BALLS

by Chris Edwards

“The one about the CEO’s daughter.”

  My thoughts immediately jumped to Jill, who also worked at Arnold at the time. But as far as I knew she wasn’t involved in any scandals either. I had no idea what Gabby was talking about. I just shook my head and looked at her blankly.

  She was stunned that I could be so clueless. “Ed Eskandarian. He’s the CEO, right?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “You know . . . how his daughter became his son—or was it his son who became his daughter? I don’t remember. Which was it?”

  Ho-ly shit. Is this really happening to me right now?

  I could’ve let it go and played dumb, maybe even joined in on the gossip with her to find out what she’d heard. I didn’t plan to go out with her again, so it’s not like she’d find out I was being dishonest. But I’d come too far to be ashamed of who I was or what I’d been through. Fuck it.

  “You tell me, you’re lookin’ at him.”

  “What?” She stared at me, confused.

  “I said, ‘You’re look-ing at him.’”

  The smile and color disappeared from her face.

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t tease me,” she said. “It’s not funny.”

  “I’m not teasing you.”

  “But your last name is different.”

  “I changed it.”

  “Oh my god, I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. I take it as a compliment you’re so surprised.”

  Was it impolite of me to make her uncomfortable? Maybe. But was it stupid of her to be gossiping like that on a blind date? Definitely. The CEO’s daughter could have been a good friend of mine. Either way, I decided to make it a teachable moment and told her a little bit about my background and how I transitioned on the job. I was a perfect gentleman to the end, paying for her lunch and holding the door for her on the way out. I wanted to ensure as much as I could that she had nothing negative to say about me when she inevitably relayed this story to her friends and family. If anyone was going to look bad, it was going to be her, not me.

  My lunch with Gabby marked the end of my foray into online dating. Instead I decided to take a shot at meeting a girl the old-fashioned way: at a bar. Actually, my friend Hazel talked me into it. Her husband, Billy, was going to some CrossFit party and dragging her along, so she figured she’d drag me too. “Who knows,” she said. “You might meet someone.”

  At the time, all I knew about CrossFit was that it was a new, primal workout concept and Hazel’s husband was into it. He’d go to some pseudo-gym somewhere and throw tires over his head as many times as he could. The idea seemed crazy and dangerous to me, but perfectly logical to Billy, who made a habit of jogging up the steps of Harvard stadium wearing a backpack filled with bricks.

  The party was upstairs at an Irish pub called Sólás. Most of the female attendees could squash me like a bug. Plus everyone seemed pretty young. While Billy socialized with his fellow tire-throwers, Hazel and I cased the joint.

  “See anyone of interest?” she asked. As far as I was concerned there was only one cute girl in the entire room and she was standing over by the bar with two of her girlfriends, looking as out of place as I felt. Aside from Hazel, she was also the only female at the party with any modicum of style and . . . she just caught me staring at her. Crap. Well, at least she smiled.

  “Long, brown, curlyish hair, blue sweater. Over by the bar at one o’clock.”

  Hazel nonchalantly looked over her shoulder. “Oh, she is cute. Let’s grab Billy and go over there.”

  Why not? I had nothing to lose but my dignity. I’d never hit on a girl at a bar before, but there was a first time for everything. I finished my drink so I’d have an excuse to get another one and headed over to the bar with my two wingmen. Billy initiated contact.

  “Do you guys go to CrossFit?” he asked.

  They immediately said no.

  “Thank God,” I said. “I thought I was the only normal one here.”

  They laughed.

  We all chatted for a bit and then my wingmen made a graceful exit. I introduced myself to Blue Sweater and discovered that her name was Jamie, she had a great sense of humor, and liked pizza as much as I did. She and her friends swore Santarpio’s in East Boston was the best. I told them I’d heard that but had never been. After another hour or so Hazel and Billy were ready to go and so was I. It was after eleven and I’d had a long day at work. My pillow was calling, but seeing that it was Friday night, I told the girls I was on my way to another party so I wouldn’t seem like a loser. They looked genuinely disappointed and kept harassing me to stay. Leave them wanting more.

  I suggested we hit Santarpio’s sometime and asked Jamie for her number. She watched me type it into my phone. I told her if I called it and got a towing company or something she’d be in big trouble. She assured me that wouldn’t happen. I left in a great mood.

  “I got digits,” I announced in the car.

  “Awesome! Now don’t blow it.” Hazel warned. “It’s Friday, so wait ’til Tuesday to call her.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  When Tuesday rolled around I punched J for Jamie into my phone and hit send. I got her voicemail. This is Jamie, leave a message and I’ll call you back. I decided to keep my message short and sweet—this was no time for improv: Hey Jamie, it’s Chris Edwards. We met at the party at Sólás the other night. Wondering if you want to grab a pizza at Santarpio’s this weekend so I can see what all the fuss is about. Give me a call.

  I left my number clearly and twice, so there would be no confusion.

  The next afternoon still no call back. I called Hazel.

  “Is it possible I wasn’t as charming as I thought I was?”

  “No. It totally seemed like she was interested. She must be away or something. She’ll call.”

  Thursday came and went. Still nothing. Friday nothing. The weekend went by and I found myself obsessing over every detail of that night and the message I left. I just couldn’t understand why this girl would not call me back. I recounted the sequence of events to friends and coworkers, looking for answers. I got a bunch:

  She’s playing hard to get.

  She really wasn’t interested.

  Maybe she has a boyfriend and was just flirting.

  She deleted your voicemail by mistake, doesn’t have your number, and is waiting for you to call her again.

  Okay, that last one—that was possible. I’ll call her again. What’s the worst that could happen?

  I closed my office door and pulled out my cell phone. Again I punched in J for Jamie but this time I noticed something. There were two Jamies in my contact list. Who the hell was the other Jamie? And more importantly, which one had I called? I didn’t recognize either number. I called the first one and got the same voicemail as before. Was that her? I didn’t recognize the voice as anyone else’s. I called the second one.

  “Hi, this is Jamie.”

  Shit! It was her. I should’ve thought this through.

  “Heeeey, Jamie, it’s . . . uh . . . Chris Edwards. I met you at that party at Sólás . . .”

  Silence. Then, “Oh, yeah . . . Hi.”

  She’s pissed.

  “Yeah, so I tried calling you last week and left a message.”

  “I never got it.”

  “I know . . . well, because, see, I was wondering why you never called me back, so today I was gonna try calling you again and I noticed there were two Jamies in my contact list. I must have asked out the other one.”

  Silence.

  “She didn’t call me back either.”

  Crickets.

  Crap. I thought that would make her laugh.

  “I don’t even know who she is.”

  Oh my god, what am I saying? Stop talking. Stop talking.

  Oh, but I didn’t stop. And with each word I was becoming a bigger and bigger asshole. I blew it.

  A couple days later I was wa
iting for the elevator on my floor and a junior creative, who was once my assistant for like five minutes, walked past me on her way to the ladies’ room. I called after her.

  “Hey, Jamie.”

  She backtracked a few steps. “Yeah?”

  “Did I leave you a message asking you out a few weeks ago?”

  “Yeah. You did.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me I called the wrong person?”

  “I thought you’d figure it out for yourself.”

  Yep, still just as helpful as she was as my assistant.

  The Tale of Two Jamies led to another dry spell, so I let a coworker talk me into signing up for Table For Eight, a group-dating service that organizes four-on-four dinner parties. They’re supposed to increase your odds of success and make the first date experience less awkward. Dinner guests are hand-selected based on compatibility and extensive in-depth membership profiles—at least that’s what I was told.

  My first group date was at an upscale restaurant in the Back Bay. The reservation was at 7:00 p.m., and at 7:05 I walked in appropriately attired in dark jeans, wing tips, and a sport coat. I approached the host’s podium, not quite sure how to announce myself.

  “Edwards, table for eight?” I whispered as though it were a secret password.

  “Yes, sir. Go on upstairs. They’re already seated.”

  “Everybody’s here already?”

  He nodded, adding with a hint of sympathy, “Good luck.”

  When I got to the top of the stairs, a hostess escorted me to a round table, where seven nerdy professionals sat awkwardly, trying to find common ground. The four women seemed older than the preferred age range I’d put down in my profile, and I wasn’t physically attracted to any of them. I gathered the feeling was mutual; they couldn’t have looked more disappointed to see me if they’d tried. I, however, was used to disappointment, so I didn’t let it faze me. I put on a happy face and decided to make the best of it. I walked over to the only available chair and cheerfully addressed the group.

  “Looks like I make eight.”

  They all ignored me.

  I sat down and introduced myself to the woman on my right and the guy on my left. They both said hi, but didn’t tell me their names. It was then I noticed everyone already had drinks. Jesus, what time did they all get here? While I waited for my vodka soda to arrive, I sat listening to the painful small talk from which I was being excluded. “Ted” from Rhode Island had taken a car, a bus, and a cab to get to this place and couldn’t believe how long it took. The woman sitting directly across from me began playing the role of conversation generator, lobbing out topics for discussion every few minutes. I was guessing she had a cheat sheet up her sleeve. I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Hi, sorry to interrupt, I know I was five minutes late and you all might have covered this already, but could we go around the table and everyone say their name and what they do?”

  Lawyer, engineer, chemist, pediatrician, teacher, researcher, neurosurgeon, ad guy. Which one of these things doesn’t belong? It was like getting stuck at the mish-mosh singles table at a wedding you didn’t want to attend in the first place.

  Since I was the only one who appeared to have any social skills, I spent the first half-hour asking a lot of questions and facilitating conversation organically. I got one-word answers that went nowhere. Well, except when I asked the teacher what she’d be doing with her summer off. She said she was going to teach summer school part-time and also do some nannying.

  Since my sister Jill was looking for a nanny, I followed up with, “Oh, do you have a family—”

  “ISN’T THAT WHY WE’RE ALL HERE?” she barked.

  The table fell silent. I finished my sentence.

  “—to nanny for?”

  After that I gave up and just kept drinking. When I wasn’t texting friends from the men’s room, I was back at the table, fruitlessly injecting myself into conversations. The pediatrician/topic lobber was talking about how she had to catch a flight the next morning. Seeing that I had just flown, I chimed in.

  “I just flew back from Chicago yesterday. I had a window seat, which I hate. I always like to be on the aisle because I always have to pee. Same thing when I’m at the movies.”

  I figured this might prompt a group debate on which is better: aisle or window? Or how it sucks to have to pee in the middle of a good movie. But the pediatrician took a different tack.

  “How many times could you possibly have to go to the bathroom during a movie?” she said.

  “I don’t know, once . . . twice maybe. Depends on how much I’ve had to drink beforehand.”

  “You DRINK before you go to the movies?”

  “Well, I usually have some type of beverage with my DINNER, which I often go out to before a movie.”

  Just in time, the waiter came over to clear the plates. “Would anyone like dessert?” he asked.

  “NO,” I shouted involuntarily. But Ted had come a long way and he wasn’t leaving without trying the bananas foster.

  Somebody kill me.

  By my thirty-ninth birthday, despite all my attempts, I was still single. I wondered then, as I often did, what my life would be like had I been born a biological male—the way I was supposed to be. I’d probably be married, maybe even have kids. I would’ve been considered a catch. If I’d had this much trouble finding someone, more of my friends and family would have certainly tried to fix me up. All those times in my late twenties hearing them talk about how they needed to find someone for so and so, I was almost never in the running. I understood why; I mean, when it came to baggage, I was toting around one big-ass carry-on.

  But being ruled out still hurt. And now, I was worried I’d missed my window of opportunity. I began to let resentment creep in. After all I do for everyone else, nobody was helping me. Granted, I never asked for help. I’m not good at that. But even if I did, most of my friends were now married, having kids, and living in the suburbs. Fixing me up wasn’t at the top of their to-do list. Even if it was, how many single girls did they know? As I became more vocal about my dismay, people began trying. I went on a few blind dates but none of them worked out, mainly because the matchmakers were asking themselves, “Who do I know that’s single?” not, “Who do I know that’s single and a great match for Chris?”

  I was feeling helpless and needed a way to take back control. So I decided to take myself out of the game for a while. They say relationships happen when you’re not looking. I was hoping “they” were right.

  6 https://vimeo.com/45138580

  THE 40-YEAR-OLD VIRGIN

  May 18, 2009

  When I turned forty, my family threw me a blowout at Foley’s Pub in the South End. One hundred of my closest friends were there to celebrate with me. It was like the wedding I never had.

  My former creative partner Mike and his wife, Lisa, even flew in from Atlanta and presented me with a bottle of Dom Perignon before the party. It was a generous gift and I was excited to save it for a special occasion, which Mike assumed was now.

  “Let’s pop this sucker open,” he said. “Where do you keep your glasses?”

  Lisa was glaring at him. “Ah, Mike, that’s a gift for Chris, not for you. Maybe he’d like to save it for a special occasion.”

  Mike turned to me. “Now is special. You’re fucking forty, dude.”

  “Yeah, but I’m gonna be drinking vodka all night. I’d rather save it.”

  “For what?”

  “Mike!” Lisa chastised. “Sorry, Chris, can you tell he’s dying to try it?”

  “I’ve never had it,” Mike whined.

  “Well, now I know what to get you when you turn forty,” I said.

  “Chris, you should save it,” Lisa said, shutting her husband down.

  “I know, I’ll save it for when I finally get to try out my penis!”

  Mike rolled his eyes. “Does champagne go bad, Lisa?”

  “Ha, ha,” I said, swiping the bottle from his hand.

  He
kept going. “Make sure you store it on its side, Chris—after a few years the cork dries out.”

  ••

  The first few months after my party I did feel an urgency to have sex—not so I could break open the Dom, but to make sure my new penis actually worked. It cost a shitload of money, years of pain and suffering, and had been ready for action shortly after my “failure to launch” incident of 2005—coincidentally the same year The 40-Year-Old Virgin came out. With my forty-first birthday now looming on the horizon, I did not want to be inspiration for the sequel.

  I had already learned that due to my unique situation, a one-night stand wasn’t a realistic option for me. I had flown to New York City to look at rough cuts the creative teams had been working on. Dinner that night was at Gaslight, a French restaurant across the street from the Hotel Gansevoort, where everyone but me was staying. The director showed up with a friend—“Candice”—whom I talked with quite a bit during cocktails. She was a natural beauty, a free spirit, and only back in town for a few days before jetting off to Amsterdam. We got separated during dinner at opposite ends of the long table. I was stuck sitting next to the director who appeared to be on coke. He kept disappearing to the men’s room, each time returning to the table more jittery and more obnoxious. The female creative across from me bore the brunt of his behavior and after he spilled a drink on her, she got up and left. Within seconds Candice filled her empty seat. She and I continued chatting, and after another round of drinks we all trickled outside the restaurant to say our goodbyes. Candice asked me if I was staying at the Gansevoort. I told her they were booked so I was staying at the Carlton in midtown. She said her place was just a few blocks away and a lot nicer than the Carlton. Before I could respond, my dutiful producer grabbed me and threw me into the cab he’d managed to flag down, then slammed the door behind me. I sat there in shock, watching the group disperse and Candice walk away.

  I was still processing what might have been when the cab driver interrupted me.

  “Where you going?”

  “See that girl in the navy jacket?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I could’ve been going home with her. But instead I’m going to the Carlton on Madison.”