The View From Penthouse B (19 page)

There was nowhere else to turn for a male opinion but to Joel, the bearded, ardent notetaker. Every classmate must have been thinking the same thing:
Just the person we don’t want to meet online. Just the man, after five minutes over drinks, you’d be plotting your escape route from.

“Joel?” prompted Franny.

He finally looked up, and after a tug or two that loosened some beard hairs, he answered. “You really think ‘mangoes’ appeal to guys? Because I don’t get ‘juicy and delicious’ from that. I get ‘tropical fruit,’ no offense. And it’s kinda anatomical. I don’t want to get graphic in front of the ladies, but it’s not a great image.”

Franny asked, “Can you tell us what kind of username you’d respond to?”

He said, “I don’t care about usernames. I look at the pictures.”

William said, “I totally agree with Joel. If the guy is hot, I don’t care if he calls himself Attila the Hun.”

Clearly sold on her own formula, Franny was not expecting blowback. She asked us to humor her on usernames, then asked for another volunteer. I didn’t raise my hand, but she called on me anyway, noting how fast I’d finished the assignment. I said, “I understand what you’re going for, so I’m leaving out cauliflower and salmon. I’ll just cut to hazelnut gelato and red velvet cupcakes—not that I see myself in either of those.”

“RedVelvetCupcake!” Franny exclaimed. “Bingo! Two down! Who else?”

Another woman, who was typing with only one hand due to a heavily autographed cast on the other, asked if there was a study—a reliable, scientific one based on a large sample—that showed what worked and what didn’t.

Franny said, “Ah know this much. Be positive! Upbeat! Don’t be Debbie Downer!”

We nodded politely. I was already worried about the course evaluation I’d have to fill out and how honest I should be.

The same classmate asked, “What I was thinking of specifically was how much do you have to hint about being a willing sex partner? Because isn’t that really what men want, bottom line?”

Whom to turn to but Joel and William? We waited. William said, “I think Joel would be better for your boy-girl stuff.”

“Could you repeat the question?” Joel asked.

The woman in the cast said, “Like in real life, aren’t men looking for sex, even though the request is in code?”

Franny pressed a button, and a new slide appeared. Gesturing toward the screen she announced, “Ah did my own survey of words that send a wink in that area. Here we go. ‘Passionate’ and ‘affectionate’—those are easy. And these phrases: ‘loves to cuddle’ . . . ‘hold hands’ . . . ‘moonlit walks on the beach’ . . . ‘I’m great at back rubs and foot rubs’ . . . ‘massage your scalp,’ which came up a few times . . . ‘great kisser.’ And there’s one that should only be used if you want sex on the first date: ‘high-octane hormones and high-touch sensuality.’ That’s a direct quote from a JDate profile.”

I must have
eeeyewed
loud enough to catch Franny’s attention because she turned squarely to me and pointed.

I wished I’d kept my groans internal. I asked as pleasantly as I could, “Isn’t it a little slutty to call yourself ‘passionate’ or ‘craves intimacy’ online for all the world to see? Isn’t that what Craigslist is for? Isn’t that using a dating site as an escort service?” I felt compelled to explain that I was a widow, and even though I was ready to date . . . well, none of this was coming easy.

Franny said, “First of all, God bless. Second of all, you’re here! You came! That’s the headline: Gwen is ready! Everyone? Gwen. Is. Ready!”

When no one echoed her slogan, she tried, “We’re
all
ready! And y’all know what that means? We’re ready to write our profiles! Get out your pencils and your keyboards.”

A gray-haired woman who hadn’t yet said a word asked, “If you make a joke, should you write LOL after it so they know you have a sense of humor?” Her follow-up: “Should I describe my politics as ‘middle of the road’ so I cast the widest net possible?” Others asked if they should mention their children, their salaries, their allergies.

Oh, it was tedious, twelve people trying to sound appealing but not desperate, trying to appear intelligent, witty, healthy, toned, and open to romantic love and its inevitable activities.

I didn’t employ “passionate,” “affectionate,” or even
“friendly
.
” I announced in three different ways that I was new to this, that I was a widow after a long, faithful marriage. That I was nervous. That friendship would be a good and comfortable place to start.

When it was my turn to share, my short paragraph earned a literal and figurative thumbs-down from everyone except William. I sounded sad was the main complaint. I sounded unready. “Frankly, kinda pathetic,” said Susannah, a recent college grad. “Reluctant,” said another. “Like someone put a gun to your head,” said Joel.

“Make stuff up,” said Franny. “After my first profile got no hits, I added ‘I love to cuddle by a blazing fire and bury my face in your shoulder during a scary movie’ and that same day I got three e-mails.”

I didn’t say “No, thanks” or “Over my dead body.” I conceded that I would tinker a bit and leave out the widowed part since it was already noted under “relationship.”

Franny insisted my profile had to be romance-ready today, now, before I left. No stallin’. No procrastinatin’. So I tried again, describing myself as loyal, creative, smart, independent, honest, dependable, low-maintenance, grammatical, and punctual. Franny wanted me to add “fun” and “have a silly, girlish side,” which would suggest romantic potential.

I compromised. I added “good company” and “quite presentable.”

By noon, everyone else had produced a credit card and membership in at least two websites. I whispered to William across the aisle that I knew someone great for him in real life, then pantomimed pen to paper.
Contact info, please
.

Franny asked me if I cared to share with the class what I’d just exchanged with William. I said sure, no problem. I’d just told him that I couldn’t officially register for online matchmaking today. Unfortunately, my screen was frozen and I’d left my wallet at home.

24

I Take Action

“W
ILL THIS MAKE
you happy?” I asked my harassers at breakfast the morning after the workshop I regretted taking. “I’ll join Match dot com while the pointers are fresh in my mind. I’ll use my advertising copywriting skills. I’ll exaggerate a little. I’ll brag. I’ll post handsome photos even if they’re ancient. I’ll throw some words into my profile with double meanings that horny men will hear as my having urges. I’ll join all of the sites, in fact. Why not? ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’ That’s what Franny Bagby told us.”

I waited for my sarcasm to register.

“Do it,” said Margot. “What have you got to lose?”

Anthony held out his arms and wriggled his fingers in an exaggerated, get-me-to-a-keyboard fashion.

I said, “Not again?”

“Not again what?” Margot asked.

“You two stepping in to ghostwrite.”

Anthony said, “It’s only when it comes to men that I put in my two cents. And who better than I?”

Still pretending to be on task, I said, “I’m doing this in private. In my room. I know what to look for, especially now, fresh from the seminar.” I stood up, took my coffee with me after adding more to my mug, straight black, for fortification.

What an unappetizing task—advertising oneself like a picture bride. I looked around my room, at what Margot called my “shrine”: photos of our parents; of Edwin; of my two favorite childhood dogs; Betsy and me with Margot in her bedroom, we three barefoot in crinoline slips—maid of honor, bridesmaid, and bride—hair in rollers, an hour before her lavish hotel wedding.

Had I not noticed before that everything on display was expired in one way or another?

Maybe I’d start small, but only because my roommates would be asking me every morning what datable strangers had winked at me overnight. I remembered the unappetizing candidate Franny had settled for and the admonition that I’d have to kiss a few frogs before finding . . . what? Someone tolerable? I was supposed to look past the tattoos and the toupees, the fanny packs, the gold chains, the double chins. I remembered to look for, as recommended, nouns that meant something to me, bonus words that added stars to my ratings: Widowers, teachers, nonsmokers, good spellers.

I chose my membership duration (one month, the minimum). Next, the username I would be hiding behind. I wasn’t sold on the food formula, but what if Franny was right? I experimented with her concept, hoping to find an unused fruity appellation. AppleTurnover was taken. So was AppleCrisp, AppleKuchen, LemonMeringue, PeachesAndCream. I rejected GrannySmith and CantElope without even submitting.

Why did I care? I didn’t want to be Franny and I surely didn’t want to attract a LuvMeTender69. And what if appealing to a man’s senses backfired? Suggestions of smell and taste could attract the sexually ambitious. I decided on something that was accurate and autobiographical without being revealing, mysterious without being coy. I typed in “MiddleSister” and pressed
RETURN
. Unclaimed!

Next hurdle: uploading photos from my computer. The best one had been taken by the artist in our extended family, Chaz, at his FIT exhibition, and e-mailed to me with the subject line “Nice!” With my head cocked as I studied his hat display, I thought I looked both pleasant and contemplative.

More photos!
I heard Franny call to me from her happily married home. I uploaded the head-and-shoulders shot that I used in my freelancing days: in a black sweater and pearls, with the suggestion of a smile and excellent work habits. Also the recent windblown one on the roof. And one more, a flattering picture of me in the bleachers among faculty, in sunglasses, at a varsity baseball game, Edwin next to me, his school’s team in some playoff. I hated to do it, but I had to crop him out. A bit of his shoulder remained, which I thought could be either good luck or bad. I often studied this picture, marveling at how unaware I was that June day of what was just around the corner.

As soon as I had one foot in and one out—a username, three photos, no profile—I lost my nerve. Margot knocked on my door as I stared at my screen. “How’s it going?” she called.

I said, “Okay. Not done yet.”

“What’s the holdup?”

Me
, I thought
. I am
.

“Gwen?” she tried again.

“I’m embarrassed! Okay?”

“Embarrassed just sitting in front of your computer? Can I come in?”

I said no. Maybe. Yes. But not if she was going to force my hand.

“I get it,” she said, still outside my door. “Hard to take that final step. Maybe you need a break? No guy with a job is going to be trolling for dates at ten a.m. anyway. Let’s do something. Let’s take a sandwich up on the roof. It’s nice out.”

I said it was too early for lunch. I wasn’t hungry.

“Then coffee! C’mon. We’ll enjoy the view. I need it. You’ll be doing
me
a favor.”

“Are you using psychology on me?”

Finally, she opened the door. “It’s for me. I’m trying to be nice to myself. I wouldn’t expect anyone else to remember, but Charles was arrested three years ago today. I have ‘meal on terrace’ on my low-cost bucket list.”

“Can’t we do better than that? Like a movie? Like a concert in some park? What would you really like to do, even if it’s not low cost?”

She didn’t hesitate. She said, “I’d love to get dressed up and have dinner at the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to.”

“Which is what?”

“I didn’t mean a specific one. I meant one that I might have been to if my life hadn’t fallen in on several sides. Just a great restaurant in general. That category. But, hon—you’re not doing that. I won’t let you.”

I said, “Me? Uh-uh. Not me. I’m going to the source. I’m asking Charles to take you out for the most elegant dinner you’ve had in three years. It’s the least he can do.”

“Won’t he think you’re playing Cupid? Like I’ve confided in you that I don’t hate him anymore?”

I said, “I will make it absolutely clear that this is purely—what should I call it?—compensatory. Not a date. Not the passing of a peace pipe. You’ve been deprived. But for his crimes, you’d be enjoying delicious meals with good wine, good service, tablecloths . . .”

“Dover sole?” she asked.

“Dover sole and the chocolate soufflé that requires advance notice.”

She said, “For someone who won’t get matched up, you’re quite the operator.”

I shooed her away and e-mailed Charles, more of an order than a question.
I very seriously recommend that you take Margot out to dinner tonight. It’s not a date. It’s the third anniversary of the worst day of her life.

He wrote back.
You sure she wants to commemorate that?

This time I picked up the phone. “That’s not the point,” I told him. “The point is to do something exceptionally nice for her on a day that will live in marital infamy. And make sure it’s a restaurant that earned at least two Michelin stars.”

“Your naïveté is showing,” he snapped. “No restaurant of that caliber will have a free table tonight, regardless of the hour.”

“Try. They get cancellations. Put yourself on waiting lists. Make a backup reservation at the best place that
does
have an opening. Use your powers of persuasion. Use your fellow big-shot white-collar parolees who have connections.”

There was a long, unreadable pause. “What’s gotten into you?” he finally asked, but it wasn’t with his usual disdain. It was friendly. In fact, it might have contained a note of admiration.

“You in?” I asked.

He said he was in. I told him to start calling restaurants and get back to me as soon as possible.

While I was at it, flexing other people’s social muscles, I pasted my Franny-approved profile into the appropriate sign-up box. I did ponder for a minute the embarrassment factor: putting my face into the catalog of lonely women seeking lonely men.

Did I think I was above it all? Maybe I was, or maybe I had been. I closed my eyes, clicked, and a reckless woman named MiddleSister was launched.