sent Phyllis an apologetic smile. “I think kibitzing is kibitzing, regardless of the game.”

  “Listen to him, Phyllis. He’s a lawyer, he knows these things.”

  “All right, all right, I can take a hint,” Phyllis grumbled, landing lightly on her feet. “I’ll leave you two sourpusses to your game. Just one thing, Josh—have you heard from Melanie? How is our angel?”

  Melanie used to be the director of the West Side Senior Center. A specialist in geriatric social work, she’d guided the program in its evolution from a sleepy little enclave one step removed from senior daycare into a lively hub of programs and services. Authors gave readings at the center. Artists taught classes, and the multipurpose room was converted into a gallery several times a year to display the creations of the center’s members. Yoga instruction and lectures on politics and health issues were offered. Students from Juilliard gave recitals. And—perhaps Melanie’s most appreciated contribution—the hot lunches improved significantly. Except for the pot roast, according to Solly.

  Melanie had done such a fabulous job of revitalizing the center that a retirement community in Opa-Locka dangled a huge contract in front of her. “I love New York,” Melanie had told Josh. “I love my life here. But how can I turn my back on such an opportunity? Directing services for an entire retirement community. It’s something I need to try. I owe myself the chance, don’t I?”

  No, Josh wanted to say. You owe yourself the chance to stay here with the Upper West Side folks who love you, and with me, who…

  Perhaps if he’d said he loved her, she would have stayed. He was pretty sure he loved her. They’d been together for more than two years and things had been going smoothly. Her parents liked him, his father had liked her and his mother tolerated her, and the sex had been fantastic.

  But if he’d said he loved her, she might have thought he was blackmailing her into staying. Emotional blackmail was one of those subjects the magazines Melanie read tended to dwell on, along with tips on eyebrow waxing and angst-ridden tales about people facing life-altering crises like adult-onset acne and caffeine addiction. Emotional blackmail, as Melanie had explained it to him on more than one occasion, was manipulating people into doing what you wanted them to do based on your bestowing or withholding love.