Room for Love

by Andrea Meyer

  Bachelor #2: Timothy, a thirty-something account exec at a major ad agency, lives in a two-bedroom that spans an entire floor of a brownstone in the West Village, my favorite neighborhood in Manhattan. In the cluster of blocks he described in his ad as “absurdly quaint,” cobblestoned streets are adorned by gingko trees and ivy-covered brick buildings fronted by pristine shady stoops. Unlike my ‘hood, where the street signs read 1, 2, 3, A, B, or C, here the picturesque, winding roads are called Horatio, Leroy, Morton, and other names of boys in whose faces I would have laughed if they’d asked me to dance in fifth grade, or named for the posher set: Christopher, Jane, Charles, Cornelia. I saunter, nose to the windowpanes of shops that must be obligated to adhere to a cuteness code: There’s one devoted entirely to cupcakes, another to rubber stamps, innumerable to lovely, overpriced pottery and picture frames by local artists. The coffee shops all smell like freshly baked pie. As I turn to walk up the steps to Timothy’s, I smile at a young woman wearing a Pomeranian puppy in a Burberry backpack strolling with another chic mom whose Baby-Björn holds a human child.

  Timothy’s cozy brownstone smells faintly of cinnamon, and not so much as a single stray sock litters the floor. Houseplants, scented candles, and glass jars filled with seashells are placed just so. Original paintings by unknown artists inspired by Monet and etchings reminiscent of Matisse hang tastefully on cream-colored walls. Pottery Barn perfection suggests an ex-girlfriend with good, if a tad conventional, taste or a flirtation with a salesgirl at Crate & Barrel. His books range from five whole shelves of travel guides to a Martha Stewart cookbook, everything ever published by The Onion, and, amusingly, He’s Just Not That Into You.

  Timothy has classically handsome features, hazel eyes, and yummy Abercrombie & Fitch physique and attire, and I learn that he played lacrosse at prep school and was president of his fraternity at Berkeley. He is, in short, the guy I’ve secretly fantasized about marrying all my life. The It Happened One Night–style banter between us gets my adrenaline pumping: I’m pulling clever responses to his rapid-fire queries out of one sleeve after the other, and he’s hurling equally strong ammunition back at me. At one point he drops to the floor and gives me ten push-ups, to prove how dedicated he is to healing the environment. A minute later, his hilarious impression of his slave-driving boss has me clutching my sides.

  “You know, I’m not sure I really need to move,” I tell him, hoping he’ll ask me out, but he doesn’t. I wait an hour after leaving his place to call and inform him that I’ve learned that I’m definitely staying put, and his response is, “Fantastic news. You know, they say moving is the third most traumatic life experience after a death in the family and divorce.”

  I take a real risk then and say, “Maybe we can get coffee sometime.”

  His response: “Maybe.”

  Why is it that those guys in their untucked button-downs over well-worn khakis never seem interested in me? Why is it that those boys with their good bone structure and blindingly white teeth who play beach volleyball and summer in East Hampton never want to be my boyfriend? Sure, in college one of those V-shaped boys on the crew team usually wanted to suck face with me bleary-eyed at a frat party or even suck face with me bleary-eyed at two or three frat parties in a row—but it never went any further. When that guy with his country club stock and pack of hard-partying best friends stopped sucking my face, it was usually to date a blond tennis player named Kimberly. While I had tortured sex with a deranged would-be poet.

  Nameless bachelors #3, 4, 5, and 6 live, respectively, in a generic Greenwich Village two-bedroom, of the cheap parquet floors and faux granite countertop variety, a minimalist NoHo duplex, a Chelsea six-story walk-up, and a Lower East Side hovel. Even though there’s not an original morsel of dialogue or a face that tempts me to drop my knickers among them (and I decline the two invitations I receive), the quick succession of visits fires me up, makes me feel on a roll, like I’m conquering the world, conquering the male race, conquering my fear, my solitude, and my fear of solitude all at once.

  Bachelor #7 is German, his name is Claus, and he lives in one of the most stunning apartments I’ve seen in all my years in New York. Claus is an interior designer and it shows. His space was probably raw when he moved in, but in the fourteen years he’s been there, he has transformed it into a bohemian paradise. He boasts about having redone the kitchen—all shiny chrome and white terrazzo—with his own hands, tiled the enormous master bath lime green, built floor-to-ceiling bookshelves (I make a mental note to find someone to build mine first thing tomorrow), and dragged most of the eclectic mix of furniture in from the street or cheap stoop sales, with a couple of nicer items acquired during a series of trips to India and Tibet. Big, bushy ficuses and ferns stretch toward a skylight that invites sun to shine upon Claus’s exotic treasures. I feel as if I’m inside a jewel box, and I don’t really want to leave. Claus is attractive despite an early Flock of Seagulls ’do and a pair of groovy, chrome sunglasses that he wears indoors.

  I make what I consider a valiant attempt to apply Rule #4 (“Skip banalities and get personal fast”): “You seem to have a real love of beautiful things.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” he asks. “Here’s the room.”

  Through French doors shaded by a luscious purple curtain lies what Claus has dubbed “The Animal Room.” A zebra-skin rug snuggles up to the floorboards while a leopard-print bedspread luxuriates on a king-size mattress on the floor. A floating cabinet with glass doors is filled with statuettes of lions and tigers and bears (oh my!), and a random assortment of animal paintings covers most of the wall space.

  “I love animals,” I swoon.

  “This is fortunate,” Claus responds. “The room is very bright.” Sure enough, sunlight streams through the window.

  “Do you want it?” he asks. Very direct, those Germans.

  I launch into my usual spiel: “Well, I’m not really sure if I’m moving out yet. I’m just looking around a bit, getting a feel for what’s out there.”

  “Why don’t you know?”

  “Oh, it’s an issue with my landlord. I may have to leave at the end of the month, but it’s not clear yet.”

  “Didn’t you pay a security deposit?”

  Where exactly is he going with this? “Uh, yeah, I think so.”

  “Well, you can use that for your last month’s rent, so you would not leave until the end of next month at very latest.”

  “Um, I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “That is very strange if you’re in discussion with your landlord.”

  “Right.” I suddenly feel like he’s backing me into a corner, the lion tamer swinging his whip. I jump up and put on my jacket. “Well, I’ll let you know what happens, okay?”

  “It sounds to me like you won’t be moving in here, Jacquie. I am looking for someone for the beginning of next month. We spoke of that on the phone.”

  “God, yeah, you’re right, Claus. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “This is a waste of my time.”

  “I guess. God, sorry. I should run.”

  An odd little smirk flickers across his face and I’m convinced that he’s figured the whole thing out.

  “You’re a journalist, right?” he asks.

  “Film journalist,” I say. “I write about movies.”

  His face clouds over with confusion as I fairly sprint out the door, waving, and kicking myself for not thinking through my process more thoroughly. I escape into a cab mercifully emptying itself of a passenger right in front of Claus’s building and call Courtney and Alicia to set up an emergency meeting for tomorrow morning.

  “All right,” says Courtney, removing a skimpy, dirt-brown towel from her naked body and plopping it down onto the slick, white-tiled bench in the steam room of the Russian & Turkish Baths on Tenth Street around the corner from my pad. “Let’s get started.”

  Wednesday morning is Ladies’ Day at the baths, so that’s when we go, Alicia, myself, and Courtney if she
can get away from work. We meet there at nine; sweat, scrub one another’s backs, shower, and shoot the breeze for two hours; and if we still have time, have an early lunch. My coworkers understand that I don’t come in until noon on selected Wednesdays (I love my job). Courtney called in sick this morning, probably for the first time in her life, because I told her I needed her.

  “Hey, do you guys mind if I put lemongrass and eucalyptus oil in the steam?” she asks. “It’s great for opening your pores and sinuses.”

  “Sure,” I say. Alicia nods in agreement, her eyes closed, head resting against a steamy window.

  The bony blonde sitting next to me gets up and leaves the steam room. Without opening her eyes, Alicia says, “That girl needs a cheeseburger.”

  “Okay, that’s enough already,” I say. “Court, please sit down. This is a desperate situation.”

  “Okay, how long have you been looking for an apartment?” Courtney asks me, settling onto the wet tiles.

  “Just started this week. Third one I’ve seen.”

  “Good. And why do you have to move out?”

  “Well, it’s not definite, but my landlord, the jerk, is trying to kick me out. My lease is up and he can, like, quadruple the rent if he boots me.” I close my mouth and inhale deep breaths of lemongrass-eucalyptus steam. I start coughing and Courtney pounds my back.

  “You could try, ‘His mother had a stroke and he wants her to move in so he can take care of her,’” Alicia suggests. “I once heard of that happening.”

  “That’s too huge a lie,” I say. “I’d never be able to pull it off. The other story is kind of what happened to me in my old place. At least the guy was a jerk and not some lovable lunk who worships his mother.”

  “It’s really hot. Let’s get out of here,” says Alicia. We follow her into the only cool room in the place, where white subway tiles line an icy dipping pool and women of all ages, colors, and body shapes lounge naked, putting mud on their faces and henna in their hair, exfoliating one another’s backs, chattering in a symphony of Russian, French, and English of every possible descent. We put our towels on an empty seat before plopping our naked butts down. Courtney gets the award for best products today for a new citrus wonder scrub from Bliss and a hydrating mask her ayurvedic guru made himself.

  “Where were we? Oh yeah, my cruel, heartless landlord can up the rent if he hurls me onto the street. Woe is me, blahdiddyblah.”

  “You know, Jacquie, I can always tell when one of my kids is fibbing if he can’t hold eye contact with me. You’re all over this place.”

  I look right into her eyes. “Can you believe this guy? He wants to throw me—little old me!—out onto the streets!”

  Alicia jumps in, “Well, this city protects its tenants pretty stringently. I can’t imagine he’ll be able to actually remove you from the premises for at least six months.”

  I think for a second before responding with a self-satisfied a-ha. “You have no idea. I’ve been fighting this guy for months. We’ve been to court twice and apparently he has a case. It looked like things had calmed down, but now they haven’t been returning my calls or cashing my checks, and I feel as though the ax is about to fall. That’s why I’m starting to look. I may need something as early as the first of the month.”

  Courtney nods, impressed, and Alicia laughs and says, “Nice to know my sweet, honest hermana is capable of lying through her teeth. You should be in advertising.”

  “Shut up! This is about having an article in a national women’s magazine, not to mention potentially finding the man of my dreams. It’s huge! It’s worth twisting the truth just a little, isn’t it?” I take in their disbelieving expressions and scoop stinky facial mask into my hand.

  “Whatever,” I say.

  “Remind me to give you some cover-up for that,” Alicia says.

  “Jesus Christ,” I say, suddenly self-conscious about the zit on my forehead.

  “I’m sorry! It’s staring at me, even through all the sweat and freckles. I can’t focus on what you’re saying.” She walks over to her makeup bag resting on top of a pile of five more tiny dirt-brown towels, pulls out her M.A.C. concealer, hands it to me, and mimes gently patting it on the eruption big enough to be a second head. “Pat lightly, like this.”

  “So, did you like that German guy?” Courtney asks.

  “Yeah, kind of,” I say. “His apartment is amazing, you can tell he’s very attentive and caring with the things he loves. Who am I kidding? He’s a drip, just has a nice pad. At least he doesn’t have a girlfriend. But I gotta say it is so cool to be meeting all these guys. When there are so many possibilities, there’s less risk of obsessing about any one of them. It’s awesome. Anyone for the dry sauna?” We walk into the hottest room of all and lie down on wooden benches.

  “Alicia, how’s your hunt going?” Courtney asks.

  “I found a place.”

  “What?” I can’t believe she hasn’t told me.

  “I’m moving to Williamsburg. Remember that one photographer guy I liked? He found another roommate, but it fell through. He needs someone right away.”

  “I thought you said he was too sexy to move in with.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t want to go out with anyone. I’m happier when I’m single.”

  “You know what I worry about?”

  “That that pimple will slowly expand until it’s eaten your entire face?”

  “You’re evil. I’m annoyed that my thirties are no different from my twenties.” I get up and yank on the cord hanging from the ceiling and ice-cold water rains down on my head. “I’m still dating idiots and I don’t see any reason to believe that will change. Honestly, I haven’t dated a nice guy since Philippe. I swear it’s karma for treating him like shite.”

  “I told you,” Alicia says. “You’re gonna meet your perfect man through this apartment thing.”

  “Hmm, that would be nice.”

  “Speaking of perfect, how’s Brad?” asks Alicia. “And when is he gonna knock you up?”

  Courtney rolls mutely over onto her stomach and I ask, “How’s the tour going?” refusing to give in to the baby babble. I know she stopped taking the pill, but I dread the day she tells me she’s pregnant. What the hell am I going to do when Courtney has a kid?

  “The tour is going fabulously,” she says, sitting up and clutching her towel, eyes glowing. “The shows have been mostly selling out, getting great reviews. I can hardly believe that after twelve years with this man, I have wound up married to a rock star! It was astounding watching him move around in that world, as if he belonged there, as if it had never existed without him, really, and I was watching quietly from the sidelines—” She lowers her head and smiles. “His muse. I felt so proud and in love with him, it was ridiculous.” We remain quiet, taking a moment to feel the heat and contemplate the miracle of true love.

  6

  * * *

  If words like arroz con pollo, mole poblano, chilaquiles, carne asada, quesadilla, enchilada, and flan make your mouth water, this is the place for you. I’m a chef and I need a roommate for my very big loft in Williamsburg. You have a room for you, we share a small bathroom. Big, light kitchen often smells of fresh tortillas. I will cook for you. $900. Call Javier.

  * * *

  After an insane day juggling three stories that I’m writing myself with loads of text coming in from freelancers, followed by the screening of an extremely bloody Japanese horror film, it’s nice to come home to a spotlessly clean apartment. Alicia’s bags are packed and stacked neatly by the front door. I snoop around the bedroom and bathroom and notice that she’s gone so far as to scrub the bathroom sink, maybe for the first time in her life, and straighten the makeup drawer. I wonder if she hired someone. I have a message from Javier, the guy who’s compulsively left me messages all week reminding me of our rendezvous. I’d forgotten anyway and only have time to wash my face, wriggle into a miniskirt, and race to his apartment in the still-sketchy part of Williamsburg that lies b
eneath the BQE—the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway—in all its vrooming, honking, exhaust-spewing glory. Javier’s head appears from a window three flights up. “Catch the key!” he shouts, and tosses down a yellow and green tube sock with his keys balled up inside, a common New York trick. Javier is an intense Mexican guy with black eyes that bore into mine when he speaks. A chef doing time at a trendy pan-Latino joint in his neighborhood until he’s raised enough money to open his own place, he whips up a gooey, garlicky shrimp quesadilla. We gobble it up with Dos Equis after Dos Equis in his cavernous, sparsely furnished loft as he rants about the system in his country and the system in mine. I poke around when he’s cutting the lime for our next round and uncover mountains of books by his unmade bed: cookbooks, The Communist Manifesto, film scripts, software instructional manuals, so much varied reading material, I assume he doesn’t sleep. A silk kimono hangs from his bedroom door, and below it on the floor are mud-caked hiking boots. The man is a mess of conflicting or perhaps complementary passions. Shoving a beer bottle in my direction, Javier grabs my hand, nearly yanking my arm off, and drags me up four flights of thick, concrete stairs, until I’m staring dumbfounded off a beautifully decked, two-thousand-square-foot roof that doesn’t seem to belong on top of this rundown building.