by Tash Skilton
Then I remember who’s footing the bill and grin. “No worries, really. It’s a business expense.” Smell you later, Clifford.
Bree smiles back, relieved. “Also, could we, like, pretend I’m not paying you? I liked what you said about ‘peer-to-peer’ or whatever. I think this’ll work better for me if we hang like we’re friends and you just happen to be good at online dating, and you’re helping me out for fun.”
“Sure, no problem. Thanks for meeting me near my place, I really appreciate it.” Please don’t ask about my cat. I haven’t invented his backstory yet.
“Are you farther over in Alphabet City or . . . ?”
“I’m actually right across the street.”
“Oh my God! You live there? Those apartments are huge! And they allow pets? Do you mind if I ask what you’re paying?”
I’m so gobsmacked by her belief that my apartment is spacious that I’m rendered mute. Besides my broken toe, my shins are littered with bruises from knocking into things because there is nowhere to stand. Also, I can’t exactly tell her my old boss owns the building and has knocked 50 percent off my monthly rent, because that might lead to telling her who my old boss IS by pointing to the woman on her T-shirt. Her level of Undersea fandom would not recover from that information, and we have tasks to complete today. As much as I love the idea of pretending we’re friends on a lunch date, the truth is we’re on a mission.
Luckily, the waitress appears and introduces herself before my silence becomes prolonged. Each person on the waitstaff, she explains, goes not by name but by favorite menu item. “I’m Cheesy Nuggets, and I’ll be taking care of you today.” (And indeed, her name tag reads “Cheesy Nuggets.”)
Cheesy Nuggets explains that Cheese is an experimental pop-up specializing in grilled cheese sandwiches and fondue. Since it’s on my “company card,” I tell Bree to order anything that catches her eye. We both want the extra sharp cheddar toasties with jalapeños, and cheesy tater tots on the side, and she also asks for goat cheese with raspberries and syrup on top.
When Cheesy Nuggets leaves, Bree pours wine in my glass and we clink together.
“I need to stop hitting the sauce,” she says, while hitting the sauce. “I think it’s the cause of all my problems, honestly.” She frowns. “Not all-all my problems, just my relationship problems. It’s fine if I drink with you, or my girlfriends after work or whatever. But with dudes? Ugggggh. Because if I’m feeling relaxed and giddy and uninhibited, it’s over way too soon, you know what I mean?
“I don’t have regrets, don’t get me wrong,” she continues. “I partied a lot after college, and it was fun, but I think I’m done with that phase of my life. I’m at the quarter-centch mark, you know? Everyone knows if you don’t lock down a husband by the time you’re twenty-nine in New York it’s, like, not happening. Because why would they date an almost-thirty-year-old when there are a kajillion twenty-two-year-olds running around the place who are like, fertile? I really need to find a quality guy. Because my dick picker’s—”
“Broken. Right.” I’m not likely to forget that phrase anytime soon.
“There’s nothing wrong with the dicks themselves, just what they’re attached to. Here, let me show you—”
Before I can demur, her phone’s out and floating about two inches from my face. She scrolls rapidly with her forefinger: dick pic, after dick pic, after dick pic.
“It’s okay,” I squeak. “I don’t need to—”
She scrolls faster. I’ve never seen such a variety of man parts fly by. “Wow,” I say. “That’s quite a collection. How long did it take you to amass such a—”
“I didn’t take these! I haven’t seen even half of them in person. These were just what dudes sent me on Flirtville, with no messages or notes attached. I don’t get it.”
Ahh. Her comment yesterday about STDs reminds me she’s had a rough go of it recently. I want to turn the ship around for her.
“Hmm. Let’s pull up your Flirtville profile and see if we can figure it out,” I suggest.
She sits next to me, making our laptops neighbors. She logs in and tilts her screen so I can see her profile. In response to the question “Something my parents don’t know about me” she’s written, simply, “DTF.”
I think we’ve cracked the mystery.
“Oh God. I don’t even remember typing that,” she moans. “I must have been wasted. Anyway, that’s another reason I should cool it with the beverages.”
We both drink to that.
Bree deletes a letter and types a new one. “There. DTM. Down to marry. That should fix everything.”
“That . . . might work,” I say. Minimal bluff! “Or, we could cut our losses at Flirtville and start fresh at a different site. What do you think?”
She pushes her hair behind her ears, looking earnest and determined. “Start fresh.”
Twenty minutes later, we’ve synced our laptops to her Game, Set, Match account, and we’ve filled out her questionnaire with pithy remarks and a humorous but firm declaration that her account is a “dick-pic-free zone.”
With her input, I’ve presented Bree as an outgoing, free-spirited denizen of Hell’s Kitchen who enjoyed being single and playing the field but has realized she’s looking for something more significant now. She’s someone who loves classic action-adventure fantasy films, and walking tours of historical neighborhoods, especially haunted ones. (I love this because it presents a perfect opportunity for snuggling with her dates.) She works as a bookkeeper at a pediatrician’s office, where she’s also in charge of curating the kids’ waiting area with games, toys, DVDs, and a colorful fish tank.
We decide to leave out her affinity for fart jokes. I make note of it and categorize it as a Future Honesty.
Freelancer’s Handbook: A Future Honesty is not something to be ashamed of. Instead, think of it as a reward, a prize, even, bestowed upon a match after multiple successful dates. If deployed too early, it risks sabotaging the burgeoning relationship. Protect Future Honesties and save them only for those who prove worthy.
Having devoured our grilled cheese sandwiches and doused the jalapeño flames with more wine, we feast on goat cheese drizzled with maple syrup.
And we’re off, filters set for men aged twenty-four to thirty living in Brooklyn or Manhattan who exercise, like animals, and can see themselves settling down within the next few years. Five is our magic number, meaning the number of people whom we plan to “serve” (Game, Set, Match’s version of a “poke”). If someone “lobs back,” a private chat is activated. If the target of the serve doesn’t respond within a predetermined period of time, they land in your “Ace” folder (an Ace being a tennis serve that hasn’t been touched by the receiver) and won’t appear in your searches any longer. It’s a brisk way of dispensing with people who don’t respond.
“How long should we give them before we Ace them?” I ask.
Bree’s halfway through her second glass of wine.
“A week?” she suggests.
“I was thinking forty-eight hours, but let’s compromise and say ninety-six.”
“Okay, sounds good. Who should we serve first?” Bree asks, looking eager.
“I think we need to narrow it down more. There are thousands of people here.”
“Should we tighten up the age range?”
“I was thinking we could tighten up one of the lifestyle categories. You’ve mentioned drinking gets you into trouble sometimes. What if we filter for nondrinkers, see what comes up?”
“You mean complete teetotal-tarians?”
“. . . Yes.”
I don’t know if “teetotal-tarians” is a malapropism or a new term used by the twenty-five-and-under crowd. The four-year age difference between Bree and me may as well be a generation. I’ve spent the last two decades hanging out with women in their fifties and sixties, and honestly I think I relate to them more at this point. Although despite what Rude Miles from the café believes, I’m VERY computer savvy.
“Okay,” she agrees.<
br />
I like that she doesn’t fight me on it. It proves she’s serious about curbing her drinking for the chance at a longer-term commitment.
I click the appropriate buttons and refresh the page.
The first profile is a rail-thin guy with a wispy mustache and a dreamy look in his eyes. I fear I’ve led Bree astray. “Nondrinker” might be code for “shoots heroin.”
“Sorry, let me adjust this again . . .”
I filter for “straight-edge” instead.
“Ooh, how about this guy?” she says immediately.
MustLoveDogs’s profile picture includes (who else?) his dog, whom he’s hugging from behind and gazing at with fierce adoration. His description reads, Seeking someone as wonderful and loyal as my black lab, Henrietta. I don’t think I’ll ever find anyone as perfect as her, though. LOL.
“Awww,” says Bree. “That’s so sweet!”
Before I can stop her, she’s reached for her screen and clicked on “Serve.”
“Whoops! Okay, um, if that’s what you want to do, but I’m not so sure. You know how some people call their pets ‘fur babies’?”
“Yeah?”
“I think this is his ‘fur wifey.’ ”
“But he wrote ‘LOL.’ He’s just kidding.”
“Yeah . . . I think he’s serious. You don’t want to enter this fight.”
“But I already served him. Can I take it back?”
“No, but that’s all right. And who knows, maybe I’m wrong. It’s just that Henrietta takes up more of the picture than he does. We can’t really see what he looks like, and his only interests have to do with her.”
She groans. “See? I told you my dick picker’s broken.”
“Healing,” I correct her. I need to get her to stop saying “dick picker.” My right eye twitches every time she does.
MustLoveDogs lobs back instantly, which, frankly, is a bad sign.
Bree squints at his message:
MustLoveDogs: Henrietta’s birthday is tomorrow! No need to spend a lot—under $100 is great—but if you’d like to come, we’d love to meet you. Woof-woof! (That was Henrietta! :))
“Under a hundred?” Bree sputters.
“Let’s reply and move on.”
“Don’t even! That was gross.”
I resist the urge to point out that Bree was the one who contacted him. The right thing to do is close it out properly. “He doesn’t count,” I assure her. “We’ll find five more.”
Under Bree’s account I write:
TheDuchessB: Happy Birthday to a special dog! I’m afraid I’m not available. Hope it’s a terrific day. Then I “Ace” him so he won’t come up in any more searches. I don’t trust “after-hours” Bree not to serve him again by mistake.
We scroll through more profiles.
“This guy might be cool,” she remarks. “He’s a lawyer.”
“He’s also into Ren Faire. That’s up your alley, right?”
Her face contorts. “Ew! No.”
Who knew cosplayers could be so snobby? “But only once a year, upstate. And he’s got a nice smile,” I point out.
Ignoring me, she points at a muscular dude with a buzz cut. His username is RedPill. “What do you think about him?”
I read his About Me section aloud: “To find out if we’re compatible, please complete this sentence. Sully was a hoax—Yes/ No.”
Bree gasps. “Was it?”
“No!” I shout, before reining myself in. “No, Sully was not a hoax.” The Miracle on the Hudson is the one thing I know to be good and pure and true about New York. I refuse to entertain any notion that suggests otherwise.
“I think he wants us to say ‘yes.’ ”
“Probably, but—”
She clicks “serve” and types, “Yes.”
I grit my teeth. We need to work on her impulse control.
Two seconds later, a response:
RedPill: You’ve been auto-subscribed to my newsletter.
“Nondrinkers suck,” Bree declares.
I can’t disagree.
“How about ‘occasional’ drinkers, then? ‘Everything in moderation’ types?”
“Hallelujah. Yes, please.”
We order fondue because why not? We’ve been here two hours already and have barely made any progress. I’m sleepy and headachy, and I’m pretty sure Cheesy Nuggets wants us to tip her out so she can go home. In fact, a different waitress brings us our fondue. Her nametag reads, “Golden Moldies.”
“What does that mean?” Bree asks, pointing to her tag.
“Your Gorgonzolas, your Camemberts, your Stiltons and Roqueforts. All cheese is basically mold, right? My favorite deliberate moldy cheeses are available on a platter,” she replies, somewhat robotically.
“Should we get some?” Bree asks.
“I think we’d better save those for next time,” I answer gently. “And I want to apologize, because I think I’ve been putting you on the spot too much. How about I go through some profiles on my own, play around with the other filters, and I’ll send you a list of five later tonight for you to check out. Would that be cool? I won’t contact any of them without your approval.”
“Do it. Yes. This is exhausting.”
We ask for the check and while we’re waiting, Bree leans in. “Can I ask about your background?” she asks.
Seriously? What is this obsession with my race today?
“Where do I come from, you mean?” I ask guardedly.
“No, I was wondering if you’re married, what your parents are like, anything you want to share. We’ve talked so much about me—I want to hear your story.”
“Oh, okay.” My shoulders ease back down. “I’ve never been married, and my parents are a couple of save-the-world types who met in the Philippines, where my dad grew up. My mom was there with the Peace Corps, volunteering to rebuild houses after Typhoon Herming, and they fell in love. Nine months later, ta-da,” I say, pointing to myself.
“Aww, you got to be their new project.”
“More like I got folded into the old one. They dragged me from one natural disaster to another until I was ten and my nana put a stop to it.”
Her exact words were: This is no way for a child to live.
“She got them to settle down?”
I swallow a mouthful of my wine. “Oh, no. They wanted to keep traveling.” I shrug. “Which I get. It’s part of their DNA. I mean, they coined the term ‘voluntourists’ for what they do. So Nana and I rented a little one-bedroom place in Santa Monica by the beach.”
If I close my eyes and hold my hands over my ears, I swear I can hear the ocean calling me back.
“That must’ve been an adjustment,” Bree remarks. “To go from being free and, like, traveling the world, to being stuck in one place with Grandma?”
“No, oh no, it was a dream come true. No disruptions, no surprises, getting to unpack a suitcase and mean it . . . I loved it. Waking up and going to sleep in the same place every night was all I ever wanted.”
Nana felt the same way; once we arrived, we never left. We never even took vacations. (Why would we need to? We already lived in paradise.) It was a huge relief. And for college I didn’t even have to leave town because Santa Monica City College was right there. My first ten years were spent like a vagabond, and my next twenty were spent with my feet on solid ground, surrounded by comfort and routine, and I know which I prefer.
“What brought you to New York, then?” Bree wonders.
It wasn’t by choice, I’ll tell you that....
I force a smile. It makes my teeth ache. “I’m supposed to be writing a screenplay. Anyway, I’m boring myself so I can’t imagine how it feels for you.”
“I’m not bored, I’m fascinated! Where are your parents now?”
I signal for the check.
“That is an excellent question.”
* * *
Once Bree and I part ways, her Undersea DVD safely tucked into my laptop bag, I wonder if I should head to Café Crudit�
� and scour more profiles. That would be the smart, productive thing to do.
But it’s Saturday, a small voice inside my head protests, and you go to the café every day. What if you broke the mold, just once? What if you pretended you were going to the café but instead of going inside, you put one foot past the door, just one extra step, and then another, and kept on walking?
I adjust my various bags and look inside Crudité as I glide past, trying not to make it obvious I’m scanning for someone in particular, the only person I’ve said more than two words to outside of work since I arrived.
Why is it I never saw him until the Biscotti Incident, and now I see him there all the time? Is he there right now, clicking away at whatever it is he’s trying to clack?
Gazing beyond my own reflection, I see the big table is empty. I could go in and grab it right now, but a victory without an audience is hardly a victory. If he’s not there to see me enjoying it at his expense, what’s the point? And by the way, of course he’s not there, I reprimand myself. It’s the weekend. He has a life.
No reason I can’t have one, too.
My bravado lasts precisely five blocks. The entrance to the subway beckons, like a gateway to hell.
I could go down those stairs, but what if I never come back out?
I halt abruptly. My feet refuse to take another step. People knock into me on both sides as they pass, clipping my elbows, giving me dirty looks, but I’m rooted to the spot like a fork in a river. Unless someone steers me to the side or shoves me out of the way, they’ll have to go around me. I picture a ladder leading to a pit, and I’m in the middle of it, unmoving. I can’t get down the ladder, and I can’t go back up, either. I’m paralyzed.
Below me, below ground in the dark, a train arrives, bringing with it a whoosh of sound and a gush of hot, disgusting air that’s been living below the city streets for a hundred stagnant years. What madness makes people ride this thing, squashed together with strangers, shaking through the city, jolted every five feet, as though humankind was ever meant to travel that way, underground like rats? Because make no mistake, I’m in rat territory now. Or I would be if I descended. Why can’t I stop feeling so scared, so stupid and helpless?
A trickle of sweat drips down the back of my neck. I feel like a lost child. But no one’s going to find me because no one’s looking for me. They haven’t even noticed I’m gone.