Confessions of a One Night Stand

by Wendy Markham

  That’s my friend Buckley O’Hanlon, referring, over lunch on Wednesday, to Jeff S-n and my initiation into the sordid world of one-night stands.

  We managed to find a table for two in the crowded upstairs dining area of one of those Korean grocer/salad bar/Chinese buffet/deli/florist places that are unique to Manhattan.

  Buckley’s doing some in-house freelance work in my office building, just as he was when we first met last spring—back in the bad old days when I was fifty pounds heavier and assumed he was gay.

  Even though I know Buckley’s totally right about the risk I took going off with a complete stranger, I roll my eyes and tell him, “Of course he wasn’t a serial killer. He’s a trader.”

  Yeah. Or a broker.

  “So? Didn’t you ever read American Psycho?” Buckley sips his Snapple, then takes a bite of his turkey wrap.

  “No, I never read it. But I saw the movie.” And now that I think of it, why didn’t that pop into my horny little head when I decided it was perfectly safe to dart into the night with a good-looking Wall Street guy? Scary, what a few pink cocktails and three celibate months can do to a gal.

  “The movie was stupid. The book was better.”

  As far as Buckley’s concerned, the book is always better. He likes to refer to himself as a literary geek, but trust me, there’s nothing geeky about him. He’s a copywriter, and he’s been writing a novel in his spare time. Of which, might I add, there isn’t much, now that he’s in a relationship.

  Do I sound catty? Sorry.

  It’s just that he gained a girlfriend right around the time I lost a boyfriend. Which is a real shame, because something tells me that Buckley and I have the potential to be more than friends. He’s cute and smart and funny—totally my type. Except for that pesky he-has-a-girlfriend thing.

  “I don’t like the idea of you out drinking and getting picked up by strange men, Tracey,” Buckley informed me, frowning.

  “I’m a big girl, Buckley. Not as big a girl as I used to be, mind you, but big enough to take care of myself. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Yes, I do. I can’t help it.”

  I smile. “How sweet are you?”

  He smiles back. “I’m the sweetest.”

  “I’m serious. You are.”

  “And I’m serious. Stay away from strange men.”

  When Will dumped me, I cried on Buckley’s shoulder, and he promised me that, someday, I’ll be grateful to Will. He swore I’d want to thank him for dumping me, because it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

  I’m still waiting for that day to arrive, and I can’t help but feel like it might come sooner if I could replace Will with someone new. Someone better. Like, oh, I don’t know…Buckley.

  “So how’s Sonja?” I ask, because it seems polite. And because it will change the subject from my one-night stand, which I’m not entirely comfortable discussing with someone as wholesome as Buckley, who has probably never had a one-night stand in his life.

  “Sonja’s fine,” Buckley says.

  I peer at him over my blah bundle of sprouts, aka the 200-Calorie Fat-Free Veggie Wrap. Lawn clippings in an envelope would be tastier.

  “Are you sure?” I ask him.

  “Sure about what?”

  “That Sonja’s fine?”

  “Yup. She’s fine.” He pokes an errant tomato back into his sandwich.

  “Your mouth is saying yup, but your eyes are saying something’s wrong, Buckley. Oh, and you have a glob of honey mayonnaise on your cheek.”

  He reaches for a napkin, then sweeps it across his face. He totally misses.

  I take it from him and dab his cheek, asking, “What’s up?”

  He sighs. “Sonja wants us to move in together.”

  My heart sinks.

  I smile brightly.

  “So…that’s romantic,” I tell him.

  He shakes his head.

  “It isn’t romantic?”

  “No. It’s stupid. We both have leases. We both have great places. We both live alone. There’s no reason to move in together already. We’ve only been going out a few months.”

  Gotta love sensible Buckley. Why rush things? After all, you never know when somebody better might come along. Or when you might notice that somebody who came along a while ago just might be better. Psst, somebody whose initials are T. S. and is sitting right across from you at this very moment.

  “So you don’t love her?” I ask, trying to sound casual. I’ve never let on to Buckley that I could be attracted to him.

  “I don’t know. I mean…I really think I do.”

  Oh.

  He really thinks he does.

  There goes any hope for Buckley ever falling for me. Everyone knows that when a man admits aloud to the merest possibility of being in love, it’s only a matter of time before he finds himself standing in the bridal registry at Michael C. Fina on a Sunday afternoon when the Giants are playing at home.

  “Buckley, if you love her—”

  “I think I love her,” he amends.

  “If you think you love her, what’s the problem?” Shut up, Tracey.

  Yet I babble on. Either Sonja’s spirit has been astral-projected into my body, or I’ve taken up the cause for oppressed would-be live-in girlfriends everywhere.

  “I mean, Buckley, it’s not like you’re not dating other people.”

  Say…for example, me.

  “And Sonja’s great. She’s smart, pretty, fun…”

  Somebody stop me.

  But I can’t help myself.

  “After all, you’re together all the time anyway. Why pay two rents?”

  It’s as though I’m talking to Will, back when I wanted to move in with him and he wanted to move to another part of the state without leaving a phone number.

  “I guess,” he says thoughtfully.

  “Look, Buckley, if you’ve got a good thing going, you shouldn’t be afraid to take the next step. I mean, look at Billy and Kate. They moved in together less than two months after they met, and now they’re looking at engagement rings.”

  “They are?”

  “She is,” I admit. “But she’s thinking they’re going to be engaged at Christmas. She said she wants a June wedding.”

  “A June wedding. I wouldn’t expect anything less from our little magnolia,” Buckley says, shaking his head.

  “Do you think Sonja wants a June wedding?” I can’t help asking.

  I brace myself for a look of horror, or at least dismay, but there is only resignation.

  Buckley sighs. “Do you know a female who doesn’t?”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Uh-uh. I want a fall wedding.”

  At least, that’s what I secretly hoped for when I was with Will. I had the whole thing planned out in my head—what I’d wear, who would stand up, the flowers, the menu, the pumpkin cake with cream-cheese frosting….

  “A fall wedding would be nice,” Buckley says. He adds hastily, “Not next fall.”

  He’s so sweet, I think, watching him pop the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. So different from Will and Jeff S-n. Buckley’s genuine. He’s a really good friend. And when he’s not brooding over Sonja, he’s one of the funniest people I know.

  I wonder, not for the first time, what would have happened if Will had dumped me before I met Buckley.

  He was attracted to me back then. I mean, he kissed me—which was how I figured out that he definitely isn’t gay. And it was a great kiss. So great that I still think about it sometimes.

  Okay, all the time.

  Maybe that’s just because it was the last time somebody kissed me that way.

  Or maybe it’s because I could easily fall in love with my good friend Buckley.

  But even if he were available, it’s too soon. I’m still not over Will. According to Kate, She magazine and pop psychology 101, any relationship I have right now would be strictly rebound.

  B
uckley crumples his sandwich wrapper into a ball and drains the last of his Snapple. “Ready to go back to work?”

  “Nah. Let’s play hooky for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “Seriously?” He looks intrigued.

  “Nope. I was kidding. I’m in the middle of helping Mike with a New Business presentation. And then Brenda and Latisha and I are going to try to meet and figure out if we can organize a bachelorette party for Yvonne sometime in the next few weeks.”

  “When’s she getting married?”

  “Over Christmas. She and Thor are eloping to Vegas.”

  Thor is Yvonne’s Swedish pen pal. When she met him a few months ago, they got engaged. She swears this is merely a green-card marriage, but we think she’s in love. When she’s with him, she’s all girly. As girly, that is, as a tough old broad like Yvonne can be.

  “Okay, I guess I’ve got to get back to the office, then,” Buckley says reluctantly.

  “Same here.”

  We push back our chairs and carry our garbage to the can as a pair of hovering corporate drones descend on our vacant table. “But wouldn’t it be fun to blow off work and go ice-skating or something?” Buckley muses.

  “Me on ice skates? Are you kidding?”

  “You grew up near Buffalo. You must have learned how to skate.”

  I shake my head.

  “Really? I’ll have to teach you.”

  An image flits into my mind as we make our way through a sea of office workers, down the stairs, through the deli and onto the street.

  I see myself in one of those short, cute pleated skating skirts and a fuzzy white sweater. Buckley is in one of those clingy skating jumpsuits they wear at the Olympics, yet he looks incredibly masculine in it.

  I know, I know, but it’s a fantasy.

  So, anyway, we’re gliding around the ice in front of 30 Rock. Classical music is playing, a gentle snow is falling—big, lazy flakes—and there’s not a soul on the rink but us.

  Fantasy, people! It’s a fantasy.

  He lifts me in his arms a few times, and we effortlessly do some fancy moves. Complicated stuff. Then he kisses me, and it’s totally passionate, and he says…

  “Do I have anything stuck between my teeth? Trace?”

  Thud. I land on Third Avenue, where a jackhammer is rattling and taxis are honking and Buckley’s in my face with his teeth bared, revealing a lovely hunk of chewed-up lettuce.

  “There’s something green between your front teeth,” I advise him, sighing inwardly as I reach into my bag for a cigarette.

  So much for fantasies.

  Mike Middleford, my new boss, is nothing like sexist, philandering, narcissistic Jake.

  For one thing, Mike treats me with respect. He asks my advice on PowerPoint presentations—poor guy isn’t very literate—and he doesn’t mind if I’m a few minutes late in the morning or if I sneak out for a few cigarette breaks.

  For another, he’s totally in love with his girlfriend, Dianne. Whenever she calls, I’m suppose to hunt him down to come to the phone, unless he’s in the men’s room or a meeting. It’s refreshing to see a guy light up when he hears that his girlfriend is on the phone. Dianne calls a lot, and she sounds really sweet. She always greets me by name and makes an effort to chat before she asks for Mike.

  Like today, she says, “Hi, Tracey, how’s it going? Are you psyched for the company Christmas party Saturday night?”

  “Yeah, it sounds like it’ll be fun.” Blaire Barnett had rented out Space, an entire three-floor nightclub in Chelsea, for the party. “Are you coming with Mike?”

  “Nah. He wants me to, but I wouldn’t know anybody.”

  Wow. She must feel really secure about her relationship. If Will was going to a party and I had the option of going with him, there’s no way I’d opt out.

  Then again, Mike goes out of his way to make sure he doesn’t miss her calls. Will lied and told me that the pay phone in his summer cast house didn’t take incoming calls. And, duh, I believed him.

  “Are you bringing a date?” Dianne asks.

  “Me? Nah. I’m not seeing anyone right now. My boyfriend and I broke up in September.”

  Why, I wonder, do I feel compelled to tell people about Will? I’m always bringing it up. To elevator men, cabdrivers, dressing-room attendants in clothing stores…it’s like no matter who I’m talking to, I manage to find a reason to announce that I’m recovering from a breakup.

  “That’s too bad,” Dianne says.

  “Yeah, it’s hard. But I’m sure I’ll find somebody new sooner or later.” Buckley flits into and out of my mind. So does Jeff S-n. How depressing.

  “I wish I knew somebody we could fix you up with, but I’m drawing a blank,” Dianne says. “Mike has a roommate, but he’s a real asshole.”

  “That’s okay.” I’m not desperate enough to consider a blind date…yet.

  “It stinks being alone around the holidays, though,” Dianne comments. “You get cheated out of boyfriend presents, jewelry, baubles…”

  Baubles?

  “I never thought of it that way.” I find myself thinking, wistfully, All those years with Will, and nary a bauble to show for it.

  “Then there’s New Year’s Eve….”

  “Right.” I hadn’t thought of that either. Gee, thanks, Dianne, for enlightening me.

  She sighs. “Oh, well.”

  Yeah. Easy for her to say.

  “So…is Mike there?”

  “He’s around somewhere.” If he’s not out shopping for diamond earrings or on the other line booking the presidential suite at the Sherry Netherland for December 31st. “I’ll go get him.”

  I find Mike by the copier, trying to help my friend Brenda clear a jam. He bolts the second I tell him I’ve got Dianne on hold.

  Brenda shakes her head. “Look at him drop everything and run. I hope she knows how lucky she is.”

  “Look at you. You’ve got Paulie.” It’s all I can do not to pronounce her husband’s name the way she does—“Po-aw-lie.” Sometimes her accent is contagious.

  “The honeymoon is over, Trace. I’ve been married four months, and already Paulie is telling me I’ve got to stop calling his cell during the day while he’s at work.”

  “Well, Brenda, he’s a cop. It’s probably distracting when he’s chasing some crack fiend down an alley and his phone rings, and it’s you asking him to pick up some fresh mozzarell’ on the way home.”

  We laugh, and I help her clear the jam—not without cursing the damned machine and whoever invented four freaking places for paper to get wedged. As we work on clearing it, we chat about the bachelorette party we’re going to plan for Yvonne, and then about the upcoming Christmas party.

  “Paulie’s having a bunch of guys over to watch the fight that night,” Brenda says, gingerly running one of her raspberry-colored talons along the paper output slot. “So I’ve got to clear out of there before six-thirty.”

  “You want to come over to my place before we go to the party? It doesn’t start till eight.”

  “By the time I take the PATH in and get a cab over to the club, it’ll be past seven-thirty anyway, so let’s just meet there.”

  I tug on a piece of paper that’s stuck between the rollers. “I don’t know, Brenda. We probably shouldn’t get to the party right when it’s starting.”

  “Why not?”

  The paper tears. I curse under my breath, then tell Brenda about the article in She magazine while I pick out bits of torn paper.

  “So getting to the company Christmas party on time is a major Don’t?” she asks, incredulous. She removes her hand from the copy machine and inspects one of her nails for damage. “You’d think being punctual would be a good thing.”

  “Not in this case. ‘Don’t—’ and I quote ‘—be the first one to arrive. Don’t be the last to leave.’ End quote. Hey, hold this compartment open for me, will you, Bren?”

  She reluctantly obliges, and I continue to pull scraps of paper from the roller. Bren
da’s a fanatic about preserving her weekly manicure; my nails are always a mess. I think I’m the only woman in New York with unpolished, unfiled fingertips. But I can think of better ways to spend the weekly fifteen bucks my friends dole out in nail salons.

  Then again, glossy scarlet nails would be dazzling with my red trollop dress.

  Mental Note: See if manicurist has available slot after lip-wax appointment at salon tomorrow.

  “So what other Don’ts are there?” Brenda wants to know.

  “Let’s see…I told you about the ‘Don’t dress provocatively’ one, right? Then there was ‘Don’t drink too much.’ You’re supposed to nurse white-wine spritzers and alternate them with plain seltzer throughout the evening.”

  “Oh, Madonna,” Brenda says with a Carmella Soprano eye-roll and my grandmother’s old-country accent.

  The Jersey Italian in Brenda’s blood always comes out when she’s peeved. One minute, she’s a lady, the next, she’s flipping someone off with an Ah, fongool.

  “Spritzers? That’s bullshit, Tracey. We should do shots. It’s girls’ night out. What else did the article say?”

  “Don’t smoke. Don’t gossip. Don’t flirt. Don’t dance. Don’t—”

  “Geez, who the hell wrote this article? The president of Bob Jones University?”

  I shrug, peering into the copy machine to make sure all the paper has been removed. “Okay, all clear. Press Start.”

  She does.

  The machine whirs.

  Lights flash.

  Nothing.

  We lean over to look at the little screen on top.

  Paper Jam.

  “Forget it,” Brenda says, picking up the stack of originals from the tray. “I’m going down to seven to make my copies. And Tracey, forget about that stupid article. Let’s just go have a great time.”

  I head back to my cubicle, still thinking about the article. It’s easy for someone like Brenda to blow off the advice. She’s content to stay a secretary, and, anyway, she plans to quit to stay home when she has a baby—which is planned for next year. So for her, this isn’t a career; it’s a job.

  But if I’m going to work my way into a copywriting position, I’ll have to watch my step. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression of me at this party. I don’t want them to lump me together with the other secretaries.