As the target of Carmen’s “drop” of condescension, Lucas felt strangely disconnected from it all. He wanted to hate her, but that meant siding with the chorus of sexist men, which he found appalling. And her defenders, like Be-Damed, seemed all too eager to lump him in with that crowd anyway.
“Hey, look at this!” Franklin said from inside his cubicle and to nobody in particular. “J. P. Maddox at Noser has written an open letter to Mr. Nice Guy. They want him to write a rebuttal.”
In half a second flat, Lucas was standing over Franklin’s computer screen. “No shit,” he said. “You think he should—I mean, will?”
“Whoa there!” Franklin sputtered. “Look who’s suddenly a gossipmonger.”
Lucas slunk back to his cube. He was terrified of being identified and publicly humiliated. But he was also indignant. His performance wasn’t so bad … was it? Because what if he’d read the night all wrong? What if everything she said about him was true?
No. He should trust himself, to be more like Jays. He would write that goddamned rebuttal! He grabbed his laptop and headed outside. Sitting on a bench, he typed furiously for twenty minutes—invective after invective, witty phrase followed by sharp, wounding metaphor. And as his fury spilled onto the screen, he felt a pure, invigorating rush. Most of the time, he was a slow and careful writer. He made outlines with bullet points and sub bullet points. And yet Carmen said that sex with him was “like reading the overwrought prose of a first-year MFA student.” It was all Lucas could do not to throw his computer against the sidewalk. He was in magazines, which made him a laborer, not an artist. You could hunt through his work for days before stumbling across a mixed metaphor or, god forbid, an adverb. Also, he thought most poetry was stupid. So there.
But everything he’d written so far was foreplay. Now that he was reaching the climax of his argument, he could barely contain himself. His fingers flew across the keys as the letter’s most pointed, devastating, and forceful thought began to coalesce. It built, as though pressurized, until he couldn’t contain it any longer. And all at once, in a burst of consonants and vowels, the sentence shot from his fingers onto the screen. Lucas sighed and sat back, breathing hard. His hands fell from the keys. He was spent. He could have passed out right there on the park bench.
Now to get this sucker printed. He wasted a good twenty minutes trying to think up a decent, anonymous email address to create and finally settled on [email protected]. Because he was, after all, a nice guy. A decent person, unlike Carmen Kelly. He was willing to own at least that part of her description.
He typed J. P. Maddox’s email address into the computer, then paused. Sure, Noser had asked for the rebuttal, but it would be so much more devastating to have his response printed in Empire itself! Tyler would be pissed, but he’d deal. Lucas replaced Maddox’s email address with Dan Housman’s.
“Dear Mr. Housman,” Lucas wrote. “I am the person who had the unfortunate experience of spending the evening with your columnist Carmen Kelly last month. I have written a rebuttal for your consideration—one that corrects the ‘facts’ presented by Ms. Kelly. You have my permission to run it. Thank you for your consideration. Sincerely, Nice Guy.”
He pressed “send.” Then he hurried back to the office. He wanted to be there when the email landed.
But by 4:00 P.M., he’d heard nothing. Unable to stand it any longer, Lucas took a stroll past Housman’s office. He knocked, but when Housman called him in he found Jays, wearing perfectly tailored gray pants and complaining about his hamstrings.
“They’re so tight!” Jays groaned, and reached his arms toward his feet.
“Sorry,” Lucas said immediately.
“About my hamstrings?” Jays asked, his face still bent toward his knees. “Unless you’re a five-foot-five gay man named Rocco with a BMI of eighteen-point-five then my hamstrings aren’t your fault. Or your problem.”
Housman gave Lucas a look, but Lucas couldn’t tell if the expression said come in or get out.
With another groan, Jays righted himself. “So, Luke.” Jays swung his head abruptly toward the door. “Maybe you can advise us. Carmen’s recent victim has made contact. ‘Mr. Nice Guy’ is how he signed the email. I mean, really?”
“It is what Carmen called him,” Housman said.
“It’s not bad—the rebuttal,” Jays went on. “The guy’s intelligent. A few great lines actually.”
Lucas tried to swallow his smile.
“You OK, Luke?” Housman asked. “You look a little…”
“Constipated,” Jays said. Which did the trick of erasing Lucas’s grin altogether.
“Of course it needs a serious edit, starting with the name. I’m nixing the ‘Mr.’ It sounds like those ridiculous Roger Hargreaves characters—Mr. Jelly and Mr. Tickle. Anyway, when Carmen called him a grad student she wasn’t kidding.”
Lucas swallowed the insult. “Are you going to run it?” he blurted.
“That’s why I like our new hire, Housman. Young Luke has a fire in him. But we definitely don’t want Noser taking control of this thing. The publisher is already on my ass about our Web traffic.” Jays glanced at Housman. “It’s a stroke of luck that Nice Guy decided to send the letter to us instead of those muckraking pre-schoolers. I mean is anybody at Noser older than twenty-five?” Jays seemed not to remember that Lucas was only twenty-four. “So here’s where we’re at: The writer of this rebuttal could be any huckster. How do we know it’s really him?”
“Wouldn’t Carmen be able to verify the guy’s identity?” Lucas offered.
“I think it’s better if we leave Carmen out of this for now,” Jays said. “In fact, Luke, I’d prefer that you keep this conversation between the three of us.”
“Of course,” Lucas said, puffing up a little. He’d just received his first state secret and straight from the emperor’s mouth. “What about asking the writer a question about Carmen that he’d only know from … uh, experience?”
Jays nodded, though he looked skeptical. Lucas decided to pivot and dismiss his own idea. It would demonstrate that he could self-critique. “Although I’m sure there’s no shortage of men with those kinds of details,” he said.
Jays stopped nodding. Housman grimaced.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I, uh … that was really insensitive.” Lucas stared at the floor.
“No, you’re right,” Jays said. “She has had many gentleman callers, which means that we can’t necessarily trust what any one man has to tell us.”
“Um,” Lucas said. “What if we—”
“Housman and I will think of something, Luke. Thank you for your input.”
“Oh,” Lucas said. “OK.” He had to redeem himself. But how?
“Talk to you later,” Housman said, not quite looking Lucas in the eye.
Lucas slunk back to his desk, ruminating over his mental impotence.
“What’s going on with you?” Franklin said when Lucas collapsed into his chair. “Two hours ago you bounded in here like you’d won a gold medal and now you look like you’ve been fired.” Franklin leaned eagerly around the cubicle divider. “Have you been fired?”
“No,” Lucas said. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
CHAPTER 7
Later that night, Lucas received an email. Technically, NiceGuyNYC received the email, but Lucas was having messages to the fake account forwarded to his personal one.
Dear Nice Guy,
We appreciate your considered response to the column written by Carmen Kelly, which appeared in this week’s issue of Empire. Though we have never published a full-length response to one of her columns before, we are entertaining the idea of publishing yours. However, your column must be fact-checked in order to verify that you are indeed the person about whom Ms. Kelly wrote last week. The easiest route is for you to come forward and reveal your identity, so that Carmen can confirm it. If you are not willing to do that, then I will need you to confirm a few details about the night in question.
1
. The name of the bar at which you and Carmen met, as well as verification from someone else at the bar that you were there with her.
2. The address of Carmen’s apartment, as well as verification from the doorman that you went home with her.
3. A specific detail about sex with Carmen that nobody else would know.
Sincerely,
Jay Jacobson
Editor, Empire
As Lucas read, a series of thoughts sped into his mind, stopped short, and crashed: He could never reveal his identity; he had no proof they’d met at Kettle of Fish; Carmen’s building had no doorman. And then Lucas began traveling to the logical conclusion of the letter: If Jays wanted an explicit sexual detail about Carmen in bed, it meant that either Carmen was now part of the discussion or …
No. Jays clearly wanted to keep her out of the discussion.
Which meant someone else would have to verify.
And only Jays and Housman knew about this.
And Housman, who got married like a month ago, was definitely not sleeping with Carmen.
Which meant that Jays was (is!?) sleeping with Carmen.
Which meant that Lucas had slept with the same woman as Jay Jacobson.
Which meant Lucas was in the same league as Jay Jacobson!
Which meant that in alluding to Carmen’s many sexual partners Lucas had also deeply insulted the woman Jay Jacobson was (is!?!?) sleeping with.
Which meant that Lucas just told his boss, the most powerful man in New York media, that he’s just another dick in a lineup of dicks.
Lucas was screwed. And yet he’d never felt more elated. It was like he’d just cracked the modern version of The Da Vinci Code. But now it was time to focus. He needed to get Jays proof—and quickly. It was after midnight, but Lucas grabbed a pen from his desk, tiptoed past Tyler’s door, and booked it to the West Village.
It was a Tuesday night and Kettle of Fish wasn’t crowded. Lucas sat down at the bar and ordered a beer. To his relief, he recognized the bartender. “Do you remember me?” Lucas asked.
“No,” the bartender said without even looking up.
“I was in here a few weeks ago? I was talking to a woman over there in the corner. Her name is Carmen Kelly.”
“Ms. Kelly.”
“Yes!” Lucas said. “You know her.”
The bartender nodded. “That magazine she works for isn’t really to my taste. But she doesn’t act like a big shot. Never has.”
Carmen, humble? Please. But Lucas nodded. “So, um, here’s the thing. My friends and I are huge fans. But, see, they don’t believe that I actually met her. They’ve been busting my balls for two weeks now.” Lucas had never used the phrase “busting my balls” before, but it seemed like appropriate language for a brusque neighborhood bartender. “They’re calling her my imaginary girlfriend.”
The bartender frowned. “What do you want from me?”
“Well, I was hoping that you could kind of provide some testimony for me. You know, like a quick video saying that I’m not a lying piece of shit.”
The frown deepened. “Forget it.”
“OK, yeah, I know it’s a lot to ask,” Lucas said, nodding as earnestly as possible. “You wouldn’t have to say anything about her, though. Just the fact that I met her.”
“What’s your name?” the bartender asked skeptically.
“Guy.”
“No way, Guy. I don’t remember you. And even if I did, I wouldn’t get involved in your dumb game.”
“There’s got to be some way to verify—”
“I said no. Do you need to hear it again?”
“No, sir,” Lucas mumbled. He slapped down some money and slunk morosely out of Kettle of Fish.
Having failed his first test, he wasn’t sure that attempting to pass the others mattered, but he headed for Carmen’s apartment anyway. Indeed, there was no doorman. Was that just a trick question? He wrote down the address and then scanned the mailboxes for her apartment number. It felt odd to be fact-checking his own one-night stand. If only he could confirm the “why” of it all. Why had Carmen taken him home? Was he just an easy victim? Hadn’t there been anything about him that she’d found charming or likeable?
It seemed so pointless and, honestly, a little gross to make your living looking for other people’s flaws. But worse, her column had destroyed his memory of that night, tarnished the pride he felt waking up beside her. She didn’t even realize she’d done it. Or maybe she did and simply didn’t care.
Lucas looked up at Carmen’s building. He couldn’t remember if her apartment looked out over the street or not. Part of him wanted her to peer out and see him standing there. He hadn’t failed. Not entirely. He was trading the excitement of one new experience for that of another: having his first published piece of writing in a notable magazine. Even if he wasn’t going to be paid for it. And even if nobody knew that it was his.
Lucas pulled out his phone right there on the street and signed into the Nice Guy email account. He sent the address and apartment number, noting the lack of a doorman. He told Jays the name of the bar and hoped that would suffice. Now all he needed was a sexual detail. “Carmen kept asking me to pull her hair,” Lucas wrote. “It was frustrating, because no matter how hard I pulled, it never seemed to be hard enough.” He sent the email, hoping the facts checked out to Jays’ satisfaction.
The UnSophisticated Sensualist
By “Mr. Nice Guy”
Carmen,
I’m sorry I was attracted to you. I’m sorry I was excited that you took an interest in me—or appeared to. You have my deepest apologies for the way I didn’t treat you like a piece of meat during the walk to your place. You have my humble regrets for kissing you too passionately. I atone for touching you too gently. It is with a heavy heart that I admit I looked into your eyes as you—should we get real?—rode my cock, your tits bouncing, your breathing heavy. “Fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me,” you said.
That is what you said. In your column last week, you somehow left that part out.
To the nice men of this city you insulted, insinuating that they’re all worthless because I didn’t measure up to your expectations: I am sorry about that. Most of you are probably better lovers than me. I didn’t represent you well. I appreciate your pity, if that’s what you have to offer. But I’d rather take your righteous indignation. Because what the hell is wrong with being excited and showing it? What’s so bad about feeling lucky and appreciative? That’s what we’re being judged for, of all things? Women like Carmen, throwing $100 bills out the window and laughing at the people desperately trying to grab one because, to them, $100 is a lot of money?
I was only trying to be genuine—inexperience and all. But women like Carmen don’t want honesty. And if you don’t satisfy their every whim and desire, they’ll punish you for being yourself.
I’m trying not to be petty.
Yeah, maybe I kissed Carmen too much like I kissed my ex. Muscle memory. But I was with her for years. So yet again, I’m sorry. Most of us at least give long-term partnership a shot.
Back up. Not trying to be petty …
Nope, let’s be a little petty. Carmen, the woman who prides herself on her sex life—you know what she’s like in bed? Stiff, at first. It was like she was waiting for me to warm her up. But two minutes later she’s yelling. Yelling! “Fuck me fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!” There wasn’t passion in it. More like instructions. Like she was a drill sergeant. She didn’t say that in her column either. Here’s something else: She said she avoided my eyes. No. I kept looking into her eyes—“gazing,” as she described—because she wouldn’t break the eye contact. I liked it, sure. Eye contact is sexy. But she liked it, too.
Carmen, I don’t know what the hell you’re looking for, but I think it was more than a simple screw.
I do stand by one thing you said about me: I am a nice guy. Most of us are. And we’re not going to bars like it’s American Gladiators—all antagonistic and bringing our A Game. We
’re just trying to have fun, and hope that the women we meet want the same. But you never wanted that. You don’t seem to like the banker guys you always talk about, but you don’t like guys like me either. That’s my problem? No. It’s yours. If you found what you were looking for, I guess you’d have nothing left to write about.
CHAPTER 8
Jays, that ass, had printed a rebuttal to her column. A rebuttal! Readers could say whatever they wanted in the online comments. They could skewer her on social media. But the rabble hordes—which Lucas obviously was part of—did not have the right to besiege her in the pages of her magazine. And yet Carmen knew it was pointless to argue with Jays. The issue with Mr. Nice Guy’s rebuttal had sold more physical copies than any week over the previous twelve months: more than Empire’s coverage of the hurricane that turned Lower Manhattan into a temporary Atlantis; more than the interview with the school shooter who’d terrorized that elementary school upstate; more than the cover story about the transgendered Republican congressman.
What was wrong with New York? Where was its respect for privacy—for dignity? She herself had grown up in a small Hamilton Heights apartment, her bedroom an alcove separated from the living room by a shoji screen. Her father, an MTA administrator of Irish stock, and her mother, a high-school Spanish teacher from Colombia, had encouraged her to make it her own. “Always preserve your own space,” her mother had said. “Your own space is sacred.” And so Carmen had gotten creative with paints and floating shelves and paper lanterns purchased in Chinatown.
When she started publishing “The Sophisticated Sensualist,” her parents weren’t thrilled. But they came to understand that Carmen’s column wasn’t Page Six. Nor was it Noser, which churned out public epistles of snark and narcissistic oversharing. Like her childhood alcove, the column was Carmen’s own space, and through it she provided a voice to women throughout the city. It wasn’t exactly bra burning in the streets. But it did expose and lambast the city’s most sexist and misogynistic denizens. People thought everything was great for women these days. All this talk about “the end of men,” a great calamitous finale for the power-hungry gender. But that was far from true.
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