If You're Not Yet Like Me

by Edan Lepucki

  “So tell me, Zachary Haas,” I said. “Why did you move down here?”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure.” He took a long swill of his beer. And then he shifted in his stool so that his knees were touching mine.

  Aha, I thought. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  “I was doing really boring work—writing copy for the admissions people at Cal. And a lot of my friends were moving, to Brooklyn, Paris even. I’d always liked it down here, and I had some money saved.” He shrugged. “I thought I might find something I really love doing.”

  I asked him if he’d had any luck that day, at the coffee shop.

  “I guess I did,” he said, and smiled. “But not with jobs.”

  I was supposed to blush, but the busboy ruined the moment, placing a mountain of arugula between us on the bar. Atop the greens were goat cheese, walnuts, and the red onion. Raw. Zachary picked up his fork right away. “Dig in,” he said. I politely declined.

  I watched as he ate almost every single red onion on that plate, threading each one around the tines of his fork. Because he didn’t have a very strong jaw line, his profile wasn’t good, but I had nowhere else to look. It was too early to fall into the well of my vodka tonic.

  “Are you sure you don’t want any?” he asked. He was almost finished.

  “I’m not hungry,” I said.

  That seemed to do the trick. Zachary must have suddenly realized his faux pas, because right then he put down his fork and pushed the plate away. He nodded at the bartender to take it and then ordered a second beer.

  “I hope that’s okay,” he said. “To have another?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I cocked my head. “For what?” It’s never a bad idea, to let a man think you’re upset, and then pretend you aren’t, not at all. Paranoia feeds lust.

  He shook it off. “Never mind. Can I get you another?” He pointed at my empty glass.

  “Please.”

  We talked for another hour or so. He managed to get quite a lot out of me. I told him about growing up in Studio City, about my job, about working from home. Zachary was very good at asking questions, or maybe he just didn’t want to answer mine. The most I learned about him was that he’d temped for a production company, collating press kits. “I liked the free T-shirts,” he said, as if he was revealing something I couldn’t tell by looking at him. Personal pizzas, I thought. You, Mr. Haas, eat personal pizzas.

  And yet.

  I can only describe what I did next as self-sabotage. Or that I was feeling as I did at the coffee shop. Reckless. I didn’t feel pretty this time, not especially. I was flat-chested again—or worse: I was almost flat-chested, meaning there was nothing noteworthy about my breasts. I had that pimple, and I was wearing awful, embarrassing underwear. And yet. Zachary finished his beer, and I finished my vodka tonic, and I said, “I don’t want the night to end.”

  It was like I was eleven years old again and I’d picked up that sharp soup can lid. What the hell, I thought. I could have just as easily said, “I’ve got to run. Book club!” Or, “I think we should be friends.” I could have just as easily said something different.

  Zachary seemed stunned, but he recovered quickly.

  “Cool!” he said. His voice rose then, and he smiled the way men do when sex has been presented, or at least its possibility. Imagine a dog. Now show him his leash. It’s like that.

  We had one more drink before we left the bar. I took careful sips of mine so that it didn’t go to my head too quickly, but still, once we were ready to go, I was drunk.

  I wasn’t so drunk, however, that I didn’t know what I was doing. Remember, I had decided to sleep with Zachary before the alcohol had really gone to my head. I wish I had my drinking to blame; at least then we could get to the root of my problem.

  “Want to catch a movie?” I asked once we were outside. “Or,” I paused, “we could go to your place.” I was careful to keep my voice from growing husky. I kept it high, demure as a girl’s.

  “A movie would be fun,” he said. “But I want to talk.”

  “Definitely.” (Oh, euphemisms, how I love thee.) “Tell me your address,” I said. I knew he didn’t live far from me; it wouldn’t be a long drive.

  He shook his head. “You can’t see my place. It’s a wreck.”

  “Are you afraid I’ll judge you?”

  At this, he raised an eyebrow. That alone, his single raised eyebrow, should have tipped me off to the vast wealth of insight Zachary Haas possessed. He was sharper than I’d given him credit for. “You? Judge me?” he said, in mock surprise.

  At that, he leaned forward and kissed me with his red onion—I mean, mouth.

  You want to know what his kiss was like. You want to squeal: “Tell me it was amazing, Joellyn!” You want me to answer, Yes!

  Not so, unfortunately.

  The kiss was thoroughly mediocre. Which only made me want another.

  I didn’t mention to Zachary that my place was also a wreck. As I drove home, Zachary following behind in his mid-nineties Toyota Tercel, I counted the embarrassments. I hadn’t swept up the handyman dust. My hair dryer was still plugged into the bathroom wall. Empty wine bottles filled the recycling bin, as did—dear God—a broken-down box that had once held 40 super-absorbency Tampons. Probably, at this very moment, a cockroach was giving birth on my kitchen floor. That day, I had failed, once again, to make the bed, and my side table was strewn with used tissues, which suggested that I either had a snot problem, or that I cried myself to sleep every night. Or that, like a man, I masturbated into Kleenexes. Zachary would see everything, I realized, and Joellyn, as he knew her, as I knew her, would crumble away.

  We reached my street, and I rolled down my window to point to the building. Zachary would find parking, and I’d meet him out front.

  “It’s a plan,” he said.

  All I could do was nod. I pulled into my parking spot and exited the car as if it were the first step to the gallows; it would not be a long walk.

  I bet you’re thinking, “Get a hold of yourself, Joellyn,” and yes, that’s what I was thinking, too. I needed to calm down. It wouldn’t be so bad. I could and would present my domestic filth to Zachary with a certain nonchalance. I was charming, I was laissez-faire. I was a woman who dressed impeccably, but who could not be bothered to scrub the linoleum.

  I imagined Zachary skipping the closest parking spot because he deemed it too difficult to maneuver. He was no good at parallel parking—a man like him wouldn’t be—and this incompetence implied other failures: sexual, professional. In other words, I had nothing to fear in Zachary. He was invisible, and I was the first woman in a long time to see him. As he stepped into my apartment, all he would feel was grateful.

  A few minutes later, he was heading towards me, hands in his pockets, and I waved to him.

  “Hi,” he said, when we were face-to-face, but he made no move to touch me. Shyness had overtaken both of us, which I’ve found is often the case after a first kiss.

  “Shall we?” I said, holding up my keys like a realtor.

  He was supposed to say, “We shall,” but instead he replied, “Okay.”

  I opened the door and crept across the living room to turn on the two lamps. I didn’t want to switch on the overhead, which gave the room an unsavory glare, as if I lived in a cheap Chinese restaurant. Even in the honey light, though, things didn’t look good. I silently asked the cockroaches to scurry back to their headquarters beneath the oven.

  “Here it is,” I said. I would not apologize for the mess. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “I’d love one, thanks.”

  I followed Zachary’s gaze as he took in my apartment. He didn’t seem fazed by the gym shoes and socks in front of the television, or the coffee table covered with the Venn diagram stains of cups-past. He checked out my shelves of design references, and my books from college, their cracked spines festooned with day-glo stickers that read USED. He
even examined the overhead light fixture, which dated back to the 1920s. He seemed to be taking note of the gold leaves painted across its surface. Zachary spotted the antique eye charts on the wall above my desk, and he went straight for them. I waited for him to pronounce how cool they were, as other men had. Instead he said, “My dad’s an optometrist.”

  I thought he would say more. He didn’t.

  “How about some whiskey?” I asked.

  If there’s one thing I know, it’s that most men drink whiskey, and that they like a woman who does, too. I don’t much care for the stuff, but I keep a bottle on hand for these occasions. Zachary asked for his neat, and as I headed to the kitchen, I told him to make himself comfortable. By the time I returned with our drinks, he was sitting on the couch with the remote in his hand. Was he about to turn on the television, watch a rerun of “Everyone Loves Raymond”?

  “I bet your place isn’t this much of a wreck,” I said.

  He laughed. “Almost.”

  I could not stop myself from blushing, but then Zachary put down the remote, picked up his glass and said, “I’m kidding. You’ve got nothing on my mold problem.”

  “Cheers to that,” I said.

  With each sip of bourbon, we moved closer and closer to one another on the couch. I told Zachary where I’d procured the eye charts (a flea market in Virginia), and he told me about his father’s practice (in Downtown Oakland).

  “Do you get free glasses?” I asked.

  “I have 20-20 vision, actually.”

  My ice melted from cubes to pebbles, and we kept talking. He wanted to know how I picked colors, in my design work. “I really like how blue and red look together,” he said. I could tell by the way his voice dragged that he was feeling the liquor now. “Not, like, Fourth of July, American flag, blue and red.”

  The pebbles in my drink were now shards, and now water.

  “You mean turquoise and cranberry?” I asked.

  His eyes lit up. “Exactly.”

  I put down my glass. Zachary, smart thing, understood the signal, and leaned forward to kiss me. His drink had tempered the red onion, and I was glad.

  I’m sure you’re thinking: “But, Joellyn, you can’t fade to black now!” You want all the details: the urgent kisses, the flailing to get a better purchase on the couch. Cue the heavy petting, the tiny groans (his) and the giggles (mine). You want the line, “Let’s go to the bedroom.” You want me to tell you how I took Zachary’s hand and led him down the hallway.

  But it was all so predictable you don’t need me to describe it.

  A few things, though: When I said, “Let’s go to the bedroom,” Zachary replied, “I’d like that.” It was a classy response, I have to admit. And when we got into the room, I didn’t turn on the lights. It wasn’t because I’m ashamed of my body. I work out regularly, and my small waist and smooth skin are marketable qualities. But I couldn’t let him see my undergarments.

  In the dark, I told Zachary to sit on the bed.

  “What?” he asked, as if he didn’t understand what I was doing.

  I did not want to say “striptease” out loud. This was pathetic enough. Instead I said, “Watch.”

  I reached my hands under my dress and rolled my underwear down my legs. I kicked them off my ankles, and as they flew through the air like some demented, injured bird, the kind that would squawk instead of sing, I realized Zachary could reach forward and grab them, even bring them to his face. It would be playful, and if he sniffed them, that would be a little dirty, and bold. But the granniness of the panties would ruin it. I’d have to turn on the lights and apologize.

  As if in some slow-motion sports footage, I lunged forward to intercept the underwear. They fell into my palm easily, and I saw that Zachary hadn’t moved. He’d never planned on touching my panties. Why not? I balled up the underwear, the heat rising up my neck, and quickly shoved them into the open drawer behind me.

  I took a deep breath. I approached the bed, and spun around so that my back faced Zachary. “Can you help me with my zipper?” I asked. It was—I must boast—pretty smooth. He did as he was told.

  Alas, those were the highlights. The rest progressed as you would expect—or, as I expected it would. Zachary fell asleep right after. I did not.

  Dickens was the only other man to see my granny panties. That isn’t his real name, but he doesn’t deserve a real name, and besides, Dickens suits him. For one, I met him at a Christmas party, where he was dressed in a velvet vest and top hat, and other sartorial accoutrements of nineteenth-century England. He was singing carols in a quartet that performs at various functions. They charge quite a lot. He’s a tenor.

  I went to the party with a friend who knew the hostess and her husband. I only went because she said they would be serving bacon-wrapped dates and that the husband always stocked the bar with top-shelf liquor. I was having trouble with my finances at the time, which meant I would attend any event with free food and booze. Most people would call me sociable, festive even, but it’s really that I’m a freeloader. I cannot stand potlucks. Needless to say, I wasn’t as interested in the party and its guests as I was in feeling full before bed. I had about seventeen dollars to my name, and I had to make it last a few days.

  Dickens hit on me. On my way back from the bathroom he waved me over to the quartet. They were taking their first break, and it was disconcerting to see a man from the Victorian era nursing a bottle of Beck’s. One of the two female singers was texting. It felt very Bill and Ted, and that pleased me.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hi,” Dickens said. He was actor-handsome. A few lustrous black locks fell from beneath his ridiculous hat. And that jaw line: he could slice me in two.

  He wanted to know if I had any requests.

  “For songs, you mean?” I asked. I am a very skilled flirt.

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Surprise me then,” I replied.

  “Oh, certainly.”

  I went home with him that night.

  The only reason I was wearing the granny panties was because I couldn’t afford to do laundry. It speaks to the magnitude of my lust that I forgot I had them on until Dickens flung me across his bed, née futon, lights on. He slipped off my jeans and paused. “Oh,” he said, as if someone had just told him his mailman had died. I suppose I was the one surprising him that night—he hadn’t taken me for a human woman. I should have known then that his heart was about as tender as barbecue charcoal. Not that I cared, not that night. Another reason I call him Dickens? He has a big dick.

  What I assumed would be a singular night of pleasure with Dickens evolved into something more substantial. That is to say, he wanted me to sleep over, and the next morning we went out for breakfast. And he texted me later, to say he would think of me that evening, when he sang, “Little Drummer Boy.” I couldn’t discern how this song connected to me, or us, but still, it gave me a thrill.

  The next time I saw him, I wore tasteful lingerie and lipstick. I wanted to believe he wasn’t too handsome for me, though now I know I was only fooling myself: a good looking man almost never has a female equivalent. A truly handsome man is a rare occurrence in nature, and that’s what makes him so valuable. Nevertheless, I felt confident around Dickens, who wore expensive shoes and kissed with a brave, athletic tongue. He was prettier than I was, but perhaps that spoke to my own beauty. That he even bothered with me, that had to say something.

  But I should have been careful. For one, Dickens wasn’t just actor-handsome, he was an actor. He’d done a few commercials and guest spots on TV, and he talked at length about his brand. He was not to be trusted.

  The day Dickens landed a movie role, about three weeks into our affair, we met for dinner at a small Italian restaurant. He ordered us a bottle of wine. He fed me a bite of his pumpkin ravioli. I told a story, which he laughed at. I thought things were going well. I was sure we’d entered the province of boyfriend-and-girlfriend.

  Not so. The waitress put down the ch
eck, and Dickens looked deep into my eyes. I knew immediately that things were over.

  “I’m sorry, Joellyn,” he said.

  “Sorry for what?”

  He sighed. “I have this place in my mind, it’s called Imagine Land.”

  “Imagine Land?”

  It was something Dickens had invented when he was a kid. It was a place where everything was as he wanted it to be. “It’s always changing,” he said.

  “How?” I asked.

  “Well, when I was eight, there’d be corndogs for every meal. Now I imagine great coffee and small-batch whiskey.”

  He smiled, a toothpaste commercial come to life. Another reason Dickens deserves his name? He’s a dick.

  “Somewhere along the line,” he continued, “I began to think that Imagine Land was just another word for the future. Like, I can make this world happen, if I see it clearly enough.”

  “So you’re into positive thinking.”

  He winced. “I guess. But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. The woman in Imagine Land, she wouldn’t put it in those terms.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “I thought you would,” he replied, and picked up the check.

  Dickens drove me home that evening and kissed me goodnight. That he squeezed my breast as he did so is another point against him. It implied nothing, and yet he wanted me to take it with me, into tomorrow.

  The morning after we slept together, Zachary asked me if I wanted to get bagels and I politely declined. I’d woken with his arm across my chest like a seatbelt, and his pale, putty face plowed into the mattress, and I knew I had to act bloodlessly. I would ask him to leave, then take an aspirin, clean my apartment, and assess the situation. I would either treat the previous night as a forgettable oops, or I would answer the phone when he called. “But how did you feel about him?” you ask, and that’s precisely what I needed to decide.

  On my sun-stricken front steps, Zachary leaned down and kissed me. He thanked me for the evening, and I was surprised by how cute he looked, his hair unkempt, the dimples at his mouth hinting at a charming bashfulness.