Nevertheless, when Jim Keeley asked me to see a movie with him, I accepted the invitation. Jim was a guy I’d known for a few years. He was a dedicated member of the Harvard Writers Circle—a group not associated with the university, I might add—and though I was a far less dedicated member, making an appearance about once every three or four months, he didn’t seem to hold it against me. A few times a group had gone out after a meeting for drinks at Casablanca and Jim had proved to be quite the funny man.
In yet another effort to take my mind off Doug Spears, one Monday night I took the Orange Line to the Red Line out to Harvard Square in Cambridge, paid my five dollars, and settled in for a rousing though largely imbecilic discussion about a member’s largely imbecilic script. Not having read the script beforehand didn’t seem to matter as the discussion was impossible to follow. The room was warm and after a half hour I found my eyes beginning to close. Then: “Ow!”
Jim grinned. “Sorry,” he whispered as the others glared at me. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t,” I whispered back. “It’s just something I say when someone pokes me in the ear.”
“You were falling asleep.”
“I know. It’s more bearable that way.”
“Next time I’ll leave you alone.”
The discussion droned on around me for another half hour. At the end, I declined Jim’s blanket invitation for the group to head for Casablanca. Something told me I wasn’t wanted. Maybe the continued glares of the self-important others. My attempt at distraction had been a disaster.
“I’m glad you came tonight, Erin,” Jim said as we clunked down the stairs to the lobby.
“I’m not so sure I am,” I said, then added quickly, “I mean, it was good to see you, though.”
Jim laughed. “Nice save. Hey, would you like to see a movie with me sometime?”
The question caught me off-guard. I’d never thought of Jim in any romantic sense. He was smart and funny and kind of good-looking in that bland, boy-next-door way, but he’d never made my blood race. Still, I was on a quest for a Doug-free life so I accepted. Jim said he’d call me the next day to make plans and true to his word, he did.
I had no great hopes for our date but knowing what I did of Jim—admittedly, not much—I felt fairly confident it wouldn’t be a horrible experience.
Note to Self: “Don’t ever, ever assume anything. Ever.”
I met Jim at the nineteen-theater Loews cineplex on Tremont. He gave me a peck on the cheek. I didn’t protest. He paid for my ticket. I didn’t protest. He asked if I wanted popcorn and I said yes. He bought that, too, and got himself a soda and a box of candy.
Jim looked nice. He wore a pair of nicely faded jeans, a simple navy pull-over sweater, and an L.L. Bean jacket. Not a fashion plate, but acceptable.
We headed for theater twelve and settled in. The previews provoked some amusing comments from Jim. The popcorn was yummy. Things were going just fine. The lights went down. It was time for the main attraction.
And then it began. No, Jim Keeley didn’t grope me. He didn’t take out his dick and ask me to touch it. No. Jim Keeley did something far, far more offensive.
He farted. Not once, not twice. Many, many times. He did not apologize. He did not acknowledge the farts. And they were smelly farts, too.
What does one do in such a situation? In my wildest nightmares I’d never imagined a scene like this. After the initial shock and disbelief, I thought, Oh God, the poor guy has a serious irritable bowel problem. Then I thought, So, why the hell doesn’t he take something for it! Then I thought, Does he think this is funny?
I glanced at Jim. He was looking straight ahead, absorbed in the action on the screen. Around us whispers were rising. Some expressed disgust. Others, amusement. Those latter voices belonged, of course, to the teenage boys in the audience.
After the tenth or eleventh explosion of noise and smell, I was beyond angry. I was scared. Jim Keeley was a lunatic.
Carefully, I took my bag from the seat on my left and mumbled something about getting a soda. Jim grunted, still absorbed in the movie. Loath to give the people behind us yet another reason to rebel, I hunched over and practically crawled to the end of the aisle. God, I thought, I hope no one thinks I’m the farter!
I dashed out of the darkened theater and into the corridor. Fresh air was in order.
“Young lady!”
Somehow, I knew the words were for my benefit.
I turned back. A very dignified older woman had followed me from the theater. She did not look happy.
“It wasn’t me!” I cried.
“Your husband’s behavior is despicable,” she said. “I am lodging a complaint with the management.”
“He’s not my husband! I hardly know him!”
Great. Someone finally assumes I’m married and it’s to a public farter.
The older woman glared. “Then I advise you to choose your gentlemen friends more wisely in the future.”
“Okay,” I squeaked. And then I ran.
I decided it was far, far safer to hang out with my girlfriends than to risk another date right then. Clearly, my stars were not aligned with the moon, or Mercury was in retrograde or God was pissed at me for entertaining lascivious thoughts about a married man.
It was a stroke of seriously good luck that Maureen’s husband had four tickets to the Celtics vs. Bulls game at the Fleet Center for Tuesday night. Not just tickets, either. Supremely fine tickets, on the floor, just behind the team bench. Tickets Mark couldn’t use. Maureen didn’t tell me why he couldn’t use them, but I guessed it had something to do with the fact that she’d bought tickets for the theater the same night. Mark and his buddies hadn’t stood a chance. The pregnant wife rules, as she should.
As often happened, the pregame talk turned to relationships, a topic I considered toxic after Anorexia, Fastidious, and Toot. Still, I couldn’t help tuning in.
“What is it you’re looking for, anyway?” JoAnne was asking Abby. “No, really. I want to know.”
“A soul mate.” Abby’s answer was unhesitant and definitive.
JoAnne snorted. “Please. How old are you? Twelve?”
Who’s twelve? I thought. JoAnne really should watch the snorting.
“I don’t see why I can’t hold out for my soul mate,” Abby said.
“You don’t? Okay, I’ll show you why. Turn around. See those women up about ten rows, in the center.” We all turned around to look.
There were four young women, twenty-somethings. They looked like maybe they were Hispanic. They looked like Jennifer Lopez. They had gorgeous long hair, gorgeously done. They had flawless skin and fabulous makeup. They had tight, curvy bodies poured into expensive, very hip clothing. They had enormous diamond rings and long, French manicured nails. And they all looked supremely bored.
They were the players’ wives.
“There’s the reason,” JoAnne said as we all turned back to face the court. “You think those women held out for their soul mates? No. Those women knew a good thing when they saw it. A freakishly tall, very rich basketball player.”
“Those women are like prostitutes,” Maggie said quietly. “They prostituted themselves for a husband. I’ll give you sex, you give me money. Here’s my heart in exchange for a fistful of cash.”
“Yeah, and that’s such a bad thing,” JoAnne said, laughing. “Gosh, I wonder how they live with themselves.”
“Don’t judge them, Maggie,” I said. “You don’t know anything about them, really.” I sneaked another peek. Damn. I would kill to look that good. Even one day in my life.
And if I did, would Doug Spears suddenly love me?
“They can’t be happy. Can they?” Abby mused.
“Oh, yes they can. And they probably are. I would be.”
“That’s the difference between us, JoAnne,” Abby said heatedly. “You don’t have a romantic bone in your body. You’re so pragmatic about everything.”
“Look,” JoAnne wen
t on, “I’m not saying I want to marry for money alone. I’m saying that if I did, I’d make the deal and be happy with it. It’s all about what you want. You decide that first, then go for it. Women have been making deals since the start of time. You think marriage was always so loaded with the frou-frou of romance? Please. That’s a relatively modern concept. Marriage was—and is—a deal. A business arrangement. If you want it to be romantic, too, fine. But that’s your choice. Not everybody has that choice, you know. Not every woman can be Elizabeth Bennet and land Mr. Darcy. Some women are Charlotte Lucas and take a Mr. Collins when he comes along because they know they’re not going to do better. Unfair? Sure. Life’s tough, get a helmet.”
“JoAnne,” I mumbled, “I think we get the point here.” Maybe I can drown out the sound of her voice by slurping the last of this soda, I thought. Maybe the game will start soon. Maybe someone will blow a really loud whistle.
JoAnne thought we needed more convincing. “You and me and Maggie and Erin, we’re lucky. We’re white women in the richest, most powerful, and probably most liberated country on the face of the earth. We get to choose what we do with our lives and who we marry. Do you realize how great that is? Do you realize how much more we have than the average Afghani woman?”
“Yes,” Abby said firmly. “It is wonderful to have a choice. And I choose to wait for my soul mate.”
Now it was me who sighed.
“Look, Abby,” I said, “here’s a wild and crazy concept for you. Did you ever think that maybe a soul mate isn’t found, he’s created? Or grown or built, whatever. Meaning it’s the relationship you make with someone that creates the best friend, perfect lover, soul mate thing? I mean, do you really think there’s someone out there exactly perfect for you, just as he is, without knowing anything at all about you? And that you’re absolutely perfect for him without even knowing if he likes opera or country or whatever? I don’t. I think that’s naive thinking.”
“I think it’s romantic thinking. I’m a Romantic.”
“You also haven’t had sex in six months,” JoAnne said through a mouthful of popcorn. “This is all I’m saying.”
And then the lights went down for the overly dramatic laser show that would introduce the stars. And everybody finally, finally shut up.
Chapter Ten
March, Boston
March in New England is a big fat tease. Forsythia suggests that yes, there is life to come. Icy rain states flatly that there is no point in going on. It’s contradictory and perverse and frustrating.
Some people prefer to cut a New England March short by escaping to a tropical island for a time. JoAnne is one of those people. Early in the month she took off to Cancun for a week—during which time she celebrated her birthday—with a guy she’d been seeing on and off for about six months. His name was Martin Something-or-Other and he was a hotshot corporate lawyer—or so JoAnne told us.
We almost never got to meet JoAnne’s dates as she never invited us to. Once, about two years ago, I ran into JoAnne and a podiatrist she was seeing (for the free foot rubs, she said). JoAnne looked distinctly uncomfortable, almost guilty, though for what exactly I couldn’t imagine. She overbrightly introduced me to Dr. Whatever-His-Name-Was and hurried him off for a supposed dinner reservation at Bob the Chef’s—a reservation I highly doubted she had. JoAnne was not a big fan of soul food. Anyway, after that one chance encounter—which neither of us mentioned when we next met—I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of JoAnne’s men.
JoAnne’s trip to Cancun made me think. Going away for an entire week with a guy—even one you’d been sleeping with on and off for half a year—seemed like a big step to me—and a risky one. So much could go miserably wrong spending seven days together, twenty-four/seven. You could find out you hated each other. Worse, you could find out you bored each other. You could also find out you were in love.
Maybe that’s what JoAnne was hoping for—a resolution one way or the other to the relationship. Did she and Martin want to spend their lives together? Or did they make each other sick?
I scratched that notion almost immediately. JoAnne still claimed—in very strong language—that she wasn’t at all interested in having a steady, building relationship with any man. And I believed her. JoAnne knew what she was doing, going away with Martin.
Right, Reason said. Just because you can’t figure out what she’s doing doesn’t mean that she’s not perfectly in control.
It was mid-March before I heard from Doug Spears again. Several weeks and several disastrous—and yes, amusingly so—dates after the dozen red roses and my awkward voice mail message.
He called me at the office one morning around ten. He was no-nonsense and to the point. He made no reference to the flowers or to my response. He asked if we could meet for lunch so he could pick my brain about one of Trident’s accounts. I said, yes, though his request seemed slightly unusual as I was a newbie in the business compared to Doug Spears. We made a date to meet two days from then at twelve-thirty at Radius. When I hung up the phone I felt sick.
The good sick, not the bad sick. The pit-of-the-stomach whirring kind of excitement that you first feel when you’re about twelve and Billy Jenkins, the most popular boy in eighth grade, swaggers into class.
Two days. I had two days to dwell and to fantasize and to plan an outfit. Time to swing by Radius and get a look at the lunch menu so I’d appear decisive when it came time to order—a good quality for a professional woman to possess, decisiveness.
I told no one at EastWind Communications that I was meeting Trident’s senior VP of branding for lunch. Partly because that would make the lunch open territory—colleagues would question me upon my return to the office, hoping for information EastWind could somehow capitalize on. Even if the lunch did turn out to be wholly about business, I wanted, for the moment, to keep it to myself. The other reason I said nothing about my lunch plans was this: I thought—I hoped—that my meeting with Doug Spears would be about something other than business. And if it was, if it really was about me and Doug and not about clients and their accounts, what then could I say to inquiring colleagues?
I admit that along with a sense of anticipation about my meeting with Doug there was a sense of guilt just as strong. Why was I hoping for a married man to cheat on his wife—with me? Was I so depraved and so devoid of moral standards? Hell and damnation were rapidly upon me... .
But, the truth, sorry or not, is that I couldn’t quench the desire for something romantic to happen with Doug. I was curious and compelled and at the time no amount of leftover Catholic fear of eternal damnation could match the intensity of my desire. A desire I couldn’t fully explain—a sort of desire that was new to my experience. A sort of desire I thought I could get used to.
E—gave yr address to nice young man and his gfriend—pregnant—going to USA to make better life. Expect them in 2-3 weeks! M.
Thursday. I wore a crisp, white, fitted blouse with the collar upturned; the cuffs were French. At my neck I wore a triple strand of pearls, very Jackie Kennedy. My suit was black, with a pencil skirt to the knee, and a short, waist-skimming jacket. The outfit was sophisticated yet alluring.
Not an outfit for a woman dreading the possibility of two broke kids from somewhere in South America landing on her doorstep. Definitely an outfit for a woman hoping for something more than a meaningless business lunch.
Our reservation was for one o’clock. I left my office far too early and wandered around the not particularly scenic South Station area. At precisely twelve-fifty I went into the restaurant and asked for our table. If Doug was late he’d never know how early I’d been. If he was on time, I could honestly say I’d just gotten to the restaurant a few minutes earlier. The point was not to appear overeager and yet, in case this meeting was all about business, to appear professional.
Doug was five minutes late. Things were going swimmingly.
He came striding into the restaurant with that air some men have of owning the space through which they
move. I saw him spot me; his face registered the slightest, controlled flicker of pleasure.
“Erin, good to see you,” he said and sat down. No handshake.
His suit was olive; his shirt, peach; the tie a pattern that combined both colors along with taupe. An interesting choice. Very nice.
As for his face ... Doug looked as though he’d been in the sun recently, though it was only March and March in New England isn’t known for its sunny warmth. Maybe he and his wife had slipped away to a tropical island for a weekend... .
“I hope you don’t mind if we get right to business,” he said, at the same time gesturing for our waiter. “I’ve got a busy schedule.”
Okay. For a split second I was annoyed. He’d asked me to lunch, after all, not the other way around.
“Of course,” I said. “What exactly did you want to talk about?”
He told me. He wanted to talk about a client’s account. Keeping within the bounds of confidentiality, of course.
And all through the meal—I had the Warm Maine Crab Tartlet and Doug ordered the Golden & Red Beet Cannelloni—we talked about his client. I offered a perspective. Doug countered with a different perspective. I acknowledged its wisdom. But I never could quite figure out why Doug had needed to talk to me about Trident’s most reliable and oldest client. There was no current crisis and none imminent. Doug admitted so.
Strange. More strange at least to me: There was no mention of the Valentine’s Day flowers. Or of my dorky thank you message. There was no hint of flirtation, no hint of anything in the least personal. It occurred to me then, as the waiter took away our plates, that maybe Doug had asked me to lunch to put an end to any idea I might have gotten that he was interested in me. By talking only business maybe he was saying, There’s nothing between us, Erin. There never was and there never will be.
Living Single Page 7