Double Cup Love

by Eddie Huang

  I wrote her back.

  Hey. It’s 2:42 A.M. and I think you were just having one of those nights ha ha. I want to be honest and not lead you on or be unfair but I don’t feel the same way. You shouldn’t miss me because I’m no good for you.

  It’s my dumb luck that I was disappointed early in life. I never saw my parents kiss until late in high school. They rarely said “I love you,” and I’m pretty sure I saw my dad hit my mom before I saw them hug. They had rings, they had kids, they had a clean crib, and they had cars, but they didn’t have love. I wasn’t goin’ out like that. I was determined to know love.

  * * *

  *1 yelp.com/​biz/​chinatown-ice-cream-factory-new-york.

  *2 Five or six conglomerates control almost all business in South Korea. Most people are born and raised with the end goal of working for one of these chaebols.

  *3 I once got a zero-star review from Sam Sifton at The New York Times, and my mom’s response was “You must keep bar license active!”

  *4 Shangri-Las, “Walking in the Sand”—best cut from Goodfellas.

  *5 Real name changed to the most popular Taiwanese name for women.

  *6 Most beautiful and ignorant thing I’ve seen in years was James Franco as Alien in Spring Breakers.

  *7 She would bring the plate out on top of another plate like some fine dining shit.

  *8 Cattleman’s was my pops’s restaurant, an Orlando steakhouse.

  *9 For the record, Evan and I always helped clean. Emery seldom helped clean, but he did spend a lot of time arguing with my dad so we credit him as a lobbyist for labor.

  *10 My dad’s Chinese name.

  *11 Pusha T ad-lib.

  Dena

  Three months after I broke up with Connie, I threw a party for my boy Sparkz on the rooftop at the Hotel Williamsburg. Sparkz was moving from New York to Berlin and grew up a Mobb Deep fan, so Prodigy blessed us with a performance on the bar in denim shorts. I fux with P because he believes in spaceships and loves P. F. Chang’s, but also stunts on people at Red Lobster by ordering lobster, not eating said lobster, and just dipping cheddar biscuits in the butter because he can. One day, I would like to do all of these things.

  Somewhere between “Shook Ones” and “Drop a Gem on ’Em,” it started to rain. People started running and screaming like the Feds were coming through, but the panic was entirely created by the prospect of wet streetwear.

  “IT’S RAINING AND I’M WEARING VISVIM!!!”

  “WHITE SUPREME BOX TEE NIPPLE FAIL!”

  “MY OPENING CEREMONY FEEL SOME TYPE OF WAY ABOUT THIS.”

  “HOOD BY RAIN.”

  “COMMES DES FUCK DOWN!”

  “EVERYBODY GO TO THE TURKEY’S NEST!”

  “TURKEY’S NEST!”

  “TO THE TURKEY’S NEST!”

  “PLEASE EXIT IN AN ORDERLY FASHION, GO TO THE TURKEY’S NEST, AND DON’T STEP ON MY SOUTH BEACH ’BRONS.”

  “PEOPLE WITH ASICS EXIT LAST, YOUR SHOES ARE WORTHLESS.”

  After everyone dispersed to the Turkey’s Nest, I found Prodigy and his manager, Marvis, downstairs.

  “Ayo, E, what kind of spot is this, b?”

  “Williamsburg dive bar. I don’t come out here much, but this spot is classic: summertime double cup shit.”

  “Word? It’s like that?”

  “Yeah, you can play pool, hang out, take drinks to go if you want. It’s low-key.”

  “Daaamn, we ’bout to get it in, then. Son got the oil.”*1

  To the Nest we went.

  It was dark, musty, festive, and the bar seemed like a great place for Blake Lively from The Town to pitch oxy. I ordered three double rum and Sprites, then blessed ’em with oil. New York was caught up with the art of mixology, but I found my own rapture watching the codeine slink its way through the ice, hit the bottom, come back a wave of dark brownish red, and extend its tentacles through the rest of my rum and Sprite, the whole drink eventually settling into a perfect shade of eggplant.

  I saw Evan and my friend Berto standing nearby between two groups of women. To his right were two white women and to the left were three Asians, who at the moment were being entertained by Evan.

  “What’s poppin’, slime?”

  “Drop and slide. Evan is doing work with the Cherry Blossoms so I’m trying to see wassup here.”

  “I like this. Engaged but still tending the crops.”

  “BRUH, I’m doing this purely for Evan’s benefit.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  I’d already met one of the two women standing with Berto, Sissy, but didn’t recognize her friend.

  “Wassup, Sissy!”

  “Well, hello, Edwyn, how are you this evening?”

  Sissy was a tall white girl with Asiatic eyes who liked overly formal salutations. I think it was her game. Some sort of bohemian Downton Abbey seduction that really confused me but got a lot of other people open.

  “I’m aight. When’d you guys get here?”

  “We tried to get into the party, but they wouldn’t let me in!”

  I turned to Sissy’s friend.

  “I’m Eddie, by the way.”

  “Hey! I’m Dena.”

  We shook hands.

  “You guys put Sissy on the list, but I don’t have an ID that says Sissy.”

  “Your parents didn’t name you Sissy?”

  “No, unfortunately they did not.”

  “What’s your government name?”

  “Alicia. Alicia Clemens.”

  “So, you told them your name was Sissy and they didn’t let you in?”

  “No, they did not, Edwyn, because I don’t have an ID with that name.”

  “My ID doesn’t say Eddie, but they let me in.”

  “Well, Sissy is quite a departure from Alicia.”

  “But Sissy isn’t a name you just randomly make up on the spot and find on the list. That’s like rolling up to a club and asking ‘Who wants to sex Mutombo?’ You don’t need ID if your name is Sissy or Dikembe Mutombo.”

  “I tend to agree, Edwyn, I really do, but we didn’t get in, so we’ve been drinking wine at the Turkey’s Nest ever since.”

  “Who drinks wine at the Turkey’s Nest?”

  “We do, Edwyn.”

  That was Dena.

  “Call me Eddie. Sissy likes to do the Edwyn thing, but I don’t like Edwyn. It’s a coolie name.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Coolie name, you know, government name. It’s too English. Eddie sounds like something a Chinaman could have made up at Ellis Island on the spot. It’s not like Edwyn, which the system uses to identify me.”

  “Ha ha ha, you are so strange, but I do like this turquoise situation,” she said, eyeing my pullover hoodie–swim trunks set.

  “Thanks. I fux with beach formal; just ’cause there’s mesh netting on your balls doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be matching.”

  She laughed. She had a funny laugh. She would drink wine and laugh into her glass then pull it away from her face. She had mic control with a wineglass, which I found graceful and dopey and disarming at the same time. She looked into my glass.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “Oh, try some, it’s good.”

  “OK.”

  She took a sip. I really didn’t think too much about it, I was just enjoying the rhythm of the conversation and watching the way she laughed. I figured no need to disclose I was drinking sizzurp too early in the conversation. But I had miscalculated.

  “OH MY GOD, what is that?”

  “It’s just purple drink, you don’t like it?”

  “Yuck, it tastes like medicine.”

  “Well, it kind of is medicine.”

  “Did you just drug me?”

  “No, technically you drugged yourself, but it’s nothing crazy: codeine promethazine.”

  “That sounds terrible. What is that?”

  “It’s like drinking Robitussin, you’ve taken Robitussin, right?”

  “Oh yeah, I love robo-tri
pping.”

  “Yeah, same thing, you just put it in a Styrofoam cup, more concentrated formula, with even more of the anti-chest congestion benefits of DM.”

  “OK, but you still drugged me.”

  “I accept that.”

  I figured that could have gone a lot worse, so I got away while I was still ahead and walked to the bathroom. With one hand directing my stream and the other holding my phone, I checked my texts.

  What’s really good my g? We staying here? —Berto

  Hey! We’re at Le Bain. Are you still coming? —Caitlin

  Noodletown? —Steve

  What’s poppington? —James

  Haiiiiiii emoji —Tashia

  Vibes? Vibes? VASSUP? —Emile

  The key to being single in New York is recognizing that no one is really inviting you anywhere. No one is that interested in you, they just need a friend right now, and you really shouldn’t catch feelings. I went back to see Dena.

  And there she was, laughing with a wineglass by her face again.

  “Roberto! Alberto!” she said in an Italian accent.

  “Yo, chill!” Roberto said sheepishly.

  “What’s so funny, y’all?”

  “Did you know Berto’s name is Roberto Alberto Martinez?”

  “Motherfucker, your name is Roberto Alberto?”

  “YES! My name is Roberto Alberto! What’s the big deal?”

  “Homie, you’re like the dude Montego Montoya from Princess Diaries.”

  Dena bent in half in laughter.

  “You mean Inigo Montoya from Princess Bride?”

  “Yeah! You know what I’m talking about. You the ninja from Princess Bride.”

  “Oh my god, you two are so goofy: Roberto Alberto and Montego Montoya.”

  I can’t remember what she was wearing. At that point, I couldn’t really hear what she was saying, I had drunk so much sizzurp. But I remember telling myself: “This is good. This is fun. I like it.”*2

  I also couldn’t “figure out” what she looked like. I could obviously see what she looked like, but it was a very particular look that I couldn’t figure out because she kept moving. There was this big glass in front of her face, her hair was moving, and she kept laughing. Being the superficial, insecure, thirty-year-old male that I was, all I cared about was whether she was attractive, and I couldn’t fucking figure it out.

  “You’re kinda quiet over there, Montego. What’s going on?”

  “I dunno. I think it’s this drink.”

  “You should really stop drinking cough syrup. It’s a middle school thing.”

  I couldn’t respond. I was just staring at her, squinting and tilting my head, thinking to myself: “What the hell does this girl look like?”

  After a few awkward seconds, I thought, Fuck it.

  “Yo! What’s your number?”

  “Ohhh, you want my number?”

  “Yeah. You’re funny. I want to call you.”

  “OK. Gimme your phone.”

  A few hours later, I was in a hospital waiting room eating takeout pancakes from IHOP, waiting for my fifty-year-old homie to get stitched up after he fought the young and reckless DJ at Le Bain, when Sissy texted me.

  Do you like Dena?

  She’s cool.

  I think she likes you.

  She got good taste.

  Are you going to ask her out?

  YES SISSY! I am going to call her.

  That’s great, Edwyn.

  I texted her, and we planned to meet five days later for a date. I had never been more lukewarm about a date. I wasn’t ready.

  For years, my dating technique had degraded. Six years of my adult life were committed to Ning, the months after were spent trying to figure out what happened, then I took my turn in the assembly line pounding chicken thighs for a year before I met Connie. Over a decade of my life, I’d been single for fewer than eighteen months, including the last three. Every time I tried to get free, someone pulled me back in.

  I liked being in relationships, but I couldn’t figure out what I needed at that point. I’d had a few OKCupid-brokered dates and I’d told myself to stay free, but here I was committing to a meal at a set time before 8 P.M. with an actual person I’d met at a bar the old-fashioned way, not using the hotness filter on the drop-down menu or a computer’s compatibility projection. I talked to Evan about it.

  “Yo, I should cancel this date.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t remember what she looks like.”

  “How do you not remember? She was taller than you, skinny, and had a sharp nose.”

  “She had a big nose, huh?”

  “She had a big nose, but you like that.”

  “I do like that.*3 But she’s skinny. I don’t like that.”

  “Then don’t go on the date! It’s just a date. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “She was funny, though. I remember that.”

  “She was funny. You drugged her and she didn’t report you and she liked that Roberto is Roberto Alberto. We’ve known Berto for eight years, and we had no idea. She’s investigative.”

  “Was she hot?”

  “Sure. She was hot. She’s definitely hot enough to go on a date with.”

  “Phil said she was fat.”

  “Phil is a hater. She’s not fat.”

  “I like fat, though.”

  “SO WHY ARE YOU ASKING? GO ON THE DATE, NUMBNUTS.”

  “Fine. It’s a good excuse to wear Visvims.”

  “Yes, wear those stupid Japanese shaman shoes you spent two hundred and fifty dollars*4 on.”

  I have to call myself out. I have spent decades of my life sitting around thinking about whether the girl I’m dating is good-looking enough. I’ve spent equal time thinking about whether I’m good-looking enough as if there’s some sort of PER*5 for humans playing the game. I have no idea if this is normal behavior, but I have to tell you it is an inexcusable waste of time.

  I was slightly less late than she was by a few seconds so she crept up behind me, grabbed my dump truck, and made a predator face. I liked it. Right on cue, the hostess led us to our table at this now-shuttered Hawaiian restaurant which, as it turned out, had horrible warm poke and terrible drinks. I asked a friend from Hawaii for the recommendation because I was on a piña colada kick, but this spot was not an unknowingly shitty Hawaiian restaurant that still thought tiki drinks were poppington, but a serious restaurant seemingly inspired by Cameron Crowe’s Hawaii.

  I regretted not going to L&L BBQ, but as soon as Dena sat down across from me in her tan-crème polka-dot button-down blouse and black shorts with combat boots, I thought, Interesting, she’s going with the militant covered up look. I have rubbed cocoa butter into stretch marks thinking they were the female Rosetta stones whispering the history of woman to me like iliotibial band*6 Braille, but none of those stretch marks said as much to me as Dena’s polka-dot blouse. She looked smart, alluring, but not here for hook-ups. I liked it, but I wasn’t ready. The ignorant fifteen-year-old in me wanted to throw the fight, spit game like Cassidy in “Hotel,” and tell my boys she was a bitch when I got home. It can’t hurt me if I set it on fire first, I thought.

  “Hi!”

  She interrupted my spiraling thoughts.

  “Hi.”

  “So we’re here. This is exciting, ha ha.”

  “Ha ha, where’d you come from?”

  “East Harlem.”

  “Word, you on your Immortal Technique. Is that why you wear combat boots and oversized shorts?”

  “No. I wear these shorts because THEY FIT ME.”

  “You live up there?”

  “Yeah, I love East Harlem. It’s a real neighborhood.”

  “It’s also far enough from Red Rooster.”

  “What’s Red Rooster?”

  “It’s a terrible restaurant politicians go to so they can say they support black people, not really engage black culture, say hello to Don Lemon, and then get back into t
heir town cars without incident because it’s on the Ave.”

  “Interesting. You really don’t like this place, but you know a lot about it.”

  “Yeah. When I don’t like something, I go out of my way to count the ways.”

  “It’s not worth your time. You should just ignore it.”

  This surprised me. My self-aware Costanza-condition joke usually got a laugh.

  “I shouldn’t ignore it, though. People should be aware why they go to this shit restaurant, and we shouldn’t be down with credit-card liberalism.”

  “Or you can just let them have that shit restaurant and focus on what you care about. Lead by example.” She smiled as she lectured. I liked that.

  I changed the subject to something that was more likely to lead to witty banter and, most important, sex.

  “Did you have fun at the party last week?”

  “Yeah, I enjoyed being drugged.” Fuck, this one wasn’t going to lead to the honey hole, either.

  “I mean, a guy buying you a drink with no expectations is nice. A guy giving you the shirt off his back is better. But a guy who gives you his drink with codeine promethazine in it is prescriptive.”

  No response from her until she changed the subject.

  “Where are you from?”

  “D.C., Orlando, I did a one-year bid in Pittsburgh, back to Orlando ’cause it was just that fucking awesome, and then eight years in New York now.”

  “Where does your family live?”

  “They’re in Orlando.”

  “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  “Two brothers. One lives with my parents, the other lives with me. Hopefully you will meet him at my apartment later.”

  “Ohhhhh, I get it. That was supposed to be funny.”

  “I try.”

  There was silence as I tried to think about what to say next that could turn us back toward the honey hole, but I had nothing. So I succumbed to logic and asked a question that followed reasonably after hers.