Slightly Single

by Wendy Markham

  Maybe the protein diet isn’t such a good idea.

  Kate is already at the small restaurant when I get there. She’s lingering just inside the door, reading the reviews posted on the wall.

  She’s wearing a pale yellow sleeveless linen shift and matching flats, and her blond hair is pulled back in a clip. She looks like she should be at a garden party in Connecticut instead of in this dimly lit dive that features typically East Village eccentric decor.

  The walls are painted deep red, the floor in black and white zebra stripes dotted with the occasional neon-purple splotch. Dozens of mobiles are suspended from the ceiling, made up of bent cutlery dangling from yellow yarn tied to ordinary wire hangers. They twirl slowly in the warm breeze from the low-hanging ceiling fans.

  A bar runs the length of the place, and the rest of the room is occupied by sturdy-looking round plastic tables and chairs painted in psychedelic colors.

  The Rob Lowe clone behind the bar motions for us to sit anywhere.

  We choose a table closest to the propped-open door. The place isn’t air-conditioned, and the fans don’t cool things off in the least.

  Two other tables are occupied; otherwise, the place is empty.

  “So…are you okay?” Kate asks in her sultry Southern accent the moment we’re seated. Her perfectly made-up features are concerned.

  “Why? Don’t I look okay?”

  “You look kind of…sad.”

  Is it that obvious? I thought I was coming across as breezy and contented. At least, that’s what I was aiming for.

  “Well, of course I’m sad.” I reach for a menu from the laminated pile of them propped between the salt and pepper shakers. “Will’s only been gone for a few hours. But I’ll get used to it.”

  “Maybe it’ll even be good for you, being away from him. It’ll give you a chance to…to…”

  I wait patiently for her to come up with something, though I know she wants me to rescue her.

  “It’ll give you a chance to find out who you are without him,” she finally says. “To explore the inner you.”

  “Thank you, Oprah.”

  “I’m trying to be supportive. You know, to find the silver lining.”

  “That’s better than my sister did when I spoke to her a little while ago. She said I must be devastated.”

  “Are you?”

  Of course.

  “Of course not!” I stare at the menu. “Devastated is such a strong word. People are devastated when their husband leaves them for another woman. They’re devastated when they lose a child. Or a job. Or maybe even when they break up. Will and I aren’t breaking up—we’re only apart for a few months.”

  I’m talking too much.

  She nods.

  “Look at military wives,” I say, gaining momentum. Help! Let me stop talking!

  But I can’t.

  I rattle on, “Military husbands take off for months at a time on a regular basis. They go overseas, and they go on dangerous missions…I mean, I would be devastated if Will were overseas on a dangerous mission, but for God’s sake, he’s doing summer theater two hundred miles away from here…if that.”

  Kate nods again.

  I can tell by her expression that she sees right through me. The fact is, the Valley Playhouse might as well be behind enemy lines.

  I tell Kate, “There are no land mines up in North Mannfield, last I heard.”

  No, but there are actresses.

  Actresses who will be sharing a house with actors, most of whom—if the statistics of the theater department back at Brookside University hold true in the grand scheme of things—will be homosexual. Even if Will has every intention of being faithful and celibate—which I’m sure he does—it’s not going to be easy.

  I picture him, the only hetero male in the house, surrounded by bold, nubile nymphets—his own personal Temptation Island. Then I realize Kate is talking to me.

  I blink. “What?”

  “I said, why don’t you come out to the beach house with me next Saturday? It’s my first weekend there.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  Yeah, sure.

  I don’t mean it. The beach isn’t my favorite place. The last time I wore a bathing suit was three summers ago. I brought it with me to New York because I brought everything I own with me to New York, but I never really expected to wear it here. Or anywhere.

  Ever again.

  Kate is saying, “I’m probably going to take Friday off and make it a long weekend, but you can come out first thing Saturday. It’ll be fun.”

  And I’m thinking, no way in hell am I going to a beach with someone who looks like she just stepped out of an ad for a Carribbean vacation. Kate is the slim, bikini-clad honey blonde walking the beach with her sandals dangling from her hand. Put me next to her, and it’s goodbye, Carribbean vacation ad, hello Before and After weight loss ad—from the neck down. You know, where the svelte, smiling beauty claims that just six weeks ago, she was an unsightly, porcine slob. Then she started taking Extra Strength Nutrisvelte before every meal, and voila`!

  Raphael breezes in as I study the menu and listen to Kate chatter about the other people who are doing a half share on her weekends.

  Raphael’s wearing designer sunglasses, a sleeveless orange shirt tucked into tight cut-offs and espadrilles, and he’s carrying a black shoulder bag not unlike mine and Kate’s. He couldn’t look more flaming fashionista if his toenails were painted. In fact, I check under the table to make sure they aren’t.

  He hugs us both, plops himself down and says, behind a cupped hand, “Is that bartender a hot tamale or what?”

  “There are three things that are certain in this life,” Kate drawls, “death, taxes and Raphael’s libido.”

  “If it gets any hotter in here, he’ll have to take off his shirt,” Raphael decides, wiping a trickle of sweat from his glistening forehead and throwing a lusty gaze at the unwitting bartender.

  “If it gets any hotter in here, I’ll have to take off my shirt,” I inform him. “And trust me, it won’t be a pretty sight.”

  “Speaking of pretty, did Will get off okay, Tracey?” Raphael asks.

  Kate snorts at that.

  I ignore her, and tell Raphael that yes, he’s gone. “And don’t ask me if I’m devastated, okay? Because I’m not.”

  “Of course you’re not. You look fabulous.”

  “There are four things in life that are certain,” I announce. “Death, taxes, Raphael’s libido and Raphael’s bullshit.”

  “Tracey! That’s not nice. I was offering you a compliment, and I meant it,” he says in a tone that isn’t the least bit wounded. “So what are we having? Bloodies? Mimosas? Or should we go right for the hard stuff? In which case I’ll take the bartender.”

  “I’ll have a Bloody Mary,” I say.

  “Mimosa for me,” Kate decides.

  “I’ll go with your choice, Tracey. I’m in the mood for something spicy. Like a Bloody Mary. Or—”

  “The bartender,” Kate and I say in unison.

  I touch Raphael’s arm, dragging his attention away from the current object of his fickle affections. “Raphael, who was that man I heard in the background when I called you this morning? I thought you were still pining away over Buckley O’Hanlon.”

  “Who’s Buckley O’Hanlon?” Kate wants to know.

  “Remember him from my birthday party, Kate? Oh, that’s right, you had that mustache problem and had to leave early.”

  “It was not a mustache problem!” Kate injects indignantly, checking over her shoulder to make sure the two men at the neighboring table haven’t overheard. One is wearing a turban, the other has a tattoo and they seem deeply engrossed in their own conversation, which isn’t in English.

  Raphael has gone on without missing a beat. “Buckley was the cute guy in the sweater—the one who came with Joseph and Alexander. He’s writing the copy for their new brochure. Kate, Tracey was supposed to fix me up with him, but she seduced him instead.”

/>   “I did not!” I shriek. In a moment of weakness, I recently told him what really happened on our “date.” Dumb move.

  “Yes, you did, but I don’t blame you. You couldn’t help yourself.”

  “You slept with this guy?” Kate asks me incredulously.

  “No! We just went out on a date, which I didn’t realize was a date until—”

  “They kissed!” Raphael is gleeful.

  “Until he kissed me. But that was when I still thought he was gay.”

  “So he’s not?”

  Raphael and I say, “Yes” and “Nope” simultaneously.

  “Raphael can’t accept the fact that he’s straight,” I explain to Kate, throwing a pointed glance at Raphael. “He’s still trying to get over John Timmerman’s wife and kids.”

  John Timmerman being one of the brokers who worked at the firm where the three of us temped last winter.

  Raphael says, “Are you still bringing that up? I keep telling you, Tracey, my friend Thomas saw—”

  “Never mind,” I cut him off, not wanting to hear that whole sordid tale again. “The point is, Raphael thinks everyone is gay until proven otherwise. And I, for one, can vouch for Buckley’s otherwise.”

  “So you kissed another guy, Tracey?” Kate says. “Wow, I can’t believe y’all didn’t tell me.”

  “That’s because it was so not a big deal.”

  “Was he a good kisser?”

  “Absolutely, Kate,” Raphael says. “Just wet enough, not too much tongue.”

  “How do you know?” I demand.

  “You told me, Tracey.”

  “Raphael, I never said that.”

  “Are you sure? Then I must’ve dreamed it,” he says airily, waving his menu at us. “What are we having besides alcohol? A Bloody Mary will go right to my head. I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday—aside from a little midnight snack.”

  “So who was he?” I ask Raphael, because I can tell by his salacious tone that he’s not talking about milk and cookies.

  “His name was Phillip. He’s a sailor in town for Fleet Week.”

  “Fleet Week is over, Raphael,” Kate points out.

  “Maybe he lied about being a sailor.” Raphael shrugs. “He had a dotcom look about him. Whatever, the avocado omelet looks good.” He snaps his menu closed, clasps his hands, and looks at us.

  “I’m having the same thing,” Kate says. “How about you, Tracey?”

  “I already ate breakfast.” And lunch. “I’ll have the spinach salad with low-fat ranch dressing.”

  So much for the low-carb diet. I’ve had my fill of eggs and meat. It’s too late to cancel out the butter-drenched eggs and hot dogs, but woman cannot live by protein alone. Cutting fat grams is the way to go.

  Mental note: Stop to stock up on fat-free Entenmann’s goodies on the way home.

  The salad is delicious, and the two Bloody Marys go down easily. So easily I’d love to order another one and settle in for a while to drown my sorrows in Absolut, but Kate and Raphael—who’ve had only one drink each—tell me I shouldn’t get drunk so soon after Will left.

  “Save it for when you’re really desperate, and then indulge in a happy hour, Tracey,” Raphael advises.

  “You want to go out for drinks tonight?” I ask, my spirits lifting a little. Anything would be better than sitting home in my apartment.

  “I’ve got a date.”

  “With Phillip?”

  “With Charles. My new personal trainer. He’s going to help me work on my Pilates moves.”

  I turn to Kate. “How about you? Do you have plans tonight, too?”

  “I’ve got my salsa lesson.”

  Oh, that’s right. For some reason, Kate has decided her life won’t be complete unless she can cha-cha or lambada, or whatever it is they’re teaching her at Enrique’s School of Latin Motion.

  “You want to come with me?” she asks.

  “No, thanks,” I say hurriedly. She’s tried to talk me into that before. I exhausted my Latin dancing repertoire back when the Macarena was all the rage, thank you very much.

  “How about you, Raphael?” she offers.

  “Kate, I’m Puerto Rican, remember? I don’t need lessons. I was born to mambo.” He raises his arms and does a little exaggerated hip-swaying for the oblivious bartender’s benefit as we make our way to the door.

  The sun has poked out from behind a cloud. It turns out both Kate and Raphael are free for the next few hours. We decide to walk over to Broadway and browse in and out of a few stores.

  By midafternoon, Raphael has a new outfit for his date tonight, and Kate has spent an hour trying to decide whether she prefers a red bikini or a blue one, before deciding on the pink.

  Mental note: Never, ever join Kate at her beach house under any circumstances.

  P.S.: throw away lone bathing suit the minute you get home, lest you ever find yourself the least bit tempted to put it on.

  In the Strand, I buy a used copy of The Grapes of Wrath. Somehow, I never read it during my English Major days, and I always thought that I should have. I tell myself it’ll be good for me—like the diet and the budget and the exercise.

  Kate, Raphael and I part ways after stopping for ice cream. Rather, they both get ice cream, and I get raspberry sorbet. I expect to find myself lusting after their dripping double scoop chocolate cones, but it’s so hot that it doesn’t matter—anything sweet and icy tastes good.

  Back at my apartment, I check the answering machine to see if Will has called—he hasn’t—and then I put my ugly box fan into the window. I lie down in front of it to start reading The Grapes of Wrath. Joyce Carol Oates can wait.

  At first I’m psyched.

  But gradually, I realize that there’s something depressing about this.

  Not the book. Sure, it’s not the most upbeat piece of fiction I’ve ever read, and I’ve never particularly liked Steinbeck’s descriptive style of writing and the hick dialogue is already getting on my nerves.

  But beyond my aversion for Steinbeck, there’s something depressing about being inside on a sunny summer Sunday, four stories up with only one window, a drooping philodendron and a boring book for company.

  By now, Will is someplace green and woodsy. I picture a big, tree-dappled country house with whitewashed rooms and hardwood floors and rag rugs. Maybe he’s unpacking his bags by now. Maybe he’s gone to explore North Mannfield with his castmates. Maybe it’s like my earlier nightmarish vision, and the men are all gay, except for Will, and the women are all oversexed and built like Nerissa.

  I stub out my cigarette, snap my book closed and stand up, striding restlessly over to the window.

  The tall buildings cast semi-shadows on the street, and there isn’t a patch of green to be seen.

  Suddenly, I feel trapped.

  I can feel my heart racing.

  Dizzy, I take a step back from the window.

  I need air—that’s what’s wrong with me.

  I need trees. Or grass. Or water—the East River, even. I just need to feel that this city, with its towering concrete and throngs of strangers and stagnant heat, isn’t such a foreign place to be on a glorious summer afternoon.

  I put on my sneakers, grab my keys and rush out the door.

  I feel better the moment I get outside. I don’t know what happened to me back upstairs, but my heart rate slows a bit as I walk down the street, and I’m no longer feeling dizzy or lightheaded.

  I hesitate momentarily when I reach the avenue before instinctively turning toward downtown and striding off in that direction.

  I’m uncertain where I’m going, but I do know that I want to be anyplace but in my apartment right now.

  I arrive at the South Street Seaport nearly half an hour later.

  This is tourist central, the kind of place any true New Yorker would avoid at all costs on a sunny weekend afternoon in June.

  Much as I want to consider myself a true New Yorker after a year in the city, I can’t help but find comfort in
the blatant commercialism and in-your-face quaint atmosphere of this area. It’s as though I’ve stepped out of Manhattan and into a theme park without the rides.

  I hate to admit that I feel at home here among the clusters of camera-and-shopping-bag-toting people in bright colors and comfortable shoes; people who look like they popped out of Brookside, or, say, Nebraska.

  I savor the almost New England feel of the moored historic ships and the weathered deck planks beneath my feet.

  And for once, I’m not repelled by the suburban mall aura of the Seaport’s enclosed shopping pavilion, with its chain stores and food court and escalators.

  This—all of this—reminds me of the world I left behind, a world where I once assumed I would always belong.

  Way back when, before I outgrew Brookside and set my sights on Manhattan, summers meant swimming in lakes and backyard pools, and eating burgers off the grill and driving around aimlessly in cars with my friends, listening to top forty stations.

  I might not want to go back to that life, but it suddenly seems to me that I’m not entirely comfortable with the one I have, either.

  What’s so appealing about living alone in a gloomy one-room apartment in the heart of an on-the-fringe neighborhood?

  And why haven’t I noticed until now that it’s lacking?

  I guess it wasn’t so bad, my new life—not when Will was here.

  Now that he’s gone…

  The heavenly scent of deep-frying grease lures me to a fast-food place that sells fried chicken and onion rings, among other high-fat faves of mine. I’m about to order the three-piece meal with a shake when I catch a glimpse of my double chin in the chrome countertop.

  “I’ll have…uh…”

  The guy behind the register is poised with classic New York impatience, his expression basically hostile as he waits for my decision.

  “A Diet Coke,” I announce triumphantly.

  I can do this.

  I can lose weight.

  Sipping my Diet Coke—which is flat and has too much ice—I emerge from the food court onto an outside patio. People mill about, licking ice cream cones and munching french fries with careless abandon.

  After draining my soda in a few thirsty gulps and tossing it into an overflowing trash container, I walk over to the railing to look out over the water.