Spooning

by Darri Stephens

  “Okay!” Partly out of curiosity and partly on account of that undeniable tug he always seemed to have on me, I gave in. Screw it. So much for my game plan.

  We decided to meet later on at a new spot in the Meat Packing District. Sitting quietly next to Tara on the subway home, my mind whirled. I was still in shock. It had been months since I'd seen J. P. Why had he called? Could it be that finally, after all those months of hoping and strategizing and trying to make it work, he had finally realized that I was the best thing that had ever happened to him? My heart convulsed, my stomach tightened, and my fingers twirled the top of George's bag in an old nervous habit. Sensing that I was in no state to deal with the future of a turtle, I handed him off to some cute kid on the train. He grinned like I was Mrs. Claus and despite my toe-tapping jitters, I couldn't help but smile. I felt a surge of hopeful empowerment. This time I was in control. I was the one with the discerning eye. My fairy godmother had come a-visiting this morning, and I was Cinderella on her way to the ball. Yes, I was a fucking princess and I was going to get my prince!

  That night I stressed over what to wear. According to the Zagat's guide, our restaurant had “sublime ambiance” that was “ready for romance.” Perfect! I finally settled on my darkest and tightest jeans, which the flamboyant salesman at Saks had claimed would lift and tuck, all for a mere $186 plus tax. I topped them off with a flouncy, feminine, top.

  “You going to go park yourself on top of a wedding cake?” Macie asked raising an eyebrow. Okay, so my top was a tad bit frilly, but it was adorable nonetheless.

  “He's too thick to go Freud on me. He was only an American studies major,” I scoffed.

  “That's my girl!” Tara called from the kitchen.

  “Well this girl wants you to remember one thing,” Macie said with that motherly tone. “Remember this, Charlie. You are smart, witty, kind, and might I add pretty damn hot in those jeans,” she said slapping my butt. “You know that, right? You have come a long way since February. Be strong tonight, you hear me? You call the shots.” She gave me a big hug. “Now knock him dead! Oh, and it better be worth it because you're missing Syd's mother's Thai chicken salad tonight and, more importantly, our Cooking Club meeting, missy.”

  “Oh, she got a hall pass from me!” Tara yelled from the kitchen.

  “Save some for me,” I said walking to the door. “I might be back sooner than you think.”

  I arrived at the restaurant, which had a smoky lounge atmosphere lit by old gas lanterns. I squinted through the dim light to scan the human shapes draped on the banquettes. I was early. He was late. Sigh. Strike one, or should I say strike one hundred and one. To calm my nerves I sat right at the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender watched me guzzle the thing. She laughed and said, “Do you want another?”

  “Thanks, but I don't think I have time.” It must have been comical, the way I kept glancing at the door.

  “First date?”

  “No, old one. I mean, ex-boyfriend who's been sniffing around. It shouldn't be so traumatic, but he called me … and I don't know what he's thinking …” I petered out.

  “Been there, done that,” she said. “Just relax. You've already been through the hellish part, right?”

  “True.” Maybe this bartender was Oprah in disguise.

  “That him?” she asked, nodding toward the door. I turned around and there he was! Cute as ever. Slightly tousled hair, lopsided grin, pink tie nestled perfectly against his starched collar.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hey.” Yikes! It was like a scene out of an awkward preteen movie.

  “I need a drink!” he exclaimed, sliding onto the stool beside me. Was his sudden thirst due to my scorching beauty? Was he nervous? “Hellish day.” Oh. “Did you just get here?”

  “Just,” I nodded sliding my right hand under my leg. No need for him to see the damage I'd done to my manicured nails while waiting these last twenty minutes.

  “You want a drink?”

  “I'd love one.” The bartender came over and asked me what I'd like. She must have been one of those actresses-in- waiting because her facial expression was perfectly nonchalant, as if I was just another barfly on the wall.

  “Amstel, please. Thanks,” I added and she gave me that extra little grin. Such support! She could start a new group: BAAD—Bartenders who Aid Anxious Drinkers.

  “And I'll have an Amstel and two shots of Goldschlager,” he added with his usual charming smirk. Ugh. He knew I hated that particular shot. I'm all for fantasy but how the idea of swallowing flakes of gold is supposed to be magical beats me. I swear the gold flakes make me constipated (never mind how they feel going down).

  The shot arrived and I swallowed with a grimace. He laughed. Strike two. Any decent guy would have A) offered to order me a different kind of shot, and B) empathized with my pain, not encouraged it.

  “Let's bring these beers to the table,” he said, then turned to the bartender. “I'll settle up please. I owe ya for two Amstels and two shots.” Shit! What to do? The total was really for three Amstels. My forehead felt tight. But the bartender didn't even miss a beat.

  “No problem!” she said. And as J. P. headed over to the hostess, she gave me a wink. Who said New Yorkers weren't friendly or sympathetic?

  “Ahhh, thank you,” J. P. said as the hostess seated us at a quiet table in the back. “Please. Sit here, Charlotte.” J. P. stepped to the side as he pulled out my chair for me. “Comfortable?”

  “Um, yes,” I replied. “Thank you.”

  “Don't you think this is a great place for a date?” he asked, gesturing to the room at large.

  “Um, yes,” I answered. He smiled at me and winked. Was I supposed to wink back? Okay, what the hell was going on? First of all, he was pulling out my chair for me. Secondly, he'd called me by my full name for the first time since I'd known him. Where was all this chivalry coming from? Lastly, he had referred to the restaurant as a great “date” place. I didn't even think he knew the meaning of “date.” Were we even on a date? One thing was sure, this date, or meeting, or gathering was getting stranger by the second.

  Maybe in the past few months, J. P. had realized the errors of his ways. Could he be new and improved? Maybe he had come to admit to himself just how much I meant to him … just how much he missed me. Lost in my soap opera daydream, I nibbled on a few nuts, eagerly anticipating the next scene.

  “Excuse me,” he said suddenly, standing up. “I have to use the restroom. Do you mind?”

  “Um, no. Go ahead.” When he got up to hit the bathroom, I frantically searched for my cell phone in my purse. I had to call the girls.

  “Pass me the chicken salad, pleassseee … Um, hello?” Macie answered, her mouth obviously filled with food.

  “Hey, it's me,” I whispered.

  “Charrrlieee?” she mumbled, still eating. “Is that you? Shhhhh … girls, girls be quiet, it's Charlie. She's out with Ass- hole. What's up, girl? You are missing out on some good food tonight!”

  “I know, I'm sorry. I wish I was there.” I pictured the Cooking Club scene that I was missing. “Okay, so J. P.'s acting weird. I mean he's being all nice and stuff. What should I do?”

  “Nice? Are you sure you're out with the right guy?” Macie laughed. “Just kidding. Okay, well, um, just see how it goes. But you know what they say, old habits die hard. He could be putting on a show just to win you back and—”

  “Shit, he's coming back from the bathroom.”

  “We've saved you some of the chicken salad—”

  “And it's legit, grown-up chicken salad, Charlie,” called Syd from somewhere in phoneland. “Like an adult version of tunafish!” I smiled.

  “We're even using cloth napkins,” Macie said. At that moment I knew that we really had grown up quite a bit in the last year, especially if we were willing to spend our sacred laundry quarters on washing cloth napkins.

  “Gotta go,” I told Macie as I quickly hung up the phone and threw it ba
ck into my purse.

  “Sorry I took so long. There was a line in the men's bathroom. So who were you on the phone with?” he asked.

  “Oh, um it was work. Nothing major. You know, they wanted my opinion on a shoot that's happening next week,” I said trying to sound convincing.

  “Work? That's a first for you, C,” he said with a laugh. “They want your opinion? Little do they know, or should I say, little do you know.” He flagged down our waiter. “Could I get a Johnnie Walker Blue on the rocks? Hey, you want anything?” he asked, sounding more like his old self again.

  “No, no thank you,” I replied, a little perplexed. Had he just said what I thought he said? Had he just flat-out insulted me? Maybe the little boy's room had let Superman change back into his plain old Clark Kent self. It was one thing to pass out on me mid-hook-up, not return my phone calls, bring me wilted red roses on Valentine's Day, and never take me out on an actual date when we were supposed to be dating. It was a whole other thing to insult my intelligence. Macie was right, old habits do die hard especially for jerk-offs like him. I realized then and there that it was over, and I meant over over. This was my moment to make a decision and luckily he had made the decision much easier. I didn't want him to want me back.

  “You know what, J. P.? You're a real jerk!” I said with some venom as I got up from the table.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “You heard me,” I said as I turned to walk away. “You're a jerk. And I am such an idiot for meeting you tonight. I can't imagine why I ever thought that wasting another minute of my time on you would be a positive thing, or that you might actually have decided to turn into a decent person. You are the same person you've always been. A complete asshole.”

  “Charlie, for Christ's sake, come back here,” he whispered following close behind me.

  “No!” I snapped, walking faster.

  “You are so sensitive sometimes. Jesus, I was friggin’ joking.” I stopped dead in my tracks and began to lay into him right in the middle of the restaurant.

  “Joking? God, J. P., if you're not smart enough to know the difference between a joke and an insult, you're going to have a pretty lonely time in this world.” I could feel my face getting red and my voice getting stronger with every statement. “What's amazing is that I spent so much time and effort believing that you were a decent boyfriend, never mind a decent human person. Every time you didn't show up, every time you didn't call, every time you gave me a lame excuse as to why you had to be somewhere else rather than with me, I thought it was because I had done something wrong. But in fact, it wasn't me, it was you. This whole situation has been a colossal waste of my time, my energy, and my cooking skills. And you know what else? I'm done.”

  With every word that came out of my mouth, I felt a heavy weight being lifted from my heart. J. P. stood there stunned.

  “Someday I hope you're lucky enough to meet another girl as great as me,” I said. “But my guess is that most of the truly great and talented women in this world are discerning enough to see you for who you really are.” I opened the door to the restaurant and stepped outside into the warm June air. I turned around and met his baby blue eyes one more time.

  “This girl passes, thank you. Good luck, J. P., and goodbye.”

  As I headed to the subway, I felt amazing. With each step I took, an overwhelming wave of relief was washing over my entire body. For the first time in ages, I felt good. No, I felt great. I felt whole again. Relieved. Revived. This was what J. Lo had been talking about—being discerning and decisive about what you want and what you deserve. I had finally found my inner diva's voice and boy, was she loud.

  As I reached for my cell phone to call the girls, it began to vibrate before I'd even flipped it open. Surely Mr. J. P. Morgan wouldn't be calling anytime soon. I glanced down. DAN THE MAN flashed on the screen. I couldn't help smiling—Tara had been editing my address book again.

  I answered. “Hello?”

  “Hey there, taxi girl! What are you up to?”

  “Nothing,” I baited. “Just coming back from seeing an old friend for a drink.”

  “Well, I know I left you a message, but I thought I'd try again.” Imagine that—an up-front, honest man who wasn't afraid to call twice. I loved it!

  “So anyhow, would you like to grab dinner next Friday?” Dinner? Did he just ask me out to a formal dinner? This guy was too good to be true.

  “Sure!” I smiled, loving the way his voice sounded—warm, with traces of happiness. I could even hear it through my crappy phone. Plus, he'd offered food, an actual meal! It was a real date. Finally! Life could be such a melted mess at times, but as long as there was a cherry on top, I was biting. And Dan was the cherry on top.

  Fourth of July Flank Steak

  Steak Marinade

  2 lemons

  1 cup soy sauce

  ½ cup red wine

  6 tablespoons Worchestershire sauce

  ½ teaspoon garlic powder

  4 scallions, chopped

  2 teaspoons black pepper

  Dash of salt

  3 pounds flank steak

  Cut the lemons in half and squeeze their juice into large Ziploc bag. Add the rest of the marinade ingredients into the bag. Put the meat inside the bag, close, and refrigerate for up to 3 hours to allow sauce to penetrate the meat. Grill steak as desired. Serve with roasted potatoes, garden salad, and red wine. Simply delicious!

  July 1

  Ludlow Management Inc., NYC

  Re: Lease Renewal Application

  Dear Tenant(s):

  Greetings! It's that time of the year. We are pleased to inform you that your lease is up for renewal. We would greatly appreciate it if you could inform our offices as to whether or not you intend to stay for another year. You have exactly 30 days from the date of this letter to give us your response. The current value of the rental will increase by $200 for the next year.

  If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to call us. Thank you for being such wonderful tenants and we look forward to hearing from you.

  Cheers,

  Ludlow Management Inc.

  Wonderful tenants? Cheers? Were they talking to us? When I first saw the certified letter taped to the front door of our apartment, I immediately thought that the rats were at it again. Think hairy, think twitchy eyes, think skinny legs, think bulging guts, think bulging beer guts. Our rats were not the vermin who controlled the inner workings of NYC apartment buildings. No, our rats were the sleazy old men who were firmly entrenched in the higher echelons of our management company. You've heard horror stories about landlords in the city and 99 percent of the time the stories are true no matter how ludicrous they sound. From no hot water to no heat, from broken windows to broken pipes, or any combination of the above, our humble city's apartment walls could whisper some pretty horrific tales through their cracks.

  Rather than an invitation to renew the lease, I had assumed we were getting an eviction notice.

  We were consistently a week or so late with the rent check each month (never could find that book of stamps when you needed them), so it wouldn't have been a shock if good ole Ludlow Management had finally decided to come after us. At the beginning of the month, one could typically find at least one apartment with an eviction letter taped to its door. The notices were the only clear form of communication we, the tenants, could ever expect from Ludlow.

  Battling the landlords was pretty much the only thing that tied the neighbors in our building together. I never saw many of the other tenants, but when I did it wasn't “Hi” or “Good day,” it was, “No hot water? Me either.” “Did your floor get fixed? Mine neither.” “Did Ludlow call you back? Ditto.” However, the rent angels had spread their wings over our particular apartment and had protected us from any sort of harm. Or rather, Tara had worked our Ludlow leasing agent, Stephen, back in August and let's just say she had a way of getting things done.

  With the letter in hand, I plunked down on the couch. It was
unbelievable that a year had come and gone so quickly. There were so many things that I still hadn't done. I hadn't even been up to the top of the Empire State Building yet. Who wanted to wait two hours or more to stare into pea soup? Plus, I was certain it was not just an urban legend that a penny dropped from the top of the Empire State Building could bore a hole six centimeters deep into the sidewalk. NYC was perilous enough without falling change!

  Only a few nights earlier, I'd had a momentary lapse of sanity: I began to think about moving home. That's home, home: like with mom and pops. It was only a fleeting thought, which I'd attributed to all the emotional turmoil of late. True, I had Dan the Man to look forward to, but the encounter with J. P. had only served to highlight all the drama and mistakes of the past twelve months. At the very least, there was no chance J. P. would follow me to my hometown where there was not a stock market ticker within fifty miles. I would be safe in my childhood bedroom hiding behind my eyelet curtains, and my parents would welcome me back into the fold. After all, my mother did worry about who would push her wheelchair when the day came. She often threatened to haunt me from the grave if I ever put her in a nursing home. And she'd be only too happy to have us all together again, congregated in the kitchen while she served up delicious meals.

  Actually, I had become quite fond of my own kitchen, or at least our feeble attempts to better ourselves in the homemaking department. We had all improved quite a bit. Sage could smell food without bitching about the sins of sampling, Tara had perfected sauces other than the ones she'd relied on for bedroom uses beforehand, Macie had become quite the baker as long as icing was involved, Wade had stepped up her already decent skills to using double boilers and basters, and even I had mastered about three basic recipes. Syd, well, she was a bit of a lost cause, but she still persevered in the salad department.