Spooning (44 page)

“Oh that's it? Yeah sure, why not? I'm in!” Tara said nonchalantly as she waddled toward her bedroom, toes up. That was easy. One down, two more to go.

“Me too,” Macie said, raising her hand in the air. “I'm not going anywhere. Sure I'd like to live in Moscow or London where it's not so fricking hot, but I think I'm here for the long
haul.” She sighed like a true NYer in training. “Call me a romantic at heart.”

Okay, two down, one more to go. This was going better than I had thought.

“I'm out,” Syd said softly, her eyes never leaving Matt LeBlanc's face on the TV screen.

“
Whattttt
?” Tara came running out of her room, toe dividers left in the dust. “You're out? What the hell are you talking about, Syd? Where are you going?”

“Well, I've been meaning to tell you guys. It's just that I've been busy and all,” she said alluding to her many hours spent hawking hair. I turned off the TV and stood smack dab in front of it in order to get her undivided attention.

“Is it something one of us did? Are you mad at us? Are you going to live with someone else? What's the deal, Syd? Come on.” My mind was racing to pinpoint an exact moment this past year that would have prompted Syd to make such a drastic decision. She was kind of kooky, but after living with her, we had come to accept her off-center behavior.

“It's nothing to do with any of you guys. It's just that, well, I think Juan and I are going to make a go of it.” She got up and flipped the TV back on. She was acting so cool and calm as if she was telling nothing new.

“Juan? Juan who?” Tara demanded, jumping into attack mode.

“We don't know any Juan, Syd,” Macie chimed in with a perplexed look on her face.

“Yes you do,” she replied. “You pass by him almost every day.”

We all stood there with mouths open. It couldn't be. Could it? Did she mean Juan the doorman? Next-door Juan? We all stared at her waiting for an answer. She was grinning from
ear-to-ear like the Cheshire cat. Then she burst out laughing like a giddy schoolgirl. It was clear that she had been keeping this secret for a long time and was relieved to let the cat out of the bag.

“Uh, okay, Syd,” I ventured. “So where are you going and what are you and Juan going to do?” I was in complete shock. Partly because of Juan—but partly because the circle was being broken and one of our girls was leaving.

“Well, um, I've been dying to tell you guys,” she said shyly. “Obviously you know how he and I met. White gloves and all. So one day I was walking by and I said hello as usual and he stopped me. He said that he'd been meaning to ask me something and I thought he was going to ask me if I sold guy hair extensions, which I do, or whether he should drink Coke or Diet Coke.” Sydney had an obsession about which was health- ier—calories or fake sugar. Random? Yes. Syd? Absolutely.

“But was I way off. He asked me if I liked to dance! Do I like to dance? Silly little boy, I thought. One word: Rico.” Memories of her convulsing body bathed in the pink neon lights at the club flashed before my eyes.

“At first I was totally turned off. He is, or should I say was, a doorman. But seeing that there were no men knocking on my welcome mat, I said yes. And, oh my God, I'm so happy I did. He's fantastic! He's put the panache in my pooty!” She stood up and did a little salsa step and twirled around like a clumsy ballerina. “Oh and by the way, he's twenty-seven years old. Gotta love an older man.” We all sat there silent and in shock, but one thing was for sure, we could tell that she was happy. Better yet, we could tell that she was in love.

Syd continued to dish about her romance with Juan, leaving no detail untold—from their salsa classes every Wednesday
night in the East Village to going to his family's Sunday night dinners in the Bronx. They were moving out to Los Angeles to try to dance professionally. Looking back, in addition to her mail-order dance move videos, Syd had always been totally into those PBS dance competitions that came on from time to time. Personally, I was always freaked out by the dancers, who wore way too much makeup and strategically placed sequins. Their outfits were just a tad too tight for my taste. I hadn't taken Syd for a ballroom kind of gal.

“And I do love surfing,” she added. “I have my old awards somewhere. Think of those LA beaches!” Syd? Surfing? I never knew there were any gnarly curls and riptides in Kansas.

“So we're heading out west next weekend. Road trip! Won't that be an adventure?”

“What, you're leaving next weekend?” Tears began to fill my eyes. And did she really think she could take a road trip without us? One of the baby chicks was leaving the nest and I couldn't handle it. Oh my God, I was turning into my mother. Countdown to Syd's departure: eight days—seven really if you subtracted today. Oh my God, I was turning into my father.

“LA? Whew …” I whistled.

“A true adventure. Think of the drama!” Tara was good at the glass-is-half-full stuff. “Think of the star sightings!”

“Don't forget that everyone drives convertibles,” added Macie.

“And boas are acceptable at any occasion!” reminded Tara.

“You can skateboard to work … even at age forty,” Macie offered.

“And those yummy fruit smoothies are just so dessert,” Tara added with a Valley girl accent. She stood up and gave Syd a big hug and kiss.

“When can we come visit?” Macie added and jumped in on the hug.

“Don't go too tofu on us,” I lamely commanded and wrapped my arms around the huddle.

T
he next day at work turned out to be as tumultuous as my home life. The Diva was on a rampage because the Fourth of July was only two days away and she had nixed our piece on how the nation celebrates. We had sent producers all over the country to film the grandest, most lavish, most quaint displays of patriotism. We had footage of veterans gazing at fireworks cracking into brilliant colors over the Washington Monument (this pre–Fourth of July fireworks display was paid for by the Diva of course); a Texan grill-off complete with the state's top chefs vying for the number one BBQ sauce (the Diva provided all the savory spices to kick the event into high gear); and antique fire engines filled with flag-waving families parading down a Main Street on Cape Cod (our garden editor had a friend who had this antique collection; of course the Diva paid for the much needed mechanical work to get the old puppies rolling). But when the Diva saw the rough edit, she flipped! The heavens shook, and the ground opened up.

“What, I mean,
what
is this? Is this what I asked for?”

Everyone stood in stunned silence.

“I asked for Americana! This isn't Americana! Do you think my viewers can relate to this?” I wanted to point out that much of what she did on her shows was far beyond her viewers' means. The average American couldn't afford half of the stuff she whipped up.

“Yes, Jane. You're right, Jane,” the horde of producers nodded.

“Do I have to do everything myself? I guess I do. Forget it. I'll deal with it!” she shouted. I couldn't imagine her manicured hands even pressing a rewind button, never mind redoing an entire piece.

“Yes, Jane. You're right, Jane,” Margaret echoed.

“Stopping yessing me, you idiots! Of course I'm right!”

“Jane, we were told that you wanted Americana, but we figured that meant you wanted the most pleasing images of how this great country is celebrated,” I began. She spun on me like a she-devil. When she realized that I was not one of her usual punching bags, she asked, “And you are?”

“Charlotte, Charlotte Brown,” I replied.

“She's just a PA,” Donna inserted. The Diva scowled in her direction.

“I know exactly who
this
PA is. Jennifer Lopez, flowers, right? Well,
this
PA has some gumption. Charlotte, this is not what I meant by Americana!” I could hear the anger begin to take her voice up another few octaves.

“What were you envisioning, Jane?” I asked. No one else had.

“I want Joe Six-pack who sets fire to his backyard on the Fourth of July with his homemade bombs. I want kissing cousins under the dock during dismal firework displays as a four instrument medley of patriotic songs blares from the broken speakers of an old boom box. I want the family mutt eating Nana's homemade pie (probably her last) as it cools on the windowsill. I want drooling retirees on their porch rockers. I want tipsy twenty-year-olds drinking boxed wine. I want trailer parks festooned with streamers. I want the true
Americana
!” For a woman known for her chair rails and precision picture hanging, this was a departure.

“Done,” I answered. Donna's mouth hung open. Yes, I was feeling empowered. Maybe Syd's decisive mood had influenced me. I wanted to be in the mix, not just on the fringes taking notes.

“Charlie, you are going to head up this piece,” the Diva replied.

“She's just a PA,” Margaret interjected. I frowned.

“Well, now she's an AP. She is now your Associate Producer, got it?” The Diva glared. I grinned. A quick reversal of letters and I had a complete reversal of fortune. Plus, she had called me Charlie! I was in. I turned and left her office determined to find the most “pedestrian” Fourth of July celebrations ever. Tipsy twenty-something-year-olds? Boxed wine? Why, I could start in my own backyard … or should I say on my own rooftop?

A
fter a few strategic phone calls to Ludlow, they relented and agreed to let
S&S
film a Fourth of July BBQ on our apart- ment's rooftop. The roof was flat and actually had old decking on it, but for some reason the management deemed it illegal for renters to enjoy the views. But mention the Diva's fine name, and add a payment for a location fee, and Ludlow was rolling over, bellies exposed. I shot out an Evite to everyone in my entire address book. We would make this celebration a grand ole event as well as a blowout farewell party for Syd. More bang for our nonexistent buck! You gotta love it.

The response was overwhelming. Friends RSVP'd in droves. A huge majority could attend—all but one: Dan the Man. And to top it off, he gave no explanation as to why not.

“I don't get it!” I wailed. “This is the perfect opportunity for us to get to know each other. Everyone will be having a fantabulous time, thanks in part to the Diva's food and drink allowance, so there will be no one-on-one pressure! Happy, happy, joy, joy! Right?”

“I don't know, Charlie. You two haven't been able to pull it together to meet for a while now. He invited, you accepted, but all you guys have been doing is talking on the phone and exchanging e-mails here and there. Maybe he's just not that into you?” suggested Macie.

“No!” I countered a little too forcefully. “We've just had scheduling issues—he's been traveling a lot for work. It's just that we've had such great conversations. Nothing too deep, but they're just so easy. Come on, Mace. Why couldn't Tara have hit the jackpot when she beelined for this guy in the middle of oncoming traffic? Why? Where is the universal law that says this can't work out?”

“I do have the magic touch in the love connection department,” Tara agreed.

As it turned out, there was a good reason why Dan the Man couldn't come to my big July Fourth celebration. When I arrived home from work that night, he had amended his e-mail
response to the Evite and explained in detail—to me as well as to the rest of the invitees—why he couldn't come.

“So he is into you,” Macie cheered after reading his response over my shoulder. “I take back everything I just said about Dan. He could be a total keeper.”