“Okay, so what are the stipulations?” I ask into the phone without announcing myself and rubbing the sleep from my eyes with my free hand. Bobby laughs. “Just tell me, dick.”
“No real stipulations,” he says. “Just one date per day. And change it up. Try some new things.”
“You mean thirty straight coffee dates is a no go?”
“I don’t think so. Not that your bowels could handle that. You’d have no asshole left,” he says, laughing. “No, if you’re going to do the challenge, at least try and enjoy it a little.”
“That seems highly unlikely,” I say dryly as I flip through the morning news and cartoons on TV from my bed.
“We’ll see. You starting today?” he asks.
“Yeah. This evening after my usual Thursday visit.”
“Oh, yeah, forgot about that. Tell her I said hi.”
I internally laugh at the idea of that, but agree. “Will do. I’ll let you know how the date goes.”
“Weekly checkup, at least,” he reminds me, clearing his throat loudly into the phone. “Good luck, buddy.”
“I hate you.”
“Love you too, Gavin,” he says, laughing before there’s a click over the line.
I drop the phone from my ear and hold it in my hand for a moment, my mind running through what the next thirty days will entail, and whether I’ll be able to finish the challenge to begin with. I’m a shy ass dude. I’ve been introverted my whole life, and first dates are just one of those things that fill with me a very unpleasant amount of anxiety.
Pulling the SwipeDate app up, I sit up in bed and lean my back against the headboard. There’s an uneasy shift in my gut as I begin swiping. By the third straight left swipe, I’m struck with a thought. Why not pick based on profile content alone? I’m not looking for love here. I’m looking to get through this challenge as painlessly as possible. If I choose from profile content alone, I’m more likely to enjoy the bit of time I spend with each person. The ridiculous superficiality of it all isn’t something I’m very comfortable with anyway.
I force my vision on the short blurb at the bottom, and do my best to ignore the picture up top. I can see a blur of what they look like, but pay no attention to them as I analyze the content. I swipe right on a few of them for listing good TV shows and movies… some bands I like and, well, good quotes get me every time. The majority go left though, most of them blank, whether literally or figuratively speaking. I’m not picky, but I want substance when I’m spending time with someone. I want to know who they are from “Hello.” No bullshit. No manipulation. Which is funny when I really think about it, because there are times I do just that. I go against my own standards. Human beings are funny that way. We go around judging and pointing our finger, trying to find the next place to put the blame. We so often forget to look inward, to see who we really are, and to own up to the flaws we have. I like to think I do… and most often that’s the case… but with dates, the writer in me comes out. I want to paint a beautiful canvas for them, describing my life, but there’s no beautiful canvas to paint. Life is ugly right now, as can happen from time to time. It’s a weird little inner battle I don’t think one ever really gets used to—you feel like a failure, you want to try harder, but then you just end up feeling bad for feeling bad, and you wallow in it. It’s a vicious cycle.
After playing around on the app for long enough, I set the phone back on the nightstand, and lumber off the bed, stretching my stiff back. The cold hickory wood floor sends chills up my legs, which gets me moving a bit quicker to the bathroom.
I probably shouldn’t be getting out of bed for the first time at eleven a.m., but to hell with it. It’s one of the perks of being a struggling writer.
Taking a look at myself in the mirror, I chuckle at the sight. My hair is strewn about in every direction and I have heavy bags below my eyes. I’ll need an extra-long shower before making one of my tri-weekly visits to the Brookdale Retirement home.
The facility is a beautiful one just steps away from the Hudson River and historic Statue of Liberty Island. I feel a bite to the air that sends a swift shudder down my spine. It can be quite chilly by the river during the fall and winter seasons, but of course, tomorrow it’s likely to be back up to the fifties before it drops again. You gotta love NYC weather. I’ll enjoy the good weather when it comes, though. Before long, everything will be coated in white.
Once I’m signed in, Nurse Jackie comes toward me with her arms wide. She’s a big, beautiful black lady with a wide, pearly white smile, and a tight hug she gives you every time she sees you, regardless of who you are.
“Gavin, baby, how you been?” she asks, wrapping her arms around me and squeezing me tight.
“You know, living that rock and roll lifestyle,” I jest, pulling back from her and passing her a smile of my own.
“You look like you smoked,” she says bluntly, giving me a knowing squint.
“What did I tell ya?” I say through a laugh. “That rock and roll lifestyle. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
“Oh, Lordy,” she says, rolling her eyes with a quick head shake. “Well, c’mon now, you little devil.” She motions for me to follow her down the hall, and I oblige. She stops just in front of room one-sixteen; the same room I’ve been coming to for five years now. Jackie rhythmically knocks on the doorframe and leans her head through the open doorway.
“Miss Gracie, we’ve got Gavin here to see you,” she calls out. I lean in too, and see my grandmother, her frail body wrapped up in the covers, only her weathered face exposed.
“Who’s Gavin?” she asks, her voice gravelly and weak.
“He’s a volunteer, just here to spend some time with you, dear. Can I turn the lights on?” Jackie asks and Grandma nods. Jackie flips the light switch on and the small room is flooded with sterile fluorescent lighting. Jackie turns to me and smiles. “Alright, baby. Just let me know before you head out.”
“Thanks, Jackie. I will.” She puts a hand to my shoulder and holds it there for a moment, smiling, before turning on her heel and heading back to the nurses’ station where I signed in. I slink into the room, nothing more than a spruced-up hospital quarters, and I note the flowers that I got her last week have started to wilt. I’ll have to bring her fresh ones on Sunday.
“Hi, Grace!” I say, planting a wide smile on my face. “I appreciate you spending some time with me today.”
Her pale blue eyes narrow on me, her eyebrows scrunched. “I thought you were the one spending time with me?”
“Well, that’s true, but I enjoy it just the same. How have you been?”
“Do I know you?” she asks, an inquisitive look on her face as I pull a chair to her bedside and take a seat.
“Yeah, Grace. I visit you often.”
“Why?”
“It’s just what I like to do. Don’t you want some company?” I ask, swiping Gone With the Wind from her nightstand. “We’ve got a book to read, after all.”
Her eyes light up, and her small, veiny hands come out from under the blankets and meet her face. “Oh, I love that book. I haven’t read it since I was a little girl.” She lowers her hands to her side and for the first time since my arrival, she’s smiling.
I open the book to where I left off last, which is about where I usually leave off. I don’t know why I try and get one over on her every time. I guess, to see if she notices. To see if maybe, just maybe, today will be a good day. They are few and far between, especially the last couple years, but they still come from time to time.
“No, no, no,” she says, and I lift my head with a little smile. I know exactly what’s coming. “You can’t start there. The beginning!”
“Okay, Grand—Grace.” I turn back to the beginning and start from page one as I’ve done three days a week, every week, since moving her here after Grandpa died. Diagnosed with Alzheimer’s five years ago, it hit her quickly and without warning. My parents had long since gone their separate ways, to places still unknown to me. My brother is in San Antonio and struggling his own way through life. I haven’t even seen him in years. And with the passing of my Aunt Lisa shortly after I moved to New York, I was the only one who could take care of her, and that’s what I did. I sold her house and moved her in the best assisted-living facility I could find. I was lucky enough to have just published my first novel and it became a New York Times bestseller a short time later. Out of it, I received a three-book deal and more money than I knew what to do with, or had ever seen. I had the money to help her, and was more than happy to do so. As those royalties continue shrinking and money becomes scarce, I’ll have to find an alternative means soon. It’s not something that I’ll ever let affect her. I’ll get a damn job at the community college as an adjunct professor again if I must, but the money from Bobby’s bet could surely go a long way.
As I read, I periodically look up at her, and her eyes are closed as they always are when I’m reading, and a big smile is planted on her face. She sways back and forth with the cadence of my voice. I love these days with her, and when I see that smile, it brings me back to my youth, escaping to my grandma’s house every summer, and feeling a familial love I didn’t get anywhere else. Beyond reading, it’s what helped me get through my childhood. In fact, my love of reading was influenced and developed by her. She had an expansive library taking up an entire room in her old house, wall to wall books of every variety. Collecting them was her passion and life’s work. And now, every last book sits on bookshelves in my loft. I couldn’t bear to part with them when going through her stuff. From time to time, I’ll take her out on a day pass and I’ll bring her to my loft. For hours, she’ll ogle over all the old books lining the walls. Only once did she recognize them as her own, and that was an incredibly beautiful day… the best day. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so hard. I’d bet she probably hasn’t either.
No, she doesn’t often remember it’s her own collection, but it always makes her day. She sits in her wheelchair in front of the bookshelves, wide eyes taking in the sprawling collection. I have her pick a few and I’ll spend the day reading to her. Over the course of a few hours, we’ll work our way through chapters from Moby Dick, Little Women, and To Kill A Mockingbird. She’ll soak up every word and then ask for me to choose another, and then another. I love to watch her rediscovering all the old stories she used to love. She holds each weathered book in her hands, running her trembling fingers down the binding and over the title; connecting with the book fully. At least once a month we’ll do that, and then I’ll take her out to her favorite Italian restaurant afterward. Anything to potentially get the memories going, to spend time with her again as grandmother and grandson.
And for the mind-blowing fettuccini alfredo, of course.
After a while, I turn the page to one hundred and six and instinctively look up to find Grandma’s eyes still closed, but she’s no longer smiling and rocking along with the words. Instead, like clockwork, she’s in a deep slumber, her fragile hands fidgeting at her sides. I take her in for a moment, smiling, as I set the book back on the nightstand. Standing, I tilt my head and rest my hand on top of hers. She’s so peaceful in her sleep after I read to her. More so than any other time, the staff tells me. I lift her cold hand, kissing it lightly before laying it back at her side. Making my way to the doorway, I take one last look back at my grandma. My heart breaks that I can’t know the woman I once did, but any time I get to spend with her I treasure beyond anything else.
As I head toward the nurses’ station, Jackie looks up from a filing cabinet with her radiant smile.
“How was it, baby?” she asks, closing the cabinet drawer and standing upright, setting her hands on her hips. I stop just before her and shrug.
“About the same as usual. She looked good.”
“She’s been doing real good. A lot more energy since we’ve gotten her on a better sleep schedule.”
“I imagine I may have upset that schedule a bit. She’s currently out cold,” I respond with a grin.
“Oh, that’s okay. She’s usually napping around this time anyhow. You know that.” She motions for me to come in for a hug and I oblige, nestling up again in her large bosoms and thick arms. “See you Sunday?” she asks, still embracing me. She lets me go and I slip my shades from the top of my head down onto my nose.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, darlin’. You know I need my Jackie fix.” She laughs up a storm as I stroll toward the entrance.
“Oh, Gavin, baby. I think I’m the one feedin’ the fix every time you visit. Woooo weeee!” she calls out as I lift an arm and nudge the door open with it. She fans herself dramatically and I can’t help but grin. I throw two fingers up with my free hand and nod my head toward her before making my way out into the chilly fall breeze, off to my next Thursday commitment, one I haven’t shared with anyone… not even Bobby.
“So, Gavin…” Dr. Thresher gives me her patented pause, letting the words drift off into the stillness of the office and eyeing me over her glasses. Granted, she is old enough to be my mother, so the look is fitting. I nervously twiddle my thumbs together in my lap as she analyzes me. She loves doing this. She knows it makes me uncomfortable.
“So…” I squeak, grinning weakly.
“Tell me how you’ve been.”
“About the same as usual, doc,” I say, shrugging, my mind running through the past week since I saw her last.
“And what’s the same as usual?” she asks, her tone still neutral with a motherly touch.
“Now, doc, I’ve been seeing you every week for a year. I think you could say how I’ve been feeling about as well as I could.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not paying me to talk the whole time. So, I’ll ask again…” Her voice trails as a light smirk crosses her lips. “How have you been, Gavin?”
“It’s been a weird week.”
“How so?”
“I went on my first date since Joanne,” I say, and as expected, her eyes go wide, her mouth gaping.
“You did what now?” She laughs, nudging the horn-rimmed glasses back up her nose.
“I know. Hard to believe, right? Bobby challenged me. I’ve been on three dates already this week, actually… And I have thirty more to do over the next month. I do that and twenty-five thousand dollars is mine.”
She lowers her head, her lips pursed. “I mean, Gavin, I know the money could help you and your grandmother a lot, but I don’t know if that’s a great reason to be dating.” She puts a hand up. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I think anything that gets you out and about is a good thing. I just worry about these girls. I can only assume they don’t know these dates are a part of some challenge or contest… thirty dates are quite a lot. Don’t you think more than a few will develop feelings?”
“After one date?” I ask, scrunching my brow.
“Yes, Gavin, after one date. Women are different. We process things differently. You know this. You’re an author, for Pete’s sake.”
“Okay, okay. Well, so far, it’s been fine. I don’t make any romantic gestures or use any confusing language when I’m out with them. I keep it basic, and as brief as possible, and so far, they’re quite alright with just one date.” I chuckle and flash her a wide smile as she analyzes me again. Letting her eyes do the talking for her. “Hey, I pay at least,” I continue, and she rolls her eyes.
“Okay, Gavin. Well, we will surely be back to this over the next month. How are you otherwise? Depression? Anxiety?”
“I mean, all of the above. You know it comes in waves.”
“Still based around Joanne? Or is it something else? Your grandmother? Parents?”
“Again… all of the above. I always worry about Grandma, but she’s not doing too bad… considering. My parents, well, that just is what it is. As for Joanne…” My eyes flit around the room, my mind trying to formulate how I feel when I think about her… about how it’s felt since I lost her… and how the hole that’s left seems impossible to fill. I take a deep breath, clenching each armrest tightly with my hands. “Yeah, just the usual.”
She narrows her eyes and tilts her head. “Gavin.”
“I just miss what we had… that’s all. It’s just ridiculous because I should be over her. I shouldn’t still feel this way… but I do.”
“Love is hard. It’s lasting and relentless. But you’ll get past it, Gavin. Look how far you’ve come already.”
“Still… I feel like a fool for still feeling the way I do.”
“I know you hate this question, but I have to ask… have you had any suicidal thoughts over the past week?”
“I told you, doc. I like to call it suicidal curiosity. And no, I’m still going strong.”
“I would consider suicidal thoughts and suicidal curiosity to be in the same ballfield, if not on the same base path, but I won’t split hairs with you, Gavin.” She smiles, knowing me well enough by now to know I love to tease. It seems I surround myself with people just like her who can give it right back. “I’m glad to hear you’re still going strong. Do you still think about that night often?”
“Think about it? Not so much lately… but I dream about it a lot.”
“And how do you feel when you wake from these dreams?” she asks, snatching a legal pad and pen from her desktop.
“I’m usually sweating… my heart is pounding. It takes a moment for me to realize I’m in my bed and that it was just a dream.”
“So more like nightmares, then?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I know you spoke about these before, but I can’t remember which session you brought them up. About how frequent do they come… when did they start?”
“They started a little after the whole thing happened. Shortly after getting out of inpatient. I get them maybe every couple of weeks. Once a month or so.”
“I’m glad they aren’t more frequent. There is some new PTSD sleep medication out there being heavily researched and backed by the military if you’re interested.”
I shake my head immediately, putting a hand up to stop her.
“You know I hate sleeping pills, doc. Just can’t do them.”
“Well, if it becomes more frequent or disruptive to your life, please do remember the option is out there. How are you sleeping otherwise?”
I shrug. “About the same. After smoking a little, I usually don’t have too much trouble getting to sleep. It’s staying asleep that’s the problem.”
“Are you only using marijuana before bed?”
I grin, my brows lifting and a look of guilt taking up my face. “Not quite.”
“Do you think you’re abusing it again?”
“When did I stop?” I joke, laughing, but her expression doesn’t change. Her features are still soft, understanding.
“How often?”
“A few times a day.”
“And how does it make you feel?”
“Well… I don’t think about my parents anymore. I don’t think about Joanne anymore. I don’t think about the nosedive my career took anymore…” My voice trails as she tilts her head.
“Until…”
“Until it wears off.”
“Exactly,” she says, tapping her pen against the legal pad, her lips scrunched to the side as if she’s thinking. “I do think there’s medicinal value to marijuana, and New York did just pass the law legalizing it for those purposes, but I worry that you may be using it for reasons other than medicinal.”
“How so? I mean, I completely agree… I’m just curious.”
“I think what you’re doing is suppressing feelings through the act of getting high. That is not of a medicinal nature. Those are feelings you need to let out. That’s why you’re here.”
“And I think I’ve shared quite a bit from this chair, Dr. Thresher,” I say flatly.
“I know you have. Hence why you’ve made such progress. But if you’re still getting high to not think about the things that are bothering you, then you’re abusing it. And we have more work to do.”
“I just need to get back in writing mode again. Once I start writing, the depression and all that will subside.”
“Have you tried?”
“Of course! I try every single day.”
“And?”
“And it’s all just a big pile of steaming shit.”
“Through whose eyes? Just your own?”
“Yeah, and that’s as far as it needs to go, doc.”
“How do you know you’re not being over-critical?”
“This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve been writing since I was a kid. I know writer’s block. And though I could push through that block enough for decent grades when getting my degree, when you’re talking about published work… shit, hopefully, work thousands of people will be reading? No way.”
“You must’ve written something in our time together that you felt was worth saving.”
I shake my head. “Not a single paragraph.”
“And you’re still not working anywhere else?”
“Nope. Though I’m likely going to have to take a teaching position here soon. The Honest Ones was doing well for a long time… a really long time. But this year’s numbers have dropped more than ever before. At some point, very soon, it won’t be enough to get by on.”
“It might be good for you to get back in the working field. Get out of the house a bit more.”
“I know, I know. I thought I’d be writing these past three months. It’s why I committed myself full-time to it. I’m just… empty. The well is dry. Screw it, maybe I’ll just stick with teaching and count myself as a one-hit wonder.”
“You know, Gavin… had I not read The Honest Ones, and your other book, for that matter, I may support that thought. But you have an incredible talent. You just need to get out of your own way.”
“Easier said than done.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t. I’m just saying… I see a lot of people in that very seat you’re sitting in who will spend a lifetime battling disorders detrimental to their quality of life. I just don’t think that’s you. I think you hold a lot in. You carry a lot around with you and you’re not very interested in letting it out. Not right now, anyway. I’ve been married to a stubborn mule for thirty years… trust me, I get it.” She smiles and I can’t help but smile too, as my eyes drift from picture to picture of the two of them on her desktop. In each one, some sort of iconic landmark is positioned just behind their smiling faces.
She waits for me to look back toward her before she continues. “You’re in a good spot, Gavin. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, a great talent, and a big heart. Just give yourself a chance to feel. I mean, to really feel. Being guarded is okay, but being closed off entirely is not. Work on it. As homework, okay?” She points the pencil at me and tilts her head, an eyebrow raised.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Anything you’d like to share about your parents? Your childhood? It’s been almost a year, Gavin. I’ve been patient and understanding, but at some point, you know we need to discuss it.”
“Next week?” I ask with a smile.
“You say that every week,” she responds, her arms crossing.
“Yeah, but this time I mean it.” I try to keep a straight face, but it’s nearly impossible. She just smiles and shakes her head.
“Okay, Gavin, well, looks like our time is about up anyway. I’ll see you next week and we will talk about your childhood. At least a little bit.”
“I look forward to it,” I say, standing and giving her a facetious two-finger salute.
As I turn to leave, she says, “And Gavin…”
I face her and smile, knowing full well she’s got a last little piece of guidance for me to chew on, as she does with every session.
“Don’t mistreat or hurt these ladies you’re going on dates with. Do what you have to with that challenge business, but don’t break hearts in the process.”
“Oh, Dr. Thresher, if you only knew how unlovable I am at the moment.”
“Oh, Mr. Mazzarelli, I know you far better than you think I do. Just be kind. Put yourself in their shoes. Now, get out of my office,” she says with a smile, but her hand shoos me away.
“Until next time, doc.”
Maria, 23, from Woodlawn, and I have had the usual first date banter, but I find my mind freely moving in and out of the conversation. I don’t think much of what she says or what comes out of my mouth because I keep thinking back to my appointment with Dr. Thresher; her words are still vivid in my mind. I know I’ve improved, I’ve felt it for a while now, but I did think fulfillment would come much faster. I thought a steady diet of antidepressants and spilling my guts to a professional would be the fast track to feeling better. Yet here I am, a year and a half later, still feeling strangled, desperate for something new, something different. Do I think about Joanne less? Absolutely. Do the deeds of my parents upon my brother and me cross my mind less frequently? Of course. But I never thought I’d still feel the raw, relentless pain that I do. The creeping darkness that makes itself known at any sign of daylight. The negative continuously outweighs the positive, and I don’t know how to fucking reverse it.
“Do you date a lot?” Maria asks, disrupting my wandering thoughts, her nervous eyes flitting around the restaurant.
“Honestly? Not at all. My first date in about a year and a half was last week, actually.”
“Really?” She tries her best to stifle the mix of shock and doubt in her voice, but it comes through regardless.
“No bullshit. I’m terrible at this stuff.”
“You seem okay,” she says with a meek smile.
I laugh politely, and shrug. “Well, thank you. I guess this is the point where I throw your question right back at you. Do you date a lot?”
“I’m in the restaurant industry and work long hours with two kids, so dating for me is an on and off thing,” she says before cutting into her steak and taking a bite. I admire, once more, the fact that she ordered a steak and baked potato. Still chewing, she continues. “So SwipeDate is kinda my only option.”
“Have you had any luck?”
She shrugs, swallowing the rest of her bite before dabbing her face with the cloth napkin. I find myself scanning her face, admiring the lack of make-up and beauty she possesses, but also curious about the look of mystery in her eye, like she holds a past she’s trying to keep secret. “A few good dates. A few creepers. Nothing lasting.”
“Okay,” I say, leaning in, the giddiness in my voice apparent. “You have to tell me about one of your bad app dates.”
She laughs nervously, dabbing at her mouth again with the napkin. “Why?” she asks.
“I just love hearing stuff like that. I am a writer after all.”
“Do you have one of your own to share?” she responds with a smirk.
I think for a moment, recalling all the bad dates I’ve had in my lifetime and finding that none of them really involve the opposite party. “Honestly, I have a few bad ones involving myself,” I say. “Not sure if I want to share them though.”
“I’ll share one of mine if you share one of yours,” she says, brushing the amber strands of hair from her face behind her ear. She has these deep-set, chocolate eyes that seem to bounce from one end of the restaurant to the other on a continuous loop.
“Okay, I guess I can do that. But since I asked first, you have to start. Deal?”
“Deal,” she responds, digging back into her steak and I take the opportunity to eat some of my own.
In the middle of chewing again, something I can’t help but notice, she continues, “I had this guy I FaceTimed with once. I usually like to do that if something feels off.” She swallows and then takes a drink of her chardonnay.
“Does that happen often?” I ask and she nods.
“Yeah… you can’t help but wonder with catfishing and all that these days. With profiles like yours, it’s linked to your Facebook, so it’s a little easier.”
“I’m new to all this, so I appreciate the insight,” I say, smirking.
She nods, and then continues. “So we FaceTime, and yeah, he pretty much looks like the pictures in his profile, but he was super weird, and just… I don’t know.”
“What?” I ask. “Now, I’m intrigued.”
She pauses for a moment, looking as if she’s debating it before she digs into her purse and pulls out her phone. She focuses on the screen, tapping and scrolling before turning it to face me. I narrow my gaze and see that there is a screen full of one-sided texts. She takes the pointer on her free hand and scrolls up on the screen to show an endless stream of messages, all of them apparently from him. After scrolling a bit more, showing more of the same, she locks the phone and stows it back in her purse.
“It’s been like that since June,” she says, shaking her head.
“Jesus,” I mutter. “What all does he say?”
“Pretty much this cycle of ‘hey, how have you been? Haven’t heard from you in a while,’ to ‘You don’t respond anymore. You suck,’ to ‘Fine. Fuck it. You’re obviously too good for me,’ and then back around again.”
“Can’t you just block his number?”
She looks confused for a moment, as if she’s never thought about that before, at least not seriously, and then she says, “Yeah, I guess so. Your turn.”
“Well, I don’t know if FaceTiming counts as a date or not, but I guess I’ll let it slide.” I take a drink of my beer, my eyes scanning the ceiling and trying to figure out if brutal honesty is acceptable here. I have no intention of a second date with any of these people. Maybe I’ll make a few friends, but I surely won’t be falling in love, so why not be honest. What’s the difference between this and walking into a psychiatrist’s office for the first time?
“In high school, after about a year of working my way in,” I say, “I got a date with my dream girl. We went to the movies. I dressed to the nines, paid for the tickets, sodas and popcorns, and let her choose the seats. Everything was perfect. That is, until about twenty minutes into The Ring, when my stomach began its revolt against me. Twisting and turning. Mouth dry. It was bad. Something I ate earlier that day, I think.” I take a long sip of beer before continuing. “So, I excuse myself, make it to about the bottom step before it happens.”
I pause, watching her lean in and hanging on to my last word.
“Did you shit yourself?” she blurts, and I bust out laughing.
“Dear God, no. Not saying what I did do was much better, but, no… thankfully, I didn’t shit myself. I ended up throwing up. Right there at the bottom of the stairs, and at once, all eyes were off the screen and on me, sixteen years old and puking up breakfast, lunch, and dinner in front of, not only a full theater, but my biggest crush too.”
“So, what happened?” she asks, her attention all mine.
“Well, I worked my way out of the theater and to the bathroom with throw up all over my hands. Cleaned myself up after getting rid of a bit more and then I waited outside the theater for her to meet me.” I hesitate for a bit, wondering whether to continue because even to this day I’m embarrassed by it. It’s one of those stupid little things you hold on to forever. It passes through your mind without warning here and there, and reminds you of that one time you felt like a complete ass. Or, in my case, the many times I’ve felt like a complete ass. “She never came out,” I continue, shrugging, and my focus shifting away from her and to the commotion around us. “And… uh… I mean, I went back in the theater maybe a half hour later because I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to leave her there. I drove and all. And I also didn’t want to just be waiting outside for everyone in the theater to see me when they were piling out. I fucking panicked.” I laugh, shaking my head and feeling all those same feelings I did back then. Those suffocating, disruptive feelings of youthful love and heartbreak that are never quite topped, thank God. When you’re young and in love, it’s so new, and fresh, and incomparable. You try your best to recreate those feelings the rest of your life, but you never really get there. You’re left permanently jaded… guarded. You’re never quite the same after your first heartbreak.
“And then what?” she asks, pushing her plate and half eaten steak to the side before setting her elbows to the table and her chin in her hands.
“Can I note that my story was far more descriptive than yours?” I say with a sly smile. She shakes her head.
“I had physical evidence, so it evens out,” she says, a cocky smirk on her face.
“Fuck it. So, I went back in and literally as I rounded the wall that separates the seating from the entrance hall… the brightest, quietest part of the movie hit and every set of eyes in the theater landed on me. Which may have been the worst thing I ever felt if there wasn’t a theater attendant spreading sawdust over my vomit as I passed by, holding his nose, and eyeing me for a moment before going back to business. It was awful. I sat there next to her, hating myself for another good twenty-five minutes before the movie ended and I bee-lined us the fuck out of there.”
“So, then what happened?”
“She told the entire damn school. That’s what happened. It was fun living that one down my junior year.” I laugh, raising my glass before taking a swig. I set the glass to the table, and I think for a moment, about that year, and the hatred I felt for my peers. And my family, who couldn’t give a single shit. My gaze eventually drifts back to her as she’s momentarily tongue-tied, her eyes showing disbelief. I shrug. “You know, at the end of the day, it’s moments like that that really make a person.”
She smiles weakly and then nods. “Yeah, for sure.”
I sit for a moment in uncomfortable silence, wishing she would just say something. To my benefit, the waiter returns, clearing his throat.
“Can I get you all anything else?” he asks with his plastic smile, his eyes reading more overworked than anything else.
“No, I think we’re alright here. Just the check please,” I reply, digging into my back pocket for my wallet.
“And will you be needing a box for that?” the waiter asks Maria, pointing to her half-eaten filet.
“No, I’m fine,” Maria responds, shaking her head. I feel a wave of annoyance wash over me as I watch the waiter pick up her plate to discard about thirty bucks’ worth of meat. Disregarding the feeling that I’ll seem cheap, I put a finger up to grab the departing waiter’s attention.
“You can actually box that up for me, Joe. Thanks.”
“You got it,” he says, turning again and making his way to the back.
I shrug. “It was a good filet.”
“I don’t eat leftovers,” she responds.
“I’ll likely eat it sometime around midnight before it’s actually considered a leftover.” I chuckle, thinking about the fat joint I have waiting for me back home and doubting the filet even makes it to midnight.
Halfway through my joint, I’m seated with my legs perched up on a stool in my private garden, a space I use for times like these when my thoughts are overwhelming and I need to slow the world down a bit. In the middle of fall, most everything around my little flagstone patio is in a state of decay, but in the spring and summer, it’s a lush tapestry of green and dazzling colors reminiscent of a tiny Central Park. I spend a lot of time on my flowers and plants back here. It’s one of my passions. The lights of the city skyscrapers shining overhead at night give me a sense of energy and peace at the same time and it’s a nice reminder of why I bought this place to begin with
The loft was my first big purchase after the success of The Honest Ones, and Joanne and I spent months finding just the right spot. As sales for my books decline, I’m happy that I paid for this place outright. Among the many things taking up residence in my brain, at least that’s not something I have to worry about.
I hear the ping of my phone again from the wrought iron table and can’t help but roll my eyes. I’ve checked it twice already and it’s been Maria both times, telling me how much fun she had and asking when she’d get to see me again. I’m not checking this one, nor have I responded to the previous texts. I’m genuinely confused as I don’t think the date went all that well. Pleasant company, sure, but no real spark. It certainly seemed we were on the same page from her body language.
As I take the last drag of my joint and dab it out in the ashtray, a new concern overtakes me. Using basic logic, I can only assume at least half of them won’t like me, but am I setting myself up for a barrage of texts from fifteen different interested parties? I hate my phone as it is, but the thought of where this could potentially lead is unnerving. I look back at my phone after it pings again. My chin falls to my chest and I let out a long sigh.
The other issue here is money. I can’t be paying hundred-dollar tabs for every date. Not even close. I need to watch what I spend, and while I have every intention of paying for each first date, I’m not so sure I should be the one paying for it. Bobby.
I lift my legs from the stool and stand, grabbing my phone and heading inside through the back door. My focus shifts to the phone and I notice one of the new texts is from Maria, but the other is from Bobby. His ears must’ve been burning.
Heading up the stairs to my bedroom loft, I pull up his text and it reads Lunch tomorrow?, the contact labeled ‘Bobby Bitch Tits,’ as it has been for quite some time now. An inside joke of ours, I started calling him that when he dubbed me ‘Señor Schnoz’ after I dressed up as Pancho Villa for a sixth-grade project. When we were growing up, he loved giving me shit about the Italian nose my slender body desperately needed to grow into. It’s how we’ve always been with one another, tossing shit back and forth, but if anyone else ever fucked with me, he’d be the first one to step up. He taught me about the gym and how to defend myself, back when we truly started to bond.
I respond with Sounds good. You’re paying. haha before bringing my phone with me into the bathroom to get ready for bed.