The Rise and Fall of a Theater Geek

by Seth Rudetsky

  On Monday, Grandma Sally had to cancel her weekly dinner with Devon due to the last remnants of a cold she’d had all weekend, so he invited me to have dinner at his apartment! I had spent the whole day in Brooklyn in a special coffee store where I had to wait for Chase’s personal blend of coffee to be roasted over a slow fire. Then I had to carry the enormous five-pound bags back to the Dakota. It didn’t bother me, though, because I kept thinking about what it would be like that night to meet Devon’s rich parents (they both worked on Wall Street) and be asked to go on vacation with them to Switzerland (he had mentioned they have a chalet that’s a time share).

  Well, I did have dinner in his apartment, but his parents were nowhere to be seen. Turns out they always work too late to have dinner with their kids. His regular dining companions are his three-year-old sister and her nanny. His sister’s name is Lucinda and her favorite sentence is “I want!” That’s it. Just the two words. You’re supposed to figure out the noun she’s referring to by following the direction her finger is pointing. Her nanny is an overweight British woman whose teeth have seen finer days, and throughout the entire meal, I only heard her speak two words: “Lucinda” and “no.” I guess the creative part of her job was figuring out how to use them in every combination:

  There was the plain “Lucinda!” and “No!”

  The combo “Lucinda, no!” and “No, Lucinda!”

  And at one point she really thought outside the box and came up with “No, Lucinda! NO!” Devon and I barely got a chance to get out three sentences before Lucinda would break/throw something and the nanny would let loose with her two signature words, cutting off anything we were saying. I had a splitting headache from the nonstop cockney reprimands so I fled the apartment right after dessert and went back early to Grandma Sally’s. Speaking of which, I guess that’s why Devon’s so willing to have dinner with her once a week. Yes, Grandma Sally’s a cranky ass, but she lets Devon have an actual conversation, unlike Lucinda and her nanny. And Grandma Sally has more teeth than both of them combined.

  Tuesday and Wednesday seemed like the same day to me since I spent them in Queens waiting for a custom-made end table to be sanded and stained. On Thursday, I visited various high-end furniture stores all morning and picked up swatches, which I then dropped off at the Dakota for Hubert to peruse. We met briefly on the corner of Seventy-Second Street and Columbus, where he told me that he was in the final stages of helping Chase redecorate his apartment. Since he had narrowed it down to various pieces, it was up to me to go to the stores, take photos of the pieces from all different angles, and text them to Hubert. He then made the final decisions and I purchased them for him with the corporate credit card he gave me. The worst part was the afternoon, which I spent food shopping. Movie stars have very particular tastes. Suffice it to say, if I were ever on Jeopardy! and the answer was “An obscure, tiny bakery deep into Brooklyn that is only accessible by taking three different subways,” I would respond, “Where can you get artisanal handcrafted gluten-free donuts?”

  I arrived home exhausted and looking forward to one of Grandma Sally’s enormous meals, but when I walked in, she had a face full of makeup and was putting on her rain bonnet. She told me she was on her way to the senior center monthly meeting.

  “If I don’t get over there and vote,” she said, while tying the strings of her bonnet, “those sons of b’s will approve something as dangerous as Three Mile Island and dumber than Loni Anderson.”

  I didn’t have the energy to Google her references, so I just nodded.

  “I didn’t have time to make dinner, so why don’t you go out tonight?” She paused for effect. Then she finished her phrase. “With your boyfriend.”

  Was she psychic? Did Devon say something?

  “He’s n-not…,” I sputtered. “I’m not—”

  “Well, if he’s not and you’re not, you must be very disappointed.”

  “Why would I be—”

  “Spare me, Grandson. Even with cataracts in both eyes, I could tell you were practically drooling last week when we all had dinner together,” she said with a wave of her hand. “And I don’t think it was because of my lasagna,” she added with a wink. A long wink.

  When her wink failed to resolve itself, I realized her eye had involuntarily closed because of a clump of mascara stuck in it.

  “Cheap-ass Maybelline,” she muttered with one eye still closed, and went off to the bathroom.

  I stood in the hallway in shock. I didn’t even know my grandmother knew I was gay. It was a subject I didn’t want to ever bring up with her. Not because I was afraid she was homophobic (she was an old-school New York liberal), but because I didn’t want her to poison my mind against someone I was interested in. My dad still jokes about the nicknames she called all of his high school girlfriends: La Unibrow, Bessie the Moo-Cow, and Madame Chafing Thighs.

  I don’t think Grandma S necessarily had anything against them. I just think she doesn’t want anyone to be a couple. When she was pregnant with my dad, her husband deserted her, which left her with the desire to see everyone else’s relationships fail. And this applies to fictional characters as well. I’ve noticed that every time I’m visiting and Titanic comes on TV, Grandma will watch it up until the Leonardo DiCaprio character dies just so she can say, “Finally!”

  The water ran for around two minutes and I asked how her eye was. “It still burns a little!” she yelled from inside the bathroom. Then, “Aha! I’m glad I still have this from my last bout with conjunctivitis…. ”

  The next thing I knew, she came out wearing an enormous eye patch. Before I could comment, she put her coat on and yelled over her shoulder on the way out.

  “Have a good time with Mr. Straw Hair!” She closed the front door.

  Wow. She was able to stir up trouble even while looking like an aging she-pirate.

  Well, she wasn’t going to ruin my new relationship.

  Even though she did have a point.

  Hmm…I should probably tell Devon to use conditioner every day to help that dryness. Then I remembered I wouldn’t be seeing him tonight. I had canceled dinner plans because I was feeling so depressed and didn’t want Devon to think I was anything but fun-loving. I was still waiting for that first kiss, and I knew he’d never plant one on me if I was cranky. All day I couldn’t help thinking about how bad things had turned out. For weeks I had the secret fantasy of my internship culminating in somehow seeing myself onstage. Instead, it was going to culminate in seeing myself in the checkout line at Home Depot. I decided I’d “take myself on a date,” which is a suggestion I see every three months in one of my mom’s women’s magazines. They’re pretty much the same articles recycled every month, but my only other magazine choices around the house are the ones my dad has to read for his practice. Which article would you read if your only options were “Haircuts That Make Your Eyes Dazzle!” or “New Techniques for Bowel Obstruction Surgery”?

  I walked out of my grandma’s, and because it was cold, I decided to stay close to home and go to Good Enough to Eat. I’ve eaten there a few times with Spencer because I can order a relatively healthy vegetarian entrée and then reward myself with an enormous piece of their homemade banana cake (with peanut butter frosting), which has all of a 6´5˝ adult’s daily recommended calories.

  I got there a few minutes later and luckily there were lots of tables available. I chose a small two-seater and decided I was going to get my mind off my nightmare internship and dedicate myself to some detective work over dinner. I would love to find out that Hubert really was doing something illegal that would totally trump or at least match me lying about my grandmother.

  And, speaking of detective work, I still hadn’t figured out who was sending me those notes. Yes, “notes,” plural. Every few days, I’d arrive home to see another one taped to the front door. They always said: “He’s a fake.” Who? I saved every one and decided I’d look through the pile tonight at dinner to see if there were any clues hidden in them.

>   Suddenly I heard a familiar laugh. I looked toward the back of the restaurant and saw Becky…sitting with Scotty! So, they really were friends. I tried to lip-read what they were saying to see if Scotty was somehow revealing what kind of boy he likes. The only words I managed to make out were “gym” and “love” and I hoped the rest of the sentence was “I never want my boyfriend to go to the gym and hope he has a proud set of love handles.”

  Wait a minute! Sometimes if Good Enough to Eat isn’t crowded, they’ll seat two people at a table for three to give them more room. Becky and Scotty were at a table for three and I suddenly got an idea. I texted Becky.

  Can we be friends again?

  I knew eventually we’d make up, so why not do it now when it could also gain me a date with a Disney star! I saw Becky look at her phone and then smile. Yes! She texted back, Let’s talk later.

  Excellent! My plan was now to walk up to the table and say, “How about now?” Becky would laugh and invite me to sit down with them; Scotty would see how great I am and ask me out. I could even help him with some suggestions for his next “No Gay Bullying” ad campaign. “Bullying Stinks…with two S’s!” I’m sure he’d love it and want to discuss it further over lattes.

  That’s right, Spencer, I thought. I’d now have two guys interested in me! I put my phone away and picked up my coat to walk over when I suddenly stopped everything. Someone in a winter coat I recognized was going toward the empty seat.

  Spencer!

  He must have walked right past my table without seeing me.

  I couldn’t believe Becky! Instead of setting up Scotty with me, Becky had set him up with Spencer? How long had they been dating? I grabbed my phone and tried to figure out if there was a way to retract a sent text. There wasn’t. Great. Now she thinks I forgive her, and Spencer is about to get a new boyfriend. I got up without them seeing me and left the restaurant. I’d rather sacrifice that delicious banana/peanut butter dessert than see Spencer and Scotty holding hands. I went to The Cottage and ate some tofu with broccoli. I put Spencer out of my mind and tried to concentrate on the mysterious note I got last week. I never did find out who sent it or what it meant. But every time I tried to focus on it, the theme song to Scotty with an S kept coming into my head. I’d force myself to think of something else but then my mind would go to Spencer. Then both things I didn’t want to think about combined, and I found myself humming “Spencer with an S.” Ah! Why did his name have to fit so perfectly into the song?

  I walked back to my grandma’s incredibly frustrated; my internship stank, my boyfriend replaced me, and I was the recipient of random notes that meant nothing and left no clue on how to figure out who they were from. It was Thursday and I’d be back at school Monday with nothing to show for my internship except a platonic new boyfriend and a vast knowledge of furniture stores.

  Then to make matters worse, I got a text from Hubert with tomorrow’s assignment.

  Justin. A friend of Chase’s is having some stuff delivered to an apartment. Need you to wait there for the delivery people starting at 1pm and lock up when they leave. 303 W. 82nd Street. Apartment 5R.

  This was the grand finale of my Broadway internship? Waiting in an apartment? What a waste!

  “Where have you been?” Grandma Sally barked as soon as I walked in. I noticed she had ditched the eye patch, but the sassiness remained.

  I told her I had dinner and that I was beat. But before I could say good night, she held out her hand.

  “I guess I’m the new mailman,” she said as she held out an envelope with my name on it. Then she snatched it back. “And don’t tell me about those fancy new names for lady mailmen!”

  “Mail carrier” is fancy?

  “In my day, they were called mailmen, period,” she continued. “And no one cared what they had beneath their underwear!”

  “You’re right,” I said, just to get her to shut up and give me the letter.

  She walked into her bedroom and I heard her muttering, “And don’t get me started on so-called flight attendants. In my day, they were called ‘stewardesses’ whether they had a—” Thankfully, her door closed at that moment.

  I recognized the handwriting on the envelope and knew it was another note. Grandma got home before me and must have seen it on the front door.

  I opened it. Wow! For the first time, it wasn’t “He’s a fake.” Instead, it said:

  “You’re being scammed!”

  Argh! Scammed by who?

  Or, since I plan on being in AP English next year, by whom?

  I spent the end of Thursday night looking at every note over and over again. Back, side, front…nothing! There was no contact information anywhere. And even though this one was different from the others, it still made no sense. I thought maybe it was that old chestnut where the first letter of each word added up to some clue, but what does Y(ou’re) B(eing) S(cammed) mean? Then I thought maybe if I held it up to the light, I’d see some secret message embedded in the paper, but that didn’t work. Argh! I had so many questions for the phantom note writer, but how could I ask them if he left me no way to respond? I had put that picture on my website as a way to signal him but apparently it didn’t work. So frustrating!

  I put them all away and then lay in bed unable to go to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Becky setting up Spencer on a date with Scotty with an S. How dare she! Hmph. The “S” apparently now stands for sabotage. Around an hour later, I heard my phone ding. It was from Becky.

  Are you up? Do you wanna do a late-night talk?

  Absolutely not! I only sent that text to get an in with Scotty, and Spencer nabbed him first. Well, all three of them were welcome to each other. I deleted the text and went to sleep.

  I woke up cranky and, not shockingly, so was Grandma Sally. As soon as I sat down to the breakfast she had made (oatmeal, fresh bialys, and delicious scrambled eggs with onions), she let loose.

  “Boy oh boy,” she said, shaking her head. “From the looks of you, you were up all night.” There was no concern in her voice; she just wanted me to be aware I looked puffy. I pointed to my mouth to indicate that it was full of food and therefore I couldn’t answer her. That just gave her license to go on.

  “Did you see the ol’ fire hazard last night?” She was obviously trying out a new nickname to reference Devon’s dry hair. I refused to take the bait and changed the subject instead.

  “Thanks so much for giving me that note, Grandma Sally.” That was all I could come up with that at least sounded friendly, even though I didn’t quite know what I was thanking her for. Not throwing it out?

  “What are you thanking me for? Not throwing it out?” Great. Now I had to clarify.

  I took a sip of coffee to give myself time to think.

  “Well,” I finally said, “you could have left it on the door.”

  “Where? What the hell door?” she asked.

  Huh? That was weird. I put the coffee down and looked at her. Grandma Sally is never forgetful. I actually wish she were. Then maybe she’d stop asking me if I was still scared of spiders, which is a reference back to when I was four and terrified of a daddy longlegs slowly crawling up my leg. Unfortunately, I let my fear get the best of me. I won’t say exactly what happened but the good news is he eventually crawled off my pants. The bad news is that the reason he did is because, as my grandmother said, “No spider wants to walk on fresh pee.”

  I spoke slowly to jog her memory. “I appreciate you taking the note off the front door.”

  She glared. “It wasn’t on the damn door.”

  Oh! That’s what she meant by “what the hell door?” She wasn’t forgetful…just rude. But now I was curious. If the phantom note writer didn’t leave it on the front door, where did he leave it?

  “Then where—” I began.

  “It was handed to me, so I handed it to you.”

  Oh! A neighbor must have taken it off the front door and given it to her when she got home.

  “Who gave it to you? Mr
s. Shorofsky?”

  “Agnes?” she said with a snort. “We’re no longer speaking.” She looked away with her chin raised and put two slices of tomato on her bialy.

  I didn’t ask for details. She and Mrs. Shorofsky have been in an on-again/off-again feud for years. To give you an idea of how long it’s been, their first fight happened when Mrs. Shorofsky insulted the debut of Grandma Sally’s favorite movie star, Farley Granger. Have you ever heard of him? Exactly.

  “So, who gave it to you?”

  Grandma looked at me like I was a moron. “He did!”

  “Who did?”

  “Who do you think?” she asked, completely exasperated. “The guy who wrote it.”

  What?!?!?

  Grandma has met the phantom note writer!

  I started sputtering. “Wh-who is he? Have you seen him before? What did he say?”

  “Calm down! Anxiety gives you pimples.” Just in case I thought she was speaking in generalities, she pointed a gnarled finger right at my chin, where I had started to break out last night.

  Ugh! I barely had a mark there. She must have special cataracts that only allow her to see things that make another person feel horrible about themselves.

  “If you must know,” she continued, “I was coming home and noticed someone standing in front of the doorway with an envelope and some tape. I didn’t have time to wait for him to be buzzed in or whatever the hell he was waiting for, so I loudly said ‘Excuse me’ and went to open the door.”