Four months before Hurricane Sandy laid waste to much
of the Mid-Atlantic coastline I deactivated my internet dating profile. I’d
been wasting enough time on line with the porn and the Facebook, I didn’t need
another site to obsess over. And I was tired of spending money on dates,
especially when they didn’t lead to sex, and even when they did, I was tired of
talking, of meeting new people, I was tired of sex. I found I had a much better
time getting drunk by myself, at home, watching movies, and jacking off. As for
that hope of finding someone special for a “long-term” relationship, I figured
drinking at home alone only improved my chances. I had very little to offer a
New York City bachelorette; at 41 I had no career, no marketable skills, no
money, and very few prospects.
So
I deactivated my account. Then about three weeks ago I reactivated it, for
reasons unrelated to dating, and I got a reply from this girl I messaged about five
months earlier. “Sorry about the tardy reply,” she wrote.
She was in her early
thirties, pretty, trim, blond, educated, lived in the West Village and liked “cheesy”
movies. “You should contact me,” she wrote in her profile, “if you are awesome
and have your shit together.” Why such a
woman would respond to me I had no idea.
We messaged each other a
few times, she seemed to want to get together, but then hurricane Sandy hit, streets
around her flooded, her neighborhood lost power, and our plans were postponed. This
was just as well. Judging by her profile, photos and messages, I was pretty sure
when she met me she would see I was not what she wanted. And except for being young,
pretty, trim, blond, and living in the West Village, she was not really what I wanted
either. But, after her water and power situation normalized, we made a date to
meet at some trendy bar she suggested. Thankfully, at the last minute she offered
instead to go to an exhibit opening at the MoMA, Tokyo, New Avant-garde I believe it was called. She had tickets to
this invitation-only affair, and she promised free booze.
I imagined people gussied
up to attend such affairs so my idea was to dress like an irreverent
proletariat. But then I discovered that the hole in the crotch of my only pair
of jeans had gotten a bit too irreverent, so instead I put on the nice pair of slacks
and striped button-down I bought when I’d started this whole internet dating
business. In the mirror I looked quite nice, almost like a normal person, a
hip, educated Manhattanite with a job, or something like that. There were some nuances
that gave me away: My Banana Republic sweater wasn’t expensive enough to neutralize
my second-trimester gut, my hair was too long and inappropriately neglected, and
my pea coat had a button missing, was peppered with lint and had dried dog-drool
accents.
We met in the MoMA lobby.
She was dressed in black, office-stylish, fresh and dry-cleaned, legs in dark
stockings, big gold thing on her blouse.
“Wow, you’re tall!” I exclaimed.
“Is that a problem?”
I had pictured her
smaller, more supple, a filly, but here was a full-grown mare. Not that her
height was a problem, but looking the way she did, like those hip, carefree
yuppies you see in commercials, the fact that she was also taller made me feel
like I lacked the physical presence for her to take me seriously. But then maybe
I could break some hotshot’s arm before the night was over and even things out.
“No, it’s fine,” I said, “it’s good. I just
didn’t expect it,” and I took off my coat and held it folded in front of my
belly.
“Well, I’m 5-7,
three-inch heels, that’s 5-10,” she stated somewhat defensively.
Her defensiveness was
cute and a better strategist might have been able to use it to his advantage. Not
I of course. My only strategy for attracting a women was to get her drunk.
“Shall we check in our
coats?” I suggested.
“Do they have a coat
check here? Ok, sure, why not.”
We got on line at the
coat check. I regrouped, made her smile with some humorous tales, we were
having a fine conversation, until I steered it into the rocks and asked what
she did for a living. She was a lawyer, the worst possible thing.
“And what do you do?” she
asked.
If I drove a cab I would
tell her, if I tended bar or dug ditches. But my job was servicing lawyers,
they were my clients and I was their boy. I scrambled for something to say, a
witty reply, a manicured truth, anything, but my mind seized up and went blank.
She was too tall and she made too much money. My face heated up, turning red. “I’m
not going to tell you,” I said.
“No, really.”
“Nope!” I insisted, like
a coy little girl, “You’re a lawyer, I’m not going to tell you what I do.”
“Why, are you a criminal?”
Answer yes goddamn it! Show
her some damn joie de vivre! “No,” I said, “nothing like that. What I do is
very boring.”
“Can’t be more boring
than being a lawyer.”
Then I remembered! “Wait
a minute,” I said, “here’s something I do: I’m a theater critic.”
“Yes, I know, I looked
you up on the internet.”
“Did you read any of my
reviews?”
“I browsed through them,
not really. What kinds of shows do you review?”
“Plays mostly.”
“Broadway plays?”
“Sometimes.”
“I go to plays. The last
one I saw was....I don’t remember. What’s a show you’ve reviewed?”
“Well, let’s see, I
reviewed Annie Baker’s version of Uncle Vanya at the Soho Rep. That was a very talked-about
production.”
“That’s on Broadway?”
“No, that was in Soho.”
“And what was it called,
Uncle what?”
“Uncle Vanya.”
“By Annie....what was her
name?”
“Annie Baker. No, the
play is by Chekhov. Anton Chekhov?”
“I think I’ve heard of
him.”
“Really? Well, yes, he’s this
kind-of obscure Russian writer.”
“What else? Anything I
might have seen?”
“Lots of off-Broadway
stuff. Do you see off-Broadway plays?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We do Broadway as well...”
I said. And continued, “But usually it’s the publicists who invite us and they
need us more for the smaller stuff, for the Broadway shows they don’t need us. We’re
not like the Village Voice or the Times. Our website hardly makes any money. I don’t get paid or
anything, I just get tickets to shows.” I felt like a frightened teenager in a
police interrogation room confessing to everything, I couldn’t help it. I was
the type of criminal who was more frightened of getting caught than of going to
jail.
“Oh,” she said, evidently
unimpressed by my candor.
“But, I mean, we’re just
getting started. And my editor insists that we’re the most read review-only site
in the country.”
“That sounds like
bullshit,” she said with a friendly chuckle.
“Maybe. But ‘review-only,’
that’s, you know, how many of those are there?”
We came up to the coat
check window and I handed in my pea coat, careful not to let my date see the white
stuffing coming out from the tears in the lining. I should have just worn my
sweatpants, the ones stained with dog slobber, candle wax and come – I no
longer could tell which was which. At least the ensemble would match, and I
wouldn’t feel like I’d just shit myself in a rented tuxedo.
“Fuck!” I remembered, “I
forgot to bring cash.”
“For what, it’s all
free.”
“Tips.”
“Tips?”
“Yeah, for the coat
check, the bartenders.”
“I don’t think they care.”
“Sure they do.”
“Well, I have a couple of
dollars.”
“No, I couldn’t do that.
I’ll be back in a minute,” I said, and went out into the night to search of an
ATM. What an unnecessary gesture, I thought as I got outside. But having
brought up the subject I had to follow through. I didn’t want her to think of
me as one of those guys who comes to a birthday party empty-handed and then
tells the host, “I was going to buy you a gift but I did not have time, so I
didn’t.” How would she perceive my deed, I wondered. Would she say to herself, Wow,
what a generous, noble man Dmitry is, he can’t afford a haircut or a new coat yet
he still goes out of his way to tip the poor service staff. Or would she figure
me out? Would she see my motivations for what they were – guilt, shame and
vanity – which grow not from nobility but are the ignoble fruits of my peasant
mentality. The mentality that says, You do not deserve to be waited upon, they
are doing you a favor, because you are lower than them; you are lower than all.
The mentality that turns every little insignificant interaction into a battle
to justify one’s right to exist.
When I returned she was
finishing her first drink and I tried to discern which of the two
interpretations she had of my action. She had none. She didn’t care. She hadn’t
noticed. We got on line at the bar and when our turn came and we got our drinks
I proudly handed the barman a twenty. He did not have any change. Brilliant! I
almost let him keep the twenty but even my vanity had its limits. My date gave him
a dollar. Evidently she did not suffer from a peasant mentality and did not
feel guilty tipping a barman a buck for two ten-dollar drinks she was getting
for free.
We maneuvered through the
crowd to a corner. There was a sculpture there and I recalled something I’d
heard about it twenty or so years ago.
“Do you know that
sculpture?” I asked her.
“I mean, sure, I’ve seen
it.”
“When it was first
displayed it caused a big scandal.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“Come,” I said, and took
her around to the back of the statue. “You see the shape, how he’s standing? Critics
said Rodin made Balzac look like an erect penis. It was a huge scandal. You
see, there’s the head, that’s the foreskin pulled back.”
“Yeah, ok, I guess,” she
said, canting her head, “I don’t know, I don’t see it. Is that true? How do you
know? Are you into art history? Where did you hear that?”
“It’s part of my general
erudition,” I told her.
“Yeah, I don’t know. Are
you sure? I mean, when I look at that, ‘Penis!’ isn’t the first thought that
comes to my mind, you know?”
“It’s not supposed to be
literal, it’s just supposed to suggest a penis.”
“Ok, but still, who
cares? I mean I don’t see why this would cause a scandal.”
“It was a different time.
Rodin couldn’t just come out and say ‘Balzac is a dick!’ for example (which I
don’t think he’s saying by the way). Everything was communicated with
subtleties. And the people back then, or anyway, the critics, they knew what he
meant. Balzac was like a national treasure in France, so this was very
scandalous.”
“Hum, that’s interesting.”
“Is it? Is it really?”
“Sure. I mean, I don’t
know,” she giggled.
“You know, it’s funny,” I
said, “I’m telling you this story with authority, like I know what I’m talking
about. But when I first heard it I didn’t see what the big deal was either.”
She laughed.
“What’s his name, Ball-zack?
He was a sculptor?”
“No, he was a writer.
Rodin was the sculptor.”
“What did he write?”
“Novels. A lot of novels.
He was very prolific.”
“Like which ones?”
“Oh, you know, about
France and shit. I don’t know, I’ve never read him.”
That got a chuckle.
Paula, that was her name,
was from Toronto. She worked for a big, high-end law firm that got tickets to
these types of events for making charitable contributions, then distributed these
tickets to employees who were interested. Paula took tickets to everything, though
she didn’t always use them. Still, she went to a lot of these shindigs,
openings, dinners, premieres. She did a lot of cultural things in New York, as
a result of working for her firm and on her own, but I got the sense that to
her these meant little more than entertainment. When she’d said in her message,
as an incentive, that the exhibit opening would have free booze, I assumed she
was being ironically irreverent, that it was her way of inviting a date to a
museum without seeming too sentimental or arty. But now I realized she was
being straightforward. Paula wasn’t interested in art as an aesthetic or
spiritual experience, she didn’t care about artistic nuance. I don’t think it
would have made a difference to her if the opening was of a da Vinci exhibit or
a new nightclub, as long as the place looked nice, attracted a nice-looking crowd
and offered alcohol. She bought $150 tickets to Broadway plays not because she
cared about the plays but because it was something appropriate to do for
someone in her demographic. And I’m sure she enjoyed these experiences but
thoughtlessly, to her they were interchangeable. Not that she was an airhead,
just certain details weren’t important to her.
“You know, it pisses me
off that these museums, like this one and the Guggenheim, charge like $25 admission,”
I said.
“Is that....You think
that’s a lot?”
It was an off-handed
comment on my part, designed to exhibit my rebellious and humanistic side. Anyway,
I’d expected a different response, “Yes, me too,” or “I know.” But she was not
of that breed. I tried to wiggle out of it, to disguise my pauper’s attitude – Twenty-five
isn’t too much for me, no, no, no, but for some, those poor, destitute New York aesthetes, blah blah blah. “Accessibility to art should be determined by
the need to experience it, not by the ability to pay!” Paula was not impressed.
More pathetic was that my
words were just words. I hadn’t been to the MoMA in at least fifteen years. I
thought of myself as someone who went to museums, read great books, watched
great films. In fact I’d mostly stopped doing that a long time ago. I still did
it on occasion but the instances had become far between and the experience now was
very seldom religious. Maybe I stopped getting the satisfaction from great art
that I used to. Maybe somewhere along the line I just became too lazy to bother
trying to access that higher state. Whatever happened all my talk of needing great
art was just remnants of how I’d imagined myself long ago. Over the last few years
I found myself shying away from greatness, choosing instead to waste my time on
the mediocre, until it became a routine: get drunk, get high, watch a stupid
new movie or a good one I’d seen twenty times, some TV, the same episodes over
and over, rub a few out in between, then pass out. Maybe if I had other things
to be passionate about, career, family, a child, but art was all that I had and
I hardly had that anymore. “Kill the day!” That should have been my mantra. I was stuck in a quicksand of my own making. Something
needed to change. That was why I started internet dating, to meet people, to get
out of the house. But I also thought, maybe, if I got a girl, not one of these
half-artsy introverted basket cases I tended to attract, but a real girl with
some get-up-and-go, who didn’t spend her days wallowing in misery and picking
spiders out of her attic, but who lived life in sunlight, who travelled, who
did things, real, human social things, like they do in commercials, and who believed
in me just enough, just to give me some time, just a push, something to work
for, something to look forward to, that my life might just change. No woman can
save a man, I know that, and if one tries it will usually lead to destruction.
I didn’t want to be saved. I just wanted some help, just to get on my feet,
just a breath, some fresh air, just a little bit of faith and affection from a
beautiful girl, with beautiful being the operative word. That was the problem –
she had to be beautiful. Not necessarily Charlize Theron but beautiful enough
to where I knew she was with me because she wanted to be – because she saw my
beauty, my potential, my wonderful qualities – and not because I was the best
she could do.
“You know what you can do,”
suggested Paula, “is become a member here, at the MoMA. I think it’s something
like $85 a year and then you can come here whenever you want for free.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea.
I’ll look into it,” I said thoughtfully.
“Do you want to go up to
the galleries?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“I don’t think we can
take drinks up there though.”
“Then I must get
fortified first.”
We went down to the bar
and I asked for a double vodka. The bartender gave it to me on the rocks. “Can
I get it neat.” He looked annoyed, took an oversized bucket glass, and tipped a
bottle of Ketel One into it. He filled that thing with a vengeance, emptied
nearly a third of a bottle in there.
“Jesus Christ!”
Paula suggested I didn’t
have to drink all of it.
“Yeah, I don’t think I
can do that. The idea of wasting something like this....It’s not that I’m
greedy, I just hate to waste things, I think waste is wrong, like spiritually
wrong. Also, I got that thing: I was raised to always finish my plate because
children in China or wherever the fuck were starving. So, you know.”
“I understand. But you realize
that’s not how it works, right?”
“Yes, I realize that’s
not how it works.”
“And that’s not even
food.”
“Yes. It’s vodka! Do you
know how many people in the world are sitting around sober and miserable because
they don’t have vodka?!”
Paula chuckled. I made my
first pass at the vodka. It was room-temperature, too much to shoot, so I drank
it like water. Gulped down half of what was in the glass, smelled a lemon rind
– like in the old country – then chewed it up. We chatted a bit, then I did it
again. It took six or seven big swallows to empty the glass, fourteen total. For
a moment I thought I might throw up. I imagined a geyser of vomit shooting out
from my mouth, spraying her and the rest of these attractive, well-dressed
Manhattanites with bits of lemon rind and the buckwheat kasha I’d had for
breakfast. That would have been funny. But the sensation subsided and we made
our way towards the escalators.
As we rode, up, up, up
from the crowd, from the noise, from the earth, towards the art, the drunk hit
me. It came on so fast it felt more like a high than a drunk, like I’d just
smoked a big ball of hash. It was an odd sensation, my mind hadn’t realized yet
I was inebriated, and I felt like a sober rider atop a very drunk horse.
We got off at the top
floor.
“Oh my god, this is awesome!” I exclaimed when
I saw Andrew Wyeth’s Christina’s World.
“This is fucking genius!” I was very excited; I hadn’t felt a connection this
powerful to a painting in a long time, not since seeing Bruegel’s The Harvest a day after dropping acid. I
took a picture of the label so as not to forget the artist’s name.
“Drunk is the best way to
look at art, don’t you think?” I said as we proceeded towards the Tokyo exhibit. “You can see so much
more, everything’s so much more interesting, so much more full.”
“It’s just like with
people, the more you drink the more interesting people get.”
“Yes. That’s right. Up to
a point. People don’t get more interesting, I get more interested in them.”
“That’s the same thing
isn’t it? I mean we’re talking about the same thing.”
“Well....No. With people
it’s an illusion. But great art is great whether you’re drunk or not, it’s just
when you’re drunk the connection is stronger, you can really feel it when
you’re drunk. Or anyway it’s easier to feel it. That’s what these puritanical
fuckers don’t understand about alcohol and drugs and all that. They’re so
concerned with being productive, they wind up missing everything.”
“Maybe it’s the same with
people though, it takes a few drinks to appreciate their good qualities.”
“No, it’s not. Oh, this
is excellent!” I exclaimed as we entered the galleries and I stopped to look
intently at some photographs, captivated by their power and beauty. My reaction
was sincere but as I studied the photos I can’t say I wasn’t conscious of hoping
to garner some respect from her for my eccentric and passionate reaction, as
well as perhaps some confidence points for ignoring her.
When I disengaged from
the pictures she was no longer next to me. I looked around, she was not in the
room. I hurried to the next gallery and was relieved when I found her there slowly
walking past the exhibits. I came up to her. If she was in any way affected by
my lack of attention she did not show it.
“Wow, I forgot how tall
you are,” I said.
“That’s the second time
you mentioned my height. Is this something that bothers you?”
“No, not at all.”
“Then why do you keep bringing
it up?”
By this point my body was
swaying involuntarily just a little bit here and there, like a high rise in the
wind, and my limbs felt like they were being operated by a maladroit puppeteer.
I felt my mind on the brink of sliding into saccharine sentimentality. I was on
the precipice of becoming romantic – heavy eyelids, adoring smile. And the
energy I was putting out was defeatist. Get a grip fucker! And exude some
confidence, I thought to myself, and focused on her flaws: She had a mole on
her jaw, and her hips were a bit on the broad side. And she didn’t know Chekhov!
What the hell was I nervous about? Really, I wasn’t even nervous. It was some
sort of affect, as if this was the way I imagined it should be. She wasn’t my match,
spiritually speaking. I told myself I wasn’t interested in her. To fuck, yes,
sure, why not? To flatter myself by getting her into bed with just my bare
hands so to speak, even more so (bedding an attractive, successful, New York
attorney would have been almost as flattering as getting a stripper to fuck me
for free). And she was attractive. Pretty face, fit, nice legs, flat belly,
golden hair, glowing skin, an apartment in the West Village. And she liked to
drink, that was good. And she did things, she lived in the sunlight.
“I don’t know why I
brought up your height,” I said, “it just came out,” which was true. I had no
idea why I’d said it again, I knew she didn’t like it the first time. “But it’s
complimentary,” I continued, “really. I like your height, it’s nice. I mean,
like, if you were fat I wouldn’t say to you, Wow, you’re so fat! But being tall
is nice.”
“Ok.”
We strolled casually by
the exhibits, making comments. She was a sweet girl this Paula, had nice arms
and strong hands, which I liked. And she laughed at my jokes, at least smiled. When
I’d say “cock” or “cunt” it did not put her off. And I don’t think she’d
slumped when she saw me. Our back and forth now was easy and light. She wasn’t
trying to be too smart or clever, didn’t try to make a spectacle of herself. I
found her lack of pretense relaxing. She didn’t labor to understand what the
artists were trying to say, didn’t try and analyze how the works made her feel,
and the more abstract pieces to her were mere curiosities, often silly or
comical. Walking with her past exhibits was like walking by displays in
department store windows. It wasn’t a struggle or contest but a light, pleasant
outing. And it was charming in its way how she didn’t pay attention to things,
how she didn’t know the museum had a coat check, for instance, despite having
been here a number of times, how she didn’t know the names of the movies she
liked, how she didn’t know Rodin or Balzac, how she did not know Chekhov. Who
the hell needs a girl who knows Chekhov? I was sick of the girls who knew
Chekhov, who knew Maya Deren, John Cage. Fuck all that. Fuck the dive bars, the
no-cover jazz clubs. I was sick of picking through the leftovers in the
discounted bin, trying to find a shirt I could live with. I wanted a tailored
brand name.
As we strolled sometimes,
usually when we were making fun of a piece, we talked quietly, our faces close
together, and I started sensing a vibe as we spoke, as she spoke. I listened and
my facial muscles softened, my gaze intensified, looking into her eyes, a discernible smile lit up my eyes and traced
itself on my face. I wanted to kiss her, to get in between those long legs in
black stockings. At one point she was whispering to me and I started leaning in,
but then stopped and leaned back, pretending I’d just been lost in my thoughts.
It was too soon, I would wait until we got to a bar.
It was nearing 8:00pm.,
closing time.
Paula asked, “Should we
go?”
“Vamonos!” I exclaimed.
We got on the escalator,
she was standing behind me.
“Ok, well, this was fun, but
I have to meet some friends at 8:30, so...”
I turned my head to look
at her, “You have to meet some friends at 8:30?”
“Yeah, I made plans with
them earlier, I can’t break them.”
“Alright, sounds good,” I
said and turned my head back, looking down at the mass of people rising towards
us. A sheet of heat washed over my face and down my back, the heat of rejection
and embarrassment, as we descended into the stifling din of the crowd. I wanted
to turn around and punch her. Not her, a guy, and not for rejecting me but for
talking shit about my mother or about how the Jews had it coming. Instead I
gathered what mental powers I had left and focused them on appearing sober and
nonchalant.
We got to the coat check,
got back our coats. The girl at the window had change for a twenty and I tipped
her two dollars. When I turned to go I found Paula talking to a group of five
girls. I drew a mental straight line from myself to the group and tried to steer
my drunk horse along that line as best as I could. The group had two black
girls, two white girls, and another girl I don’t remember what she was. One of
the black girls caught my attention especially. She was a little shorter than
me, had very short hair, nearly shaved, and a sporty figure. She was more
striking than beautiful and there was power behind her eyes, humanistic intelligence,
sophistication, the aura of a confident artist. And she was wearing this interesting
pea coat patterned in black and white leopard-type spots.
“That’s a fabulous coat!”
I said to her.
“Thank you. It’s from
South Africa.”
My horse was about to
make some black and white joke about South Africa but I managed to restrain it.
Then Paula introduced me and I shook all their hands. When I shook the hand of
the girl in the black and white coat – she had a firm, tomboy’s grip – we looked
into each other’s eyes and I felt another powerful wave of heat wash over me. Only
this one was pleasant. My heart fluttered and I felt something transpire
between us, like a big glob of soft, glowing energy, I could almost see it, it
looked like a blue manatee, translucent and shimmering. I was taken aback. I
wished I’d remembered her name.
We all chatted a bit,
then I led everyone outside for a smoke. There was more conversation. I mostly busied
myself with trying to keep my drunken horse steady and making sure it didn’t blurt
out something racist or sexist. I did make a few funny comments, made the
little girls laugh; they were young, it was easy. But the whole time my insides
were churning and all I could think of was her. We exchanged a few glances but mostly
I avoided her gaze, so as not to appear like a sleaze. What could I do? Paula’s
introduction of me was ambiguous but the girls assumed I was her date, or her
boyfriend; I could tell by the way they were smiling at me. What a stupid
situation, made all the more vexing by the fact that in a few minutes Paula and
I would part and never ever see each other again. Ever. And here was this black
girl and it was love at first sight, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it! And
maybe it wasn’t love but it was something, something big and important, and
something I desperately needed. It was right there and yet I couldn’t touch it.
How pathetic was this? There was not one good reason for me not to approach
her, certainly not a reason that outweighed what happened between us back there
by the coat check. But even if I did break this awful taboo and make a move (an
act tantamount to me getting naked, which actually would probably have garnered
more understanding), I was too drunk and nervous to do it right. And was there
a right way to do it? Was there some magical combination of words and gestures
and facial expressions to make her receptive to me? “Listen, listen, just
listen to me for a minute, don’t go, wait, just listen. Back there, when I
shook your hand, I felt like a glowing porpoise of energy was flowing between
us. I think you felt it too. Did you feel it? The blue porpoise or walrus or
whatever it was? It doesn’t matter. The point is, something vital happened
between us. I see you. You know what I’m saying? I-see-you. There’s something
about you. You’re like this noble black leopard. There’s vastness behind your
eyes, as vast as the African plain. How many times in life does something like
that happen, when you feel that connection to someone? Never! Twice maybe. You
can’t pass this by. We have to see where it goes. Get a drink with me. Let’s
get drunk. Let’s get fucked up. Forget that it’s Tuesday. You don’t have to go
home. You do have to go? Ok, fine, then take me home with you. Fold me up and
put me in your purse. Bring me into your apartment, wash my hair and tuck me in
a blanket, in your bed in the corner. Light your incense and put on your music
whose beat echoes in the dark distant night like a candle. Take your clothes
off and press your body against me. Let me smell your moisturizer and feel your
nipples poke at my ribs, feel you pubic hair scratching my cock. Put your arms
around me and be quietly joyful to tears from how much you adore me. Let me
hear your breath in my year and feel your legs, smooth and muscular, wrapped
around mine. And I won’t move, I promise. Not even when it gets way too hot.
I’ll lie in your arms like a puppy and listen to you as you sleep.”
It was time to depart.
I’d said nothing to the black girl of course. Then an idea occurred to me, like
a revelation – I’ll just wait a couple of days then ask Paula to put me in
touch with the black girl! That’s perfect! It’s brilliant! Why wouldn’t she?
She doesn’t want me, and if we part on good terms – she seems like a decent
person – there’d be no reason for her to say no. Why hadn’t I thought of this
sooner? It was such a relief. I felt great. I felt free!
Paula and I said our
goodbyes to the group and like a gentleman I walked her west, towards her train
or her cab or whatever it was she was taking. We crossed 6th Avenue.
“Do you mind waiting for
a minute,” I asked her outside the Hilton, “I need to go in there and take a
piss?”
“I kind of have to go
anyway, so, I mean...”
“Ok! No problem. I had a
great time. Thank you. It was a pleasure. Have a good night,” I said and went
inside.
It was such a nice toilet
I regretted not having to shit. But the piss hit the spot, what a lovely
relief. It even sobered me up a little. Now it was 8pm on a brisk autumn night
in midtown Manhattan, I was drunk and had not spent a dime. Ten years ago I’d
have stayed out all night in search of adventures, which usually meant getting
drunk in bars, talking to people and trying to get laid. But these adventures
required a lot of commitment and the payoff was usually pitiful. By 41 I’d come
to the conclusion that there were no diamonds in the rough (at least I couldn’t
find them) and that bars were stupid, bar conversations were stupid, bar people
were stupid, bartenders were assholes and stupid, and the chances of me picking
up a girl in a bar in midtown Manhattan or anywhere in the city were negligible.
So I walked west down 53rd,
towards my side of town. I made it a block and a half, crossed the street and
went into a bar. It was some Irish bar that was now a douchebag bar, the way so
many of them had become in Manhattan, with $7 pints of Guinness that were 12
ounces, 30 TVs, and monogrammed t-shirts for sale. I ordered a Guinness. I
seldom drank Guinness anymore. After I found out it only had 4% alcohol I felt
betrayed – all that hoopla, the two-step pour, the heaviness, the bitterness,
the higher price – for a lousy four per cent? It was like buying a Porsche with
a top speed of 90.
The bar had the
after-work midtown stragglers, nobody I wanted to talk to, more importantly
nobody who looked like they wanted to talk to me. There was a guy sitting next
to me who looked out of place: missing teeth, dirty work clothes, a little guy,
not too bright, maybe Irish. I imagined he drank here way back, when this was a
real bar serving real drinkers, and was now returning to it like a homing
pigeon to a coop that has long since burned down. Turned out he worked cleaning
something around here and stopped in for a beer before going to his little
basement room in the South Bronx, where he said it was still plenty dangerous.
I finished my beer and
left. Walked a block and a half, turned into another Irish bar. Same damn
nonsense, no one to talk to, $7 for 12 ounces of Guinness. I got a Guinness,
paid, left the barman a dollar.
“I understand charging $7
a beer, but why such a small glass?” I said to him, “it’s the rent that’s
expensive, not the beer.”
He pretended he didn’t
understand what I was talking about. Another asshole. I went out for a
cigarette.
“Excuse me, chief, could
you spare a few dollars,” said a young man as he came up to me, “I’m a victim
of hurricane Sandy?”
He was tall, wiry,
early-thirties, eyes of a predator. He did not look to me like a victim of
hurricane Sandy. He looked more like a looter supplementing his income.
“No,” I told him.
He noticed something
across the street and yelled to some guy there, pointing to a group of tourists
who were walking in that guy’s direction, “Yo! Yo! Axe them! Them, those
people, axe them!” Then he turned back to me, “Come on, you can help me out, just
a dollar or two.”
“No man,” I said, “I’ll
give you a cigarette if you want but that’s it.”
For a moment he seemed to
be gauging if I was drunk enough to where he could punch me, snatch my money
and run away. I got ready to grab him. I was half-hoping he’d do it. At least
that would be something. Like with Hurricane Sandy. When it hit I was half-hoping
it would drown all of Manhattan, bury it under four feet of sewage, to where Upper
West Siders would float to their Starbucks in dinghies, vexed over having
picked up all that dog poop for nothing. Sandy caused devastation of course,
but just not where I lived; my existence went uninterrupted. A sapling fell
down on my street, that was it.
The looter relaxed. Or
maybe his intention had been all in my mind.
“Alright, give me a cigarette,”
he said.
“You want one for your
friend?”
“Yeah, give me two.”
I gave him two cigarettes.
He made to go join his friend across the street, but then I guess maybe he was
overcome with indignation because he threw the cigarettes down on the sidewalk
before strutting across. I picked up the cigarettes and went back inside.
I had a few sips of my
Guinness, then I went to the men’s room, just to get my eight dollars’ worth
from this bar. They too had a nice men’s room, though not as nice as the one at
the Hilton. I peed in the stall, why not? Came out of the men’s room, took a
seat at an empty table, looked through my phone, found Paula, and wrote her a
text:
Hi! This might sound weird but it’s not. Could
you put me in touch with that black girl in the black and white coat? I felt we
had a powerful connection and I want to see if it’s true.
Within seconds I got a reply:
Are you serious?
Me:
Yes. I was going to wait till tomorrow to ask
you but since you are uninterested in me I figured it wouldn’t be a problem.
Paula:
That’s kind of inappropriate, no?
Me:
It might look that way but it’s not. If what
I felt was real I have a spiritual obligation to follow it up, and I think you
should help me. :)
Paula:
That is crazy.
Me:
It’s not crazy. These connections don’t
happen often, when they do we have an obligation to explore them. It’s the
Universe speaking to us. Appropriate means nothing in that context.
Paula:
I don’t have her number and even if I did I
couldn’t give it out.
Me:
Give her mine.
I returned to the bar. My
Guinness was gone.
“I had half a beer here,”
I said to the bartender.
He was a tall, young, athletic,
good-looking guy with an Irish accent, who had the expression on his face of an
immigrant knucklehead dissatisfied with America and his place in it.
“People saw you walking
all over, staggering...” he said, shaking his head.
“You know, that’s
just....You know, you see me, you
know, that’s not right.” I was going to say more but I knew he’d be sure not to
see it my way. “It’s on you, on your conscience,” I told him and left.
I caught a cab. It
whisked me across town, right on 8th, up, up, up. What a pleasure it
was to ride drunk in a cab through Manhattan. Whooshing by people and places,
bars, restaurants, theaters, the whole city lit up, festive and bustling, made
it seem like a cauldron of life, a Byzantine fantasy. At that speed I could
forget that this place had nothing for me. That it was all hungry sports fans and
twelve-dollar cucumber cocktails. All the back doors were padlocked, the alleys
fenced in and the tunnels bricked up. Everything was accounted for and nothing
was just left to be. There were no bargains left in New York, no surprises,
unless you were prepared to go deep down, and I was too soft to do that. Even
the periphery dwellers were just wearing costumes. It was all a big game of
dress-up, except I was the one in the pharmacy cape, my mother’s mascara, fifty-cent
plastic teeth. The eternal immigrant who never got it. Prince of Darkness.
Yeah, right.
My heart jumped as I felt
my phone wiggle and purr with a text in my pocket.
Hi there! I’m
working tomorrow night at the bar, wanted to see if you’d like to come by.
Wait, what? Working? What
bar? Oh... It was not the black girl, not the one with the black-and-white coat.
It was another black girl, the black-Jewish girl, Ebony.
I met Ebony about two
years earlier on the same dating site where I met Paula. Ebony was only about
one quarter black, very light-skinned, and she grew up Jewish, which was how
she thought of herself. She had an adorable face, giant breasts, and a lovely
smooth little pussy. She was a bit heavy but that was alright, she carried it
well. We started having sex on occasion, which I enjoyed, but it quickly became
apparent that she wanted more from me. For some reason she really liked me. Unfortunately
our energies did not match up at all, on any level. I explained this to her but
by then she was deep under the Dmitry spell and could not resign herself to occasional
casual sex. She demanded attention, took some liberties, insisted I’d punched
her after I gave her a light smack in the face during sex. Some mild insanity
followed. But our lives weren’t enmeshed, we had nothing to divide, and my
building had a doorman, so it soon petered out. But a year later she texted me
again (that was how she communicated, text, text, text). We got together. She’d
lost some weight and looked great. We went to a play, didn’t have sex, which
was fine. But a week later we did. That was four months ago. We’d gotten
together two or three times after that. And now there she was, on my phone.
I called her. She picked
up.
“Tonight,” I said, “meet
me tonight at the Hi-Life.”
It was a Tuesday and the
bar was nearly empty. They had music playing from the ‘80’s and 90’s, not too
loud, silly songs from my youth but I liked them. The bartender was a little
Indian fellow, not at all confrontational. I ordered a Stella – big glass, 16
ounces, 5.2% alcohol, 6 bucks. Then I ordered a basket of fried calamari, dumped
too much Tabasco in the dipping sauce. Fuck it, it still tasted good. I chatted
with the guy next to me, interesting-looking guy, looked like someone, an
actor? (When I was drunk and alone a lot of people looked interesting to me,
like they were actors or writers.) He told me his wife had left him, or he had
left her, I don’t remember. Who cares!? We toasted to that. Now this was a
party! I was back in New York. Still couldn’t smoke but I didn’t even want to,
I was too drunk to smoke.
Then the door opened and Ebony
entered. What a beautiful, beautiful face, lovely smile, sparkling eyes. She
always looked so immaculate, not a hair or a stitch out of place. She was glowing.
Yeah, that’s right, I said
in my mind to the guys, she’s for me, she’s for me motherfuckers! A beautiful black
girl. How many white guys you know can get that with no job, no money, no
nothing? A beautiful black girl from the Upper West Side, ten years younger
than I, whom I called at Midnight on a Tuesday, has come in here for me, sees
me here falling-down drunk and she’s happy to see me. Do you see the delight in
her eyes? Do you see how I put my hand on her cheek, cold from the wind, and she
squints her eyes with joy like a baby? Do you see me kissing her soft lips. Do
you see how she sits next to me and orders a drink? You probably thought I’m some
poor, lonely drunk. Ha-ha-ha!
“I want you to come
over,” I said to Ebony.
“Ok.”
See that fuckers?! “Ok!”
Ha-Ha-Ha!
In my bedroom she took
off her clothes, pulled off mine. We did not bother with condoms. I licked her until
she came. “I want you to fuck me,” she said, and I fucked her. I was hard but
too drunk and exhausted to come. After thirty minutes I gave up and we fell
asleep.
My erection awoke me at daybreak
and I slipped it inside, from behind. I held her waist firmly watching my cock
work away like a piston, watching my belly smack against her luxurious ass as
it wiggled and jiggled, my gaze sliding up her back to her shoulders, where she
had a tattoo of a hammer and sickle. It was that early-morning hangover-drunk
fuck when the world feels all warm, wet and cozy. And I felt vulnerable and
willing, like the succulent overripe bulb of a poppy a hair’s breadth from
bursting, spilling milky seeds of orgasmic euphoria, seeds of love. I felt like
a bulb ripe with love, just a touch, just a graze and I’d pop. And I thought,
so what if she does get pregnant, would that be so bad? So she has a tattoo of a
hammer and sickle on her back, big deal? I’m 41 and I have done nothing with my
life, what the hell am I waiting for? A child would be nice. Maybe something
would change, it would have to. I would have a purpose, a passion, an excuse to
take myself seriously, to take my life seriously. I could leave something here
on this earth for Christ’s sake. I know she’d like a child. And we wouldn’t necessarily
have to be together, she could be like my baby’s mama. It wouldn’t be perfect
but nothing is perfect. There’d be problems but I’d have a child. And I
thought, this is why alcohol is important, half the babies out there probably
wouldn’t have been born if it wasn’t for hungover sex.
“Can I come inside you?”
“Um-hum.”
I came inside her.
Then I ran to the
bathroom and threw up yesterday’s vodka.
Jesus Christ what the
fuck did I do?! I thought to myself as I did this. I’m dead. She’s going to
kill me. That whole entitlement “Pay attention to me!” bullshit she gave me a
year ago when we had nothing between us would be like a light summer breeze compared
to the hurricane she would unleash if she ever gave birth to my baby; Sandy’s
devastation would be nothing compared to the destruction Ebony would visit upon
me. She would suck out my guts with a straw and turn my balls into sundried
tomatoes. There would be no escape; I couldn’t run out on my baby, I’d be
sucked in with love. And my whole family would be sucked in there too. And what
if the baby has that kinky black hair? How am I going to relate to it? It’s going
to look black, be raised Jewish – that’s Upper-West-Side no-pork-products
Jewish – and resemble me. What the hell am I going to do with that thing?
By the time I got back to
my bedroom she was dressed. I walked her out of the apartment and went back to bed.
And I dreamed I had murdered a half-dozen innocent people, hidden them badly,
and now it was only a matter of time before the police and my family found out.
I was awakened by an
incoming text:
Soooo... I’m feeling
a little bit nervous about this AM so I think I’m going to take the morning after
pill... FYI in case you were concerned.
Me:
Ok.
I was afraid she might
lie to me about taking it, but then she sent this:
Took
it. That’s the last time. If we do this again I’m not taking it.
I got on my computer, did
my business, then wrote Paula a message:
Hey Beautiful,
I’m sorry about
asking you for that girl’s info when I did, I was wrong to do that. In my own
defense I can only say that it was like the perfect storm: As soon as you told
me you were meeting friends at 8:30 I knew you wanted nothing to do with me,
the bucket of vodka I drank put me in a certain state, and I did get very
excited about that girl, something about her moved me.
That aside, I had a
very good time. Thank you for taking me.
D.
She replied:
Thanks for the
apology, and I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I did have a nice time, you’re
very entertaining; I just don’t think we have potential as a couple.
Me:
You’re probably
right. I was actually very surprised you agreed to go out with me in the first
place. :)
Two days later, as the
victims of Sandy sifted through the wreckage of their lives, I asked Paula again
to put me in touch with the black girl. By then most of my excitement had
dissipated but I wanted to follow through just in case. Also, I didn’t want Paula
to think I had been disingenuous, or serve to affirm the notion that miracles,
such as love at first sight, did not happen. “I did ask her,” Paula replied, “she’s
not into giving you her number.”
A week later Ebony texted
me an ultimatum – either be her boyfriend or no more sex. We haven’t spoken
since. I did go to the MoMA website and purchase a membership.
November 29,
2012
