After her epiphany of letting the universe work at its own pace, Callie threw herself into her writing and resumed her quest for the perfect writing group. Through a friend, she heard about some writers who met in the Intercontinental Barclay Hotel lobby every Thursday morning at 9:30. That time worked perfectly with her current work schedule and she decided to give it a go.
When she arrived at the hotel, she spotted half a dozen people monopolizing the cream-colored couches and chairs fixed in the center of the ornate lobby.
“Is this the writer’s group?” Callie called out to a twenty-something girl with long artificially black hair accented with streaks of electric blue. The girl had pale skin and several face piercings along with a full sleeve of tattoos on her right arm.
“Shhh, don’t say ‘writing group’ so loudly,” whispered the young woman. “We pretend we’re hotel guests so we can use the lobby for our meetings for free. I’m Fiona.”
Several people nodded to Callie as she sat down next to Fiona.
Callie had recently written a 1,500-word essay about her encounter with the Mystery Man and had come up with a plan to submit it to The New York Times’ “Modern Love” column. Her theme— finding and losing love all on one day—the night before Valentine’s Day. Each week, “Modern Love” featured a different guest author and chronicled the multi-faceted way love manifests itself across all walks of life in the Big Apple. Writing the essay had been cathartic and would be her final stab at reaching out to the universe. Maybe, she thought, if her article was selected for the column, he might see it. She promised herself this attempt at poking the universe would be her last. It was a long shot. She knew getting published in The New York Times was about as likely as winning the lottery.
“I read somewhere that I’d have a better chance of getting into Harvard than getting published in this column,” she had said to Jess after she devised her plan.
“You never know,” said Jess. “Besides, I guarantee you, no one else on this planet has gone to the lengths you have in order to find their soulmate.”
Callie had worked hard polishing her essay and now needed constructive criticism and support from fellow authors. The Intercontinental Hotel writing group was comprised of five men and three women, ranging in age from twenty-five to forty-five. The leader, a man named Mike, was a tall, extremely thin man in his early forties who wore oversized glasses and looked stereotypically bookish.
“Are any of you published?” asked Callie.
“I am,” said Mike as he took a seat near her. “I’m self-published,” he said.
“A lot of people self-publish these days,” said Callie cheerfully. “I may go that route, but I’m going to try for a traditional publisher first.”
“Finding a publisher is a huge time suck,” said the leader matter-of-factly. “You spend all your energy looking for one and not on what’s important—the writing.”
“They never, ever respond,” said Fiona, insinuating herself into their conversation. “The whole system is rigged. You gotta know someone. Book publishing is one giant, nepotistic quagmire.”
“Don’t be such a downer, Fiona. You’ll scare Callie away and we could use a fresh perspective. Let’s get started,” said Mike as the group quieted down. “Who’s up first?”
One by one, each member handed out pages from their manuscript to the others and read their selection aloud. A few wrote science fiction and fantasy—which Callie had encountered in a lot of the other groups. As she listened, she wondered which genre Fiona’s WIP (work in progress) was going to be. Based on Fiona’s quasi-goth clothing and makeup that made her look a bit like a pretty vampire, Callie guessed she wrote either steampunk or possibly horror.
When it was Fiona’s turn to read, Callie noticed that the once snarky Fiona became exceedingly self-conscious. Expecting to hear a story about alien villains and other worlds, Callie braced herself.
“I’m so excited to share my brand new WIP,” said Fiona, “it’s the second in my Western Romance series. This one’s called, Broken Hearts Have Thorns, and it’s hot and steamy. Sssss!”
She writes romance? I did not see that coming.
As Fiona read, Callie observed the other members of the group. They appeared to be carefully listening.
“…and the sheriff,” Fiona continued, “pulled out his gun, shot the traitor twice in the back and steered his chestnut brown horse towards the cattle ranch to find Sarah. When he entered the house, she was waiting for him by the fire wearing only her corset and a grateful smile.”
In Callie’s opinion, Fiona’s writing was okay but not a subject matter she’d ever read. Nevertheless, she was impressed by the thoughtful follow-up comments from the group. Everyone was encouraging and supportive and tried to give Fiona helpful feedback rather than the grandstanding Callie had seen at other groups. And, they weren’t the least bit mean.
When it was Callie’s turn, she handed copies to several members and quietly read her Modern Love piece.
“That was really good, Callie,” said Mike when she finished. “You’ve got something there. Could use a little polishing and I think perhaps…”
Here it comes.
“…no, I take that back. It’s pretty great exactly the way it is. I really felt for the character.”
Callie’s eyes opened wide in surprise. That was positive. He said it was “pretty great.”
“I liked it, too,” said Fiona, leaning forward and smiling. “I felt the yearning, the desire, the passion, the loss. You got the tension just right. I might want the protagonist to reveal a little more about herself. Even so, I was completely interested in where your story was going.” Nicely done, Callie. I hope you decide to join our group.”
The rest of the members nodded and murmured in agreement.
They all liked it? Surprised by the warm reception, Callie responded. “Coming from a group of talented writers, your comments mean a lot to me. Thank you.”
“So, you’re going to join our group?” asked Fiona. “We could certainly use a few more women. Too much testosterone right now, if you asked me. We girls have to stick together.”
Callie smiled and nodded. I’ve found my Mr. Write group.
27
July 2017
Even though five months had passed since Valentine’s Day and Callie had sworn repeatedly to Jess that she had moved on, thoughts of the Mystery Man still flitted across her mind all too frequently. She’d gone out with a few men, but her heart was never in it. She measured each one on the MM yardstick and they always fell short. She wondered if his memory was going to prevent her from ever having a meaningful relationship with anyone. It was like the intense connection and perfection of that phone call had ruined her for anyone else.
With the help of her new writing group, she completed and submitted her love essay to The New York Times “Modern Love” column and waited for a response. It was a long shot, but it gave her hope.
She had taken on extra hours at work which made the usually grouchy George smile a few times. Ariom Marketing Research was in the middle of a year-long political polling contract. Out of all of George’s pollsters, Callie had the best track record for engaging people on their political opinions and would bring his projects in on time and sometimes early.
“I don’t know how you do it, Caledoni-aah,” said George, half smiling one afternoon. “It appears you have a knack for getting people to share their political philosophy with a complete stranger. That’s a real talent. I want you to know I appreciate your work.”
Steeped in political knowledge because it was her passion, Callie could quickly engage with someone no matter what side of the political spectrum they were on. When it came to polling, speed was essential or they’d hang up on you and Callie could think quickly on her feet when it came to politics.
“Why are you working all those extra hours?’ asked Jess as she peered around the wall partition between their cubicles, wearing a headband with wiggly fourth of July flags stuck on top.
“Since I met the MM doing surveys,” whispered Callie, “I thought maybe I could meet someone else the same way. The reason we connected at such a higher level was that we got into this incredibly important and meaningful conversation so quickly.”
“So now you’re using a marketing research platform as your romance hotline?” said Jess, making a face. “Girl, you cray.”
“Maybe his name is on a call list. Maybe the robo-call will connect me to the MM again.”
“That’s not going to happen,” said Jess. “A month ago you said you were done.”
“You’re right. I am done. I’m looking for someone new.”
“Can’t you use social media like Bumble and OKCupid or go speed dating like everyone else on the planet?” said Jess in lecture mode. “It’s been five and a half months since that freakin’ phone call. I’ve set you up with three fantastic men and all of them said they felt like they were at a business meeting with a disinterested client when they got together with you.”
“None of them were right for me. No point in stringing them along.”
“Are you kidding? You totally froze them out and then ghosted them.”
Jess shook her head in frustration and swung back into her own cubicle to pick up a call and Callie did the same. “Hello,” said Callie, “I’m calling from Ariom Marketing Research, we’re doing a poll on—”
Hang-up.
“Hello, I’m calling from Ariom—”
Hang-up. Followed by another hang-up, and a third, sixth and tenth. On the twelfth connection a man answered. “Don’t you know it’s rude to call people while they’re eating dinner,” he bellowed and abruptly terminated the call.
Several attempts later, a woman with a wailing baby in the background answered. After Callie explained the purpose of her call over the screams of the child, the woman simply said, “Are ya serious?” and hung up.
Later, a seemingly agreeable man said he would be happy to take her survey. Grateful, Callie asked him a few basic demographic questions and was about to start on the political section when he stopped her. “Before we start, may I ask you something? Do you sleep naked?” he said. “I mean completely nude?”
Callie disconnected the call and let out a groan. “Is everyone in the world a pervert?” she shouted to no one in particular.
“Yes,” yelled a chorus of voices from around the bullpen.
28
August 2017
On a warm New York summer evening in Bryant Park, bars and restaurants overflowed with young, well-heeled professionals finishing their day with a beer and a few laughs. Patrick, Lorenzo and a group of their college buddies had a standing date there on the first Thursday of every month. During his multi-month odyssey looking for the MW, Patrick had missed the last five months. With steady and unrelenting coaching, Lorenzo convinced Patrick that the blonde who asked his colleague about politics and a dog at Starbucks was nothing more than Patrick grasping at sad little straws. Now, months later with the MW solidly behind him, Patrick looked forward to going out, seeing his friends and dating again.
“Haven’t seen you for a while, Paddy,” shouted one of his old fraternity brothers above the noise in the restaurant as he slapped Patrick on the back. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Work, my friend. Big cases. Even bigger money.”
“In that case, you may buy me my next beer.”
“Happy to,” said Patrick, ordering a drink and enjoying being out after so many months of solitude.
“I missed the last one myself,” said his frat brother. “Had some complications from a root canal. My freakin’ oral surgeon totally messed me up. Got a wicked infection. My face blew up like a pumpkin. I ended up in the hospital for five days getting pumped with antibiotics.”
Patrick whipped out his business card. “Call me in the office tomorrow. Oral surgeons have excellent malpractice insurance. We might be able to squeeze out fifty grand for all your pain and suffering.”
His frat brother smiled and winked as he put Patrick’s card in his jacket pocket. Patrick looked through the crowd and saw Lorenzo’s back. His friend, as usual, was surrounded by a group of cute twenty-something girls. They were all giggling and Patrick smiled. He had a pretty good idea of what Lorenzo was doing. He walked across the room and tapped Lorenzo on the shoulder. When his friend turned his head, Patrick’s suspicions were confirmed.
“Don’t you ever get new material?” said Patrick.
“Are you kidding me?” said Lorenzo, laughing, a quarter in his eye. “This bit kills. Besides, these gorgeous ladies have never seen my routine before, have you, girls?” The women giggled again and begged Lorenzo to do more.
“Do not encourage him,” said Patrick, shaking his head.
“But he’s so funny,” said an olive-skinned woman with long, thick, almost black hair and dark sultry eyes sitting nearby on a bar stool. A cane rested against her chair. Patrick looked down, there was a cast on her foot.
“Pothole,” said the olive-skinned woman with little emotion, after noticing Patrick looking at her leg.
“Pothole?”
“I tripped over a hole in the sidewalk at Rockefeller Center.”
“Broken?”
“In two places,” said the olive-skinned woman. “Foot surgery is awful and recovery even worse. I couldn’t put any weight on it for months.”
“You say you fell at Rockefeller Center?” asked Patrick, confirming what he thought he had heard. “On the public sidewalk? Was the sidewalk damaged in any way?”
“It was right by the ice rink. There was a big crack in the pavement and part of the concrete was missing. Truthfully, I wasn’t looking where I was going. I was texting.”
“Did you sue them?” asked Patrick, smiling, and pulling out a business card.
The woman shook her head. “I have medical insurance through my company. I didn’t want to go through the hassle,” she said. “But if I knew then how long and painful the recovery was going to be, I would have sued.”
“I happen to know that Rockefeller Center is flush with cash,” said Patrick, putting his hand out and shaking hers. “I’m Patrick Walsh, I’m a personal injury attorney. Seems to me, you should be compensated for all your pain and suffering. I’m guessing you also missed work days and personal events?”
The woman nodded. “I missed my cousin’s wedding because of my damn foot, and I was supposed to be a bridesmaid. My sister went in my place. She’s half my size, my dress hung on her like a sack. She looked ridiculous but there wasn’t enough time to have it altered.”
“Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow and we can discuss how I might be able to help you?”
“You should talk to my friend Jenny,” she said, pointing to a redhead with a long braid down her back. “Six months ago, we were playing volleyball in Central Park. Some rollerblader’s dog chased after her and bit her on the leg. There was so much blood, we had to call an ambulance and take her to the emergency room. She had to get twenty-two stitches.”
“Twenty-two!” said Patrick, trying to hide the smile that was forming. “Did she sue them?”
“She never told me about suing anyone,” said the olive-skinned woman.
“Did you find out the name of the owner of the dog that bit her?”
“No, but he plays volleyball in the park pretty regularly. He’s always there whenever I go.”
“How about introducing me to Jenny?”
“Hey, Jen,” shouted the olive-skinned woman. “Come here. I want you to meet someone.”
Whether it was a pub or a restaurant or an industry dinner, any night out socializing, Patrick routinely handed out between five and ten of his business cards. One of his chance social encounters would undoubtedly call him the next day resulting in new business for his law firm. He’d been playing it that way for years and it worked like a charm.
His boss, Anthony Pagliero, often joked that Patrick could smell an injury when it wasn’t obvious to the naked eye.
“You kill me Patrick,” said Pagliero when Patrick brought in another piece of new business. “It’s like you have a weird sixth sense. You’re like one of those dogs who can tell if a person is going to have a seizure before the seizure starts. I don’t know how you sniff them out, but I’m loving it.”
29
In time, Patrick’s social life returned to where he left off. He went out with a myriad of attractive women and resumed frequent late nights out on the town.
On a hot and sticky August evening, he sat in a booth at Calabria, a popular Italian restaurant in New York City’s meatpacking district. The lights in the place were dimmed and the interior looked like a typical restaurant found in southern Italy. The walls were decorated with fresco landscape scenes and blue and gold Murano glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling.
A beautiful platinum blonde with long legs, wearing bright red high heels sat across from him in a slinky navy silk dress. Her lips matched the color of her shoes.
“Do you usually go out with people you meet at the courthouse?” asked Patrick.
“Nevuh,” said the platinum blonde with a pronounced New York accent as she smiled seductively and licked her lips. “But I made an exception for you because you were so cute. Most people I meet in court are lawyers, cops or criminals. I like to keep my business and personal separate. You know what I mean?”
“I’m grateful you violated your rules for me,” said Patrick.
“You seemed different. The trick is figuring out who is who,” said the blonde, taking a sip of her merlot. “The cops usually wear uniforms, so that’s easy enough, unless they’re plain clothes detectives. But, I’ll tell you somethin’, it gets harder and harder to tell who are the attorneys and who are the criminals.”
“Half the lawyers I know are crooks,” said Patrick with a grin.
“Tell me about it,” said the woman loudly with such gusto it made Patrick laugh.
The Fussy Virgin Page 10