Mismatched in Manhattan: the perfect feel-good romantic comedy for 2020

by Tash Skilton

  That said, if you receive messages from a .ru address, send it to Crystal for vetting. No Svetlanas or Ivans without making sure they’re too legit to quit, awright?

  In the meantime, here’s your Call to Action: Download WhatsApp because that’s what people in other countries use to make their love connections. FaceTime and Skype are circa 2016.

  Also: I’m looking for cover models for the international portal. Just average folk with international appeal. Brown skin? Black hair? Beautiful almond eyes? All of the above? Yes, please! If not, I’ll have to use old vacation photos of She Who Must Not Be Named, ha ha.

  But seriously, if you have international flavor about you, do consider it. You’ll have the opportunity to be the face of the company! Stock options and other perks for the lucky chosen.

  Clifford

  CEO, Sweet Nothings Worldwide, LLC

  ZOEY

  I sleep late on Saturday and ration myself to one cup of coffee while getting ready for my lunch appointment with Bree. At ten forty-five, Clifford lights up my phone with a video call request on WhatsApp. I could pretend it’s cutting it too close to my meeting at eleven, but the location’s one minute away. With a sense of impending doom, I answer the video chat.

  “Hey champ! I’m calling all the rock stars this morning to make sure they installed WhatsApp.”

  Clearly I did, or he couldn’t have called me on it. “Ay, ay, Captain.” I salute him, hoping that’ll be the end of it.

  “Did you, ah, see the memo I sent around earlier?”

  “I did, yes. Very cool about the …” I quickly scan the memo, surprised. “Oh wow, global initiative. I didn’t realize there was a demand for it.”

  “Totes, totes. But, we really are in need of some visuals. Specifically, of people.”

  “Oh, right. With an ‘international flavor.’ Like lamb-and-mint chips.”

  “Good one! You have a mildly exotic face and I was wondering if you’re fully American, half, or just mostly. I can ask that because my ex-wife is Chinese.”

  “Uh … I’m pretty sure no employer can ask that.”

  (Me, two months in, working for Mary, after I messed up some basic accounting: “I hope you didn’t hire me because you thought I’d be good at math.”

  Mary: “No, no, I hired you because I thought you’d be good at meth. Boy do I have egg on my face!”)

  “Let’s backtrack,” Clifford says quickly. “Let’s approach it from a new angle.”

  “When you say ‘mildly exotic,’ are you talking about these ‘almond beauties’?” I ask dryly, pointing to my eyes. “They are one-half Filipino, from my dad’s side of the family.” My father’s mom, Nana Dalisay, is the one who raised me in a tidy bungalow by Santa Monica Beach starting when I was ten.

  Speaking of the ocean, the more Clifford talks, the more I’d like to walk into one and just keep going. Wave good-bye to Nana and Mary along the shore and slowly submerge myself. My final act on earth will be giving the finger to Clifford as the water rises above my head.

  Fat chance of that happening. Now I live in a city truncated by walls, even outside. Is the sky still there? Who can say? It’s buildings and windows all the way up for me now; claustrophobia by way of the outdoors.

  Clifford proceeds to dig himself deeper. “Could you pretend to be fully or three-quarters Asian? Just for the photo’s sake? Not like as a representation of your true self or whatever. We are, after all, in the business of pretending, right? It’s all part of the same op?”

  “Nope. Sorry.” I refuse to be the poster child for his cluelessness.

  Clifford looks deflated, but his finger guns fly out of their holsters nonetheless. “Gotcha. Okay. All good.”

  “Gotta run. I’m about to meet a new client.”

  “Oooh, is she international? Could you snap some shots on the sly and send ’em to Aisha for—”

  I’m always happy to refer clients to Aisha, our freelance photo expert, but not without a client’s permission, and not so they can secretly be part of an international ad.

  I click off, ending the call. If he asks later, I’ll say the Wi-Fi in my apartment is spotty. Of course, he has about a million other ways of communicating with me, and right on cue, a new message materializes on-screen.

  CliffBar: We got cut off somehow. Good luck with Bree! Go get ’em, Tiger.

  I wait, wondering if that’ll be the worst of it or if there’s more to come. Sure enough …

  CliffBar: Not like a Tiger Mom, though! LOL. Any kind of tiger. Rawr. See you at the meeting next week.

  It’s only eleven a.m. but I’m in desperate need of alcohol.

  At Cheese, Bree sits at a booth in the back—plenty of space for our laptops—and pours herself a healthy slug of pinot noir. The way the liquid sloshes against the side of the glass makes me nervous. What if she spills some on her special shirt? The shirt is a print of the movie poster for Undersea. It’s faded, and the material looks whisper-soft. I can see why she likes it. As she mentioned on the phone yesterday, she’s got blond hair, which she’s pulled into a side braid. That hair combined with her light blue eyes and pale pink lips would normally give off a Barbie vibe, but the fact that she’s a bookkeeper at a doctor’s office cuts into the stereotype. Still, from the shallow end of the pool, she’ll have NO trouble attracting “suitors.” I make a private challenge to myself: Secure her a first date within the week.

  She stands upon seeing me, and when she moves in for a hug I’m surprised at how emotional the gesture makes me. It’s been a month since I’ve been hugged or touched in any way that didn’t feel like the prelude to a knife fight. My poor vestigial broken pinkie toe. It doesn’t hurt anymore—I don’t think it can—but if it turned blue and fell off while I slept, I wouldn’t exactly be surprised.

  Bree’s taller than me by a few inches, so my head tucks against her collarbone briefly before she releases me. Her hair smells like coconuts.

  “How are you?” I ask. “Does the menu look okay?”

  “It looks awesome! But …” She lowers her voice as we face each other across the table. “They’re not a BYOB. She charged me a fifty-seven-dollar corkage fee. I’m so sorry.”

  What is with New York? At Bottega Louie in LA you can bring as many bottles as you want for free.

  Then I remember who’s footing the bill and grin. “No worries, really. It’s a business expense.” Smell you later, Clifford.

  Bree smiles back, relieved. “Also, could we, like, pretend I’m not paying you? I liked what you said about ‘peer-to-peer’ or whatever. I think this’ll work better for me if we hang like we’re friends and you just happen to be good at online dating, and you’re helping me out for fun.”

  “Sure, no problem. Thanks for meeting me near my place, I really appreciate it.” Please don’t ask about my cat. I haven’t invented his backstory yet.

  “Are you farther over in Alphabet City or … ?”

  “I’m actually right across the street.”

  “Oh my God! You live there? Those apartments are huge! And they allow pets? Do you mind if I ask what you’re paying?”

  I’m so gobsmacked by her belief that my apartment is spacious that I’m rendered mute. Besides my broken toe, my shins are littered with bruises from knocking into things because there is nowhere to stand. Also, I can’t exactly tell her my old boss owns the building and has knocked 50 percent off my monthly rent, because that might lead to telling her who my old boss IS by pointing to the woman on her T-shirt. Her level of Undersea fandom would not recover from that information, and we have tasks to complete today. As much as I love the idea of pretending we’re friends on a lunch date, the truth is we’re on a mission.

  Luckily, the waitress appears and introduces herself before my silence becomes prolonged. Each person on the waitstaff, she explains, goes not by name but by favorite menu item. “I’m Cheesy Nuggets, and I’ll be taking care of you today.” (And indeed, her name tag reads “Cheesy Nuggets.”)

  Cheesy Nugge
ts explains that Cheese is an experimental pop-up specializing in grilled cheese sandwiches and fondue. Since it’s on my “company card,” I tell Bree to order anything that catches her eye. We both want the extra sharp cheddar toasties with jalapeños, and cheesy tater tots on the side, and she also asks for goat cheese with raspberries and syrup on top.

  When Cheesy Nuggets leaves, Bree pours wine in my glass and we clink together.

  “I need to stop hitting the sauce,” she says, while hitting the sauce. “I think it’s the cause of all my problems, honestly.” She frowns. “Not all-all my problems, just my relationship problems. It’s fine if I drink with you, or my girlfriends after work or whatever. But with dudes? Ugggggh. Because if I’m feeling relaxed and giddy and uninhibited, it’s over way too soon, you know what I mean?

  “I don’t have regrets, don’t get me wrong,” she continues. “I partied a lot after college, and it was fun, but I think I’m done with that phase of my life. I’m at the quarter-centch mark, you know? Everyone knows if you don’t lock down a husband by the time you’re twenty-nine in New York it’s, like, not happening. Because why would they date an almost-thirty-year-old when there are a kajillion twenty-two-year-olds running around the place who are like, fertile? I really need to find a quality guy. Because my dick picker’s—”

  “Broken. Right.” I’m not likely to forget that phrase anytime soon.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the dicks themselves, just what they’re attached to. Here, let me show you—”

  Before I can demur, her phone’s out and floating about two inches from my face. She scrolls rapidly with her forefinger: dick pic, after dick pic, after dick pic.

  “It’s okay,” I squeak. “I don’t need to—”

  She scrolls faster. I’ve never seen such a variety of man parts fly by. “Wow,” I say. “That’s quite a collection. How long did it take you to amass such a—”

  “I didn’t take these! I haven’t seen even half of them in person. These were just what dudes sent me on Flirtville, with no messages or notes attached. I don’t get it.”

  Ahh. Her comment yesterday about STDs reminds me she’s had a rough go of it recently. I want to turn the ship around for her.

  “Hmm. Let’s pull up your Flirtville profile and see if we can figure it out,” I suggest.

  She sits next to me, making our laptops neighbors. She logs in and tilts her screen so I can see her profile. In response to the question “Something my parents don’t know about me” she’s written, simply, “DTF.”

  I think we’ve cracked the mystery.

  “Oh God. I don’t even remember typing that,” she moans. “I must have been wasted. Anyway, that’s another reason I should cool it with the beverages.”

  We both drink to that.

  Bree deletes a letter and types a new one. “There. DTM. Down to marry. That should fix everything.”

  “That … might work,” I say. Minimal bluff! “Or, we could cut our losses at Flirtville and start fresh at a different site. What do you think?”

  She pushes her hair behind her ears, looking earnest and determined. “Start fresh.”

  Twenty minutes later, we’ve synced our laptops to her Game, Set, Match account, and we’ve filled out her questionnaire with pithy remarks and a humorous but firm declaration that her account is a “dick-pic-free zone.”

  With her input, I’ve presented Bree as an outgoing, free-spirited denizen of Hell’s Kitchen who enjoyed being single and playing the field but has realized she’s looking for something more significant now. She’s someone who loves classic action-adventure fantasy films, and walking tours of historical neighborhoods, especially haunted ones. (I love this because it presents a perfect opportunity for snuggling with her dates.) She works as a bookkeeper at a pediatrician’s office, where she’s also in charge of curating the kids’ waiting area with games, toys, DVDs, and a colorful fish tank.

  We decide to leave out her affinity for fart jokes. I make note of it and categorize it as a Future Honesty.

  Freelancer’s Handbook: A Future Honesty is not something to be ashamed of. Instead, think of it as a reward, a prize, even, bestowed upon a match after multiple successful dates. If deployed too early, it risks sabotaging the burgeoning relationship. Protect Future Honesties and save them only for those who prove worthy.

  Having devoured our grilled cheese sandwiches and doused the jalapeño flames with more wine, we feast on goat cheese drizzled with maple syrup.

  And we’re off, filters set for men aged twenty-four to thirty living in Brooklyn or Manhattan who exercise, like animals, and can see themselves settling down within the next few years. Five is our magic number, meaning the number of people whom we plan to “serve” (Game, Set, Match’s version of a “poke”). If someone “lobs back,” a private chat is activated. If the target of the serve doesn’t respond within a predetermined period of time, they land in your “Ace” folder (an Ace being a tennis serve that hasn’t been touched by the receiver) and won’t appear in your searches any longer. It’s a brisk way of dispensing with people who don’t respond.

  “How long should we give them before we Ace them?” I ask.

  Bree’s halfway through her second glass of wine.

  “A week?” she suggests.

  “I was thinking forty-eight hours, but let’s compromise and say ninety-six.”

  “Okay, sounds good. Who should we serve first?” Bree asks, looking eager.

  “I think we need to narrow it down more. There are thousands of people here.”

  “Should we tighten up the age range?”

  “I was thinking we could tighten up one of the lifestyle categories. You’ve mentioned drinking gets you into trouble sometimes. What if we filter for nondrinkers, see what comes up?”

  “You mean complete teetotal-tarians?”

  “… Yes.”

  I don’t know if “teetotal-tarians” is a malapropism or a new term used by the twenty-five-and-under crowd. The four-year age difference between Bree and me may as well be a generation. I’ve spent the last two decades hanging out with women in their fifties and sixties, and honestly I think I relate to them more at this point. Although despite what Rude Miles from the café believes, I’m VERY computer savvy.

  “Okay,” she agrees.

  I like that she doesn’t fight me on it. It proves she’s serious about curbing her drinking for the chance at a longer-term commitment.

  I click the appropriate buttons and refresh the page.

  The first profile is a rail-thin guy with a wispy mustache and a dreamy look in his eyes. I fear I’ve led Bree astray. “Nondrinker” might be code for “shoots heroin.”

  “Sorry, let me adjust this again …”

  I filter for “straight-edge” instead.

  “Ooh, how about this guy?” she says immediately.

  MustLoveDogs’s profile picture includes (who else?) his dog, whom he’s hugging from behind and gazing at with fierce adoration. His description reads, Seeking someone as wonderful and loyal as my black lab, Henrietta. I don’t think I’ll ever find anyone as perfect as her, though. LOL.

  “Awww,” says Bree. “That’s so sweet!”

  Before I can stop her, she’s reached for her screen and clicked on “Serve.”

  “Whoops! Okay, um, if that’s what you want to do, but I’m not so sure. You know how some people call their pets ‘fur babies’?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think this is his ‘fur wifey.’”

  “But he wrote ‘LOL.’ He’s just kidding.”

  “Yeah … I think he’s serious. You don’t want to enter this fight.”

  “But I already served him. Can I take it back?”

  “No, but that’s all right. And who knows, maybe I’m wrong. It’s just that Henrietta takes up more of the picture than he does. We can’t really see what he looks like, and his only interests have to do with her.”

  She groans. “See? I told you my dick picker’s broken.”
<
br />   “Healing,” I correct her. I need to get her to stop saying “dick picker.” My right eye twitches every time she does.

  MustLoveDogs lobs back instantly, which, frankly, is a bad sign.

  Bree squints at his message:

  MustLoveDogs: Henrietta’s birthday is tomorrow! No need to spend a lot—under $100 is great—but if you’d like to come, we’d love to meet you. Woof-woof! (That was Henrietta! :))

  “Under a hundred?” Bree sputters.

  “Let’s reply and move on.”

  “Don’t even! That was gross.”

  I resist the urge to point out that Bree was the one who contacted him. The right thing to do is close it out properly. “He doesn’t count,” I assure her. “We’ll find five more.”

  Under Bree’s account I write:

  TheDuchessB: Happy Birthday to a special dog! I’m afraid I’m not available. Hope it’s a terrific day. Then I “Ace” him so he won’t come up in any more searches. I don’t trust “after-hours” Bree not to serve him again by mistake.

  We scroll through more profiles.

  “This guy might be cool,” she remarks. “He’s a lawyer.”

  “He’s also into Ren Faire. That’s up your alley, right?”

  Her face contorts. “Ew! No.”

  Who knew cosplayers could be so snobby? “But only once a year, upstate. And he’s got a nice smile,” I point out.

  Ignoring me, she points at a muscular dude with a buzz cut. His username is RedPill. “What do you think about him?”

  I read his About Me section aloud: “To find out if we’re compatible, please complete this sentence. Sully was a hoax—Yes/ No.”

  Bree gasps. “Was it?”

  “No!” I shout, before reining myself in. “No, Sully was not a hoax.” The Miracle on the Hudson is the one thing I know to be good and pure and true about New York. I refuse to entertain any notion that suggests otherwise.

  “I think he wants us to say ‘yes.’”

  “Probably, but—”

  She clicks “serve” and types, “Yes.”

  I grit my teeth. We need to work on her impulse control.

  Two seconds later, a response: