Milkrun
Page 17
I should have asked for one set so that we could share—the modern day version of one milk shake and two straws.
Here goes. We see some abstract paintings, some sort of ancient art, a Renoir…more Impressionist paintings. And then I see it. A painting by the French painter Paul Gauguin, called Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? Now these are excellent questions. Where do I come from? That I know: Danbury. But what am I? Where am I going? These are more baffling. The oil painting features groups of what I’m assuming are Tahiti natives (the recorded voice tells me he went to Tahiti to search for unspoiled society and I infer the rest). I must own this painting. Or at least the print. I must be able to look at it constantly. For some unknown reason it makes me feel less baffled knowing that Tahiti natives are baffled, too.
An hour later, we reach the end of the tour and remove our headsets. “Do you mind stopping at the gift shop?” I ask. “I must have a print of that Gauguin.”
Just my luck, the gift shop is closed.
“Do you want to grab a drink?” I motion in the direction of the museum café.
“Actually,” he says. “I have to call it a night, if you don’t mind. I have to take my grandmother to the airport tomorrow morning. Maybe we can do something again next week.”
Omigod. That is the worst brush-off I’ve ever had. Why does he have to contaminate his grandmother with his dirty lies? What guy says no to a drink? So he’ll be a little tired in the car tomorrow. I spend half my life as if in a coma. Big deal. “Sure,” I answer. “Whatever.” Why isn’t he interested? I’m not…what? Good-looking enough? Witty enough? He doesn’t like Star Wars? Listen, mister, you’re cute but not exactly exploding with personality, either.
Back in Grandpop’s mobile (he probably stole the car from Grandma, and then left her stranded on a street corner), I reason that since he’s obviously not interested, I might as well look crass and ask him what he does for a living.
“I’m a high school social worker,” he says.
Hmm. That’s pretty cute.
“So why do you have to get up so early? Your school starts at six?”
“No, I jog in the morning and then volunteer as staff advisor for the yearbook before classes start.”
“I was one of the yearbook editors for my high school,” I offer. Wendy and I decided to do it together. But we never met before class. In fact, I tried to schedule as many meetings as possible during class. And we definitely didn’t have a staff advisor who looked like Tim. “Do you want to run your own practice someday?”
“Maybe. Right now I like being able to be hands-on with so many kids.”
If anyone else would have said that I might have taken it the wrong way.
Okay, so he’ll never be rich, but he does have integrity. Isn’t that just my luck. I finally meet a guy who’s cute, a planner, cultured, loves kids, and likes to use his hands, and he doesn’t want to have anything more to do with me.
Why why why? What’s wrong with me?
He drops me off at my door.
“I’ll call you,” he says.
“Good night,” I say, holding back tears. Why doesn’t he like me? What am I going to say to Julie? She’ll be terribly uncomfortable around me, like when you see someone with food stuck in her teeth. You don’t want to look, but you can’t help it. She’ll ignore me when I walk into the coffee room. Maybe she’ll feel so guilty for setting me up for heartbreak, she’ll bring me some chocolate. Or sour berries. They’re sweet and sour simultaneously. Like the way you feel when you pluck your eyebrows. Mmm. I think I have a package at home.
Goodbye, my sweet and sour Timmy.
Maybe I should have straightened my hair.
12
Abstinence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder, Week 1, Monday
9:15 a.m.
From: “Jacquelyn Norris”
To: WendyBerger@petersonmarcus.com Subject: I don’t get it
Hi!
Okay, get this. He called last night. Does that make sense? We went out on Saturday, he made up a lame excuse, and then he called. He said something about his grandmother insisting on taking an early flight. And then I asked, “Is she the type of grandmother who eats dinner at five o’clock?” And then he said, “Don’t all grandmothers?” And then I asked, “Do you think it’s a sudden thing that happens when you reach a certain age, or is it a gradual sliding into, this condition that makes you eat dinner at five?” And then he said, “I always eat at six on the dot because that’s when I get home from soccer practice.” He played in college and now he coaches JV after school. Can you imagine? Yearbook and soccer? If he were doing his college applications now, he’d be a shoe-in.
So then he asked me what sports I played. From his loud sigh I could tell that my “Me?” was the wrong answer. Luckily, I remembered the Tae Kwon Do and I told him how much I love it. Then he asked me what belt I was. When I answered white, he said, “That’s cool.” So it’s possible he thinks white belts are advanced, like right before black or something. And then he asked me if I wanted to do something again next Saturday.
I am in love. I think. But what’s his deal? Why blow me off one night only to ask me out again the next? And why ask me out almost a whole week in advance?
11:00 a.m.
From: “Wendy Berger”
To: JacquelynNorris@cupid.com
Subject: Re: I don’t get it
You do not love Tae Kwon Do. You never even go.
11:04 a.m.
From: “Jacquelyn Norris”
To: WendyBerger@petersonmarcus.com
Subject: Re: Re: I don’t get it
Yes, I do. What do you know? Do you have a hidden camera in your computer or something? I don’t think so. I just love it most when there’s only five minutes left in the class. Fine, I love it the most when I’m sitting in my pajamas, freshly showered after the class.
Why is he so weird?
2:00 p.m.
From: “Wendy Berger”
To: JacquelynNorris@cupid.com
Subject: Re:Re:Re: I don’t get it
Is it possible he’s a gentleman? Maybe he didn’t want to risk the possibility of falling asleep at the wheel and driving poor Granny off the side of the highway. Maybe he called to reserve you for next Saturday night because he believes you are so incredibly popular, and if he doesn’t bid for a prime night like Saturday way in advance, you will undoubtedly have made plans with an alternative party.
2:05 p.m.
From: “Jacquelyn Norris”
To: S.Emerson@speedymail.com
Subject: Fw: Re:Re:Re: I don’t get it
What do you think? Could Wendy have a point? (See below.)
From: “Wendy Berger”
To: JacquelynNorris@cupid.com
Subject: Re:Re:Re: I don’t get it
Is it possible he’s a gentleman? Maybe he didn’t want to risk the possibility of falling asleep at the wheel and driving poor Granny off the side of the highway. Maybe he called to reserve you for next Saturday night because he believes you are so incredibly popular, and if he doesn’t bid for a prime night like Saturday way in advance, you will undoubtedly have made plans with an alternative party.
3:00 p.m.
From: “Sam Emerson”
To: JacquelynNorris@cupid.com
Subject: Re:Fw:Re:Re:Re: I don’t get it
I think he’s a freak!
3:02 p.m.
From: “Jacquelyn Norris”
To: S.Emerson@speedymail.com
Subject: Re:Re:Fw:Re:Re:Re: I don’t get it
But so far he’s been nice.
3:05 p.m.
From: “Sam Emerson”
To: JacquelynNorris@cupid.com
Subject: Get It!
�
��So far” is the operative phrase! There’s no statute of limitations on when a nice guy can become an asshole!
3:07 p.m.
From: “Jacquelyn Norris”
To: S.Emerson@speedymail.com
Subject: Re: Get It!
I like Wendy’s opinion much better. Please stop drowning your e-mails in exclamation marks. You’re giving me a headache.
3:20 p.m.
From: “Sam Emerson”
To: JacquelynNorris@cupid.com
Subject: Re:Re: Get It!
Didn’t you say Wendy hasn’t dated in over a year? What does she know? I must go teach.
3:30 p.m.
From: “Jacquelyn Norris”
To: WendyBerger@petersonmarcus.com
Subject: Strange behavior
Every single morning since I’ve been working at Cupid, I’ve run into Tim’s sister Julie in the kitchen. Every single morning. I’ve never been sick. She’s never been sick. We both have slight coffee addictions, and therefore repeatedly visit the coffee machine. And the bathroom. So tell me, why is it that today, the Monday morning after my date with her brother, she suddenly pulls a disappearing act? I haven’t seen her all day. Maybe he told her he doesn’t like me. Maybe she realized she doesn’t like me and no longer wants me fraternizing with her family members.
4:00 p.m.
From: “Wendy Berger”
To: JacquelynNorris@cupid.com
Subject: Re: Strange behavior
Maybe she bought a thermos and stopped by Starbucks this morning. It would have to have been decaf (not a diuretic), otherwise you would have met her in the bathroom.
4:30 p.m.
From: “Jacquelyn Norris”
To: WendyBerger@petersonmarcus.com
Subject: Re:Re: Strange behavior
Because of Julie’s AWOL behavior, I have not been able to hear the lines I’ve been dying to hear, like “I hear you guys hit it off,” or “I hear you two love birds are going out again,” and “I’m sorry I ruined your date by not offering to take Granny to the airport.” Speaking of which, once Tim and I get more serious, we’ll need to have words. I’m planning on reorganizing the unbalanced proportions of his family responsibilities.
Friday
1:00 p.m.
From: “Send-a-Smile”
To: JacquelynNorris@cupid.com
Subject: A smile for you!
You have a greeting from Send-a-smile! Please open the attachment!
(Binary attachment):
I think we’d make a great pear!
(Picture of pear inserted here.)
Can’t wait for tomorrow!
Tim
1:05 p.m.
From: “Jacquelyn Norris”
To: S.Emerson@speedymail.com; WendyBerger@petersonmarcus.com
Subject: Fw: A smile for you!
Isn’t this sweet? Really sweet. (See below.)
From: “Send-a-Smile”
To: JacquelynNorris@cupid.com
Subject: A smile for you!
You have a greeting from Send-a-smile! Please open the attachment! (Binary attachment):
I think we’d make a great pear! (Picture of pear inserted here.)
Can’t wait for tomorrow!
Tim
3:30 p.m.
From: “Sam Emerson”
To: JacquelynNorris@cupid.com; WendyBerger@petersonmarcus.com
Subject: Re:Fw: A smile for you!
What about the exclamation marks!!! And you don’t even like pears.
3:36 p.m.
From: “Jacquelyn Norris”
To: S.Emerson@speedymail.com; WendyBerger@petersonmarcus.com
Subject: Re:Re:Fw: A smile for you!
It’s not that I don’t like them, they make my teeth itch. I like them; I just can’t eat them.
4:00 p.m.
From: “Wendy Berger”
To: JacquelynNorris@cupid.com; S.Emerson@speedymail.com
Subject: Re:Re:Re:Fw: A smile for you!
I hate when you say that! Your gums itch, not your teeth! I think the card is cute. Let me know how the date goes.
Week 2, Monday
9:08 a.m.
From: “Jacquelyn Norris”
To: WendyBerger@petersonmarcus.com
Subject: Where are you?
I have to tell you about my date! (Note the exclamation mark.) Why didn’t you call me all weekend? I’ve left at least four hundred messages on your cell phone, work phone, home phone, and beeper.
Tim brought me red tulips. Wasn’t that sweet? They were so pretty. Three points. Two, actually. When he showed up at my door with his hands behind his back, I could see green stems peeking out from behind him, and I thought he had brought me roses. It’s not that I’m disappointed he brought tulips—that would be ridiculous since I wasn’t expecting anything at all—but what girl doesn’t prefer roses?
This time he came up to my apartment, I assume so that I could put the bouquet of nonroses in a vase. Not that I have a vase. An empty bottle of Zinfandel served me nicely.
Actually, he gets only one point for the tulips. Why didn’t he bring a vase?
Sam said he was cute. Not to his face, naturally, but knowing Sam these days, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had.
He took me to the Starlight Bowling Alley. Bowling! Can you imagine? It’s essentially a regular bowling alley with glow-in-the dark lanes and the same glow-in-the-dark stars my sister has on her ceiling. I’ve never actually been bowling on a date. Don’t get me wrong, I like bowling—kind of. It’s just that I’ve never been crazy about the shoe situation. Sam would have freaked. I can see her thoughts on the subject as clearly as call-outs in an Archie comic: “Wear shoes that have been worn by hundreds of others?” “Don’t you understand the germ potential?” “Don’t they watch 20/20?” I have to be fair, she’s been a lot less neurotic since the breakup. The other night, I made chicken soup for dinner, and she asked if she could try some right from my bowl. She fearlessly swallowed all the contaminated liquid. Except that she used her own spoon, of course.
Anyway, Tim and I put on our imperfectly fitting bowling shoes—mine were too big, his too small—and took our places at an assigned lane. In the lighting, his teeth glowed like little halogen lightbulbs. I’m glad I wore my charcoal pants and black sweater, but I prayed I didn’t have dandruff, because the girl in the lane next to me did and the whole bowling alley could see it.
Anyway, I knocked down two pins with my first ball. My second got me one more. So I’m thinking, three’s pretty good, right?
Wrong. It was a good thing I’d already told him I wasn’t an athlete.
Tim got a strike. What does good bowling aim say about a man’s sexual performance?
A couple of turns later, I unexpectedly got a strike. Yay! So I did the strike dance—you know, the little jig I do to imitate the dancing motions of the stick figure on the screen above the lane. In a way, my spontaneous dance was a test. If I’m as weird as I want to be, will Tim still like me?
Apparently so, since he actually laughed (with me, not at me—note the distinction) when I explained what I was doing. And when he got a spare, he ridiculously attempted a dance of his own. Arguably, his dance was a lot more difficult than the one I did, since the spare stick figure on the screen prances around on only one foot.
Then he offered to teach me to bowl with one hand, but said, “Not that you don’t look extremely cute doing your two-handed throw.”
I said, “Advise me, advisor.” Wasn’t that a good line?
He held my arm and helped me with my swing, just like in a cheesy TV show! Wasn’t that sweet? Jeremy would never have done a thing like that
. In fact, we hardly ever went anywhere. For dinner sure, but not bowling. Never to a museum.
After bowling, he took me to a small bar I’d never heard of. Not that I’m an expert on Boston bars. He took my hand and led me to a booth beside the back windows.
And then…
He told me I looked just like Sarah Jessica Parker.
Much better than Chelsea Clinton.
Later, when we were sitting in front of my apartment in his grandfather-mobile, he asked me out again for next weekend. A full week in advance! Not six days in advance, but I repeat, a full week. And of course, I said yes, not that you can actually say no to someone’s face. You’d have to go home, wait a day, and then leave a message on his voice mail with an excuse like you’ve come down with Ebola, or you have to pick up your grandmother at the airport—no, scratch that second reason. Luckily, I want to see him again so this isn’t a problem.
Anyway, I just sat there, waiting. I figured after two dates, a kiss would definitely be in order. Except I wasn’t exactly sure how it should take place. A normal guy would have been all over me by this time—if of course, my other A.B. (After Breakup) dates could be considered normal. So there I was, wondering if maybe I should lean over and kiss him good-night on the cheek. But what if he thought I was making a move? What if I leaned in too much and missed his cheek, pecking him on his forehead, or his chin, or God forbid, his nose? How ridiculous would that have been? I placed my hand on his arm. “Good night,” I said in my most demure voice. “I had a great time.”
“Good night,” he replied.
I held my breath. Was it going to happen? Would he be the one to make the lean?
“I’ll call you this week,” he said.