Match Made in Manhattan

by Amanda Stauffer

  To which I respond:

  March 19 at 10:18 a.m.

  ALISON: BLUE PARROT? ON THE UPPER EAST? I THINK YOU MADE THAT UP - I WAS IN THE HAMPTONS FOR A BACHELORETTE PARTY AND THOUGHT IT WASN’T BEYOND THE REALM OF POSSIBILITY THAT YOU WERE OUT THERE, TOO. PUHLEESE.

  March 19 at 10:50 a.m.

  GREG: OH. RIGHT. THAT BLUE PARROT. APOLOGY ACCEPTED THEN. BE MORE CAREFUL NEXT TIME. GEEZE, LADY.

  The following Saturday morning, I wake to find the following, from Greg:

  March 25 at 3:43 a.m.

  GREG: RANDOM BUT I THINK I SEE YOU OR YOUR DOPPELGÄNGER. ARE YOU AT A BOWLING ALLEY IN NEWARK?

  GREG: DID YOU JUST GET A TURKEY? AMAZING!

  GREG: I KNEW YOU WERE A FUN GIRL. KNEW IT.

  ForrestForTheTrees202: Rain Forrest Guy

  “So, what did you have, like, three dates today?” Jason asks as we stroll through Richard Serra’s giant metal masses in a Chelsea gallery.

  “No, just two. And so far only one. The other’s tonight.”

  “You’re a veritable dating machine. Don’t you ever get tired? You used to be such a . . . whatever the inverse of ‘one-woman guy’ is.”

  “Sometimes it’s tiring, just from a scheduling standpoint. But sometimes not.” I shrug. “Like not today.”

  “Two-a-days take me back to rugby training season.”

  “Yeah, the girls’ team never had to do those. I guess that’s why we weren’t very good. But anyway, I’ve gotta make the most of the hundred and fifty bucks Match is making off me, right?”

  “I think you’ve already earned that back hand over fist in drinks tabs from your dates.”

  “Probably,” I muse.

  “But seriously. Are you finding it tiring?” he asks earnestly. “Keeping them all straight?”

  “Ha ha,” I say flatly. “It’s not like I’m dating a hundred people. And besides, don’t you know I have the memory of an elephant? I’m dating two or three guys, max, at the same time. And most of the time they’re not going to lead to second or third dates, so it’s really just like having coffee . . . or wandering an art space . . .” I elbow Jason, “with a friend. What else would I be doing with my Saturdays anyway?”

  “Enriching your mind. Sleeping. Working out.”

  “I ran this morning. And I enriched my mind learning about the transfer of energy cycles in tropical rain forests this afternoon. And I’m enriching my mind now. And I’ll sleep tonight.”

  “And they say women can’t have it all.”

  “Did you just wink at me? Ah! Is that how you hit on girls? Jason! That’s, like, what our dads did when they were courting our moms forty years ago. You’ve gotta up your game.”

  “I’m Korean, Alison. It always looks like I’m winking!”

  “You totally winked. Admit it!” I tease.

  “Don’t you need to go home and get ready?”

  “For my next date? Why?” And then, “Oh wait. Why? Do I look like I need to change?”

  “Well, you don’t look like you’re ready for a night on the town. I mean, you look nice, but you could . . . you know, put on high heels, or tighter pants, or something shorter. Like ‘sexier?’” He holds up finger quotes.

  “First, shut up. Second, we’re not going to ‘da club’ or anything. We’re going to get Mexican food. Besides, I try not to primp too much for my dates.”

  “Keep their expectations low?” Jason raises his eyebrows.

  “No, not seem like I’m trying too hard. Or, rather, actually not try too hard. I feel like if you spend all this time primping, you get nervous. If you don’t spend time primping, then you’re being you . . . rather than sizing someone up and being sized up.”

  “Whatever. You can keep telling yourself that, but you know you’re being judged. Because you’re judging, too!” he accuses.

  I laugh. “I know. But it makes me feel better thinking I’m not trying too hard. Soooo, I’m gonna stick with that. And go straight from here to dinner.”

  “So you, of all people, don’t feel a little strange dating multiple guys at once?”

  “It’s not like I’m sleeping with any of them. And besides, you know they’re all doing the exact same thing.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Yes, necessarily.”

  “I don’t knoooow,” Jason singsongs.

  “All our guy friends would be doing the same. They do do the same!”

  “Yeah, but you would never date most of them. And they would never date you. Especially not if you showed up looking like that.” He rolls his eyes and points at my furry brown boots.

  I roll my eyes, too.

  “So tell me about your dates.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Today’s. Rain Forest Guy.”

  “Well, his name actually is Forrest. But you can call him Rain Forrest Guy. He’s a real estate investor; currently lives in Boston but spends most of his time in New York and is moving here soon. In his spare time he’s a singer-songwriter—he kept emailing me MP3 files before we met. He’s good.”

  “He sent you love songs before you ever met him?”

  “They’re not love songs, they’re songs from an album he’s working on. But he’s not bad.”

  “So what’d you do on your date?”

  “Not a whole lot, actually. He was in town staying at the Standard in the East Village. I was having brunch in the vicinity with high school friends, so we met in the lobby after.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. We just sat on the couches and talked. I guess it’s kind of strange that we just hung out in a hotel lobby without getting coffee or drinks or anything, but . . . it didn’t feel weird at the time.”

  “What’d you talk about?”

  “Life. Music. Forested areas his company is investing in for ecotourism resorts—I think it might be his pet project. Or something.”

  “And? Sparks? Chemistry? Smooching?”

  “Are you twelve? Who says ‘smooching?’ And no.”

  “No smooching, or no chemistry?”

  “No smooching, the jury’s still out on the chemistry.”

  “You’ll see him again? Assuming you don’t fall in love with tonight’s date?”

  “Yeah. He’s smart, cute, and really pensive-thoughtful . . . so check, check, check, I guess?”

  February 20 at 3:46 p.m.

  Alison,

  I really enjoyed meeting you Saturday afternoon. It sounded like you had quite the packed day, and I appreciate that you carved time out to meet me. I think you said you were in town next weekend. . . . If so, I’ll be back down here again. Do you want to meet up? I was hoping you might give me the behind-the-scenes tour of St. John the Divine. I loved watching you light up as you described the history of the building and all the work you put into its restoration.

  As promised, my cover of The Civil Wars & Taylor Swift’s “Safe & Sound” is attached for your listening pleasure. Let me know what you think.

  Forrest

  Juan Pablo and I are crouched on the uppermost level of the scaffold—only three or four feet below the ceiling—straining our necks to repair the Guastavino tiles overhead. While he holds two halves of a cracked tile in place, I secure them with a micro-pin.

  “So,” I begin tentatively, removing another micro-pin from the bag. “Do you . . . think it would be okay if I brought someone to the job site this weekend? Like, for a behind-the-scenes tour of the restoration?”

  “You trying to make me jealous, Alison?”

  “Right. So I was hoping to swing by—”

  “Who’s the new guy?”

  “—not for a long time, maybe twenty minutes, on Sunday to show a friend,” I say with added emphasis, “you know, what I’ve been doing with the last three years of my life?”

  “That’s all you’re gonna give me? A friend?”

  I smile, a bit teasingly, and shrug.

  Juan Pablo smiles, too, and his voice shifts into a slightly more serious register. “I t
hink it’s fine. You can bring your . . . friend. Just make sure to grab hard hats if you cross the construction barrier. Wouldn’t want us getting in trouble with OSHA.”

  I nod obediently. “Of course. Thanks.”

  “So when do I get you next week?” he asks. “Are you still at the Armory?”

  “I’ll be here . . .” I try to picture my planner. “Monday and Thursday mornings. The rest of the time I’m at the Armory. I think.”

  “Are you ever going to offer me a behind-the-scenes tour of the restoration there?” he asks flirtatiously.

  I consult my reflected ceiling plan and cross out the tile we just stabilized. “If you ask nicely, I will,” I say without looking up.

  I crawl across the steel plank to reposition myself beneath the next tile that requires pinning. Juan Pablo follows.

  February 21 at 8:01 a.m.

  Hi Forrest,

  It was great to meet you, too. Yes, I am in town this weekend. Would Sunday afternoon work? Meet in front of St. John the Divine and take it from there? I’m definitely going to dork out if you want the full insider’s tour of the restoration. I love that church so much it makes my heart hurt.

  I gave your cover a listen as I was getting ready for work this morning. It sounded familiar - it’s the one from The Hunger Games movie, yes? I think you improved on it!

  Let me know what time works on Sunday.

  Cheers,

  Alison

  February 28 at 7:16 p.m.

  Alison,

  I enjoyed seeing you Sunday. The fortuitously timed evensong practice was great background music for exploring the different chapels and viewing the restoration. I added “go to a concert at St. John’s” to my To Do list. I was pleasantly surprised when you told me that you’re not dead set on living in NYC forever. Sometimes I imagine living in the middle of nowhere, either in a log cabin or interesting prefab modern structure. My desire for a remote location probably has something to do with a global theme of simplicity that I’m drawn to. You should check this company out: http://www.rocioromero.com/LVSeries.html

  Forrest

  March 1 at 9:11 a.m.

  Hi Forrest!

  What else is on your “To Do” list? I’m intrigued. . . . Back when I turned twenty, I formulated my own mental “mini-to-do list in life.” It included a slew of places to go (Greece, Morocco) and skills/hobbies to acquire (learn to surf, learn to knit, run a marathon, etc.). I guess I was a little overeager in that I rather quickly worked through the bulk of the items on the list - consequently I now feel like I have very little ambition. Haha, oops.

  Did you see the prefab housing exhibit at MoMA years and years ago? I used to think I wanted to grow up and live in a Lustron house, until I was able to walk through one at this exhibit and realized all the walls looked and felt like cold metal hospital tables. The one you sent looks way cooler. In reality, though, I think I’m more of a log cabin type of girl.

  OK, now I really must get down to work.

  Cheers,

  Alison

  “Hey!” I open the car door and climb into the passenger’s seat.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” Forrest leans in and kisses me on the cheek.

  I blink, a bit flustered since it’s the first time we’ve had even grazing physical contact. “Good, good. So . . . now are you going to tell me what’s on tap for today?”

  “Man, you really don’t like surprises, huh?”

  “Nooo,” I say emphatically, “I just . . . am curious to know where you’re taking me.”

  He laughs to himself, keeping his eyes on the road. “Yeah, I enjoyed that bit where you asked me if I was a serial killer.” He turns his head quickly to glance at me. “You know, serial killers probably don’t just come out and admit to being serial killers.”

  “I know. But I thought maybe if I asked you over the phone, I could detect a note of panic or hesitation in your voice.”

  “Did I act especially serial killer-ish the last two times you saw me?”

  “No, but it’s not every day a girl receives an invitation that’s so . . . clandestine-seeming . . . ‘Wear clothes you don’t mind getting dirty,’” I say in a mock deep voice. “‘Maybe bring a bottle of water . . . I insist on picking you up in my car.’”

  “Ahh, I see. So all drivers are potential serial killers.”

  “When you live in New York City, yes. Normal people don’t have cars. And if second grade taught me anything, it was ‘don’t get in cars with strangers.’”

  He laughs aloud at this. “Oh, I see. So I’m a stranger now.”

  I groan faintly. “I didn’t mean it that way. But . . . wouldn’t you think it was weird if I said, ‘Oh hey. Let’s go on a date! But first! I am going to blindfold you, and put a bag over your head, and take you in my white van out to the woods?’”

  “How did you know the plan for today? Did you hack my email?” He laughs. “You know, you can still get out of the car. Before I have time to dig out the blindfold and the paper bag.”

  “Well, I decided that I’m not young enough to be jailbait, and that you seemed kind of okay the last two times. Also, I gave my roommates your name and phone number and told them to report me missing if I wasn’t home by midnight.”

  “Did you text them my license plate, too?”

  “Gah! I can’t believe I didn’t think of that! Do you mind pulling over for a second so I can jot it down?” I smile.

  “Loading docks on the Brooklyn waterfront?” I scan the somewhat deserted vista before me, which includes rocky banks of what I think is the East River.

  “Nope, over here.” He locks his car and walks ahead of me to a nondescript one-story building, the siding of which is corrugated sheet metal. A lobster shack?

  He tugs on the metal door and cautiously steps inside. “Hello?”

  “Back here!” A woman’s voice carries from the rear of the building. Just then she emerges, her gray-streaked brown hair piled high in a giant bun, goggles protecting her eyes, and a dark leather apron on which she’s drying her hands. “Nice to meet you . . . Forrest, I assume?”

  She extends her hand to shake his and turns to me. “And you must be Alison?”

  I smile and introduce myself.

  “I still haven’t told her where we are or what we’re doing,” Forrest says.

  “Oh! How lovely!” Then she looks embarrassed. “I guess I kind of ruined the surprise coming out like this.” I look at her askance.

  “Nope.” I shake my head. “Still no idea.”

  Forrest turns to me. “Today, we’re going to learn how to metal weld.”

  “Wait, what? That’s so cool! But how did you . . . organize this? How did you find this?”

  “Google.” He shrugs, his hands in his pockets. “When we were at St. John the Divine, I talked about how I always wanted to turn wood on a lathe. You said you’d done that but had always wanted to metal weld. I did some searching, and Marina offers private tutorials. So . . . here we are.”

  “Here we are indeed. So. Cool!” I shake my head in disbelief.

  “Alright, should we get you guys fitted up in aprons and face shields?”

  As I’m tack-welding the veins onto my leaf-shaped belt buckle, Marina stands beside me.

  “Your boyfriend’s pretty romantic, huh?”

  Keeping my eyes focused on the task at hand, I bite my lip and reply, “Umm, yeah. Don’t know how he’d ever top this. But . . . he’s, actually, not my boyfriend. This is only our third date.”

  “He did this for your third date? Does he have any single brothers?”

  “What an afternoon!” I beam. “Torches and welders and flux, oh my!”

  We shed our aprons and gloves and walk toward the car.

  “So I know we’re kind of dirty,” Forrest says, “but I read about a few things to do around here. Mostly eating and drinking. You hungry?”

  “Aren’t we having dinner in a few hours?” Forrest had asked me to clear my Saturday; he’d said we’d have a
daytime activity, then each head home to shower and change, followed by dinner in Midtown.

  “Yeah. But it’s three o’clock. Dinner’s not until eight,” he says.

  “Okay. I can always eat. And drink.”

  “I read about a great hole-in-the-wall tea room not too far from here that serves famous petit fours and half-priced champagne on Saturday afternoons. You game?”

  “This day can’t get any more perfect!” I say, wide-eyed.

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” He grins.

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re sitting on a banquette beneath an adorable pressed metal ceiling, with adorable gold-flecked champagne flutes in hand. “Cheers to an amazing day,” I say, raising my glass. “And cheers to you for making all of this happen. It’s been incredible!” I look him in the eye and nod, for emphasis, “Thank you. That was . . . insanely considerate . . . and generous . . . and Prince Charming-y. I totally don’t deserve all this, but I hope you know I really appreciate it.”

  “No, you do deserve it. We had all these unconventional first dates, where we just met and walked and talked.” I squint and study his face. Am I attracted to him? I can’t decide if I’m attracted to him. “It was pretty easy to tell you don’t . . . expect . . . these kinds of things. Which makes it all the more fun to plan them for you.” He smiles.

  “Ahhh, I see.” I smile back. “You were testing me. Taking me on these dates that left me thirsty and hungry to see if I would complain. Or turn you down for the next date.”

  “No, not like that.”

  “Yes! Exactly like that!”

  “Stop trying to deflect my compliments. Let’s just say, ‘it’s fun to do nice things for you,’ and leave it at that. Okay?”

  “Don’t you have a date tonight?” Nicole asks from the kitchen when I enter the apartment.

  “Yes! Longest. Date. Ever.”

  “Uh-oh. You wanna bail?”

  “No. It’s just . . . it’s just been an interesting day.”

  “But you didn’t get kidnapped, so that’s a plus. Where’d he take you after all?”

  “Swoon! He took me metal welding,” I say, flourishing my fancy new belt buckle.