There Are No Men

by Carol Maloney Scott

  “Thank you. Yes, with fried rice.” I turn away from the waitress and answer Jackie’s question. “Are you kidding? I can’t meet men at the dog park. I have to take Dixie to the little dog area, unless I want her to be a hot dog snack for a Rottweiler. Single men do not have little dogs. Gay men. Couples. Women. That’s it.”

  Jackie sighs and changes the subject to our battle plan of attacking as many shops as we can before nightfall.

  Hours later my feet can’t take another step. Fortunately we do know where the car is, but if we didn’t I would have to sit down and pay someone else to find it and bring it to us. Ballet flats are flat, but not cushioned. My feet feel like they have been bludgeoned to death and for some reason Jackie is still tip toeing around like a dancer, and she has to walk twice as fast to keep up with me with her little stump legs. It’s almost like walking Dixie.

  I am weighed down from all my packages, but it was a productive day. I bought three pairs of sandals (only one super high), two bras at Victoria’s Secret, costume jewelry, and some clothes for both work and going out.

  “How could you possibly buy shoes and bras without trying them on?”

  I have tried to explain this to her, but Jackie fails to comprehend my logic. “I told you—I have worn the same size shoes since I was twelve years old. I only buy bras at Victoria’s Secret, and I know my size. It’s not that complicated.”

  We pull into Jackie’s apartment complex and haul our loot up the stairs. She returns a call from our mother and tells her all about my purchases and how I don’t try anything on. After she gets off the phone she tells me that my mother said, “She also dates men in their twenties.”

  “Yeah, she wasn’t too happy to hear any of that, and she got the very censored version.” I hold up my new rhinestone earrings to see if they sparkle in the lamp light.

  “She just worries about you. It doesn’t matter what Mom says, but you really should try on shoes before you buy them.” Jackie clears off a space on the couch and squeezes herself in between the bags. I am sitting on the floor admiring my purchases, and making a big mess.

  “Why doesn’t she worry about you? Actually—why don’t you ever seem to care that you’re single? Don’t you want to meet someone?” I look at Jackie tentatively, realizing how selfish I am in monopolizing all our time talking about my problems.

  “I would like to meet someone, but I don’t let it run my life. Or ruin my life, which is often the case. Claire, you spent your whole life with Ron, and you’re used to having someone. It’s natural to want to replace what you’ve lost.” She moves all the packages to one side of the room so the couch and chairs are free. She pats the couch, prompting me to sit.

  I get up and sit in the corner of the couch, surrounded by pillows. I lay my head down. “It’s a hard habit to break, and then when I add the whole child thing into the equation it makes me crazy.”

  “You have to stop viewing men as potential fathers. You did that with Ron. Wasn’t that one of his complaints? I know he’s an asshole, but he had a point.”

  “He was so unsympathetic with all the miscarriages. I just wanted to be a mother.”

  “But he didn’t want to be seen as nothing but sperm and a paycheck. Would you want a man to look at you as nothing but a uterus and a home cooked meal?”

  “No, of course not, and if they do I am sorely lacking on both fronts. But I get what you’re saying. Men probably aren’t judging me the same way I have been judging them.” I rub my eye sockets and remember I haven’t taken my makeup off yet. I look at my hands, now full of black smudges.

  “The days of men assessing women as breeders are pretty much over. Back then we both would have been spinsters because our hip width would have been deemed unsatisfactory to produce enough young to work the land and survive the plague.” She jumps up and runs to the kitchen. “Now let’s have the best thing I bought all day—the black and white cookies.”

  “Oh, did you separate them yet?” When we were little, our father would bring home black and white cookies from a bakery in the Bronx. The little white box with the red string was a source of great excitement for Jackie and me. We both loved the cookies, but she liked the chocolate side and I preferred the vanilla. We always split them and gave each other our favorite halves. That way each sister got exactly what she wanted.

  “Let’s make a toast with our cookies,” Jackie proclaims. “To both of us getting what we want, in cookies and life.” We tap our treats and gobble them down.

  “Claire?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just ask men what they want. If you can’t give it, or don’t want to, simply move on. There’s a perfectly formed all-vanilla cookie out there with your name on it. You just have to nibble a little to find it.” Jackie smiles at her clever analogy.

  “You’re not a bad therapist, but don’t quit your day job.” I roll up the wax paper from the cookie and toss it at her across the table.

  That night as I settle into the guest bed, I think about nibbling. I toss and turn until dawn.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Are you ready to have a fun and crazy night?” Justin’s eyes are animated and shiny, like green sea glass.

  “Yep!” I return his enthusiasm and big smile.

  Today is J-Date Day. Justin Date Day, not Jewish Date, like the dating website. You have to be Jewish to join that, which is unfortunate because in my experience Jewish men treat their wives very well. Or at least the ones I have known.

  Justin informed me yesterday that I should bring a change of casual clothes to work today, since we’re leaving from the office. I must have looked disappointed, as if I wanted to be wined and dined, and he had an evening of McDonald’s and bowling planned. He looked quite pleased with himself, so I can only assume he has something interesting up his sleeve. That reminds me of his bare arms when his sleeves are rolled up. Ahh…

  The day passed by uneventfully and I am ready to go. My bag is packed and my heart is pounding. This is absurd, but somehow a drink has turned into something that involves luggage.

  Justin arrives in my office promptly at five o’clock and picks up my bag. He offers his hand to lead me away from my desk, which is my last line of defense between me and disappointment, disguised as a delicious, sexy young man.

  Needless to say I’m a little keyed up. There is a gloomy, mean little fairy on one shoulder telling me I should not be doing this and this has no potential whatsoever. The other shoulder features a happy, positive little fairy who’s encouraging me to have fun and live adventurously. Their constant banter is making me dizzy. I did, however, pull Fun Claire out from under the bed and shook the dust off her.

  “Let’s take my car and I’ll drive you back to yours later. Is that okay?” He gestures towards his cute little sports car. He better not plan on taking the top down because the last thing I need is for my hair to look like someone went at it with an egg beater.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll leave the top up. I wouldn’t want to mess up your perfect sleek tresses.” He touches the ends of my hair and electrical currents travel to my scalp.

  “You read my mind.” I hope that’s not true, and jump in the passenger seat before he can open the door for me. He puts my bag in the trunk, which can’t be bigger than a shoebox, but somehow he appears without my bag, and I presume he has one back there, too.

  “So my curiosity is at an all-time high. Can you reveal the big secret outing yet?” I wedge my purse on the floor in the miniscule space where my legs are supposed to go. Justin is a tall guy, but somehow he fits perfectly behind the wheel.

  We pull into the parking lot of a nearby casual pizza place. “I know this looks lame, but I want to eat someplace quick so we have more time for the fun part.” He looks at me expectantly.

  “I love this place. The pizza’s great.” I’m secretly relieved he isn’t taking me to some fancy restaurant downtown where I might spill red wine on the white tablecloth, and it’s so quiet everyone can hear your conversation
.

  We follow the “please seat yourself” directive and find a booth towards the back, away from the large tables of families and happy hour co-workers. The waitress promptly comes by to take our drink orders. Justin orders a beer, but I’m sticking with Coke. I absolutely must not get drunk tonight for a myriad of reasons. I get an encouraging pat on the shoulder from the good fairy.

  We settle into an easy conversation about the office and work. I tell him about Gina, and my hope that she can help the company get back in the black (now I will be humming AC/DC all night—great). I also bring up Brandon’s book, and my efforts to find new material.

  “So who’s this Brandon guy? Sounds a little geeky.” Justin sits up taller in the booth and takes a swig of beer.

  “He’s actually my new neighbor. I found out he’s a writer and has a manuscript to sell. Lucky coincidence, right?” I put another slice of pizza on my plate and don’t point out that Brandon is the lead singer in a hard rock band and Justin works in IT. But my guess is neither one has ever been called a geek.

  “Yeah, I guess so. Is he married?” Justin attempts to look vaguely disinterested in his own question, glancing around the room.

  “No, he’s not married. He’s young.” I say this as if married is the exact opposite of young.

  “Then there’s no worry there. You don’t date younger guys.” He laughs as he dodges the straw wrapper I just threw at him.

  At times I have forgotten how young Justin is because he’s so skilled in his field and has a position of responsibility. If he wasn’t a boy wonder Princeton grad he would probably be playing video games and riding roller coasters.

  We finish up our pizza and Justin pays the check, while I head to the ladies’ room to change into navy capri cargo pants and a short sleeved t-shirt. I was told to be comfortable, so I slip on my Sketchers sandals, which show off my impeccably manicured toes.

  “You look cute.” He takes my hand and leads me back to the car. He’s changed into khaki shorts and a Phillies t-shirt while I was gone.

  This time he opens the car door and waits for me to get in to close it. This gentlemanly gesture doesn’t annoy me as it so often does. I guess when it’s performed by a hot young guy from Philadelphia it’s more appealing than when I am with a “Southern gentleman.”

  “Hey, I don’t want to kill our light mood, but can I ask you about something weird that happened at work the other day?” I wince a bit.

  “We have a little bit of a ride. Tell me all about it.” He turns the radio down and looks like he’s all ears. This could be a benefit of a younger man—he hasn’t been beaten down by years of nagging women, so he doesn’t dread having “a talk.”

  “I had a weird conversation in the ladies’ room with Cecilia,” I begin tentatively.

  “What happened?” He’s either worried that this pertains to him or he is about to hear a story about an embarrassing female problem.

  “She was quite nasty and berated me for my displeasure over our new line of books…” I pause and he glances over at me anxiously, “…and she said I was a fool to go out with you.”

  Justin grimaces and says, “She is such a manipulator. She did the same thing when I tried to date someone else in the office. She’s just jealous because I wasn’t interested in her.”

  “Was it Amanda? The other woman you dated?”

  “Yeah, we went out a few times, but it was no big deal. Honestly, she’s a sweet girl and pretty, but there isn’t much upstairs. I know that sounds harsh, but seriously she is like a little girl. That’s what you don’t understand about the age thing—intelligence and maturity matter as much as looks.” He looks over at me to gauge my reaction.

  I don’t say anything and look out the window.

  “What? Did Cecilia say something about your age?”

  I sigh and say, “Yes, she said you’re much too young for me and I am making a fool of myself and everyone knows it.”

  Justin shakes his head. “She’s such a bitch. I am telling you she’s playing on your fears because she’s vindictive. She treated Amanda horribly after we dated, and all because I didn’t fall for her tricks.”

  “What tricks?” I ask apprehensively.

  “She did crazy things. I don’t even want to tell you. Let’s just say Cecilia is persistent and pretty open with her sexuality. That’s not a bad thing, but it is when you’ve said no numerous times, especially in the office. She’s a freak, Claire. Ignore her. I’m sorry she rattled you.” He pauses in reflection. “The part I don’t get is how she knows any of this. I certainly didn’t tell her we were going on a date or that I had any interest in you. I haven’t told anyone. Unless…” I can see the wheels turning in that beautiful blond head.

  “I was wondering the same thing. How could she know? I told Rebecca but she doesn’t talk to Cecilia.”

  “Have you e-mailed anyone about this? Shit, you and I have e-mailed a bit. And probably you and Rebecca, too?” He raises his eyebrows to draw out my confession. Even men Justin’s age know that women talk about men.

  “Yes, a little bit. What are you getting at? She can’t see our e-mails.” I am confused and technologically challenged.

  “But I can. I just need to figure out how our CEO’s admin could possibly have access to the e-mail server.” Justin looks like a man on a mission. “But no matter,” he says, switching gears back to the present. “Let’s forget about her and focus on tonight, but thanks for telling me, Claire. I like it that you wanted me to know.” He smiles, and I melt like chewed gum under a park bench in the sun.

  I settle back and reply, “Hold on—what do you mean you can see our e-mails?”

  “I’m the IT Director—obviously I can get on the e-mail server and read the files. There is no expectation of privacy on the network, Claire. Weren’t you at the IT Security training?” He smiles playfully. “But don’t worry. I don’t have time to do much spying.”

  Shit.

  I have been so engrossed in our conversation I haven’t noticed where we’re headed. Where the hell are we going? I don’t even recognize any of this. As we meander along a country road I see the sign—Hanover Spring Carnival. Holy crap.

  Since I live in the country suburb of East Bumblefuck Nowhere you would think these delightful amusements would be available in my area. Fortunately, this is not the case, and I have managed to avoid these activities, especially since I don’t have children, and Dixie is not into rides.

  Unfortunately, neither am I. The same motion sickness that is causing my avoidance of Rebecca’s cruise conversation wreaks equal havoc on amusement park rides. My stomach does more flips and flops than the most modern rollercoaster, and by the looks of the Hanover Spring Carnival we are headed for a trip down memory lane as opposed to the cutting edge of technology. These break-down and set-up carnivals are notorious for old, poorly maintained rides, and workers. When Jackie and I were little we begged to go to these, and my over- protective mother only took us once or twice. Now of course I can see why—that toothless guy selling tickets is probably not a skilled mechanic.

  I don’t want to hurt Justin’s feelings (he’s looking at me for signs of approval), but I doubt I’m going to go on a ride without throwing up, and I’m unprepared without my motion sickness pills.

  Maybe I can avoid the bad rides and hide my panic. He is a little boy after all, even though he is the hotshot IT Director.

  While I’m fighting my internal struggle, Justin says, “So what do you think? Fun, right? I wanted to do something different. Plus my father taught me that girls will be scared on rides and grab you a lot. That’s how he met my mother.”

  He is so painfully sweet, and there’s that “mother” word again. I need to address this so he doesn’t think I am a crazy woman who randomly cries. I doubt he has made any connections between references to motherhood and my emotional state. However right now any tearing up will be a result of my impending doom on these flying death traps.

  “Claire, what’s wrong? Wa
s this a bad idea?”

  He does have patience and will make some girl a kind husband someday. “No, I was just remembering all the times I went to these carnivals as a kid,” I lie, but nostalgia can be an excuse for moist eyes.

  Justin looks elated now. “I used to ride the roller coasters with my brothers for hours, until we could barely stand up and had to be dragged to the car.”

  Great.

  “So what do you want to do first?”

  I avoid the question, and steer him to the ticket line. While Justin buys the tickets, I glance around frantically trying to plot a course that will avoid the worst rides, like the roller coasters and the Ferris wheel. Oh no—the swirling teacups. I may need to sabotage that ride—sorry, little kids with strong stomachs!

  We walk into the main area and I begin to drag Justin to all the non-sick activities, like the fun house (even the mirrors make me a little queasy) and some silly thing with a bearded lady. I pretend that I want a huge pink stuffed bunny, telling him it reminds me of the cute slipper socks. Justin takes the bait, repeatedly playing a silly shooting game to win the prize. I feel badly that he is wasting money, and I reward him by letting him kiss me in the Tunnel of Love (not that this is a huge sacrifice on my part).

  As I carry around my pink bunny (what the hell I am going to do with this when I get it home?), I feel guilty about using my feminine wiles to distract Justin from his favorite rides. Maybe I should tell him about the motion sickness and suggest that he ride something alone, but that will be no fun for him. I spot a little kiddie rollercoaster, and as I am considering whether or not I can survive it without puking on the person in front of me, Justin says, “Hey, do you want to ride this little roller coaster? I am sensing you may be afraid of the big ones. Don’t feel bad—most people are more apprehensive on rides as they get older.” That word is not out of his mouth a second before I can see that he realizes his mistake.

  I don’t say a word and he quickly jumps in, “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not as adventurous as I used to be, either. Really. Claire?” He pulls up my chin, which has been pulled downward with the shame of my advanced age.