• • •
Help,” I say, opening the door for Marcy, my hair in a mad nest on top of my head, one fake eyelash stuck to my eyebrow.
“What the hell happened to you?” she says, dropping her bag on the floor near the door, slithering out of her black leather moto jacket, and leaning down to rub Simca’s head.
“I tried to get pretty.”
I thought it might be good to put my hair up; I have a habit of twisting strands of it when I get nervous, so I figured if it were up, I couldn’t do that. I watched a video on YouTube that made this particular updo seem so simple: a couple of hair bands, three bobby pins—and a casual, slightly messy bun should have happened. But something went awry, and now my head looks like a deranged wombat is nesting on it. My eyelashes are stumpy, the result of a flambéing incident in culinary school (they never really came back the same), and suddenly it felt important to have nice ones, but those little suckers are slippery, and the glue dries faster than you might think.
“You have failed in a spectacular way.”
“Can you please just help?”
“Oh, I can help. I can help a lot. Come on.” She takes my hand and leads me to the stairs. “You too, Shorty. She’s gonna need some moral support.” Simca trots happily behind us.
A half hour later, the miracle is complete. Marcy has me in a pair of dark skinny jeans, which seems oxymoronic in light of my size 16 ass, but they have some good stretch in the mix, so everything is sort of locked and loaded. A black V-neck sweater with matte black beading around the neckline and cuffs and my flat zebra-pattern pony-hair slip-on loafers, in case he’s short. We matched the outfit with a pair of black-and-white diamond hoop earrings that Shelby gave me for my birthday last year, and a bracelet made of ten thin strips of dark metallic pewter leather that winds around the wrist twice before snapping closed. My hair is in a high ponytail, with one of those cute little bumps at the top that make it more grown-up on a date and less cheerleader than my usual ponytails. And my makeup looks amazing, very natural: skin looks glowy, blemishes covered. She cut the fake eyelashes into small pieces with three or four lashes per piece and stuck them in strategically to boost my natural lashes and make me a bit more vamp and a lot less Vampira. A sheer shimmer on my lids, and a pale nude gloss on my lips, I look like me, just shinier. And for the first time in a long time, I hear Mrs. O’Connor’s voice in my head. “Stand tall, like the queen you are; be your most present and authentic you. The rest will come.”
“You are a godsend.”
“I’m better than that. Here.” She hands me a caramel.
“Yum, snacks! Just one?”
She puts up one finger. “Not snacks, edible. Eat half now. If things start to go sideways, eat the other half.”
“Edible? Of course it’s edible, it’s candy. Why can’t I just eat the whole thing?”
Marcy shakes her head. “Not edible like you can eat it. Edible like edible marijuana edibles. A guy at work has lupus, so he has a card and he gave me this as a gift to thank me for a favor I did him. I thought you could use it more than me.”
“Seriously? Weed caramel?”
“Trust me. Very mellow. Takes the edge off. Half now, half if you need it later. You know, if the gibbering starts.”
If I get really nervous, I can start running on at the mouth. I bite the caramel neatly in half, then return the second half to its wrapper and slip it into my purse. It is sweet and creamy with just a hint of bitterness, and a back note of something similar to rosemary on the finish. Not super delicious, but not terrible either. Mrs. O’Connor’s mental pep talk notwithstanding, I’m all about doing whatever gets me through the night.
“Shall we call you an Uber, fancy-pants?” Marcy asks.
“I was just going to drive over, help keep me from drinking too much.”
“Yeah, well, not anymore. You just ate half a weed candy, no driving for you.”
“Oh, good thought. Uber it is.” I pull up the app and enter my address. “Okay, Andre will be here in two minutes. Wish me luck.”
Marcy reaches up and puts her hands on my shoulders. “You will be fine. The date will be great or horrible or mediocre or wonderful or whatever, but you will be totally fine.”
I can feel an ease coming over me, and I don’t know if it is the caramel kicking in or just Marcy’s soothing words, but either way, I’m grateful.
“Thank you. See you in a bit.”
And I head out my front door.
• • •
Okay, these are insanely delicious,” Jack says around a mouthful of pork belly taco.
“Indeed,” I say, reaching for a second taco al pastor.
After two very perfectly crafted cocktails at the Violet Hour, and some perfectly benign conversation, it became clear that Jack and I had absolutely no romantic chemistry. He isn’t really over his divorce as yet and has something of a preference for small Asian women. He confessed this after he completely lost his train of thought in the middle of a story about his son, when a very pretty Japanese woman walked by our table en route to the ladies’ room. I had already eaten the second half of the caramel before entering the bar, having frozen where I stood from the moment I got out of the Uber, so I was mellow enough to call him out on the obvious ogling. He blushed and admitted that he had agreed to call based on Lawrence’s persuasive nature.
“He threatened to not invite you to the Halloween party, didn’t he?”
Jack nodded sheepishly.
“It’s all good. Between us, I think you are a very nice guy, but not really my type either.” Which is true. While Lawrence did his best with the height—Jack is about dead even with me—he is also super skinny. I am not a delicate flower; I probably outweigh him by forty pounds. If I were even inclined to get physical with him, which I certainly am not, I’d probably break him in half.
“Friends, though, I hope,” he said, raising his glass to me.
“Absolutely.” I clinked his glass. “You hungry?”
“Sure, we can order something if you like.”
“I have a better idea.”
Which is how we ended up at Big Star across the street from the bar. Apparently the irony of edible weed? You still get the munchies. And now that we aren’t concerned at all about making a good impression on each other, we’ve ordered half the menu and are eating with abandon. Jack has guacamole on his shirt, I have pastor juices running down my arm, and we are both having a very good time.
“So why is Lawrence doing the full-court press on you, if I may be so bold?” he asks. “I would think you wouldn’t have any trouble finding dates. You’re very attractive.”
“Thank you. I’ve, um, been out of the game for a while, easing back in. Friends of friends seem like an easier way to get back into things. Safer, I guess.” I dip a house-made chip into salsa. There is a hint of lime on it, and we’ve already been through two baskets.
“That makes sense. I would think it would be harder, as a woman, to feel safe with online dating. He didn’t mention an ex . . .”
“It was a long time ago. Difficult breakup. And then more of a career-focus thing for me. Time just got away from me.”
“But now you’re ready to be back out there. That is great. Good for you. I’m working on it too.”
“Well, don’t praise me overmuch . . . the dating wasn’t really my idea.”
Jack reaches for a lamb and chorizo taco. “Yeah, I’m going to need more than that. Life coach recommendation?”
“Something like that.” I give him the brief on the bet, and he laughs.
“I think it is a fun idea. Maybe in six months you can check in on me, dare me to get back out there.”
“Only if I find a little Asian woman to offer you.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
We clink our bottles of Shiner Bock beer and keep eating.
/> • • •
You’ll like him,” I say to Marcy, offering her the bag of marshmallows I found in my pantry. She waves me off with a sly grin, and I continue to eat the pillowy, bland, sugary sweets.
“I’m sure I will, dear heart. He sounds like a very great guy, what with his inattention and Asian-lady fetish.”
“Don’ be ssnmarky,” I say, mouth full of marshmallow.
“I think it was good, you ripped off the Band-Aid and had an actual date. It was a date, right, please tell me he at least paid . . .”
“He was a perfect gentleman, paid for everything, and ordered my Uber on his phone.”
“Well, he’s earning more than a few points there. I’ve seen you chow down at Big Star when you’re sober, you giantess. I can’t imagine how many tacos you put away with the munchies.”
“You don’t wanna know.” I shake my head. Marcy holds her hand out for the bag of marshmallows, and when I give it to her, she deftly ties the top in a knot. And makes the no-no finger at me when I make a pouty face.
Simca is snuggled on the couch between us in her favorite position, head on Marcy’s lap for between-the-ear scratching, and her wide tush up against me for butt rubbing. She is a total hedonist, my pup.
“Well, I’m glad it was a nice night.”
“More than nice—I killed two bet birds at once!”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, Violet Hour? That was a date, a real live date, so that checks one off the list. And I have the text message confirming it to forward to the girls. But, when we decided to go for tacos, we had already admitted we weren’t into each other romantically, so that was a bona fide social event out of the house with a stranger, so I got my biweekly social thing checked off, and the monthly stranger part worked out. Boom.”
“Look at you, gaming the system.”
“I know, right? Next week is the Halloween party, so that is this month covered on the social obligations.”
“Except you need another date.”
Damn. Forgot about that one. “Yeah. I’ll have to ping Lawrence again.”
“Nope, I’ve got you covered. You’re gonna get a call from Ethan. New maître d’ at the hotel.” She raises her hand at me before I can protest. “He is six foot four, built like a lumberjack, and very nice. Just moved here from Portland, so he doesn’t know many people. And Thursdays are his night off, so you should be able to sneak in something next week before the party, and get your October checklist fully completed.”
“I love you.”
“I know, baby.”
“There’s only one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I might need more of those caramels.”
Seven
Marcy slides out of her coat in Lawrence’s foyer, revealing her homemade dickey. She couldn’t find one like the one in Flashdance, so she took a white button-down tuxedo shirt, removed the sleeves and back, and added an apron tie around her waist. Like a shirt mullet. She kept the cuffs and is wearing them like bracelets, snappy black bow tie around her neck. Wide-leg tuxedo pants and shiny patent leather lace-up wingtips finish the look. Her brown curly wig is teased into a halo of curls, and she is carrying a large plastic lobster that matches my own.
I found an end-of-season boho-chic floral chiffon dress for practically no money at Nordstrom Rack, over which I am wearing a loosely knitted ivory shawl, and flat lace-up sandals. Marcy found me the most incredible long, wavy platinum blond wig, which she has styled to perfectly match Daryl Hannah’s from the movie, twisting two strands and pulling them back to keep it out of my face. She’s done my makeup again, very shimmery and ethereal, and while I’m definitely not going to go blond anytime soon, it is kind of fun to see myself looking so different. And she owed me after the whole Ethan thing.
He did indeed call, and we made a date for Thursday night. We met at Billy Sunday for drinks, and he was indeed tall and good-looking. He was also, as I was deftly and fairly casually informed in the first ten minutes of our date, a gluten-free vegan CrossFit pansexual submissive.
“How was I to know?” Marcy said as we were getting ready tonight and I was raking her over the coals.
“Well, considering the speed at which he shared it all with me, I’m astounded that he didn’t mention any of it to you. I mean, look, I was an athlete, so I can deal with the whole CrossFit thing. I’m not a sexual prude—let your freak flag fly. I’ll learn some spanking techniques. And I don’t particularly care about the brand of people who have preceded me. But gluten-free vegan? Hell no. I mean, really.”
Marcy snorted with laughter. “Can you imagine? It’s inhuman. I’m so sorry. If I had any idea, I would have never . . .”
“At least it was a good story for Lynne and Teresa.” They roared when we did a three-way phone call to hear about the world’s shortest first date. I claimed a fake emergency and bolted in exactly eighteen minutes. I can handle a lot, but if I can’t make you carbonara, we’re done for. “They want to meet you, by the way.”
“In an alley with torches and pitchforks?”
“In a restaurant with cocktails.”
“Done.”
• • •
The two of you are gorgeous!” Lawrence says, greeting us in his eggplant silk pajamas covered in an olive green velvet smoking jacket and embroidered velvet slippers. He is drinking a martini and carrying a pipe. “I might have to take your pictures later for my magazine!”
“Why, Mr. Hefner, you wicked man!” Marcy says, kissing him on the cheek.
He winks at her, and then looks me up and down. “Spectacular to see you looking like a girl, my dear. Jack said you had a convivial evening, but no sparkle. Pity. But I’m terribly proud of you for getting back on the horse, and have many, many more eligible bachelors in my little black book for you, not to worry. In the meantime, why don’t you take your glorious self inside and see if blondes have more fun!”
We clink our plastic lobsters with his martini glass and head into the party, which is in full force. There are several different incarnations of mayors wandering about, a Rahm, two Daley Juniors, a Daley Senior, a Harold Washington, and a Jane Byrne. Poor Michael Bilandic doesn’t even make the cut. We spot some famous sports figures, the Blues Brothers, and a spectacular incarnation of the big Picasso statue downtown. I see Jack across the room, dressed as a Chicago Blackhawk, but he is in deep conversation with a guy dressed as John Cusack in Say Anything, complete with black trench coat and boom box, so I decide not to distract him. I’ll say hi later.
“I believe it is cocktail o’clock, my little mermaid. Have to keep you lubricated!” Marcy says, steering me toward the bar. But halfway there, she gets sidelined by a guy, dressed like Ferris Bueller, she randomly knows from her gym, and in ten seconds they are trying to figure out how they both ended up here. I keep my path and head to the other side of the room, where the bar is set up.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks me. I vaguely remember him from last year’s party, but have forgotten his name.
“Can you do a Negroni?”
“Absolutely. Up?”
“On the rocks.”
“What’s a Negroni?” I hear a deep voice say slightly above my head, which is a place I rarely hear voices. I turn and am looking directly into a clavicle. A very smooth, well-defined clavicle, the color of French roast coffee. It is centered between shoulders of nearly impossible width, and clad in a Bears football jersey, which I recognize as Mike Singletary’s number from back in the day. I look up into a handsome face, square jawed, much like Samurai Mike himself, with liquid brown eyes. His hair is cropped tight to his head, and he is smiling at me with even, white teeth. He looks like Idris Elba and Morris Chestnut had a baby. A really tall, broad-shouldered baby.
God bless Lawrence, he does love to fill these parties with the prettiest boys. Water, water, everywh
ere, as they say. At least not if you’re a girl. But it does mean that one can flirt shamelessly all night with darling men who tell you how fabulous you are and don’t try to take you home, which is just my kind of scene.
“A Negroni, Mr. Singletary, is equal parts gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth. Served either up or on the rocks, with an orange twist or slice.”
“That sounds delicious—make it two,” he says to the bartender. Kyle? Craig? Damn my memory. Kevin?
“I wouldn’t think a lovely mermaid like yourself would recognize me . . . what with no football out there in the ocean.” He is still smiling at me, and with the close proximity I can smell his cologne, something spicy, almost like cinnamon.
“Not even the ocean could protect us from ‘The Super Bowl Shuffle.’” I know it is something of a cliché, but I just adore hanging out with gay men. I get a little bolder, a little wittier; they bring out the best in me.
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
“You’re forgiven.” Our cocktails are handed over, and we clink glasses and take a sip. Whatever-his-name-is knows his business: the bittersweet liquid is perfectly balanced, perfectly chilled, and perfectly delicious.
“I might have a new favorite cocktail. The Negroni. Who knew?”
“You just have to hang out with more mermaids. We have all the best stuff.”
“I don’t doubt it. So, should I call you Madison, or try and make dolphin noises?”
I laugh. “Eloise. Eloise Kahn.”
“Nice to meet you, Eloise Kahn. I’m Shawn Sudberry-Long.” Of course he is hyphenated. His husband must be around here somewhere. Probably equally gorgeous.
He takes my hand in his enormous paw and kisses my knuckles gently. I really wish that straight guys would take classes from their gay brothers on how to make a lady feel like a lady.
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