Getting Over Jack Wagner (19 page)

“Eliza,” he says.

“Donny.”

We shake. His grip is overly hard, a grip that says: “I lift. Got it?”

No snap judgments,
I remind myself.
No typecasting. Stay open-minded.

“Nice place,” I say, extracting my hand.

“I think so,” he clips.

“You come here a lot?”

“Sometimes.” Donny beckons the hostess, who hurries over. “They've got good food here. Quick service. Big portions.” He coughs into his fist. “Good prices.”

Did I just hear “good prices”? I wonder what the Agents would think about Donny the Securities Analyst admitting he picked our restaurant for its “portions” and “prices.” At least he didn't say “babes.”

The Italiano hostess appears beside us. She's wearing a short, slim green dress. “Two?” she says, and we trail her through one, two, three enormous dining rooms, one enormous birthday party, an enormous salad bar. I can smell Donny's cologne wafting over his shoulder like a mating scent, and think nervously of the neon pink condom in the bottom of my bag.

The hostess stops at a ferny, low-lit corner by a window. On the table, a single candle flickers under a green glass globe. “Carla will be right over to serve you,” she says, hands us two tall, plastic-wrapped menus, and disappears.

“Thanks,” Donny says to her butt. Literally, he could be following a script that reads DONNY: STARING AT HER BUTT.

No scripts tonight,
I remind myself.

“Anyway,” Donny says.

It occurs to me that this is the conversation that usually happens in a bar or at a party. Usually, there are distractions. Music, crowds, spilled rum, Electric Hoagies. Usually our faces are scrambled by black light and we're buzzing slightly and have to shout to be heard. Here, our only distractions are the light Italian Muzak and the faint strains of “Happy Birthday” from Enormous Dining Room #2.

“So Donny,” I plunge. It is half courtesy, half curiosity. “I have to ask. What made you recognize me?”

Donny raises his eyebrows, which I fear also have a dab of gel in them. “Recognize you?”

“In the lobby.”

“Oh.” He smiles. It is not a warm, fuzzy Beryl smile, however. His smile is small, sinister and too red, like a hot pepper. Donny is conjuring up some sexual fantasy right now, I am sure of it. “Nose ring.”

Bingo.

I duck down behind my leathery red menu, pretending to lose myself in Beers & Wines. Once in a while, I sneak glances at Donny. Skinny black tie, heavy gold wristwatch, wiry black wrist hair. A face that looks like it's perpetually in the middle of an important conference call, agitated and interrupted. I'm willing to bet that in the '80s he dressed
Miami Vice.

I cast an eye over the entrees, looking for something safe to order. All of the food appears greasy and garlicky and somehow appropriate. Like everything else I'm beginning to suspect about the Donster, there's something businesslike about his choice of restaurant. Profitable mass production. Dressings by the gallon. Thawed tiramisu that arrived in flatbed trucks. Prices that all end with “.95.”

Donny looks up from his menu. I look down at mine.

“See something you like?” he asks, with what may or may not be sexual innuendo. It's hard to tell with an Italian. Ziti, sex, marinara sauce—all of it seems to derive from the same sensual impulse.

“Sure,” I reply.

“Good.” He gives me a quick nod and slaps his menu shut.

I'm beginning to understand what Beryl means by “driven.” There's a distinct energy about this guy. Money energy. Corporate energy. The energy of a man who watched too many cartoons as a child, drank too much Kool-Aid, and had no attention span at all. As if in agreement, Donny's eyes flicker around the room, noting all the meals, portions, waitresses, butts.

“So what'll you have?” he quips.

This is the critical question. According to the women's magazines and Travel Agents, at this point I should play it low-fat. I should think calories and carbs. Avoid pasta with sauce, pasta with length.
Shun cheese at all costs!

“Chicken parmigiana,” I say, as Donny's mouth twitches. I slap my menu shut and place it on top of his. “And a Bud. You?”

Before he can answer, Carla the waitress appears. She could be Anthony Italiano's daughter, she so looks the part. Thick black hair tangled down her back. Full lips. Huge chest waving its arms from beneath her slim, short Italiano-green dress.

“Ciao,” she says, with a hint of an accent I am positive is fake.

Donny grins and “ciao”s her back. Good God.

“What can I do for you tonight?” Carla smiles at him. This time, there's no question about the sexual innuendo.

To his credit, Donny lets me order first (cheese, chicken, alcohol) but on his turn, he takes his time. First, he chats about the wine selection. Then, he discusses a few of the entrees. He spends a full five minutes trying to pronounce one of the veal specials. Carla helps, of course, all curling tongues and heaving breasts.

Finally, Donny settles on something a la red meat. I could have predicted this. I could also predict that later, he will consult a tip card. He will use a toothpick, possibly mint-flavored.
Stop it, Eliza! Get to know him first!

“Very good,” says Carla. She plucks up our menus and lambadas away.

DONNY: STARING AT HER BUTT.

This is hell. This is, I now understand, exactly why I go to The Blue Room. This is why I go on dates in reverse. To see him first, to scope him out. To know exactly what I'm getting into.

“So.” Donny picks up his green cloth napkin, flicks it open like a toreador, and fires: “What do you do for a living, exactly?”

This is grossly unfair. This was supposed to be my question. When you're a Securities Analyst, you deserve to be asked what you do for a living. I am a copywriter. What the hell does he
think
a copywriter does?

You spent twenty minutes blow-drying your hair. You haven't even had a drink yet.

“I write copy,” I tell him.

Donny frowns and starts drumming one finger on the table, his gold ring rapping against the glass.

“For brochures,” I explain, forcing a smile. “Newsletters. PR. For Dreams Come True. You know, the place where…Beryl…works.”

“Right.” Thankfully, he does know who Beryl is and where she works. “Travel place.”

“Right. And what do you do?”

Unlike me, Donny thrives on the question. His reply is an onslaught of dividends and bonds and cross trades so quick and cryptic I need subtitles to translate it. I grit my teeth as financial jargon pelts me like a BB gun.

When it's over, I feel stunned. “I see.”

“Great job,” Donny says. “Good bennies. Stock options. Company gym.”

Rudeness builds in me like a sneeze. I have to physically resist the impulse to a) start compulsively lying about myself, b) tell my one good “businessman walks into a bar” joke, or c) start humming “Deep Purple.” I latch onto any moral fiber I can. Sunday School.
Brady Bunch.
Beryl.

Beryl.

“Your grandmother's great,” I say, exhaling.

“Grammy's a good one.”

“Especially on the phone. Wow.”

“Right.”

At least we are agreeing on something. I am quickly realizing, however, that Beryl might be our only tiny ledge of common ground. I wonder if we can squeeze a full two hours out of her. Grammy's favorite meals? Grammy's favorite music? Grammy's younger years: the Depression? the Nixon administration?

“Yeah,” I say, “and I love her pins.”

Donny's finger drumming stops. “What?”

“Her pins.”

“Pins?”

“You know.” I feel myself getting defensive on Beryl's behalf. “How she wears a different pin? Every day? She wears a different pin?”

Donny says, “Hadn't noticed,” and glances at the enormous dessert cart rolling by us, everything on it huge and thawed and cherry topped.

Suddenly I miss Carla. We haven't eaten, we have exhausted Beryl, and I can't think of a single other thing to talk about. What would the Agents talk about now? How he likes his meat cooked? How many pounds he can bench-press? What varsity sports he played in high school?

“Seen any movies lately?” I ask. Pop culture is always safe. Universal, impersonal. An endless stretch of hospital dramas, Tom Hanks movies, and '80s sitcoms. We could get lost in Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon for hours.

Donny shrugs. “I rent, mostly.”

This does not surprise me. Low prices. Big selection. Babes on film.

“Really?” I ask him. “Anything good?”

“Something with Pacino.” He raps his ring, once, twice. “I can't think of the name.”

“Scarface?”

“Nope.”

“Scent of a Woman?”

“Nah.” (Actually a fine choice in the Movies That Smell genre, but I decide that now is not the time.)

“The Godfather?”

“That's the one.”

“The Godfather
was based on a book, you know.”

“I didn't.”

“Do you read?”

He looks offended.

“I mean, I assume you
can
read. But do you read…for pleasure?”

“Don't have much time for that,” Donny says, chuckling, as if I couldn't possibly understand the rigors of being a Securities Analyst. “On business trips. Flights. Business flights.”

I am too frightened to ask for literary specifics. Instead I pipe up and volunteer: “I'm writing a book myself.”

Why I say this, I have no idea. Maybe I have some unhealthy, subconscious need to impress Donny the Securities Analyst. Maybe, on some level, I want to throw something his way that's as foreign to him as cross trades and dividends are to me.

But Donny seems genuinely interested. He folds his hands and rests his chin on his fat gold ring. “Yeah? What's your book about?”

And the amazing thing is, I am unprepared for this question. I have prepared for all the impossible questions, the ones I will never have to answer: where I would sail on the Love Boat, what I would say if I met Bryan Adams, what Jack Wagner and I would name our kids. But I have absolutely no idea how to sum up the book to which I've devoted the bulk of my reality. It's not as simple as describing teenage antics in Sweet Valley, or Horton's business with the Who. Besides, any description I think of—girl tries to date musicians? girl tries not to date businessmen?—sounds a little too close to home.

“It's about relationships.” Best to stay vague. “About connecting. Or, not connecting. With, um, people.”

Donny is smiling at me, but I know he isn't listening. It's the same smile he wore while fantasizing about girls with nose rings. Right now he's probably imagining torn bodices, heaving breasts, gilt-edged covers, Carla packaged into twelve chapters. Awkward as this date has been, it occurs to me that sex might still be on the table here. In theory, I feel a slight bit flattered; in practice, I want to puke.

Donny leans toward me, his shiny tie drifting dangerously near the lit candle. “So,” he says, “does this mean you're going to be the next Danielle Steels?”

Coming from someone else, I might have been insulted. Coming from Donny, I realize that this may have been a compliment. As I open my mouth to reply, Carla materializes, sensing sex in the air. She plunks my beer on the table. Donny smiles at her and makes a three-minute show of sniffing and sipping his Merlot.

“Ciao,” Carla says, walking away.

“Ciao,” says DONNY: STARING AT HER BUTT.

He turns back to me, still wearing the little smile. I take a deep swallow of Bud. I wonder if it would be possible to just end this now. Split the bill, raise the lights, cast off the props and go home. But because I am desperate, and because I am hungry, and because the only other possible topics seem to be global politics or a quick round of “I Spy,” I go for it: “So Donny.
What kind of music do you like?”

Possible options, as I see them:

Richard Marx.

Michael Bolton.

Maybe, just maybe, Donny Osmond.

Donny doesn't answer immediately. I think he might be mulling it over, which is a good sign at least. Then he coughs into his fist. “You know,” he says, looking somewhere else. His fat gold watch glints in the candlelight. “Whatever's on.”

Whatever's
on?
I feel my fingernails digging into my palms. The only thing worse than having bad musical preferences is having no musical preferences. How can a human being not care what kind of music they listen to? How can they answer the critical musical-preferences question with
Whatever's on?