Eye to Eye (10 page)

“That's a man for you,” she says. And while normally my rejoinder would be,
no, there are crazy women, too,
I decided to be un-PC and let it slide. Let Zach, the man who knits in coffee shops, who has tried to reform non-lipstick lesbians and who prides himself on being a ‘feminist' get lumped in with the other Y chromosome Cro-Magnons. That's what happens when one dates kinderwhores instead of charming, employed women of a certain age…. say, oneself. My brain is clearly corkscrewing down some obsessive spiral, which is the last place I need to be before walking in to meet more men.

The venue is crowded with women dressed like Antonia and men in business casual, all nervously sipping on drinks in plastic cups and making small talk. The online sign up said the age range was from twenty-five to thirty-five, but the demographic looks skewed toward the twentysomething end of the range, although I do spot a man who is forty if he's a day. It's not as if you have to send in paperwork with a certified birth date for these events, so clearly the online truth stretching isn't just confined to online. About half of the men are white, and the other half appear to be African-American, Indian or Middle Eastern. There's slightly less ethnic diversity among the women.

“Slim pickin's,” Toni points out.

“This will give you a window into my old life, but I was just thinking,
wow, look at all the single men.
I'll have to tell Ronnie that I'm not in Kansas anymore.”

“You're definitely wearing the shoes for it,” she says, and I can't tell if she's approving of or merely amused by my choice in footwear.

A slight, chipper woman with tightly permed strawberry-blond hair directs us to choose a number and for the ladies to take a seat at one of the tables. “The men will be rotating,” she explains, drawing large imaginary circles in the air, “and the women will stay seated. There will be one break for drinks and, ladies and gentlemen, remember to take notes. You think you'll remember all twenty of the lovely bachelors and bachelorettes, but survey says you won't.” Big fake smile and dramatic pause. “Anytime after midnight tonight, you can post a yes, no, or friends for each of the singles you meet, and if and
only
if your choices match, you'll be given the e-mail of your desired date-ee. Any questions?”

A woman who is probably close to my age and clearly trying to approximate a living image of a blow-up doll whispers, “Yeah, can we weed out the shorties?” I don't quite laugh, but give a half-smile that I hope acknowledges her, rather than the comment, and remember that there are plenty of ways that men don't have it so easy, either. Especially in Atlanta, where having a hippie-dippie good heart clearly just won't cut it for some. And looking at porno-judgmental lady, and looking at the shorties looking at her, I know that every response for her on the shorties' score-cards is gonna be a “yes.” There's something vaguely tragic about the whole superficial, dysfunctional mess. I'll be damned if it doesn't make me miss Zach.

 

Two hours later, my mouth is dry, my head is ringing and Shirley Temple was right; I need every note that I've made to keep one John straight from the next Paul. For the most part, a nice but undistinguished group of gentlemen. In typical Doris fashion, the only man I'm actually attracted to is a semi-professional gentleman working at Emory on a post-doc—the slightly newer, more professional model of Zach. His name is Andrew, and in the thirty-second pause between when he asks what I do and when I answer, the conversation that will inevitably follow flashes before my eyes. A discussion about the hideousness of dissertating life, the perils of academic publishing, and the generally tragic snobbery of your average department—be it mine in English or his in Psychology.

So I lie, deciding instead to say that I do something totally porno.

“I'm a stewardess,” I say. And then I think
flight attendant, idiot. Flight attendant!
“I just like saying that. It's sexier than flight attendant.”

Andrew nods appreciatively. His hair is sandy blond and cut in a shaggy, long bob, the hot-hippie look. He has a large silver band with Celtic lettering on his middle finger, but otherwise, no jewelry. His hands are smaller and more feminine than I normally like, but I decide that sexy-stewardess Doris will forgive such physical shortcomings. Especially since this new Doris also has the sneaking suspicion that there is lipstick on her teeth—something the airlines would no doubt
never
tolerate.

“Stewardess, flight attendant,” he says. “That's the thing about academia. You have to check everything you say. That's why I like meeting women who won't dissect
Dumb and Dumber
for whether it's sexist or not. Can't a movie just be funny?”

Stewardess Doris most
definitely
thinks a movie can just be funny.

“I love
Dumb and Dumber,
” I say. “And
View from the Top?
Some of the other flight attendants,” and I make quote marks for emphasis when I say “flight attendants,” because I am
really
into being Stewardess Doris, “they thought it was really bad for our image, but to be honest, I like those outfits. I'm so not into the whole pantsuit thing.”

Andrew smiles approvingly as they “ding” for the men to rotate tables. So I've lied in an all but pathological way, but it did cut through the monotony. Andrew smiles warmly when he leaves, and even though I know no good comes of lying about one's life, I check the “yes” box on my scorecard without a moment's deliberation. Three computer engineers follow, then a tax accountant, then a young Republican so straight from 1984 that his upturned polo shirt nearly sends me back in time. As does his assertion that “he'd like a woman who wants to raise children and live a traditional life.” That one sent me all the way back to 1884. The final man to approach my table is a late arrival and the last thing I expected as a newcomer to the city: a familiar face. I've seen this gentleman three times at my local Starbucks, ordering a grande coffee with soy milk and Sweet 'n Low. I'd pegged him for gay, but that shows how much I know.

“Maxwell,” he says, shaking my hand warmly. He looks as if he's wandered in from some Mediterranean resort, in a fitted yet flowing rust-colored linen top, beautifully tailored pants, and leather sandals in a deep, rich brown. His head is shaved, and he's one of only two African-American men in the room, but seems completely comfortable.

“Doris, and I think I've actually seen you around.”

Maxwell smiles and sips his vodka tonic like he hears this line all the time.

“I noticed you right when I walked in.”

A line if I've ever heard one. Hooray! A line!

“Really,” I say, crossing my legs seductively and giving a tight-lipped smile (in case of lipstick on teeth).

“Have you seen this morning's paper? Front page of the lifestyle section? Celebutante wedding of the decade? Maggie Mae Mischner?”

I give Maxwell a genuinely suspicious grimace. Maggie Mae Mischner is locally famous, and I quote, for wanting to throw “the wedding Scarlett O'Hara would have had if there hadn't been a war.” Interviews with Maggie Mae, who is heir to a diet soda fortune, would lead one to believe that she hadn't really read
Gone With the Wind
carefully, or necessarily made it through the movie. They would, however, lead one to believe that her family hopes the bottom never falls out of the carbonated-beverage market, as the nuptials are rumored to be costing well over half a million dollars. The dress alone, featured prominently on Page One of
Life and Style
is all hand-beaded and hand-laced—a gigantic antebellum monstrosity that should command an extremely wide aisle, and supposedly cost well over fifteen grand. And she and I look nothing alike. I don't know where the fair Maxwell is going with this one.

“Have you seen her mother?”

I might actually have to kill him.

“Unless she had Maggie Mae when she was twelve and a half, I don't like the direction this is going,” I say.

Maxwell laughs. “You're a ringer. And she's a fox.”

Now I laugh. “Fox,” I repeat. “Do people still say ‘fox'? I think I had stickers that said ‘fox' and ‘groovy' on my lunchbox when I was in first grade.”

“Which was when?” he continues. “Nineteen ninety-two?”

I have to respect the attempt to salvage himself.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“You're cuter,” Maxwell says, either flirting or just trying to make me less nervous. “She's a little on the thin side for my taste. I like my women thick.”

“Yuck,” I say. “It sounds like you're describing a steak.”

Maxwell laughs. Why can't I stop offending this man?

“Well, that wouldn't be me. I haven't had a steak in six years. Or even a piece of fish.”

“Really?” I ask, disbelieving. “Next you're going to tell me those shoes aren't even leather.”

“They most certainly are not. Cruelty-free footwear, the only way to walk.”

I officially have no idea what to make of this man, but I discreetly mark “yes” by the name Maxwell when he leaves the table, hoping even more than I did with Andrew that he does the same.

 

After commenting on the generally uninspiring crop of men in the room, Toni drives most of the way home in silence. I imagine that she's thinking about her life, about the ways in which you plan your attractions and how rarely such plans match reality. I don't think it's quite possible to be a single woman and not engage in a little existential angst. The moon is three-quarters full and reddish-yellow above the city, not the clear beacon it seemed to be in the skies above Langsdale. More like its sullied cousin. The high of the evening wears off, and I miss how easy it was with Zach when it was good. The way he really knew and understood who I was. And how I'm a blank slate again when it comes to dating. What I really just had was a fun evening with a bunch of strangers, all projection and optimism. Nothing I can count yet as real.

I knew Doris would be happy for me. I knew she'd say, “You're getting published. Yipee!” She did that. She's a good, dear friend like that. But she also tends to tell me stuff I want to hear, not what I need to hear. So I'm not going to believe the hype. Not yet. But the more I researched Burning Spear Press at the library, the more I got excited. As Doris had mentioned, there were some wacky titles, sure.
Catcher of the Fly
was the winner. It unfortunately seemed to take itself seriously. A giant zipper, à la the Rolling Stones's
Sticky Fingers
album cover, with a giant, red-fingernailed hand grabbing at the crotch. But
How Stella Got Her Divorce Papers Back
seemed to be obvious satire even though I didn't read any text, so I believe the press is up for my book,
F: the Academy,
a satiric look at university life with Doris and myself serving as the basis for characters. We'd gone to Langsdale University, but I'd changed the university's name to Farmdale, a play on being in the Midwest and all that. So I'm starting to feel okay about it now. Coming around. There seems to be something for everyone at Burning Spear. I could be a hot-shit writer by next year.

In the meantime, though, while waiting on that Pulitzer Prize, I have to work like regular people. My work, as it turns out, is more like a sentence, since I still have to tutor that pain in the ass Ian. As I drive to Ian's house, I think about Bita and Charlie, and how perfect their lives seem to anyone who doesn't know them well. I think about how so many people think Charlie is the cat's meow, but then, when you really get to know him, you find out he's the doggie's doo-doo. Still, he did me a solid, as they used to say in the seventies. I was so worried that I was going to get fired, and it turned out that Charlie saved my ass. I found out I still had the job after I went over to Bita's later in the week, like I had promised. Bita and I relaxed and cooked together. She's got one of those beautiful kitchens straight out of a magazine: warm lighting, everything's shiny and brand-new. The stove's one of those old
looking
stoves that's actually state-of-the-art. Marble counter tops. I was happy, drinking wine, basking in the beauty of her home. Bita had me chopping fennel or some strange thing. For a salad. She's forever making some elaborate meal out of some fancy cookbook. Whenever I'm going to Bita's house to eat, I know I better grab a cheeseburger or something before I get there, because first of all, it'll be
hours
before you actually get food in your mouth, and second of all, it's always some outrageously healthy thing that has you damn near starving
while
you're eating it. Bita, I always say, you're
Indian,
for God's sake. Can't you do better than this? Charlie doesn't like it, she always says. He likes light foods, not spicy foods.

The fennel looked like weeds. I put a bit in my mouth and made a face. “You know what you ought to be cooking tonight? We ought to be barbecuing one of those big-ass Fred Flintstone rack of lambs that's, like, tipping over his car in the opening. Do you remember that? And a big casserole dish of macaroni and cheese with a pound of milk, cream and cheese.” Etta James was wailing in agreement from the CD player that Bita keeps in the kitchen.

“Charlie's the one who knows how to barbecue,” she said, furiously stirring some cream in a gigantic silver bowl. “Asshole.”

I wiped the fennel off my shiny knife and put it down on the cutting board. “What now?” But I already knew. Charlie was cheating on Bita. I didn't say it out loud, but as Earl says,
A person gets a feeling.

She put her finger in the cream and licked it. “Good. This is good.”

“You don't want to talk about it?”

“This soufflé, Charlie and I had in Lyon last year. It was the cutest little rustic place. Really simple food and French people who weren't pains in the ass. I've made this soufflé three times since then. Reminds me of the trip.”

Bita was standing next to me, and so I gently tucked behind her ear some of her long, dark strands that were hanging in her face. She was avoiding my eyes, keeping busy. “Charlie's working late. I don't think he's going to join us for dinner.” She pointed her spoon at the bowl in front of her. “Put the fennel in the cream.”

The fennel went in the cream? Scary. The things I did for love. I sprinkled in the fennel while Bita stirred.

On television, old-school television, anyway, when the husband comes home and says, “Honey, I'm home,” it's usually occasion for happiness. The wife runs up in her apron, gives the husband a kiss, gets him his slippers and a cocktail. Even Lucy, the original Rosanne, did that occasionally. So when Charlie came home in the middle of our dessert—something normal, thank God, cheesecake and Ben and Jerry's—and said, “Hey, honey, I'm home,” and had the nerve to kiss Bita on the top of her pretty little head and ask, “what's for dinner?” It was all kinds of ironic and wrong. Bita looked at me, and I shoveled more ice cream into my mouth. Though Charlie, he's a slick one. He's not making all that dough in Hollywood for nothing.

“Meeting got canceled,” he said, pulling up a heavy, expensive “rustic” chair. He took a sip of Bita's water, then he twirled the half-empty wine bottle around so he could read the label. “You guys opened the D'Alba? That's a hundred-dollar bottle of wine. We usually save that sort of thing for company.”

“Ronnie's company,” Bita said. She smiled at me and then took a sip of water. I'd drank nearly the whole bottle by myself. I had no idea it cost so much. Bita wouldn't have told me, unless she was making fun of it.

“I suppose,” he said. He ran his slender fingers through his hair and gave me a good, long stare. “By the way, saved
your
ass today.”

I'd totally forgotten about devil-child Ian, forgotten that earlier in the day, I'd been waiting to get tossed out on my ass by the Bernsteins. I'd actually convinced myself that no news was good news and that maybe there was nothing to worry about. Besides, I was about to be a published author and prove Charlie wrong. Going to school
did
count for something.

“Ian told his dad that you hated his guts and didn't want to work with him anymore. Said you called him a smart-ass.”

True.

“But,” Charlie grabbed a handful of Bita's thick black hair before letting it drop back down her back, “I told Richard that you most certainly had to have a job, that you were living in a tiny apartment, with a
bartender,
and that you needed all the help you could get.” He smiled at Bita, all happy and self-satisfied that he'd saved her friend's ass.

“So I'm not fired?” I had one egg in my refrigerator, and Earl and I were still living from paycheck to paycheck, in spite of his okay bartending salary. That which makes you want to kill someone, namely a spoiled, self-absorbed rich kid, will make you stronger, I suppose.

“You're welcome,” Charlie said. “I'm going to get me a glass. I want a taste of this D'Alba myself.”

He went through the swinging door. Bita sighed, put her spoon in her bowl and pushed it away from her. She blew me a kiss from across the table and then sank down in her chair. “Thanks for stopping by, Ron.” She said it as though she had made up her mind about something. What, I did not know.

I winked at her. Bita and I have always done things simple that way. “Hey.” I sit up in my chair like a shot. I felt ready to tell my good news. Charlie came through the door with some soufflé in a bowl and a big wineglass. He took his seat next to Bita and patted her thigh underneath the table. “I got news. Good news.”

“You and Earl are breaking up,” Charlie said.

“Shut up, Charlie.” Bita glared at him. “Don't be such a jerk.”

“What? I'm just saying that Ronnie and the bartending badass are quite the odd couple. You two would be a great sitcom.” Charlie sipped his wine. “An interracial
Green Acres.
”

Bita crossed her arms and set her lips tight. “You don't know anything.”

Charlie raised both hands in surrender and took another sip of his wine. “Fine,” he said, still grinning like a know-it-all idiot.

WE KNOW YOU'RE HAVING AN AFFAIR, YOU IDIOT, is what I wanted to say, but I just changed the subject. “
Anyway,
as I was saying. I got good news. My book's being published.”

“Hey!” Bita grinned, it was the biggest smile I've seen on her all night. “I can't believe you waited all this time to tell me.”

“Well, that
is
good news,” Charlie said. He held up his glass so we could toast. I clinked glasses with Charlie, and then Bita knocked her glass against mine, a little too hard.

“Who's doing it?” Bita asked, back to being generally happy for me. “Little Brown? Somebody like that?”

“No…not exactly…some press called Burning Spear?”

Charlie spit up his wine. “Burning Spear?”

Bita frowned at him. “What's wrong with Burning Spear?” She turned to me. “It's going to be a real book, hardcover and everything, right?”

“Yeah, hardcover and everything.”

Bita gave Charlie an I-told-you-so look. But he was on a roll. He put his glass down long enough to rub his thick hands together. “We get press releases and galley proofs from them at my office all the time, from agents trying to get us to make
films
out of that crap. Hil
ar
ious.”

“You're just being sexist and dismissive because it's women writing these books.”

“No,” Charlie says, pouring himself more wine. “I'm being dismissive because that shit is
silly.
”

“What about all the books written by men?” I stand up because I'm getting so mad. “All that macho Hemingway bullshit, lots of drinking and fucking and angst about the minutiae in their lives.
That'
s so important? Or what about all those books set in academia where the male,
troll,
professor is always banging the undergrad who's just dying to suck his old, shriveled up—”

“Don't even talk to Charlie about this,” Bita says. “Charlie, don't you have something to do?”

But I was not finished. “They ought to call that dick lit, but they call it
literature.
”

Charlie shook his head. “Well, congrats, Ron, I guess. Good for you. I'm going upstairs to catch the end of the ball game. Try not to get fired this week.”

Just like Charlie to rain on my parade. Bita reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “Ronnie. This is good news. It's the very best news. You're going to be published, and I'm proud of you. Don't listen to Charlie. Consider the source,” she said nodding toward the stairs.

As I turn up Ian's narrow street and prepare myself for the latest confrontation, I wonder why I let people like Charlie get to me. People like Ian. People like Katie. If I'm going to be honest with myself, I have to admit that the main problem is me. For all my tough talk, it doesn't take much to make me doubt myself, and that's why I can't be an adult around Ian. He turns me into one of those kids on the schoolyard who finally has the guts to fight back—except I'm not a kid, which makes me pathetic. But his privilege, and alternately his cockiness and cluelessness about his privilege, that's what I can't seem to get over, so until someone gets fired—or strangled—this is going to be my life. A duel to the death with Ian.

I press the entry button at the bottom of his driveway and wait for his housekeeper, Maricela, to buzz me in. And as I wind up the driveway, I try to psyche myself out.
You love Ian. He's the sweetest. You feel sorry for Ian. How tragic to have money coming out your ass from the day you're born until the day you die. Tragic.

I park in the circular driveway that makes a doughnut around the fountain in front and knock with the lion's head on the door. What a house. It looks like the place where tigers and mermaids and cherubs come to die.

The door opens and Maricela pokes her head around the door timidly. “Hello, Veronica,” she says, nodding and smiling and I think that if Maricela has managed not to put her foot up Ian's ass after ten years of dealing with him, I need to try a lot harder.

“Maricela,” I say. “How are you today?”

After closing the door she wipes her hands on her immaculate white apron. Her dress is light pink and her long, dark hair is in a bun as it has been every time I've ever seen her. “Fine, fine,” she replies. “Ian is in the study.” And then she leaves.

I can hear the television coming from the study, so I just follow the sound and knock on the door before I enter. Ian's got the TV on so loud he doesn't even hear me. Of course,
TV
is the cute word for gigantic, wall-mounted plasma something or other that Ian's watching. He must be sunken down in the green leather couch facing the TV because I can't see him. The channel's on
Pimp My Ride
and he's watching a van being converted to a house, basically, with a washing machine, television, bed, everything but a toilet.