I Know What I'm Doing (6 page)

I felt I was about to let everybody down. I got married in front of family and friends, and some friends had to participate in the ceremony. It feels like we all made a promise to each other. I made a promise to be the married friend. I made a promise to not make Allison fly to Boston, rent a car, put herself up in a hotel, and pay for her own pastel bridesmaid dress, only to look at her seventeen months later and tell her that all of that had been for nothing, and I couldn’t make my marriage work. How could I expect to be forgiven?

I started to tell Allison everything. She stopped me. “You’re building a case. You don’t have to. Your feelings are valid enough.” No one had ever put it to me that way before. She told me that she had a feeling I hadn’t been happy in a while. I asked her, “Why didn’t you tell me I seemed unhappy?”

“Jen, friends are here for when
you’re
ready to tell
them
,” she said. “But don’t leave your husband for this other guy.”

“No. It’s not about Kevin. It’s about me. I don’t know me anymore. I want to be alone.”

“Jen, you’re the only woman I know who says things like ‘as she’s nearing forty she’d rather be alone than married.’ ”

“That’s how I know this is really how I feel. Because it makes no fucking sense.”

Allison said, “I know that this is the right thing because when you got married you talked about what you should be doing and what other people do. This is the first time in years I’ve heard my old friend talk about who she is and what she wants. We have walked up and down these streets for ten years as girlfriends and you sound like you’re in your twenties again, in a good way. You were always so sure of who you truly were back then. And a lot of us who were a little older than you thought, ‘Where does that twentysomething get off knowing what she’s doing?’ And when you get divorced so many guys that were probably bummed you were married are going to come out of the woodwork. You lucky bitch.”

I looked at the second cheese board and lost my appetite. I was happy talking to Allison. I felt like myself again. And when I’m happy I don’t abuse cheese. Cheese is a privilege.

I picked up the tab—which was the least I could do for Allison, who’d found me two undercover cops that I was off to meet before dusk, and who danced with my lonely cousin at my wedding.

6

MANHATTAN BURGLAR MYSTERY

Give me such shows—give me the streets of Manhattan!

—WALT WHITMAN

I
was standing outside of the box office at Radio City Music Hall, not to buy tickets to the Rockettes but to meet the two plainclothes undercover cops who were going to help me get my phone back. It was a real sting operation. I couldn’t believe that two professionals were willing to spend off-duty time helping an emotionally cheating woman retrieve her stolen BlackBerry. I was considering leaving my marriage but I still wasn’t ready for an upgrade to an iPhone.

As I waited anxiously for the arrival of these two men, I considered slipping into a Sport Chalet to buy a bike helmet, something for protection in case bullets were going to fly. I didn’t know if the undercover cops were carrying but if they weren’t, what the hell separated them from just any guy on the street? A badge? Were criminals really afraid of badges? No BlackBerry Bandit is going to be spooked if a man flashes what looks like an elaborate belt buckle nestled inside of a leather passport cover.

Since I had no phone and only the Thief’s phone number, I called him from a pay phone. He’d told me that he wanted a confirmation call from me that morning so that he could make sure that I was actually going to show up and not waste his time. His voice mail was full. I called three more times. I felt like a needy girlfriend.
Why won’t he answer? Is he out stealing someone else’s phone?

My next call was to Henry the Undercover Cop to confirm our location. “Got it. See you at Radio City Music Hall,” he said. “And never say out loud on the street where we are meeting.”

I said, “I don’t think this guy who stole my BlackBerry has bugged this pay phone.”

He said, “Ma’am, let me do my job.”

I tried to keep the mood light. “Perfect! If we can’t find our culprit—maybe we can at least catch the first half hour of a show.”

He didn’t laugh. Instead he said, “Take note, but not actually. Don’t write this down. Nothing goes in writing. Now, listen up. My partner and I will be on the southwest corner of Fifty-Fourth Street. He’ll be in a gray coat and blue dress shirt. I’ll be wearing a black suit and a tan trench coat.”

I couldn’t get past the “southwest corner” part. I have NEVER been able to envision quickly NSEW in New York City. When the Twin Towers fell on 9/11 and people said things like “The North Tower just went down,” I had no idea which tower to mourn. I tried to fit in by saying things like, “What a tragedy, all of the officers at the longitude who didn’t have to be at the latitude that day.” Even as a New Yorker in her third year of living there in 2001, I’d get turned around when walking down Sixth Avenue and would have to ask people, “Which way is Lexington Avenue? Don’t say a direction. Say left or right. Oh, never mind. Just point. Just turn me around like a child in front of a piñata and tell me where to swing.”

I confessed to Henry, “I’m sorry. I don’t comprehend directions. Can you stand somewhere that I don’t have to find with a compass?”

I was five minutes early and I knew (or I thought I knew) that our operation was all about precision. I met Henry inside of a bodega per his instructions and while I was buying a cup of coffee I recognized him standing by the newspapers. I ran right up. “Hey. Henry?” He looked through me—like an ex-boyfriend with his new wife. He exited the bodega and even though I’m horrible with directions I’m great with subtle cues. I followed. He picked up a newspaper from a stand outside and put it to his face. He nodded at me to do the same. I did, dropping a magazine insert from the
New York Times
to the ground. Damn it, I should have grabbed the
Post.

Henry whispered as we both held the newspapers up to our faces. “Don’t look in my direction. I’m going around the block. Do NOT act like you know me. Walk behind me. But don’t look like you’re following me.”

I whispered over the sounds of an ambulance, “But am I still meeting you outside of Radio City Music Hall?”

“Yes, but we can’t be seen together and when you get to Radio City just stand there. I will be in the lobby pretending to read a brochure.”

“Are you guys famous detectives or something? How would my burglar know you?”

“You never know who knows what.”

You can say that again. Right now some random guy from Queens knew everything that I had texted in the last twenty-four hours to a curly-haired divorcé named Kevin.

I stood outside of RCMH. Henry was inside pretending to be interested in that year’s upcoming events in the brochure and Undercover Cop #2 was across the street on the corner. Nobody else was around so we were in the clear. Henry loudly whispered to me, “Hey. Just to let you know. When José approaches you and asks you for the five thousand dollars, pretend to be about to give it to him and as you reach into your pocket with one hand throw your beret in the air with the other.”

I tried to find Henry’s face as he talked to me. He got snippy. “Hey, don’t look in my general direction as you talk to me. Turn around and pretend you’re looking up at the sky when you talk.” Oh yeah, that’ll look normal.

I was wearing a beret and I had just been instructed, like some seedy
Mary Tyler Moore
alternate cold open sequence, to take my hat off my head and throw it in the air when the man who stole my BlackBerry tried to shake me down for money. The hat would signal Henry inside to come and cuff José and then Undercover Cop #2, whom I really hadn’t had the chance to get to know as well, would cross the street and join us for backup on the west, east, whatever corner.

Four o’clock. No sign of José. Fifteen more minutes passed and still no sign of José. I thought of José’s full voice mail. I was confused. He was the one who had been so clear about
me
not wasting
his
time. He asked
me
to meet here. A half hour passed and José was nowhere to be seen. Part of me felt a twinge, like,
Is this what it would feel like to be single? Maybe I do want to stay married.
I couldn’t deal with a future of standing on street corners not having my calls returned—let alone not being met by guys who I am paying! I threw my beret in the air to signal to Henry that this was over. He came out of the lobby with some great information about the 2011 summer season of concerts at Radio City Music Hall.

It seems like José wasn’t interested in meeting me. Maybe he had a change of heart. Maybe he sold my phone. I could feel in my gut that the drama had permanently blown over. He had no reason to mess with me and reveal anything he found out from my phone unless I wasn’t willing to pay him. And I was willing to pay him. Well, I was willing to pretend to pay him and then signal a more than middle-aged undercover cop to take him down. Who knows? Maybe José spotted me in the bodega talking to Henry and could tell that something was afoot. Or maybe he just didn’t want to spend a Sunday taking the train from Queens to Manhattan when he could be watching football.

I walked down the street with my new undercover cop friends who were going my way. We stopped at a coffee cart and purchased three black coffees in those blue-and-white paper cups that you see everyone drinking from on
Law & Order.
We walked . . . in some direction on Fifth Avenue as the sky was turning to dusk.

They asked me what I did for a living and I told them all about being a comedian and my recent gig at Foxwoods. Undercover Cop #2 chuckled. “At least you’re not a rapper. Those guys are a dime a dozen these days. They can’t even give it away on the street.” He continued, “Everyone always needs a laugh these days, but you just don’t seem funny.”

I defended myself. “Who seems funny when they’re on an undercover sting operation? I was too busy trying to think of the perfect way to toss a beret in the air and keep it natural looking. That’s the biggest joke of all.”

Undercover Cop #2 said, “Okay. Now
that’
s funny.”

He reassured me that usually people don’t show up for money transactions because they figure it’s better to just sell the phone. He said that José was probably just messing with me from the beginning because he had nothing better to do. Undercover Cop #2 really had a lot of opinions about who should be rapping, the human condition needing laughter, and what kind of schedules criminals keep.

Henry, who had really become a confidant that afternoon, asked, “There must have been something really important on that phone. What does your husband say about all this?”

“How did you know I was married?”

“Ain’t that your wedding ring?” He pointed to my left ring finger.

“Oh. Right. Right.”

“Listen,” Henry said. “This may not be my business or nothing, but we’ve been detectives for a long time. Our job is to read people. A fortune teller will tell you that they can read you but they’re guessing and bullshitting. It’s magic. We’ve got intuition. Whatever is going on with you and this phone and whatever is on there that no one can see, I don’t know. It seems like you’re not all there, like you’re grappling with a big decision. You have to follow your gut. And no one knows your gut but you. It’s not a thing anyone can give advice about. We follow our guts for a living.”

I loved him for saying that with absolutely no sense of irony as he adjusted his pants that had to make room for his gut.

And with the homeless guy who was on the corner as my witness, just then, a man started to play saxophone on the street as steam rose from the subway grate. We three looked at one another. I said, “Did we just have a conversation about me being alone in this city to make a decision and someone started playing saxophone? Is this really happening right now?”

Undercover Cop #2 said, “Sometimes New York just does its thing and we have to watch. You’ll never see that phone again but at least you have this story.”

At least I have this story. And I swear to God I didn’t fucking make it up.

And I knew—it was time to go with my gut.

7

NOTHING GOOD EVER HAPPENS AFTER THE SECOND ROUND

What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.

—RALPH WALDO EMERSON

K
evin and I met up in the Bowery for a drink. He shared with me his experience, strength, and hope with his divorce and I told him my tale of undercover cop-ery. Then, I mispronounced a word and he corrected me. I know that sounds like something to not be so sensitive about but when you’re hanging out with someone in a let’s-be-honest-maybe-we-have-something-here situation, a guy should not be so rude. The soldiers in my brain picked up their muskets and went to the front lines of battle again.

“Jen, if you’re going to be single, relax. Someone correcting your pronunciation isn’t a big deal. He didn’t hit you.”

“Yeah, Jen, but it’s a red flag. Maybe he’s condescending and overly critical.”

“What if he’s sometimes condescending but also a good person? Don’t YOU have any flaws?”

“Yes. I have a lot of flaws but I want to START at perfection if I’m going to meet a new guy and then negotiate from there.”

“Who says that this is your guy? You said so yourself, you’re just here to talk about divorce.”

I decided to let Kevin do the talking. I asked him questions about how divorce works, right down to paperwork and negotiations and how it all changes a person. He gave me the best advice anyone ever has. “No matter who you marry—when you divorce you both become different people, because when lawyers are involved they’ll manipulate you both. It’s all about money. And I mean the lawyers getting money. If marriage is ‘just a piece of paper’ to some people—those are the people who either will
never
get married or people who are happily married. It
is
a piece of paper. A legally binding document that costs money to get out of and it’s impossible to keep emotion out of negotiation.”