Mr. Nice Guy

by Jennifer Miller

  This unfortunate character stood uncomfortably close to a young woman, who regularly shifted her eyes between her phone and the doorway. They engaged in a strange kind of dance, in which the woman kept taking tiny steps backward and the man would scoot forward to make up the distance. In this way, Lucas watched them move halfway down the bar. He’d seen assholes invade a woman’s personal space before, but this individual didn’t exactly appear to be hitting on his unwilling interlocutor. Mostly, he seemed clueless about some basic social cues.

  “Lucas!” His name burst from the mouth of yet another stilettoed publicist. “Lori, from Hot Biz PR! Terrific to meet you! I see you’ve noticed Nicholas Spragg! I got a note that you two should connect!” She buoyed him across the room on a wave of verbal enthusiasms. Meanwhile, Spragg’s victim, sensing that she’d finally been freed, turned her grateful eyes on Lucas and vanished.

  “Lucas Callahan!” Lori exclaimed. “Nicholas Spragg! Nicholas Spragg! Lucas Callahan! I’m thrilled to introduce you! You’re both new to the city! I’m sure you’ll have plenty to talk about!” Then Lori was retreating on treacherous heels.

  Nicholas took the opening. He leaned in, causing Lucas to step back a bit, causing Nicholas to step forward a bit, the dance resuming uninterrupted with a new partner. And as it happened, Nicholas launched into a personal synopsis. He’d recently moved to New York from Europe. Where in Europe? Lucas asked. “Oh, here and there. Paris and London. Berlin.” But he wasn’t actually European? Well, “Continental” was his preferred term.

  “Oh,” Lucas said, and noted that Nicholas looked disappointed by this lack of enthusiasm. But then he was telling Lucas about his long Germanic history and how his great-grandfather was a Bavarian count. “Our family still owns castles, which are literally packed to the gills with centuries-old works of art.”

  “Huh,” Lucas said, a bit flummoxed, by both the strangeness of these claims and the uncomfortable proximity of Nicholas’s face to his own. Nicholas then launched into a monologue about his task of managing the collection, making sure that everything was properly restored and appropriately loaned. Though he’d just come from “the Continent,” he might soon have to return. There was trouble with a particular portrait that was meant to go to the Uffizi but ended up at the Louvre. “A horrible mess,” he said.

  “So you’re an art dealer?” Lucas asked. He was eager to slot Nicholas into a recognizable role in the world. At the core of all this man’s bluster, he must do something, right? But Nicholas gave Lucas a cryptic look and replied that he “dealt” with “all sorts of things.”

  Lucas searched for the right response. He came up with: “I love your cane.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Nicholas exclaimed. “This belonged to my great-grandfather the count. This is ivory from an elephant tusk.” He paused to see how this explanation was going over. In response to Lucas’s polite smile, he frowned, then added, “And would you know that my great-grandfather shot the elephant himself?”

  “No kidding,” Lucas said, beaten into submission. “That’s extraordinary.”

  Now Nicholas beamed. “It is, isn’t it? He wanted to teach me how to shoot, but he died when I was six. He was a force. Even at ninety, he would carry me on his shoulders and call me ‘the little king.’”

  “He sounds like a fascinating man,” Lucas said.

  At that moment, Nicholas’s phone buzzed. “I’ve got to run!” he announced, and shook Lucas’s hand heartily. “This has been quite a capital evening. I hope we stay in touch.” He produced a cardholder—were the letters NS encrusted with actual diamonds?—and extracted a thick piece of paper with “Nicholas Spragg” written in the center. There was no contact information. There was, in fact, no other information at all. Well, Lucas thought as the enigmatic young man retreated, so much for that.

  Twenty minutes later, the tasting was over and The Study began clearing out. Lucas couldn’t imagine why Jays needed anyone to stand in for him tonight, but he hoped he’d adequately fulfilled his role. He returned to the main rooms, now tightly packed, and almost immediately stumbled upon a familiar sound. It was the unmistakable booming baritone of his roommate, Tyler. Lucas craned his neck, but no luck. He’d have to follow the voice.

  It didn’t take long. Tyler detonated a laugh and Lucas felt its force like a gust of wind. It was amazing that someone so short, barely notching five-six, could produce such a sound. Then again, Tyler was the very embodiment of compact power; he had the dense body of an old-timey wrestler, only minus the waxed mustache and unitard. The two of them made a visually ridiculous pair: Lucas slim and gangly, Tyler stocky and short. But they were rarely together, because Tyler was perpetually out.

  They’d met via craigslist when Tyler’s previous roommate moved out. “I know people at Empire,” Tyler said when Lucas visited the apartment. “If you want to move in, that’s cool.” Lucas had expected a more thorough vetting and wondered if he should be suspicious. But he desperately needed a cheap room. And as Tyler said, “poor journalists need to stick together.”

  Tyler had been in New York a year longer than Lucas. Before that, he’d worked in Boston for a free weekly paper given out in the subway. Part of his job was to follow the elite of Boston to their galas and benefits and then produce columns about the personal muddying of their political lives (and vice versa). He managed to do this successfully for three years, an especially impressive feat in Boston, an insular town with a small core of power brokers. But that was Tyler, as Lucas was learning: Nothing stuck to the guy. He was too charming, too friendly, and too loud, really, but in a way that was more endearing than annoying. No matter what he wrote or whom he pissed off, everybody felt like his best friend. It’s why he’d been poached by Noser.com, a New York–based website that produced investigative snark, largely about the media. It was sophisticated gossip, one step above Page Six and designed for people too embarrassed to be seen reading a tabloid.

  Lucas wondered if Tyler was a little embarrassed by his new employer, because he now interviewed and wrote under the pseudonym J. P. Maddox. Lucas considered pseudonyms dishonest; Tyler argued that human beings had multiple personas. Tyler was Lucas’s roommate. J. P. Maddox was a media reporter. They lived different lives, served different functions in the world.

  Now Tyler caught Lucas’s eye and waved him over to his small group. “This is Lucas,” he announced. “My new roommate.”

  “I’m Sofia. Pleased to meet you.” The young woman beside Tyler extended her hand, and Lucas shook it, feeling a little breathless. She was gorgeous: tall and lithe, with long brown hair. She wore a crisp men’s button-down, dangerously unbuttoned. But what struck Lucas most were her eyebrows: dark and thick. “Courageous,” oddly, was the word that came to mind.

  Lucas struggled for something witty to say, but before he could think of anything, the other member of their group slid his arm around Sofia’s waist. Of course she’d be spoken for. And yet by this guy? The boyfriend wore a flannel shirt and a lumberjack beard but also metallic gold Nikes, a pair of red Beats around his neck, and a Supreme baseball cap. He seemed to be awkwardly suspended between stereotypes.

  Then the boyfriend—who still hadn’t introduced himself—wandered off in search of another drink.

  “As you can see,” Tyler said, “Sofia’s dating a hopster.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lucas said. “A what?”

  “Hopster. Hip-hop hipster. It’s helpful, really: Every month, when Sofia finds a new man, I get to learn about a new subculture I wished didn’t exist. Last month was an abcaster.”

  “Which is?” Lucas asked.

  “An abstract podcaster. There’s one episode that’s just Sofia breathing for an hour.”

  Sofia frowned, but she seemed more amused than annoyed. “You’re giving my new friend here a very bad impression of me.” She winked at Lucas and his heart fluttered. Her voice brought to mind terraced gardens and olive trees. “What’s the point of living here if you’re not going to take advantage
of all the—”

  “Bizarre sexual proclivities?”

  “Diversity, Tyler.”

  “Sure, whatever. Actually, Lucas, seeing as you’re new to the city, I think you can take a lot of inspiration from Sofia. She’s an urban explorer in the grandest of senses. I’ve never met someone more willing to try anything.”

  Sofia smiled. “Well, I didn’t move here to sit in my apartment.”

  “I thought urban explorers climbed bridges and snuck onto subway tracks,” Lucas said.

  Sofia turned to Lucas. “Well, there are many kinds of explorers. But I have always been curious about the abandoned railroad beneath the West Side Highway. We should go sometime.”

  “I’d love that,” Lucas said. “I could even pitch it to the magazine.”

  “That’s fantastic!” Sofia said, and Lucas felt his heart soar. Until the hopster reappeared.

  “Well, we should be getting on to Ames’s book party. Luke, we could probably, almost certainly get you in,” Sophia said.

  Andrew Ames, Lucas knew, was a New York Times book critic known for his prickly attitude toward self-important, navel-gazing memoirists. He’d also just released his own memoir.

  “I’d love to,” Lucas said. “But I’m here with some friends.”

  Sofia leaned toward Lucas. She smelled of cut grass. “Until next time, then.”

  “Hold up, folks.” Tyler looked up from his phone, eyes gleaming. “Before we jet, I must read the latest from your esteemed publication, Lucas. The Internet is ablaze over Carmen Kelly.”

  Carmen Kelly wrote “The Sophisticated Sensualist,” Empire’s dating and sex column. It was the only part of the magazine in which Mel had shown any interest, which Lucas found strange. What use did people in a long-term committed relationship have for tips on dating and one-night stands?

  Sofia bent over Tyler giraffe-like, as though the top of his head were a low-lying shrub. “I hate that woman. Truly. Listen to this,” she said. “‘We reached my place. I could see Guy’s panic. Something was supposed to happen, but he didn’t know when, where, and in what order. If I gave him a written-out schedule, he’d have thanked me and studied it.’”

  “What’s there to hate?” Tyler protested. “Nobody sleeps with Carmen Kelly without knowing that he’ll eventually end up ground into dust. Have you met her around the office, Lucas? She’s the one human being capable of frightening those horrible Sphinxes.”

  “I don’t think she comes into the office,” Lucas said. “But how do you know Jays’ secretaries?”

  Before Tyler could answer, Sofia said, “You’re assuming the men who fall into Carmen’s clutches know who she is.”

  “It’s all anonymous, so who cares?” Tyler said.

  Sofia snorted, but it was a cute, delicate kind of snort. “If she was writing about you, I don’t think you’d be so sanguine, Tyler. Maybe she is writing about you.”

  “Do you take me for that much of a sexual naïf? Listen to this: ‘I experienced what I can only describe as his inexperience. He was trying so hard, poor Guy. He must have thought that he was highly sophisticated—quite sexually fluent, if you will. Instead, I was reminded of what the estimable Walter Kirn said about Aaron Sorkin: His “dialogue is how stupid people imagine smart people sound.”’”

  “That almost makes sense,” Sofia said.

  “But it’s still impressively mean,” said Tyler.

  “Can we go now?” the hopster asked, speaking for the first time.

  As Lucas listened to them bicker, he began to experience an uncomfortable sensation. He could swear that the room was filling with water and that he was sinking, quickly losing oxygen. Because by the Walter Kirn reference he knew—and he was certain that, somehow, at any moment, Tyler, Sofia, and even the hopster would know it, too: Carmen from the West Village was actually Carmen Kelly. And she was writing about him.

  The Sophisticated Sensualist

  By Carmen Kelly

  I intimidate men. As a dating columnist, it’s the cost of doing business. And it means that the guys I date are the ones bold enough to hit on me—which is to say those with big offices, even bigger egos, and positively massive bank accounts. Ladies, I know what you’re thinking: They’re all compensating for something. But so what? Sex is never a given, even if you have flown me out to Vegas for front row seats at the Octagon. (Though I have learned a thing or two about how to break an arm at the elbow; this generation of high rollers wouldn’t know a Pretty Woman move if Julia Roberts personally bit them in the ass.)

  Lately, though, the fancy meals and trips have started to feel staid. So I recently decided to try something new—i.e., a nice guy. Just a regular dude who can’t afford a meal at Gramercy Tavern or 11 Madison Park (let alone a private jet to Vegas) and who would probably be grateful to have a woman like me take him home.

  A few weeks ago, I entered a little spot in the Village, not at all classy, where a decent glass of Pinot only costs eight bucks. It was about midnight and I was sitting at the bar, waiting to see who or what would swim by. Dear reader, with you always in mind, I was taking some notes on a napkin when, to my surprise, a kid materialized. He looked to be twenty-two, twenty-three tops. He had terrific cheekbones (youth!) but an unfortunate haircut (youth!). He looked like he’d just wandered off the set of Oklahoma!

  “Excuse me,” he said, looking absolutely terrified. And then … nothing! He just stared at me, frozen in time. Eventually, he said he’d come to offer me some paper, because I was running out of room on my napkin—and then, wouldn’t you know it, he actually produced paper. Working with what you’ve got! I applaud that, and, in my head, gave him a name: Mr. Nice Guy. In the name of research, I then took Mr. Nice Guy home.

  Banker boys will do one of two things on the way from a bar to a bed: They’ll either start the heavy petting right there in the cab because they think they’re in an Axe body spray commercial, or they’ll drop not-very-subtle hints about how experienced and excellent they are, hoping that, when they fail to get it up or finish too fast, it’ll seem like a fluke. Mr. Nice Guy did neither. We decided to stroll—ah, late summer!—but he kept his distance, roughly the width of three city trash cans, the whole way. As we went, he asked me questions, first-date style: How do I like the city? What’s my favorite band? My favorite color? So curious, this boy! It was refreshing. Until we reached my place.

  Upon his entering my apartment, Mr. Nice Guy’s panic was palpable. Something was supposed to happen, but he didn’t know when, where, and in what order. If I gave him a written schedule, he’d have thanked me and studied it. Finally we shed our clothes—he tried helping me out of mine, but I’ll do that myself, thankyouverymuch—and then I experienced what I can only describe as his inexperience. He was trying so hard, poor guy. He must have thought that he was highly sophisticated—quite sexually fluent, if you will. Instead, I was reminded of what the estimable Walter Kirn said about Aaron Sorkin: His “dialogue is how stupid people imagine smart people sound.”

  Mr. Nice Guy was doing what he thought other people do, not what his body told him felt right.

  To wit: Sex with Mr. Nice Guy was like reading the overwrought prose of a first-year MFA student or—ugh—an undergraduate poetry major. Yes, the banker boys can be too distant, too disconnected, just parking their faces between my breasts like they’re storing a bottle of whiskey on the rack. But Mr. Nice Guy was unleashing something. Me on top, me on bottom, it didn’t matter—he tried to gaze longingly into my eyes, so much so that I had to close them to keep from cracking up.

  His technique? It was fine. Every one-night stand is a little awkward and I was impressed by his stamina. But his behavior afterward was too novice to let stand. Depending on the chemistry—which is to say, depending on whether it’s clear there should be more sex the next morning—a man is allowed to stay the night, but only to deliver the goods come sunshine. Mr. Nice Guy stayed, a real bummer because he snored and stole the covers. And then, when I woke up the next morning, he w
as gone. Vanished! There was no coffee waiting for me, no note thanking me for a nice night (even if it wasn’t). And, to add insult to injury, he left the toilet seat up.

  When I settle down—if I settle down—it won’t be with a banker boy. (Sorry, gents! But keep calling for now.) But my little experiment taught me something about nice guys off Wall Street: They’re excited, they’re eager, but they need to get laid a thousand more times before they’re real men. Maybe some of you ladies will be kind enough to help them—and please teach them some manners when you do. Thank-you notes may be passé in this digital age, but common courtesy is timeless.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Internet was like one massive highway pileup, and Lucas couldn’t look away. By 9:00 A.M. the next day, Carmen’s column was undergoing a thorough analysis throughout the Web. “Carmen Kelly Wins the Internet,” one site declared. A conservative news site ran a photo of her in a skimpy dress and wrote: “American family values are under assault, and this Manhattan seductress is leading the charge.” A frat-boy site ran a list called “15 Ways Carmen Kelly Will Criticize You in the Morning.” (Number 7: “You only gave me four orgasms.”) Be-Damed, an affiliate of Noser, laid out an argument straight out of Feminist Theory 101. “Women are assumed to be inherently empathetic,” the writer explained. “So when a female like Carmen Kelly behaves in a non-empathetic manner or employs even a drop of condescension, it upends everybody’s notions of female as nurturer, caretaker, compassionate mother-figure, etc. That’s why men hate Kelly today. She makes them sad and lonely, with nobody to kiss their boo-boos.”

  And, of course, there were the tweets: an army of anonymous men calling Carmen a slut, and worse; a campaign of women calling on Twitter to shut down those anonymous men’s accounts; and the reporters in New York one-upping one another with jokes. “Welcome to sex with unimpressive writers. Here in Brooklyn, we call that ‘Tuesday,’” wrote someone from Noser.