“No, to the School of Journalism.”
“Oh . . . wait. Really? But that’s, like, the best program in the country. Or so I’ve heard. . . . Did you go?”
“No. I wound up going to business school instead. But I got in, and that’s probably my single greatest achievement to date. You’ve got your Columbia diploma, I’ve got my Columbia acceptance letter . . .”
“Potato, potahto,” I say and he laughs. “So where’d you go to business school?”
“Actually just up in the Bronx at the Gabelli School of Business. It’s part of Fordham University.”
“I know it.” I nod. “But see, you gave geographical description, too.”
“That’s because I thought you likely hadn’t heard of it,” he chuckles. “You did it backward.”
“Hmm.” I pick up the menu and scan the drink list. “So what’s good here?”
“I got a beer, but you should get a cocktail. Or two.”
“Thanks, I think one’s good for now.” I smile and try to get the bartender’s attention.
“So you probably get this question all the time, but how’d you choose your screenname on Match? Sorry,” he adds quickly, “I don’t want to talk about Match.com all night, but it’s an unusual name, so I thought there might be a story behind it. You know, better than the story behind GroovyMonday80.”
“Play on The Smithereens?” I ask as the bartender approaches. I place my order and turn back to Luke #2.
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“Lucky guess.” I shrug. “I was going to Google it to see if it meant something else, but I never got around to it.”
“So what was yours all about?”
“Oh, it’s kind of a long, weird story.” I swivel my stool to face him.
“Aren’t all your stories long, weird stories?”
“Hey! That’s not very nice, you don’t even know me!” I pretend to be offended, which I kind of am.
“I’m kidding. Ki-dding,” he sounds out the word. “You write very good emails,” he says in an overly serious, professorial tone.
“Anyway . . . Okay, now I can’t tell you. It’s a long story, and I’m embarrassed.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Nope! Stage fright.” I avert my eyes from his.
“Come on. How about I’ll tell you an embarrassing story about myself next.”
I look up brightly. “You promise?”
“Promise.”
“Okay, so. A really long time ago I was out on a double date with my then-boyfriend and his coworker, plus his coworker’s girlfriend.” Luke #2 nods. “I can’t remember how it came up, but we started talking about mail-order brides and couples who meet in chat rooms, and . . . that kind of stuff. The men started talking about this site. I forget what it’s called. True Life? Second Life, something like that—”
“—Second Life.” He nods.
“Yeah, Second Life . . . you know it?” He nods again. “Well, anyway, the site sounds . . . nuts. Fascinating, and nuts. But they were talking about some article they both read about the site, and the coworker said that he’s on it. It was kind of funny, you could see the look of surprise, or, horror and surprise, cross his girlfriend’s face. Evidently, this was the first she’d heard of him spending his time on Second Life, and they live together. You could tell they were definitely going to have a fight about it later. . . . But anyway, we asked him what he did on there, and he said he set up a soda shoppe, like an old-fashioned soda-jerk kind? I don’t know how these things work, but you can, I guess, buy fake money with your real money and become an entrepreneur. In Second Life?” I wave my hand in the air to indicate that all these details are fuzzy to me. “So we asked him what his avatar looked like, and he said it looked like him, only miniature. And we asked him what his name was, and he said ‘Erstwhile,’ which at the time, I just thought was a really funny choice for some reason.”
“So that’s why you chose it?”
“Well, kind of. . . . Not really. So a few months later, my brother signed up for Match and because I’m, you know, a really good, caring, and concerned sister . . . I insisted on helping him with his profile. But in order to view anyone’s profile, you have to set up your own Match account. It’s free if you’re not winking or messaging anyone, but you still need a username. I was still with my boyfriend, so this was purely for sisterly help, but I created a Match account under Erstwhile701. My birthday, seven-twenty-nine, was taken.”
“So there’s an Erstwhile729 on Match, too?”
“Apparently? I know, I found that really weird, too.” I laugh. “Anyway, when I went back to sign up . . . you know, ‘for reals,’” I hold up finger quotes around this phrase, “my browser couldn’t log me out and create a new account. It was dead set on me keeping this really dumb moniker. . . . So . . . that’s me!” I feign excitement, then bite my lip in embarrassment.
He chuckles audibly. “Good story. I bet there are a lot of people who don’t even know what that word means.”
“Oh, for sure. You wouldn’t believe the number of emails I get that begin, ‘Dear Erst.’” I crack up laughing, and Luke #2 does, too. “Okay, your turn! Embarrassing story. Go!”
“Well if you want it to be about Second Life . . .”
“No! Get out.” I slap him on the shoulder without thinking, then realize what I have done. “Sorry! Got excited . . . You use Second Life?”
He laughs. “Would that be so bad?” I narrow my eyes, then nod vigorously. Yes, yes it would be.
“Well, if it makes you feel better,” he says slowly, “I’m not on it anymore. Or, at least, I don’t think I am. . . . I read about it, too, and I just, you know, wanted to see what the kids are up to these days.”
“So what’s your avatar’s name?”
“I don’t even remember,” he says.
“What does he look like?”
“Kind of like me. But I didn’t spend too much time on that part. I just wanted to take a stroll through Second Life town, see how it worked.”
“What’d you do there?”
“I met some people.”
“Anyone interesting or cool?”
“A large Nigerian prostitute, a—”
“—Should you be telling me this on our first date?” I ask inquisitively.
“I didn’t do anything with the prostitute.”
“Then how did you know she was a prostitute?”
“Well, she was dressed in a stripper outfit, and they have these little speech bubbles, and when I wandered over to her, she offered me sex for money.”
“Well, I guess that would be one way to know.” I laugh.
“Yeah. I met a few shop owners. They give you some currency when you sign up. Or at least they did when I signed up.”
“Ooh, what’d you buy?”
“Glow sticks,” he shrugs.
“Glow sticks?” I echo.
“Yeah. I wanted to see if my avatar could twirl them or, you know, do a mean glow-stick routine at a Second Life rave.”
“And?”
“Yeah, he could. I could.”
“So when was the last time you went on?”
“Gosh.” He strokes his chin, trying to calculate. “At least three years ago. I don’t even know if I ever closed my account. I’m probably still there, walking down Second Life Street, twirling my glow sticks.”
I laugh. “So are you, like, the raving, glow-stick-slinging, tattooed type in real life, too?”
“Yeah, that’s me in a nutshell.” He smiles and flicks at his straw. “Oh, except I do have a tattoo. In real life.”
“As opposed to in Second Life?” I smile, he laughs. “Where is it? Tramp stamp? You totally have a tramp stamp.” I nod vehemently. “Am I right?”
“No, I’ve been dreaming of getting a tramp stamp, but for now just the . . . the other one.”
“Ooh. What’s the other one? Where is it?”
He shakes his head no.
“No, you won’t tell me?”
>
“You’ll have to find it for yourself one day if you’re so curious.” He raises an eyebrow. I blush and look away.
“Uhhh, what’s it of?”
“It’s . . . a design. I designed it myself.”
“What of?”
“Just black lines that make a shape I liked.”
“Huh.”
“So what about you? What’s your tramp stamp of?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Wait—you actually have one?” He looks at me askance.
I shake my head no and smile. “I mean, I guess I could say, ‘You’ll have to find it for yourself one day if you’re so curious,’” I say in a dumb-jock-sounding deep voice, “but . . . I don’t actually have one.”
After two more rounds of cocktails, Luke asks if I want another.
“Three’s enough for me in one night, I think. But thanks! I should probably get going soon-ish anyway.”
He gets up to go to the bathroom.
When he returns, he heads straight to the cash register to settle the tab. While he’s waiting for the bartender to ring up his credit card, he bops, ever so faintly, in time to the music, his head and knees moving in time with the song. The bar is much darker now, and when he walks back over, he shakes his head slightly as his eyes readjust to the light where we’re sitting. “Oh!” he exclaims pleasantly. “You’re still here.”
I smile. “Was I . . . not supposed to be?”
“No, I just wondered what you were thinking of the date. You know, if you were going to bolt while I was in the bathroom.”
“Yeah.” I raise my eyebrows and tilt my head as if weighing this option. “I thought about it, but . . . you seemed too nice to do that to, so I thought I could at least walk out with you. Civilly, cordially, you know.”
He smiles.
“But I caught you dancing in front of the cash register, by the way. Don’t think I didn’t see that.”
“Oh, you did.” For once I’m not the one blushing. “I’m . . . kind of not a dancer. Well, I dance, but I’m, like, a closet dancer. You will not get to see that repeated in public,” he assures me.
“So you don’t want to go to the Joshua Tree? It’s so close by though. So tempting!”
“What’s the Joshua Tree?”
I clap my hand over my mouth in astonishment. “You’ve never been to the Joshua Tree?” I sound out slowly. “Oh, I used to go there every weekend when I still pretended I was in college. It’s all eighties songs, usually paired with the music videos projected on the walls. And you just . . . dance stupidly all night until they kick you out at 4:00 a.m.”
“Yeah, right. See you there sometime,” he rolls his eyes.
We’re walking to the subway and I’m midsentence when he steps in front of me, turns to face me, and kisses me. I’m so startled, when he pulls away, I can’t even remember if I kissed him back or not. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. He straightens up, towering above me but looking in my eyes skeptically. “Too forward?” he asks.
“Uhhh . . .” I shake my head in confusion. “. . . Yes? I guess? I don’t know. Not bad, just . . . surprising. Sorry.”
He laughs. “Note to self: Don’t do that again.”
“No.” I laugh, glad he took the edge off the moment. “It’s not that. I’m just . . . not the kiss-on-the-first-date type. But it’s fine.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better,” he volunteers, “I’m not that type either. I don’t know what came over me. It just felt right, I guess,” then he adds quickly, “for one of us.”
I smile.
“So, I know you’ve got a busy social calendar and all. When do you leave for Turkey?”
“Next Thursday.”
“And, I can’t remember—are you here this weekend?”
“No, I’ve got a friend’s wedding in Newport.”
“Do you want to do something one night next week before you leave then?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, I’ll be in touch. . . . Bye.” He leans in and gives me a hug. A really nice, enveloping tight squeeze. When we separate, I wave like Paul Pfeiffer and descend into my subway station.
“So how are you going to keep them straight?” Cassie asks when I return home from my date with Luke #2.
“They’re not really very similar, other than in namesake.”
“But, like, even in your phone? Do you know their last names yet?”
“Older Luke is Luke Edmonds. I don’t know Younger Luke’s last name. I’ll just call him Younger Luke.”
“Oh. I don’t think I realized that he’s younger—”
“—No, he’s old. He’s just younger than Older Luke.”
“How old?”
“Thirty-three? Thirty-four? One of the two. . . . Older Luke is thirty-seven.”
“Just be careful not to slip up. That’d be bad.”
“What, slip up and accidentally call Older Luke ‘Younger Luke’ to his face? I don’t think we’re in grave danger of that here. . . .”
“You know what I mean,” Cassie says.
May 19 at 5:41 p.m.
YOUNGER LUKE: HEY THERE, ANOTHER WEEK DOWN, ID HAVE TO SAY TUESDAY WAS THE HIGHLIGHT. HAVE A GOOD WEEKEND.
ALISON: HA, I’LL BET YOU SAY THAT TO ALL THE GIRLS. HEADED TO NEWPORT FOR THAT WEDDING - YOU STILL UP FOR SOME PRE-TURKEY HANGOUT TIME WHEN I’M BACK?
YOUNGER LUKE: ONLY TO BLOND ARCHITECTURAL CONSERVATIONISTS. I AM IF YOU ARE.
“Sorry, you beat me to our date again,” I apologize as I pull out the chair across from Younger Luke at Toloache. “And this time you had a lot farther to travel!”
He holds up his glass. “I just wanted to get a head start on the drinking without you.”
“Oh, is that so?” I say, attempting to sass him. “Wait, what are you drinking?”
“A coconut margarita.”
“Isn’t that . . . a little girlie?”
“Yeah, I think that’s why they served it to me with this little umbrella, but, oh well. They’re surprisingly delicious,” he says persuasively. “If this is what girls get to drink all day, I’ve really been missing out. . . .”
My cucumber-jalapeño margarita arrives shortly. “Hey, look!” I point out, “no umbrella!”
“They probably got our drinks confused. I’m sure your spicy drink was supposed to get the umbrella. Here, let me trade it for the chili pepper on the edge of yours.” He reaches across the table and swaps our garnishes. “There, much better. The way God intended.”
I laugh.
The waiter returns, and we order our dinners.
“Fish tacos, huh?” he asks.
“Oh, I love fish tacos. And they’re really good here.”
He looks at me suspiciously, then looks down to my chest, then up at my eyes again.
“What?” I instinctively cross my arms over my chest, resting my hands on opposite shoulders. “What?”
He nods, slyly. “No. I just . . . I like your style,” he says.
“Huh?”
“Ordering fish tacos with a . . . what do you call that . . . cowl-neck top? Cut straight to the messiest entrée you can find . . . wear a shirt that very likely will wind up filled with mahi mahi and guacamole. . . . I like your style,” he says nodding.
My discomfort evaporates. “I don’t know, I . . . might get hungry later?” I gesture to the swooping bowl of my cowl-neck. He laughs out loud at this. “But, my God you were so creepy staring at my chest like that. Ehhh! Also, how do you know the word ‘cowl-neck?’ Most men don’t even know the difference between a skirt and a dress.”
“I’ve got a sister. And a niece. And a mom.” He shrugs, still smiling as he rests his chin on both his hands and leans into the table.
“Well,” I start defensively, “if you get to critique my order—”
“It’s not a critique. I’m actually really impressed. You’re not like most girls.” Hmm, I’ve been getting this a lot lately, and so far, it hasn’t ended well.
“If you’re trying to say I eat like a man, well, unfortunately, yes, that’s true.” Younger Luke smiles and nods at this. “But you might as well find out now rather than be surprised later. Anyway, if you get to critique my order, should we return to the subject of your drinks, adorned with pink umbrellas, Mr. Macho?”
“I told you: They’re delicious. No regrets. In fact, I’m going to order a second one just because you said that.”
Six tacos later, and the conversation’s still going strong.
“So you have a big vacation coming up, right?”
I nod enthusiastically.
“Tell me about it. Who are you going with?”
“It’s . . . it’s a long story, but I’m going on vacation with my parents. I haven’t traveled with them in ages, except for family holidays, and I know you’re kind of not supposed to do that when you’re twenty-seven, but secretly,” I lean in, as if confiding, “I’m really excited about it.”
“And you’re going to . . . Turkey?”
I nod again.
“Turkey the country?”
“Everyone’s been asking me that lately. I keep wanting to say, ‘No, the sandwich meat.’”
“Good point. I wonder why I asked that?”
“At least you’re not alone.”
“So why is it a long story that you’re traveling with your parents? And, for the record, I think it’s cool that you are. Are your siblings going, too?”
“No, my siblings aren’t going. And, basically, my work instituted this draconian policy where you have to block off your vacation for each year the year prior. Which is, like, totally ridiculous if you think about it. Who knows where they want to go—or have to go—for holidays, weddings, et cetera twelve months in advance?”
“Yeah, that’s ridiculous.”
“Right? So anyway, in December, I was still with my ex-boyfriend of a while, and we calendared these eight days in May. . . . But then we broke up, and now I’m stuck with these vacation days that are set in stone, and it was a use-’em-or-lose-’em kind of thing and . . . yeah. So I’m using them.”
“With your parents? Not your ex-boyfriend.”
“Oh, gosh no. Not with my ex-boyfriend. With my parents. I think they felt bad for me given the whole work situation and breakup, my mom acted like, ‘Ooh. This is a wonderful confluence of events. Wouldn’t it be such fun to travel together again like we used to?’ They’re really nice.”
Match Made in Manhattan Page 18
