by Laurie Graff
I looked at him standing barefoot atop the kitchen counter, holding the spatula in front of his groin, protecting the only thing left of his manhood. I watched him diminish before my very eyes. Albee no longer looked like a man. He looked like a punk. Like a kid in a schoolyard. There were many things I could have accused him of in that moment, but all I saw when I looked up was a boy. A little boy. A baby.
“You are so irresponsible,” I said, trying hard to negotiate my emotional life of five minutes ago with this new reality without having to go through all of the stuff you always have to go through, that I’d just gone through with Broder, and didn’t want to go through again. “You are so emotionally irresponsible! You played two hands against the middle for reasons now I don’t even care to know. And aside from everything else, you were not mature. You are so not a grown-up. My God, Albee! You behaved like such a fucking baby.”
Albee was offended, but he was also too wrong to fight back. Instead he stood there, guarding himself with the spatula, ashamed. It was hard to tell whether it was due to the compromising position he’d put himself in emotionally, or the one of standing on a kitchen countertop choosing to defend himself with a spatula.
He finally spoke. And when he did a baby’s voice emerged.
“What man is not a baby?” asked Albee.
Did he think that question was an answer? Was he right? I didn’t want him to be right. Sometimes it felt like almost every man I met was a baby. A tadpole. A baby tadpole that grew into a big grown-up frog. Was there something in the food? Some bacteria floating in the pond? What made the development stop? What was it?
Was it, by chance, in direct proportion to their attraction? If their attraction was powerful, did it make them feel like they had lost their power? Did that make them feel too vulnerable? Powerless? Like a baby? Would that make them seek a lesser attraction that was, perhaps, less satisfying but something that felt powerful? Free? Powerfully free. There had to be a reason why this happened again and again. And to so many women.
“So why are so many men such babies, Albee? I need an answer to this question. I need to know and I need to know now.”
Albee didn’t know, and, sadly, neither did I. But I needed an answer. Women needed one.
We need the answer to this question because we run out of eggs. We run out of eggs and we run out of time and we need to be with someone, and before it’s too late. We each need to find a man who’s not a baby so we can make a baby. How can you make one with one?
I need a strong man that I can baby. I am strong, but I want to be somebody’s baby. Yes, sir, that’s my baby. No, sir, don’t say maybe. Yes, sir, that’s my baby now. It’s always now. It’s always just for now. And then now ends.
I went back to the essay with a clearer sense of what I had learned.
From The Last Spot
If you have to kiss a lot of frogs, that’s just the easy part. I’ve learned that we are the choices we make. It doesn’t matter what people say, it matters what they do.
Accepted! Good. I would find out if I had learned my lessons well. I would sign up for six months. Opening my wallet I typed in my credit card number, hopeful there’d be someone great by the time my subscription expired. I was done. I had enough for one day.
“You’ve got mail!”
The computerized voice drew me back in, just as I was about to turn off and shut down. There was already a message. One message. I had sat all day without so much as a shower, and there was already a man sending a message that he wanted to meet me. As I went to retrieve the mail, a musical introduction of sorts blasted out of my speakers. A small square box appeared on the screen alerting me I had an instant hot message. All this attention and my pictures weren’t even yet posted.
In the right-hand corner of my screen inside the instant message box was a photo a of man. He was good-looking in a manicured sort of way, dressed in a button-down yellow shirt and sitting on a fancy white couch. Not quite, but the photo was nice enough that I guessed I could possibly be attracted to him on the outside if I liked who he was on the inside. His username appeared, and in tiny little writing I read that he was typing. SirLaughALot, this man on the white couch, was suddenly typing his way into my apartment.
SirLaughALot: Hi there!
* * *
Oh my! This was weird. This was incredibly weird. Without even a scene change, my apartment had been turned into a virtual singles bar without drinks.
“What should I say?” I asked aloud, running into the bathroom to check my hair in the mirror while I gave it a little thought.
SirLaughALot: Are you there?
BlueEyes325: Hi.
* * *
I must have dazzled him with such a sparkling, witty response.
BlueEyes325: What’s your name? You look familiar.
* * *
Not much better. But he sort of did.
SirLaughALot: Don.
BlueEyes325: Hmm... I guess I don’t know you, Don.
SirLaughALot: Yet....
BlueEyes325: Oh!
SirLaughALot: New beginnings can be very exciting, don’t you think?
BlueEyes325: Yes.
* * *
Oooh, he was smooth, I thought. He must do a lot of this.
SirLaughALot: Sooooo....playing hooky from work? Enjoying your day?
BlueEyes325: Yeah.... you?
SirLaughALot: Well, I just returned from Del Ray Beach after visiting my parents.
* * *
Oh, so he just got back from traveling and he’s home sorting mail, checking e-mail and checking out women online.
BlueEyes325: My mom’s in West Palm. The Holy Land.
SirLaughALot: I read your profile. You seem nice.
BlueEyes325: So do you!
* * *
Was the exclamation point too much? Did the exclamation point make me seem desperate? I didn’t know whether to keep it or delete, but clicked and sent it hoping the point would help me make one.
SirLaughALot: We should meet!
BlueEyes325: What do you suggest...?
* * *
Oh my, I was so bold! Ellipses! All wrong. Too suggestive. But he was asking. He was asking with an exclamation point!
I bet he wanted to meet me tonight. I bet he wanted to have a drink later. His profile said he lived in the city. Should I go to him? Not chivalrous, but at least he wouldn’t know where I lived. I looked at the photo. He might turn out to be a frog, but I sincerely doubted he turn out to be a murderer. Better for him to come to me. Should I even be available on such short notice? No. Definitely not. Too last-minute. But so what? Could be... Spontaneous! I waited while the tiny writing told me SirLaughALot was typing, but his reply written in red, looked like a waving flag.
SirLaughALot: How about you call me when you feel like it sometime this week? 917-555-8228.... Where in the city do you live...me, Upper East.
Call him sometime this week? Maybe thinking that we’d meet tonight was jumping the gun, but if he was really interested wouldn’t he ask if he could call me? Call him? Forget him!
BlueEyes325: Upper West.
* * *
Maybe I was supposed to give him my number. But why would I give him my number when he didn’t ask? Was he just uncomfortable putting me in that position? Should I offer? I didn’t know the online etiquette. Well, online or off I wasn’t especially comfortable just handing out my number. Especially when he approached me.
SirLaughALot: Cool. Parting is such sweet sorrow....
BlueEyes325: Until tomorrow, I think they say.
SirLaughALot: Ahhhh, mysterious, I love it....
* * *
Maybe he thought I was being mysterious because I didn’t give him my number. Is that what he meant? Should I give it to him? I guessed I could, kind of like an experiment. I could just put it out there and see. I typed it in the box, but when I clicked to send I was told that SirLaughALot was no longer signed on.
What?
Where did he go? Wh
y would he say “we should meet” and then disappear? And he didn’t just say “we should meet,” he said “we should meet” exclamation point! Did I say something wrong? I thought SirLaughALot was interested. Was just getting any old attention enough for him? Was he juggling several conversations up there on his screen? Or did the Sir already have a Lady in Waiting?
I was only dating online eight minutes and I was already more confused than I’d ever been when dating off. I decided that having something to look forward to might be good for me, so I x’d out of the J-Spot and chose to save the new e-mail for later. If SirLaughALot wanted to find me I was sure he would, but my guess was that I had heard his last laugh.
Eight
In an experiment to teach frogs to discriminate, the frog became confused to the point of actually ignoring the flies he loved in favor of the insect he loathed.
“You were great!”
“Bravo!”
“Yay!”
We were all backstage seeing Fred, who had just finished a grandiose performance playing an arm in Body Parts: The Musical. Brooke, Jane and I all went to see the original play that had its first public performance at My Theater Workshop, where Fred had joined me in becoming an MTW member.
The irreverent play was set in the bed of Mr. and Mrs. Bellows, while an ensemble of actors played their body parts. Arms, Legs, Eyes, Nose, Mouth and Tummy groped around in the dark navigating their way through sex, love, nightmares, midnight snacks and a good night’s sleep. With a TV on throughout in the background, the incidental music within the play was parodies of jingles from well-known commercials.
“Fred, you were fantastic,” said Jane. “I loved how they mirrored the changes in the relationship with the media.”
“It was great,” I said, throwing my arms around him. “You were soooo good!”
I was delighted at how terrific the play turned out, especially since everything I had heard had indicated otherwise! And though I was happy for everyone involved, I had to admit it made me feel disappointed for me. I was called back for Tummy, originally set to be a waiflike Tinker Bell, but at the last minute the director decided to go Hispanic.
“And when you got inside the television for the commercial break and sang. I loved that!” Brooke stepped back to demonstrate. “Let your fingers do the walking through the Bellows’ rages,” she sang. “I always loved that Yellow Pages spot.”
“I think you were the only one who got that.” Fred threw a tissue in the trash after wiping the makeup off his eyes. “No one even reads the Yellow Pages anymore unless it’s online.”
“Well, we laughed,” said Brooke. “The show was so much fun. It really made me want to do something, but I’m so busy planning this wedding.”
“How many months away is it?” asked Jane.
“Nine,” said Brooke. “I could have a wedding or a baby.”
“On that note—” Jane pulled out her cell phone, walking out the open door onto the fire escape for privacy
“—I’ll meet you at the party, I just want to call William and check in on Eve.”
“So tell me what it’s like to be a bride!” Fred said to Brooke on our way down the narrow hall to the small theater that housed the opening night bash.
It was a theme! Everywhere you looked were masks and mannequins. A TV in the corner of the room looped a bunch of famous commercials from the sixties, seventies and eighties. Brooke, Fred, and I each took a bottle of beer before walking to the food table to get something to eat.
“Ooohh, I love a buffet,” said Fred, handing us plates to load up on crudités, chicken wings, salsa and chips. “The bridal buffet,” Fred sighed, as he led us to a spot where we could sit and eat while waiting for Jane.
“Being a bride may be fun, but planning a wedding sure isn’t,” said Brooke, as we sat down on the floor in a corner of the room.
“Glamour problem,” sang Fred, motioning his head to me. “What do you think, Kar? Any J-Spots sticking?”
“Oh, it’s not to be believed!” I said as I tore into a chicken wing, where at least I knew I’d get a satisfying bite.
Jane snuck up behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder as she sat down with her plate of food. “Scooch over,” she said. “I want to hear this.”
“Well... ” I moved, as I reached for my bag. “You can read all about it,” I said, pulling out the four handouts I had photocopied that included printouts of all my online dating activity. I passed one to each of my friends.
Each person received a thirty page stapled handout with this on the cover:
WELCOME BlueEyes325!
Members Who Have:
E-mailed you:59
Hot-Messaged you:16
Hot-Spotted you:4
Spotted you:102
“I can’t believe this,” said Jane, as she flipped through the pages. “How long have you been signed up?”
“Exactly three weeks now,” I said. It was mid-September and easy to calculate.
“Oh my! How’d ya find the time to put all this together, Little Lulu?” asked Fred.
I took a gulp of beer.
“You are both so lucky you don’t have to do this online dating thing,” I told Brooke and Jane as I ignored Fred.
“This guy’s cute,” said Brooke. “Page two, four down,” she instructed the group, as we heard the swishes and whishes of turning pages. “What happened with him?”
She pointed to the handsome BrooklynBoy. The Brooklyn Heights writer, divorced, one kid, two cats who said he was able to offer the perks of a bad boy with the stability of a good one.
“He didn’t write back.”
“I like SkyHigh,” said Jane, reading aloud. “Still single, I’m a liberal Gramercy Park architect who believes creativity keeps life interesting.”
“Wrote him, too. Nada.”
“Ooooo la la!” said Fred, pointing to—
“Nope,” I said cutting him off. “The cute guys are on pages one, two and three. I wrote to all of them and didn’t get back one response.”
“What about the fifty-nine guys that e-mailed you, Kar?” asked Jane, referencing the cover page. “It seems like a lot. Are you saying there was no one even okay out of fifty-nine guys?”
“I anticipated that question, which is why I brought along my show-and-tell,” I pompously declared, pointing to the handouts. “Begin on page four and go as far as your stomach will carry you. My profile’s on the last three pages if you want to take a look.”
I couldn’t wait see my friends’ faces as they got a backstage look at the lunacy of online love.
“Ohmygod!” screamed Fred. “Page seven, near the bottom.”
Everyone roared at MakeULaugh. In his photo he was standing on top of a desk wearing a business suit, a fedora and a cape. He said he was a paralegal turned actor and wrote that he mainly got cast playing idiots.
“I love these names,” howled Jane. “RussianRuLips, BagelsnLove, BeaverBill.”
“Page twelve, top!” shrieked Brooke. “LaughingGas?”
Everyone reacted to the green-eyed gaze in the slightly crossed eyes of LaughingGas. He was in a white lab coat, posed on a dental chair as his rubber gloved hands rested on his hips.
“Read the instant message,” I said.
“Okay,” said Brooke. “I’ll read LaughingGas, and Jane, you be Karrie.”
“I always wanted blue eyes,” said my brown-eyed friend.
LaughingGas: I’m on a break till my next patient, what are you up to?
BlueEyes325: I’m writing to you!
* * *
You hear about people who marry after they meet on the Internet, but I kept coming across men who disappeared once you even responded to them. SirLaughALot was the first, and he had not left me in stitches. Each time I opened an e-mail and followed up with the person’s profile I was filled with an expectation so vast it flooded me. But each time I opened the profile I saw something in the photo or essays so unappealing, I felt left with no choice but to instantly pass.<
br />
LaughingGas: Do you want to meet and get a drink?
BlueEyes325: That’s a very kind offer, LaughingGas, but I would at least like to talk before we set up—
LaughingGas: My next patient is numb, gotta go. E-mail me if you want.
* * *
“And that was it?” asked a stunned Brooke as she came out of character.
“That was it!”
But Jane continued reading.
“Listen to what he wrote in his ‘Who Am I’ thingy. ‘I am comfortable wearing both casual clothing when walking on the beach and a tux when I go out to a formal event.’”
“Oh. You shouldn’t have nixed him,” said Fred. “You never would have had a fashion emergency. That’s quite an accomplishment, you know. For a straight guy.”
“Right,” I chimed in. “Imagine my despair if I fell in love with someone who had to wear a tuxedo when we went to the beach and workout clothes to his cousin Sheila’s wedding.”
“But what if Cousin Sheila got married on the beach!” said Fred.
“Fashion emergency!” shouted Brooke and Jane, as we all laughed.
LaughingGas. I guess he was. He was just a regular laugh riot. Go know! Perhaps I had missed my golden opportunity. Speaking of—
“Oh dear!” said Fred, pointing to page seventeen and a picture of GoldenBoy, one leg up on a stool, wearing a suede vest and possessing a handlebar moustache. “He says it’s his mission to become a champion of the one true God? What is that?”
“Keep reading,” I told Fred, who continued to do so aloud.
GoldenBoy: BlueEyes, it’s important to IM you first because I cannot ask you out unless I understand your position on the Messiah. Talk to me.
BlueEyes325: Sorry. I don’t feel comfortable talking about the Messiah behind his back.