Sex in the Title - a Comedy about Dating, Sex, and Romance in NYC (back when phones weren't so smart)

by Zack Love

  “Thanks, Narc.”

  “Don’t mention it. So last night is a perfect example. Last night was even worse than fine print.”

  “What happened?”

  “Until 2 a.m., I spent six hours circling every number that I found in a two-hundred-page prospectus. Why six hours, you ask? Because the financial numbers in the prospectus were adjusted three times during those six hours, and each time, I needed to circle the numbers so that the accountants could give us comfort on the circled numbers.”

  “Circling numbers?”

  “It’s called doing a circle up for the accounts.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The accountants need to provide a comfort letter on the financial numbers in a prospectus. They need to comfortize the numbers, as we idiotically call it. And to know which numbers to comfortize, someone needs to tell them, because for some asinine reason, they can’t make this judgment call themselves even though they’re fucking accountants and any fucking seventh grader could provide the fucking accountants with their fucking circle up because all you have to do is circle every number that you see.”

  “Wow. That does sound bad.”

  “The hardest part is getting past the fifth hour of circling numbers, when you can’t remember why on earth you paid 120 thousand dollars and three years of your life to go to law school so that you could one day spend your days and nights circling numbers.”[1]

  “I didn’t realize your work was so riveting.”

  “Why do you think working at the firm made me vote Republican? If I have to put up with shit work all day in exchange for some bling bling, there’s no way I’m giving up that bling bling for all the lazy fucks out there just waiting for some tax-subsidized government handout.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious. Taxation is passive theft, yo. Don’t get me wrong: I’m down with helpin’ kids in the hood’ but there’s also a lot of government waste. And the more I’m taxed on income from a job I hate, the more I notice the waste.”

  “I hear ya’,” Evan said, suppressing his urge to defend the Democrats to allow Narc his much needed ranting.

  “Federal, state, and local taxes collectively take forty percent of my paycheck. I might be cool with that if I liked the work. But not if my paycheck represents days and nights of mind-numbing due diligence.”

  “What’s due diligence?”

  “That’s just going through mounds and mounds of corporate data – memos and contracts and letters and documents and spreadsheets – looking for minutia that doesn’t mean shit to you or anyone else you care about. Minutia that doesn’t really mean shit to even the client, because they’re some Fortune 500 company that can afford to be needlessly thorough and will never question a nine-hundred-thousand-dollar legal bill that was, in fact, a complete waste of everyone’s time and money, because nine hundred thousand dollars is just a rounding error to them.”

  The waiter came by to take the check with Narc’s credit card.

  “What about the people who work at these Fortune 500 client companies? What about your colleagues? Don’t you at least enjoy your contact with these people?” Evan asked, hoping to find something positive.

  “The firm’s clients are a bunch of overly demanding, disorganized, and boneheaded corporate prima donnas. And my colleagues are, for the most part, a bunch of obsessive compulsive, conservative, anal retentive, phony yuppies who lack the courage or the imagination to do anything more interesting with their lives. So tell me what’s good about my job, besides the pay check?”

  Narc was really worked up now. Evan wanted to say something, but it was clear that Narc just needed to rage on some more.

  “And you know what else I fucking hate?”

  “What?”

  “I hate the fact that the fucking partners in my firm are so obsessed with billing hours that while I’m standing there taking a piss in the firm bathroom, one of them will come up to me and start talking to me about what we’re working on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’m standing there, dick in my hand, peeing into a urinal, and this partner I’m working with walks in still reading a draft of the document we’re working on. He walks up to the urinal next to me with the document held up right in front of him, and then starts to piss.”

  “Maybe he’s just trying to be efficient so that he can get out of the office earlier,” Evan suggested.

  “That’s fine. I don’t care about that. The problem is when he disturbs my private piss time to start grilling me about how far along I am in the circle up, and when I’ll be distributing the next draft of the prospectus to the working group on the deal. There’s no fucking reason why he can’t wait five minutes to ask me that outside of the bathroom.”

  “I guess.”

  “What do you mean you guess? People want their fucking privacy when they’re in the bathroom.”

  The waiter reappeared with Narc’s credit card, and waited as Narc signed the charge authorization.

  Narc continued his rant: “You know, the main bathroom on each floor at my firm has four stalls, and each stall has a paper toilet seat dispenser. Do you know which stall is always out of paper seats first?”

  “No, I never really thought about that,” Evan replied, amused by Narc’s keen attention to strange details.

  “It’s the stall that’s farthest from the entrance to the bathroom. Do you know why that is?” Narc asked rhetorically. “Because man likes to shit in peace. When man is shitting, man does not like to be disturbed by people coming and going or talking to him about corporate deals. Man is vulnerable when he’s shitting. That’s why he builds toilet stalls. To protect him while he’s vulnerable. And so he wants to get as far away from the noise and the talking as possible and just shit in peace. That’s why the stall that’s the most hidden and peaceful always runs out of paper seats first, whereas the stall that’s closest to the entrance always has paper seats left in the dispenser. Because everyone prefers to shit in the stall that’s the most peaceful, and that’s the stall that’s farthest from the entrance.”

  “Interesting,” Evan replied, trying to conceal his amusement.

  A large group of Italian tourists arrived in the Chinatown restaurant and filled up the tables around Narc and Evan.

  “I’m sick of this shit, Evan.”

  “Look, I’m sorry that you’re so sick of your job, Narc. But I’m sick of hearing about how you’re sick of it.”

  “What are you trying to say?” Narc snapped back, defensively.

  “That after about four years, it’s time for you to do something about it rather than just bitch. Like Trevor. The guy at least had the balls to make some dramatic decisions in search of a better life. And it’s not like I haven’t offered to help you move into the Internet space.”

  “You and your fuckin’ Internet pipe dreams. Have you looked at the NASDAQ – or should I say the Nasdive – lately? It’s over. Last week was the beginning of the end for that bubble.”

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “You’ll be unemployed within two months,” Narc predicted (with prescient accuracy).

  “At least I’ll be happy until we go under. What gets you up every morning? You have nothing to hope for. Each time I see you, which is about twice a year, you just gain more weight and look more depressed.”

  “What the fuck am I supposed to do? I’m making good cash at a prestigious firm and don’t have any better alternatives.”

  “What about your dream jobs?”

  “You mean trying out for the NBA? Or becoming a porn star? My parents would fuckin’ freak.”

  “Well then suck it up at work and accept that you’re no better than your coworkers – ‘the yuppies who lack the courage or imagination to do anything better with themselves,’ as you put it. That’s you, Narc. Face it. You’re just like your colleagues. You’re in good company.”

  “Fuck you, Evan.”

  Narc was
fuming. He noisily got up from the table and left the restaurant brusquely.

  The next day, Evan left an apology on Narc’s voicemail, but he never heard back from his former college roommate.

  Chapter 14

  Heeb’s Brief Career as a Model

  Soon after his arrival in New York City, in June 2000, Sammy concluded that there was no better place to be a single man. But he had to come to terms with the disappointing reality that Carlos was far less available to serve as his wingman than he had been in the past. Heeb would discover this frustrating fact a few days after his arrival, when they met for a sumptuous dinner at the Sanctuary, a vegetarian restaurant in the East Village.

  “So this was just you exposing me to organic foods for an hour?” Heeb complained.

  “Wasn’t the food great?”

  “I just ate seventeen different versions of tofu and veggies trying to taste like meat. Next time, let’s eat carrots made of chicken.”

  “You’re an incurable carnivore, Heeb.”

  “No, I’m an omnivore. An equal opportunity eater – which is how we homo sapiens were designed, by the way. Now are we going out on the town or what?”

  “I can’t.”

  “But you’re one of the main reasons I moved out here!” he protested feebly.

  “I know, Sammy. But don’t try to guilt me into a divorce. I’m married now. To the most incredible woman on the planet who also happens to be my boss.”

  “You’re all grown up now,” Heeb said, almost nostalgically.

  “Yeah. I’ve got a company to run. I helped Carolina triple her revenues over the last five years and we’ve got many more people on payroll now…”

  “I’m still getting the check,” Heeb said with a smile, as he passed his credit card to the waiter before Carlos could.

  “I’ll get you on the next one,” Carlos replied, annoyed that the waiter had so quickly left before he could replace Heeb’s card with his own.

  “I just don’t have as much time as I had during those first few years after college, Sammy,” he continued. “I have a lot more responsibility now…I hope you understand.”

  “Carlos, for the last twelve months I’ve been more single than a one-dollar bill…For the last nine months I’ve been living with my parents, for God’s sake.”

  “Ouch.” Carlos had long ago forgotten what it’s like to go without sex for more than three days.

  “And even had I been in some ideal bachelor pad rather than my parents’ place, I still would have been useless trying to start with women. I mean, it was hard enough for me on my own, in DC, before I met Yumi. But afterwards – I mean, you have no idea how she devastated me…You just don’t know what it’s like…”

  “I hope I never have to learn.”

  “I hope so too.”

  “Has it really been twelve months?”

  “Do you realize that last night I put a condom on for my nightly self-love session, just so that I don’t forget the mechanics of putting on a raincoat? And it’s a good thing I brushed up on my technique, because I’m badly out of practice. I mean, if it were the real thing I would have definitely fumbled it in some stupid, uncoordinated way.”

  Carlos tried to conceal his amusement.

  “Don’t worry, Sammy. You’ll get your Kojak back…You’ve only been here a week. Give it some time. You’ll soon discover how many opportunities there are to meet women in the city. Even without me.”

  “It’s just not the same without you, Chucky.”

  “It will be. Trust me. You just have to put yourself out there. And I’ll definitely join you when I can. But the next few months are going to be really busy for me. Carolina and I have some major business trips to Florida and California, and then we’re going to Italy for a two-week vacation.”

  “You know that I have only one year left to play?” Sammy asked desperately, making one last attempt to evoke pathos in his audience.

  “You mean you’re sticking with the same crazy marriage timetable?”

  “Well, when I was with Yumi that whole plan went out the window, but now I’m coming back to it. There’s something comforting about consistency. And I really need some comfort these days. You know: just a familiar game plan that I can understand and follow.”

  “So you have one more year to date only non-Jewish women for casual play, followed by two years to date only Jewish women in search of a wife?”

  “I know what you’re gonna say. That I’m as crazy and immature as I was five years ago.”

  “No. You’re actually more crazy and immature than you were five years ago, because at twenty-seven it’s far more crazy and immature to be clinging to these notions than at twenty-two.”

  “Thanks, Carlos. I knew I could count on you to understand…”

  “That’s all right. Look, if I hadn’t met Carolina, I’d be stuck in my own kind of crazy. I just got lucky.”

  “Finally, he admits that he’s lucky. Now give me some advice about how to take full advantage of this city. I’m always looking to improve my odds.”

  “Just what I’d expect from a horny actuary.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Carlos reflected for a moment on the problem at hand. He actually had never needed or tried to take full advantage of the city in order to meet women, but he thought about all of his friends who regularly did. His face lit up as he thought of some helpful advice: “Get into the arts.”

  “The arts?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But I’m not artistic.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Many women are into the arts. Theater. Painting. Dance. They love that stuff.”

  “You want me to get into dance? Earthquakes have better rhythm than me…And can you really picture me in those tights?”

  “Take an art history class. Learn photography. Get involved in a play or an independent film production. Get artsy, Sammy. I’m telling you, the senoritas dig that stuff.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You need to sign up for a bunch of artistic activities. But you can’t let on that it’s all just a pretext to meet women. You have to take a real interest in the subject or they’ll quickly sniff out your game.”

  “I don’t know…It’s all so foreign to me…I don’t know the first thing about being artistic.”

  “Heeb, this is the time to expand your horizons. And you’re in the perfect city to do it. New York is all about reinventing yourself. Get out of your comfort zones. Become more of a Renaissance man. That’s much more interesting to women.”

  Heeb broke into a smile. Just thinking about all the ways in which he could refashion himself was both exciting and liberating.

  “I hate to admit it, but you’re right, Carlos. I’ve become a unidimensional number cruncher. And there’s a lot of exploring out there to do.”

  And with that remark, Heeb decided to go where no Heeb had gone before. His new job in New York left his nights and weekends free, and he decided to fill every available moment with a class or an activity, except for Friday and Saturday night, which he left open for dates. On Monday nights, he took photography. Tuesday and Thursday nights he took an acting class, hoping it would transform him into more of a fun and extroverted personality. On Wednesday nights, he took a hip-hop dance class. On Sundays, he learned how to inline skate with the Central Park crowd. And on Saturdays, from 1 p.m. to 3 p.m., he took the biggest risk of all, by embracing his chubby physique in a way that stepped well beyond the bounds of his “comfort zone”: Heeb worked as a nude model for a beginning painting class comprised of twenty students, all between the ages of eighteen and forty, and twelve of whom were female.

  It was undoubtedly the most absurdly surreal and embarrassing situation into which he had ever voluntarily placed himself – particularly since he found one of the students (a young Indian woman) attractive enough to qualify for “business class” seating. There was something unforgettably bizarre and ridiculous about walking into a large loft on a Saturday afternoon, getting
undressed in the bathroom, putting on a kimono, walking out into the center of a large space surrounded by twenty easels, disrobing, and then assuming whatever laughable posture or position the German art instructor, Henrik, sternly commanded. The fact that the forty-something instructor spoke with a thick German accent, looked exceedingly Aryan, and conducted the class in a rather austere and militaristic way didn’t make it any easier for the naked Heeb to take directions from him.

  “Lean forv-ard and pick up your left foot so zet it is floating behind you,” Henrik commanded. Heeb reluctantly obeyed.

  “Come on zehn. Higher now! Like Nadia Comaneci. Show me some balance.”

  Heeb tried to raise his left foot higher and lean forward more but he quickly lost his balance and started hopping around moronically on his supporting right foot, with his shrunken wiener schnitzel bouncing about helplessly until he finally lost his balance and had to take an awkward stumble to the floor.

  Several members of the class, including the cute woman, burst out into restrained laughs, until Henrik called the class to order.

  “Come on, class! Zis is not komedy owar. Vee are here to paint, and painting is serious biz-nus. Laffovitz, pick up yourself and start vahnse again.”

  Heeb’s face flushed red like a tomato, as he got up off the floor and moved back to where he had begun his pose.

  “Zis time just stand zhere on bozh feet, but vis your vayt mostly on your right foot.”

  To Heeb’s relief, he managed this easier pose without any difficulties, and the class resumed its business. Sammy stood there frozen, realizing that no posture could possibly make the task of posing naked in front of twenty strangers painting him seem any less preposterous. He began to wonder how people made a living at this sort of thing. “They must be exhibitionists,” he thought. “I guess I was never meant to be an exhibitionist. Who am I kidding? I knew that all along…I’m an idiot for trying this…To hell with leaving your comfort zones…They’re your comfort zones for a damn good reason: they feel comfortable…”