Milkrun

by Sarah Mlynowski

  I get home feeling pathetic. But what’s this? From the doorway I see the flashing red light. I leave my shoes on—I mustn’t waste any time!—even though I know Sam will shoot me. Please don’t be Janie, please don’t be Janie, please don’t be—“Hi, Jackie, this is Jonathan Gradinger again. Give me a shout back. My work number is 555-9478. My work number is 555-9478.”

  No waiting this time, no bathroom cleaning, and no red ink preparation. I don’t care if my bed isn’t made, I’m calling him back now.

  “Dartmouth Clinic,” a woman says.

  “Hi, can I speak to Dr. Gradinger please?”

  “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Jackie.” I’m still not crazy about the repeating everything on the answering machine thing. Half the point of the recorded message is so you can listen to it again if you need to. Or again and again and again like I might want to do with this one.

  “Jackie who?” Okay this woman obviously wants a piece of my Jonathan. Maybe she’s already had a piece of him. Maybe that’s where he was last night.

  “Hello?” she asks somewhat impatiently.

  “Norris. He knows who I am. He called me. I’m calling him back.”

  “One second please.”

  I’m on hold. What type of date will he propose? You can tell a lot about a guy from the type of date he suggests. Dinner means he’s not afraid to jump right into it.

  “Jackie?” he says in his foxy, sexy voice.

  Coffee means he’s a coward. “Jonathan! Hi.”

  “Great to hear from you.”

  On the other hand, it could mean he’s sensitive. “Great to hear from you.”

  He laughs. “I told you I’d call.”

  “I know.” Drinks would be best. So trendy.

  “How was the rest of your weekend?” he asks.

  “Good, thanks. Yours?”

  “Great.”

  Great? Why great? What made it great exactly?

  “What are you doing Thursday night?”

  “Nothing, why?” Why? I can’t believe I asked him why. Sometimes the stupidity that comes out of my mouth even amazes me.

  “I was hoping you’d come see The Apartment with me.”

  This I am not expecting. Tickets to The Apartment are a gazillion dollars apiece, never mind completely sold out.

  “I’d love to.”

  “Perfect. The show starts at eight. I’ll pick you up around six-thirty and we’ll grab a bite somewhere, okay?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “I’ll call you on Wednesday to finalize everything.”

  “Okay.”

  “Great. Have a good week.”

  “You, too.”

  I stare at the dead receiver in my hand and place it down gently in its cradle. I remove my shoes and leave them near the door so that Sam won’t find out that I wore them into the house.

  Yay!

  I’m pretty sure taking me to a play symbolizes more commitment than drinks do.

  Omigod. I’m practically engaged.

  “I think it’s a little sketchy,” Wendy says. “He bought the tickets before he asked you?”

  “He’s trying to make a good first impression.”

  “Or maybe he was supposed to take someone else.”

  “Or he wanted to impress me.”

  “So he just assumed you’d want to go with him? What if you couldn’t make it? Would he ask someone else? The tickets are two hundred dollars!”

  “He’s a doctor. What’s two hundred dollars to a doctor?”

  “He’s a podiatrist, not a real doctor. He works with feet! Anyway, don’t you think he’s going to expect a little something in return for his two hundred dollars?”

  “He doesn’t think I’m a prostitute, Wen.”

  “Whatever. I’d be leery.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement. I’m going to call someone now who’s not Scrooge.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I hang up the receiver. Three days ’til true love! What will I wear? Should I dress like the girl-next-door-Sandra-Bullock type, or like the I’m-not-wearing-any-underwear-Sharon-Stone type?

  It’s only three days A.B. and I already have a date. Have dating regulations changed since I last played the game?

  Do I mention the Prozac right away?

  Just kidding. I’m not on Prozac—yet.

  Do I invite him in for coffee and Letterman? Letterman and sex? Coffee and Letterman and sex?

  Can I make the first move, or should I play hard to get? What about Fashion Magazine Fun Fact # 2: women are supposed to keep the first date impersonal and vague so that the man longs to know more, more, more about the mysterious woman sitting across from him. In other words, she must be the Fonz.

  I’m feeling the pressure here, a culmination of years of contradictory First Date training regulations. I try to remember my first date with Jeremy.

  Try to remember? My, now that’s a good sign.

  On our first date, he took me to the Motley Hotel, to the dining room, that is, not to an actual room. He ordered a bottle of wine, after asking me what kind I preferred. I said white since red stains your teeth and you end up looking as if you haven’t been to the dentist in years, as if you’re in serious need of tooth bleaching. (I’ll admit I’m a bit crazy when it comes to teeth. I had braces for three and a half years in high school, which I’m sure is the longest braces-run anyone ever had. When they finally came off, the whole damn orthodontist’s office cheered, and I vowed to never, ever mistreat the pearly straight darlings—which to this day means no smoking, no red wine, no curry, and no red spaghetti sauce. And I still wear my retainer once a week on Sunday, and will continue to do so until the day I get married, which is the date my ortho proposed, not a self-inflicted time frame.)

  Jeremy noticed me ogling the bruschetta. I love bruschetta, and without even blinking an eye, he ordered it for me. When the bill came, and I made the fake reach; you know, the oh-lookthe-bill-is-here-I-guess-I’ll-reach-into-my-purse-and-take-outmy-money gesture, but he pulled out his Amex and said, “No, it’s my pleasure.” I, of course, silently breathed a sigh of relief because if I’d paid for even half of this dinner, I would have been eating macaroni and cheese for at least a month. So I smiled and said, “Okay, but next time it’s on me,” which was an absolutely brilliant thing to say, since it implied a second date.

  A second date at McDonald’s, if I’m paying.

  And I swear, I didn’t fool around with him after the expensive dinner. I said thank you, I had a nice time, and then kissed him on the cheek. And then the clincher—my answering machine broke. He told me later that he’d called and left a message, which I didn’t get, but this I didn’t tell him. He must have thought I was too busy/very cool/didn’t really care, when in reality I was being my old pathetic let’s-analyze-the-date-in-excruciating-detail self. (Does he think I’m a pig because I eyed the bruschetta? A cheapskate for my fake reach? Did he see through my cheesy next-time-it’s-on-me comment?) When it occurred to me that not one person had called in three days, not even Janie, I realized my answering machine had to be broken. So I immediately invested in one of those funky virtual machines that exist only in your phones.

  My next problem was that I had no idea if he had called or not. I figured since our date had been on a Saturday, and it was already Thursday, chances were if he was at all interested he would have called and tried to leave a message. I decided to risk it and call him. He said that he was wondering what had happened to me. He’d left not one but two messages. Suddenly inspired, I told him I was sorry I hadn’t called him back yet, but I’d been really busy. He said no problem, so how does it sound?

  I said it sounded great, having no idea what it was.

  It was a movie. It was for Friday night.

  An hour earlier I had promised Wendy I’d go to a party with her on Friday night, after putting her off all week in case Jeremy would actually call. “I already have plans for Friday.” Damn.
Damn. Damn. (Can’t break plans with your best friend for a guy, version of Fashion Magazine Fun Fact # 1.)

  “Saturday then? Are you free Saturday?”

  “Saturday sounds good,” I said, realizing that I had managed to play by the Fashion Magazine Fun Facts without even trying, and by God they had worked! I had heard he was a player, but obviously my newly acquired attitude (albeit acquired totally by accident) was driving him to his knees.

  If only I’d remained aloof and really not cared, the whole “Jeremy” episode in my life could have been avoided. Or I could have at least pretended to be aloof so that he’d have stayed on his knees. But virtual machines inside your phone never break down.

  On my first date with Jeremy I wore basic black pants and a tight maroon sweater. This first date with Jonathan calls for something radical. My knee-highs are the only Sharon-Stone-like item of clothing I own, and Jeremy’s already seen me in those. I mean Jonathan’s already seen me in them. Jonathan. In any case, hooker boots would be somewhat inappropriate for a play.

  I must consult Cosmo.

  I must go shopping.

  On Tuesday I get my Visa bill.

  Oh. Oh.

  There won’t be any new first-date outfit after all. I know. I’ll wear my black pants and maroon sweater, the outfit I wore on my first date with Jeremy.

  On Wednesday I realize I can’t wear that outfit; I would be jinxing the date before it even started. Okay, I’ll compromise. I’ll buy half an outfit. I’ll go buy a new sweater to go with the black pants. They’re really great pants. My ass looks very small. They’re kind of boot-cut but not too flared, and they cost as much as it cost to fix my teeth.

  On Thursday I leave work early to prepare. My new red sweater, looks, um…almost exactly like my old one, but newer. The black pants are spread out on my bed like paper-doll clothes. Time to primp.

  My phone rings just as I’m applying mascara to my eyelash-curled lashes.

  “Hi!” It’s Natalie. “So what are you wearing?”

  “My black pants and a new red sweater.”

  “Oh.”

  “What do you mean, ‘oh’?” What is “oh”?

  “Well, it’s just that…never mind. It’s too late.”

  “What? What!”

  “Well, he’ll probably be wearing a suit. It’s at the Wang Center for the Performing Arts, right? My parents went last week, and my dad wore a tux.”

  A tux? “I’m not wearing a prom dress.” Hysteria is rising in my voice.

  “Not a prom dress, but definitely a dress. Don’t you have one of those black dresses that are perfect for any occasion?”

  Silence.

  “Do you want to borrow one of mine?”

  Natalie has about nine of those perfect-for-any-occasion dresses. Nine of those perfectly too small any-occasion dresses. I’m about to cry. Tears are about to overflow. I am going to look blotchy and red and my mascara will run down my cheeks like spilled ink.

  “I have to go,” I murmur and hang up. What will I do? What will I do? “Damn! Damn! Damn!” I scream.

  Suddenly Sam, my fairy godmother, walks into my room. “What’s wrong? Did he cancel?”

  “No, he didn’t cancel.” Sob.

  “What happened then?”

  “I can’t wear this. I need to be wearing a perfect-for-any-occasion black dress. But I don’t have any.” I am breathing carefully, as if I’m in labor.

  “Do you want to borrow something from me?”

  Yay! I’m going to the ball. I’m not sure why borrowing from Sam has never occurred to me before. Maybe because I’ve never had anywhere to go before.

  I nod, too choked up to speak.

  “I have a couple of ideas. How long do we have?”

  I look at the clock. “Nineteen minutes.”

  “Okay. Go put on panty hose and black heels.”

  I comply. Six outfits later, I’m looking quite Gwyneth, in Sam’s gray tube top dress and silk black shawl.

  “Let me fix your hair,” she says, and swooshes it over my head into some sort of up-back-twist that makes me look very grown-up.

  Twenty-four years old and only now do I feel grown-up.

  And then the buzzer rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Jon.”

  “Hi, Jon. I’ll buzz you up.”

  “Hold on,” Sam says, running after me with hairspray. She sprays it all over my head, and pretty much all over my face.

  “At least my eyebrows will stay in place.”

  “Where’s your purse?”

  I think of my big chunky one, and know instinctively that Calvin Klein here won’t approve.

  “Here, I have one for you.” She reaches into a drawer and pulls out a small beaded black bag. “Take this. Pack a lipstick, an extra pair of hose—and a change of underwear and a toothbrush just in case.” She whispers the last part.

  “Are you crazy?” I whisper back. “A toothbrush won’t fit in here.”

  There’s a knock at the door. I smile at my reflection in the mirror.

  “Who is it?” I ask, and then feel like an idiot. I open the door before he can answer. He’s wearing a dark gray James Bond suit, a white shirt, and silver tie. I’m very, very, glad I changed.

  We have great seats. So far no major runs in the stocking of my date. Only minor ones. We’re kind of balancing smack in the middle of perfect and almost-perfect.

  He opens the car door for me—a navy-blue BMW. Mmm. Yummy expensive, leather smell. This is good.

  “Is Dave Matthews okay?” he asks, motioning to the CD player.

  Whatever. “I love Dave,” I answer.

  “Me, too,” he says. “Are you a real fan, or a I-like-the-song-‘Crash’ fan?”

  I don’t know any other Dave songs by name. “‘Crash’ fan.”

  “Oh.” This is not good.

  “You look beautiful tonight, in case I haven’t mentioned that earlier,” he says after opening the car door for me when we arrive at the theater. This is a double good.

  Just outside the entrance, a woman left over from the sixties approaches. She’s holding a large wicker basket filled with red roses.

  “No, thanks,” Jon says, barely even looking at her.

  This is not good. Okay, fine, I know the whole rose thing is a little cheddary, but just once I’d like a guy to feel so overwhelmed by me that when he sees the rose person, he instinctively has to buy me one immediately. Double bad because Jon looks right through the woman, as if she isn’t there.

  Inside the theater, I shift around in my seat so that my stomach doesn’t do that two-bulge thing it does when I’m sitting still. Sam’s dress is a little tight across my tummy. Thank God for control-top panty hose.

  Jon is sitting with his right leg crossed over his left, his hands folded in his lap.

  “I can’t wait to see this,” I say. “It’s gotten a ton of press for giving a public voice to homeless people.”

  “It is wonderful,” he says.

  “Oh? You’ve seen it?”

  “Twice. And I listen to the CD all the time.”

  “Oh.”

  He picks up my hand. His hand is cold. He looks into my eyes.

  “Don’t you know you’re my defrost button?” he sings in his low, foxy voice.

  “Huh?” I’m not sure what he’s singing, but he can be singing in Japanese for all I care. His high school rendition of “Summer Nights” comes floating back me. How could I have forgotten how awesome his voice is?

  “Won’t you run your fingers through my hair.”

  Excuse me? “Sorry?”

  “Those are lyrics from the play.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s starting.” He doesn’t let go of my hand. I think I’m in love.

  And I really am in love.

  Until the Defrost song.

  When the actors start singing “Defrost,” Jon starts to hum. And then his tune suddenly explodes into a song. Out loud. A loud song. At the play. He starts
singing, out loud, at the Wang Center for the Performing Arts.

  He lifts my hand that he never lets go of, and pretends it’s a microphone: “Your breasts melt my hands.” All right, one line I can handle as long as he stops. Right now.

  He shuts up for a second. There is a God.

  And then he comes back with a vengeance.

  As a duet.

  His boy voice: “Why won’t you wear your leather pants?”

  His girl voice: “I’d rather do a lap dance.”

  Omigod.

  The gray-haired woman in the seat in front of us turns to give him the evil eye.

  He doesn’t notice.

  The man in the tux on the other side of him looks at him as if Jon’s face has grown warts.

  The couple behind us starts to snicker.

  People are laughing, not at the play, not with us. They’re laughing at us.

  Girl voice: “Do you like it when I’m naughty?”

  Boy voice: “Sometimes it’s good to be bad.”

  Bad. Very bad.

  “What a great tune,” he says when the song is over. “And my favorite song is still coming up in the second act. I know all the words to that one, too.”

  Very, very bad.

  Mercifully, he remains still for the remainder of the act, except for random moments when he bursts into ill-timed applause. I run into the washroom to hide during intermission.

  The lights dim, signifying the start of the second act. The play resumes, and I am forced to leave my retreat. As soon as we sit down, he reclaims my hand, drawing a circle in my palm. And another. And another. He squeezes and tightens his hold.

  Okay, so he’s affectionate. A little too tight a grip, mind you, but he’s still Jonathan Gradinger. As long as he never sings in public again, as long as he never sings anywhere again, we can live a long, happy life together.

  I return the hand squeeze. Ms. Jackie Gradinger. Mrs. Jonathan Gradinger.

  Suddenly our hands that were nicely placed on the seat rest between us become separated. Circles are being drawn on my thigh.

  Whoa.

  Slow down, cowboy.

  His thumb is getting dangerously closer to my, um, “femininity,” as Cupid authors would call it.

  I don’t think so.

  On the stage, one of the characters is dying. A song is in progress.