What's Your Number

by Karyn Bosnak

  2 Men have it too, but their testosterone reduces its effects.

  3 Note to men: There’s a very fine line between confidence and arrogance. Don’t mistake the latter for the former.

  4 As is their forgotten older sister, Magda.

  Chapter five

  #14 Wade Wojosomething

  Aspiring stuntman.

  *Beep*

  Hey, Darlin’! It’s Grandpa. Gloria and I got to Vegas safely. You should see where she lives. It’s way cool! It has a bunch of pools and rec centers that offer all kinds of classes. I’ve been thinking about taking a leather-carving class. I’d like to make myself a nice belt. Let me know if you want one.

  Hate to cut this short, but I’m on my way to check out one of those golf carts I was telling you about. It’s street-legal, which means I can drive it right on the street with all the other cars. Ain’t that something? Call me! Love ya!

  *Beep*

  Hey, Delilah . . . it’s your neighbor Colin, you know, with the abs.

  *Laughter*

  That was a joke. Hey, I found four more of your fellas and e-mailed you the information. Ian Kesselman, Delaware Pepper, and two twins with the last name Thompson. They’re all single, in case you’re wondering. Give me a knock next time you’re around. Later.

  ah . . . forget it

  saturday, april 9

  “Almost heaven, West Virginia, Blue Ridge Mountains, Shannen Doherty River . . .” Oops. That’s not right. I’m in Virginia, not West Virginia, but the highway runs right along the border of the two states, so I’m close enough to sing this song and mean it. “Country roads . . . where I roam, to the place, I call home!” Oh dear, that’s not right either. Anyway, rest in peace, John Denver, you musical genius you.

  Even though Chattanooga’s a twelve-hour drive from Philly, the adrenaline from being angry at Rod, lots of coffee and sugar, and of course the motivational tunes keep me driving through the night and into the morning. I’m a little upset that my first try at this thing was a bust, but I can’t let one bad experience stop me from moving forward, so I let it go.

  After a brief excursion to Dollywood, I arrive in Chattanooga around two o’clock in the afternoon.1 Even though there are a lot of inexpensive hotels to choose from, I opt to stay at a slightly more expensive Holiday Inn inside the old train station because there’s a real Chattanooga Choo Choo inside. It’s kind of embarrassing to admit, but who knew Chattanooga Choo Choos were actual trains? Not me, I thought it was just a song.

  While checking in with an older woman at the front desk, I’m asked if I want a “thtandard room” or a “rethtored train car.”

  “Pardon me?” I say.

  “Well, in addition to the thtandard room, you can thtay in an actual rethtored Victorian railroad car inthide a train.”

  I realize she has a lisp. “Really?”

  “Oh, yeth,” she says, “they’re beautiful. They look jutht like they did at the turn of the thentury.”

  Although the rethtored train car costs almost twice as much as a thtandard room that’s just a little more expensive than the inexpensive hotels, I decide to take it. I don’t see myself coming back to Chattanooga anytime thoon—I mean soon—so I doubt I’ll get another chance to do this.

  The hotel/train isn’t dog friendly, so I sneak Eva inside in her new bag. My room/car is long and narrow, not much wider than the queen-sized bed inside. Its dark décor is nauseating. I’m surrounded by swirls, paisley, and plaid. In fact, if the car was moving, I’d probably barf. The only cool thing about it is the metal luggage rack that hangs above the window, so even though my bag is heavy, I lift it and store it up there just for kicks.

  I plan to begin my search for Wade tomorrow, so after stripping the bed, I lie down and close my eyes. I have to admit, of all the people to come after Rod, I wish it was someone with a little more potential. Wade was always a bit odd, to say the least, and we didn’t exactly leave on the best terms. But people change, they do, and everyone deserves a second chance. So with that, I drift off to sleep and recall the last night we saw each other.

  In my list of twenty men, Wade Wojosomething is #14. He came right before Rod, both literally and numerically, I guess. Unlike Rod, he was an actual boyfriend, not just a booty call. And yes, I know what his last name is, I just could never spell it or pronounce it correctly when I first met him, so I started calling him Wade Wojosomething as a joke and it stuck.

  Even though Wade and I are the same age, he seemed much younger than me when we dated. I know I’m not exactly a vision of maturity, but Wade’s immaturity was different from mine. He liked to do little boy things, like go on scavenger hunts and play with Power Rangers. I mean, if there was Cub Scouts for men in their twenties, Wade would be a member, no doubt.

  Initially, I found Wade’s boyish charm attractive, but eventually it annoyed me. One of the things that irritated me the most about him was that he loved playing a wide variety of mime games, especially charades. Now, I’ve played charades before, we all have, and the occasional game is fine. It can even be fun. But Wade didn’t want to play the occasional game, Wade wanted to play all the fucking time. Even something as simple as going to a movie turned into a game. One night I remember asking him what movie he wanted to see. Rather than answer me, Wade held up one finger (first word), pulled his ear (sounds like), crouched down and waddled forward, bobbing his head and flapping his arms.

  “A duck? A swan? A turkey?” I guessed. Honestly, I had no idea. “A chicken? A hen?” (An idiot?)

  I’m not going to make you go through what I had to— it was a goose, the first word that sounded like it was deuce, which meant that he wanted to see Deuce Bigalow. Since I wasn’t about to see Deuce Bigalow, ten minutes later we were back at square one as Wade started pulling his ear, trying to get me to guess his next movie choice. Honestly, what kind of person has time for this?

  I think the reason Wade liked charades so much centered on the fact that he wanted to be a stuntman. So “pretending” to do something—whether it was falling down a flight of stairs or acting out a TV show title like Walker, Texas Ranger—was in his blood. It was his calling, his dream.

  Yes, Wade was weird, so why did I date him? It’s simple: he was nice. He was nonthreatening. He was cute, in an Alex P. Keaton kind of way. He looked like he walked right out of a Sears catalog. Guys like Wade don’t care if you wear Keds or heels. Guys like Wade don’t care if you spill spaghetti sauce down the front of your blouse. Guys like Wade are easy to date.

  The last time I saw Wade was Christmas Eve of 1999 when he invited me over to his family’s house for dinner. Things between us had been a little tense in the weeks leading up to it—we were growing apart, becoming less tolerant of each other—but neither of us had yet said anything about it. We were still going along like everything was fine, which is why I agreed to go.

  From the moment I arrived at Wade’s parent’s house that night, I knew going was a mistake. Wade was rude to me, as was his entire family. He must have told everyone that we were having problems because no one talked to me. No one offered me a drink. No one took my coat—they all pretended like I wasn’t there. I felt like an invisible ghost floating around a strange family’s house.

  And strange they were.

  For some reason Wade’s family was obsessed with him. Obsessed. All night, his two younger sisters gazed at him with stars in their eyes, like he was a celebrity or something. His older brother kept shouting out requests to him like he was Wayne Newton. “Show Mom your Jim Carrey impression, Wade!” and “Show Dad how you can beatbox!” As for his parents, you would’ve thought Wade was a war hero the way they treated him. Every time they looked at him they got teary-eyed and would say things like, “We’re so proud of you, son!” and “We’re just so happy to see our boy!” Not to be mean, but I wasn’t sure what it was about Wade they were so proud of. Although Wade wanted to be a stuntman, he wasn’t—he was the assistant manager of a T.G.I. Friday’s. And also, Wade didn’t l
ive in Russia. He lived in Manhattan and saw his parents every single weekend. Seriously. It interfered with our social life.

  When dinner was served that evening, Wade’s feeble old grandma came down from upstairs to join the family at the table. When she did, no one spoke to her or even acknowledged her presence. I felt sorry for her—if only they loved her as much as they loved Wade. She sat next to me and since no one was talking to either of us, we bonded. Well, kind of. I kept trying to make conversation, but the concept of that seemed lost on her. She appeared to be listening to what I was saying all right, but when it came down to responding, she’d open her mouth like she was going to say something, but then wave her wrinkly hand in front of it and look away, as if to say, “Ah . . . forget it.”

  After dinner Wade’s family had a tradition of “giving thanks.” Basically, this is how it worked: Everyone grabs a partner, and the family goes around the table one by one and tells their partner why they’re thankful for them. Wade’s mom chose his dad, his little sister chose his other little sister, and Wade, rather than choosing his girlfriend, the stranger he invited over for dinner, chose his brother. That left me with grandma.

  Now, I appreciate a close family, but these people made me want to barf. For the next twenty minutes, I watched as everyone, with tears in their eyes, told their partner how special they were while Wade’s dad exclaimed, “The spirit of Christmas is in the air!” When it was my turn, I turned to Grandma and said, “You must be a really special lady to have raised such a loving family.” As I spoke, Grandma smiled and nodded, which made me feel good. From the look on her face, it was apparent to me that she didn’t get enough of this. When I finished, I waited for her to return the kind words and was shocked when she instead got up and left the table without saying anything. When she did everyone laughed they thought it was so funny. “That’s Grandma!” Wade’s dad yelled. For a minute I was somewhat relieved, thinking Grandma’s odd behavior might have served as an ice breaker between us all, but when no one stepped up to take her place, I realized I was wrong. After clearing the table, everyone rushed into the living room for the after-dinner festivities and left me sitting all alone. No one volunteered to tell me how special I was—I got gypped.

  Needless to say, I was angry. What they did was just plain bad manners. Just as I was about to tell Wade that I was going home, his mom cracked open a bottle of wine and announced it was time to play charades. When I saw how the family reacted—they nearly peed their pants with joy; apparently Wade’s love of the game was inherited—I changed my mind. What better way to spend an evening than to get drunk and watch a bunch of people make asses of themselves, right? I grabbed an empty glass and told Wade’s mom to fill ’er up!

  Since it was a holiday, Wade’s dad announced he was going to “spice up the game,” so he had everyone tear out random pages from old copies of Reader’s Digest and put them in a hat. “Instead of guessing the usual movie and song titles, we’ll act out the article titles!” he exclaimed. This threw the family into a frenzy. Everyone started wildly stomping their feet and clapping their hands.

  As the hat was passed around the group, everyone took turns acting out their titles, titles like “Vacations on the Fly” and “Stop Cop Killers.” They were all having such a good time, miming and guessing, and likewise, I was having a good time drinking and heckling. Yes, heckling. I’d been taking cold medicine, and it must have interacted with the wine because one minute I was fine and the next minute I was heckling Wade’s family. Inappropriately heckling Wade’s family. Yelling things like, “How could you not get that, you dumb bastard?” and “You call that a rhinoceros, you stupid asshole?” I’m not proud of my behavior, but screw them—I was special too, damn it!

  When the hat landed on my lap, I announced I was going to sit this one out and tried to pass it to the next person, but the family wouldn’t have it. Grandma was sitting on a La-Z-Boy in the corner, staring at the wall. She wasn’t playing—why did I have to? I made eyes at her, hoping to get her attention, hoping she’d stick up for me and tell them to back off since I told her how special she was, but no. She did the same thing she kept doing all through dinner. She opened her mouth like she was going to say something, then waved her wrinkly hand in front of her face and looked away, like, “Ah . . . forget it.” Needless to say, I had to play, so I reached into the hat and pulled out my title. Of all the titles in Reader’s Digest, of all the two-word and three-word titles, I got . . .

  “Landing Pads for Extraterrestrials, Druid Temples, Sacrificial Altars: What Are These Monuments from a Prehistoric Culture?”

  Seriously. The pros got titles like “Vacations on the Fly” and “Stop Cop Killers” and I got “Landing Pads for Extraterrestrials, Druid Temples, Sacrificial Altars: What Are These Monuments from a Prehistoric Culture?” Since there was no way I was going to act it out, I laughed and threw it back in, and then went into the kitchen to get some more wine. After pouring myself a glass, I turned around and found Wade’s mom standing behind me, holding my coat. Apparently it was time for me to go.

  “I’m surprised you and Wade are a couple,” she said, as she ushered me toward the front door.

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Well, you don’t seem like a girl who wants to get her hair wet, and my Wader is such an adventurer!”

  After she said this, I turned around to say good-bye to Wade, who was in the middle of doing the Macarena with his brother. I watched him for a bit, and oh . . . what an adventurer he was. The way he put his hands on his shoulders, then his head, and then his hips—he was a regular Indiana Jones. I opened my mouth to say good-bye, but then thought twice.

  “Ah . . . forget it,” I said, then I turned around and walked out the door.

  new beginnings

  sunday, april 10

  The ring from my cell phone wakes me up. For a moment I forget where I am, but then I remember—Chattanooga, Wade Wojosomething. I reach for the phone and answer.

  “Are you alive?” It’s Michelle. She’s screaming.

  “Yes,” I grumble. “I forgot to call you when I got in, sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” she says sarcastically. “I just thought you were dead, no biggie.”

  I quickly realize it was a bad idea to tell her I was driving through the night. After apologizing, I assure her that I’ll check in more frequently and then change the subject. “So, have you started looking for jobs yet?” I ask.

  “Kind of,” she mumbles. “I’ve updated my résumé. I just haven’t sent any out yet. But you know what I heard? You know Vintage Vogue?”

  “Vintage Vogue the furniture store?”

  “Yeah. I heard through the grapevine that they’re expanding their line to include all sorts of housewares to compete more with Martha Stewart and Elisabeth, and I think they’re gonna start interviewing soon.”

  “Really? That’s cool. I like Vintage Vogue. They have nice furniture; it’s washable.”

  “Yep. Aren’t you worried at all about a job?”

  “To be honest, I haven’t even thought about it.” I can’t. I need to focus on this and only this.

  “That’s just crazy to me,” Michelle says.

  “Well, it’s not to me,” I sigh. “Anyway, good luck with the job search.”

  “Thanks. And good luck to you with Wade Wojowhatever.”

  “Wojosomething.”

  “Whatever.”

  I flip my phone shut and decide to get an early start on my day, so as Dolly would say, “I tumble outta bed and stumble to . . . err . . . my train car bathroom, pour myself a cup of . . . bad java brewed in a mini-sized Mr. Coffee and yawn, and stretch, and try to come to life.” Stalking nine to five, what a way to not sleep with any more men!

  It’s a bright sunny morning in Chattanooga and the air smells like spring. I feel refreshed. Any memories of the R.O.D. are long gone. Wade lives about a ten-minute drive away from my hotel in a medium-sized subdivision filled with two-story white t
own houses that all look identical to one another.2 After figuring out which town house is his, I put on my hat and sunglasses and then, just like I did in Philadelphia, park out front and wait.

  Wade’s car, a brown two-door Honda, is sitting in the driveway, so I’m pretty sure he’s home. The reason I know it’s Wade’s car is because when I Googled him, I found out that he won it in a radio contest about two years ago. For being new, it’s a total disaster. The sides are all scratched up, the front end is crumpled and the fenders are dented. It looks like someone’s a worse driver than me.

  For the next hour, while I wait, I tell Eva all about Wade. She’s my partner in crime now, so it’s important she knows what’s going on. Although I can’t be certain, I think she’s listening because she keeps blinking incessantly and cocking her head. Even though going to see Rod was a big waste of time, if I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have gotten her. Everything happens for a reason, I guess.

  Around ten o’clock I see movement at Wade’s—the blinds open—and get nervous, so I pull my car a little out of the way into the cul-de-sac at the end of the street. After about thirty minutes, Wade emerges from his house and gets in his car. He looks more mature than he did the last time I saw him and I’m pleasantly surprised. When he backs out of his driveway and pulls away, I put my car in drive and slowly follow him. Lucky for me, the backseat of his car is jam-packed with stuff, so he can’t see me (or anyone) in his rearview mirror.

  At the entrance of the subdivision, Wade makes a right onto the main road and, after a quick two-minute drive, pulls into the parking lot of a Winn-Dixie grocery store. He goes inside; I decide to follow.

  As soon as I walk inside the store, I locate Wade in the produce section picking through some onions. Grabbing a basket, I head in his direction, stopping when I get to a wheelbarrow filled with vibrantly colored apples. Picking up a bag, I begin to read the nutritional label on the back and slowly inch my way toward where he’s standing until I end up bumping into him. Literally. “Oops, sorry,” I say, as I do.