“Sorry.” He pulled the fork back sheepishly. “Was I doing that? I’m not overbearing. Really! Well, don’t ask my ex-wife. Damnation! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring her up.”
He was backpedaling so hard, I didn’t have a chance to tell him that he was headed for a crash. It may seem harsh, but we weren’t even halfway through our entrees and already I was writing Frank off in my mind. Nice guy, but too much baggage.
Which is the dilemma a thirty-one-year-old woman faces when she is trying to pick a mate from the remainder of available men on the planet. The majority come with too much baggage—ex-wives who’ve been to hell and back with them, children who dance into the scene just often enough to reprise their guilt, and oddly attractive ex-girlfriends who still come around, presumably for the “oh, what the hell, we’ve done it before!” fuck. The guys who come without the baggage—well, they can be the worst kind, mostly because they’ve got the baggage and they’re not even aware of it. Okay, maybe they never married, but by the age of thirty any man worth a look has been through a string of relationships. If he says nothing serious—beep, beep!—sound the alarm; this guy suffers from acute failure to commit.
“It’s just that, every year at Christmas Shari corners me about what I’m getting for the kids. And every year I tell her that I’m giving them cash, because I don’t know what the hell they’re interested in these days. And she blows a major gasket. Calls me Scrooge, says that if I cared I’d know what my own kids want for Christmas.”
I nodded. “Shari being your ex-wife?”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”
“And how old are your kids?”
“Twelve and fifteen.”
“Ooh, ouch. Take it from an expert gift buyer, those are tough years to buy for. You are so right to give them cash. And Shari’s the one who’s the Scrooge here. Maybe she’s bent out of shape because you forgot her gift last Christmas.” I tossed the idea off with a laugh, but Frank seemed to find some merit in it.
“You know, you could be right. You might have something there. I wonder . . .”
As he debated the nuances of gaining his ex-wife’s approval, I began to wonder if I should uninvite Frank to my tree-trimming party. When I’d agreed to a date, I’d imagined us talking about writing. After all, Frank wrote for a newspaper, and I had been putting a good amount of my time at work into writing brochures and educational materials for many of our traveling exhibits. I enjoyed writing and I was ready to take the next step—whatever that might be—and somehow I had envisioned exploring those aspirations and interests with Frank.
My mistake. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that most people didn’t talk about their jobs in social situations. They don’t want to mix work and pleasure, and many of them hate their jobs so much that they cannot contemplate them for one extra second once they step out of the office.
I finished off my chicken salad, wondering if I should break it off with Frank now or give him until dessert to perform some miraculous reversal. Then there was the matter of uninviting him to the party.
I sighed as a waiter came by and cagily eyed our hands to make sure we were behaving. Oh, hell, as my wise friend Jenna once told me, “You don’t have to decide today.”
Words to live by.
So, there would be no after-dinner event with Frank, who was probably going to rush back to Bloomie’s to buy his ex-wife a Christmas gift, anyway. Meanwhile, I would have a whole week to decide how I really felt about him. And if worse came to worst, he would be one more “interesting” single man at my party come Friday night.
I took a deep sip of my margarita, contemplating the wisdom of my plan.
You could never have enough “interesting” single men at a party.
30
December 11, 2003
“I’m sorry,” I told Ryan, hating the fact that I had to apologize, especially since it wasn’t really my fault. We were in the lobby of Sugar’s building, ready to take Sugar’s SUV on a toy run, but the doorman had just informed me that Sugar took the car to work. “We’ll have to pick the car up at the garage by the radio station,” I explained to Ryan as we headed out to the curb to hail a cab. “For some reason, Sugar drove to work. She must have forgotten I needed the SUV.”
“No problem,” Ryan said, easygoing as ever. Sometimes, I wished the guy would show a little annoyance. Didn’t anything ever bother him?
At Thirty-fourth Street, we checked in with security in the building lobby, then rode the elevator up to the well-insulated studios of the radio station. Despite the huge success of “Mornings with Cream and Sugar,” the station had a very relaxed, jovial atmosphere, which had encouraged many spontaneous celebrity visits over the past two years. An energetic receptionist greeted us outside the elevator.
“I just need the keys to Sugar’s car,” I told her. “She’s letting me borrow it for a toy drive.”
She glanced up at the studio lights. “Actually, you can go on into the studio and talk to her. They’re on a commercial break now.”
Ryan followed me as I went down the corridor, waved at Sugar and her fellow deejay Charles Cream through the glass studio window, then cracked open the door.
“Hey, there! Don’t want to interrupt. I just need the keys to your car.”
Sugar waved us in. “The toy drive! I forgot! I went with a friend for sunrise brunch in New Jersey, and we had to drive straight here.” She wheeled away from the console and reached into her bag. “Here’s the keys. The car’s in the garage.” She glanced over at Ryan. “Hey, who’s the hottie?”
“Come in, come in!” Cream insisted, pointing to two empty chairs. “Have a seat, guys! We’re in need of a few fresh voices this morning. You don’t mind sitting in, do you?”
I swallowed, not really in the mood to “share” with New York City today, but Ryan was already seated, pulling his chair up to the counter with the microphone. No, no! Don’t sit!
I had sat in on “Cream and Sugar” before, and though it was a thrill, an appearance required a certain level of energy and honesty that I didn’t possess at the moment. “We don’t have a lot of time,” I said, checking my watch.
“Don’t worry!” Cream emphatically directed me to the empty chair. “Sit, sit, sit! We’ll plug your toy drive and get you out of here pronto.”
Against my better judgment, I fell into the chair and shrugged at Ryan as the sound engineer waved Cream and Sugar out of the commercial.
“We’re back on the air with two surprise guests, who I’m sure will help us with some insights on today’s topic: the ever-shrinking dating pool,” Cream said.
“I’m sure you all remember my best friend, Madison Greenwood,” Sugar said. “She’s working on the toy drive we helped promote last year. And today she’s here with a delicious specimen of manhood.” She leaned closer to her console to face Ryan. “Don’t mean to make you blush there, big guy. Madison, why don’t you introduce your man?”
“This is my friend Ryan Wilkinson. We met when we were kids in San Francisco and now he’s helping me with the Taft Museum Toy Drive.”
“Childhood sweethearts?” Cream prodded.
“I guess you could say that,” Ryan admitted, bugging the hell out of me.
“But not anymore,” I added. “Now we’re just friends. I mean, until this week, the last time I saw Ryan was ten years ago when he was in the Navy.”
Sugar squealed. “No way! This is Vanilla Milkshake Ryan?”
Actually, I think of him as Fucking Ryan, but I know you can get fined if you say that on the air.
“She used to call him Vanilla Milkshake,” Sugar quickly explained to the listeners, “because when he wore his dress whites for the Navy he looked like a long, tall, sweet concoction! Isn’t that right, girlfriend?”
Ryan squinted at me, as if processing this information in a scholarly way. I could only hope he didn’t take it too seriously.
“Something like that,” I muttered.
Sugar giggled. “So ma
ybe we should say, today we have Sugar and Cream and Vanilla Milkshake, too. Sorry, Madison, can’t work you in unless you want to be an avenue.”
Oh, hardy-har-har. How did Sugar stand this small talk every day?
“Well, this is a banner day,” Cream said quickly. “Seeing Madison with a real live guy in tow. For a minute there, I thought you were going to provide evidence that the dating pool was actually growing. It’s not every day that a woman walks in with such a good-looking guy at her side.”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t find good-looking guys,” Sugar claimed. “I’m just saying that they’re not date material, Cream. You know, sometimes you don’t listen.”
“I do listen, just not to you, Sugar,” Cream teased. “Anyway, guys, we were just talking about the shrinking dating pool, which Sugar is always complaining about.”
“With good reason,” Sugar cut in. “Every time I look, there are fewer datable men out there, and I know Madison has the same problem. At least, I thought you did, Madison, until you walked in with Vanilla Milkshake.”
“He’s just a friend,” I repeated, leaning into the mike. “Ryan and I have been friends forever.”
“Since high school,” Ryan added. “Then I went off into the Navy. Hence the nickname, Vanilla Milkshake.”
“But you’ve changed your look,” Sugar said. “What can we call you now? Banana Boy? You’re looking very Banana Republic. Or is it J. Crew?”
Ryan smiled. “Maybe a little of both. But please, I’d rather not be named after a fruit.”
Sugar and Cream laughed, and I blinked. Ryan was a lot more adept with the clever responses on the air than I would have expected. Okay, maybe I tended to push him back into that adolescent high school compartment, but in my mind it was where our relationship had ended.
“But back to the shrinking dating pool,” Cream said. “Because if I don’t keep this show on track, nobody will.”
“That’s for sure,” Sugar teased. “Because you know I’ll just go off and plug my January centerfold. Which, by the way, should be out in two weeks. I’m expecting an advance copy any day now.” Yes, my good friend Sugar Plum was spreading her own brand of cheer in the pages of Playboy this holiday season. Initially I had tried to talk her out of it, but of course, she didn’t listen, and in the long run, Sugar had loved the entire experience.
“Yes, yes, we’ve heard all about that, and I’m sure we’ll hear more,” Cream said. “So Madison, what’s your take on this shrinking dating pool?”
“Cream, I would say it’s not even a pool anymore. Call it a puddle of men.”
“That shallow, eh?” Cream whistled. “I’ve only been with my partner a year and you’d think a dating millennium had passed. Is it really that bad?”
“It’s ridiculous,” I said. “And you are talking to two women here who really step out and give the man-tree a shake. We’re active and assertive, not that it does us any good.”
“Do you ever look back and worry about the one that got away? The fish that slipped off the hook?” Cream asked.
“Never,” Sugar insisted.
“How about you, Madison? Worry about those missed opportunities?”
“I don’t think I’ve walked away from ‘The One,’ if that’s what you mean. But this Christmas I’ve been all over town with the toy drive we’re doing at the Taft Museum, and everywhere I go I encounter ghosts of boyfriends past.”
“Ghosts of boyfriends past?” Cream giggled. “I love that! And what do the ghosts say?”
“Mostly they seem to harp on me for being a single woman in my thirties,” I said.
“Ugh!” Cream groaned. “Like that’s a crime.”
“There’s so much pressure to mate,” Sugar said. “I keep telling you that, Cream. The message is out there: Be part of a couple or you’re not a worthwhile being.”
“Now there’s a depressing thought,” Cream said. “Well, I’m here to say, it’s not true! Single women of New York, we love you! We validate you! There is room on this planet for you, too!”
“Uh, Cream?” Sugar said. “That’s very sweet of you, but you already have a significant other. It’s sort of easy for you to say, when you’ve got a sweetie to go home to.”
“Guilty,” Cream admitted, “and yet I still believe in the message. You don’t need a mate to be worthwhile in this world.”
“Amen, brother,” Sugar said.
I forced a smile, feeling like the girl who never gets asked to dance. It was nice of Cream to put the positive word out there, but it didn’t make me feel any better about being single. I wanted to meet that one special person, and no amount of consolation prizes was going to dissuade me from competing in the contest.
“Now, let’s talk about that toy drive you mentioned,” Cream went on.
As I rattled off the information, putting in a plug for a delivery service that might want to donate its time, I started to feel sorry for myself. Cream had just advertised my lonely single status to all of New York. I was stuck moving toys with a guy I could barely stand. And during all these hours I spent away from my job, the work was piling up on my desk.
My life was the pits, and with Christmas coming and the pressure to find holiday bliss increasing, things were bound to get worse.
31
Within the hour, Ryan and I were at Times Square, backing Sugar’s Volvo SUV into the loading dock. “This is an awesome car,” Ryan said as the worker waved me in within what must have been inches of smashing the bumper. “I’ve seen the XC40 advertised, but I never rode in one. When did Sugar get it?”
“It’s brand new,” I muttered, breathlessly watching the signalman in my rearview mirror.
“Okay!” he shouted.
I slammed on the brake and sighed, relieved that I’d managed to maneuver it into the bay without body damage. “She put a down payment on it when she got the money from her centerfold spread.” I rested my head on the wheel a second. “You know, maybe you can drive the next leg. Now that I think of it, I don’t think I have a valid license anymore.” I certainly didn’t need one, living in Manhattan.
“No problem,” Ryan said. “But what did you mean by a centerfold?”
I grinned. “Yep, Sugar Plum is Ms. January. Can you believe it?”
“Well.” That seemed to stump Ryan for a moment. “She seems to have the right attributes for it, but I thought that female nudity in magazines was considered derogatory toward women.”
“Sugar sure didn’t seem to mind it.” We piled out of the car and spoke with the head of the loading dock, who told us that we wouldn’t be allowed to load the car ourselves—something about liability issues—but he’d have his workers take care of it. We were to check back with him in an hour.
“Okay, then,” I said as we headed out of the garage area into a sunny but cold day. I wrapped my scarf tighter and buttoned my trench coat, a little sorry that I hadn’t worn boots today. When the wind blew, it was downright nippy.
“Let’s get in out of the cold,” Ryan said. “How about coffee?”
We hustled across Broadway to the nearest Starbucks, shivering all the way.
“So what’s our cargo today, boss?” Ryan asked as we waited for a light to change.
“Lego sets,” I told him. “We need to deliver half of them to the Police Athletic League. The other half will go to the museum, since they tie in with our Ancient World collection. Can you believe they have blocks designed so you can build a pyramid with a removable mummy’s tomb? Since we have a mummy and sarcophagus at the museum, Barry is thrilled to have an educational tool we can give out to supplement a child’s visit to the museum.”
“Sounds cool,” Ryan said. “I wonder if my niece would like something like that.”
“How old is she?”
“She’s seven, but she’s a tomboy. Loves basketball and video games.” Ryan held the door to Starbucks open as I stepped in. “Maybe you can meet her. I think she and my sister are coming to stay for Christmas.”
�
��That’s nice.” Notice I did not say that would be nice. The last thing I wanted to do was meet Ryan’s family when I should be out there soaking up the remaining drops of the shrinking dating pool. This morning’s topic on “Cream and Sugar” had made me feel more driven than ever to go hunting and gathering for a mate.
While Ryan went to get our drinks, I found a table by the window, where we could watch tourists pose for photos. From here, I could see the old marquee of the Palace Theater as well as the newer theater that always seemed to be part of the downstairs lobby of the Marriott Hotel.
Last Christmas, I had seen Aida at the Palace Theater with Philippe Margot, who was visiting from France. A blind date via Sugar, Philippe was charming—knowledge—able about fashion and cuisine and theater—but I never really got the feeling that he liked me. Oh, I was fine as a dinner companion, but I think he was holding out for someone more haute couture. Like some Vogue or Vanity Fair editor... or maybe Harvey Fierstein. Of course, this is all wild speculation, as Philippe never confided in me. But trust me, after a handful of blind dates, a girl knows when she’s about to be ditched for the likes of Eddie Izzard.
A few years before that, it was a revival of Damn Yankees in the Marriott Theater, with Sean, who had cheered for all the baseball references but was totally lost when Bebe Neuwirth tried to seduce Joe in the “Whatever Lola Wants” number. That was one of the things about Sean; not only did subtlety elude him, but he also seemed to miss many of the more obvious moments in life. A gorgeous guy, that Sean, and not bad as a love slave, but when I finally accepted the fact that he was as obtuse as a statue at MoMA, I knew it was time to let him go.
“Sugar?” Ryan called.
“Huh?” I shook my head. “No, I’m Madison. Sugar is back at the radio station.”
“Do you want sugar with your coffee?” he asked as he sat two paper cups on the table. “You’re a million miles away. Did you want milk?”
Ghosts of Boyfriends Past Page 25
