by Hazel Parker
As for me? Well, I was rapidly reaching the point where I didn’t think we would even make it to the second drink, let alone the second date. I may have been blunt, but I liked to think that I wasn’t a bitch or a cunt. I wasn’t going to drain Jordan’s coffers just so I could get drunk on his watch.
“What do you think of that?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I said, what do you think of that? My story?”
“It’s...fascinating,” I said. “I’m sorry, I’m not going to bullshit you. I’ve had a long week at work. My listening isn’t what it normally is.”
Perhaps that statement would get Jordan to back off, call it a night, and move on to some other workaholic girl who was more open to just having sex than I was.
Nope.
“Oh! It’s OK! Let me tell the story again. Back in the late eighties…”
Him repeating the story wasn’t even the worst part of this experience. Him repeating the story verbatim, like he had memorized it like some call script, was by far the most ridiculous part of it.
“Can I just ask you a question?” I said. “I don’t mean to be mean. But do you have that story memorized?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, absolutely. It’s part of my RSD training.”
“RS…D?” I said, my mind initially jumping to the notion that this was some sort of strand of LSD that hadn’t made its way into the mainstream yet.
“Oh, yes, it’s called Real Social Dynamics,” he said. “It’s a great program to generate leads for men and teach them how to convert.”
“Convert,” I repeated back.
This was almost too good to be true. At least I was about to be thoroughly entertained.
“You know, convert meetings into dates!” Jordan said with a laugh. “First, you start with some warmups. Generally, you want your warmups to create some cognitive dissonance in the woman so that she has some curiosity in you, you know. You want to look for some SOIs, and—”
“SOI?” I said.
It was probably a bad sign that this was the most curious and engaged I’d been on our date so far. I just wanted to learn how much I didn’t have to look forward to on my future dates and how much I would suffer with anyone and everyone.
Anyone not named Thomas Fitzgerald, seemingly the only man left in New York City who wasn’t either a magnanimous asshole, an awkward mute, or just a weirdo like Jordan.
“Signs of interest!” Jordan shouted. “Like, for example, your dress. The way you have dressed is one SOI.”
“And so if I told you that that’s just how I dress for my job and I didn’t have time to change out of it, would that be an SOI, or a SOD?”
“SOD?”
“Sign of disinterest.”
Jordan laughed, a little more uncomfortable than before, but still trying to remain engaged. My patience for him was running thin. I was probably one or two more stupid comments away from just getting up and leaving.
“You know, humor is an SOI.”
Strike one. And you only need two strikes in this game…
“But yeah, once she’s into you and you’ve established a connection, you tell your story. Girls love stories, you know. They read everything. Dudes? We’re just visual. So you can’t just show up dressed like a stud. You have to speak like a stud.”
“Is that so?” I said, now deliberately trying to show disinterest in this whole charade. “Is that why you’re in a suit?”
“Oh, well this is to represent the fact that I have money, and I know how to dress well.”
“So, let me get this straight,” I said, rising from my seat.
Yep, it’s time to go. It’s time to get the hell out of here.
“On the one hand, you don’t worry about your dress, because that’s too visual, and apparently all women are blind and don’t care how a dude looks. But then, on the other, you have to represent that you have money and you know how to dress well. Do I have that all correct?”
“Yep! You are a smart woman, Miss Amelia! You—”
“I know that,” I said. “You know why? Because I grounded my education in real work. I graduated from Princeton. I work on Wall Street. I don’t base my insights or thoughts on silly nonsense like SOI or RSD or MTX or whatever bizarre acronyms you have.”
Jordan looked like I’d just told him God wasn’t real.
“And while it may be true that men are more turned on by visual appeals than women are, if you think I don’t care how you look, then you’re just stupid. In fact, one of the things I liked about you when I walked in was that you were hot and dressed well. Unfortunately, you’re also showing that beneath that smooth skin and slicked-back hair is a brain the size of a cut fingernail.”
“Oh, come on, Amelia, surely—”
“Come on what, Jordan?” I said. “Come on, you played the game so well, so you must, therefore, have success with me? Here’s a different idea for your next date, Jordan. Whenever you meet the woman, take the time to actually listen. We appreciate people who listen more than people who talk. And when you do talk, don’t talk from a script. It’s obvious, it’s painful, and it makes us think that you aren’t confident enough to say what you really want to say.”
“What the...but...that’s not what my coach says!”
“Your coach?”
I needed to get out of there. But like drivers rubbernecking at an accident, I couldn’t help but slow down to witness Jordan dig himself into a ditch further and further.
“Yes! I have an online coach from Brazil. He’s—”
“Stop, just stop,” I said. “If you think for two seconds that some guy from Brazil is going to help you get women like me, then let me tell you something. Save your money. Go out into the real world. Listen. Empathize. And then, just then, you can have better luck.”
I finished my drink and placed it on the counter.
“I appreciate you inviting me out. But there is zero chemistry. And no amount of peacocking, strutting, COIs, RMBs, or whatever other things you use as lingo will work here.”
“But, but, I haven’t even said—”
“It’s not what you say. It’s what you make me feel.”
I didn’t give Jordan a chance to save himself, mostly because there wasn’t anything to save. I heard him yelling for me—actually, if I really listened, it almost sounded like he was crying for me—as I hurried outside. I hailed the first cab I saw, jumped in, and ignored Jordan running up to the car, begging for me to come back inside.
The whole sight was a pitiful hot mess, but I honestly had a lot more sympathy for Jordan than my actions and words might have suggested. Dating was a painful game for both sides, and he probably just imagined that a coach would help him get what he was looking for. Unfortunately, that seemed to be the furthest thing from the case.
The problem, as the taxi ride pulled off, was that I knew on some level that this date hadn’t just been a means for me to get out and do something outside of the office. No, it went a little deeper than that.
It suggested…
It suggested that I missed the intimacy and closeness that came with a good relationship, and that no matter how much I threw myself at work, I would never feel anything like it.
To be sure, I was not going to quit my job. That was not an option, and even if I met the love of my life tomorrow—or, perhaps, already had met him—I wasn’t going to quit work. I’d take maternity leave at the most, but that was about it.
But still...all those nights working until midnight at Rothenberg Banking had gone a long way toward increasing the size of my bank account, but they hadn’t done much in the way of making me happier.
The cab got me back to my place around ten-fifteen, and as I walked through the lobby to my apartment, numerous couples walked out of the building, holding hands, kissing, or having their arms around each other. I scoffed and ignored them, keeping my head low as I walked through the area. I waited until I got to my apartment to scream.
I kicked off my heels, let my purse
slump to the ground, and collapsed into the couch. I waited for the sweet freedom that my dreams provided to come and take me in.
Didn’t happen.
I kept replaying how I had gotten to the point where I thought downloading Tinder was a good idea. I smacked myself for falling for someone who had joined a dating program that was about one step above pick-up artistry, which was not really a compliment of any kind. I went back and looked at Jordan’s profile, only to see that he’d already sent me five different messages, first trying to mock me for my humor, then apologizing while explaining that he was simply doing what his coach told him. His last message asked if we could meet again as normal people.
Nice try. But no.
I unmatched with him and dropped the phone.
You’re looking in the wrong places, Amelia. You think that online dating is going to bring you happiness, but it’s just going to bring you headaches. You know that you need to find someone whom you’re going to get along with. You need to find someone that you’ve already found.
You…
My eyes were drifting to sleep, and I eagerly closed them and let out an exhale of breath.
But just before the evening took me in, just before I called it a night on my couch—the place I slept more than my bed—I already knew who I was going to go on a date with next.
Chapter 5: Fitz
My eyes bolted open to the sound of the alarm clock at six-thirty on Monday morning.
And, just like every other day for over a decade, I went about the same routine in preparation for the workday.
I went to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth. I put my glasses, undershirt, and pants on. I made myself an easy breakfast of oatmeal, blackberries, nuts, and cinnamon. Once I’d finished with that, I made sure my teeth were clean before putting on the rest of my outfit—an ironed, white button-down shirt and a suit. I also threw a tie of random choosing on; the nice thing about wearing black-and-white was that almost any color tie could work in such a moment.
I patted myself down, smiled at myself in the mirror, and left.
But unlike most days, when I went to grab my suitcase, took the elevator down, and then made my way to Rothenberg Banking, this time, I went back to the mirror and looked at myself.
What did I want to identify with?
Did I want to identify with an investor titan that seemed most interested in milking everything for every single cent possible? Did I want to identify with people who would either quit or die before the age of forty, both outcomes due to stress? Did I want to identify with the most white-collar of white-collar professions?
Or did I want to identify with the MC startup that seemed most interested in promoting a brotherhood for every single member possible? Did I want to identify with people who might die or get arrested before the age of forty, but both outcomes due to having extraordinary adventures? Did I, in the end, want to identify with the most blue-collar of blue-collar professions?
Did I want to make my bank account happy, or did I want to make myself happy?
Quit. Just fucking quit. Call Gerald, call him the fat pig that he is, and quit.
And then what? Drain your savings? Never make good money again? It’s easy to pursue your passions when you don’t have to worry about money. You’ll have the exact opposite experience.
So? You can always leave Brooklyn and go somewhere cheaper. Go to a borough further out. Find affordable housing. Do whatever the hell you need. You don’t want to work with people like Gerald.
You don’t want to, but you have to. You leave, you drown. You stay, you have a lifeboat.
A lifeboat full of holes. The only person there who seems half-interesting is Amelia Hughes, and she’s the most emblematic of the Rothenberg culture.
“Goddamnit!” I gruffly mumbled.
I pulled myself from the mirror, but I knew this was far from the last time that I would have this argument with myself.
* * *
I got to the lobby shortly after seven, and like every other morning, I took myself to the cafeteria. It was like placing myself in purgatory—it wasn’t quite the hell that many floors above would give, but it wasn’t the heaven of freedom on the outside. I had to behave according to Rothenberg guidelines, but I didn’t have to necessarily do my work here. I could breathe.
The doors opened, I poured myself a hot cup of coffee, and I sat down by myself, beginning to read a spare copy of The Wall Street Journal.
“You’re just going to take my copy of the paper like that?”
I looked up to see Amelia Hughes standing there. She had on a black button-down that seemed to have just one extra button unbuttoned, the sort of thing that could have suggested she just plausibly forgot to button it but also could have meant that she had meant to send a message of some kind. Still wanting to keep my options open for staying at the company, I demurred.
“Sorry, you can—”
“I’m kidding, Thomas,” she said, taking a seat by me. “The paper isn’t like internet from the old days. More than one person can have it at a time.”
“What section do you want? I’ll give you Business & Finance, and I can read the front?”
“Good enough for me.”
I pulled the section out and handed it to Amelia. When she took it, her hand brushed over mine. I was surprised to feel the hairs on my arm stand up and a general warm rush go through me. It wasn’t hurt by the fact that Amelia gave the smallest traces of a smile when that happened.
The two of us read in silence for a few moments. There were some general discussions on New York rent control laws on the front page, but for the most part, it was just filler. I read the article about the decline of rent control laws and how—
“How was your weekend?”
I put the paper down, looking at Amelia. Even with our recent interactions over the past week or so at work, hearing her engage me like so was so different. It never stopped being confusing. Amelia was the tough-nosed, gritty employee. She wasn’t the warm smile that reminded everyone of their mothers.
“Good,” I said with a shrug. “I mostly spent it relaxing. Saw some friends in Brooklyn.”
Amelia nodded.
“You?”
“Oh my God, I had the worst date ever Friday.”
You were waiting to share that with me, weren’t you?
“The guy was like something out of a cartoon or something. Dressed in way too expensive clothes, talked like an idiot, kept saying he had a dating coach so he knew how to be a better man...it was awful. He was nothing like you.”
“Like me?” I said with a chuckle. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Well, do you want to be the same or different from some guy who uses slang like SOR and ABC and whatever the fuck three-letter acronyms they use?”
I laughed. I wished now that I had seen that date. I admittedly wouldn’t have to try very much for girls now that I was a part of the Savage Saints, but even if I hadn’t had them, I would have had enough self-awareness to know that using acronyms and hiring a dating coach were good ways to get laughed at, both to your face and behind your back.
“I think my laugh answers that.”
“I think it does,” Amelia said. “I mean, from what I know of you, you seem like you have your shit together. Handsome. Smart. Even-keeled. Really even-keeled.”
“Ah, I have my moments of stress.”
“Don’t be so modest; you can’t not have your moments working here. But compared to most of the population, you keep things under control.”
I’d take the compliment. I wasn’t going to say no to it.
“You’re a rare breed, Thomas. Whoever you are dating must be a very happy woman.”
“Oh, I’m not seeing anyone,” I said, only realizing after the fact why she had made that statement.
It made me feel like my middle school self, honestly. I felt a rush of excitement to know that she was into me, but it felt so extraordinarily taboo to ask out a co-worker…
; A problem that would quickly vanish if you quit today.
And then you’ll have a whole host of problems. Pretty sure someone as driven as Amelia is not going to keep dating you after you go from making over half a million a year to less than half a hundred grand a year.
“You, really?” she said, but it was obvious she had anticipated the question. “For all that you have going for you?”
“Yeah, well, you know how it is. It’s extraordinarily difficult dating in this line of work. And the ones we do know who are married are, well…”
“Not exactly the most faithful people in the world,” Amelia said.
“Let me guess,” I said, taking a quick look around to make sure people wouldn’t stare at us and eavesdrop. “You’ve been hit on by some of those married men?”
“Some?” she said with a cackle of a laugh. “I don’t want to say the percentage just because it’ll be too depressing.”
“Well, ain’t that a delight,” I said with a laugh.
It reminded me, sadly, of Uncle at the club. Uncle had had a marriage once. He hadn’t had kids, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.
But then his infidelity came out. He had a notorious streak for hitting on the younger girls in his company and wherever he went. I wasn’t surprised when, just after starting the club, he had tried to hit on Marcel’s now-girlfriend, Christine. It didn’t matter to Uncle that she was someone else’s date; as far as Uncle was concerned, if a woman entered his orbit and she wasn’t latched on to someone else, he was going to hit on her.
Such an attitude, as Amelia had confirmed, was sadly not uncommon in our world. Uncle, like many of the executives here, were not necessarily bad people, but the pervasive mentality of “take, take, take,” spread to romantic and sexual encounters as well.
“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who would do that,” she said. “If you ever did wind up with someone, I bet you would make them happy.”
“That’s nice of you to say,” I said.
So why don’t you compliment her back? You know she’s into you. You know you’re intrigued by her, and she’s intrigued by you. So why don’t you ask her out?