The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (5 page)

“She knows that,” says Krista, patting her purse to show me she found the lipstick. “I’m Krista,” she says. “You look sort of familiar.”

“DOWN. We sort of kind of met. I’m Josh,” he says. “So . . .” he pauses. “How do you two know each other?”

“Work,” says Krista. “Consumer PR.”

“Cool,” he says. “We once hired a small firm, but my father thought we’d be better off just advertising.”

“He should meet my dad,” I say, amazed Josh gets it.

“Maybe he will.” He winks. “What made you ladies decide to pitch to the other team?”

On second thought, maybe he doesn’t.

“You mean get into PR instead of advertising?” I ask.

Josh and Krista laugh.

“You’re sweet,” says Josh of me. “So naive.”

I look up because I know there’s a joke hovering over my head. I glance at Krista. What am I missing?

“Well, first I thought it’d just be fun, then I really wondered, but I can tell the fit is working for me,” Krista tells Josh. “Also, living in New York, I’ve been more exposed to Judaism than in Rhode Island, so . . . I’m not there yet, but . . . I really like it.”

“Guess you can always appreciate something more from the outside, huh?” Josh says to me.

“Well, Aimee’s family is partially responsible for—”

“Encouraging Krista to be open to new things,” I finish for her. Uh-oh. I think I get the joke. And I hope it’s not on me. “We had a big discussion about Judaism last year around Easter,” I say, remembering we talked about this when Krista came to my family’s seder.

“Passover,” Krista tries to correct.

“Oh, yes. The two holidays are closely connected,” I quickly counter.

“So your family has a big Easter dinner,” says Josh. His comment justifies my suspicion. “That sounds supernice.”

“
My
family always does a nice Easter,” says Krista. “Aimee’s family—”

“I think Josh was talking to
me.”

“Whatever.” Josh doesn’t want to ruffle anybody’s feathers. “Figure you both have nice holidays. Easter and Christmas. All of that.”

It all comes together; it’s been unspoken all night. When I catch Krista’s eye, the look between us says it all. But it’s so wild, I have to say it. Josh thinks I’m a shiksa. Like her. I give him my best winning smile, because in a moment he’ll find out I’m not. And for the first time in my life, I’m afraid what knowing that will do.

“I grew up in Hewlett. Long Giland.” Josh mispronounces
Long Island
on purpose, choosing to say it in that very New Yawk way. “You’re Rhode Island?”

“Providence,” says Krista. “But Aimee here has really traveled far. From the Upper We—”

“Western part,” I cut Krista off, “of . . . Pennsylvania,” I say. “Ummm . . . Scranton,” I finish. Scranton, the first shiksasounding city that comes to mind.

“Isn’t that northeast?” asks Josh.

“It is. It’s upper east. No. Upper north. East. Did I say west? I mean east.” So nervous, I giggle again. “I get so confused.”

“God, you’re cute.” Josh keeps those grins coming. “Nice country out there,” he says. “You look like a country girl.”

If I could turn to Krista and stick out my tongue, I would. So there. She’s not the only shiksa who can get dates with decent Jewish guys. There’s also me!

What???

“ Ai-mee.” Krista looks at me in disbelief. “You mean you’re not going to tell Josh—”

“That I was head cheerleader at my high school in Scranton?”

Hah! You just mind your P’s and Q’s, I think, when I look at my friend and smile like the cute, polite shiksa I’m mistaken for. Krista should consider herself lucky because what I really want to do is puff up with my New Yawkese chutzpah and scream, “Hey. Yo. Butt out.”

“I always wanted to date a cheerleader,” says Josh.

I bat my eyes. “I was a ballerina too.”

Krista makes an excuse and bails. “Meet you in front in five.”

“What’s with her?” asks Josh.

“Oh nothing,” I purr. “I think she has her friend,” I whisper.

Yikes. What am I doing? Krista is right. I need to stop. I am handing Josh my business card and giving my home number. It’s not too late. I can tell him now. He checks his BlackBerry. He’s free next weekend. I can tell him then.

Michael Cohen’s wife darts through my mind. I can tell him the week after. I think of Heather. Of Nancy. Or maybe the week after that.

“Can’t wait,” he says when the date is in the bag. “I’m so glad we met.”

Josh goes to shake my hand but pulls me forward and gives me the softest, sweetest kiss on my cheek. I think of Stefi, Selina. And then I think of
Yentl.
I think it’s best I wait until the week just after never.

W
ith
S
ix
Y
ou
G
et
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ggroll

T
HE LAMB RIBS ARE INCREDIBLE
,” says Josh. He looks great, wearing a gray V-neck sweater under that same black jacket. “Let’s get one of those. And . . .” He practically devours the menu. “You like shrimp? Crab? The lobster pancakes are excellent.”

I’ve never been here before, but menupages.com rates it $$$$$. Each dish is about twenty dollars, except for the lobster pancakes, which, at market price, are even more. And these are just the appetizers. China Grill is one coveted reservation. A hot place to be and a hard place to get into. Especially on a Saturday night.

Josh called early in the day to confirm: “Aimee Albert. How’s the cutest little redhead this side of the Hudson? Made a reservation for tonight. China Grill, 8:45. Thought I’d swing by and get you before. Call me on my cell: 917–555–2639. Josh.”

That turned out to be a good thing because when I got his message, a couple of things became clear. First, my hair. The color is still good. I’m told I will soon find out just how much it takes to maintain red, but I’m already finding out what it takes to maintain straight over curly. My local salon was booked solid, so I had to wait forever as a walk-in for a wash, blow-dry, and flat iron. Though if I can do it every three days, I think I’ll be okay.

Next I had to go back to Eye Guys and order more green lenses. If Josh and I fall in love, I may remain a shiksa but skip the contacts and just go back to glasses. Then I met up with Krista back in my hood for a manicure/pedicure. Our conversation over toes painted
Chocolate Kisses
made it apparent my closet does not reflect the sweet, petite I am pretending to be.

“They all sound great,” I tell Josh of the appetizers. Knowing there will also be entrées, I worry now about eating so much food. “You choose. Whatever you want works for me.”

“Let’s go for the lobster,” he says.

“Perfect.” I smile. “I love lobster anything.”

“See, I bet you
other
women would have just wanted that one because it’s the most expensive,” he says. “But you’re really considerate. I appreciate that.”

I smile to show how considerate I am, considering my more than acquaintanceship with the
other
(I’m guessing Jewish) women. I know, for a fact, that this
other
would have also encouraged Josh to get whatever he wanted. Yet from her it would not have been appreciated.

What I can appreciate is the power of brand building. Don’t let anyone ever tell you first impressions aren’t everything. See, your brand stands for something to your customers. They can relate to who you are because somehow you’ve created a connection with their soul. And you can control that perception.

“A bottle of wine?” asks Josh. “Or . . . I know. I bet you want a mixed drink. Vodka tonic, maybe?”

Why did he have to mention Krista’s drink? Oy. I feel like there’s a shiksa code and I haven’t read the handbook. With nothing to wear, Krista took me shopping. She, too, was more than impressed with China Grill, only wanting to know if Josh was able to get the reservation for tonight today.

“Try this.” Her pink manicured hand slipped through the door of the fitting room to hand me a pale green cashmere cardigan.

I looked at the label. “What’s P/S?”

“Petite/Small. And over that cream-colored cami,” she called behind, as her heels click-clicked back to the sales floor at Ann Taylor LOFT. I often pass it, just blocks from my apartment on Eighty-seventh Street, but never go in. Being there with Krista was like having my own personal shopper.

Unbuttoning the little cardigan, I slipped my arms through the soft three-quarter-length sleeves. Petite/Small. I’m withering away. I was so nervous about being a fake, I’d eaten less all week feeling happy about my upcoming date with Josh than when I was just legitimately sad about the breakup with Peter.

“Do you have pearls? And a headband?” she asked later, back at my apartment when I tried on Spring Shiksa to model. We looked at all the same racks, but Krista pulled items I didn’t see. It’s not that I don’t buy nice clothes. Because I do. And it’s not that I don’t spend enough because, believe me, I do. But something’s always off. Only I never know just what.

“I really look different. And I do look like a shiksa,” I stated for reassurance, for prancing across my living room, I confess, I felt different . . . and beautiful. “I don’t look Jewish, do I? I mean I do look gentile, don’t I?”

“You may look like a shiksa, but you sound like a neurotic Jewish girl who grew up on the Upper West Side. Stop with all the moosh-e-gas.”

“Moose gas?
What?
”

“Craziness,” explains my gentile friend who’s obviously cramming with my handbook.

“Oh.
Mishegas
,” I tell her, and it sure is. Only I don’t know what’s crazier: my pretending to be a shiksa or Krista acting like a Jew.

“So, Aimee,” Josh’s voice snaps me back. “The drink. What’s your fancy?”

Oy vey.
He doesn’t want to know about my fancy. One glass of wine, and I’m out.

“Ummm, wine is nice for me,” I say. “Unless . . . uh, you want a cocktail?” Cocktail. Bonus points. Way to go, Aimee!

“Does your family do cocktail hour?” he asks, the question putting the kibosh on my standard story about my family’s drink of choice being the water from New York City taps.

“My father’s been known to dip into the martinis,” I say, not lying.

“Oh, really?” For some reason Josh likes this. “Hey—you want one? This place is known for their Purple French martini. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course,” I say. “Like father, like daughter.” Except I don’t want a martini, purple, pink, Italian, or French. I want a glass of merlot.
One
glass. And I should have said that because it’s not a Jewish/ not-Jewish thing; it’s just my thing.

“Cool. My last girlfriend would never have anything but a glass of red wine, if she would even drink at all. Jewish girls.” Josh shakes his head. “Uptight. Glad you’re open,” he says. “It’s way more fun.”

Two Purple French martinis arrive. Josh lifts his glass for a toast. “To way more fun.”

“Oh, yes.” I take a gulp of mine. “Way more.” I feel the first gulp land.
Whoa!
And suddenly it’s not quite as important, but tell me again what a light drinker has to do with being uptight?

But I’m not. Color me purple. Besides that, I feel like I haven’t eaten for a year, and the food is amazing. We’ve gone through those appetizers. Josh is on his second French Fuchsia Fancy; I’m still flying from my first. He likes to talk about himself, and since I can’t, with complete authenticity, talk about me, I’m quite happy to listen. And laugh. He’s funny. Actually everything is.

“So when did you move to the city?” asks Josh. He leans across the table, fork-feeding me the pasta while I rip apart a dish called Drunken Chicken and am I ever.

“Feels like I’ve been here all my life,” I say, or maybe slur. “You?”

“Bought my apartment on East Twenty-second almost two years ago. When I started with LoveLoaves, I stayed on the island. Then I rented a studio uptown. But most of the time I stayed with that girlfriend in her place. We were involved, in and out, a really long time. But it didn’t work out.”

“What happened?”

“We originally met in law school, years ago. Hooked up much later. Oh yeah, I had bigger aspirations than the family business.” Josh gives me a wink. “But I quit. Hated the grind.”

“I can understand,” I say, remembering Sam. Hmmm, another Jewish lawyer. Sort of.

“So she was on the partner track. Total workaholic. And in the end really disappointed I wasn’t quite the Jewish professional she hoped me to be.” Josh pauses and takes a swig of his martini right here. “She wanted what she wanted, and, I have to tell you, it kind of made me rethink Jewish women.”

“Well, all Jewish women aren’t the same.” Though in some ways I feel Josh has just described me. I wonder if Peter’s out on a date now telling that same story to some real non-Jewish woman.

“Well, none of them are like you,” he says. He’s got that right. “How come no one has snatched you up? When was your last big boyfriend?”

“Oh, pretty recent. But we also had, uh . . . well, we had lifestyle differences too.”

“Like?”

“Like career stuff,” I say, “and you know, direction-type stuff and stuff with re”—I catch myself before it’s too late.

“What?”

“Re . . . recreation. We, ummm, we liked to recreate very differently.” Relieved with the ease I got out of that, I smile.

“Are you adorable or what?”

Happy to take the compliment, I smile again.

“Hmmm . . . I have a hunch you like to ski, do you?” he asks. “Because Alpine, in New Jersey, has a pretty good cross-country trail, and I’m going with a few friends soon, and I’d love if you’d come.”

“Wow.”

“Great. You have your own skis?”

“I do. I did. But now I don’t. I mean they’re . . . I left them at my parents’ house. In Pennsylvania.”

“You want to take a ride to—”

“No! Definitely no. My mother’s using them.” I say. “To lose weight.”
Oy vey
, I think at the thought of my mom. On skis, yet. And in
Scranton
?
Oy gevalt.
“But she did, so she sold them. And then they sold the house. Now I just rent.” I pause. “So do they.”

“No problem there,” says Josh. “We can get you some skis.”

I don’t know what we are talking about. But looking at my half-drunk glass, I figure it’s not anything that can’t be worked out with another gulp of that martini. I’m such a cheap date, I can nurse this all night. Anyway, Peter took me out skiing a few times. He glided through the snow like an angel. I think I can manage cross-country okay.

“But don’t expect me to be any good,” I disclaim. “It wasn’t my main sport of course. I spent so much time learning cheers.”

“Did I hear cheers?”

I turn around and see Krista with the totally cute Matt Goldman she told me about earlier today standing next to our table holding drinks.

“What are you doing he—?”

“Hi, everybody,” Krista announces as if she were invited. “Matt, this is Aimee, best friend and best coworker, and her date, Josh.”

“Hey,” says Matt. “How’s the food here?”

“Everything you hear about and and more,” Josh tells him.

“Hope you don’t mind us crashing,” Krista says. “Weren’t sure you’d still even be here, but we were in the theater district and wanted to go somewhere cool for a drink. Just wanted to say hi, and we’re headed back to the bar.”

The place is fairly big. In fact, it’s sprawling. We’re way in the back, so it’s not exactly like they’d be honing in on us from the bar. Still, I can’t believe Krista showed up. I think she’s afraid for me. If I wasn’t so tipsy, I might be too.

“Join us,” says Josh, with an ease I immediately admire. “We’re just about to have dessert.” He looks at me patting my bulging tummy. “Come on, Aimee. Let me feed you. How can you say no?”

“What’d you see?” I ask, giving the okay to Josh and sneaking a peak at the
Playbill.

“Spring Awakening,”
says Matt. “It was awesome. About adolescents’ sexuality. A client of mine got the tickets.”

“What do you do?” asks Josh.

“CPA. Entertainment folk. You?”

“LoveLoaves. Family business. We’re into bread. Edible and non.”

“Cool.”

Krista gave me the lowdown this afternoon.

“His name is Matt. Matt Goldman,” she said with reverence. “He’s two years older than me. A CPA. Works midtown, near us. Grew up in the Bronx. Riverdale. Lives on East Fourth Street. Practically walking distance.”

“Or a very cheap cab,” I said, commuting Krista from her Morton Street apartment in the West Village over to Matt’s.

“He IM’d. JDate. Went back and forth, but we had that KISS meeting and I had to stop. So we decided to just meet after work for a drink.”

That was a few nights ago.

“I loved the show,” Krista says now. “You two should go.” Krista’s not big on Broadway, but the big Saturday night date is a showstopper.

“I’m game,” says Josh. “And maybe you two would like to join us skiing.”

My friend looks at me and bursts out laughing. “Aimee on skis,
oy VOY.
”

The guys both chuckle. I turn my head as it’s unexpected and incorrect: her assessment of me on skis
and
her pronunciation of the Jewish word. Still, it comes out pretty cute. Like a shiksa speaking Yiddish. I couldn’t affect that if I were Meryl Streep. It’s annoying that Krista can use these words now and I can’t. Of late, she incorporates Jewish words into her vocabulary whenever possible.

“What’s so funny, Krista?” I overenunciate, my annoyance signaling the cat’s still in the bag.
“I ski!”

“Well, I don’t. Not really,” says Matt.

“Oh, honey, you can pick up anything.” She faces the table. “Matt’s totally athletic. And he golfs and plays tennis. Like me.”

“We’re already talking about a permit,” says Matt.

“For tennis,” adds Krista, glowing.

It all seems very romantic, so Josh reaches across the table to squeeze his sweet shiksa’s hand. I promised Krista I’d tell Josh the truth tonight. I know she popped by to see if I’m okay, which I am because I haven’t told. And though Krista’s shiksa is honest, her success only encourages mine. I squeeze his hand back.

“Can’t believe you two know each other less than a week,” says Josh after ordering dessert.

“Felt
bashert
,” says Matt. “I taught Krista that word.”

“That means ‘meant to be,’ ” Josh explains.

“I know what it means,” I say automatically.

“
I
told her,” Krista quickly covers for me. “I hope you don’t mind, honey,” she says to Matt. “It was just so nice, I needed to share.”

The waiter puts down plates of all things creamy, drizzled, and chocolate. I watch as Matt kisses Krista’s forehead. It’s been three dates in four days, and they do look happy.

“Funny how life happens, isn’t it?” remarks Josh as he looks across to me. I see he wants to kiss me. He wants a taste of his Jewish-boy-finds-shiksa-girl piece of the pie.