The phone rings, and I hear a woman’s voice on an answering machine. “Hi,” she says. “We’re not home. Please leave a message.” It beeps. It didn’t say who “we” is. I don’t know if it’s still David’s number. I have to accept that it might be. I guess I always had sort of hoped, or perhaps assumed, that he’d never find anyone he cared about more than he cared about me. I know that’s unrealistic. But I suppose when you stop having contact with someone, they’re frozen in time in your mind. Well, he wasn’t right for me, anyway. Only for the first few weeks. And anyone can seem right for the first few weeks.
Since I’m thinking about checking people’s answering machines, I have another flash of brilliance. I call the phone number for Petrov’s girlfriend, Sheryl. I want to see who’s on her answering machine.
The machine picks up and says, “Hi, you’ve reached Dan and Sheryl. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you soon.”
More confirmation of the cuckolded couplehood.
I think for a while about people in normal relationships, who don’t have to play games with phones, who don’t have to worry who’s on the answering machine. What is it like to feel that confident and fulfilled? Or are there other problems? I think there are people in the world who would have us believe that there is no such thing as a problem-free relationship, that people simply cannot fall into a mutual, compatible love that is infinite and wonderful and rational and true. It’s a bleak view. I hope the naysayers are wrong, but maybe that’s the way it really is, just like how men are from another planet.
I still have time to find out.
The day comes for my date with Michael from the personals. I head to Barnes & Noble early to grab a table at the café. Someone has left a little stack of magazines on top, and I pick up one called Rope and begin thumbing through it. It’s actually all about rope. That’s just bizarre. I see that two tables away, there’s an old man reading Puppies. I don’t even want to ask.
Every time someone new comes through the front doors, I hope it’s not Michael, because each person looks stranger than the last. First there’s a guy with a beard down to his waist. Then a guy with sunglasses and a cigar. Then a crew-cutted ten-year-old. I realize that since I didn’t say anything about looks in my ad, I really could get a guy with a beard down to his waist, or green hair, or fluorescent spandex pants. There are a million things that could be odd about someone you meet through the personals, especially if you try not to be superficial and you don’t mention looks. Okay, I guess we all care about looks, it’s just that different things bother each of us. We can’t help it. Someone might specify that she wants someone blond and blue-eyed. I might specify that I don’t want anyone with a Mohawk haircut. Does that make me any less superficial?
Finally a guy in his late twenties comes in. He has a high forehead and dark hair, with long sideburns. He’s got a black leather jacket on—not punkish or anything—but it is leather. He looks my way, and I don’t look away. Then he smiles and comes toward me. He had bragged on the phone about how tall he was, but he’s actually fairly short.
I wonder why it’s so hard for people to just be honest.
“Heather?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you.” He smiles and gives me a once-over. So obvious. Ugh. We sit down.
“Now, let me remember,” he says. “Yours was the one with all the smart stuff.”
“And you,” I say, “were the one who said he never answers ads.”
He laughs. “Well, until this issue. I figured, if I was spending the money to call the 900 number, I might as well listen to a few others. But yours was the one that made me make the call.”
I pick up the magazine on the table. “I was looking at this,” I say. “It’s a magazine about ropes. What could be the audience for that?”
“I don’t know,” he says seriously, as if I’ve asked him to do intense research. I was honestly looking for a laugh. Oh well.
“Do you—” he starts, and I say, “Are you—” at the same time, and we both finish our sentences.
“What?” we both say.
“I—” I start.
“Do you—” he starts, and I give up. “Do you want to get a sandwich?” he asks. “I usually don’t eat breakfast.”
“Breakfast is an important meal,” I say.
“It’s all sugar,” he says. “Sugar cereal. French toast. Muffins. It’s like waking up and eating rock candy.” He seems really angry about this.
“So make eggs.”
“Fat,” he says, then shakes his head and goes up to the counter. I follow. “Turkey and cheese,” he says, then looks at me. “What are you going to have?”
“Since I ate breakfast today,” I say cattily, “maybe I should just have a Diet Coke.”
“A Diet Coke for her,” Michael says, and then, to me, “Sure I can’t get you a bagel?”
I cannot deal with people who don’t understand sarcasm. “Maybe I’ll actually have a sandwich, too,” I say.
“You don’t have to ask my permission,” Michael says. “It’s your money.”
If I had any friends, I might actually tell them about this. I lean over the counter and tell the woman that I’ll skip the Diet Coke and have a turkey sandwich along with some apple juice. Then Michael and I sit down.
“So,” he says. “You didn’t say anything about how you looked in the ad, but you’re not so bad.”
“Thanks.”
“Do I look…okay? Is this what you’d like?”
Is he out of his mind? “We could find something more interesting to talk about,” I say.
Suffice it to say that the rest of the conversation does not go well. We interrupt each other, don’t laugh at each other’s jokes (well, I can’t really laugh at his, since he doesn’t make any), and argue over the fact that he thinks all classic literature is bunk and has no relevance to current society. I point out that a lot of themes and phrases from classic literature come up in conversation every day, even in regular pop culture. “People paraphrase ‘Friends, Romans, countrymen,’ all the time for comic effect,” I say.
But Michael’s never heard of that.
So I say, “I guess it’s all Greek to you. That’s Shakespeare, too, by the way.”
He says, “What is?”
I give up.
When we finish eating, I stand up. “Well,” I say, “it was nice meeting you.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve never seen anyone drink apple juice straight from the jar before.”
I don’t even know what to say to that. I fold my napkin and try to pick up crumbs with it. He stands and says, “So…can I call you?”
“Sure,” I say, but I’m thinking, If you want to, you’ve got a pretty low standard for compatibility.
I walk outside feeling creepy and depressed. I don’t want to believe this is what my life has come to.
But a second later, I feel so liberated I want to jump into the air. I don’t have to go on another date, ever! That’s it! I’ve proved that they’re awful! And now, I can check dates off my list. I can tell Petrov I tried.
Matt didn’t really count because he’s taken. This was a real date! Now I can go home and do whatever I want. I can have a Pilby Party. I don’t have to compromise for anyone else.
When I get home, my message light is blinking. I pray that it’s not A-Adam. I decide that if it is, I’ll have a conversation with him, and if we have things in common, we can meet. If not, I’m not putting myself through another nightmare. But it’s not him. How dare Adam reject me. Who does he think he is? Well, no matter. It’s Eppie confirming that I’m supposed to meet with Natto after church tomorrow. I don’t have to call back unless I have a change of plans. But I don’t. I’m free and clear.
I’ve made a list of things I love, gone on a real date, and I’ve joined an organization. That takes care of three things on Petrov’s list. I’ve only got two things left to do: tell someone I care about them and
go out for New Year’s. Then I can figure out what I’ve learned.
Maybe, to fulfill number four, I can tell my father I care about him when he visits for Christmas. But it’s kind of weird with my dad. I haven’t said “I love you” to him since I was ten, and he doesn’t say it to me. I’m pretty sure he loves me, but we just don’t say it. Maybe I’ll say it to someone else. I don’t know who.
I think about the date I just went on. I wish that it had been with Matt instead. Matt would have gotten my jokes. He would have made some of his own. Matt at least would recognize basic Shakespeare. But I can’t call him. I have to wait for him to call me. Whenever that might be.
I decide to dial up the voice mail for my personal ad, and it tells me that there’s one new response.
It’s the forty-six-year-old who called last time. “I just wanted to cawl back and say, if the reason you didn’t get back to me is becausss of the age—” he pronounces “becausss” to rhyme with “boss” “—everyone I know tells me I look a lot younger. So I hope that doesn’t bawtha you. Anyway, like I said, if this interests you, give me a cawl.”
He still hasn’t told me anything about himself. No thanks.
There are a lot of women in their forties in the personals looking for men; yet, this forty-something guy goes hitting on a nineteen-year-old. Not really fair.
In the morning, my father calls. We talk about Christmas plans. He tells me that lately, I’ve sounded happier. This worries me. Maybe my being bad is doing me good. What if it’s really good to be bad? What if you can’t be happy without it? Is that why people had to invent religions that make you fear hell? Because it is only fear, not common sense or morality, that will keep us in line?
“Maybe I’m happy because of the season,” I tell Dad.
“That’s wonderful,” he says.
He tells me about his job. He tells me about a guy he met who might have a business report that could use freelance proofreading, so maybe I can get some work from him. We hang up and I decide this calls for some spending of money. I do need to get my father a Christmas gift.
I grab my red umbrella and head outside. The rain has temporarily stopped, and the air, thick with moisture, kisses my cheeks. I open my umbrella, and a guy passing me shouts, “It’s not raining!” People in New York can’t keep their big mouths shut. If they’re not sexually harassing you or ordering you to smile, they’re evaluating the use of your umbrella. Then, there’s running. Try running really quickly through the streets of New York one day, and see if some guy doesn’t yell “Run! Run!” within five seconds. I’ll bet my right kidney on it.
The people who call out at you don’t realize that, besides the fact that they’re making you feel bad about something that you didn’t realize you should feel bad about, they’re just taking part in this big conspiracy to make you be more like them. What if you’re a different kind of person? What if you don’t feel like smiling or opening and closing your umbrella every second? Is it their job to change you? Why do strangers have to remind you that you’re different? If I’m supposed to learn to accept other people, don’t they have to accept me, too—or do the rules of lenience not apply when you’re in the minority?
Two final questions on this topic:
1. How easy is it, really, to smile on demand? Isn’t it like being ordered to sneeze?
2. Does this ever happen to men who don’t smile or put up their umbrella, or are these comments only directed at those of us who are expected to respond shyly?
As I leave my block, I pass Petrov’s girlfriend Sheryl’s apartment. I peek at the windows, but don’t see her or her husband anywhere. I certainly don’t see Petrov.
I am cheered by the Christmas decorations in the stores. Macy’s has dancing Santas, both white ones and black ones—which, if I were Asian, I’d complain about—along with snow globes, teddy bears with rotating heads, and music boxes that gracefully ping their way through all of the songs I sang in church when I was very little and we actually went. To strains of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” everyone wafts through the perfume section in hats and scarves. I buy my father office stuff, which he always likes—a fancy desk clock and a pen set. Down in the cellar, there’s a pyramid of candy boxes wrapped with gold paper and fuzzy red bows that are so pretty I have to pick up at least one. Some of the candies are caramels, which my dad loves, and some are chocolates. I get a box of each. I’m not sure whom I’ll give the chocolates to, but hopefully by Christmas there will be someone deserving of this gift.
The Macy’s in New York looks decades old on the outside, with various levels and columns and letters saying “R.H. MACY & CO,” but the best thing about it is located inside—the wooden escalators. They’ve got to be at least fifty years old. The steps are all made of wood, and they kind of pass into each other like teeth. Escalators were another of my many fascinations when I was young. The Otis elevator company actually invented the word escalator. At first, it was a trademark. The word escalate actually came from it. I did a report on them in school. We had to pick an invention. Everyone else did the lightbulb or the phonograph. I bet there isn’t a kid in existence who hasn’t done a report on Thomas Edison. He’s second only to Helen Keller in terms of report topics.
My next stop is a bookstore, where I buy a pair of unabridged dictionaries for me and my father. If I ever get sick and have to stay in my apartment for a week, I can have a field day reading it. What does it mean to have a field day with something? When I get home, I can look that up in my unabridged dictionary.
I continue up the street, and I realize I’m not far from Times Square. I’m hungry. There’s a pizza place, a chicken place, a giant microbrewery (even if that’s a contradiction in terms), and the Mexican place where I had my first date with Matt. I should go there because it has positive associations for me. Maybe if I eat alone, I’ll meet someone. That will definitely be a Petrov-pleasing activity.
I hook a left onto 42nd Street. I feel self-conscious going into a big restaurant alone, but a few of the people at the bar seem like they might also be alone. They stare at their little plates of food or talk to the bartender. I select an empty stool and order quesadillas and a margarita. The bartender asks me for ID. I’ve gotten away with underage drinking so many times I guess I just take it for granted. I suppose I’m usually with older people, so no one cares. I tell him that I left my ID at home, and he gives me a look that lets me know he knows that I know that he knows I’m lying. I say that come to think of it, I’m in the mood for lemonade. It still does a good job of washing down the quesadillas.
The trickle of patrons gets heavier and heavier. I can see everything that’s going on in the mirrored wall behind the bartender. It has odd flecks of brown in it. I watch the people come in. Many of them are in the usual navy blue and black suits. The progeny of sixties sellout parents are millennial sellout twenty-somethings.
Eventually someone catches my eye. It’s Matt.
He’s with a girl. I think she must be Shauna. The waiter leads them to a booth on the other side of the room.
But Shauna doesn’t like Mexican food. And this girl doesn’t look like the girl I saw in the pictures. She looks to be in her early thirties. She’s in a suit. Her hair is short, straight and bouncy. She and Matt are laughing. Matt doesn’t notice me.
She could just be some girl from his job. The more I watch, though, the more they look like they’re having a really good time.
I eat my food and keep watching them in the mirror. They laugh. Matt nods. They eat. Matt points out the window. His companion shakes her head.
I finish my food, pay the bill and head over.
The woman’s hand is on the table, resting in Matt’s.
“Hi, Matt,” I say.
Matt looks startled. “Oh, hi,” he says. The woman’s hand slowly recoils. “Uh, this is Beth.”
Beth nods at me. Matt doesn’t tell her my name.
“You two work together?” I ask.
Beth looks at Matt, as if
to decide what to say, and Matt shakes his head. “We met…recently.”
“At a party?” I ask sweetly.
Beth looks at Matt again. Matt doesn’t say anything. “Through friends,” Beth says.
“Friends from college?” I ask.
“Friends, uh, friends,” Matt says.
“Well, I hope you two have fun,” I say, and I take off. He doesn’t come after me. He met her through the ad, obviously. Was I a fool to think I was the only one he would have met through it? And that he wouldn’t cheat on me like he was cheating on Shauna? Cheaters cheat. And if you are cheating and get cheated on, you don’t have the right to complain. It’s like buying cocaine, getting home, finding out it’s not real cocaine, and running to the cops to file charges.
I’m angry. I want to yell at Matt. But I can’t. I have no official connection to him, no reason for him to care whether I’m mad at him or not, and no reason for him to call. I’m not his fiancée. The only thing I have the right to do is, if he calls and asks me out, say yes or no. That’s it. The rest of his time belongs to Shauna or to whomever else he wants to give it. I can’t get angry. I’m number two. Or three, four or five.
I honestly can’t understand someone who needs to see as many people as he does. But what if he needs to be with many people in the same way that I often need to be alone? Maybe it’s like Kara said: Do I have the right to judge, just because I don’t have the same drive? I don’t know. Somehow, it doesn’t seem right. In four or five months, Matt is going to voluntarily stand in a church and take a pledge to be faithful to Shauna. The only thing I’ve ever taken a pledge to was the flag, in school each morning, and I didn’t even really do that because it’s fascist to pop up like a Whack-a-mole every day, so I only pretended by moving my lips. Sometimes instead I recited the Twenty-Third Psalm or Sonnet 18 or the Checkers Speech.
When I get home, I lie in bed for a while, depressed. My stomach feels like it wants to sink through the mattress down to the box spring. Nothing will make me feel better.
Carrie Pilby Page 22
