by Lutz, Lisa
My brother put his feet up on his desk and leaned back, getting comfortable for what he believed was going to be a long, amusing conversation at my expense.
“Can we go over this one more time?” he said.
“I don’t see what the big deal is. I just want you to meet me at the San Francisco Tennis Club on Saturday at ten A.M. sharp. We’ll play a game of tennis. I’ll buy you lunch. Why can’t you just say ‘I’d love to, Isabel’ like a normal brother would?”
“Since when do you even play tennis?”
“I took it up about a month ago.”
“He must be something.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sorry, Izzy, I’m busy Saturday morning.”
“Next Saturday?”
“Still busy.”
“He’s not a bartender, I swear.”
My brother’s secretary buzzed the office: “David, your sister Rae is here to see you.”
“Send her in.”
Rae entered the office and promptly demanded an explanation for my presence. I, in turn, demanded an explanation for hers, knowing full well she was here for her weekly shakedown. Rae hopped up on the corner of David’s desk and handed him a typewritten sheet of paper. David reviewed the sheet, crossed out a line, and reached for his wallet. “I’m not paying for the snacks. You never buy anything healthy.”
“What if I can provide you with a receipt?”
“No deal. You’ll just trade receipts. On this point, I defer to your sister. We’ve got to get you off the candy.”
David offered Rae a twenty-dollar bill and demanded three dollars in change.
“Does Izzy want money, too?” Rae asked David.
“No, Izzy wants me to help her snag a guy, except I don’t approve of her methods.”
“What methods?” Rae asked innocently.
“She stalks them first. Finds out every detail of their life and insinuates herself into it until they have no choice but to ask her out.”
“Why don’t we use the word ‘investigating,’” I offered.
“What’s wrong with that?” said Rae. “She’s just trying to find out something about them first before she gets involved.”
A stunned David turned to me for a response.
“Don’t defend me, Rae.”
“Why not? It makes total sense,” she said more casually than I can bear to describe.
“You should never do that. Ever.”
“Do as I say, not as I do,” mocked David.
I leaned back on his couch, withered from the conversation, flattened by the prospect that I am, once again and always, setting an example.
“David, tell her how it’s supposed to be done,” I mumbled.
“Rae, women—other than your sister—when they are attracted to a member of the opposite sex—or the same sex, depending on preference—introduce themselves in some capacity. They smile, they wave, they offer up their business card, or a scrap of paper with their phone number on it, or they ask for a phone number. They make their intentions known and hope that the other party responds. They don’t follow the person around for a couple of weeks, learning said person’s schedule, assessing his moral character, ensuring that no surprises will arise should they ever begin dating. Relationships entail some element of the unknown. You cannot escape that, no matter how hard you try.”
A bored Rae responded, “David, Mom has already given me the ‘Don’t be like Isabel’ speech. And while yours focused more on dating than marijuana abuse, it’s all the same. Thanks for the cash. I love you.”
She kissed him on the cheek, having learned when she was young that he was the man with the deep pockets. In an act of parity, she walked over to the couch, lifted the pillow off my face, and did the same.
“’Bye, Izzy. I’ll see you later,” she said and left me alone, once again, with my judgmental older sibling.
I slowly sat upright on the couch, suddenly feeling as though I weighed three hundred pounds. I got to my feet and put on my coat.
“See you later, David,” I said sluggishly.
“Saturday, ten A.M. sharp at the club,” he replied, and some of that extra weight lifted.
The debriefing, required on both sides prior to entering the tennis club, consumed approximately twenty minutes. My instructions involved David not speaking unless being spoken to, David not revealing any information regarding family, career, or previous relationships. He was not allowed to correct information I gave or offer information to another party about me. David’s only rule was that if he observed any illegal behavior, he would call the police.
We flipped a coin and I served first. It was a legal serve, but David refused to return it. He motioned with his racket for me to meet him at the net.
“You said you’ve been playing about a month.”
“Right.”
“That was quite a serve.”
“Thanks. Do you want to play or what?”
“Let’s go.”
“Fifteen-love.”
I served again. David returned with a moderate lob, which gave me enough time to land a powerful backhand that cut diagonally across the court, which David decided to miss. We rallied for a few more minutes and then David called me to the net again.
“What’s the deal, Izzy? Remember, I’ve actually seen you in PE class. Your hand-eye coordination was average at best.”
“Well, Stefan would disagree with you.”
“Nobody gets this good in one month.”
“It’s probably been more like five weeks now. But I have taken several lessons and I practice on my days off.”
“How many lessons?”
“About twenty-five or so.”
“In a month?”
“Yes. Give or take.”
David shook his head and returned to the edge of the court. Before he served, he had to put his two cents in. “There is something very, very wrong with you.”
While it is true that I had become quite the tennis player in one month’s time, I was still no match for David, especially when he was determined to humiliate me.
David won two straight sets, 6-0, 6-0, barely breaking a sweat. I, on the other hand, looked like a tornado victim by the time we reached the bar on the top level. I had a few minutes to reiterate the rules to David before I knew, based on historical evidence, that Daniel would arrive.
“This is important, David. Please don’t use this time for payback.”
Daniel entered the Match Point Bar and Café as David was ordering our drinks. It occurred to me that consuming alcoholic beverages before noon might come off as suspect, but it was too late. Daniel spotted me on his way to the bar.
I was trying to conjure the appropriate expression under the circumstances. A double-take, perhaps, a look that says, Don’t I know you from somewhere? not Statistically speaking, I have been expecting to see you, but now that I have, I’m not sure what to say. I had not yet managed to plant any safe expression on my face when Daniel sauntered over.
“I was wondering if I’d see you here again.”
“Oh, hello” was my clever response. I could feel myself freezing up, words jumbling in my head, my heel tapping uncontrollably on the floor. Then David arrived, handed me a beer, and saved me from certain humiliation.
“Hi, I’m David. Are you a friend of Izzy’s?”
“Izzy?”
“Isabel. This one sitting right here.”
“We met some time ago.”
“Would you like to join us?” David asked.
Daniel was about to say no, automatically assuming that David was my boyfriend and not my brother. Our resemblance being so meager, that is a common misconception. Although, with women, the misconception is often accompanied by audible remarks such as Wow, she must have done something right in a past life.
“Oh, no, thank you. I don’t want to intrude.”
“Sit down,” insist
ed David. “I’ve talked to my sister enough for one day.”
I often record conversations that involve my family to evidence disparaging remarks. Sure, David was doing me a favor, but favors in my family are often a recipe for disaster. I turned on my palm-size digital recorder, just in case.
The transcript reads as follows:
DANIEL: Let me get a drink. I’ll be right back. You both good?
DAVID: I’m fine. Although, Izzy drinks fast, so you might get her another beer. Ouch.
ISABEL: No. I’m fine. Thanks.
[Daniel goes to the bar]
DAVID: He’s not your type.
ISABEL: I like him. Therefore, he is my type.
DAVID: Let me rephrase. You’re not his type.
ISABEL: How do you know?
DAVID: I know.
ISABEL: How?
DAVID: Men like that like women who pluck their eyebrows.
ISABEL: I pluck.
DAVID: Biannually doesn’t count.
ISABEL: I pluck plenty and you’d have to look really close to notice when I don’t.
DAVID: I just don’t see you two together.
ISABEL: David, if you sabotage this, I swear to you—
DAVID: Isabel, you’ve invaded this man’s privacy for two weeks straight. I’d say you’re well on the way to sabotaging this all by yourself.
[Daniel returns with two beers]
DANIEL: I got an extra, just in case.
DAVID: Smart man. So, Daniel, how do you know my sister?
DANIEL: We met a few weeks ago, was it?
ISABEL: Something like that.
DAVID: Are you sure it wasn’t more like five weeks?
DANIEL: Perhaps.
ISABEL: I borrowed his pass. David’s pretty good at remembering details.
DAVID: I remember because that’s when Izzy decided to take up tennis.
DANIEL: Do you prefer to be called Izzy or Isabel?
DAVID: Just call her Izzy. Why waste your time with the extra syllable?
ISABEL: Either one is fine.
DAVID: So how did you and Izzy end up talking that day, approximately five weeks ago?
DANIEL: Your sister had a question regarding a tennis match I played.
DAVID: What kind of question?
DANIEL: Let’s just say Isabel is very observant.
DAVID: You have no idea. Ouch.
ISABEL: I’m sorry. Was that your leg?
DAVID: You know damn well it was.
ISABEL: I apologize. So, Daniel, what brings you here today?
DANIEL: I play in a dentists’ league, so I had a few matches this morning.
DAVID: You’re a dentist?
ISABEL: I thought we weren’t going to talk about work.
DAVID: You’re a dentist?
DANIEL: Yes, I’m a dentist.
DAVID: Did you know that, Isabel?
ISABEL: Yes, I did, David.
DANIEL: So, David, what do you do?
DAVID: I’m a lawyer. Corporate. Mergers and acquisitions. That sort of thing. Did my sister tell you her profession?
DANIEL: Yes, she did. When we first met.
DAVID: So you know? Ouch.
DANIEL: Yes. I know.
ISABEL: I’m a teacher, David. Why would I keep that a secret?
DAVID: A teacher? I had no idea. I mean, I have no idea why you’d keep that a secret.
ISABEL: Actually, I’m a substitute. But once I get my credentials, then I’ll probably look for a full-time position.
DAVID: Or you could join the family business. Ouch. Isabel, do you understand that when you share a table with others that also implies sharing the space beneath the table?
ISABEL: I’m sorry. Was that you?
DANIEL: What is the family business?
ISABEL: Teaching. We’re all in the business of education.
DAVID: Not me. I think I’ll have that beer, if you don’t mind.
ISABEL: No, that’s my beer. Go get your own.
DAVID: You know, I think I’ll call Mom and ask her how her teaching career is going. Ouch. You should have the tic in your leg looked at. You might have a neurological disorder.
ISABEL: David, there’s a pay phone over there. Go.
[David limps over to the pay phone]
DANIEL: Your brother doesn’t have a cell phone?
ISABEL: He does. I was just trying to get rid of him.
DANIEL: Are you two always like that?
ISABEL: Like what?
DANIEL: I believe you were kicking him quite a bit.
ISABEL: David has a tendency to say inappropriate things. I was simply trying to keep him in check.
DANIEL: I see.
ISABEL: It’s really quite exhausting.
DANIEL: So why do you do it?
ISABEL: He is my brother.
DANIEL: That doesn’t mean you have to play tennis with him.
ISABEL: I suppose not. But I do like this club and he has a membership.
DANIEL: So do I.
ISABEL: Yes, you do.
[David returns to the table]
DAVID: Mom says hi.
ISABEL: How is she?
DAVID: She’s thinking of retiring. They don’t make kids like they used to. Speaking of kids, do you have any?
DANIEL: Ouch. No.
ISABEL: I’m sorry. I thought that was David.
DANIEL: I assumed as much. [removes card from his wallet] Here’s my card. Call me if you’d like to play tennis sometime. That is, if you don’t mind, David.
DAVID: You can have her. Ouch.
ISABEL: That wasn’t me.
DAVID: I know that. I bumped my knee.
DANIEL: Good-bye.
[Daniel is out of earshot]
ISABEL: Could you be more of an ass?
DAVID: Sure. I could have told him the truth.
Tennis Dates #1 to 3; Normal Dates #1 to 3
After the disastrous introduction at the club, I phoned Daniel under the guise of wanting to play tennis with him. The only problem with that plan was the tennis part. Each match ended with a calculated but seemingly random result. Daniel won two straight sets, each win was either 6-2, or 6-1 if he got sloppy, and occasionally 6-3, if Daniel was feeling particularly generous. While I found his sliding scale of competitiveness intriguing from afar, it annoyed me when I was its recipient. The truth was, tennis meant nothing to me. Sure, I loved watching his cocoa-colored legs bound across the court, but I came for the beer, pretzels, and stilted conversation that followed. I don’t mind losing. Losing is like breathing to me.
Sometime during the fourth game of the second set of my third tennis “match” with Daniel, I walked over to the net after he made a particularly clumsy and badly performed sloppy forehand. He met me at the net and complimented my last return.
“I’ve kept my mouth shut long enough,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“Unless you’re planning on turning this Jerry Lewis impression into a paying act, how about we just play a normal game of tennis?”
“You want me to play normal?”
“I’m not sure you know what that is anymore.”
“But then I will win.”
“You’ve been winning.”
“I will win faster.”
“Agreed. Your serve.”
Seven minutes later, Daniel and I were in the bar, halfway through our first beer.
“So how was that?” he asked.
“Maybe next time you could scale it back a bit.”
Daniel stared pensively at his pretzel. I got the feeling the phrase next time didn’t agree with him. I prepared for the brush-off.
“Must we play tennis?” he asked.
“No,” I replied.
“Could we do something else?”
“You mean like bowling?”
“No,” he answered, louder than usual.
“I take it y
ou’re not much of a bowler.”
“I’d like to avoid all competitive activities.”
“Because there’s no fun in winning all the time?”
“Isabel, the polite thing to do would be for you to make this easier on me,” he whispered.
“Sure. What are you trying to do?” I whispered back.
“Are you playing dumb?”
“No,” I said, not whispering at all.
“Do you like me?”
“Yes.”
“Then what do you say about us going on a normal date?”
“Sure,” I said. But then I had to ask the obvious question. “What is a normal date?”
For Daniel, a normal date was pretty much defined by a home-cooked meal followed or preceded by another activity such as a movie, happy hour, or tennis. But I came to the conclusion that playing tennis should only be a normal date activity for people who actually enjoy tennis. I was still undecided in that regard and grateful for the respite. We would play one last time, but I’ll get to that later.
Normal Date #1
Three days after Daniel asked me out at the tennis club, we met for drinks at a wine bar in Hayes Valley. A hovering sommelier with a few too many “suggestions” prompted us to leave. Then Daniel had a suggestion of his own: I come back to his place for a “home-cooked meal.” Eventually those words—home-cooked meal—would carry an air of doom with them, but on that very first night, Daniel and his home-cooked meal seemed almost perfect.
Dr. Castillo resides on the first level of a three-story apartment building. Two bedrooms, one bath, clean—but not obsessively so—and tastefully decorated without even a hint of a professional’s touch. It was far too modest a space for a man whose name is followed by the letters DDS.
Daniel defrosted a plate of enchiladas from his freezer collection. I questioned whether defrosting really qualified as a home-cooked meal, but Daniel explained that he had indeed made the dish (from his mother’s recipe) and therefore it counts. I didn’t argue once the food was served. I’ll give Daniel this: He sure knows how to make a good enchilada. Unfortunately, that was the only thing he could make.
Normal Date #2 (five days later)
After a walk in Golden Gate Park, Daniel invited me over for another home-cooked meal. This time he tried a chicken cacciatore recipe that he found in a Gourmet magazine sitting in the reception area of his office. The dish might have been edible, but when Daniel failed to locate a spice, he would substitute it with one that was similar in color or name, but not necessarily flavor. So instead of oregano, he used thyme. Instead of black pepper, he used cayenne.
