What's Your Number

by Karyn Bosnak

  I wonder what would happen if I re-met the twenty guys I slept with, if I bumped into any of them while I was out, listening to Jefferson Starship. I wonder if we’d click. Thinking back, I don’t think any of them was the one, but people change, I guess.

  I pick up the list Daniel wanted me to make, the list that I started but didn’t finish, and look at it. If I were to end up with one of the twenty guys I already slept with, then my number wouldn’t go up and I wouldn’t have to live a lifetime of celibacy. Call me crazy, but I think I’m onto something here.

  All I’d have to do is find out where they all live, if they’re single, and then arrange to bump into them somewhere. I could do that—I totally could. I’ve got more than enough time on my hands now. I’m at the beginning of what’s basically a six-week paid vacation. I could just get in a car, go find them all and pick the best of the bunch to settle down with. It’s not such a wild idea. I was attracted to all of them at one time or another. Yes, I really think this could work . . . I do!

  I grab my pen and quickly begin filling in the rest of the blanks on my list, which, to be honest, isn’t as easy as it sounds. Sure, the first few and the last few were easy, but the middle’s a bit foggy, specifically the college years, a time when, owing to a lack of sleep and vitamin-enriched foods and an overabundance of mind-altering substances like alcohol and recreational party drugs, I wasn’t at my sharpest. It’s easy to forget details, like someone’s name for instance, when you’re trying to break your roommate’s record for the most upside-down margaritas done in one sitting. However, I don’t let that stop me. I scribble and scribble and scribble . . . for the next hour I scribble.

  When I’m done, after I’ve written down names, nicknames, and whatever else comes to mind, when I look at the list of twenty men who make up my number, an array of emotions run through my body. Despite the odd things I remember about some of them, on my list is a man for all seasons. There’s the one who looked good on paper and the one who just looked good . . . the one who couldn’t get it up and the one who couldn’t keep it down . . . the one who became my best friend and the one who became my worst enemy . . . the one who made me sweat with anticipation and the one who left me out in the cold. There’s the one-night stand, the one-week fling, the pity lay, and the good one who got away. There’s the one I lived for, the one I lusted after, and the one I thought I loved more than anyone else in the world. They’re all there.

  Tony Robbins says what separates the good from the great is the ability to take action, so that’s what I’m going to do—take action! I’m going to get in a car and find these guys one-by-one. I’m going to do this and it’s going to work! Celibacy is not an option, damn it—it’s not!

  Daniel said there wasn’t a solution to my problem, but by God there is. And telling me I need Jesus—who does he think he is? I don’t need Jesus.

  I need Google.

  * * *

  1 This bad “man habit” can be unlearned or at least controlled, so I let it slide.

  2 Note to cab drivers: when someone with puke on their shirt gets into the back of your cab and asks you to crack a window, it’s not a good idea to pull out greasy food.

  Chapter three

  Mergers and Acquisitions1

  A (very long) list by Delilah Darling

  1. Nate Syracuse—High school boyfriend.

  2. Daniel Wilkerson—Now known as Father Dan.

  3. Cowboy Shaner—Frat boy who loved cowboy hats & Coors Light.

  4. Zubin Khan—Quiet Indian resident adviser of my freshman-year dorm.

  5. Tim the Townie—One half of the “Thompson Twins” (not the ’80s band); rumored to have a big one. Didn’t.

  6. Ian Kesselman—Weirdly obsessed with his mom.

  7. Kate Scott—It was college, I was curious, she doesn’t count.

  7. Henry Parker—One-night stand, used to prove to Kate I was straight. A.k.a. “Henry the Do-Gooder.”

  8. Oliver Leet—Dapper Brit; cheated on me with a girl because he “fancied her sparkly hose.”

  9. Tom the Townie—Other half of the “Thompson Twins”; rumored to have a big one. Did.

  10. Nukes—Don’t know his last name. Or his first. Spring-break fling involving a trampoline. Came from an “A” state. Arizona?

  This is how long the average person’s list would be. But I’m not the average person, I’m a tramp, so mine continues on the next page.

  Mergers and Acquisitions (con’t.)

  (The rest of) A (very long) list by Delilah Darling

  11. Foxy Blonde—Real name: Matt King. A.k.a. “The Stoner Who Couldn’t Keep a Boner.”

  12. Delaware Pepper—Yes, it’s his real name. Smelled like macaroni.

  13. Alex Wolfe—Triple threat: funny, smart, good-looking. A.k.a. “The Good One Who Got Away.”

  14. Wade Wojosomething—Aspiring stuntman.

  15. The R.O.D.—Real name: Rod Verdicchio. Booty-call Boyfriend. Obsessed with his D.O.G.

  16. Abogado—Real name: Diego Soto. Barcelona fling; serious language barrier.

  17. Grody Gordy Peterson—Lying S.C.U.M. (Self-Centered Urban Male) with 1 wife, 2 kids, 3 girlfriends, and a 4-inch penis.

  18. Kyle Luxe—A.k.a. luxeynluv; result of innocent work e-mails spiraling out of control.

  19. Greg the East Village Idiot—Not the sharpest tool in the shed.

  20. Roger Lipschitz—Already got his second chance; blew it. Or scratched it and smelled it.

  So there, there you have it. The twenty men who make up my number, all summed up on one page. I mean, two. Yikes.

  Things to Do for Road Trip

  A list by Delilah Darling

  1. Buy road map for car. Get car.

  2. Buy road map for car.

  3. Buy big black sunglasses, baseball hat, and binoculars for stakeouts.

  4. In anticipation of lots of downtime during stakeouts:

  a. Buy tabloids.

  b. Buy comfy clothes, especially cotton underwear and flip-flops. No one likes stinky feet and the other thing.

  c. Load up on snacks and tasty beverages.

  5. Bring camera and laptop to document journey. (If things work out with one of the twenty, photos taken will be great to show future kids how Mommy and Daddy re-met.)

  6. Download lots of music into iPod. In addition to getting music that brings back memories of each guy, get:

  a. Good sing-along music: John Denver; Kenny Rogers; Neil Diamond; Peter, Paul & Mary; and of course . . . Lionel Richie.

  b. Good kick-ass girl music: Pink, Gwen Stefani, Britney Spears.

  7. Based on a special television report I watched on dirty hotel rooms:

  a. Buy pillows, sheets, and blankets to sleep with. (Hotel bedspreads are covered with grody things.)

  b. Buy rubber gloves to handle things like doorknobs, alarms clocks, telephones, and remote controls. (Ditto for these things.) Note: Gloves can also be used to go through garbage if necessary.

  8. Buy pink quartz Chinese love bracelet from old man on Canal Street, guaranteed to bring success.

  dysFUNction

  tuesday, april 5

  “This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard!”

  Even though Michelle is screaming in my ear, I ignore her because I’ve read The Success Principles: How to Get from Where You Are to Where You Want to Be by Jack Canfield. According to Jack, many people will try to talk me out of my vision and say I’m crazy, but I’m not supposed to listen. I’d tell Michelle this, but if I did she’d probably just yell at me and tell me to quit quoting self-help books, so I’m going to keep it to myself and instead fumble with the windshield wipers on a blue Ford Focus I’m considering renting.

  “Driving cross-country to find all the guys you’ve had sex with just so you won’t have to up some crazy self-imposed limit is nuts.”

  Obviously I ended up telling her about what happened with Roger. And Daniel. And 10.5. And twenty. And Daisy’s four. And about being a tramp. I had to. I couldn’t
take off on a road-trip by myself without telling anyone, that would be irresponsible.

  “I can’t believe you’re actually considering doing this,” she snaps.

  “I’m not considering—I’m doing. I’m taking action.”

  “Then take action like any normal person would—pick up the phone and call these guys.”

  “I’m not gonna call them!” I shriek. “That’ll look desperate.”

  Michelle shudders with confusion. “And showing up on their doorstep won’t?”

  I roll my eyes. “Michelle, Michelle, Michelle—I’m not just gonna go knock on their doors and ask them how they’ve been, I’m gonna stake these guys out, one by one, figure out where they work, what they do, and then work my way back into their lives.”

  “So you’re gonna stalk them.”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “Delilah! Stalking is criminal activity—you could go to jail!”

  “I’m not gonna go to jail; there’s nothing illegal about what I’m doing. Curiosity is human nature. I have an inquiring mind.”

  “Then buy a tabloid.”

  “I did. I have a whole stack back at the apartment to read during my stakeouts. It was number four-a on my to-do list.”

  “What to-do list?” Michelle hesitates. Reaching in my purse, I pull it out and hand it to her. Gosh, for a person who rarely makes list, I can’t believe I’ve made so many in the last few days.

  Michelle reads the list. When she’s done she glares at the pink bracelet on my wrist. “Is that it?” she asks. “Is that your Chinese love bracelet?”

  “Hey, do you think this thing has anti-lock brakes?” I ask, trying to change the subject. I don’t want to hear it.

  “Delilah, pay attention! You’re not thinking this through—you’re rushing into it.”

  I roll my eyes. I have thought it through—for three whole days I thought it through.

  “Have you even thought about how much this is gonna cost? It’ll be a fortune. I hope you know that.”

  “No, it won’t,” I insist. “I’m giving myself six weeks to make it work, which is technically how long our paid vacation is.”

  “Del, we’re not on a paid vacation. We’ve been laid off. You should be looking for a job, not for a . . .” Michelle stops talking to search for the right word.

  “A life partner,” I offer. Michelle rolls her eyes. “Jobs will always be there, Michelle; the opportunity to do this won’t. Besides, even if it takes the entire six weeks for this thing to work, the most I’ll end up spending is a little over five thousand dollars, which I have and which you have, thanks to my severance check, plus whatever the private investigator costs.”

  Michelle rolls her eyes. “Oh right, the private investigator. I can’t believe you dragged your crazy Irish neighbor into this.”

  You see, although Google helped me find out where many of the guys have been—running races, participating in charity events, winning cars in radio station contests (one of them did, I swear)—it wasn’t much help in finding out where they are right now. Even if it was able to locate where they are physically (home addresses, work addresses), I need to know where they are romantically before I drive cross-country to re-meet them. I need to know if they’re married, I need to know if they’re gay. (One of them was a little bit questionable.) The only way for me to find this stuff out is to hire a private investigator.

  After spending hours yesterday calling around to different ones, getting quotes, and finding out that they’re too expensive, I decided to knock on Colin’s door to see if his dad could give me a deal. He didn’t answer, so I taped a note to it that said:

  Colin,

  I need to locate about fifteen old friends for a party I’m having. If I give you old addresses, nicknames, etc., do you think your dad could find them for me? I was quoted $150 per person and was hoping to spend less.

  I just need the basics . . . current address, marriage history, sexual orientation. Let me know.

  Thanks, Delilah (your neighbor)

  I said fifteen old friends because Roger and Daniel are out of the running for obvious reasons; I already know that #18, Kyle Luxe, is single and living in Los Angeles; and two locals—#17 and #19, Grody Gordy Peterson and Greg the East Village Idiot—don’t need locating. In fact, like Roger and Daniel, I already eliminated both of them from the running.

  I “coincidentally” bumped into Greg the East Village Idiot at the grocery store yesterday morning and, after a minute-long discussion, realized not much had changed. I had just finished reading an article in a magazine about euthanasia, living wills, and the such, and asked him to share his thoughts on the issue. After looking at me blankly, he mumbled something to the effect of not understanding what little kids in Asia had to with living well.

  “No, no—living wills and euthanasia,” I clarified. “It’s been a hot topic in the news lately.”

  Greg shrugged. “Sorry, you lost me.”

  Later that afternoon I went jogging and “coincidentally” ended up in front of the building where Grody Gordy Peterson works, right around the time that he used to leave for lunch every day. Grody Gordy and I dated for three months a few years back. At the time, he told me he was single, which he very much wasn’t. Not only did he have a wife and two kids, but he had two other girlfriends besides me. I found all this out one day when one of those girlfriends called to yell at me for dating her married boyfriend. Yes, it was all a bit screwed up. Anyway, because of this, even if Gordy was suddenly single, I doubt I’d consider dating him again, but I had to explore all my options.

  Long story short, Gordy is definitely not suddenly single. All in the matter of a lunch hour, I watched him canoodle with an unknown woman in the back of a cab, snuggle up to a second in a Starbucks, and then kiss his wife hello as she greeted him at the door of their Gramercy Park brownstone with a sandwich. Poor woman. I hope she spends all his money and then leaves him.

  Anyway, this is why I need Colin’s dad to find only fifteen guys—I’ve eliminated four already and found one on my own. So back to my note. Like I said, I hung it on Colin’s door around seven o’clock and then went to meet my grandpa and Gloria for a farewell dinner at Chili’s. (My grandpa goes bananas for the . . . “I want my baby back, baby back, baby back . . . Chili’s baby back ribs!”) After a pleasant reunion with Gloria and a tearful good-bye with my grandpa, I got home around eleven and found a return note taped to my door. It said:

  To my dear neighbor Delilah—

  Talked to my father. Yes, can give you a deal. I’m working tonight, so put all the info you have under my door. I’ll have a price for you tomorrow, stop by around 6:00.

  Cheers, Colin

  P.S. Sexual orientation? What kind of a party is this?

  So, anyway, I’m planning to go see him after I rent this car. With that, I slap the dashboard. As far as famous road trips go, a blue Ford Focus isn’t exactly on par with Thelma and Louise’s cool blue Thunderbird, but it’s more reliable and more economical. After honking the horn wildly to celebrate, I lean out the window and yell to the car rental guy. “I’ll take it!”

  mr. lucky charming

  Around 6:30, when I hear the vroom of Colin’s old, beat-up Vespa, I look out the window. His scooter is a total clunker; I always hear him coming and going on it. After giving him a few minutes to settle in, I freshen up—smear a little gloss across my lips, give my hair a fluff—and then head over to his apartment. I’m not trying to impress him or anything. It’s just that the last time he saw me I had been crying and barfing all morning, and I don’t want anyone to think I really look like that.

  After I knock, it takes Colin only a second to answer the door. He smiles when he sees me. Unlike Saturday, he’s dressed in a gray vintage-looking T-shirt and an old pair of Levi’s. His feet are bare again though, and his toes are still clean. “Welcome Delilah,” he says, waving me inside.

  Colin’s place looks like a typical guy’s apartment. Everything
in it is pretty much brown and blue, crumbs and empty beer bottles decorate the floors and counters, and nothing decorates the walls. Oh and yes, there’s a hula hoop in the corner. It’s bad, but not as bad as some apartments I’ve seen. For one, it’s IKEA-free, and two, a full set of All-Clad pots and pans hang from a rack in the kitchen. “Do you like to cook?” I ask, motioning to them.

  “Ah . . . yeah,” Colin says, nodding at the pots. “I’m a master chef. I like to mix leftovers together. I make good goulashes and fries with them.”

  “Goulashes?” I ask. I don’t even know what goulash is.

  “Yep,” Colin nods. “And fries.” He then motions to the couch. “Please, sit yourself down.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and then I do just that.

  “So, how are ya? Ya good?” he asks, sitting down himself.

  “Yes, great. Thanks. And you?”

  “Couldn’t be better.” He picks up a pile of papers. While waiting for him to flip through them and find what he’s looking for, I look around his apartment some more. Sitting on the table in front of me is a script of some sort. I want to look and see what it is, but don’t want to be nosy. I turn back to Colin. He definitely has the looks of a leading man, but I wonder if he has any talent. You know, maybe it’s the Irish accent, maybe it’s the first name, maybe it’s because he’s an actor as well, or maybe it’s because he’s so darn sexy—whatever the reason, Colin looks a little less like Johnny Depp right now, and a little more like—

  “So, you’re having a party, are ya?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Huh? Oh, yes—a party. It’s a . . . reunion party of sorts. Old friends, getting together.”

  “A reunion party? With all guys?”

  “Pardon me?” Colin looks up.

  “The list you gave me was all guys.”

  “Oh, uh . . . it’s kind of a singles thing too. I have a bunch of girls already lined up.”

  “I see,” he says, drumming his fingers on his knee. “I s’pose it’s none of my business anyway. Okay, here’s the deal. Based on the info you gave me, it’ll be fifty dollars a person.”