by Turney Duff
“I L” On the night of our blind date Jenn and I made plans to meet at Bread, a cute, tiny restaurant on Spring Street. I was dressed in a button-down shirt that wasn’t tucked in, jeans, and flip-flops. My hair was long and tangled. She walked in like a vision: long, luxurious light brown hair, radiant eyes, and full lips. She was wearing a dress that was just a rhinestone or two short of an evening gown. I lost my swagger. I felt like an awkward teen talking to a girl for the first time. The restaurant was crowded and overheated. I asked her if she’d mind if we went to another place a few blocks away. She was game, and we hustled out the door. When in doubt, go to Mexican Radio. The food is great and margaritas even better. We must have had a half dozen of them apiece, but I’d begun to fall for her before I finished the first. We remember two different versions of what happened at the end of the night. She says I shoved her in a cab and ran back into the bar to drink. However, I distinctly remember telling myself that if I tried to hook up with her I might ruin the best chance I’ve ever had. I kissed her on the cheek, put her in the cab, and told her I’d call her the next day. The perfect gentleman. Then I walked back to the bar and got properly drunk. The very next morning I gave her a call—and every other day after that.
The co-op board consists of six middle-aged men and women who sit on one side of the table, and I take a seat facing them. I decide to take off my sport jacket and hang it on the back of the chair. I unbutton my sleeves and roll them up. I try to sit comfortably, somewhere between formal and relaxed. I want to convey that I’m professional and mature, but also relaxed and easygoing. I want to be someone they’d feel comfortable borrowing a cup of sugar from. The thought makes me laugh. On Laight Street they’d have a better chance of borrowing a cup of blow.
“I LO” I think it was on our third date when Jenn asked if I just wanted to be friends. She was concerned because I hadn’t put the moves on her yet. I thought I was playing it cool. I didn’t want her to get the impression that I just wanted to get into her pants; she’s more of a skirt girl anyway. And all the time, she was wondering when I was going to make the move. She actually called one of her ex-boyfriends (who is now gay) to ask his advice. “We have such a great connection,” she exclaimed, exasperated. Her gay ex-boyfriend’s advice was to straight up ask me—so she did. I practically pulled Jenn out of the restaurant and into the taxi to her apartment.
My application sits in front of each of the co-op board members. A few pairs of glasses go on. Next to the older gentleman with the coiffed hair sits a heavyset guy in a black Megadeth T-shirt that is stretched to its limit over his belly. “So,” the large guy says. “What’s a Fatburger?” On my application, under “other investments” I listed the million dollars that I’d recently sunk into the fast-food franchise. It’s a West Coast chain and we’re bringing it east.
“Casual dining,” I say, as offhandedly as I can. I tell him we had a grand opening for our first store in Jersey City last week. “There are more stores to come,” I say, trying to sound businessman-like. I notice that he’s hanging on my every word.
“So if we approve you, do we get burgers?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say with an uneasy smile. But he’s not smiling at all. He looks like he’s going to eat my application.
The older gent wants to go over my salary: “At Argus?” he says, in sort of a half-suspicious, half-pretentious way. I tell him my base is two hundred k a year, but I also have a percentage of the firm’s management fee. I uncross and recross my legs. I don’t have to tell him the number; it’s in the financials of my application. I know he sees it. Even though he’s trying hard not to show it, I know he knows money isn’t an issue.
“I LOV” After the first time I made love with Jenn, I knew things were about to be different. I’d never felt this way about someone before. I started thinking about her at work, and even after. I’d go to the White House and find myself wondering what she was doing. Even the guys noticed. More than once, Randy and Gus asked me what was going on. They even seemed a little worried that my life was going to change too much. A steady girl is one thing, but what if I got married and moved to Westchester? What would they do then? Who would they entertain?
The youngest person on the board happens to be a woman; she looks like she wishes it were still 1976. She’s not the most attractive woman in the world, but definitely a free spirit. She’s now smiling at me. I’ve just figured out that they are taking turns asking questions. “Tell me, Turney,” she says, like she’s on some kind of dating show. “What do you like to do in your spare time?” Is this where I’m supposed to talk about booze, drugs, sex, and pornography? But that was the old Turney. The new Turney has a girlfriend.
“I like to go out to dinner with my friends, read, play sports,” I say. “Oh, and I’m a huge movie guy. I love movies.” She’s looking at me as if she’s expecting me to ask her to one.
“I LOVE” Jenn was worried she was coming between me and my roommates. “They’ll be fine,” I assured her. I’d lived with Jason for almost ten years—just about the length of my Wall Street career. And Ethan is family. Besides, it’s not as if I’m throwing them out in the street. They both have girlfriends and plans of their own. “I just don’t want them to be mad at me,” Jenn said. But the thing is, I’m the one who’s just a little upset. Although they never asked for it, I’ve spent a lot of money on them and our apartment, and I never really felt they were grateful enough. It’s my own fault. I’m the one who told them not to worry. “It’s all good,” I tell Jenn. And it really has been since I met her.
“Why should we approve your application?” the co-op board head is saying. Good question. And just for a moment I’m quiet while I think about my answer. Ten years ago I was living as the third guy in a two-bedroom, and now I’m buying a $1.75 million apartment. At the rate I’m going, five years from now I’ll be able to buy the whole building. I look at each of the board members one by one. If I’m supposed to be nervous, I’m not. My morning meetings are more stressful than this. But the last thing I want to do is come across as arrogant. The truth is, I want this apartment. I want it for Jenn.
“I understand the process, and why it’s so important for you to be careful. It’s not only the financial concerns—which are paramount, I know—but you’ve undoubtedly worked hard, and sacrificed a lot for this building, and want to protect your considerable investments. Who am I? I’m a stranger. It can’t be an easy decision. I respect that. So let me put my cards on the table. I love this place, and I’d love to live here. And it’s more than just how great the apartment is. It’s the feeling I get when I walk through the front door of the building; it’s the people, like you, whom I’ve already met. It’s the neighborhood. It feels like home to me. I’m not going to lie. I’ve been single for a lot of years, working on Wall Street, and I’ve made good money. And I did exactly what you’d expect a single guy with money to do. But those days are over. I’m almost thirty-five. I’ve met a girl; we’re in love. I’m ready for the next chapter in my life. And I can’t think of a better place to write it than right here.”
As I look around the room again, every set of eyes is trained on me. The seventies chick looks like she might cry. “I’m not going to sit here and give you a hard sell,” I say. “I’d like to thank you for your time and the opportunity to meet with you. If you don’t think I’m the right fit, then you should deny my application.” I sit up a little straighter in my chair. “That’s what I’d want you to do if I lived here,” I say. “You have to be sure.” At this point I’m kind of shocked that they haven’t handed me the keys already.
It was Jenn who found the apartment on Bleecker. My two-year lease on the Laight Street triplex is up in October, and it’s time for me to put on my big boy pants and get my own place. Jenn never really voiced her opinion about my moving. That is, until she saw me looking at fifteen-thousand-dollar-a-month rentals in Tribeca. That’s when she intervened. “Why are you throwing all that money away on rent?” she aske
d. I just shrugged. I hadn’t given it much thought.
The older gent stands up to signal that the interview has concluded. I thank each of them and look them directly in the eye as I do. Outside, the heat has abated not one bit. I walk down the block and light up a cigarette on the corner of Bleecker and Lafayette. I’m going to love this neighborhood. It’s real. It hasn’t lost its grittiness the way the Meatpacking District has. There’s Planned Parenthood across the street, next to a homeless shelter, which is across the street from several posh restaurants. It’s perfect.
“I LOVE Y” On the way home, I get a call from the co-op board. When I get there Jenn greets me at the door of the triplex holding my eight-week-old puppy, Houdini. He’s a Japanese Chin who looks like Gizmo from the movie The Gremlins. So cute. I mentioned once to Jenn that I wanted a dog, and two days later she had a list of breeders and the types of dogs that would be good for my lifestyle. A week later we were in the car driving to Maryland to pick up Houdini. She plants a kiss on me before I even make it into the apartment. It’s a long, wet, sensual kiss, a kiss I’ve been missing. Her smile makes me somehow feel better than I am. It’s amazing. I immediately take off my sport coat and throw it on the couch, and we kiss again.
“Well?” she asks, playfully pushing me away. “Tell me how it went.”
I think about the call I just received and look down at the ground in front of her. “Oh, baby,” she says softly as she holds me.
“I just wasn’t any good in the interview,” I whisper. When I look up into her eyes, the scene falls apart. There’s something about her eyes I just can’t lie to—even when I’m just playing with her. She sees I’m having trouble staying in character.
“You got it, didn’t you?”
“They just called before I got home.”
“I knew it,” she says, squeezing me. “I just knew it.” We kiss again and then I make my way up to my bedroom. I take off my clothes and put on shorts and a T-shirt. “Come with me,” she says as she takes my hand. Jenn leads me up to the rooftop, where there’s a table with a white tablecloth, a lit candle, and two wineglasses with the bottle on ice. Pink clouds blanket the sky. The sun is setting and the evening lights of Jersey City begin to twinkle on the darkening Hudson River. The water is calm as a few luxury boats idle by. We sit down at the table and uncork the bottle. I pour hers first and then mine. We toast to new beginnings. There is no need for words. I pour the rest of the wine into the glasses. The temperature has dropped a bit since sunset. I hold the glasses in one hand and take her hand with the other and lead her to the bedroom.
“I LOVE YO” I run my finger up and down and around her entire back. I can feel the electricity between my finger and her skin. It makes me feel like I’m a part of her. I close my eyes while slowly tickling her back. I lie down with her behind me. She runs her fingers through my hair. I was always on the move, always had to get to the club, the next party. I used to tell myself I didn’t want to miss anything. But the truth of the matter is, I was never content, no matter where I was or who I was with. With Jenn I can just sit and talk, reach across the table and hold her hand. I like lying here next to her. I never want her to go, and I never want to leave. I don’t know when that’s ever happened before. It’s like I’m no longer running, no longer afraid to just be … I don’t mean to say I’m giving everything up. I’ll still go out with the guys once in a while. And I’ll still have to have the weekly business dinner, and maybe I’ll stop at the White House every now and again. But it definitely won’t be like it was. I’ll just blow off some steam before I run back to my lady. I close my eyes and begin to drift off into a most comfortable sleep. Jenn is soft and warm against my back. It’s then that I hear her whisper, “I love you.” A tear begins to well up in my eye and then starts to roll down my cheek. It isn’t hard at all for me to answer her. The words come naturally, and from a place deep inside me. And once I say them, a peace like I’ve never felt comes over me. I’m at the top of the mountain, and from here I can see clearly forever. I have never been happier.
“I LOVE YOU.”
FOUR MONTHS later, Jennifer tells me she’s pregnant. She calls me from L.A., where she’s meeting with talent agents. Her voice is small, almost like a frightened child’s. Although I never articulated this to her, on some level I was hoping for a pregnancy. It would settle me down, stop the top I’ve become from spinning. And anyhow, it’s not as if it’s a huge surprise. One day in the office, the conversation turned to birth control. When I revealed we weren’t using any, Melinda remarked, “Ah, the old pull and pray method.” “Right,” I said, “except all we do is the pray part.” Jenn’s news is amazing. I can’t believe this. On the phone, I tell her I love her and I’m thrilled.
A few weeks later, Jenn moves into my Bleecker Street co-op. Whether or not we were going to live together was never in question. But we decide there’s no reason to rush out and get married. Let’s get the baby thing right first. Over the next few months, evidence of my bachelorhood begins to disappear. During the day, while I’m at work, Jenn transforms the apartment into a home. She has exquisite taste that is both bohemian and eclectic. It suits the raw building space nicely. We both have a love for Moroccan décor, and she has plenty of it from her house on Long Island, and what she doesn’t have we go out and buy. The only room left unadorned is the second bedroom, which we plan to use as the nursery. Furniture, the color scheme, and toys for the room are on hold until we find out whether we’re about to have a boy or a girl. We both agree on getting that information as soon as possible.
Throughout the spring and into the summer, we stay inside a lot. On weekends, we take our dogs, Houdini and M.C., for walks to Washington Square Park and sit on the benches in the dog run. I got the second dog before Jenn moved in because I felt guilty leaving one dog home alone. We watch a lot of television. Jenn is devoted to HGTV, and I buy DVDs for the first couple of seasons of 24, to which we’re both soon addicted. I suffer through hours and hours of romantic comedies. But I love our eating regimen. We order in every meal: Mexican and American for me, Italian or Chinese when it’s Jenn’s choice. One weekend we barely get out of bed due to Jenn’s morning sickness. We eat every meal while propped up in the last vestige of my bachelor days—the Charles P. Rogers sleigh bed (Jenn would soon replace it with one bought at a store called Hip and Humble)—and sleep between television shows and movies.
As idyllic as my life has become, when Jenn enters her second trimester, I feel the need to escape once in a while by going out for beers with Ethan and Jason or some of my Wall Street friends. I’m always home before midnight, and only once or twice (that Jenn knows of) do I return having had too many cocktails. But one night I come home a little after one a.m. I’m not as drunk as I am wired on cocaine; I stopped by the White House. Sleep is impossible. I crawl into bed next to my sleeping, pregnant girlfriend, facing away from her because I don’t want her to catch me awake. I toss and turn. I need to fall asleep, but I tiptoe to the bathroom for one last hit, creating the cocaine paradox. It’s awful. And in that forced consciousness a desire builds within me to confess to Jenn. Soon the urge is overwhelming, as if somehow an act of contrition will alleviate the torment. I can’t tell her about the cocaine, I reason to myself. That would be just stupid. When I look at the clock again, it reads 4:30. I’m not going to be able to go to work. An hour goes by. I can feel Jenn coming awake. Still groggy from sleep, she looks into my eyes. I can tell by her expression that she knows something’s wrong. She’s not sure what to say. I did something bad last night, I mumble. She sits upright and cocks her head. I think she thinks I’m about to tell her about another woman. I had a few beers, I say, and then some guy gave me some pills. Her expression begins to sink from accusation to sadness. I tell her they were painkillers—a small lie to cover a big truth. I had to tell her something. A tear begins to roll down her cheek. She clutches her pillow and rolls away from me. Her back heaves as she gasps for air between cries and moans.
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sp; I was hoping for anger, not sadness. I begin to rub her back, but she wiggles my hand away. I sit silently, frozen in the fear that anything I say will only make things worse. Finally, she turns over and looks at me. Her eyes are red. “Do you know what it’s like?” There’s a quiver in her voice. I don’t think I’m supposed to answer. “Growing up with a shadow that follows you all the time?” she asks. New tears begin to streak her cheeks. “When I was thirteen,” she continues, “I asked my mother where my father was buried. When I found out it was only a quarter of a mile from where we lived, my heart sank. I couldn’t believe I’d been so close to his grave site for so many years and never knew.” Up until now, Jenn had told me little about her father. I knew that he died of drug overdose, or possibly a suicide, when she was four, but I didn’t know the details. “When my mother was at work the next day and my stepfather was in the basement, I ran to the garage to get my bike.” I’ve never been to that house, but I can see it clearly in my head. The tiny garage is cluttered with tools and junk and her bike is a pink ten-speed that has many years and miles on it. “I rode my bike to the cemetery and I found the entrance,” she says. “I had no idea where my father was, so I went to the office and they told me. I rode my bike on the path through all the headstones to his grave. I was so scared, but I didn’t care. I needed to talk to him; I needed to see where he was buried. When I found the spot, when I saw his name, I dropped my bike. I’d forgotten his middle name was Ira—it made me chuckle at first.” Jenn takes a breath and smiles at the memory. “He’s so Italian,” she says, both laughing and crying. “Anyway, I lay down on the grass and spread out my arms out like I was hugging him. I couldn’t stop crying. I wanted to know: Why? Why did he do this? Why did he leave me? I felt so alone. I couldn’t catch my breath. I began having deep belly wails. I looked around to see if anyone could see or hear me, but no one was there. I was even more alone.” She begins to cry harder. “I just wanted him to be there. Everyone told me how wonderful he was, but he couldn’t quit using drugs. He left me. I had so much sorrow and grief and no one to share it with.” I take Jenn’s hand and squeeze it gently. “I snuck out of the house every day that summer and rode my bike to his grave,” she says. “I’d spend hours there.” I picture a thirteen-year-old version of Jenn sitting in a graveyard, crying, on a beautiful summer day. I begin to break down, but just then Jenn’s face turns angry. “I won’t allow that to happen to our child,” she says. “I can’t.”