Man Camp (5 page)

“Essentially, as the producer, I’m the critical link between world events and you, the TV viewer. I get the news out,” Walter says, glancing down the bar. He smiles at the model beside Martha, assuming she might also be listening and, consequently, be impressed. “The tricky part is to avoid getting sidelined by all the fame and power. I have to remain clearheaded and objective at all times whether I’m talking to the secretary of state or Miss America.” He interlaces his fingers except for his pointers, which he aims at Martha. “You should check out my Web site:
www.walterpsherman.com
. It’s got some great stuff: Walter’s World, Walter’s News, Walter’s Contact Info.” He glances to see if the model is taking notice. She’s not.

Mental note: Delusions of grandeur.

“Will do,” Martha promises, wondering if Walter has
ever
had a second date.

His beeper sounds and Walter fumbles to remove it from his belt. “Excuse me,” he says, bringing the device up close to his face, where he studies its tiny screen and gravely reports seventeen missing in a plane crash in Montana, all presumed dead. He pauses for a moment, then adjusts the beeper to vibrate mode and snaps it smartly back into place on his belt. “Isn’t this a great spot?” he says, looking around, whistling as he exhales. “You’ve got to love how amazingly beautiful and stylish New York women are. I mean, there are more gorgeous women on one block in Soho than there are in the whole state of Kansas.”

Mental note: Never assume your date will enjoy admiring women as
much as you do.

“Are you from Kansas?” Martha asks, but Walter’s distracted by their teen-model waitress, braless in a peasant blouse, who takes them to their table, a linen-covered square crammed along the back wall less than six inches from the next table.

“My name’s Ashley,” the girl calls out over the rhythmic beat of some too-loud electronica. “What can I get you?” She takes their drink order and bends over to hand them menus, providing an unobstructed view down her blouse. “Let me know if you need anything else!”

“Will do, Ashley. Thanks,” says Walter. “Martha, would you mind switching seats? I prefer to observe the crowd. It’s how I stay sharp.”

Martha feels animosity welling up inside and reminds herself to be professional.
This is not a date, it’s a job, and you’ve been
hired to help
. She switches seats and watches Walter check out the happenings at Bellisima. His nose twitches. “What made you decide to try FirstDate?” she asks.

Walter smiles sheepishly. “Would you believe that
two
ex-girlfriends of mine saw your ad and called me?” He laughs. “They both said I was a horrendous first date. Obviously, they were in cahoots and it was some kind of joke, but I thought, Why not? I can use feedback as much as the next guy.”

“That’s very open-minded,” Martha says.

Ashley returns with their drinks: another thimble of Chardonnay for Martha and a seltzer with Rose’s lime juice for Walter.

“I like to be alert,” Walter says, gesturing to his nonalcoholic beverage.

“Very Bruce Wayne of you,” Martha says, picturing a cape and tights in her date’s briefcase.

“That’s a good one,” says Walter, grinning. “If I recall, Clark Kent was in the news business like me, wasn’t he? I can’t remember what Bruce Wayne did for work.”

“Not much, I think,” Martha says.

His beeper vibrates and Walter pounces on it, the small screen glowing with secret information.

“I’m afraid I have to respond to this, Batgirl,” he says. “It’ll just take a sec.” He goes in search of his BlackBerry and in the process pulls out a cell phone, a minirecorder, and a GameBoy. When he finds the BlackBerry, he thumbs out an e-mail and smiles as he hits SEND. “I think the world is safe again.”

Mental note: Stow the toys.

“Now, where were we?” he asks. “Ah. The newsroom . . .”

THURSDAY NIGHT — BOB MCCAB

“Do you like to test your limits?” These are Bob’s first words to Martha on the street outside Summit, which turns out not to be a restaurant, but a rock-climbing gym. “Why I warned you to dress casually,” he explains, standing beside his motorcycle, wearing old work boots, Levi’s, and a leather jacket.

Martha wonders if he’s trying to retrieve his youth or if he’s never grown up. He’s not great-looking but he’s sexy, with mussed hair, full lips, and a nose that has been broken at least once.

“I think doing something is the only
real
way to get to know someone,” he tells her. “Otherwise, it’s all just meaningless patter over lattes, right?”

Martha suspects that Bob has trouble getting
real.
She’s discovered that FirstDates are no different than regular dates in that people tend to reveal their issues within the first ten minutes— the trick is to pay attention. The beauty of FirstDate is that Martha doesn’t have to ignore these revelations in order to keep romantic hope alive. In fact, it’s her job not to.

She follows Bob into Summit and gazes up at the twenty-four-foot-high, pinkish gray wall, full of crags and dimples, stretching the length of the building. The wall folds back on itself in places, creating overhangs and cliffs so that thrill seekers can cling upside down for their full twenty-five bucks’ worth of near-death adrenaline.

A Summit teacher hands them harnesses and recites a two-minute lecture on the rules.

“What do you think?” Bob asks.

“Great,” Martha says, though she feels the opposite.

“I love your attitude!” Bob helps her on with the gear, securing it across her backside with a pat on her butt. “Now, the most important thing is to be one with the wall,” he says in an authoritative voice. With his feet turned out duck-style, he demonstrates how to find footings and holds, and scrambles up a few feet without safety gear. A Summit “ranger” orders him down. Bob’s look says,
Get a life.

“Remember, don’t look down,” he tells Martha. “Ready?”

“I guess.”

As if sensing her trepidation, he starts to encourage her. “This is going to be great!” he says. “You can do it!” And, “Go for the gusto!”

Mental note: Avoid clichés and quoting beer ads.

Martha wonders if this pep talk is for her or for him. Or if he just likes the sound of his own voice.

Then Bob mentions that his ex-girlfriend, Beth, wasn’t a risk-taker and that led to their breakup. “My philosophy is to seize the day. Carpe diem and all that!”

As she approaches the wall, Martha remembers the rest of that saying:
Carpe diem . . . quam minimum credula postero.
“Put no trust in tomorrow.”
That’s reassuring,
she thinks, reaching for the lowest grips, her heart racing. She tries to calm herself by taking a few deep breaths. Why did she just sign a paper relieving Summit of any responsibility for accidental injury or death?

When she’s almost twenty feet up, feeling for the grips with her eyes closed, it occurs to her that at thirty-seven, she shouldn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to do on a date, let alone be suspended in a harness answering get-to-know-you questions. “I’ve had enough,” she calls down and releases her grip on the wall, trusting Bob not to let her fall.

“Awesome!” he says. “The first time is always the scariest.”

Martha says a silent Hail Mary and unfastens her rig. “That was actually my last time.”

Bob turns his palms upward. “Teachers only open doors, students must enter alone.”

Whatever,
Martha thinks, deciding to break her own rule and take charge of the date. “How about some meaningless patter over lattes?”

“That’d be cool, I guess.” He suggests a French café around the corner that has wonderful crêpes and coffee. On the walk over, he tells her he is a screenwriter and some of his best work has been done at this café. “Beth thinks the service is slow, but I like that it’s so authentically French.”

Mental note: Don’t talk so much about your ex-girlfriend.

The café is slightly dingy, more like someone’s living room than a restaurant, and the two surly waiters don’t seem happy to have guests. Martha and Bob sit in the corner on a frayed love seat where she squints to read the blackboard menu on the opposite wall. She orders a cappuccino and a
crêpe fromage
and Bob asks for “the usual,” black coffee.

“You’re not eating?”

“You know what Hemingway said of Cézanne’s pears?” Bob asks. “That they’re more beautiful on an empty stomach.” He’s quiet for a moment. “That’s how I want to live my life— appreciating the beauty around me. If it means skipping a meal or two to make the next taste better, so what? Of course, Beth thinks it’s because I’m cheap, but she just doesn’t get it.”

“Exactly how recent is your breakup?” Martha asks.

Bob leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. “If I were to be cynical, I’d say, ‘Which one?’ The truth is, we’ve been together on and off for ten years, but our most recent breakup seems more permanent. Beth’s changed since her promotion. Suddenly, she wants all this bourgeois crap: a two-bedroom apartment, a summer rental, security, blah, blah, blah. And she wants me to give up my dreams and go corporate, too. We just don’t fit anymore, like a donkey’s lips don’t fit onto a horse’s mouth.”

Martha cocks her head.

“Ancient Chinese expression.”

The waiter places their coffees on the table with a bored “Voilà.”

“Simply put, we’re too different. I like to live large,” he continues, opening his arms expansively. “When I die I want my friends to think, ‘Now there’s a guy who knew how to live.’ ”

Martha smiles behind the foam of her cappuccino.

“Anyway, I need to get back in the dating circuit, that’s all there is to it,” he says. “Beth says no woman will want a thirty-eight-year-old man with no prospects, but I say not all women are so superficial. Besides, I’ll have the last laugh when my movie’s made.”

“Don’t you think it might be a good idea to wait a little between relationships?” Martha asks, recalling her own experiences in the rebound department.

“Naw, I’m ready,” Bob says, pulling a thread on the sofa. “I need someone new, someone with positive energy.”

FRIDAY NIGHT — HANNIBAL

Martha is happy to stay at home with Hannibal on Valentine’s Day. It’s never been a favorite holiday of hers. Her best Valentine’s Day ever was spent with Lucy at Madison Square Garden watching the Westminster Dog Show, where they drank cheap champagne served in plastic heart-shaped glasses and remarked on the phenomenon of the tinier the dog, the bigger the walker. Her worst Valentine’s Days have been spent in red dresses with men she wished she loved.

This year she rents
Shop Around the Corner,
gives herself a pedicure, orders in sushi (which she shares with Hannibal), and hopes Lucy’s romantic weekend is going well.

SATURDAY NIGHT — ALLEN SANDERS

Allen is young and vulnerable and nervous, and Martha has never wanted to help a client more. His face is sweet, lean, and freckled, with bashful brown eyes, and he has the kind of curly blond hair you find on little boys at the beach.

“Is this place okay?” he asks.

They’re sitting across from each other on high stools at a round table in a lively microbrewery in the Flatiron District.

“It’s perfect,” says Martha, happy after her rock-climbing date just to be in a restaurant. She looks at the beer menu. “What sounds better to you: Bavarian Weizen or Oatmeal Stout?”

“You’re sure you wouldn’t prefer Thai or sushi? Maybe a steak house?” Allen asks. “I made reservations at three other places.”

“Honestly, this is great. I’m totally happy.” Martha orders a stout and eases into her FirstDate questions. “What would you say is your main dating issue?” she asks.

“Confidence,” he says, his hands in constant fluttery motion. “My mom says I came out of the womb shy.”

Mental note: Avoid mention of your mother’s womb at all costs.

“How do you typically feel when you are on a date?” Martha continues.

Allen thinks for a moment, trying to quiet his hands by placing them on the table, one on top of the other. “Nervous,” he says. “Always sure that my date would prefer to be doing something else, with someone else.”

Martha can relate to confidence problems, having navigated much of her dating life in character, imitating women she imagined men would want to date. During her teen years, she rotated from one Charlie’s Angel to the next, knowing every boy had at least one poster of them over his bed. In her twenties, she tried everyone from Madonna to Cindy Crawford to Julia Roberts. Now, her fallbacks include Miranda from
Sex and the
City
and Catherine Zeta-Jones. If a date goes poorly, being in character somehow makes her feel as if someone else has been rejected.

Martha looks across the table at sweet Allen; she hitches up her skirt and crosses her legs. Tonight, she feels a bit like Mrs. Robinson.

Their beers arrive in tall, frosted steins and Allen’s long fingers drum the table.

“Tell me what it’s like to be a chef,” she says, knowing she’s helping him along more than she should.

“Well, I still have one semester to go, but I love it,” Allen says, visibly relaxing as he describes what it’s like to roll pastry, whisk sauces, knead bread. Using his hands as spatulas, he demonstrates how he made a chocolate mousse that afternoon, folding imaginary egg whites into a dense chocolate sauce. “It was sublime,” he says, closing his eyes. His hands circle and fold and circle and fold, until the tips of his fingers collide with the rim of Martha’s glass, and the beer stein teeters precariously before tumbling toward her.

“Yikes,” Martha yelps as it splashes down her front and onto her skirt.

Allen leaps up. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” He uses his napkin to sop up the beer with awkward pats to Martha’s lap. “I’m so, so sorry!”

“Don’t worry,” Martha says, drenched. “It’s just a little beer.”

A waitress rushes over with extra napkins, and a busboy toting a mop takes care of the rest. Martha excuses herself to the bathroom to clean up. When she returns, two new glasses of beer are on the table.