Marrying Up

by Jackie Rose

  Morrie takes a step closer to her and grabs her hand.

  “Holly…” George whimpers.

  I slip in between them. “Morrie, you’re going to have to back off a little. George here is very shy.”

  Milt rolls his eyes. “Leave the nice girl alone and get back in the cart!”

  “I didn’t fart!” Morrie protests.

  George has had enough. “Don’t you think you’re a little old for me, Morrie? I’m twenty-eight. You could be my grandfather.”

  “My second wife was twenty-eight when I married her in 1947,” Morrie informs us.

  George slices a ball off into the distance. “Did you see that? I’m not bad!”

  “Marvin—he’s our other brother. He’s the oldest, by three minutes, and he’s been married for—”

  “Oy, he never lets you forget those three minutes.”

  “Like I was saying, he’s still married, Marvin is. Coming up on sixty years.”

  “Sure, sure. Sixty years,” Milt grumbles. “But his Beverly had a stroke in ’82, so it hardly counts.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.

  “Can we get back to the game, please?” George suggests. Turns out she’s a natural. I’m not surprised—her hand-eye coordination is beyond reproach, which basically means that she tends to excel at the video-game versions of real sports.

  She really doesn’t know what to make of these two funny old men, but I can’t get enough. To me, they are pure gold. By the sixth hole, when Milt and Morrie’s debate on mutual funds versus treasury bills has reached a fever pitch, I decide to devote an entire chapter of my book to dating the elderly. Although not everybody could handle it, myself included, there are obviously certain benefits. Frankly, I wish I had the constitution for it, but the likelihood of genital liver spots puts me off the population entirely.

  “I’d like to take you out dancing,” Milt says to me as we wait for the shuttle.

  Morrie nods his approval. “He’s a good dancer, my brother.”

  “That’s not all I’m good at…”

  “I think I see the shuttle,” George prays aloud.

  “Ach! She doesn’t know what you’re talking about, Milt. He means he’s got the little blue pills, Dollface!”

  George shuts her eyes tight and, I’m sure, pretends she is somewhere else.

  “Thanks,” I tell them. “I get it. But we’re not really interested.”

  “Not at all interested,” George clarifies, without looking at either one.

  “Ach,” hacks Morrie. “Let’s go.”

  Milt reluctantly agrees, and hobbles off after his brother. Pretty good for someone with two artificial hips, I can’t help but think.

  “We had a lovely time!” I call after them. “And thanks for the pointers!”

  “Oh, thank God,” George says when they are finally out of earshot (about five feet, just to be safe).

  “I thought they were cute,” I say.

  “Puhlease.”

  “You, my friend, need to learn a thing or two about respect for your elders.”

  Milt turns around and waves.

  I smile and wave back.

  I check my e-mail at the hotel business center and find two new messages in my in-box.

  To: hhastings@thebugle.com

  From: zoewatts@doggietails.com

  Subject: Hi!

  hi beach bunny! hope yer havin’ fun. I think there’s something wrong with your voice mail. call me when you get home. have to tell you something…

  luv, z

  To: hhastings@thebugle.com

  From: jill1281@buffalonet.com

  Subject: Good news

  Dear Holly,

  I hope you’re having a good time. But I have to tell you something and I thought this would be the best way so that you’re not surprised when you come back home and see all my stuff gone. You’ve made it very clear how you feel about Barry, so I’ve decided to move out. I know you said the things you did because you care about me, but you just don’t know him the way I do.

  Barry and I are going to get married in the spring. I love him very much, Holly, and I need to be with him, so I don’t think that it would be very healthy for us to keep being roommates. I know that it would be impossible for you to be happy for me, so all I can do is wish you the best.

  I hope you find what you’re looking for, as I have.

  Love, Jill

  P.S. I’ve switched the phone and gas bills to your name and had the landlord take me off the lease.

  P.P.S. There’s a gluten-free banana loaf for you in the freezer.

  “I can’t believe we’re going home tomorrow,” I say. “I can’t believe the week’s almost over.”

  “I can’t believe this is how we’re spending New Year’s Eve,” George says, waving her hand to indicate Chip’s Supper Club, where “midnight” starts at precisely 9 p.m. “And yet somehow, I’m loving it! I’m having a blast even though it sucks!”

  “It does not!”

  “Except for the weather, it does.”

  “And the hotel,” I remind her.

  “And the shopping.” She slurps piña colada out of a pineapple before continuing. “Neiman Marcus Last Call was truly an experience. And although this top makes me look like a hooker, who could turn down a twelve-dollar Vivienne Westwood bustier with only one hook missing? Not that I have a clue who Vivienne Westwood is, but it sure sounds good….”

  “Oh, it is,” I assure her. “And he seems to like it, too.” A slick old guy in a leisure suit and a combover leers drunkenly at George’s cleavage.

  “Scram,” she says.

  “That could have been Mr. Right.”

  “I’m nowhere near drunk enough to laugh at that.” She slurps up the remainder of her drink. “Do they put any alcohol in these things?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “I’m a deap chate. What can I say?”

  “Apparently, not much!”

  “Haw, haw. You’re killing me.”

  George’s admirer waves at her from across the table.

  “But as much fun as we’re having here, Holly, I think I’m almost ready to go home.”

  “Me too,” I says. “It’s been a real education, and great material for my book, but I’m ready.”

  “If I see one more bony sixty-five-year-old ass with ‘Juicy’ written across it, I’ll puke.”

  “Or one more Louis Vuitton Murakami bag…”

  “Or one more white Cadillac…

  “Or palm tree…”

  “Oh yeah, they’re the worst.”

  “Let’s go back to the hotel and see if José’s working,” I say. “I bet we could sneak into the staff bar…”

  “Really?”

  “Of course! You deserve a prize for agreeing to this trip!”

  “Oh, Holly, don’t say that! I had so much fun!” she says, and hugs me. “Thank you so much for my ticket!”

  Three octogenarians seated at the next table hoot and clap.

  “Do guys ever grow up?” I ask the gray-haired waitress as we settle up the bill.

  “Sorry, dear,” she says. “They just get shorter and shorter till eventually they disappear and all that’s left is a closetful of white shoes and a life-insurance policy. And that’s if you’re lucky!”

  Just because Florida happened to be a complete bust doesn’t mean I’m giving up.

  While George sleeps off her New Year’s hangover, I sneak down to the hotel business center. A few minutes of intense Googling reveal that I may have jumped the gun a little with the whole Naples thing. In fact, it turns out we were on the wrong coast altogether.

  Yes, I have discovered a fifth and final fact:

  In the Year 2000, the San Francisco-Bay Area was home to more Millionaires under the age of 50 than any other urban center in the country.

  Again, thanks to the dot-com dorks and their love of microchips and circuit boards. And just to sweeten the pot, the City by the Bay sounds like a pretty nice place
to be. Even the so-called Silicon Valley seems to have its good points, according to the San Jose Convention and Visitors Bureau Web site. Sure, there’s endless urban sprawl and hundreds of miles of fault lines, but next to the inclement weather of Seattle, strip malls and the occasional earthquake might be easier to live with on a day-to-day basis. (Who am I to be picky, anyway? I live in a place where the mean annual temperature has been deemed unfit for dogs.)

  Shit. How could I have missed this?

  On my way back up to the room, I alternate between cursing myself out for choosing the wrong city to lay our groundwork in and praying that George will be willing to give The Plan another go on the other side of the continent. Neither of us can afford a vacation again any time soon, but one way or the other, I’m going to make this plan work.

  No matter what.

  Of course, Mateo calls as we’re packing our bags. He wants to know what I’m doing tonight. “Digging my car out of a snowbank at an airport parking lot in Buffalo,” I tell him. “Then going home to an empty apartment.”

  A day late and a dollar short is the way my dad always puts it. Typical.

  “At least one of us got some action while we were here,” I say to George after hanging up.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say action, really. It was more like canoodling.”

  “Well, I personally witnessed you get to second base on the dance floor last night, so that’s got to count for something. And by the way, canoodling sounds like something Morrie would say.”

  “Come on—we’re going to be late.”

  The plane blessedly climbs into the sky without incident as I press George for more details.

  “José’s very special. He plans to go to med school one day. He’s only working at the hotel to save up enough money for tuition. The tips are awesome.”

  “What a line,” I say, pulling down the window shade to avoid the sight of bouncing wings. “That’s exactly what strippers say to rich guys. Men just love thinking that the women they’re treating like slot machines are up there degrading themselves for a higher cause.”

  “You think José’s a gold digger?”

  “Sure. Why not? He’s probably just looking to meet some leathery-faced old sugar mama who’ll feed him grapes all day and roll around with him in the pool house.”

  “Do you think he thought I was rich?” George marvels.

  “Probably.”

  “Wow! I like that!” she says, snuggling down in her seat.

  “You’re not insulted by that?”

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you to think that someone would like you just for your money?”

  She thinks about it for a minute or two. “Actually, no. I guess it doesn’t. At least in some circumstances, anyway.”

  “Interesting. I take that to mean you’re okay with The Plan, with what we’re doing….”

  “You mean, what we wish we were doing? Because in case you haven’t noticed, we’re having a little trouble putting the puck in the net.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Well, even though engaging in this sort of behavior promotes the worst kind of stereotype about women, I guess I am okay with it. Mostly because we’re having fun and I honestly don’t think it’s actually going to happen.”

  “You think The Plan is going to fail.”

  “Don’t be so sad, sweetie.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Cheer up—the movie’s starting. I think it’s Love Actually.”

  I slip on the headphones and try to watch. Normally, two hours of Hugh Grant’s fumbling sexiness would be enough to distract me from anything—even the fact that I’m thirty-six thousand feet higher than I’m supposed to be—but I can’t really concentrate. My mind races off in other directions….

  “George. George—wake up!”

  “Wha? Are we there yet?”

  “Almost.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been thinking. It’s going to take about two-and-a-half months of living without Jill’s half of the rent and bills before I’m flat broke. And where am I supposed to find another roomie on such short notice?”

  “I can’t afford your place, otherwise you know I’d move in a heartbeat.”

  “I know, I know. Don’t worry about that now… My point is, this trip was our best chance, now it seems like probably our last chance, to find us some Moneyed Mates. And we failed… No, make that me—I’ve failed…. It was all my fault, G, and I’m sorry. If I’d paid closer attention to all that research I was doing, I would have chosen a better vacation destination for us than Naples. Like San Francisco, for example! The San Francisco Bay Area has more Millionaires under the age of fifty than any other urban center in the country! Did you know that?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Well, neither did I until this morning! I am such an idiot! A complete idiot! Naples? What was I thinking? We should have at least gone to Seattle. There’s a ton of them there, too, and I bet they don’t have pacemakers….”

  “It’s okay, Holly. Calm down. You didn’t know. It’s not your fault. We had fun, anyway, right?”

  “I know,” I sob. “But I want to change. I don’t just want a vacation. I want a new life.”

  “I know, sweetie. So do I.”

  “That was the spirit behind The Plan. Not just to kid around. I don’t want to live in a city that’s unfit for dogs.” I wipe my nose with a cocktail napkin.

  “Of course you don’t, Holly, and neither do I, but we have to be realistic, too. We have to make small changes, one thing at a time. And we’ve made a good start. Things are going to look up for us soon. We just have to be patient. Okay?”

  My ears pop as I blow my nose again. We’ve begun our descent.

  Damn it. George is right. I know she’s right. But I don’t want to go back to the Bugle. And I don’t want her to squander her talents for another six years at that shitty bookstore. She deserves better than that. We both do. Before we know it, we’ll be forty…fifty…sixty…and still in exactly the same place we are today. I don’t want my obituary to come true.

  So I turn to face her. “We have to go for it, George. Really go for it.”

  “Put your seat up, Holly.”

  “Your work sucks. My work sucks. I’m not happy.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I can coast on the José thing for months before it fades away. Maybe we can go back next winter. Wouldn’t that be great?”

  “George. We’re moving.”

  “Okay, Holly. Sure we are. Where to? Monte Carlo? Las Vegas? Peru?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I can’t move.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  She reaches across me to lift up the window shade. The plane shudders as we descend haltingly through the clouds, through the darkness. Buffalo twinkles beneath us and slowly comes into focus. We pass over highways and neighborhoods we know. Pretty from the sky, but we both can tell how cold it really is down there, how bleak, how familiar.

  “Funny how the snow makes everything look so white from up here, but when you actually see it up close, it’s all dirty and slushy and brown.”

  “How true,” I say.

  “I’m not happy, either, Holly.”

  “I know.”

  She sighs.

  “I know you’d never agree to Seattle,” I say, sensing a change of heart.

  “No way. It’s far too rainy for people whose hair tends to frizz.”

  “So…San Francisco, here we come?”

  The ground approaches outside my window, and anticipating my fear, George grabs my hand. But for a change, it’s a pretty smooth landing.

  chapter 10

  Queen of the Sea

  The bushy little patch of hair on Cy’s forehead is dangerously close to becoming an island. The causeway that connects the patch with the mainland is no more than an inch wide, and in the unkind overhead fluorescence of his office, it appears the link is eroding fast.

  I’ve
always thought bald guys are kinda cute; a completely overlooked team of swimmers in the dating pool. Of the many physical traits that can relegate men to overall B-list status—short, chubby, flaccid, bald—bald is arguably best. At least, that’s the way I see it. Those men whose confidence or personality can outshine their gleaming pates are definitely worth a second look, for who among us has not also been stung by the cruelty of nature or heredity? And if you happen to be one of those fortunate women whose bodies are unblemished by familial saddlebags or cankles, and whose facial features formed into pleasing, symmetrical arrangements, just wait—gravity and time will have their way with you, too. Only by then, when the playing field is finally level, all the good men—the bald, the bellied, the humble, the humorous—will be gone.

  In the meantime, those of us prescient enough to date guys with more character than hair or height or abdominal musculature will be laughing all the way to deliriously happy eternal coupledom. Yes, ladies, though you may prefer the look of a six-pack now, a spare tire is definitely a better bet in the long run—it’ll get you where you need to go in case of emergency, and the guys who own one are more likely to have their egos and commitment issues in check. Besides, men suffer at the hands of time, too, though perhaps not as cruelly as we do. Once-glorious hairlines recede, bulging biceps atrophy, Levi’s don’t fit quite like they used to. With gorgeous guys, the fall from grace is the most striking, because all that’s left behind is a series of personality flaws gleaned from a lifetime of coasting on their looks.

  Well, that’s one way of seeing things. (I’m looking for something altogether different these days, anyway.) It’s pretty much the same philosophy behind my burgeoning “Two-Thirds Theory” of dating, what was to be one of the central thematic concepts in my book. Basically, the idea is this: The holy trinity of looks, money and personality cannot possibly coexist in a single vessel at any one point in time, and so we must be willing to prioritize (on a case-by-case basis, of course), accept two out of the three and move on. It’s the reason why dating the elderly seems to work so well for so many women. It’s the reason why pairings like Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio, and Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett, technically could have lasted. It’s the reason why I’ve always been sure not to overlook bald men, rich or poor.