The Perfect Find

by Tia Williams

  It was an odd choice for a work fete, but by everyone’s third drink, no one knew where they were, anyway. The owner had pushed four long cocktail tables together for the StyleZine crew and, within forty-five minutes, half of the staff was sloshed, inhaling parmesan fries and Instagramming everything.

  Jenna had been sipping her strawberry mint julep—one of Carolina’s specialties—since she’d gotten there five minutes before. She was pretending to listen to Jinx bemoan her fifth breakup with her douchey boyfriend, Peneen, but she was actually scanning the crowded room for Darcy. And there she was, stationed in front of the Employee’s Only door, chatting up Carolina’s owner, a swarthy guy with a barbershop quartet mustache and a straw hat. Jenna had been at enough parties with her to know that whether that dude was gay, straight, or taken, it didn’t matter—he would very shortly be on the receiving end of a Blowjob l’Darcy.

  Jenna had two goals for the night. As Darcy had ordered in their post-Greta Blumen meeting, Jenna intended to be cordial with Eric, to show her boss that everything was fine. And more importantly, she actually wanted to make everything fine between them. The pressure was closing in on Jenna; now she couldn’t even think about Eric or the series without panicking.

  Eric was at the bar standing next to Terry, who was perched on a barstool wearing a tutu and a kitten-eared headband. The two friends were lost in conversation. Jenna wondered what they were talking about. Even more, she wondered when Terry would beat it, so she could chat with him.

  “…and I know he’s super-busy with his urban beekeeping hobby,” slurred Jinx, “but he never focuses on me. He’s even distracted during sex! He holds the remote the whole time because he’s OCD and scared we’ll lose it in the bed.”

  “How can he perform to his best ability with only one hand?”

  Jenna was mystified.

  “Why won’t he tell me what he’s feeling?”

  “’Cause he barely knows what he’s feeling. Men have such basic emotional lives. Half the time they’re just trying to figure out when’s the next time they can jerk off or get to the nearest Chik-Fil-A.” Jenna sipped her cocktail. “Have you shared your concerns with him?”

  “Naggy girls are buzzkills,” she said sadly. “I’m just hoping he wakes up and comes back to me.”

  “Sweetie! Why wait for him to decide the status of your relationship?” Their waiter looked at Jenna with raised eyebrows. She lowered her voice. “You’re a powerful woman. You be the decider.”

  “You be the decider! That’s so real,” said Jinx, reaching for her phone. “Must tweet immediately.”

  Where is all of this steely-eyed clarity about relationships coming from? thought Jenna. Why couldn’t I ever apply this to my life with Brian?

  She glanced over at the bar again, and saw Terry kiss Eric on the cheek and walk away. Her opening. “Want anything from the bar, Jinx?”

  “No, I have to be lucid to sext Peneen. He hates typos.”

  Jenna, who was relieved that texting didn’t exist when she was twenty-four, downed her drink and got up. She fluffed her hair, fussed with her ‘this ol’ thing’ cool-girl outfit (a simple white wife-beater with holy jeans, a silver snake bangle, and neon red lips), and headed for the bar. But just before she got there, Terry ran up to Eric with a girl. A mocha-skinned cutie wearing a red-and-white striped tube top. She shot him a dirty smile, dripping with the promise of coke-fueled threesomes, and then shook his hand.

  Oh great, she thought. Is he getting set up right now?

  Quickly, she claimed the only barstool available, which was two people down from him. The bar was so congested that he hadn’t even seen her.

  “Eric!” squealed Terry, whose pointy kitten ears made her look like Josie and the Pussycats. “This is the girl from my SoulCycle class I wanted you to meet. Jeanine, this is Eric.” With that, she danced away to Rihanna’s “Birthday Cake.”

  Jenna felt like a spy. It was so tacky to eavesdrop, but she had to hear this.

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” purred Tube Top. “All true, I see.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, too. So what do you do?”

  “I’m a model. And an actress. And a waitress. I’m many things, boo.”

  “Clearly. Can I get you a drink?”

  “No, I’m detoxing. I need to be in perf shape for my Nickelodeon audition.”

  “Nickelodeon? Hold on, how old are you?”

  “Twenty, but I can play as young as thirteen. My agent says I have one of those dollbaby faces. Like Selena Gomez. Like, dirty old men wanna hit it, but I look as pure as the given snow.”

  “Driven.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So yeah, I can do tween. Wanna hear lines from my audition script? I’m playing the vain girl in the class who gets the wittiest lines.” She took her voice up fifteen octaves, squealing, “You are what you eat? That’s funny, I don’t remember eating Kate Upton today!”

  “You can say ‘eating Kate Upton’ on Nickelodeon?”

  “But wait, here’s my favorite one: ‘Always be yourself. Unless you can be me. Then always be me.’ And here’s another one…”

  Wearily, Eric turned toward the bar to grab his vodka Red Bull. That’s when he noticed Jenna. She gave him the thumbs up sign.

  “You know what, Jenna…I mean, Jeanine? I’m sorry, there’s someone I need to talk to. From work. It’s, like, imperative that I catch her before she leaves.”

  “Imperative?

  “Necessary. Non-negotiable.”

  “I like your fancy talk.”

  “You gonna be here for awhile, though?”

  She flipped back her hair and nodded. “Okay, I’ll find you.”

  “You better. I didn’t give you my number. And it’s imperative that you have it,” she said, and strutted away.

  The second she was out of sight, Eric asked the dude next to Jenna if they could switch places. He moved, with a huffy grumble. Silently, Eric sat beside Jenna—arms folded, eyes narrowed, looking rascally.

  “So…” he started. “How long you been there?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m waiting for the commentary.”

  “From me?” Jenna bit her lip to hide her smirk. “I have no commentary. Except for, wow, they make ‘em eager these days.”

  “I know. She should’ve asked the wizard for subtlety.”

  Jenna took a deep breath, preparing herself for the apology she’d rehearsed on the train. “Eric, I hate that we’re in this pattern of insulting each other and then apologizing, but I’m deeply sorry for everything I said in the cab. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “It’s whatever,” said Eric, not wanting to get into a thing. “I’m not offended.”

  “You are offended. And…well, you hurt my feelings, too. You said I needed to ‘fuck my hurt away.’ That was shitty.com.”

  “Shitty.com? Who are you right now?” He paused, just now noticing that she looked different than usual. He zeroed in on her bright lips, and then the lacy bra barely visible under her white tank. He swallowed and refocused. “I apologize, too. That was a horrible thing to say. But it’s like, you make me horrible.”

  “You make me horrible, too! See, I think admitting that is a powerful breakthrough. We don’t have to be besties to create great work. The X Files was genius, and Scully and Mulder hated each other in real life. We just can’t ignore each other. I hate the way I’ve behaved, Eric. I really want this to work.”

  Eric looked at the contrite woman—a woman whose cuteness was borderline exhausting to ignore—and saw that she was truly tortured by this. He came to a realization. In little more than a week, she’d taken him from blazing lust, to confusion, to exasperation and, finally, blinding anger. She’d set his world spinning, but not on purpose. He got the feeling it didn’t have anything to do with him. It seemed like Jenna was flailing. Like life had fucked with her, and now she didn’t know which way was up. “You wanna squash the beef, huh?” h
e asked.

  “In a phrase, yes.”

  Eric reached out his hand. “Consider it squashed. Truce.”

  After a moment of surprised hesitation, Jenna shook his hand.

  She didn’t understand why he was suddenly okay with her, but wasn’t going to ask any questions.

  “Truce,” she said, barely believing it.

  “Let’s make a rule, though. Going forward, let’s not get too personal with each other. That’s when shit goes wrong.”

  Jenna nodded. “No personal information. I’ll agree to anything if you stop telling people I’m Ursula the Sea Witch.”

  Eric grimaced. “I’m divorcing Terry.”

  “You’re forgiven,” she said, lightly. “So, did you ask her to set you up?”

  “Not even! She’s just a busybody. I’m good on relationships right now. Too much to do.”

  “Good for you,” she said. “If I had it to do over again, I’d have done my own thing in my twenties.”

  “Loaded statement. What were you doing, instead?”

  She paused. “I thought we said no personal information.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to tell you—that poster behind your desk? So dope.”

  “Come again?”

  “Nina Mae McKinney. I noticed it the first time I came into your office,” he said. “Right after I got over the shock that you were in your office.”

  “You recognize Nina Mae McKinney?” She’d never come across anyone who’d heard of the forgotten silent star. He even said her name right. Nine-a.

  “Hallelujah. Terrible film. But kind of amazing considering there were like no resources for black filmmakers in, what, 1927?”

  “’28.” Jenna stared at him. “I can’t believe you’re aware of Nina Mae McKinney.”

  “I can’t believe you are. Are you a true fan, or do you just like the poster?”

  “Well, I mean…I just…” she sputtered. Her obsessions were so obscure, she wasn’t used to talking about them. “I adore the silent film era.”

  “I know,” he said lustily. “Early Hollywood’s so fascinating to me because everyone you’re watching is, like, dead. It’s time traveling. You can experience what it was like to chill in a 1920s speakeasy! You watch Hallelujah, none of those actors could imagine that people in 2012 would be spying on their shit, making them immortal. It’s almost a hundred years ago. Yo, imagine if motherfuckers in the ‘20s could’ve watched films from the early 1800s?”

  Jenna nodded. She was thoroughly entertained by Eric’s impassioned speech. It was delightful hearing a man speak about something other than his brand, his investments, his BBS cuff links.

  “Don’t get me started on Expressionist cinema from the Nineteen-teens…”

  Jenna interrupted him with incredulous laughter.

  “What’s funny?”

  “The universe is playing a colossal joke on me. I’ve always wanted to have a casual conversation about Expressionist cinema… but no one cares. What are the chances that you’re the person who does?”

  “See? I came into your life for a reason. A failed web series and film geek banter.” Just then, something caught his eye above Jenna’s head. He nodded in that direction. “Look at Jehovah.”

  Jenna looked to the left. Darcy was following the owner toward the exit, pointing at them and pantomiming applause. Jenna waved tensely.

  “Mission accomplished,” she breathed. “Darcy saw us being friendly.”

  “Oh. Is the conversation over now?”

  “Well…it is late.”

  Her drink came. They both sipped in silence. “Don’t go yet,” said Eric.

  “I want to go.”

  “Do you really?”

  Jenna couldn’t think of a proper response. After a moment, she said, “You know, these drinks are too strong. No more for me.”

  “Me either,” said Eric, pushing his away. “I wanna say something about it being dangerous, us drinking together. But I’ll be a gentleman.”

  “I know your version of gentleman.”

  “Yeah. You do,” he said, fixing her with his intense eyes.

  Jenna was caught, entangled in Eric’s gaze (that face, when would she be immune to it?). She felt ridiculous—how could he get to her with one glance? She was no better than Greta Blumen’s assistant. Or Jinx, who turned raspberry-red if he stood too close to her.

  After a beat she laughed, breaking the tension. “You’re so bad.”

  “Why?”

  “You wanted to kill me five minutes ago, and now the face, the look? You can’t help yourself!” She tsk’d at him, shaking her head.

  “You do it for sport, don’t you?”

  “I know, I’m the worst,” he said, his expression mischievous. “But I’m harmless.”

  “We both know you’re not. But it’s okay. You’re young, you’re single, and you have chicks in tube tops throwing themselves at you. Rock out. Just use protection.”

  “Protection. I’ll remember that.”

  They looked at each other and laughed.

  “So,” said Jenna. “Are you ever going to tell me what your film’s about?”

  “No personal information.”

  “It’s public! Everyone at USC saw it.”

  “But for some reason I’m nervous to tell you.” He took another gulp of his drink. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

  “I’d never.”

  “Okay. It’s called Tyler on Perry Street. It’s about this black angel named Tyler who lives in Hollywood Heaven, and the only way he can get his wings is if he liberates black movies from stereotypical characters. So he shows up to bartend at a Christmas house party in the West Village, on Perry Street, and it’s populated by Tyler Perry-esque personalities. The evil, light-skinned educated woman, the abusive, non-child-support-paying man, the God-fearing blue-collar worker, the angry black woman. And he puts a truth serum in their drinks and, well, you find out that they’re the most exaggeratingly interesting people who ever existed.”

  Jenna threw her head back, howling with laughter. “You said you wouldn’t laugh!”

  “Tyler on Perry Street? You’re a genius!”

  For the first time since she’d known Eric, he looked bashful.

  “Thank you. I really…it means a lot.”

  “Darcy must be proud.”

  “She refuses to watch it. She thinks it’s stupid to take on the most powerful black man in Hollywood.”

  There was so much Jenna wanted to say, but didn’t. What kind of mother was she?

  “Well, has your dad seen it?”

  “I wish.”

  “Why not? He would love it, I’m sure.”

  “He was shot when I was a kid.”

  Jenna clutched her drink to her chest. “Oh no…I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed. Please forget I asked. No personal information.”

  “No, it’s cool. For some reason, it seems okay to tell you.” He picked up his glass and swished the drink around. “I never found out why it happened, but he was a street dude, it could’ve been anything. That day, I was at his apartment for a tuba lesson,” he said with a chuckle. “Don’t ask me how he afforded a tuba, but he wanted to teach me, so I wanted to learn. Jenna, this man could play anything. Literally could pick up any instrument and play the hell out of it.”

  Jenna nodded, listening.

  “So, I’d made these vanilla smoothies for us—he showed me how, just vanilla ice cream and Sprite and nutmeg. He called them Caucasian shakes. And I was sitting there, just me and the Caucasian shakes. Waited all day. And all night. I drank the whole blender, made another, drank that, drank another, and then threw up everywhere. I knew something was wrong.” He paused. “I was sitting on the kitchen floor surrounded by vomit when the police came. Praying. Which is hilarious because I never belonged to any religion. Who was I praying to? I was ten, who knows what I was thinking.

  “When I saw the police at the door, it felt like what it must be like right befor
e you jump off a building. Like, this is the last time I’ll feel my feet on the ground. Everything after this will be out-of-control until I crash and feel nothing.” He considered this, and then drank the last of his vodka. “It’s taken a long time, but I’m finally there. I feel nothing.”

  Jenna gripped her glass, dumbstruck by how crushed she was for him. Not only for him now; but for the little boy version of him—the one she remembered bouncing around that wedding, who seemed like the happiest, most self-confident kid on the planet, without a hint of darkness.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, resting her hand on his arm. He looked down at it and back at her. “No child should have to go through that. Did Darcy help? Did she get you counseling…”

  “Counseling? We’re West Indian.” He smiled faintly. “No, we moved to the city and she rewrote our history. She told me to forget him, the projects, all of it. When you’re a kid, you listen to your mom.”

  Jenna was so horrified by Darcy’s mishandling of her son’s grief, that she was struck silent.

  “I guess…I just wanna make sure his last name means something.”

  “It will. It already does.”

  “We’ll see,” he said, now visibly uncomfortable. “What made me tell you all that? I changed my mind about the drink. I need another one.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “Did your grow up with your dad?” he asked, flagging down the bartender.

  “Yes. And he was perfect on the outside. A PhD; an OBGYN.

  But he spent practically every night of my childhood in an apartment he shared with his mistress an hour away in DC.

  You know, under the guise of working late at the hospital. Me and my mom pretended not to know. I’m very good at pretending not to notice things.”

  “Did you ever ask him about it?”

  “Never. I was so proud of him as a person, so I never wanted to tarnish that. He was my daddy. My hero, you know?”

  “I know all about it.”

  “Thank you for trusting me with that story. About your father.”

  “You too,” said Eric. “About yours.”