by Dina Silver
I roll my eyes. There goes my fantasy of getting looped and making out with B.B.C. at the bar as “Wanted Dead or Alive” plays on the jukebox.
“Nice meeting you ladies,” Scott says as he and his friends grab their Bud Lights and disappear into the crowd.
Julie opens her wallet and pays for our drinks. She never lets me pay for anything. Ever since we were young, and she had to listen to me complain about how my mom would make me ask my father for the child support checks, Julie has been my sugar daddy. She comes from married, wealthy parents, who always make sure she has enough cash on her. Enough to charter a helicopter if necessary. Even now that she’s an adult, her father still gives her a monthly stipend, which she and I now refer to as our child support.
“Aw, come on, they were funny,” I comment. “Let’s stay.”
“Are you high?” Julie asks and grabs her purse. “I have two grown, employed men waiting for us, not to mention a filet covered in béarnaise with your name on it,” she smartly reminds me.
I nod and take one last swig of my beer. “You’re right. What was I thinking?”
She stands and salutes the bartender. “Let’s get out of here before some guy walks in with a skateboard under his arm and sends you into a lust-driven frenzy.”
We step outside, walk the four blocks from P.J. Clarke’s to Gibson’s, and marvel at the energy in the city. Street lamps are glowing like spotlights, illuminating small crowds of people as they wind their way along the sidewalks looking for a good time. Summer in Chicago is like no other. If you can make it through the brutal winters, you are handsomely rewarded with three fabulous seasons in between. The air off the lake is particularly warm tonight, and as we approach the restaurant I begin to feel a little more energized. The combination of starter cocktails and flirting has put me in a fabulous mood. Julie is in a similarly great frame of mind and we’re both laughing and holding on to each other as we enter our second bar of the evening.
Much like P.J. Clarke’s, this place is packed with people. The main difference being that the average age has risen by about twenty years. No college cuties here; in fact, mostly divorcees and their desperate cohorts. Julie and I are the ones that look like we should be sporting backwards baseball caps now. She locates The Chef immediately, thank God, and drags me behind her through the throngs of people.
“There they are,” Julie says, elbowing her way through the crowd.
“Which one is mine?” I say without moving my lips.
“The one in the sweater.”
“I was hoping you weren’t going to say that.”
“Why? He looks adorable.”
“It’s July!”
She cracks up. “Would you relax, he’s hot.” She can hardly say the words with a straight face.
We approach our dates and Julie does the introductions. Thankfully, I learn that her date, The Chef, is more appropriately referred to as Ryan Sullivan.
“Hi, guys,” Julie says. “Ryan, this is Kat, Kat this is…” she pauses, allowing my date to complete her sentence.
“Pete,” he says for himself.
“Hi,” I say with yet another mini-wave. “Nice to meet you both.”
“Kat’s a little upset because I just yanked her away from three frat boys at P.J.’s,” Julie announces.
I look at her and shake my head. “Why?”
“Don’t let us cramp your style,” Pete says.
“Thank you, I have since matured,” I assure him and extend my hand as a more appropriate, welcome gesture. He follows through with a firm grip, which is the first positive thing I notice.
“We thought maybe you forgot about us,” Ryan says with a smile.
“Only for a second, darling,” Julie taps his cheek.
We hang out in the bar area making small talk for about twenty-five minutes. It’s all pretty painless actually, because Pete turns out to be quite the chatterbox. He tells me about his new apartment, his recent trip to the Bahamas, his affinity for playing poker, and his love of motorcycles. Our courting period gives me just enough time to have my fourth cocktail on an empty stomach and break down the positives and negatives of both men. First of all, Pete isn’t bad for a blind date. He’s blonde, which isn’t my first choice, but he doesn’t have the typical fair features that most blondes have. He has dark brown eyes and more of an olive complexion, stands about six feet tall and seems pretty slim underneath his bulky clothes. I’m going to suggest he order the creamed spinach with a side of au gratin potatoes. The biggest hurdle is going to be his outfit. He has on a pair of black jeans - potential deal breaker - and a sweater. It’s not a mock-turtle neck, hallelujah, but the man is wearing a sweater in one of the hottest months of the year. Upon closer study, it’s cotton, but the jury is still out on this one regardless of the natural fibers.
More surprising is The Chef. He’s taller than Pete, equally attractive, but has a much more reserved personality than I was expecting. He’s unusual for Julie. She typically goes for the opinionated, artsy type. Guys with lanky figures and longer hair, who prefer smoking weed to, well, working. I remember her describing him earlier on, though, that he loved to cook and he’d wanted to have her over for dinner. Julie has a habit of rebranding her love interests based on their best quality. And it’s not often that something like ‘cooking’ is considered a skill worthy enough for one of her nicknames.
“Shall we grab our table?” Pete addresses the group.
“Sounds great,” I say.
Ryan offers to pay the bar tab.
“I’ll wait with you,” Julie says, leaving Pete and I to walk alone to the hostess stand. He hasn’t stopped talking yet, so it’s really no problem for me to tag along sipping and nodding. The hostess shows us to our table as Julie and Ryan follow behind.
“I’m starving,” Julie says and grabs the menu from the hostess once we all take our seats.
“Well, Julie,” Pete starts to say. “You realize if you order from the right, more expensive side of the menu, you have to put out tonight.”
Did he really just say that? I think to myself.
Ryan offers an apologetic grin for his friend’s sense of humor and I notice that his eyes involuntarily squint a little each time he smiles.
“Is that so?” Julie says coyly and plays along.
I chime in. “If that means I’m condemned to a bowl of soup, you’re going to have one crabby blind date on your hands, Pete.”
He laughs hysterically at his own joke. “Well, since we just met you get a one-time pass on the rule,” he informs me and goes for the high-five.
Oddly enough I find him amusing, and so far his personality is surpassing his choice in denim. The fact that he dares to joke around with Julie gives him extra points in my book. Ryan has yet to do much more than smile and look cute.
“Well, I’m not scared,” Julie declares and folds her menu so that only the more expensive, right side is available to her. “This is a steakhouse after all.”
We are all discussing our food options when Ryan finally emerges from his silent comfort zone and speaks.
“So, Julie tells me you’re in advertising,” he says to me.
I shift my eyes from my menu to him. “Yeah, I work at Lambert & Miller. You?”
“DDB,” he answers.
“You like it there?” I ask.
“It’s all right,” he says with a nod and takes a sip of his beer.
“Account side or Creative?” I ask Ryan, but Pete answers instead.
“Ryno’s their star copywriter and I used to work with him as an account exec,” he tells me. “How ‘bout you, Kat?” Pete asks.
“I’m an assistant A.E.,” I say with little enthusiasm. I’ve been vying for a promotion for a few months now, but my job frustrations are the last thing I want to bore anyone with, so I gear up for a topic change.
Julie turns to Pete. “So you’re not at DDB anymore? I thought you two worked together?” She looks at them for clarification.
“We us
ed to, I left to start my own gig about a month ago,” Pete tells her.
“Good for you,” I perk up with interest. “What do you do?”
I notice him glance at Ryan and then at the table, and then they both uncomfortably chuckle to themselves.
“I review porn,” Pete says.
Julie looks at him, and I look at Julie. “Please continue,” she says, wide-eyed.
“I have a website where I write reviews on pornographic movies, magazines, web pages, etc,” he says, slightly embarrassed…but not entirely.
“What’s it called?” Julie asks, as I can barely do more than sit idle with amazement at what she’s gotten me into. Food is going to end up being my only love interest this evening.
“Skankipedia.com,” he says with schoolboy enthusiasm.
“Ha!” I cannot contain my outburst. I lose it and so does Julie. She does a spit-take that would do the Three Stooges proud. I glance at Ryan and notice he’s having a grand old time watching this unfold.
Pete looks at me. “Ryan didn’t mention that beforehand I’m guessing?” he asks.
I shake my head trying to recover. Of course the black jeans make perfect sense now.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I dab a tear from my eye. Julie obviously could have cared less what this guy was like when she pimped me out to her ‘chef.’ More importantly, I should never have trusted her. I know better. One time when we were in high school she was dating a guy from the local Catholic boys school, and I agreed to be set up with his friend for a winter formal. His friend showed up at my house with a rosary for me to wear to the dance, and refused to touch me even during slow songs. When I told him I wasn’t comfortable wearing the rosary the entire evening he said he understood, and that he would pray for me. Since then I have done my best to avoid Julie’s set-ups.
“Let’s just say it pays more than advertising,” Ryan chimes in with the save.
“I’ll have to check it out,” I comment, feigning interest.
“I’ll get you a free password,” Pete offers.
“Awesome,” I respond and nod.
We finish our meal around ten-thirty and decide to check out The Hangge Uppe, a local club that plays retro dance tunes and stays open until four o’clock in the morning. Never a good idea, but I’ve had so many drinks at this point that I’m in full hanger-on mode. The only thing I can concentrate on is putting one foot in front of the other as I hold on to Pete’s elbow and literally try to envision a straight line on the pavement. I’m sure he must be smitten by now. When we reach the club, my earlier hopes of making out with someone to a Bon Jovi tune become much more realistic. We locate a small section of couches and Ryan and Pete head to the bar.
“So…he’s nice, right?” Julie sits down and leans over in my direction.
“Nicer every minute,” I chuckle at my stupor.
“Seriously, Ryan says he thinks you’re adorable.”
“He does?” I ask with sincere disbelief and scrunch my eyebrows together.
“Yes, Kat, he does. Even Ryan commented on how cute you were,” she tells me. “Pete seems funny, talkative…” she begins a list of generic attributes.
I raise a hand to silence her. “Black jeans and porn? Seriously Julie, what am I supposed to do with that?”
We both can’t help but laugh. “Okay, okay,” she says. “You know clothing is the easiest thing to change. And a little porn never killed anyone,” she mocks my misfortune.
I bury my face in my hands, and think of Marc. Situations like these always make me long to be with him, but I could never admit that to Julie.
Pete and Ryan return with our drinks and sit down beside us. The dance floor is pulsating and people are jumping around like they’re on pogo sticks. Pete moves in a little closer and thankfully gets back to reciting his filibuster. He reaches over and rubs my leg as he’s talking and all I can think about is trying to keep my eyes open as I adjust my posture on the couch. I glance over to where Julie and Ryan are sitting and discover that Ryan is just staring back at Pete and me, all squinty and alone.
“Where’s Julie?” I abruptly lean away from Pete.
“Little girls room,” Ryan says.
“What?” I exclaim. That bitch knows it’s a team sport, how could she ditch me like that? “I’ll be right back,” I stand up quickly and lose my balance. My legs buckle and Pete and Ryan both react and attempt to save me from additional humiliation, but I fall flat on my ass despite their gallant efforts. I stagger to my feet, spread my arms in an effort to level my equilibrium, and then smooth out the front of my shirt.
“Whoa, are you okay?” Ryan asks, still poised to catch me.
“Oh, my God, I’m fine, thank you…sorry,” I stammer, rubbing my behind.
“Do you want some help?” Pete says and offers me his arm.
I politely wave him off. “I’m fine, it really wasn’t my fault. Didn’t you guys feel the ground move?” I muster an attempt at joking my way out of it. “I’ll be right back.”
I stumble to the ladies room only to find Julie six people deep in line. I obviously couldn’t care less about offending anyone at this point, so I budge right in to where she’s standing.
“Oh, helloooo,” she says, amused.
“I think I need to go,” I inform her.
She looks up toward the front of the line, and then back at me.
“Well, you’re going to have to wait like the rest of us,” Julie says.
“No I mean, go…go. Leave go.”
“Why?”
I hiccup. “I’m afraid my dinner may reappear and it’s not going to be as appetizing the second time around.”
“Good lord, if you hurl I will kill you,” she whisper-screams.
“Precisely why I need to go.”
“Can I pee first?” she asks, shaking her head in disgust. “I’m not ready to call it a night yet; you seriously can’t control yourself?”
“You don’t have to leave. I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened,” I say and prop myself against the wall just outside the ladies room to wait for her. As soon as she comes out we make our way back to the boys and find them both leaning back on the couch. Ryan kindly assures me the floor hasn’t budged in my absence.
“Kat needs to go,” Julie announces and throws her arms up.
Pete looks disappointed. “Really?”
“I’m sho sorry,” I begin to slur. “I’ve hit my wall limit…I mean theresh a wall,” I continue to ramble. “I’ve hit a bunch number of walls,” I try to explain, waving my hands around.
He gives me a confused look, and then cocks his head. A sober version of me would have been mortified, but I felt quite confident that I’d gotten my point across.
“She’s going to puke if you don’t get her home,” Julie translates.
“Gotcha, let’s get you a cab,” Pete says and jumps to his feet.
“Why don’t we all go?” Ryan asks and stands up.
I can sense Julie’s eyes burning a hole through my skull so I decide not to look at her.
I shake my head no, and gesture for them to sit down, like one does after a standing ovation. “Please stay, you guys don’t have to leave on my account, I can get myself a cab,” I plead with them.
“Don’t be silly,” Pete says.
As I give Julie and Ryan a hug goodbye, Ryan gently squeezes my hand and tells me to be careful. I then grab my purse and Pete walks me to the door.
“I feel terrible about this,” I say, rubbing my forehead.
“It’s no big thing, happens to the best of us,” he says kindly.
Just as I’m about to make my escape, “You Give Love a Bad Name” starts to blare over the sound system, so I reach up and grab Pete by the neck to give him a kiss. We swap spit for about a minute, and then say our goodbyes.
“Bye, Kat, I’ll call you,” he says with a smile.
I smile back and drop my filet at his feet.
CHAPTER THREE:
Second Chance at a Sober Impr
ession
It’s been two weeks since my disastrous blind date with Pete, after which Julie had been almost as embarrassed as me. And not surprisingly, he never called. The only good thing to come of it was that Julie vowed never to set me up with anyone again. She and Ryan have maintained a casual relationship, although she has yet to score a home-cooked meal out of him. And in true Julie fashion, she’s also set her sights on another new guy as well…nickname pending.
Meanwhile, I’ve chosen to focus on work as a way of getting my mind off of Marc. Work and Adam, that is. Adam Sparks is my coworker and most favorite person in the whole world. Adam is gay, and like most gay friends he’s the perfect mate. He’s honest, funny, good-looking, has great clothes and shares similar interests, such as men. Adam runs the Media Department at Lambert & Miller, and has been doing so for three years. He and I became close last year at the office Christmas party when Marc got completely wasted and bitched me out in the parking lot for talking to the bartender for too long. It made no difference to Marc that the bartender was my nextdoor neighbor when I was five years old. Marc stormed past me and out the front door, leaving me to excuse myself from the conversation with my old neighbor, and follow him outside where he was fuming. And drunk. Adam had been getting something from his car at the time and overheard our whole argument. I remember standing there alone as Marc stumbled into a cab and left me.
My relationship with Marc was never without public displays of drama, and this particular incident, only yards from a co-worker, was exceptionally embarrassing. Soon after Marc had all but spat on me and drove away in a cab that night, Adam sauntered over and asked why I let such a charming guy slip away. I laughed and cried, and Adam and I have been together ever since.
Adam is one of those people who, the more you get to know him, the more attractive he becomes. Not that he isn’t physically attractive, but his personality gives him added potential that his looks alone could never provide. He’s about five-foot ten but swears to being six feet tall. He has short buzz-cut hair, a swimmer’s build, and a super pearly white smile due to his obsession with Crest White Strips. And although he is hysterically funny and crude, he’s a big teddy bear on the inside - a true romantic and a fiercely loyal friend. He and I share a desire to be happily married one day, and he has more than done his part in helping me get through my break-up with Marc. He’s articulate and supportive when I need to be talked off a wall. He’s strong when I turn to jelly. He agrees with me when I simply need to hear that I’m right. He never hesitates to tell me when I’m acting like an idiot. And he distracts me with snacks. Sometimes I think Adam understands - more than my girlfriends - how it feels to be thrust back to the first rung on the matrimonial ladder. Mostly because he has a greater appreciation for that which is essentially unattainable to him.
