The View From Penthouse B (16 page)

“First, let me point out that the typical person I’d like to meet is someone who isn’t a regular. Maybe he’s never answered an ad before and is nervous, too. He isn’t ready to try online dating, so this is his first step.”

Anthony said, “Still, I’m not crazy about ‘chicken.’ I don’t think it’s the most attractive image one could project out of the starting blocks.”

“No kidding,” said Margot. “You want something that says ‘Hey, mister. Read me. Write me. Call me. You won’t be sorry.’”

Anthony countered with “Gwen isn’t looking for sex—”

“Are we back to Chaste Dates?” she asked. “Because if we are, I give up. I’ll walk around the block a few times until you two have your perfect little G-rated ad.”

I said, “Do I want someone who’s so superficial that he judges a candidate by one word? And by the way, I don’t think ‘chicken’ is so bad. Who doesn’t like chicken?”

Anthony said, “Let’s move ahead. Margot, sit down. And let’s go with ‘chicken’ for now. Maybe Gwen’s right. Maybe it would be seen as appealing—like she’s a newbie and not a barracuda.”

Margot muttered, “Scrawny. Loud. Squawking. Quite the unattractive bird.”

“Jesus! It’s not supposed to be a physical description,” I said. “It’s about a state of mind. It says ‘I’m new at this.’ Or ‘I’m not a woman of the world. I’m nervous about this, and I admit it.’”

“How about ‘coward’ instead of ‘chicken’?” Anthony tried.

Margot said she was switching to decaf. Anyone else? Anthony took back his laptop, and I asked him to peruse the Men Seeking Women ads on the screen. When she returned, Margot announced, “I’m coming around. I think ‘chicken’ could have some appeal to a certain type of man with a rescue complex. And it’s certainly modest. It says ‘I’m not threatening. I won’t scare you. You’re safe with me.’”

“That was a quick about-face,” I said.

“I asked the guy behind the counter.”

“Does he speak English?” I asked.

“I think he got the gist. I used
pollo.
”

“We want eye-catching,” said Anthony. “And I do think that word would set Gwen apart.”

“Settled then,” I said.

“Only if what follows is a really strong pitch,” said Anthony. He tapped the open notebook in front of me.

“You’d actually let me write it by myself?”

“Try it. A first draft.”

Margot said, “Just don’t make it pathetic.”

“We can revise,” Anthony told her. “Nothing’s set in stone. Let her do her thing.”

I said I wouldn’t mind if they moved to another table while I worked on the first draft. Or went home.

Margot said, “Okay if I blog about this? I’ll be unbelievably discreet. I won’t even say it’s my sister who’s ready to date. I’ll say it’s a friend.”

Anthony shrugged. “What harm?”

“What
point?
” I asked.

“None! Words on the page. I’m sick of Madoff and me . . . my empty bank account and me. I’m developing a new persona, pretending that life is more interesting for me and my posse.” She smiled. “Poetic license. Besides, I’m pretending that you, whom I identify only as a female roommate who helps defray expenses, and our male roommate have a little thing going on. I’ve given you names: Violet and Christopher.”

Anthony asked, “Are we sleeping together or just flirting?”

“I’m dragging it out. You’re attracted to each other, but you’re resisting it. You haven’t even kissed yet. It’s fun. I’m getting comments. Everyone’s rooting for you two.”

I asked if our story was a metaphor for what was happening between her and Roy.

Margot said, “I think Roy and I are a few installments ahead of Violet and Christopher.” With that, she took a final swig of decaf, fished out a dollar for a tip, and advised us to do the same.

Anthony said, “I just want to go over a few important points.”

I don’t know what possessed me, but I turned to the nearest patron and asked, “What have I done to make these people think I’m not capable of writing a few sentences on my own?”

I was immediately embarrassed, especially when he looked up and then immediately back down at his laptop as if he didn’t know where the noise was coming from.

Margot said, “It’s not that we think you’re incapable. It’s just that it’s so much fun to compose a personal ad. We want the vicarious thrill—”

“Which I won’t be providing. Nor will I be doing anything reportable on these alleged dates.”

“Just being on the sidelines will be fun for us, seeing who answers and then helping you cherry-pick.”

She seemed so happy at that prospect that I didn’t want to say anything tinged with pessimism. I opted to continue in my newly independent vein. “Go! Coffee’s on me. I’ll be back in time to peel the potatoes.”

Anthony finally stood. Margot said no hurry and no help needed; we were having hot dogs and beans.

“In that case, I’ll see you both . . . eventually.”

“Do you have plans?” she asked.

I said, “Oh, who knows? I may just walk this straight over to the classified department at the
Voice.
And then I might go clubbing.”

“The
Voice
? Who said the
Voice
?” said Margot. “You’ll get an old lefty who doesn’t have Wi-Fi.”

“Who goes clubbing at five p.m.?” Anthony asked.

“Then maybe I’ll go to a hotel bar and treat myself to a Cosmopolitan.”

“What’s gotten into her?” Margot asked.

I accomplished this much: My headline in boldface was
NERVOUS
.
Below that: “This ad has less 2 do w/me wanting 2 find love & more 2 do w/pushing myself out the door with a polite man, 40–50, for . . .”

What noun or participles came next? “For conversation”? “Companionship”? “Early dinners”? I didn’t know. I tried again. “I was widowed 2+ years ago & have been sitting on the sidelines of my own life. This ad has less 2 do w/me wanting 2 find love & more 2 do w/pushing myself out the door. Looking for kind M 40–60 with similar ambivalences.”

Was I reading this aloud? Maybe I was, in a mumble, because the man at the next table, previously intent on his laptop, murmured, “Your friends won’t like it.”

Let me describe this interloper. He was, I guessed, fiftyish, with a broad, clean-shaven face. He was the only person in the deli wearing a tie, its knot visible just above the neck of a brown V-necked pullover sweater. Was I imagining that he looked like a secondary-school teacher? Next to his laptop was a pot of tea; the saucer under his cup was holding a dissolving biscotti. He had not lost his hair, which was that shade of gray that announced he’d started off blond.

Knowing full well the answer, I asked anyway. “Were you speaking to me?”

“I was.”

“Was I reading aloud?”

“Almost.”

I said, “I’m composing a personal ad.”

“Got that.”

Quite bravely, if not aggressively, I asked him if he was a reader of personal ads.

He said, “Oh, who doesn’t read the occasional personal ad, even for pure entertainment value?”

And more boldly: “Are you married?”

“I once was.”

“Not a widower, by any chance?”

“Sorry. No.”

“Divorced?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Recently?”

“No. Long ago.”

I was not the best judge of where polite conversation left off and badgering began. I said, “Sorry if I’m interrogating you.”

“I’m Mitchell,” he said, and reached across the gap to offer his hand.

“I’m Gwen.”

He said, “I was married when I was twenty-two and divorced before I was thirty. So I barely remember what went wrong.”

“I guess you overheard my whole story.”

“I did. You’re a recent widow who hasn’t ventured out yet.” He paused, the way all polite people do upon pronouncing or hearing that word, and said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Not so very recent, but thank you.”

“Just be careful,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the crazies who find their victims through Craigslist.”

I said, pointing to the scratched-out lines in my notebook, “I thought I’d start with an ad in a newspaper or magazine.”

He was shaking his head with what appeared to be conviction.

“No?”

“No longer. These days it’s all online.”

I said, “I thought a print ad would be more . . . I don’t know . . . dignified? Or maybe attract people who were readers.”

“My girlfriend and I met through OkCupid.”

Had I imagined we were conducting a mild flirtation? Yes, I had. This confirmed what I already knew: that every man was unavailable, and what seemed like friendly attention was two sentences away from a call across the room, to the effect of
Honey! Come over here. I want you to meet—sorry, your name again?

I said, wanly, “You certainly see online dating services mentioned in every other marriage announcement in the
Times.
”

My new nonfriend answered with “I wish you luck. I think you’ll get lots of winks.”

Really? Winks? As if I’d been the beneficiary of such things my whole life through. I thanked him. I hunched over my notebook and pretended to be working hard on an irresistible advertisement for a desirable me.

“I really shouldn’t be pressing you one way or the other about how to get back into circulation,” I heard. “My girlfriend tells me lots of people try it and aren’t so lucky.”

Did he think I wanted to hear a quote from his smug girlfriend? I did not. I said, “Lucky?
My
luck ran out when my husband died.”

Good thing Margot wasn’t there to hear that answer. I didn’t like it so much myself. Poor Mitchell. He meant well. So why did he have to add, “One more piece of advice: If you upload a photo, make sure it’s up-to-date.”

I must have looked perplexed because he said, “No. Wait. That came out wrong. Some people post an old picture because they don’t look so good now. I just meant . . . you’ll be fine. You have nothing to hide. A headshot. Not you in a group or at a distance.”

Maybe we
were
flirting after all. I said, “Okay, then. New headshot, a close-up.”

“Gwen, is it?” he asked.

I told him that it’s officially Gwen-Laura, hyphenated; named after two actresses my parents had seen on Broadway during their legendarily rapturous honeymoon.

“Rapturous” must have sounded racy. He said he had to run along. Renee was waiting. Best of luck to me in finding someone, no matter where I went fishing.

21

Is My Life Not My Own?

N
EWS TRAVELS FAST
. Two minutes after I’d left the deli, my sister Betsy texted me to say
Congrats
, necessitating a callback from me to ask “On what exactly?”

I was window-shopping at a cupcake boutique just off Sixth Avenue, staring not out of hunger but because I was thinking that Anthony’s wares were prettier than these standard-issue chocolates and vanillas with sprinkles. Betsy said, “I heard you’re working on a personal ad. Will you let me vet it before you send it in?”

“Margot called you already?”

“Of course! It’s big news. Overdue, I might add.”

I said thanks, but I could handle this myself. I reminded her that of the three sisters, I was the one who’d been the actual writer. Not a blogger like Margot, not a writer of corporate memos to fellow bankers, but someone who’d been a professional wordsmith, thank you very much.

“A wordsmith for utility companies, as I recall. This is different. This is an invitation. This is an advertisement. Margot said yours was too self-effacing. Besides, it’s fun for us, a vicarious thrill!”

“So I’ve heard. And editing my ad will give you that?”

“The results will! The answers, the e-mails, the potential dates. I hope to have a front-row seat.”

As I switched the phone to my other ear, I missed the beginning of a sentence that was now ending in “. . . but she didn’t go into detail.”

I seized the opportunity to insert a new vein of vicariousness. “Are we talking about Margot’s new paramour?” I asked.

Betsy didn’t allow herself a telltale gasp, but there was a distinct and abrupt pause. I knew her and her silences. Wasn’t
she
supposed to be Margot’s number one confidante when it came to matters involving romance?

“His name’s Roy,” I continued. “And I think he’s around forty. I can fill you in. I know a lot.”

“I was away,” said Betsy. “And I have a job that doesn’t allow for lingering over breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

“Like us, you mean? Your slacker sisters?”

“I didn’t say that. I just meant you two are under the same roof so, of course, you’d have the inside track.”

“You’re jealous that I knew before you.”

“Just fill me in,” she said. “We’re not children.”

I said, “Okay. Here’s what I know: They met in the PoorHouse chat room, where he’s a regular.”

“I know all the regulars! What’s his username?”

“How do you know all the regulars?”

“Visitors are allowed. I sometimes log on late at night.”

“As a chaperone?”

“No! So she won’t be the only one in there. She has no idea it’s me.”

I said, “That’s actually very sweet of you.”

“Just tell me it’s not HardUp.”

I said, yes, sorry—though not sorry at all and quite enjoying my one-upmanship—it was indeed HardUp.

“I’m speechless. She’s actually met him and
dated
him?”

“More than that,” I said.

I hadn’t realized how long I must’ve been standing at the bakeshop window until a young woman, wearing a chef’s apron, her hair in braids, her hands in disposable gloves, came outside with a pink-on-pink cupcake cradled in a napkin. She said, “You were out here so long, and we saw you staring at the display. We don’t keep our stuff overnight. We thought you might like to take one home.”

Oh dear. I must have been looking like a hungry waif. I said, “I was talking to my sister. I didn’t realize I was looking needy.” And added as proof of my own solvency: “In fact, the sister I’m talking to is a banker.”

“Please. It’s what we do around this time every night. We close at six and give away what we don’t sell.”

I accepted the cupcake as Betsy was squawking my name. I thanked the baker and said into my phone, “This is a nice city, you know. I don’t get out enough to appreciate that. I just got a free cupcake.”