Assisted Loving

by Bob Morris

  But then, so is mine. A Scott e-mails in late May. He saw my profile online. I’m thrilled. His profile is witty. He’s red-haired and ruddy. Beefy but not fat. Outdoorsy yet well read. Rugged yet urbane. He’s perfect! In the city he lives on a houseboat off Seventy-ninth Street. He has a country place in Vermont and a tractor. We meet for a first drink and have a great time. He goes off to the country for two weeks. My spirits are high for his return. This could finally be the one. We agree on Saturday night for a second date. He e-mails that he’ll call to tell me when and where. He never does. I sit in my apartment, heart leaping like a jilted senior on prom weekend each time the phone rings. I’m devastated. Then I get over it. It’s not the first time it’s happened. And you know what? I’m fine on my own. I’m resigned to sleeping alone. I get my eight hours a night better that way. Nobody to disturb my sleep or be bothered by my snoring.

  I tell myself this often and believe it. Or believe that I’m believing it anyway.

  But my dad is another story. He believes that the only way to live life is in love, and he won’t rest in his quest. So now I find myself pimping for him wherever I go. If an upstairs neighbor has a widowed mother with a nice figure in Queens, I get her number and pass it on to him. If I meet someone at a party with an aunt who is college-educated and plays duplicate bridge, I make sure Dad knows, and takes it seriously.

  Maybe love at his age isn’t as hopeless as we think it is.

  “It’s a little like being a teenager all over again, with nothing but the future ahead,” he says. “Do you know that the other night I had to pick up a date and introduce myself to her daughter? She was looking me over at the front door as if I were a juvenile delinquent. I told her that I’d have her mother in by eleven P.M. and not to worry.”

  “Like you were taking a date to the prom, Dad? So did you score?”

  “She was a very appetizing woman, but her politics were such a turnoff that I couldn’t kiss her on the lips good night.”

  “So you didn’t get any nookie?”

  “Bubkes.”

  It’s a sunny May afternoon, and we are pulling up to Stepping Stone Park in Great Neck. Gardens, fountains, and lawn rolling down to Long Island Sound. The bench he heads for is the closest to the parking lot because his hip won’t take him farther.

  “Dad, you know that walking is good for your circulation, don’t you?”

  “Please, Bobby, don’t pressure me,” he says, as he lowers himself onto the bench, with a moan and a sigh. “This is fine. We can sit right here and watch the world go by.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see someone, a woman of a certain age, holding the New York Times. She is elegantly dressed, from the Izod shift dress to the Belgian loafers. She has big dark sunglasses. Adriatic. Dramatic. If I weren’t so crippled with dignity, I’d say hello to her and see if she and Dad might talk to each other. I’m thinking it would be great. He’d be all set, at least for the weekend. But I don’t know how to say hello to adorable strangers, never have. My whole life I’ve agonized, paralyzed with fear as they’ve passed me by. She’s about to do so right now.

  But then Dad sits forward and calls out to her, “Isn’t it a gorgeous day?”

  She stops, removes her sunglasses, looks him over, realizes he is nobody she knows, then nods. The slightest smile lifts her perfectly made-up face.

  “Yes, lovely.” She has a European accent and a whispery tone, kind of Zsa Zsa meets Jackie O—the soft voice of a woman used to having men lean in to hear her.

  “And I see you’re reading the New York Times?” Oh no. I know what’s coming.

  “Dad, please don’t,” I mutter. But I can’t stop him. I can never stop him.

  “My son writes for the Times.”

  “Oh?” she says. “That’s terrific. Good for you.”

  She’s chilly and divine. My head starts projecting a video of their courtship and romance, ending in a life together in a well-appointed Gatsby mansionette on the water.

  “Is that a Slavic accent?” Dad asks.

  “I’m originally from Hungary.”

  “I knew you sounded like a Gabor! Any chance you know them?”

  Bad question, Dad. And don’t come on so hard with a European. You have to hold back. The smile fades from her face as she puts her sunglasses back on.

  “No,” she says. “I don’t. And I have to go.” I guess she did the math and figured out that this man isn’t for her. Didn’t care for the sneakers, faded plaid pants. Or maybe she already has someone. Dad is not bothered by her froideur. I am cringing.

  “And you live in the area?”

  Enough, let her go, Dad, Leave the nice European lady alone.

  “Yes, I do. It’s been nice talking to you. Have a good day.”

  “Hope to see you again!” he calls after her.

  Then she’s on her way, leaving us in a subtle cloud of good perfume. I’m displeased.

  “What a snob,” I say.

  “Oh, come on,” he says. “You can’t take it so seriously.”

  But I do. I’m livid. How dare she? This is my father we’re talking about. A man who only wishes everyone well, a friendly face who likes to chat to pass the time. If I’m rude to him and dismissive at times, it’s because I’m allowed to be. I’m his son.

  “Why do I care so much, Dad? Why do I get so involved in your dating travails? Is it because I don’t want you to end up with some fishwife from Flushing?”

  He laughs. His hazel eyes sparkle in the sunshine.

  I tell him I’d hate to see him get hurt.

  “Look, I’m not going to get involved with anybody you don’t approve of one hundred percent,” he says. “I’m going to keep looking until everything is copacetic. But tell me something, Bobby. After all the talk about my dating, what’s your news in the romance department? Anything to report?”

  “Dating? Me? What are you, kidding? I’ve got nothing. As usual.”

  “Well,” he says as he sits back on his bench, “maybe you’re dating vicariously through me, and it gives you a thrill.”

  “Ha-ha, Dad! Very funny! Very funny!”

  Later, after I leave him and am sitting on the train back to the city, looking at another weekend with not a kiss or a cuddle in sight, I wonder if he might be right.

  Am I dating vicariously through him?

  CHAPTER 3

  Dog Date Afternoon

  What to wear to a date at a dog run? Houndstooth? Wrong season. I head out in plaid Bermudas and black T-shirt to find the streets of the West Village teeming with men still in their thirties and boldly baring their hard-won physiques. I look and look away.

  I should lose ten pounds. I’m not my ideal gay weight, okay?

  But it’s been over a month since the last dating disaster, so I have to try.

  This one never even spoke on the phone with me. We made all the arrangements by e-mail. I know nothing more about him than that he lives downtown, works as a stagehand, and has a well-toned torso posted on his profile. He suggested we meet at the dog run at Madison Square Park so he can bring his along. Seems like a good idea to me. Why not have a friendly nonverbal third party around as a conversation starter?

  I cross Thirty-third Street and enter the park, shaded with locust trees, and find the only unoccupied bench. It faces Jenny’s Dog Run, a dusty fenced-in patch of dirt filled with thin youngish people and their canine companions, all clean, lively, and well behaved. I’m not a dog person. But as I watch people cuddling old beagles, throwing sticks to young Jack Russells, and stroking glossy Irish setters, I wonder if there isn’t something to the love between owner and pet that I’m missing in my life. Would having a dog teach me about unconditional love, make me a better and happier person? I bet it would make it easier to get some attention on the street. Maybe I could just rent one.

  Hey. I think that’s my date, Greg, over there. Yes. He’s entering the park in cutoffs that show nice legs. He’s balding, but that’s no surprise—I already saw his photos—
and he’s actually doing it very well: one of those shaved gay heads. I wave. He’s got the coloring I love—florid skin that redheaded guys get from the sun. And great arms, not meticulously muscular, but somewhere between toned and buff. Woof.

  “Greg?”

  “Bob?”

  “Yeah. Hi! And who’s this?”

  The dog is a black wiggly blur, all snout and tail.

  “This is Scooter,” he says.

  “What kind of dog is he?”

  “A Portuguese water dog.”

  “Adorable,” I say, voice high and a little forced. “Hi, Scooter!”

  I don’t have to lie. The dog is adorable. He looks like the archetypal happy dog, the kind that used to fill pages of elementary-school reading books. Still, when I hold my hand out to touch Scooter, it is tentatively. Ever since I was a child and saw a cocker spaniel bite my mother’s hand (she loved dogs), I have been cautious

  “Yes, that’s my good boy,” Greg is telling Scooter, who is licking his face. Then he lets him have a nice long drink from his bottle of Evian. Do people share water bottles with dogs? He gives Scooter another drink and takes one himself. What about me? I could use a drink right now. But he doesn’t offer me one.

  “You two are close, huh?” I say.

  “Yeah, totally,” he replies, as he nuzzles Scooter. “We sleep together every night.”

  Now Scooter is barking at us, sharp teeth showing—an edge of violence that makes me nervous. But I keep smiling.

  “He wants to play,” Greg tells me. “We’ll be right back.”

  Inside the dog run, while he throws a tennis ball over and over for his dog to retrieve, I watch with a smile plastered on my face. Alien to me as this guy’s relationship is with his dog, and odd as it is to see him share his Evian, it doesn’t mean I don’t admire him for it. He seems like a nice person. But when we try to converse, it goes nowhere.

  “Look at those nails, Scooter,” he coos. “I think we’re going to have to give them a clipping and polish when we get home. And what about a nice bath? Would you like a nice cool, minty bath, boy? We’ll make it a full spa day for you, how about that?”

  I’m smiling, but thinking, What about me?

  A half hour passes; my heart’s still pounding the way it always does around handsome men who aren’t right for me. I pet the dog as he kisses him. I’m not getting anything out of this three-way. In fact, I feel invisible.

  “I think it’s time for lunch,” he says.

  “I’ll walk with you,” I chirp.

  Stepping out from under the trees and into the intersection of Twenty-third and Broadway, we are blasted by summer sun. Greg bends down and, with biceps flexing, picks up his dog, all sixty pounds of him, and holds him in his thick, freckled arms.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “His paws are sensitive to hot cement,” he tells me.

  That can’t be normal. We wait to cross the street. In front of a deli, instead of putting the dog down, he turns to me and asks, “Will you hold him while I go in?”

  Will I hold his dog? Is he kidding me?

  “Oh sure,” I say. “Take your time.”

  So now I’m standing on the corner of Twenty-first Street and Fifth Avenue with a big black curly-haired, hypoallergenic dog in my arms. I haven’t held anyone, or even gotten this close to anyone, in a long time. There have been no babies in my life to hold. Or men. So I guess it was my mother who was the last person I held like this, mostly to help her out of cars and taxis, sometimes out of chairs as well. It’s a shocking thing when you realize a parent needs help getting up and has to be lifted. But imagine how she felt, this woman who wanted to get around on her own but could not anymore.

  “Okay, Mom, are you ready?”

  “Bobby, I’m so embarrassed. It’s such a terrible thing to get old.”

  We were in the ladies’ room of a medical building in the city. I had taken her to see a new blood specialist. She went to use the bathroom and could not get off the toilet. So there I was, hoping no women would come in and find me and shriek. She struggled to push herself up against the wall, but the stall had no safety bar, and with nothing to hold on to, she kept sinking down. “Umph,” she sighed. It was hopeless. I had to get in there. I had her put her arms around my neck, and in one quick motion, I leaned down into her, counted to three, and, using all my body weight, pulled her up. It was a little like dancing, with our faces so close we were cheek to cheek. She stepped forward and steadied herself. I helped her pull up her pants, holding my breath.

  “There we are,” I said. “All set.”

  “Thank you,” she sighed. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  In fact, she’d been making do without much help from any of us for too long. Later, at our appointment, her new blood specialist was shocked to hear she was living in a big suburban house without a visiting nurse or any kind of aid. He was even more shocked to learn that she had a healthy husband. Why wasn’t he overseeing her care?

  We said good-bye to the doctor, and I called Dad on my cell phone to tell him Mom would be heading home to Long Island. “No, you should take her to an emergency room in the city,” he said. We were in the doctor’s waiting area now, end of a long day. Outside there was an early summer deluge. Mom was worn-out and breathing heavily.

  “You don’t think I should send her home? I have a car service to take her.”

  “I’m telling you, Bobby, do not send her back to this house tonight.”

  “Why? The doctor says she can go home. It’s not an emergency. She’s just weak. She doesn’t need the hospital.”

  “No! No hospitals!” my mother was yelling. I don’t blame her. She’d seen enough of them. And this was her last week in her home of fifty years. In another week she’d be moving—or, I should say, my brother and I would be moving her against her wishes (with Dad) to an assisted-living place located near us in Manhattan.

  “Dad, she wants to come home. Let her come home.”

  “She doesn’t belong in this house,” he insisted. “She belongs in a hospital.”

  I felt sorry for him. And angry. And guilty. Was I sending her home because I didn’t want to spend the week running to her hospital in the city? Maybe I should have been offering to spend the week on Long Island to help him help her. I’d been careful to keep a distance from the disaster their domestic life had become. Once a week was all I gave. “Sorry, Dad, but she’s coming home to you now, period. End of conversation!”

  I clicked off my cell phone and turned to her. “Okay, Mom, ready? Let’s go.”

  Once again, she couldn’t get up. But I let her try for the sake of her dignity.

  “Lean forward, and use your legs,” I coached.

  The look on her face was of intense focus, as if she could will her worthless body up off the waiting room couch. But it was no good. The doctor’s office was closing, the staff walking past us, unaware of our awkward situation. It was like drowning within plain sight of lifeguards on a beach. We were invisible and helpless.

  But why was I impatient? Was it her fault she had gotten sick so young and lived ten years in such a debilitated state, with a blood disease that causes the body to make too many red cells and has no known treatment? Was it her fault she was pretty once and now had given up on her looks entirely, unwilling to exercise or make herself stronger? Her troubles were a downer. Like Dad, I yearned to be weightless and responsibility-free. I wondered how much longer she would suffer and, by her suffering, make us suffer.

  “Okay, Mom, we really have to get out of here,” I said gently.

  And for the second time in an hour, I leaned down, embraced her, and—one, two, three!—lifted her up. When she was on her feet, I gave her a pat on the back.

  “Good job,” I said. I should have kissed her forehead. I should have held her in my arms and hugged her gently for a long time, and told her how much I loved her.

  Now there is a dog in my arms. And the sky has suddenly become overcast,
and a cool wind picks up on Fifth Avenue. Leaves on trees shiver. Garbage flies, men hold on to their baseball caps, women hold down their skirts. Everyone and everything is so light in a big wind. But this dog is not. He’s heavy. He’s panting. But not squirming. He seems to like how I’m holding him in my arms. And he’s warm against me. He licks my face. Gross as it is, I laugh at the affection. “What a sweetheart you are,” I whisper.

  A few minutes later, I am saying good-bye to dog and owner.

  The dog turns to look at me as I go. His owner does not.

  CHAPTER 4

  Gracie Gravlax

  The next week, on a Wednesday, I find myself waiting in front of a Broadway theater among an elderly matinee crowd. I’m meeting Dad to see a revival of the musical Nine. My brother treated him to a few tickets for Father’s Day to use as he wished. It’s a show I’ve wanted to see, so I’m grateful he’s invited me to join him. But where is he? Why is he always late? Is he driving around and around looking for a parking spot because he refuses to pay for a lot? There he is, finally. In plaid pants and a beige V-neck that hangs too long. And who is that with him? A nice-looking woman is at his side.

  “Bob! Hiya! This is Gracie,” he tells me. “My favorite bridge partner.”

  I’m thrown but don’t miss a beat. “Hello! Nice to meet you,” I say, extending a hand.

  Hers is cold to the touch. “My pleasure,” she tells me.