Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single

by Heather McElhatton

  “Aren’t they supposed to be gay?”

  Brad smacks himself on the forehead and kisses Blooper on the mouth. We dance for four or five songs more and then I tell him I’m hot. I’m beyond hot. I’m roasting.

  Outside the cold air feels fantastic. I don’t even put my coat on. I’m so hot I just want to come out here and steam in the chilly night air. I lean up against the building and put the hot palm of my hand on the cold bricks. Even though I feel tipsy and the world seems a little blurry, that cold brick seems more real to me than anything I’ve ever felt before. It feels solid and sure and safe. There is something so different about this moment. It’s like I’m suspended above the scene, floating and looking down on everything. It’s because, for the first time I can remember, I’m happy. I’m not watching happy people on TV or in the real world walking past me, I’m actually one of them. I’m a happy person and I really don’t know what to do about it.

  “There you are!” Brad says, handing me my beer. “You’re not cold?”

  “I got so hot dancing,” I say. “Look, I’m steaming.” I hold my hand out for him to see the slight vapor drifting off my skin.

  “Come here,” he says and puts his hand on the back of my neck. He pulls my face close to his. We kiss. We’re the couple kissing outside the bar. That’s us. Oh, Brad? He loves kissing me on the street. I don’t know what it is, some Casablanca complex or something but if we’re outdoors, I can’t keep his hands off me.

  I pull back. “I like you,” I say, trying not to slur my words.

  He brushes a strand of hair off my face. “I like you, too.” He kisses me on the cheek.

  “It’s not easy to find guys you like,” I say, “guys who eat disgusting chilidogs and take good care of your elf.”

  “I thought guys were a dime a dozen,” he says.

  “Water, water everywhere,” I sigh, “but not a drop to drink.”

  “Is that right?”

  “I don’t want any guy. I want the right guy.”

  “And who is the right guy?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I kiss him.

  Brad, Blooper, and I head out into the cold night and I’m stalling because I don’t know if I should ask Brad back to my house or not. I totally want to; I’ve been staring at him all night and I’m ready to melt, but Christopher wouldn’t shut up about not sleeping with him right away. I think about texting my little gay bee for counsel when Brad turns to me and says, “So, my place or yours?” and I feel like I’m standing in front of the Cinnabon counter. Do you want to be a big slut or a superbig slut? A superbig slut comes with more icing.

  “My place,” I say.

  Now he probably thinks I’m desperate and clingy, which I am.

  “Good,” he says. I smile but then it hits me—help me, sweet precious baby Jesus, Brad Keller is coming home with me.

  We get to my apartment and I set Blooper down next to the sassy working girl figurine. Sorry missy, but he’s my new favorite possession.

  “This place is something!” Brad says, looking around my kitchen in wonder. “Where’d you get all this stuff?”

  “I steal a lot,” I say. “You know, from children and toy stores and stuff.”

  He laughs. “Have anything to drink?”

  “Maybe wine?” I look in the fridge.

  “Red or white?” he asks and wanders out to my living room.

  “Um, box,” I say, picking up a Franzia party ball of pink wine. “I think it’s pink.”

  I pour two glasses. Just stay calm, just stay calm, just stay calm. I’m so nervous I feel remarkably sober, given how much alcohol I’ve already had. That’s not good. I’m not going to be able to do what it is I think we’re about to do unless I am at least buzzed. I peek to see if he’s looking and then quickly slam my glass and refill it. No need to show him I’m a hobby alcoholic quite yet.

  I walk out into the living room, expecting Brad to be reclining on my rose chaise lounge, hopefully admiring the irony of my oversize orange kidney bean ashtray or the wit of my Zippy the Chimp poster, but he isn’t there. “Where’d you go?” I say in a mild panic. There are so many things I wouldn’t want him to discover. The dirty underwear on my dresser, the cat turd museum behind the couch, or the Shaun Cassidy poster in my closet, just to name a few.

  He’s around the corner, gazing into my little office, which is really just a big second closet, and I realize my stupid “manifestation vision board” is propped up on my desk. It’s a big cork-board covered with images of everything I want to attract into my life. There’s a couple kissing on a rowboat, a big house on a lake, a private jet midflight as it banks and bisects the setting sun. It’s a vision board, not a reality board.

  “Whoops!” I say and tug him back by the belt loop into the living room. I shut the white folding door. “It’s a mess in there,” I say. “Usually it’s neat as a pin.”

  “Was that a picture of a baby,” he asks, “above your desk?”

  “My cousin!”

  He frowns. “It looked like it was cut out of a magazine.”

  “Here’s your wine,” I say, “straight out of the box!”

  He takes the glass and I lead him to the couch. I turn on some music and sit down next to him, our knees almost touching, but not quite. I’m feeling pretty good, and the wine is finally starting to warm me up. “When I was about eight years old,” I say, “my dad took me to this indoor amusement park. I don’t even remember where it was. It’s gone now, but it was like one of those carnivals that’s indoors and open all year. My dad always went on rides with me, and this one time he must have gone on a dozen roller-coaster rides, but I really wanted to go on the Octopus. That’s the one where you get in a cab and it spins like crazy and tilts up and down.”

  Brad kisses my neck.

  “My dad said his stomach was acting up. He told me I could go by myself, but I’d never been on a ride by myself. He said I could do it. Hailey was too scared. I said I wasn’t scared and I took my ticket and got in line, but the longer I stood in line and the closer I got to the ride, the more scared I got. When I finally got up to the front, I thought there was no way I could do it. I was terrified. All those lights and kids yelling. There was a boy in front of me, a little bit older and about a foot taller. He must have seen me worrying or something. He asked me if I was scared and I said yes. I told him I was scared I’d fall out of the car. I’ll never forget it, he just looked at me and said, “‘Don’t worry, if you fall, I’ll jump in and catch you.’”

  I look down at my wineglass. “It was something about how he said it. I guess in one way or another, I’ve been looking for that little boy ever since.” Brad picks up my hand and kisses the pads of my fingertips.

  “What if white knights exist?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. What if they do?”

  “Would you let someone save you?”

  “No,” I say, “but I’d certainly go for a ride.”

  “I think I’d like to take you on one,” he says, and that’s about the time I decided I would make it my life’s mission to marry Brad Keller.

  I get up and lead him to the bedroom.

  The next morning I wake up alone with Mrs. Biggles standing on my stomach, her paws painfully kneading my abdomen. Brad is gone, and I have a monster hangover.

  I call Christopher and tell him Brad left before I woke up. “I’m pretty sure we did it,” I say, checking for wet spots on the bed. “Oh yeah. We did it. Twice.”

  “Did he say he was leaving?” Christopher asks. “Did he tell you he couldn’t sleep over?”

  “I don’t know.” I struggle to remember. “It’s fuzzy. He might have said something about working. I don’t know. I might be making it up in my head. That elf nearly killed me.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “Great date,” I say, “lots of talking. Chilidogs, polka, sex twice in missionary position.”

  “God,” Christopher says, disgusted. “If that was a gay date, you could charge hi
m with cruel and unusual punishment.”

  I roll over and look out the window at the empty street.

  “What about the unit?” he asks. “How big?”

  “Um, good.”

  “One image,” he says, “the first one that pops into your head.”

  “Okay. Crabapple baby fist.”

  “Nice. The shaft?”

  “Two Snickers bars.”

  “Two Snickers bars long or thick?”

  “Thick.”

  “Very good. Approve of the manscaping?”

  “He’s a little bushy. Needs a trim.”

  “Well, no deal breakers there. Did you at least get his phone number?”

  “Yes, and he has mine. I should wait for him to call me, right?”

  Silence. “Tell me you already know the answer to that.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “Please, for the love of almighty God. It’s like watching a car accident in slow motion. Do not call him. He has a forty-eight-hour window to call you. After that, you don’t pick up.”

  He’s right, of course; the next forty-eight hours will be crucial. If Brad calls within this window of time, then this could be the start of a budding relationship. If he calls after forty-eight hours, then he’s not sure, but doesn’t want to give up quite yet. If he doesn’t call, well, then it was a one-night stand. Something I can’t even bear to think about. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a one-night stand. I mean, we had such a good conversation at dinner, that’s got to mean something, right?

  Still, I did have to go and tell him my stupid boy-saves-me-at-the-amusement-park story, and I drank enough liquor to fill a kiddie pool, and I think I possibly threw up in a towel in my bathroom, but haven’t had the nerve to check yet. So I have no idea if I should be expecting a call or not. Probably not. But what if he did call? Is that so impossible?

  I have Green Mill deliver a cheeseburger with fries. Grease and lots of it is my one and only hangover solution. I drink lots of water and watch a snowstorm blow across my living room windows. I sit in my pink chenille robe and watch Sleepless in Seattle on the Lifetime Channel and cry. I’m not crying about Brad, that movie always makes me cry.

  Every time.

  Twenty-four hours pass and no call from Brad.

  Forty-eight hours pass and no call from Brad.

  Due to my inability to connect with the human race, I am moving to Iceland to become a sheep herder. It’s for the best.

  Monday morning it seems like everyone in the office is staring at me, like I grew a grotesque second head or something. It’s incredibly quiet all around my desk, and I worry people can hear my thoughts, which are basically: I had sex with Brad Keller! I had sex with Brad Keller! I sit down at my desk and decide to be professional. We have a big week ahead of us and I should stay on task.

  But before that I sneak onto TrueLove.com and take a relationship quiz that will tell me if Brad and I are going to “make it,” or have to “fake it.” I enter our names and click on our signs. (Him: Scorpio. Me: Gemini.) The questions are stupid and obvious, like Does he make eye contact with you? and Is sex boring or bull’s-eye? and Does he know your last name? But I answer each of the twenty-five questions dutifully and hit Enter. Up pops the result. Jen, it says, it looks like you and Brad are going to make it! That puts a big, dopey, hopeful smile on my face and I send the test results to Christopher.

  Ted bombs into my cubicle and skitters a radio spot across my desk. “Whoa,” he says, “looks like your Friday night date was awesome. Is that cake batter in your hair?”

  “Quit stomping around,” I say. “You clomp like a moose.”

  “Oh, sorry,” he says, “does Brad walk perfectly?” He makes little precious kissing noises and prances about. “Does Brad walk like a Japanese gymnast?”

  “Shut up,” I tell him. “How did you even know we went out?”

  “Kathy in accounting saw you at O’Hooligans. She told Barb in men’s casual wear and Barb told the cleaning lady.”

  “So the cleaning lady told you?”

  He nods.

  “You talk to the cleaning lady?”

  “We have a thing. Don’t get all possessive. I just need to know if Brad has a big penis.”

  “At least find me some aspirins,” I say, retrieving my empty bottle. “Five hundred aspirins and it’s empty. How did I use five hundred aspirins?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Five hundred dates with Brad.”

  “Oh, go away.”

  “You’re right,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s none of my business.”

  “Thank you!”

  “I’m bigger than him though. In the pants. I’m sure I’m bigger.”

  “Go away.”

  “Okay, I’ll go, but you just missed out on getting some pretty amazing information about me. Like that I happen to be a millionaire with a solid gold jet ski and I just do department store copywriting because it’s my art.”

  “I’m not telling you anything, not that there’s anything to tell.”

  “Why not?” he says. “Is he deformed or something? Is it like a sensitive subject?”

  I throw a catalogue at him. Then Ashley rounds the corner and stops at my desk.

  “What is this?” She holds up a piece of paper.

  “I was just getting some dating advice off Jen,” Ted says.

  Ashley hands me the paper. It looks vaguely familiar.

  “Is there a reason you’re e-mailing the entire company your TrueLove.com test results?” she asks.

  I stare at the paper. It’s the test I sent Christopher.

  “You sent it to the entire art department,” Ashley says.

  Ted takes the paper. “Wow! Look at this! You scored an eighty out of a hundred with Brad Keller! Maybe it is true love!”

  Oh God. This isn’t happening.

  Ashley’s eyes go wide. “You were taking a love test for you and Brad Keller?” she says, and she says it in such a low, vicious way, “Yes. We went out on a date.” Then I excuse myself and go discreetly to the emergency stairwell, where I can’t seem to breathe. I’m not hyperventilating so much as my chest seems to have some crushing weight on it, like a cobra of panic has wound its way around my torso, and I wobble, as though I might pass out.

  The heavy metal door opens and Ted sits down next to me on the stairs.

  “You okay?” he asks gently. “Sorry I outed you and Brad.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say and my eyes fill up with tears. “You know how there’s always one kid in your class who wets his pants in front of everyone? And everyone tells him not to worry, no one will remember this in ten years?”

  “Everyone remembers,” Ted sighs.

  “Everyone!” I say. “And everyone will remember this too!”

  Ted nods. “There’s only one way to fix a disaster,” he says. “Make a bigger disaster.” Then he reaches up and pulls the lever on an emergency fire alarm.

  A high, piercing wail starts up and instantly we hear the big metal doors banging open on every floor and a multitude of voices filling the stairwell.

  I really have to stop getting the fire department involved in my love life.

  Without so much as a flinch Ted links his arm in mine and we join the stream of concerned, chatting Keller’s employees on their way down to the parking lot.

  We spend about an hour outside in the cold, all hopping from one foot to the other. Ted says it’s great because for every minute we’re out here, more and more junk mail is cluttering up everyone’s inboxes, pushing my test-score e-mail farther and farther down the line.

  “Also, at least half these people will now come down with the flu,” he says cheerfully. “Headaches, chills, using up vacation days. They’re not likely to remember your e-mail with a low-grade fever, are they?”

  Sometimes I just want to kiss Ted.

  That night I’m reorganizing the dollhouse and assembling a new male harem for Little Wife. I line up dozens of green plastic army men and di
fferent-size action figures, who are all going to move in and become Little Wife’s personal slaves. They will do her bidding, no matter how perverse. Hans Solo lies down in bed, waiting to service her; the Incredible Hulk is in the kitchen wearing an apron and doing dishes, and Chewbacca is giving Little Husband a death-blow karate chop because his affair with Barbie has been discovered.

  Then I hear the chipper new e-mail! sound on my computer and I knock my knee against the table as I sprint across the room to my desk.

  Brad has sent a new message.

  He says, “I had a really good time and would love to hang out again.”

  Oh, really.

  How cruel and insensitive.

  Why wait for three days to contact me? If he’s going to respond, why not respond right away? I consult with Christopher before e-mailing back.

  “I don’t know,” Christopher says. “It’s technically ouside the window. I don’t like it.”

  “But he practically made it inside the window,” I argue. “Maybe he was just playing it cool.”

  “And he e-mailed. He didn’t call.”

  “A call counts for an e-mail.”

  “No, a call counts for a call.”

  “No, a text message doesn’t count for a call,” I reason, “but an e-mail does.”

  “Okay, you deserve whatever happens.”

  So fine. I wait twenty-four hours before e-mailing Brad back. I write several test e-mails first and I come up with two or three pretty good variations and I practically have to sit on my hands to not send it.

  Instead, I focus on the penis-basket debacle.

  The penis baskets were supposed to be bath-gift baskets prepackaged for Valentine’s Day, but when we got them, the ripe plum-scented bath balls were on either side of the blue organic mini-loofah, which made it look like a big penis with blue balls wrapped in plastic. “But how are we supposed to fix this?” I ask Ashley.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “That’s your job, not mine.”

  She’s had a nasty temper lately.

  “What I mean is,” I try to explain, “how can copywriters fix this? Call it our Valentine’s Day penis promotion? The new Keller’s Blue Ball Basket?”