Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir (30 page)

Instead of putting metal around my lovely wares, I needed to take preventative measures, like keeping the number of the guy that mattered out of the cell phone to avoid a “morning-after disaster.” But Stephen wasn’t
that
guy. He was my friend. Why was I even calling Stephen?

I tried phoning him again. It was 3:20
A.M
.

“Stephen?” His hello was a sleeping one. “I know it’s late, but I’d like to ask you something.”

“Okay…”

“Do you still like me?” Alcohol brings out the middle school in me.

“Who is this?” I panicked. What the fuck? Who is this? “Stephanie,” I responded in a small tentative voice.

“I’m kidding. Stephanie, I’ve never stopped, but there’s only—”

“Okay, so will you go out on a date with me tomorrow?” I sounded like a seventeen-year-old boy. I didn’t care.

“You’re calling me now to ask me this? Didn’t we just have drinks together two nights ago? Wasn’t that a date?” He was awake now.

“No, that wasn’t a date. It was a nondate.”

Stephen knew my theory on nondates: how men ask unavailable women out for a nondate hoping to change her mind. She’ll go home hoping to awake with a voice mail asking for the next time he can
not
take her out. And if it doesn’t come until two days later, she’ll want to see him again, just to learn why he’s the type of guy who waits two days.

It’s extremes. I’d tried both. I’d gone months without dating, focusing on self-help books, my photography, friends, just enjoying myself without any anxiety. It was easier to be alone, not dating, with the thoughts of a “someday when I least expect it he’ll show up” keeping me warm. That way, I wasn’t frantic, I wasn’t on the watch. I could breathe and realize life doesn’t revolve around one person of the opposite sex. Then I could go back to my self-help book. That way, though, I was hiding. Just as I’d advised Smelly with Dude Ranch Boy, if someone says they don’t date, it means they’re not ready. When I wasn’t dating, I didn’t have to get hurt. There was no vulnerable in my vocabulary and no fear of failure. I didn’t even go there. You can’t win the game if your cards stay in your pocket.

“Stephen, I want a real date.”

“Okay, you’re insane. You know that, right?” I imagined he was now sitting upright. “We
have
been dating. We’ve been dating for months. I don’t care what you want to call it. We have talked every single day since January, have we not? January! We go to dinner, parties, movies. You even shared your nasty movie nachos with me, and I know what a big deal that is for you. We spend the day together, like the whole day, from brunch to dinner, don’t we?”

“Yeah.” An unconscious smile slipped across my face.

“Frickin’ right, yeah! So now you want to call me in the middle of the night and declare that you now want it to be dating instead of nondating, is that what I’m hearing?” I didn’t want to say “Yeah” again. “Stephanie,” he lowered his voice, “you can call it whatever you want.” We were both quiet. “As long as it means I get to see more of YOU, okay?”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I did a little of both, then argued, “My point, Stephen—”

“Oh, boy, let’s hear this!” He laughed.

“If you’d let me speak, my point is, I want to get closer to you and spend more frickin’ time with you.” I was yelling. “I want to really do this.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes!”

“Well, quit being a brat about it, and do something.” Did he want me to come over? “That’s right. And as far as I’m concerned, I think it’s about time we step things up. We should do something special on this so-called
non
nondate of ours, don’t you think?”

I thought for a moment, wondering if I’d really succumb to sadomasochism. We’d already photographed the city together, done restaurants, sporting events, musicals. What else was there? I knew he had a plan. “Okay,” I hesitated, waiting to hear what it was.

“Good.” He clapped. “So how does a ride out to Queens and an afternoon at the cemetery grab you?” I wasn’t the crazy one. “Stephanie, I told you tomorrow I have to attend my grandmother’s interment.” Tournament? “An interment is when we bury her ashes in the same plot as her husband.” Oy. “Stephanie, it’s not a big deal at all. I didn’t even know her, and it will be very small. Besides, you’ll get to meet my family, and that’s really the point.” Yeah, okay, words
so
not to say to Stephanie: Meet. My. Family.

“Um…”

“Oh, come on. Don’t
um
me. Just do it.”

“Um, the thing is, yes. I want to go,” I said, as if it just occurred to me. “I want to meet them.” Besides, if there’s ever a good time to meet any man’s family, it’s when the focus is not on you. This would work—they’d already be mourning.

The next morning, Stephen began our day on a sarcastic note.

“I love how you’re always late,” he said, while holding his car door open for me.

“Yes, I know you do, especially when I look this good doing it.” I was being facetious right back. I looked like ass. It was the brumous frizz weather, the perfect bleak backdrop for a day at the plots.

He stared at me and lingered near the door before closing it. “Stephanie, you gotta know how beautiful you are.” In the past, I hated when people said this.
You must know
, as if it’s math. What the hell? In comparison to what? Some days, sure; others; stomach bloat, a new pimple that hurts, and fat that’s nearly crippling. Beautiful isn’t a town with its own train station; it’s a voyage. How would I even answer that?

“Yes, I do know.” Then a teasing smile peeped out. “I mean, thank you, Stephen.” Then the worst bit followed: Stephanie Klein giggled. Oh, dear God! My smile faded a little when he looked at me. I was shy about letting him see how happy I was.

“You’re welcome, Stephanie,” he whined back with the
I know you are but what am I?
tone. Once he was in the car, he kissed me on the nose.

“At what age do you start reading the obituaries?” I asked without waiting for an answer. “I swear I’d be clueless about who died without my father. He reads them every day on the toilet.”

“Yeah, well, when you get up there in age, they start dropping, so you pay attention.”

“When did your grandmother actually die?” This wasn’t a funeral but an interment.

“A year ago, but I didn’t have to read about it in the obits. She was sick for a long time.”

I remember when I learned Gabe’s grandmother had died. We were no longer married. My father had called to tell me he’d read it in the paper. It was a strange feeling, knowing his family so intimately, yet being so estranged. As much as I hated Gabe at times, I still had a life with him. I picked up his socks, petted his head when he was sick, traveled with him, borrowed his ties for belts, slept in his shirts, shared a toothbrush from time to time, definitely his razor, and I loved him very much. We had a full, real life together. His grandmother was always kind to me, but I didn’t belong at the funeral. Not one impulse in my body told me to go. It wasn’t my life anymore. I was no longer a comfort to any of them, and I didn’t want to be. I knew Gabe didn’t need my comfort, and I wasn’t sure I could even give it. I was surprised that I cared. I guess I still love Gabe, but I also hate him for his venal recklessness.

“Stephen, relationships should have obituaries, so everyone knows what happened in a succinct line or two.”

“Where’d that come from?”

“I dunno. Wanna know what I do know? I’m totally screwed when I die.”

“How’s that?”

“We’ve got no more land in my family. I mean, the Kleins, all their space is taken and accounted for. I have to find my own family to get buried with.” I wanted to grip the words from the air and swallow them quickly. What the fuck was I saying?

“I tell you what. On our first wedding anniversary, my gift to you will be burial plots together.”

“So that’s our first anniversary, ya? Hmm. Not exactly paper, now, is it? And not exactly uplifting.”

“Well, neither is a first
non
nondate at a gravesite, but what the hell, Red.”

He called me Red. If I were standing, I would have swooned.

HIS MOTHER HUGGED ME UPON SIGHT. “STEPHANIE, I’M
so glad you could come today.” She smelled of scented candles and pencil shavings. “It’s just so nice to meet you.” She was warm and hugged like she meant it. Quiet hellos were exchanged with his father, Paul, and sister, Ilyse, in the parking lot before we all made our way to the funeral plot. The ashes of Stephen’s grandmother had been FedExed to his father’s office. Not exactly theater tickets or a new corduroy blazer from J. Crew. “Hey, this is the business of death. It’s part of life, just as much as anything else,” Stephen’s father said while holding the white cardboard box with both hands. I expected him to scatter the ashes, a sprinkling on a bush or tree. Dramatic movements, a story about her last wishes. Instead, he looked at the box, mentioned something about health-code violations, and nodded his head as if to say, what’s done is done, then put the box in the hole, a square peg in a round hole. “Okay, we’re done.” He wiped his hands on his thighs.

“Shouldn’t we, I don’t know, say something?” Stephen replied to his father.

“Look, I said my good-byes to her a long time ago. Nothing is permanent. We hold onto what we can, when we can. That’s it. We try to cherish our family while we can, but then that’s it. Permanence doesn’t exist until you’re dead.”

We took a moment of silence. I watched the grave diggers watch us, looked at the sky and the impending silver threat of a storm. Then I looked at Stephen, who was looking down at the hole in the ground. He noticed I was looking at him and squeezed my hand. I looked down, too. Was that right? Wait a minute. Was I seeing things? Right there, carved into the stone at our feet were our names. STEPHEN & STEPHANIE. Paul’s parents were Stephen and Stephanie, too—the exact spelling, right down to the ph’s.

We were at an ending with a new beginning.

ALL OF US MADE OUR WAY BACK TO THE PARKING LOT IN
silence, then hugged and kissed our good-byes with promises of again and soon.

Once Stephen and I were behind the closed doors of his car, he turned off the radio.

“Stephanie,” he said, “that was really freaky, you know?”

“I know. I mean we were just talking about it on the ride here.”

“Not that I need a sign, Stephanie—you know I KNOW you’re the one—but damn if I did, that had to be it.” He grabbed my hand and rubbed it with his thumb while his eyes turned glassy. “I am so head over heels crazy about you.” I smiled back and pulled a stray tear off my cheek with the back of my hand. I believed it was a sign, too. Even if it weren’t, the fact that we both wanted to believe it was a sign said enough. We drove the rest of the way back to Manhattan listening to Rhett Miller, holding hands.

“I really liked meeting your family, Stephen,” I said as we pulled up to my apartment building. “They are such warm people.”

“And I’m sure they liked you too. But you know, even if they couldn’t stand you, which is hardly possible, I’d still love to argue with you.” He kissed me quickly on the lips, then smiled. “Okay, Red, I’m off to the gym. I will talk to you later and see what you’re in the mood for. Maybe you’ll let me play the guitar for you?”

“You so want to get laid.” I kissed him and skipped into my apartment lobby. Skipped!

I ARRIVED HOME TO THE NOTORIOUS D.O.G., AND I REALIZED
, I am happy with my life. “Do you know, baby, that it would be okay if it were just us? Go lick my blister. Go on, right there. Yeah, that’s my good moo shoo.” This is still my life—my coming home to my furkid, curled into a comma, ears pinned back, going to town on my blisters, healing them with his magical canine saliva. It hurt but felt strangely like it was working.

I always believed the best medicines hurt. I used to pour the brown bottle of fizz on my open wounds, despite being told not to apply hydrogen peroxide directly. If it hurt, it meant it was working. When I have a sore throat, I drink grapefruit juice. If it stings, it’s healing something. Of course, intellectually I know none of this is true, but it feels true.

When Linus finished licking my salty wounds, he climbed onto my stomach and looked up at me. “It really would be okay, you know, if it ended with just us, Linus.” It won’t, but it’s nice to know that I’d still be okay if it did.

I’m perfectly satiated living with my dog, photographing, and storytelling, coming home to those ears and that FACE. Linus looked like an old man, and for a moment, I was certain he was about to either say something profound or tell me the secret ingredient of his famous baked bean recipe. Instead, he pawed at me, indicating he wanted more love.

Even if there weren’t a man across time or town waiting for me to meet up with him, I’d still be happy. I feel fulfilled, as if someone just irrigated my wounds and kissed me where it hurt.

I got hungry and decided to grab a lamburger at my local watering hole Compass, journal in tow. I frequent there for the Parmesan bread-sticks and first-date watching. It’s the kind of place that caters to “new.” Rutilant light casts a soft glow over faces meeting for the first time. The bar area is staffed with small, round candlelit tables and polite, unobtrusive service. It’s always just empty enough where it’s not dead or congested. I dipped into a seat along the red banquette wall, beside a couple clearly in the newer stages of dating each other. A hobbit of a man with a birthmark below his jaw that resembled a molar spoke quickly and seemed rushed, fidgeting with his cuffs, removing bits of lint from his blazer lapel. He struck me as the type of man who, in the spirit of efficiency, folded his pizza slices before eating them.

When he began to order their fries well done, he stopped himself, asking his date, “do you mind?” In the next beat, he mentioned his ex-girlfriend while huffing clouds of breath onto his metal-framed eyeglasses. I watched for her reaction, expecting her knee to bounce beneath the table, for her to cross her arms, to withdraw. Instead, she smiled warmly, touched his hand, and offered, “Would you like to try some of my soup?” She fed him from her spoon.