Just This Once

by Judith Arnold

“I wish you’d been my sex ed teacher,” he said. “We spent three years learning about STD’s and date rape. If only someone had taught us to get in the shower and jerk off, we would have all grown up a lot saner.”

  “You better believe it.” Anita stood and nodded. “Now don’t you go stepping out on Melanie. She’s not who I’d have chosen for you, but you chose her for yourself and you owe her something.”

  “She left me. She went to Florida.”

  “I didn’t say you owed her a lifetime of celibacy, Josh. I said you owed her something. You don’t need me telling you this. You’re decent to a fault.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “I don’t know.” She headed for the door, her high heels leaving indentations in the carpet. “Tomorrow morning, nine sharp.”

  “I’ll be there,” he promised.

  Anita’s departure left an almost smothering stillness in its wake. He leaned back in his chair and listened to the hum of his computer. His schedule disappeared behind his screen saver, which resembled the view through the Starship Enterprise’s windshield.

  Anita could be a pain in the ass, but her most pain-in-the-ass trait was that she was so often right. She’d been right today—not her advice that he should masturbate in the shower, but that he owed Melanie something.

  The question was, what did he owe her?

  ***

  He still hadn’t come up with an answer by the time he arrived home around seven that evening. While he microwaved a wedge of spinach lasagna from the take-out department of the Greek-Italian deli at the corner of his block, he flipped through the mail in his box: two bills, three pieces of junk. He carried his meal and a bottle of Sam Adams into the living room and watched CNN while he ate. Today’s reports looked suspiciously like yesterday’s, and he pondered the possibility that he’d gotten stuck in a time warp and was actually reliving the previous evening. No, he wasn’t. Yesterday, he hadn’t been mulling over what he owed Melanie. Today, that question preoccupied him.

  Loyalty. Of course he owed her that. Honesty—to a certain extent. Josh believed it was vitally important to be honest with oneself, but with others, too much honesty could be a bad thing. He’d learned that lesson from his mother, who had drilled into him early and often that he must always be honest. When he was about nine, he told her, with abundant honesty, that the kitchen wallpaper she’d chosen was ugly. It was still hanging in her kitchen today, and it was still ugly, bunches of green grapes scattered across a background the color of intense piss. Her reaction to his honest comment had taught him honesty was a potent substance that needed to be applied with extreme caution.

  So while he didn’t want to lie to Melanie, he wasn’t sure he owed her complete honesty, either. He did owe her sympathy, and damn, he’d been sympathizing via email and text messages on a daily basis. She was hot. She was so hot she’d lost five pounds since she’d moved to Opa-Locka, just from sweating. The Miami area was so hot the asphalt melted and sucked at her shoes when she crossed the street. It was so hot she’d blistered her finger when she’d touched the steering wheel of her car after she’d forgotten to place the heat shield across her dashboard. Her life consisted of racing from one air-conditioned environment to another.

  Whenever he received one of her melodramatic texts, he invariably sent her a response overflowing with condolences. New York City got pretty damned hot in the summer, too, but he loved the city, so the sweltering weather didn’t bother him. Even on the hottest, muggiest days of late July, the automobile traffic stirred the air, and breezes lifted off the rivers and whisked along the cross streets. Air conditioning helped, but a person could combat even the most oppressive heat in New York by purchasing an Italian ice and sitting under a tree in Central Park.

  So he gave Melanie sympathy. And loyalty, and imprecise but genuine honesty. He gave her support, encouraging her to pursue her career goals even though that pursuit had taken her away from him. He gave her his patience—a huge and precious gift, he believed.

  Did he really have to give her his libido, too? Did he have to dedicate his nuts to Melanie? Did he have to resign himself to long, two-handed showers?

  Shit. The part of his brain that wasn’t located in his groin believed he did. And that was the wiser, nobler part. He couldn’t ignore it.

  Maybe if he heard Melanie’s voice, its familiar sound would erase his awareness of all the other intriguing, available women in the city from the stupid, not at all noble part of his mind that was located in his groin. He’d feel more connected to Melanie. Surely she owed him something, too, and if they talked, their conversation would be a mutual reimbursement. His lasagna barely touched, he carried his beer to his bedroom, stretched out on the bed and pressed the memory dial for Melanie’s number in Florida.

  It rang four times before she answered, and when she did he was amazed she could even have heard the ringing. A fist of noise—voices and loud music—seemed to reach through the receiver and punch his ear. “Hello?” she shouted into the phone.

  “Melanie? It’s Josh,” he shouted back.

  “Josh! Hi! Hang on a minute—” she apparently turned away from the phone and hollered “—I’ll be right back!”

  “What the hell is going on?” Josh asked.

  “I’ve got some friends over for dinner.”

  Some friends? It sounded as if she had half the city’s population crammed into her apartment. And the music—what was it? Some woman wailing above a bouncy salsa beat. “Melanie—”

  “I know, it’s really loud.” A pause, and then the sound was a bit more muted, as if she’d ducked into a closet and shut the door.

  “What was that music?”

  “The music? Gloria Estefan.”

  “Since when do you listen to Gloria Estefan?”

  “Since I moved here. How are you?”

  He hadn’t been sure before he phoned. He was even less sure now. “I obviously caught you at a bad time. Maybe I should call back later tonight.”

  “I don’t know, Josh. This party is going to last a while.”

  “It’s a weeknight. Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”

  She laughed. “You sound like my mother. ‘It’s a school night, Melanie! Turn off that light and get some sleep!’”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “God, it’s so hot. I’ve got the air conditioner cranked up as high as it can go. My electric bill is going to kill me. I can’t believe how hot it is.”

  Some of that unbelievable heat was probably body heat, Josh thought. She could cool her place down by sending her guests home. He didn’t say that, but he couldn’t seem to produce the sympathy she was fishing for. “Look, I’m sorry I called. We can talk some other time.”

  “No, Josh—I’m the one who should apologize. You obviously called for a reason. Please tell me. I can hear you if you speak up. Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted…” I wanted to hear your voice, he almost said, but she would construe that as a romantic sentiment, and he wasn’t feeling romantic at the moment. Quite the contrary, he was feeling ornery and impatient and uneasy. “I think calling you tonight was a mistake,” he finally said—as honest as any words he’d ever spoken, including his critique of his mother’s kitchen wallpaper. “We’ll talk another time, okay?”

  “Okay. I’m really sorry, Josh. It’s just so loud!”

  “I noticed.”

  “So, I’ll talk to you later?”

  “Sure.”

  “’Bye, Josh!” She must have opened the door she’d been hiding behind, because he got bludgeoned by another explosion of noise, atop which her voice soared. “Here I am!” she bellowed to her guests just before the phone clicked, disconnecting him.

  Josh hung up, stared at the ceiling, took a long drink of beer and stared at the ceiling some more. What did he owe her now?

  Not a goddamned thing.

  Swinging his legs off the bed, he crossed to his dres
ser, lifted his wallet, unfolded it and checked. The card was still there, waiting for him.

  Calling Loretta D’Angelo might mean having to appear on her TV show to discuss cell phones, but what the hell. For a chance to touch her hair, to find out if it felt as silky as it looked, to gaze into her eyes and remember that he was a normal, healthy man with normal, healthy urges, he could take a chance and call her.

  Or else he’d call some other woman. Several other women. As many women as Melanie had dinner guests tonight.

  Why not? As Solly said, there were a lot of ladies out there.

  Chapter Six

  “Loretta,” Bob announced, tossing the phone receiver onto the couch and beckoning her over from the table. The production team had one office phone and they answered it themselves, but apparently even this economy would not be enough to spare their jobs. It didn’t seem fair to Loretta that the team already operated on such a tight budget, but it was still slated to lose a staff member. Why not lay off one of the stagehands? Or that buxom script girl who made goo-goo eyes at all the guys and said “axed” instead of “asked.” Or the fey young man listed in the credits as “Miss Blake’s hairdresser,” even though her hair wasn’t at all dressed.

  Of course, those people were all union, so it was practically impossible to lay them off. A union contract was an impressive thing.

  At least Loretta didn’t usually have to answer the phone. If Bob was in the room, he was the one to answer it. He said he liked to hear the little hesitation whenever someone dialed and a man answered. Feminism notwithstanding, people still expected women to answer office phones. “In my next lifetime,” Bob often joked, “I want to come back as a receptionist. Or maybe a stenographer. I want to sit on women’s laps and take dictation.”

  “You’d crush their knees,” Katie would point out.

  “I’d sit delicately.”

  Loretta was grateful to Bob for answering the phone that morning. She wasn’t expecting a call, but whoever her caller was had to be at least marginally impressed that she didn’t answer her own phone. She slid her feet into her sandals and crossed to the couch, a location which offered her a direct view of the white board. Gilda stood in front of it, writing a list of staff members from the show who were eligible for blind dates. She used different colored markers to denote priorities. Loretta’s name was at the top of the list, printed in red.

  Sinking onto the couch, Loretta lifted the receiver to her ear. “Loretta D’Angelo here.”

  “Hi. It’s Josh Kaplan.”

  She frowned at the unfamiliar name. “Who?”

  “Josh Kaplan. We met on the Long Island Railroad.”

  The Cell Phone Renegade. Loretta blinked and leaned deeper into the cushions. On the white board across from her, Gilda had listed below her name, in blue ink, “Nancy—mail room. Lavonne. Patrick.” Next to Patrick’s name, she’d added “gay” in parentheses. To the right of Loretta’s name, in green, she’d written “the dentist,” because Bob had blabbed to everyone that Loretta’s brother wanted to set her up on a blind date with Marty Calabrese, D.D.S.

  She turned away from the white board and focused her mind on her caller. She’d given up on hearing from the cell phone guy. They’d met last Sunday and now it was Friday. Obviously, he was conflicted about whether he wanted to appear on the show.

  She was conflicted, too. Becky had demonstrated great enthusiasm for the blind date concept but had hedged on the cell phone concept, expressing concern about whether it would be kind and gentle enough for the new Becky Blake Show that Harold was demanding. Loretta had considered pushing for her concept, but had decided not to. If she wanted to keep her job, she’d improve her odds if she supported concepts Becky was hot to do, not concepts she expressed doubts about.

  But the hero of the Long Island Railroad had finally called, and she’d be a fool to brush him off. “Hi!” She must have sounded uncharacteristically spirited, because her three colleagues turned in unison to stare at her. “I’m glad you called,” she added, surprised to admit how true that was.

  “Well.” He hesitated, then said, “Hi.”

  This was awkward. Kind of like a first date, she thought—or a blind date. The hell with “the dentist,” in green or any other color. If she were forced to go on a blind date, she’d rather it be with someone like…Josh Kaplan.

  Of course, she had no idea what kind of person he was. He did have those bedroom eyes…but he might also have a wife, or an array of bad habits. Or even a few illegal habits. Or—her eyes strayed to the white board again—he might turn out to be Patrick’s type.

  In any case, he’d called for a reason, and that reason undoubtedly had nothing to do with blind dates. “Have you decided you want to appear on the Becky Blake Show?” she asked. Hearing this, her colleagues turned from her, apparently losing their interest in her caller.

  “I think it’s worth talking about,” he said. “I’m at work right now—as I assume you are—but perhaps we could meet after work to discuss the idea.”

  Meet after work. She tilted her head, directing her gaze toward the Parthenon poster. Meet after work sounded like an overture.

  It probably wasn’t. He didn’t want to talk right now because, as he said, he was at work. She shouldn’t read more into his words than he’d intended. But it was fun to pretend, for just a minute, that he was interested in something other than attaining immortal celebrity by appearing on the show.

  She’d have to choose a safe, public place for them to rendezvous, just in case he turned out to fall into either the bad or illegal habit categories. Someplace not too cozy. Someplace where they didn’t serve garlicky or oniony snacks, for breath reasons.

  “Today?” she asked, checking her watch. One-thirty. Damn. Now he’d know what a loser she was. Anyone with even a pathetically low-grade social life would have made plans for the evening by now.

  But if they got together, she could make sure he understood that she’d squeezed him in on short notice only because it was her job. She could spend half an hour with him and then swear she had to leave. Maybe she ought to be wondering how dead his social life was, since he’d been the one to suggest that they get together.

  Of course, if he was married, his social life was dead by definition. If he was gay, the liveliness of his social life was altogether irrelevant to her. “I could spare a few minutes around five thirty,” she said, hoping she sounded terribly busy.

  “Could we make it a little later? Would six be too late?”

  She waited a minute, as if struggling to rearrange her life, and then said, “Six. Sure. Where should we meet?”

  “My office is in Union Square.”

  And hers was in the West Fifties. “Someplace in Times Square?” she suggested.

  “How about the Hilton? We can get something to drink, and talk.”

  A hotel bar sounded relatively safe. There would be lots of people around. “Okay,” she said. “Six o’clock.”

  “I’ll see you then. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Another pause, a faint, almost bashful laugh, and he said, “Okay. Good-bye, Loretta.”

  “Good-bye.” She hung up, took a deep breath and assessed that last little flurry of okays. A smooth operator he wasn’t. If he was married, he didn’t stray very much. If he did, he’d have skipped at least one of the okays.

  She assessed what little she knew about him: he worked in an office—which wasn’t a huge shock. The evening she’d encountered him on the train, he’d had that leather tote with him, so he was probably some sort of professional. And he had a name. Josh Kaplan. It didn’t sound like the name of a psychopath.

  “What was that all about?” Katie asked.

  “Someone we might get on the show,” Loretta said vaguely. She hadn’t yet abandoned the cell phone concept. Just because everyone else—including Becky and, presumably, Harold, the president of the syndication company—thought the blind date concept was marvelous di
dn’t mean the show was going to become all blind date all the time. They’d need other ideas to fill in the days when people weren’t being manipulated into falling in love with strangers.

  Not just people, she thought with a sigh. Gilda had added a few more names to the list on the white board, but Loretta’s was still on top, and still in red. She was still the number one sucker.

  “What someone? What show? Is he a blind date candidate?” Katie asked.

  “No,” Loretta said, refusing to reveal her thoughts about Josh Kaplan until she knew what those thoughts were.

  “God, I’m starving,” Katie announced, evidently done grilling Loretta for now. She and Loretta had eaten lunch downstairs in the courtyard of the building less than an hour ago, but Loretta wasn’t surprised that Katie was hungry again already. She’d started a new diet which involved eating only green foods. She’d consumed a salad of romaine lettuce, cucumber and celery, followed by a Granny Smith apple and a lime lollipop. After a lunch like that, Loretta would be starving, too.

  Gilda set down her markers and faced the others. Loretta remained where she was on the couch. If she returned to the table, Katie might grill her further about the man she was meeting after work, and she didn’t want to talk about him.

  Josh Kaplan. A man of action, a man of conviction, a man of broad shoulders and hazel eyes. A man she had not a scintilla of interest in, except in the context of the show.

  Yeah, right. And a person could lose weight eating avocados and pistachio ice cream. They were both green, weren’t they?

  Chapter Seven

  Anxious was not part of Josh’s repertory. He did indignant very well, he could pull off ironic when necessary, and dutiful was so deeply engrained in him he’d committed himself to mowing his mother’s lawn every week this summer. He could manage courteous without breaking a sweat, and faced with a situation that demanded either fear or laughter, he chose laughter just about every time.

  But as he sat in the lounge of the Hilton Times Square, one story above street level, watching guests and visitors mill about the spacious, amber-lit lobby, some dragging wheeled suitcases, others trailing porters who pushed brass carts laden with luggage, still others empty-handed except for a purse or briefcase, he began to suffer from a restlessness that felt an awful lot like anxiety.