“I know. But that waiter has been giving me the eye. So if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to get my drinks from him.”
Christopher disappeared, and within minutes, Reena spotted something she liked.
“Don’t look now,” she said, with her teeth frozen, and her eyes cleverly diverted at our drinks, “but there are three cuties at nine o’clock.”
On cue, Cristy and I whipped our heads simultaneously to the left, and commenced staring directly at the men in question.
“Nice,” Reena chided.
What we lacked in subtlety, Reena made up for in taste. We nodded our approval, while sharing a conspiratorial giggle, like a couple of married senators at a strip club. Christopher returned and dropped a raspberry martini into my hand.
“I thought you were gonna order me a mojito.” I pouted, steadying myself on what seemed like an increasingly wobbly barstool.
“I did,” he said in hushed tones. “He may not be all that smart, but he’s pretty. And that’s a trade-off I’m willing to make.”
“Classy,” I said, feeling my oats as much as my brimming bladder.
“Don’t judge me,” he snapped.
“Okay. Who’s hypersensitive now?” I laid my raspberry-tini carefully on the bar, spilling nearly a fifth down my arm, and then licked the back of my hand. “Anyway, what do I owe you?”
“Nothing. Forget about it. Just wish me luck.” He winked. “And save your money for your cab ride home tonight. Alone.”
And with that, Christopher was swallowed by the growing crowd.
“Are you sure we should do this?” Cristy asked.
“Oh, what’s the big deal?” I asked, feeling bolder, and gulping down a third of my raspberry-tini. “They don’t look like the kind of guys who would be offended by some assertive women.”
I took a moment to examine the men, who were trying to make it clear that they were checking us out, if we wanted them to. Two blondes and an African-American. The shorter blonde looked like a country mouse in city man’s clothing; as uncomfortable in his slick black suit as he was in his skin, but trying to act as if he wasn’t. Or, to put it in Reena-speak: he looked a lot like lunch meat. The taller blonde was clearly the alpha male, scanning the bar for attractive females, lightly bopping his head to the music and grinning at the good fortune of having woken up that morning as himself. The African-American sat back; he was taking it easy, taking it in and taking great care to cultivate the impression that he was thinking deep thoughts.
Cristina narrowed her eyes and stuck out her chin. “You can’t tell something like that just by looking at them.”
“I can do whatever I want.” I was getting sick of being told what I could and couldn’t do, and sicker of having my decisions made for me.
I hopped off my bar stool. Maybe it was time to let loose? Maybe I could rechristen myself as free of Jon by taking control of tonight? Maybe Reena’s skin was just the ticket.
“It’s something about the way they carry themselves,” I explained. “Some men can handle it and others can’t. They’re cowboys. They prefer to feel like they conquered you, that they won you in some grand way. But other guys couldn’t care less who starts the game, as long as they get to play. I’m betting these guys are playful. And because I’ve been out of the game for a while doesn’t mean that my radar’s necessarily rusty. I mean…I’m not sure that radars actually get rusty, but you know what I mean.”
They were silent. I was restless. And the rest of my raspberry-tini was already well on its way to my head.
“You don’t believe me?” I slurred. “Let’s make it interesting. I’ll bet you, um, I’ll bet you a pedicure that if I do something very assertive, they’ll come over and talk to us.”
“You’re on,” Reena agreed, adjusting her man-catchers and sucking her teeth with her tongue, “because if it works, I get dibs on the shorter blonde. And if it doesn’t work, then I get a pedicure.”
“I’m scared,” Cristina shared.
“Oh, hush. Nobody asked you. Now sit there and look pretty.” I grinned, and then downed the contents of my glass before setting it on the bar and refocusing on Reena. “This is purely for research purposes. And also because I’m bored. So, I’m sending them a drink each, with our compliments.”
“How do you know what to send them?” Crisina asked, pulling a compact out of my purse to check her lipstick.
“I was thinking nothing says Wanna come out and play? like alcohol,” I answered, waving over the bartender.
“Very funny,” she shot at me, while reapplying some of my lip gloss to her own lips. “I meant what kind of drink.”
“Oh, well.” I fingered an imaginary beard. “I’m thinking they’re not burly enough for Scotch. And they’re not double-o-seven enough for martinis. And we’re far too classy for beer. So maybe just some mojitos? We are in a Cuban joint, right? When in Rome. Or should I say, When in the meatpacking district?”
“That sounds good to me. They’ll think we’re international.” Reena accepted the bet, breathing hard against her palm.
“They’ll think we’re escorts is what they’ll think,” Cristina suggested.
“Come on,” I teased Cristina and started feeling like a bit of an alpha-female myself. “Where’s your sense of adventure? What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
The longer I live, the more I become convinced that God has someone on staff to keep record of my hubris, and find creative ways to put me in my place. Swiftly. Case in point: I specifically told the bartender to take the drinks over to that group of three men over there. Naturally, he walked right past that group and toward another group, none of whom could have been less than sixty years old, and gave them the drinks instead.
Imagine my horror when I saw our messenger saunter past our intended targets, and knew there was nothing I could do to stop him. Imagine my shame when one of the geriatrics actually lifted a pair of spectacles to get a better look at us. Imagine my rage while I explained to the bartender afterwards that (1) those were the wrong men, (2) he would have to rectify his mistake before they invited us to their next Ice Cream Social and (3) he needed to take another round of mojitos to the correct group of men. As I had predicted, when they finally received the round of green, minty mojitos, the correct group of men sent back over three pink, peachy Bellinis. And they raised a gentlemanly toast in our direction before coming over to introduce themselves. I was vindicated. I grabbed hold of my fruity victory drink, like the trophy that it was. I was a tigress, predatory and majestic. I spotted what I wanted and I took it.
“Ladies, thank you for the mojitos,” Alpha Male said as he glided into our bar space, and made it clear with his gaze that I was the one he had his eye on.
“And thank you all for the Bellinis. Nice choice,” Reena purred like a cougar in the direction of the farm boy. He took one look at her and hurled himself happily into her imaginary lair.
“Can we just tell you girls? That’s, like, the coolest thing any woman has ever done. I mean, we were sitting around getting drunk and talking about how men do all the work in places like this,” Farm Boy babbled, “and then you sent us these drinks! That’s great. Really. Thanks. You made our night.”
Alpha Male glared him into silence, before returning his attention toward me.
“So, what can we do to repay the favor?” he asked, slipping an arm almost imperceptibly behind me, and staring so hard down my blouse that I worried he might fall in.
Well, for starters, you can look me in the eye and ask me my name before you try to climb into my bra.
“Oh, it was really nothing. We thought you guys looked like you were worth getting to know. So we decided to have a little fun. And thanks for the Bellinis, by the way.” I leaned on the bar for support, and felt the alcohol in my system begin to take hold.
Sometimes I worried that I might actually hurt myself while trying to act as if I were this effortlessly sophisticated. At that moment, however, I shook it off. Tonight, I wo
uld not second-guess myself. Why shouldn’t I be able to pull this off? Why couldn’t I decide to be this suave? Why wouldn’t I simply choose to be over Jon? Or choose not to take so much of what my parents said to heart? Or take control of my own damn Friday night? Maybe I could just block things out and think about myself for once! I could forget about Jon. I could take control. Icouldbe funny and still be sexy! I could do whatever the hell I wanted! I took a deep breath and shook my hair away from my shoulders.
“I’m Vina. And this is Cristy and Reena.”
“And I’m Ron. The guy humping your friend’s leg is my little brother Tim. And this big muscle-head over here is my buddy Daniel,” Alpha Male explained.
Tim and Reena had already separated a foot from the circle and forgotten about the rest of us. She was throwing her head back and laying a hand on her throat, laughing particularly hard at his particularly witty jokes. He was convinced that she was the only woman in the room. I was watching her mannerisms, rooting her on and wondering if I looked that shameless when I was flirting with a man.
“Cristina, what nationality is that?” Daniel asked.
“Cuban.” She fluttered her eyelashes, and f lung my blue purse over her shoulder.
“Really?” He perked up. “Then you know that it is pronounced ‘Don-yell,’ not ‘Dan-yul.’ I was born in Cuba. My mother is Jamaican and my father’s Cuban. That means you can probably dance, girl. And the band’s playing salsa. ¿Quieres bailar?”
“So Vina.” Ron turned to me after Cristy and Daniel headed for the dance floor. “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m in finance.” I twirled the stem of my glass between my hands. “I—”
“Really?” He smiled, cutting me off. “I’m a VP at Globecom. You’ve probably heard of us. We’re publicly traded. So you’ve got beauty and brains. That’s a pretty lethal combination.”
He arched what I could’ve sworn was a waxed eyebrow, confident that he had me cornered.
“I guess so.” I was losing interest in him fast, along with my motor skills. Living inside his own happy little world, Ron Quixote failed to notice my sentiment.
“So what do you like to do for fun?”
“The same stuff as everyone else, I guess.”
“Do you like to party?” He wiped what seemed like an inordinate amount of sweat from his forehead, using the back of his sleeve.
Cocky and sweaty. Now, that’s hot.
“Sure. I mean, I don’t go out all that much, to be honest with you, what with working crazy hours and all. But I do okay.” I racked my murky mind for legitimate excuses to leave, but came up empty.
“No. I mean party.” He stared at me as if I were a five-year-old. “I’ve got some really good powder back at my place. We’re celebrating tonight. I just closed a major deal.”
He said it in a way that made it clear I was supposed to be turned on. I wasn’t sure what was making me dizzier—the five drinks I had downed, or the fumes of unwarranted arrogance emanating from Ron’s pores.
“Let me be honest with you, Ronald,” I lied, having decided he was too slimy for my taste, but not wanting to have to explain that to him. “I’m seeing someone. I didn’t mean to lead you on. I was just playing wing-woman for Reena. She thought Tim was cute.”
“I don’t see a ring on your finger,” he challenged.
Did he think he was presenting me with a loophole that I was unable to find for myself? Eureka! You’ve found the trap-door in my commitment dilemma! Now I guess I’ll just have to go home and get naked with you!
“Well, that’s true.” I crossed my arms before me, and speared him with my most take-no-prisoners glare. “I’m not married. But I am in a relationship, so I am not on the market.”
“If he’s so wonderful, then where is he tonight?”
“Ron, come on.” I tried to lighten the mood. “This is not an MTV video. You’re not gonna win me over by singing ‘What’s Your Man Gotta Do with Me?’”
“If you were my girlfriend—” he ignored what I’d said, leaning closer, treating me to a whiff of what I decided was garlic-and-blue-cheese-infused tuna breath “—I wouldn’t let you run around looking all sexy without me.”
Suddenly, I felt fiercely protective of my imaginary boyfriend. “Okay, first of all, this is a Girls’ Night Out. Secondly, my boyfriend doesn’t let me or not let me do anything. And besides, he knows that he has nothing to worry about.”
“Come on, baby. Don’t you find me attractive? It’s not like he would ever find out. What happens between us can stay between us. I’m like Vegas,” he implored, trying to climb in through my eyes, since the lower gates were obviously locked.
I had leaned so far back as to practically be lying horizontal on the bar.
“Seriously, Ron,” I reverted to the voice I used on dogs and boardrooms full of middle-aged men, “Back off. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m spoken for. So you’re gonna have to not be so into my personal space.”
I was as offended at his presumption that I would be unfaithful as I was disgusted by his borderline bullying. I had no choice but to downgrade him to leper status. And that didn’t bode well for his chances of taking me home, since he had started to spit a little bit while he spoke at me.
Prakash did owe me a favor, I thought. Maybe he could expedite a restraining order?
“Are you serious?” It finally registered with him that he wasn’t going to get what he wanted, and like any animal, he decided to let his fangs out. “I am the vice president of Globecom! I make more money than any of the men in this place! I signed a $100 million deal today to buy a software company with two hundred employees! And I look like this! I am the definition of an ‘eligible bachelor.’ What could this man possibly have that I don’t?”
I was floored. There were so many things I could say to explain why the way he looked at the world was lopsided, but none of them would come out correctly. I was too drunk to string a sentence together. And even a coherent argument would be lost on a man like him. He was getting drunker by the minute. So regardless of what I said, he wouldn’t remember more than two words of it tomorrow. Before I picked up my purse and walked casually into the crowd, I whispered into his ear the only answer that would make him sit up and take notice.
“Me.”
15
If you’re in preschool, it’s expected. If you’re on spring break, it’s applauded. And if you’re an aspiring actress, it’s forgiven. But waking up alone in an unfamiliar bed was nothing for a woman in my situation to be proud of. Cristina would’ve slipped immediately out the closest window. Reena probably would’ve done a victory lap around the bed. My thoughts, however, progressed in a different direction…
I slid out of bed and crawled toward the bedroom door on my hands and knees like a Special Ops officer trying to maneuver undetected around a battlefield. I sniffed and caught a whiff of something suspiciously similar to coffee. Then I glimpsed Nick, Prakash’s friend from the gym. Naked aside from his boxer-briefs, he was actually whistling while he made scrambled eggs. An empty six-pack of eggs, next to a chiseled six-pack of abs…but there was no time to think about that now. My priority was an escape plan.
But how did I get here? Where was my cell phone? If he took advantage of me, why would he be making me breakfast?
Clambering to my feet, I hid behind the door. How could I have let this happen? I rubbed at my eye sockets, and realized that there was no mascara or eye-makeup on my fingers, or on the pillow. Which meant that I must have come to his apartment by choice, and been sober enough to wash my face before falling asleep! But why would I go home with Nick, of all people? Granted he was cute, but he was also a complete waste of my time. Could I really have felt that lonely the night before?
New rule: No more drinks that end in “tini.”
I leaned against the wall for support, and shuddered at the chill as it made contact with my naked skin. That’s when it all started coming back to me.
It must have been R
on’s breath that had put me over the edge the night before; I only wish he could have been the recipient of the results. I was less than five steps away from him when I realized that my dinner was about to repeat on me. Clenching my stomach with one hand and my mouth with the other, I had fought my way through the crowds and into the ladies’ room. When I reached the cubicle, I dropped to my knees on the cold, sticky tile, and laid my purse down beside me. Pulling my hair back, I leaned over the bowl and waited.
“Hey! Hurry up!” a nasal, scratchy voice assaulted me. Its owner banged furiously on the door of my stall. “Some of us have to take a dump!”
Locked in midhurl at the time, I couldn’t exactly respond.
“There’s a line out here!” she hollered, “Whaddya think? That you’re the only lady in this whole freakin’ club?”
There was no time to ponder the irony.
“I’m not well,” I yelled over my shoulder.
“That’s not my problem!” she barked.
A bony hand trimmed with sharp red nails grazed my knee. She grabbed my purse, and yanked it out from under the stall. I scrambled to my feet, flushed and threw open the door. A trashy version of Maria from West Side Story stood smugly before me. We locked eyes. She tilted her head, smirked, and then tossed my purse right out the door of the ladies’ room.
Cursing like a Joe Millionaire contestant who actually put out, I chased after it. A sequined hot-pink-and-mint-green clutch was easy enough to find on the black dance floor, but its contents were another story. My lip gloss and compact were the only things left inside. I swiped at the ground between bending knees and twisting torsos, but my cell phone and wallet were nowhere in sight.
Suddenly, I thought I saw something silver on the floor. But just before I could reach for it, I was hauled up to my feet.
“Vina, what’s going on?” Nick asked.
“Dammit!” I burst into sobs. “It’s my purse! And my wallet! My phone! Oooh…I feel sick. I drank too much…and…and that prick expected me to go home with him! And then I was nauseous and I got sick in the bathroom. And then that witch threw my purse out here…and…and…my keys!”
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