But there was one guy, not in the comedy scene, whom I was interested in.
“There is this Jonathan guy.”
“Well, can you get in touch with that Jonathan guy?” asked Lisa innocently.
“Yeah, probably,” I said into my drink. “But he’s probably a douche.”
“Ah, c’mon. You wouldn’t be attracted to him if he was like that.”
I felt like a washed-up Broadway ingenue, and I wanted to yell, “What do you know, Lisa? You have health care and rational men. It’s different here in the Big Apple, sweetheart!”
This Jonathan guy was a new employee at the company where Allison, one of my closest comedy friends, worked. He came to our show, and I say came to our show lightly. More accurately, we bullied him and his two guy friends into buying tickets to our show.
Allison and I ran a weekly stand-up show in the basement of a West Village bar, and when we didn’t have enough of an audience, we’d head out to the street and try to persuade passersby to come in, a process known as “barking in a crowd.” In hindsight, I can’t believe it worked at all. It was pretty demoralizing to stand on the street as grown women with college degrees and beg random people to come see our little dog-and-pony show. Maybe the strangers found us cute or felt sorry for us, or maybe they thought we were the worst prostitutes ever. Whatever it was, we would miraculously scare up a full room every time.
Jonathan and his pals were three of those suckers whom I lured in with the promise of “a few laughs from a handful of New York’s top comics, cheap booze, and an overall good time.” I didn’t know any of their names at the time; I didn’t even know he worked with Allison. The thing that stuck with me was that one of them had these big brilliant-blue eyes. Like a wolf’s eyes. I remembered that pair of eyes beaming up at me from the audience—which was unusual. I had a knack for scanning a room full of faces and ignoring the happy smiling ones to locate the person having the worst time. Every other last audience member could be laughing, cheering, having the time of their life, but I’d hone in on the man or woman who looked miserable, and then I’d spend the rest of my act delivering my material straight to them in some sort of twisted Mexican joke standoff. They were the only ones who mattered. More often than not, those same people would approach me after the show to say thank you and that they had a good time.
I wasn’t used to the idea of a guy flirting with me from the audience, either. A lot of men get into comedy not only because they are funny but also because it’s a sure ticket to getting laid. It doesn’t quite happen the same way for female comics. Why? When have you ever heard a guy say, “I’m looking for a girl with a great sense of humor—and if she is funnier than me, well, that would be such a turn-on!”
After my Canadian intervention, I asked Allison if she could find out if Jonathan wanted to go for a drink with me.
“Jonathan . . . okay.” Allison hesitated. “I was going to set him up with someone else.”
“Well, see if after that someone else, he wants to go for a drink with me. But make sure it’s him.”
I’d already gone on a date with Jonathan, or so I’d thought, but it turned out to be one of the other guys in the group. As I mentioned, I didn’t know any of their names, but I received an e-mail from Daryl. He said that he loved my set and asked if I’d like to “rendezvous for a couple of pints.” Sure, he was mixing French and British words, but at least it showed an attempt at originality. I suggested we meet at my favorite restaurant at the time, a high-volume, chaotic Chinese place called Congee Village. Looking back, that place was almost like an obstacle course for a first date, but I loved the food, there was no “scene” to have to fit into, and their drinks were strong and cheap.
I waited on an orange Lucite stool in the bar area of Congee Village, not entirely sure who I was looking for. All I remembered were the eyes—eyes that I saw from the stage, not even close up. I was pretty sure that all three of the guys had brownish hair, and beyond that I hoped that I would just intuitively know when he walked in. The place was 99 percent Asian, so it was bound to be easy. Unless he was Asian. With blue eyes.
But then I saw him. Unmistakable. It wasn’t because of those big sparkling eyes; it was more that he stuck out, like a clumsy lost child, sporting a huge backpack like he’d come straight from Cub Scout camp. As soon as bright eyes turned around, I realized there had been a mistake. Yes, he had eyes, two of them, but they were brown, and tucked behind a pair of dirty glasses with tape on the frame. He wasn’t bright eyes.
There was no way to say, “There’s been a misunderstanding,” without insulting him. As far as he knew, things were going exactly as planned. I could tell two things right away: The menu frightened him, and he didn’t go out on a lot of dates. To be fair, the Congee Village menu was a bit daunting. It included a lot of fowl’s organs, snails, and strange fish. He gagged at the sight of the cold jellyfish appetizer I ordered (delicious, although you have to get over the fact that it looks like a pile of cut-up rubber bands with chili flakes on top), and he absolutely refused to try it. The only thing he would eat was a basic chicken and rice dish, which I categorized as a character flaw. I couldn’t tell if he was tripping over his words because he was worried about how our first date was going, or if that was just the way he talked, but it was a problem. To be fair, he had a lot of interesting things to say, things that I had no interest in. I didn’t know anything about comic books beyond Betty and Veronica, and I wasn’t into movie trivia. Why? Because I wasn’t a nerd boy.
“So . . . but . . . do you have a . . . what’s your favorite movie?” he asked.
“That’s easy. Raiders of the Lost Ark, hands down. And basically I’ve tried to model my entire life after Marion. Speaking of which, do you wanna do a shot?” My eyes lit up when I said shot. Not because I was chasing some spring-break-in-Miami dragon; I was just excited at the idea of introducing something that might help take the parking brake off our date.
“Uh . . . nooo . . . I don’t think so . . . shots and me . . . heh heh . . . not a good idea.”
I gave him a phony smile and inwardly sighed. Of course they’re not a good idea. Shots are never a good idea—THAT’S THE POINT. Shots serve one purpose only: to lose control. The check came, and of course, we split it. I didn’t even blame him for not trying to pay—this wasn’t a date; it was an error. I was dying to know if his backpack was full of camping equipment, comic books, or a homemade, fully functioning lightsaber. My money was on the lightsaber.
We did one of those far-apart hugs good-bye, and I turned down the next street and texted the coke guy, even though I’d programmed his number in as “DO NOT PICK UP.” I asked him if he wanted to meet for . . . another drink. Anything to override the past couple of hours. He said he’d be there in half an hour. I entered a new bar and ordered a Grey Goose on the rocks. These guys were all such idiots.
A FEW WEEKS later, Allison told me that she gave Jonathan my number. He insisted that he couldn’t possibly ask me out on a date for two reasons: one, there was some sort of guy honor code stating that you couldn’t go out with a girl your friend had already dated, and two, he wasn’t into actresses. From his past experiences, all performers were overly dramatic, narcissistic, and difficult. When she told me this, I rolled my eyes. First of all, I’d barely dated his friend and motioned that our missed-connection dinner be removed from both of our records, immediately. Second, I can’t act. I didn’t have high enough self-esteem to be a decent narcissist. He was making excuses because he wasn’t into me. What was I going to do—force him to meet up with me so he could reject me in person? She claimed that she threw my phone number at him and said, “Call her. It’s just a drink!”
Who wouldn’t respond to that?
A few days later, I was nursing a latte and a water and working out my comedy set, when my cell phone rang. It displayed a number I didn’t recognize, so naturally I let it go to voice mail. It turned out to be Jonathan, calling to set up a date. I guess he finally got clear
ance from Daryl and was willing to take a chance on the high-maintenance performer. Yet on his message he sounded energetic and authentically interested in meeting up. Whatever. I was already over bright eyes. He was probably super boring. Then again, maybe he’d pay for my drinks. Even I wasn’t crazy about the cynic I was turning into.
I called him back, not allowing myself to flirt with optimism for one second, and scrolled through the possibilities of what this guy would be into that I couldn’t predict. Did he have a creepy sex fetish? Was he in love with his mother? Passionate about pregnant porn? Gay? By the time we met up, how many dates would he have already gone on that week? Fifteen? Would he have one with me at 7:00 PM and another lined up at 10:00 PM, with a booty call on speed dial if need be? Good. So would I. I didn’t know with whom, but I’d figure that out. I was immune to this stuff. I could use just as much as I could be used. I called him back, and he picked up. Wow. Amateur move. No one picked up their phone anymore. The conversation was a little wooden, but we set up a date for drinks at a little Italian snack bar in a couple of days. In preparation I decided to go to the gym. Once.
When I arrived, on time, Jonathan was already there, waiting outside. He was definitely the guy with the eyes, and they were just as stunning. At least we got that right. He greeted me warmly, with an inviting laugh, gave me a half hug/half pat on the back, and complimented me on my long red skirt. He had some interesting facial hair going on, inspired in part by Johnny Depp’s beard du jour: a small mustache and a small soul patch and a small goatee. I don’t know what it was called, but with his short-cropped, almost black hair, it made him look a bit swarthy. I didn’t mind it. At least there was grooming. It wasn’t quite Captain Jack Sparrow, but it was a Jewish, New Yorky version of Johnny Depp.
Jonathan Depp.
His button-down shirt was bursting with colors and had beads sewn on as part of the pattern. I will say they were the best use of beads I’d seen on a men’s shirt not sold in a Halloween costume store, but they were still beads. And I knew, more than anyone, that there was no such thing as masculine beads. I wasn’t judging him as much as I was doing detective work, observing and trying to interpret the evidence. Every little thing could give me insight as to who this guy was and help me avoid a bedroom full of Garfields. What did a beaded shirt mean? He said he bought it in Montreal. Having lived in Montreal, I understood how it might have worked there, the same way that you might excuse a bolo tie in Wyoming or New Mexico . . . but in New York? Then again, as a former employee of Beadworks, I let it go and we continued.
Much like his friend Daryl, Jonathan seemed oddly nervous. I figured it was because he was hiding something twisted. Soon I’d find out what. I ordered a bottle of wine, but he suggested we hold off and start with a glass each. A bottle, he said, was “a big commitment.”
Well, if you can’t commit to a bottle of wine . . .
I played my usual game, kept the conversation going, nice and light, and I insulted him a bit, like we were children in grade school who didn’t know yet how to express desire, and waited for him to hit the ball back. But he didn’t respond to the emotionally cavalier character I’d constructed. He didn’t want to do biting banter. He was actually very normal, telling me about his new job and asking me about life in Canada. Unfortunately, like Daryl, he was also a comic book nerd, but at least he was good-looking. That was a winning combination: low self-esteem but attractive. I’d finished my glass of wine and sarcastically asked permission to order another. He laughed and said, “Yeah, why not?”
I wasn’t sure about this guy. He seemed to be the most regular person I’d come across in two years, minus the beaded shirt. But we seemed to be having a pretty good time. I mean, it wasn’t fireworks, but it was oddly comfortable. It was also clear that he hadn’t endured as many relationships and hook-ups as I had, which was actually refreshing. He was a bit of a lightweight in the boyfriend boxing ring. Or at least that’s what he presented. There was a distinct possibility he was a mirage, a charmer, an emotional con man.
We finished up and he paid, even though I could tell he did it very reluctantly, checking every line item carefully on the bill before throwing down cash. It was 9:00 PM and I was up for more, so I invited him out for another drink. What the hell? I told him I’d pay, to even things out.
He said, “I’d like that.” Not exactly the right answer, but enough to move forward.
At the second bar, I made a big production about ordering a bottle of wine, that I could handle the length of that relationship, and halfway through it I started to feel . . . drunk. I was ready to challenge things a little. Let’s see how a real conversation goes. I leaned in and said in my best faux seductive voice, “So, Jonathan. Tell me. What do you want out of life?”
He thought about it and answered honestly. “Jeez. Okay. Well, I’d like to get married some day, buy an apartment, have kids, you know . . .”
But I didn’t.
“I don’t want any of those things,” I snapped, while empting my glass. “Other than the apartment.”
“Really? You don’t want to get married?”
I gave him an irritated look. Maybe all those other actresses he dated wanted to get hitched; maybe narcissists were crazy about weddings. But not me. I couldn’t wait to set him straight.
“No, I don’t. You have to be an idiot to want to get married—unless of course there is land or a huge inheritance involved. Why would anyone be stupid enough to get married? It’s an old-fashioned and failed institution. Most marriages end in divorce. What’s the point?” God, had I been giving that same speech since high school?
He looked at me, a bit dazed. It was time to switch gears. I was getting deep in my cups and wanted some action. I didn’t feel like waiting any longer for him to make the first move. So I threw myself at him. I grabbed him and started kissing him. He didn’t refuse, push away, or even mildly hesitate, and the make out was pretty good, for a late, intoxicated, public make out. It found its natural closure when the waitress laid down the bill.
I paid while giving Jonathan a look that I could tell he didn’t have the faintest clue how to interpret. Thankfully, I was a few blocks away from my apartment, and I wasn’t about to ask him back. I needed to mull over the whole thing. He cut me off at the pass and asked where he could grab a cab to get back to Brooklyn. He had to work tomorrow. Somehow, I ended up walking him to a taxi, where he gave me a quick peck on the mouth and zoomed away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk. He probably should have offered to walk me home, no? So I did what I did best—I walked myself home.
When he called me the next day, I instinctively hit Ignore. I wasn’t falling for whatever shit he was pulling, and I didn’t need to hear how he had a great time but it turns out his girlfriend was back in town, or it was going to be really busy at work for the next few weeks, but we’ll be in touch. It was none of that. Instead, his voice mail was simple, stating that he’d been thinking about me all day and would love to go on another date. I blushed through my bitterness, smiled through my skepticism, waited half a day to make sure that I wanted to do this, and finally called him back. He asked if I wanted to go see a movie the next night. Weird.
CHAPTER 18
THE LAST COMEDIENNE
On my second date with Jonathan, I excused myself from kissing on my couch to top off our cabernets. While unscrewing the bottle, I took a moment to acknowledge how rare it had become to date a guy who didn’t come with a glaring drug problem, mental illness, or a wife. He wasn’t acting cool, making himself out to be a player, rushing us into the bedroom, or spending the evening listening to the sound of his own voice. I’m sure he had tons of other problems—for instance, he mentioned that he sang in a barbershop quartet, and had never used the word sorry in practice—but from what I could tell, he was the kind of human who gave humans a good name.
He claimed to have old-fashioned values in that 1990s way—looking for a nice, stable girlfriend, the goal being contentment. I wasn’t sure if I qual
ified. I’d made too many hard choices along the way to cash in my one chip and happily move to a subdivision, buy Luna bars in bulk at Costco, fantasize about hiring a landscaper, and pop out an acceptable number of entitled offspring. I didn’t even want to “check in” with someone if I changed my plans. My longest relationship was with comedy, and it still had priority over everything else. I knew the third time I apologized for missing his best friend’s birthday party or his brother’s wedding because I had three non-paying spots and needed to drop by this new club to meet the booker, there would be a fight.
Sure I yearned for all the good stuff: affection, companionship, someone to list as my emergency contact. I didn’t even mind the idea of exclusivity. At least if we had sex for a while, we could build on a skill set. But how long would it take before we became another shitty couple in a coma of complacency, silently staring at menus in a restaurant, no longer worried that if I ordered the steak and he paid, I’d be expected to put out?
Instinctively wiping the smudged black liner from under my eyes, I picked up our red wine IKEA goblets and thought, But there is no need to stop the momentum now. I’m having fun. People are allowed to have fun, right? I’ll deal with it as we go along. The glass wasn’t half-full, but it was still refillable.
And we went along, for months. He kept calling and texting, and I kept responding. Never once did I toy with the idea of renaming his contact “Don’t Pick Up,” or “Gah!” We joked that we were on a month-to-month lease and would check in at the end of thirty days to see if we both wanted to renew. Ah, hilarious New York real estate humor. Although it was all very promising, I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t on guard. My shields were up, and I didn’t totally trust what was going on. I’ve always been a doomsday thinker. If anything goes exceedingly well, I brace myself for the fall. With my budding relationship with Jonathan, I thought, No matter what, the coke guy will take me back. He was my equivalent of a job at McDonald’s. Call it pessimistic, paranoid, pathological, or see it as I did: an intelligent approach based on experience. Why set yourself up for disappointment when you can be disappointed now?
Screw Everyone Page 17
