Match Made in Manhattan

by Amanda Stauffer

  “No, I Googled.”

  “And? . . . Is he a serial killer?” I drown the dregs of my takeout coffee before tossing it in the nearest trash can.

  “No. I think he’s impressive but humble.”

  “Google told you this.”

  “Kind of. This story ran in the San Francisco Chronicle about him when he was in college. Apparently he played baseball at Stanford.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, it seems he was a benchwarmer for his first three years. But then San Francisco had this semicentennial celebration, or something, and some of the Stanford players were asked to dress up in old-timey Giants uniforms from the nineteen-fifties and stage a game in AT&T Stadium. Apparently James bears a striking resemblance to the team pitcher from that era, so the city had him suit up and pretend to be him. And . . . during this memorial game, James pitched a terrific game. The Stanford coach was really startled since he’d never played him before. So then he started James as pitcher in Stanford’s next game, and James led them to a winning season.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “Right, so the team captain commented that James is very modest, so he’d never challenge a coach’s decision to bench him, but being able to show off in this kind of forum . . . well, you get the idea. Should I send it to you?”

  “No. I don’t want to stalk him before I’ve met him—” Then I catch myself, “I mean, stalk him any more than you already have . . . before I’ve met him.”

  “So you’re pretty hard to pin down, huh?” James smiles across the table.

  “Nah, it’s just February’s a really big month for Yalies. The other eleven months are considerably less booked up.” I wink. Oh gosh, I flirt like Jason. And our dads.

  “Why February?”

  “Well, as undergrads we ‘celebrated,’” I hold up finger quotes, “the fifty-plus-year-old tradition of Feb Club, for which you combat winter doldrums by drinking at themed parties for twenty-eight consecutive days. Twenty-nine on leap year.”

  The more often you go on dates, the more you start to feel like you’re dating yourself. At this point, I’ve perfected my description of Feb Club without really giving it any thought. Same goes for why I went to grad school, why I love the Armory, where my family lives . . . I’m starting to bore myself with these scripts that I memorized without really meaning to. “As alumni, we carry the tradition forward with the aptly named ‘Feb Club for Old People.’”

  “So you drink every night?”

  “Well, no. But, when there are events, yes. But sadly, my liver isn’t getting any younger, and I don’t think it likes me very much right now.” I know I’ve said that one before, too. They kind of just start rolling off your tongue. “But enough about stodgy old Yale traditions. You said you’re going to Florida this weekend? What for?”

  “I’m a big golfer. And my family has a place there. So I try to get to Florida as much as possible to hit the links.” I’ve written “hit the links” in emails, but who says that out loud?

  “And how often is ‘as much as possible?’”

  “Once a month in winter. Two or three times per month during the spring.”

  “Whoa. That’s . . . a lot,” I say, trying to quickly calculate how much that means he spends on golf each month.

  “Yeah, but it . . . makes me ha-ppy,” he says in the singsong voice of a cartoon bear, drawing a heart in the air with his index fingers.

  I laugh. That was cute, in a dopey kind of way.

  “What about you? Do you golf?”

  I nod. “I’m not that good, but I really enjoy it.”

  “Do you play other sports?” His voice is really loud. I glance around to see if any of the other patrons are giving us the evil eye.

  “I spent a few seasons playing intramural soccer. But I got one too many injuries, so now I stick to running. And very occasional surfing. What about you?”

  “We should run together!” he exclaims loudly. “That’d be fun, right?” He takes a sip of his Suntory. “So did you play sports in college?” he asks.

  “Rugby.”

  “Aren’t you small to be playing rugby?”

  “I was the last line of defense, so I’d be small for the scrum, but they just had me run laps up and down the field, chasing all the girls on the opposing team. Whenever anyone passed me the ball, and I’d see the defenders of the other team running at me, I’d panic and basically hand them the ball so they wouldn’t tackle me.” I mime handing a rugby ball out like a platter for the taking, a look of panic frozen on my face.

  “Wow, you sound like you were bound for the Rugby World Cup. It’s a shame you gave it up.”

  I smile. “Quitting was the greatest relief I think I’ve ever experienced. What about you?”

  “I played baseball in college.”

  “What position?” Let us pretend for a minute that my overinvolved Jewish mother did not stalk you online.

  “Benchwarmer, then pitcher. It’s a funny story, actually. Well, frustrating for several years, then validating, now funny.” I nearly choke on my saketini as I try to stifle my smirking. Nod slowly. Look engaged.

  “. . . anniversary game, so the San Francisco Chronicle . . .”

  Nod again. Raise an eyebrow, as if this is new information, as if saying Go on! I want to hear more.

  “. . . everyone said I looked a lot like . . .”

  I rest my chin on my hand, nod wide-eyed, nod some more. No way! That’s really how it happened? What a funny story! Given that I have the worst poker face in the history of mankind, I am never going to forgive my mother for her aggressive sleuthing.

  “Nowadays I row for a club in Connecticut and play some squash.”

  I laugh aloud at this, not intending to.

  “Why is that funny?” he asks.

  I blush. “No . . . it’s not. Sorry.”

  “Do you have a thing against rowers?”

  “No, actually, all my serious boyfriends have been rowers, or ex-rowers. I was laughing because . . . take this with a grain of salt since I just said all my ex-boyfriends were rowers, but it’s like you’re a superstar in the blue-blood Olympics.”

  “What?” He smiles gently.

  “Sorry, that came out wrong. But it’s like: golf and rowing and squash. Sports I refer to as ‘blue-blood’ sports.”

  He shrugs. “I guess I am pretty blue-blooded. I never thought of it that way.” He chuckles to himself, and I smile, partly because it is funny how upper-crust he seems, partly because I’m relieved that I didn’t offend him.

  “But, you think that’s pretty funny, right?” he counters. “This, coming from someone who just got over telling me about her nightly ritual of drinking with Yalies,” he pronounces the last word in a put-on British accent.

  “So where do you live again? I feel like it was complicated,” I ask.

  “Not super complicated, but not straightforward either. I have a house in Westport, Connecticut. You know where that is?”

  I nod. “Of course. It’s on the New Haven line.”

  “Oh, right. Duh.” He smacks his forehead as he utters the ‘duh,’ eliciting laughter from me. This guy’s kind of a goofball. “So, yeah. My house is in Westport. It’s in the country, effectively. It’s an old farmhouse, you’d love it, based on your job and all. And my office is just a fifteen- or twenty-minute drive from there, so I stay most weeknights up there. But then I also have a small place in Manhattan.”

  “Pied-à-terre?” I tease.

  “Kind of.” He shrugs. “When my ex and I broke up, I wanted to move back into the dating scene in New York City. Not too much under-forty action in Westport. So I rented a place here, near Grand Central, so I could be a bit more social, and also not be too far from the train that takes me home home.” Home home—that’s something I would say to distinguish the two as well. I smile to myself.

  “How long did you live together for? You and your ex-girlfriend?”

  “Oh. Not long. Actually less than a week.” I r
aise an eyebrow. “She’d basically been staying at my place for a while, but when she officially moved in—you know, with boxes and everything—I knew almost right away that it wasn’t the right thing.”

  “You knew that in less than a week?”

  “Yeah. She just took herself so seriously. She’s a runner, too, but more of a compulsive marathoner type. When she moved in, it became clear to me she was . . . I don’t know . . . too finicky about it, or too regimented, so I asked her to move out because I knew that we weren’t compatible in the long term.”

  “After how much time?”

  “Three days.”

  “And how much time of dating?”

  “Maybe two and a half years?”

  “But then weren’t there signs before? Like, while she was effectively living with you?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  I puzzle this over but decide it’s better not to cross-examine someone on a first date. “So what’s your ‘pied-à-terre’ like?”

  “It’s not anything fancy. Just a studio. I don’t even have a full kitchen. And just a mini-fridge. But I like it.”

  “Had you spent much time in Manhattan before?”

  “Me? Yeah. I lived here after college for pfriseveight,” he mumbles the number into his hand, “years. That many. Then I moved to my house in Connecticut, and I was there . . . ehhhhhhh,” he makes a screeching noise as he ponders the timeline, kind of a cross between a siren and a school boys’ choir, “for two years maybe? And then I got my apartment last year.”

  “So was New York different than you remembered? Was it like exploring a new city?”

  “Kind of.” He nods. “I like that idea. ‘Exploring.’ It is kind of nice to see the city from a new neighborhood, a new vantage point. And it’s different, being in your thirties, than being in your twenties. But you,” he flashes raised eyebrows, “you wouldn’t know about that. You’re just a young’un.”

  “Nah, I’ve been here a long time. I’ve gone through phases in New York. You know: my street-fair phase, my hookah-bar phase, rooftop-bar phase . . .”

  “What phase are you in now?”

  “My BYOB-restaurant phase.”

  “Wow, you didn’t miss a beat on that one.”

  “Yeah, that was funny.” I shake my head. “Usually you recognize your phases in hindsight. But when I was telling you about my past phases, it sort of dawned on me that I must currently be in a phase. And then it was easy to figure out.”

  He stares at me blankly. I feel myself blushing, shrug, and look away.

  “Your mind works fast. You’re smart,” he coos.

  “Yeah, right. Anyway . . . what phase are you in?”

  “I don’t think I have phases. Or if I do, I’m not aware of them. I’m always attracted to the same kinds of bars, kinds of cuisines, kinds of girls . . .”

  I laugh at this, amused that he wants to tell me about the kinds of girls he’s attracted to. “And what kinds . . . are those?”

  He cocks his head in curiosity. “Which? The bars, cuisines, or girls?”

  “Uhhh, whichever you want to tell me about?”

  “Okay. Bars—ones that have good cocktails. But, like, the manly kind,” he pumps his arms up and down, as if marching to the word “manly.” “And ones that have neat décor. Like this one!” He brightens up and looks around Le Colonial’s Asian-chic atmosphere. “Except those stairs are weird, huh? What do you think those stairs are for?” He rises from his seat and walks two paces back, near a stepped display shelf that ascends from the floor and has a burning votive on each stair. He’s right, they are weird. They look like stairs to nowhere. But as he mimes mounting them one step at a time, I can only look around the room hoping nobody is watching him. Or us.

  He sits back down and continues, “Cuisines—Mexican and Italian. Girls—smart ones, usually with blonde hair and blue eyes. Who run.” I blush and look away, and he notices. “Oh, I didn’t mean you. . . . Well, I mean, maybe I mean you. I don’t know you well enough to say. But yes, I guess you fit all those descriptors.”

  Now it’s me cocking my head, looking a little confused.

  “Who was your date with last night?” Cassie asks as we run side by side on the treadmills at the gym.

  “A guy named James.”

  “And? What’s he like?”

  “I . . .” I breathe, “I don’t know.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well. Okay. Blond hair, tall, very handsome. Kind of looks like Dave, but maybe more attractive even? Kind of a blue-blooded, über-preppy banker.”

  “How old?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “Good age.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Boring?”

  “No. Not boring. Kind of . . . different?”

  “Different how?”

  “Uhhh. Good question! I think he has a crap ton of money. He owns a house in Connecticut and rents a bachelor pad in Midtown. But he seems kind of grounded. He’s not, like, snotty about his money. Assuming I’m right about that assessment.” I grab for my towel and dry my face and neck.

  “He seems nice? Smart?”

  “Yeah, both. He went to Stanford.” I shrug. “And he seems, kind of, I don’t know what the word is. Pensive? Like he’s thinking over the things I say. Processing before he responds. It’s . . . interesting to watch. And,” I quickly add, “the opposite of me, who leads with my mouth and follows with my brain.”

  “So. Second date?”

  “You know, I don’t know?”

  “He sounds pretty great. What’s off?”

  “That’s EXACTLY it. Something’s . . . off. Like . . .” my eyes go to the ceiling as I try to put my finger on what, exactly, that is. I settle on “. . . quirky.”

  “Quirky’s not always bad. Quirky how?”

  “Quirky, like . . . he makes this weird siren-y noise when he’s thinking, or approximating. ‘EEhhhhhhhhh.’” I do my best to imitate it. “But. You know, weirder than I just made it sound.”

  Cassie chokes out a laugh. “That was pretty weird,” she affirms.

  “And! He makes these sad, pouty faces. Like, ‘Awwwww,’” I jut out my lower lip and turn my head so Cassie can see, “that kind of make me feel like I’m talking to a child. Oh! And there were these, weird, shelflike stairs in the bar, and he was super excited to pretend he was climbing them.”

  “Okay. That sounds quirky.” Cassie nods vehemently.

  “I was just hoping I didn’t know anybody in the bar!”

  “I can see that.” Cassie nods. “But maybe he just had first date jitters so he was extra weird. Maybe he’ll normal out on a second date?”

  “One can hope, I guess?”

  “Just so you know,” James says as our cab approaches my corner, “you’re not getting off without kissing me tonight.”

  “Uhhh—”

  He leans over and stifles my nonsentence by kissing me. We’re not perfectly positioned, so it’s a little bit sloppy and a bit more drooly than I would have liked, but it’s deep. And manly, as James would say. And I kiss him back.

  “You totally did this funny wave-half-hug thing at Le Colonial after our first date. I didn’t want to let you escape with that again. Otherwise, on our third date, it would be like we’re just buddies.” And he’s right! My heart hiccups and my stomach churns whenever someone tries to kiss me for the first time, including just now, but he’s right: if you’re not careful, you fall into the “friend zone”—even if you did meet on an Internet dating site. See: Secret Agent Man; Rain Forrest Guy.

  “So, now you know. We’re not friends,” he says nonchalantly, and I laugh.

  “Annywaaay, this is me!” I say as the cab pulls to a halt. “Thanks again for dinner. And for drinks after! Good choices, both.” I nod.

  “You’re welcome. Are you around this week?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you . . .” he searches my eyes, “want to get together?”

  “Yea
h.” I smile. “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You just like playing games. Like I ask, ‘Are you free?’ and you say, ‘Yes,’ and then you wait for me to ask, ‘Would you like to hang out with me?’ But you could, you know, take a little initiative. Not make me work for it. With your . . . silly games.” He says silly with a British accent that conjures the Monty Python sketch “The Ministry of Silly Walks.”

  “No games involved. I promise.” I cross my heart with my finger. “I’m just happy to let you call the shots on the where-when.”

  “Oh! And one more thing,” he says as I’m one foot out of the car. “There’s this thing. It’s called ‘email,’ and I think you should try it.” He reaches around and slides his business card into my pocket. “I don’t feel a pressing need to be checking my Match account every day to see if I’ve heard from you.” I smile and shake my head, then close the car door and walk inside.

  It’s Tuesday morning and I’m back up on the scaffold at St. John’s.

  March 7 at 10:55 a.m.

  JAMES: GREETINGS FROM SUNNY FLA! HOW IS EVERYTHING IN THE BIG APPLE? . . . JAMES

  “Texty McTexterson,” Juan Pablo teases when my phone vibrates again. I quickly slide my cell into my back pocket without typing a reply.

  I pretend to ignore his comment. “It’s freezing up here today.”

  “Who’s the lucky dude?”

  “Have you seen the burnt umber pigment?”

  “Oh, come on, Alison.”

  “You know, I could have sworn I brought it up with me . . .” The replacement Guastavino tiles arrived last week; unfortunately, only after Juan Pablo’s crew installed them were Margo and I able to view them, only to discover that they were not perfect color matches with the original tiles. In the interest of saving time and money, I suggested that I could tint the new tiles by hand to match the adjacent historic ones. Joanne approved this treatment plan.

  So now, I’m mixing mineral paints on the top level of the scaffold, effectively repainting (sections of) the ceiling of the largest religious structure on the continent, while Juan Pablo follows directly behind me and applies a sealant coating to each color-corrected tile.