Love Monkey (29 page)

L
iesl got back from Utah Thursday night. She didn't call me. Last night we spoke briefly. She informed me that she was attending a party Nora was giving. There was no mention of inviting me to this little fiesta, though.

“So,” she said.

“So,” I said. “How about tomorrow night?”

And this pause really stretched out and made itself comfortable.

“Actually,” she said, “I have plans tomorrow night. Another friend of Nora's. Another party.”

This would be a perfect moment to invite me along.

“Maybe I'll see you tomorrow afternoon?” she said.

“That sounds nice,” I said. Afternoon?

So today I'm sitting around feeling slightly queasy. Could be the flu shot. Everyone is so scared of anthrax that they've been getting flu shots to feel secure. That way, if, say, a month from now you feel like you have routine flu symptoms? Having had a flu shot, you'll be
comforted to know that you're actually dying of anthrax instead. Only, the flu shot itself seems to have given me an off-off Broadway version of the flu. My stomach is doing the rumba. My skin is like the inside of an oyster.

Getting dressed, I think, What do you wear for a breakup? It's somewhere between a wedding and a funeral. Black is always correct. The official color of New York. So I do the black jeans. Mousse the hair, try to make it artfully messy. Unfortunately, my hair isn't wet enough and I wind up with artlessly messy hair. I look thirteen. On the other hand, do I care? Maybe playing the pathetic card—the King of Schlubs—will earn me a sympathy fuck?

Instead of coming over, she calls from the subway stop, tells me to meet her at the coffee bar. When I see her, I don't go in for the kiss. Neither does she. We hi each other. She has on thick woolen pants. Flannel shirt. A down sleeveless vest. Knit cap. She's practical. And practically a lumberjack.

We sit in the corner so I can stare at Cafe Frog behind her and think about the times I took Julia there.

This seems pretty civilized. She takes off her pea coat and she's wearing a loose khaki sweater covered by a sleeveless fleece vest seemingly calculated to rob her figure of any feminine connotations.

We sip hot chocolate. Too sweet. It's like molten Hershey bars poured into a glass of hot Quik, with chocolate sprinkles. I don't want to finish it. On the other hand, it's expensive: yes, you can pay $4.50 for a cup of cocoa in this town. I can picture my mom sitting there next to me going, “Why did you order it if you didn't want it?” I make myself drink it. To shut up my mom.

I tell a story about the Toad.

“So I was asking him, when do you think the love-in for the fire department is going to end? And he says, ‘Probably when they figure out that they're the ones who stole all those Tourneau watches from the mall under the trade center.' ”

Liesl makes a sour face. “Why would it be the firefighters?” she says.

“It had to be them, or the other emergency workers,” I say. “Everyone else evacuated the building. They were, y'know,
fleeing
? For their lives? And then security blocked off the area. No one got in after that.”

“Don't you think it was just regular criminals?”

“Why would anyone stop fleeing for their lives to hatchet their way through inch-thick windows to take some watches?” I said.

“I don't think criminals are very smart,” she says.

“But criminals wouldn't have had time to get there,” I say. “The building was full of ordinary office workers running for their lives.”

“Well,
some
of them were probably criminals,” she says, her brow darkening.

“Who forgot to bring their crime axes to work that day,” I say.

She glares. The cocoa is in motion in my guts.

“Never mind,” I say.

Our appetizers arrive. She takes a bite. When she looks up, she looks different.

“Your eyes are all shiny,” I say.

“I was thinking, when I was sleeping in the desert in Utah,” she says, “we don't have much in common. Which we've discussed.”

“Hmm,” I say.

“What do you think we have in common?” she says.

Apart from sex, nothing. On the other hand, why deprive yourself of sex just because you think the other person is a bore?

“Not much, I guess.” The manboy manual is quite clear on this case: time to sulk. But simultaneously act as if you don't care.

“And your cynicism really bothers me,” she says.

Can you ever really be too cynical? I mean, look around.

“And I feel you look down on my lifestyle,” she says.

I shudder involuntarily, thinking about her apartment. The TV spastically blinking “CH 03” in the top right corner. The shower head hissing out one minute's worth of hot water. The tree-bark toilet paper. The muttering ruffians lurking at the bus stop outside her window. It's not her lifestyle I disapprove of. It's her borough.

“Check please,” I say.

“Do you think this is going anywhere?” she says.

“Not especially,” I say.

“I've been in other relationships that weren't going anywhere that lasted a long time,” she says. “I don't want to do it again.”

She did it. She got me. In a public place. She knows I'm not going to make a passionate argument in defense of continuing my apathy with her. She saw my torpor and raised me with inertia.

How did we get on this subject? She's moving to Düsseldorf next spring. Couldn't we have just let it drift until then? I've got holidays to deal with.

“Okay,” I say. And then she does an amazing thing. She
lets me pay.
I'm thinking, I'm spending the last five minutes I will ever spend with this person. I walk her to the subway on Central Park West.

“Safe trip home,” I say.

She smiles and kisses me. On the mouth. I give her shoulder blades a little rub. And she makes a big show of kissing me again. Lips on lips. As if to say…what? Who can figure out these girls?

“ 'Bye,” she says happily, and off she goes.

“ 'Bye.” I give a wave and turn around to delete her numbers from my cell phone.

I recalibrate my sex odometer, silently confessing to myself. Forgive me, Father, for I have not sinned enough. It's been eleven days since my last lay.

I had always thought the smallest fraction in existence was the
percentage of net worth Bill Gates spends on haircuts, but now I realize that an even smaller number is the chance that I will ever again unhook a bra without paying for the privilege.

So I hit speed dial 8.

“Heyyy!” Kate says. “Good to hear your voice! I thought you were mad at me. I haven't heard from you all week.”

“Gosh, you know,” I say, wincing. Gosh? This is my idea of how to speak to a Midwesterner? “Busy at work.”

“Possibly exculpatory,” she says. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Are you hungry?” I say.

“Let's just say,
arguendo
, that I am. Would you be up for sushi?”

“Um,” I say.

“Don't you like sushi?”

“Well,” I say. By what leap of faith do we suddenly trust raw fish just because it's served by stylish-looking people in a slick room, with a cute little designer lump of wasabi? If oily men in overalls named Zeke were serving it in roadside Texacos and calling it “raw just-kilt sea critters that by the way
we have not cooked in any way,
” would you eat it?

“How about eight o'clock at Sushi Zen?” she says.

“Um,” I say. “Cool?”

“Oh, but I can't stay out late,” she says. “I have to be in by ten to work on my torts.”

“That's okay,” I lie. Shit.

We hang up. I hit speed dial 7.

“It's Mr. Sunshine,” I say.

“Tom!” Bran says. “I never hear from you anymore.”

“I saw that piece on airport security you did. Fantastic.”

Actually this was sheer coincidence. While channel surfing one night, I came across a breathless TV news story on airport security, vaguely remembered she was working on same, and connected the dots. I watched for thirty seconds, got bored (“In fact, the FAA said
damning things about airport screening systems in this! 1999! Report!”), and switched to
Road Trip
.

“Did you really?” she is saying. “I am so proud of that piece. You have no idea how much work it took.”

“You have to tell me about it,” I say. “Can we go get a drink later? Say, around ten?”

“Yeah, okay,” she says. “I just have this source who's supposed to call me.”

“How about if I stop by later? I'll bring you some dessert.”

A confection from the Columbus Bakery won't cost more than four bucks. One drink is $5.50 at the Dublin House. Plus I am unlikely to be invited to knock boots with her at Dublin House.

I go home and, since I will be going out for sushi, eat a full meal. There's some hamburger in the fridge. I haven't eaten at home all week, so I give it a sniff: it smells. Not a good thing. But isn't this a bit unfair of me? It's a dead animal: will I smell this good a week or two after my demise? What should I expect? Anyway, I've had worse. And what is cooking for if not to kill germs? If I don't eat it, I will be conceding that when I bought the hamburger on Sunday, I was stupid not to freeze it. And I can't let myself be proven stupid. So I decide to eat semi-rancid meat. Just to make sure I kill the germs, though, I turn the flame up high on the frying pan. Which leaves me with a burger that is thoroughly charred on the outside, pink and cold on the inside. I do not discover this until after I take a bite, however. Ugh.

I put on my tight new sweater and paste my hair down with a petroleum-based substance and put on the good shoes and I'm ready to go. It's eight. I'm supposed to be at the sushi place at eight. It takes five minutes to walk there. Damn. I've got time to kill. So I sit down and waste fifteen minutes watching
Cops
as the hamburger and the chocolate and the flu/anthrax/breakup microbes reenact some of the world's wildest police chases in my guts.

When I walk in the sushi place, every table is full of happy Upper
West Siders. Kate is sitting at the front table. Coincidentally, so is Bran. They're smiling daggers at me. There are slimy piles of raw fish everywhere. Uh-oh.

Silently, I take a seat. Somebody should be banging a gavel.

“We already ordered,” Kate says.

“Let me explain,” I say. But my brain is not in service at this time. Try again later.

Luckily the two of them are not strapped for words.

“You are truly
sui generis
,” Kate says.

“That's Latin for asshole,” says Bran.

“I would have invited you,” I gurgle. “You said you were busy.”

“You double-booked us,” Kate says. “You are
so
busted.”

“You said you had to be home by ten,” I say. This evening, I am starting to think, was a good idea that doesn't quite work in practice. Like those hand dryers in the men's room.

“You wouldn't even know Kate if it weren't for me!” Bran says.

“I prefer to be called Katherine,” Kate says.

Bran ignores her. “And you were just going to go out with her behind my back?”

Katie-Kate-Katherine and I lob looks at each other. How much does Bran know?

“What?” says Bran. “What does that look mean?”

“Is that a California roll?” I say. “Yum!”

Kate looks guilty.

“After what happened between you and I?” Bran says.

In my stomach it's like the KKK and the NAACP accidentally booked the same dance club for their fall fund-raiser.

“Actually, I think it's correct to say, ‘Between you and me,' ” I say, throwing up a smoke bomb of grammar. Which fails utterly to distract anyone.

“What happened?” Now Kate's defensive.

“Tom and I had a thing,” Bran says.

“I wouldn't call it a thing,” I say. “Thing
let
, thing
y
,” I say.

“You guys had a thing and neither of you told me?” Kate says. “You're joint tortfeasors!”

“I can't talk,” I say. “Mouth full.” I pop a California roll in my mouth. Yup: it tastes the same as ever. Like wet uncooked sea rodent.

“Don't change the subject,” Bran says. “I'm going to the bathroom and when I come back, you
will
talk.”

Kate and I look at each other while she's gone.

“You don't look good,” she says.

“I think I have the flu,” I say. “You know: that disease with anthraxlike symptoms?”

“I'm disappointed in you, Tom,” she says.

How do you explain to women what it's like to be a guy? For them, picking out a mate is like picking out a bra. Is it sexy? Is it a good fit? Will it support me? If they don't find the right one, they keep looking. They don't care if they get a bra today. They can try Bloomingdale's next week.

For a guy, though, looking for a girl is like sitting down in a restaurant with your throbbing hunger. You look at every entrée and wonder, is it tasty? Will it go down easy? You want steak, but if they don't have one, you'll settle for a hamburger. You'll settle for sushi, even. Why do men cheat, even if they've got a beautiful girlfriend? Who wants sirloin every night?

But in the real world you can't count on a girl to show up on a plate just because you want her. The sexateria is more like a diner in Moscow in 1965. You order the steak
and
the hamburger
and
the sushi because chances are they might be out of something. They might be out of everything. The main thing is, you have to eat or die.

The sushi and the overworked simile jump into my guts as my
tummy cycle switches from Tumble to Agitate. As for my mouth, it's in Spin.