Up & Out (5 page)

I make it to the restaurant on time. I hate my hair. It seems to have grown out of the cut I spent too much money on. Now it is too long for short hair and too unhealthy for long hair. Plus, the red highlights I added when I got my promotion have grown out, revealing my nothing brown underneath. My clothes have failed me, too. The outfit I bought for the affiliate party smelled like an ashtray and my old standby black “sex
shirt” stretched unflatteringly across my chest. So I’m wearing this loose deep red silk button-down that I borrowed from Lauryn who borrowed it from Beth. I doubt it fits me as well as either of them.

I have some things on my side. My nails, toes and fingers look damn good and I have recently shaved my armpits. I’m not saying Seamus is going to see them—but it’s sort of an insurance policy.

I don’t think I’ve conveyed how much I like food. You know I like restaurants, but did you know I read recipes for fun and watch the Food Network when I can’t sleep? I love that there is a network of mostly men cooking for insomniacs like me. I have a huge crush on one of the British chefs with a show, Jamie Oliver, but it’s really Mario Batali,
Molto Mario,
who gets me salivating with his fresh Italian dishes. Esca is his restaurant.

I can’t say what I am more excited about—a possible glimpse of Mario, or of Seamus, who I remember as being a little sexpot. Then I see Seamus sitting at the bar, by the crabs. He is a
big
sexpot. He gives me a look that says, in spite of my bad hair, I might still have it.

He gets off his stool and kisses me on the cheek.

“Hi.” He gestures to the glass case and smirks. “Crabs?”

I laugh. He’s confident enough to make a bad joke and trust that I’ll get it.

“I know,” he says, “never on the first date. They’re setting up our table. Do you want something at the bar?”

“Yeah.” I’m about to tell him I want a gimlet, but he’s already ordered something from the bar. It’s a dark drink. It tastes different, but good.

“You like it?”

“Yes, it’s weird.”

“It’s liquor made out of artichokes. It’s one of my favorites. This bartender does it really well.” I am enjoying this already. We’re at the bar, having a drink, and soon we’ll have a delicious meal. He acts as into the food as I am. This is what it is to date in New York. Tommy thought going out like this was a waste
of time and money. His idea of romance was going to the movies or trying to get me to play strip PlayStation. I am pioneering new territory: an adult man, with an adult job.

“What do you do again?” I ask when we’re sitting at our table. It’s clear that the maître d’ knows him by name.

“I’m a wine distributor to restaurants. Mostly Italian wine, occasionally Californian.”

“So, you must eat a lot of good meals.”

“I do.” He smiles. I forgot how nice his teeth are. “Do you like to eat out?”

I’m not sure if this is a trick question, or innuendo or what. “I like to go out to eat.”

“Cool.”

He encourages me to get a
primo
and a
secondo.
He doesn’t seem to want to accept that I wouldn’t be able to eat a first and second course. I order the spaghetti with tuna belly followed by the grilled octopus. It’s a lot of food, but I can’t resist the chickpea
crostini
that comes to the table. Because they know Seamus, we also get an appetizer of soft shell crab.

I can’t help making comparisons in my head. With Tommy, there was this kind of shorthand between us, where we could just hang out and not talk. Seamus has an intense, well-crafted opinion on everything. I am a little intimidated about expressing myself. I nod at him and try to figure out what the hell he is talking about. He keeps throwing matter-of-fact statements at me.

“I think you’re going to appreciate this wine. It is, dare I say, rousing.”

“That movie had merit, but at times, didn’t you find the music a bit too invasive?”

“Loved the CD, but his whole string obsession was downright jarring, don’t you think?”

I’m not sure if I should agree or disagree. I’m not sure how I feel. I haven’t thought about a lot of these things. Not having an opinion seems worse than either possibility. If I am going to get into this dating thing, I guess I have to start having opinions. I’m not going to find a guy like Tommy, who
has experienced everything with me already. It is “dare I say,” daunting.

“Do you like your spaghetti?” he asks.

“I think so.” He grins. I feel more confident. “Yes, absolutely.”

“You know I forgot your eyes were green.”

“Thank you. I mean, you did?” I’m not an asshole, really I’m not.

“Yeah, they’re lovely. You’re welcome. Do you want to try my pasta?” Yes! Yes! Yes! I nod. I think I am really attracted to him. I can stand behind that opinion. “Can I try yours?”

We switch. I watch him taste my pasta, paranoid he’ll hate it and declare my palate “downright immature.” He chews, closing his eyes.

“Pepperoncino,”
he says. “You can really taste it.”

He is one of those. Kathy’s fiancé, Ron, is one of those. It must be indigenous to the New York male. They like to identify every ingredient in what they think is a good meal. He opens his eyes. They weren’t so bad, either.

“I like you,” he says. “I can’t wait to try your fish.” Of course.

The place is called Esca, after all. That means bait.

W
e are back at Seamus’s place. We are drinking wine—one of his favorites. He is telling me something about tannins. I think. He is saying things like “jumps in your mouth,” and I’m not quite sure what we are talking about. I am beginning to feel like he doesn’t need me to be a part of the discussion, like he has already determined how the whole conversation should go and I’m his audience.

I like wine, but I don’t think I ever drank wine to this extent. My chest feels hot and I know my cheeks are red. He keeps stopping to rub my cheeks. I’m not sure what to say and I think if I stand too close to him, we might end up making out. In spite of the wine and my clean armpits, I’m not sure that’s what I want.

“You’ve got cute feet,” he says. Finally, I am clear on what he’s saying. The new sandals are killing me, and I’ve taken my shoes off. If the room wasn’t lit by candlelight, he would see the red welts that were forming on my feet.

“Thanks,” I say. I get up off the couch and go to look at the pictures on the mantel of his nonworking fireplace. He has a nice place. My apartment still looks like a college pad, with all
the hand-me-downs that I have had for years. He has new furniture that he picked out himself. His decorating has a theme.

“Those are my grandparents,” he says, coming behind me, close. I am holding an old-fashioned black-and-white picture of a couple. “In Ireland.”

“Oh. Is this Ireland?” I point to one of his many landscape pictures.

“No,” he laughs. “That’s Chianti, from last spring. You would love it there this time of year.”

“Oh.” I move a bit away from him to the window, which looks out onto Barrow Street. Jen lives on Barrow. “You know, I think this woman I work with lives on this block. She might even live in this building.”

“Amazing.” He follows me to the window and rubs my back. It feels good, but I’m still not sure what I want. I shouldn’t have come back with him. I stiffen. He senses it and takes my glass. “I’ll get you more wine.”

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I ask when he is far enough away.

“A little.” He sits back on the couch and holds my glass out. I join him, leaving some space between us. “So what are your plans for tomorrow?”

“I have to go bridesmaid shopping with my friends.”

“Oh,” he raises his eyebrow. “Are you all up and getting married?”

“It seems that way. I mean, I don’t want to get married. My roommate is actually already divorced. This is for my friend Kathy. I’m dreading it—we’ve looked at so many dresses already. It’s such a racket. And my friend Beth is going and she’s been such a pain in the ass lately. I used to date her brother and now—” I am babbling. Why am I bringing Tommy into this? I’m going to ruin everything.

“Weird,” he adds.

“Yeah. Everything’s been weird.”

“What do you mean?” The wine was definitely affecting me. I feel something, stoned, I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to even think about this, much less talk about it, but now it is too
late. If I don’t talk, I’ll probably do something stupid, like give him a blow job.

“My friends, it’s just like we can’t connect.” I stare at my hands. Lauryn and I did have fun getting our nails done today, but when was the last time that happened? “We were so close and now it’s like, Lauryn’s moving away, Beth’s got an attitude and Kathy—I swear it’s like she’s trying so hard at what should be natural. It’s fucked.”

“Well, what are you, twenty-five?”

“Twenty-seven, thanks.”

“I think things get weird with friends when everyone starts getting married. Then you wind up having less and less in common and the people you see more are the ones you work with. You’ve still got your good friends, but you find it’s harder to plan shit with them, but you get used to it.”

“I’m not sure I want to. I like them. They’re my girls.”

“Your backup.”

“Yeah, they got my back.” We smile at each other. For the first time, I feel like he is listening. “So, how did you get to be so wise? What are you, twenty-eight?”

“Thirty-one, thanks. So this guy, this brother of the friend, when did that end?” I shake my head. I can hear Kathy telling me that whatever I do, I am
not
to talk about an ex.

“It ended a while ago. I would say a year, but officially six months.” He doesn’t need to know about all the relapses.

“So, you’re over him?”

“Yeah.” Granted, I thought I was many times before, but he doesn’t need to know about that, either. Does he?

“Good.” He takes the wineglass out of my hand and sets it on the coffee table. I see the kiss coming, but it still feels strange when it happens.

“So how was your date last night?” Kathy asks when we’re on the subway to Queens. We had to hit the outer boroughs to get the best deal on dresses. Kathy claims she is thinking of us, but, honestly, time is also money. We are all looking pretty
tired and I’m still a bit off. “Did you already give Lauryn the details?”

“Not yet,” Lauryn says. Beth is supposed to meet us there, she made this last-minute change by leaving a message on Kathy’s cell.

“Well, it was interesting.” The train is pretty crowded and only Kathy has a seat. I dread telling tales on the train, I feel like I’m going to get caught. I give them the dirt on dinner, which they tolerate politely.

“I heard you come in late, though,” Lauryn says. “What happened next?” I fill them in on his amazing place, leaving out my musings on them, of course. By the last stop in Manhattan we get to sit together. Kathy moves over so I can be in the center.

“So, did you kiss him?” she asks. She is getting really excited.

“I did,” I say, looking up at a sign in Spanish for help with STDs.

“Did you fuck him?” Lauryn asks, following my eyes.

“Oh, I hope you used a condom,” Kathy says, like a health teacher.

“Relax, all. The box stayed closed.”

“Really?” Lauryn asks.

“Was he a good kisser?” Kathy asks.

“You guys, it was strange. He is a good kisser, but I haven’t kissed anyone else in so long it feels weird. I kept opening my eyes to make sure it was really happening. Kissing is a strange thing, and kissing someone new is downright scary.” Lauryn shakes her head and Kathy makes a little “humph” sound and smiles in a way that I interpret to mean,
thank God, I’ll never have to kiss anyone else. I have found my soul mate unlike my pathetic friends.

“Did he kiss you anywhere else?” Lauryn asks.

“Laur—” Kathy yells. Then she lowers her voice and her eyes. “Well, did he?”

“Um, yeah. Somehow, he maneuvered me down on the couch and his hands were everywhere. He opened up the buttons on my shirt. My chest was so hot, I think from the wine. It felt good. Except his nibbling—I’m used to biting. Tommy used to play this game, too. Tease me until I would scream ‘Bite
me!’ Of course, I couldn’t do this with a new guy because he might think I am a freak.”

“That is pretty freaky,” Kathy says. “I didn’t know you were into that. It’s almost like S and M.”

“A light bite never hurt anyone,” Lauryn says, coming to my defense. “No judgments. Continue.”

“And he is talking a lot. He’s moaning and saying ‘yes.’ I’m used to making all the noise. It’s sort of funny, although I don’t want to laugh. You can’t laugh—that would be the worst.”

“You definitely can’t laugh,” Lauryn says.

“They’re very sensitive about that stuff,” Kathy adds, from what I gather is experience. “Then what happened?”

What do I tell them? I pulled his face up to me and he smiled. His cheeks were flushed, too. He kissed me again.
Okay, this is good,
I remember thinking.
I can do this. I can do this. I am single. I am not dating Tommy anymore. It’s not weird that my boobies are all over the place or that I’ve had too much wine.
I know what I’ll tell them. They want the good stuff.

“‘All the protein makes me so hot for you,’ he says.” My friends are howling. “Okay, that’s weird. But in the heat of the moment, people say weird things. He likes food, I like food. Protein is in food. That’s fine.

“Then he starts working his way down. Okay, this is good, I think. I like this. He looked pretty expert with those crab legs, I’m sure it’s going to be fine,” I reason.

“I’ll say,” Lauryn says, elbowing me. It’s almost our stop.

“Wait! He started grabbing my ass. I don’t think Tommy ever—”

“Oh, fuck! I can’t believe you,” Kathy says.

“Tell me about it. I’m retarded. ‘I can’t do this,’ I say, sitting up. He looks up at me. My lipstick is all over his face. I shouldn’t see him like this yet. I barely know him.”

“What did he say?” Lauryn asks.

“‘What? Wait. Relax. Are you okay?’ ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I’m just—I need to go. I can’t stay.’ At this point I’m buttoning up my shirt. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll call you.’”

“You can’t call him,” Kathy says.

“Shh!” says Lauryn. We are getting off the subway.

“I know. I couldn’t find my sandals. My bra was all twisted because he didn’t take it off. It’s impossible to get a cab at that time of night on Barrow Street.”

“Barrow Street’s nice,” Kathy says.

“Shh! What did he say?”

“Well, he ran out of the room and I thought maybe he was going to get psycho or something.”

“Did he?” Kathy is horrified.

“No, he came back with the leftover pasta I got from Esca.”

“That’s funny,” Lauryn says.

“And thoughtful,” Kathy adds.

“I know. I felt like a big loser. I kept saying I was going to call him, but I can’t.”

“Sure you can,” Lauryn says.

“No, you can’t,” Kathy counters.

“Do you have any idea where we are going?” Lauryn says to Kathy, who shoots her a look. “I can’t believe you’re still so into Tommy.”

“I know,” Kathy says.

“I’m not. I mean. I didn’t think I was. It’s just I sort of forgot, you know, what it’s like. I mean, I can’t believe I’m going to have to be with a guy you know, like that, again. It seems so weird. You know, all the sounds, the messiness, the general awkwardness.”

“The fucking, the fun,” Kathy says.

“The orgasms,” Lauryn adds.

“The cuddling,” Kathy says cutely. Lauryn and I roll our eyes.

“I miss all that stuff, I do. I want it. But the getting to it is just so strange. What if I can’t?”

“You can,” Lauryn insists.

“You have to,” Kathy adds.

“I wish I could go out and just pull like we used to, you know?” Lauryn nods, Kathy makes that stupid settled-down face again.

We are finally at the bridal shop. No sign of Beth. There are
women waiting to assist us, to pin us and maneuver us and stand in the room while we change. There was no more talk of my disastrous date and there was no sign of Beth.

“Where the hell is she?” Kathy says for the third time. She is obsessively looking at her cell phone. “This isn’t like her.”

Finally, Lauryn checks her cell and there is a message from Beth saying she isn’t feeling well and can’t make it. It was calculated. What the hell was her problem?

“I can’t believe she would do this. How could she? Now we have to come back,” Kathy says, on the verge of tears. Lauryn and I exchange looks. We are not doing another bridesmaid day. We have to draw the line.

“Look, Kathy. She can’t help being sick.” What she could help was playing cell phone games. “She said we should just pick whatever dress we like and she’ll go with it.”

“But then, we’ll never know how it looks on her.” Kathy is usually so confident in her style and decisions, but when it comes to the wedding, she is a wreck. I can’t take it anymore. I have tried on every dress in every color. I’ve had more seamstresses see my tits than I choose to remember. I am not leaving this store without a decision. I will boycott the wedding if necessary.

“Listen, Kathy.” I decide to be calm. “We know how all these dresses look on her in various colors and styles. I really don’t think we should wait any longer.”

“Yeah,” Lauryn says. She’s going to work with me. “We don’t want to get to a point where we wait too long and the dresses can’t be ready for the wedding.”

Nice job, Lauryn.
She’s playing on Kathy’s constant fears.

“Exactly,” I say. “Let’s just get this one.”

Kathy finally agrees to get the red dress with spaghetti straps and a low-back empire waist. I know Beth was against thin straps, but that is her problem. She likes red the best, so she will have to deal. Besides, Kathy’s sister, Dina, was going to pick out thin jackets or wraps for us to wear in the church.

“Crisis averted,” Lauryn whispers while Kathy harasses the salespeople about when the dresses will be done.

“I just couldn’t, Lauryn,” I say. “I could not.”

“I know. Just think, we’ll only have to come here a minimum of two more times for fittings.”

“Yippee.”

I have no idea how I’m going to get through the rest of this wedding planning, let alone the wedding itself.

Since we are already in Queens, I figure it’s only natural to take advantage of some of the indigenous cuisine.

“Are either of you guys in the mood for some Greek in Astoria or Indian in Jackson Heights?”

“Actually, I’m supposed to be having dinner with Ron tonight. I promised I’d make him lasagna.” As if she didn’t see him every night. I think about trying to rally her with a “girls’ night,” but I’m sure she is anxious to gush to him about the color of the dresses. I doubt Ron can really keep up her level of enthusiasm.

“How about you, Lauryn?”

But, no, Lauryn has decided to spend her Sunday night at Barnes & Noble to do some research on her bird stuff. Our cable is out, so I’m destined for a night of reheated leftovers and lying on the couch with Esme scripts.

At home, I’m lonely. I realize we never got to finish our conversation on the train. Back in the day, we used to spend Sundays together rehashing the weekend, no matter what we did. Sometimes we met up late Saturday night and got dirty sandwiches from a bodega and crashed at whoever’s house.

None of us cared about work. None of us had serious issues. There was no drama. We didn’t hope to get each other’s voice mail. We wanted to talk. We didn’t even have cell phones.