Super in the City

by Daphne Uviller

  “And?” I prompted, biting into the cheese.

  “And really smart. He’s the step- grandson of Athol Baron.”

  “Abigail, I don’t know who that is, but does that mean your guy’s name is Darren Baron?” I watched the flame flicker beneath the kettle and wondered whether I was responsible for forming an evacuation plan in the event of a gas leak.

  “He’s not my guy and his last name is Schwartz. He’s so smart and he gave this phenomenal paper on theoretical linguistics …” She paused, not wanting to insult my intelligence. “Well, he gave this great paper and I thought we were clicking. He really listened.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “So we’re messing around—”

  “How much?”

  “Shirts off.”

  “Bra?”

  “Still on.”

  “Prude,” I said, as the kettle whistled.

  “You know, I can’t even find Bengal Spice tea out here,” Abigail whined.

  “So you’re fooling around …” I prompted.

  “And… I still can’t believe this. You know, the more I think about it, the more I’m just livid. What a shit! What kind of man says things like that?”

  “Abigail!” I said. “What happened?”

  “He told me I was too Jewish- looking,” she admitted.

  I slammed down my cheese. “The guy you met on a Jewish dating site said you looked too Jewish?”

  “And he said I was too chubby. He said he likes thin Asian women.”

  I had never met this guy, but I wanted to make him walk naked down Broadway in a blizzard. No, that was too irrelevant. I wanted to publicly humiliate him, break his heart, get him to beg for Abigail’s love. I wanted to string him up, kick him in the guts, and watch him bawl like a baby. My throat closed up with bile.

  “What did you say?!” I sputtered.

  “I told him he was an insensitive prick and kicked him out. About a half hour ago.” I heard her door open and close again. “How can an educated, normal- seeming man… ? Zeph, I really liked him.” I pictured her in her spacious, faculty-subsidized kitchen: shoulders hunched, an oversized Near Eastern Language Association T-shirt hanging to her knees, one finger yanking at her curls. It made my heart hurt and I loathed the three thousand miles between us.

  “So who’s next?” I wanted her to move on.

  Abigail groaned. “It’s slim pickin’s out here in the mild, mild west. The sun’s deep- fried their brains. That’s why I was trying to import.” She sniffed. “When I told him he was a prick, he didn’t even understand what he’d done that was so bad.”

  “Oh, Ab.”

  “Forget it. He’s headed back to New York tomorrow anyway. I’m going to do one of those eight- minute speed- dating things. It sounds extremely efficient.” I could hear her psychically picking herself up and brushing herself off. “So what did you guys do tonight? I mean last night. Tell me how much fun you’re having without me.”

  “It’s never fun without you!” I said automatically. I dunked the tea bag in a mug I’d picked up in Mexican Hat, Utah, during a cross- country drive with Abigail and Tag to celebrate the acquisition of their respective Ph.D.s. The cup was a reminder of one of the best trips I’ve ever taken; it was also a stained porcelain memento of how undereducated I was compared to my friends, who, among the four of them, were an alphabet soup of advanced degrees. But they loved me and I wanted to torture any guy who mistreated any one of them.

  “Liar.”

  “We crashed a party at Soho House. A fortune- teller told Lucy she’s going to die,” I said offhandedly. An idea was beginning to needle the back of my brain.

  “Soon?” Abigail sounded worried.

  “Unclear.” I sipped at my tea. “Abigail, wait. There’s something that might be worth trying. How do you post a profile on JDate?”

  AT NOON, CLAD IN MY PERFECTLY PAINT- STAINED LEVI’S THAT suggested a can- do kind of gal (Zephyr helps her friends paint murals, stage sets, and kitchens!) and a long- sleeved, low-plunging white shirt that clung in the right places and miraculously made my tummy roll go on furlough for a few hours, I did a privacy check of my apartment.

  I started in the living room, removing all issues of Us Weekly and strategically tossing a couple of National Geographics and yesterday’s New York Times on the coffee table. I peered into my basket of mail and bills and covered my bank statement with a donation solicitation from public radio. On the pad next to my phone, I scribbled “Pete” and “Mark” so it would look like I had a flock of men in my life. I added “Hayden.” Then I crossed it out. Then I wrote it in again.

  I rearranged some framed photos on the bookshelf, remembering James’s creepy portrait duet still holding court across the hall. I put the picture of the five Sterling Girls looking like a Banana Republic ad in front of the others. Tag’s half brother—son of trophy wife number one—had taken it the year before when we’d spent the better part of an autumn Saturday raking leaves at her father’s country house. We looked downright enviable in our twiggy, tousled joy.

  In the kitchen, I hid the Entenmann’s devil’s food cake that was ragged with fork furrows and put the cheddar cheese riddled with teeth marks at the back of the fridge. I pushed the box of Corn Pops behind the granola.

  In the bathroom I hid the plaque rinse, but left out the fluoride rinse. I didn’t want him to think I was obsessive about keeping my teeth clean (which I was). I debated about the box of condoms. Sexy or overkill? Sophisticated if it was in the right place. I tucked it inside the medicine chest, off to the side, so he’d see it if he opened the cabinet, but where I couldn’t be accused of flaunting it.

  At twelve- fifteen the intercom buzzed. I looked out the window and saw the top of Gregory’s head, the mere sight of which made me inexplicably happy. He stepped back and looked up at my window. I threw myself onto the floor.

  Fifteen minutes early? I thought as I jungle- crawled out of his line of sight. What kind of sick game was this guy playing?

  “I’ll be right down,” I shouted through the intercom. I stood there a moment, pissed off and excited. Excited the way I used to be before sixth- grade dances, which is to say achingly and irrationally so, because the objects of my affection were inevitably huddled in a corner fervently recounting to one another what David Letterman had thrown off the studio’s roof the night before.

  I went downstairs and opened the door, which was unbolted. I’d have to put up a safety notice reminding everyone to double lock the door. That thought made me feel professional, responsible, and instantly more attractive, like a streak of eyeshadow for my ego.

  I immediately got what Lucy calls the yummies when I saw him. His hair looked more golden than it had the day before and he gave off a woodsy scent. He wore jeans with a deep red button- down shirt that set off his olive skin. I wondered whether he’d dressed as carefully for me as I had for him.

  He smiled at me tentatively. He was nervous! Ha.

  “How was the trip from Idaho?” I asked, proud of hitting the right note. Flirtatious, witty, able to acknowledge my own foibles.

  “Idowa,” he said with a trace of a grin.

  “Idowa,” I agreed.

  He was still standing on the stoop.

  “So, where do you want to go?” he asked.

  “Um,” I hesitated, “the dryer?”

  “Never heard of it, but sounds fine.” He glanced down at my bare feet. “I’ll wait here.”

  Suddenly I was embarrassed that he was being decent and date- like while I’d been planning on holding him to a proposal I’d made in a moment of anger. I lost my nerve.

  “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  I ran upstairs. I was hunting around for my wallet when Gregory appeared at my apartment door.

  “I just realized what you meant by ‘dryer,’ ” he said coolly. “You meant dryer.” I saw the surly look from our first encounter start to creep back into his face.

  “No.” I waved away the idea. “No, let’s go ha
ve coffee. You don’t have to look at my parents’ dryer.” I tried to make it sound like some irrational third party had suggested it.

  He nodded up the stairs.

  “C’mon. It was part of the deal.”

  He’s very moody and very intense, I heard myself reporting to the Sterling Girls. I really did want to go on a date with this guy, especially if I was going to wind up marrying him. I opened my mouth to plead with him to let it drop, but he just crossed his arms and arched his eyebrows at me.

  Fine. I grabbed my keys and stomped up the two flights to my old home. Just as I turned the knob, I realized I hadn’t called ahead to see if my parents were presentable to a non-Zuckerman. I offered up a quick prayer that they weren’t there.

  “Zephy!” my mother trilled before I could even wrestle the key out of the lock.

  “Darling daught!” my father bellowed cheerfully.

  “Are you guys decent?” I called out, smiling weakly at Gregory. I peeked around the door.

  “Wow,” Gregory said quietly from behind me.

  It’s no small miracle that my parents were able to locate Gideon and me and send us to school every day for eighteen years. Their home is an homage, my mother likes to say, to their limitless engagement with the world. Others might say it is the outward manifestation of their inner psychosis.

  Ollie and Bella Zuckerman had never met a hobby they wouldn’t try, and their apartment contained elements of all of them. By the window were some desiccated, crumbling branches from their forest- furniture- making phase. Next to the quilting corner were the metal jewelry- making tools, acquired at no small expense. Stuffed under an armchair were Renaissance instruments whose names I did not know and it didn’t really matter anyway because they were mostly obscured by the footprint maps for traditional Greek dances. I loved my parents dearly, but their enthusiasm was oppressive.

  Still in their sweaty biking clothes, Bella and Ollie were sprawled across the sectional couch, their collection of American folk crafts looming in wicker chaos on shelves above them. Empty cups of coffee and glasses filled with green energy drink made wet rings on the glass table. My mom’s feet were in my dad’s lap and it looked like the Sunday paper was holding them hostage. The dining room table held the picked- over remnants of lox and bagels and what appeared to be my father’s homemade apple strudel.

  “Why didn’t you call me for brunch?” I asked petulantly, forgetting for a moment that a strange man stood beside me, awaiting an introduction.

  “You missed the most fabulous bagels! Chewy inside, a little tough on the outside. A perfect morning!” My dad pushed aside my mom’s feet, peeled off a few sections of newspaper, and rose up to his full height. He held his arms out and I dutifully let myself be enveloped.

  From the crook of his arm, I could see my mom giving Gregory the once- over.

  “Aren’t you—?”

  “This is Gregory,” I interrupted, disentangling myself from my father. “He’s going to help with the dryer.” I felt like I was insulting him, but really, what else was I supposed to tell my parents? I met this guy Monday and we’re going to try to go on a date if we can manage five minutes without bickering?

  “But aren’t you the exterminator?” my mom persisted, looking at him over her reading glasses.

  “I am,” Gregory told her, not volunteering anything further. The man had the social graces of a sewer rat.

  “Really?” my dad piped up, squinting at Gregory. “You don’t—”

  “No, I don’t look like one,” Gregory said quietly. “I don’t look like a dryer repairman either, but that’s what I’m here to do.”

  My mother glanced over at me questioningly and rubbed her fingers together: is this going to be expensive?

  “Ah,” said my dad, pulling his chin. He studied Gregory openly, and Gregory met his gaze.

  “ Da- ad.” I pulled at his sleeve, trying to think of a way to end the uncomfortable encounter.

  “Let me tell you what I think is wrong with the machine.” He gestured to Gregory to follow him. I watched them push through the swinging door together. Son- in- law! I thought involuntarily.

  I looked at my mother, who was frowning in spite of the single Botox treatment she wouldn’t admit she’d had.

  “He really doesn’t look like an exterminator.” She sucked in her breath. “Maybe he’s FBI! Oh, Zephy, do you think he’s investigating Daddy? After the Wheeler nightmare, I bet they’re on the lookout for other bad eggs in the bureau …”

  “Mom!” She was so absurd sometimes that I was embarrassed for her. I shoved my own undercover cop theory to the back of my mind and grabbed a plate from the rough- hewn cabinet they’d picked up two years ago during an antiquing weekend. For nearly every weekend since, my mother had been planning to refinish it.

  “Speaking of bad eggs,” she said dramatically as I piled a bagel with the smoked fish that was, by all rights, mine. “Did Officer Varlam reach you?” I shook my head. “James pleaded guilty right off the bat. Three counts of mail fraud.”

  “Wow.” I scooped up some pastry crumbs with my fingers and shook my head, still unable to connect the American thug with the British charmer who’d laughed at all my jokes and taken out my garbage for the past decade. “I wonder how much time he’ll get.”

  “Do you think we really had a psychologically unsound man going in and out of our apartments all these years?” my mom wondered. “I mean, did you get a load of that Brooklyn accent?”

  “Well, either way,” I said with feigned confidence, “I’ve been looking through his paperwork to see whether James was stealing from us.” It was going to be true soon. I glanced over at my mother to see if she was impressed.

  “Oh, I checked the books from time to time,” she said, nonchalantly uncoiling herself from the couch. “If he stole anything from us, it had to be minimal. Cost of business.” She waved away the idea. “Make sure you try the sable.”

  “There’s none left,” I said pointedly as I pulled a chair up to the food.

  A loud crash came from the other side of the door. “We’re fine, we’re fine!” my father yelled.

  My mother beamed proudly. “He can fix anything.”

  So why didn’t you ask him to do it instead of me? I wanted to ask. What is this test I’m taking and when will I know whether I’ve passed it? But I kept my mouth shut because I am like a Mormon with caffeine when it comes to confrontation: I just don’t do it.

  And anyway, I knew the answer. I would pass the test when I found a real job.

  No, not a job.

  A career.

  Fair enough.

  While I had an entire argument with my mother inside my head—which I ultimately lost—she said carefully, “So now we, I mean you, can rent out James’s apartment.” She began to pile up dishes.

  I grabbed a cream- cheese- caked knife before she could take it away.

  “Eva Lowell knows a great real estate agent,” she offered. So much for my scheme to handpick a hottie to share my landing.

  A rushing- water sound followed by a slam reminded me that Gregory was still on the premises. Here was my plan: first, have coffee with him. Second, see whether we could have a conversation. If not, then third: fill James’s old apartment with a new contender for future love of my life, someone whose work as a developer of clean water systems in India, a designer of flood- proof homes in Louisiana, or a foe of the plastic- bag industry would illuminate new professional paths for me.

  “First,” said my mother, “you’ll need to get James’s stuff out of there. Then you’ll need to get the place cleaned. Then you can call Eva’s agent to see what you can get for it.”

  I preferred my plan.

  “Zephy?”

  She paused outside the kitchen door, her arms filled with plates, and studied me. I licked my knife, something I knew drove her up a wall. (“You can’t put a Band- Aid on your tongue!” she used to yell at Gideon.) She shook her head, her thick, silver French braids brushing stiffly aga
inst her shoulders, and chose not to take the bait.

  “How’s it going?” she asked gently. I shoved a piece of bagel into my mouth and shrugged. I had hoped to avoid directly acknowledging the fact that my life was in limbo for the foreseeable future. I had hoped that one day very soon, before I became too identified as the new James, I would come upstairs and announce that I had found my true calling as a … a… psychologist? Stevedore? Sewer builder?

  She nodded, then looked away, something the CEO of MWP did not normally do.

  “Daddy and I decided that whatever you’re able to rent James’s apartment for will be your salary. It’s not income we ever had before anyway, and, well, you need to earn cash,” she added, delicately broaching the subject we had all sidestepped for the past two weeks.

  I stared at her. Forget the hottie with the heart of gold. I was going to find a stockbroker and milk him. Or her. How much could I get? It didn’t even matter. I would have steady income. When was the last time I’d had that? Never. Never was the last time I’d had a steady income. My one year of med school qualified me to tutor the over- scheduled children of anxious, wealthy parents, and while it provided me with enough money for cheese and subway fare, it was hardly the stuff on which great fortunes are built.

  I swigged some green juice to hide my excitement and promptly gagged. I looked at my mother accusingly.

  “Beet greens and lime,” she explained. “So, what do you think?”

  I nodded casually. “I think that could work.”

  “Excellent.” She seemed relieved. “By the way,” she nodded her head toward the door and adjusted her stack of plates, “the exterminator, who I really don’t believe is an exterminator, is very cute.”

  Gregory pushed open the door.

  “Oh, crap,” was all I could mutter as I hid behind another sip of mossy elixir.

  “Thank you,” Gregory said to my mother.

  “You’re welcome,” she replied, not missing a beat. “Did you fix my dryer?”

  My father emerged from the kitchen, which is when I noticed that both of them were damp from the waist up, their hair plastered to their foreheads. He clapped a hand on Gregory’s shoulder.