Un-Dateable Page 4

  “Can I show you around?” Danny said, jumping forward first like a dog begging for a treat.

  “Wish I could, sugar.” She looked around the room and then laid one of those rather effective smiles on me. “But I’m supposed to work with Dana there for my first few days.”

  Her heels clicked across the tile flooring until she was right in front of me, her hand extended and her smile so bright I felt like I needed to put those sunglasses back on.

  “I’m Nicole.” She took my hand in hers and her breasts swayed as she shook my hand. I was still in shock—they looked real!—when she gave me a sly wink. “The head of physical therapy said you were his best therapist in the city, so I should work with you first, seeing as I just graduated two weeks ago.”

  “Oh, yeah... sure.”

  “And he said the guys might short circuit on contact—” she peered back and waved at the still mesmerized group of men, “and he was right.”

  I laughed. This girl was a trip.

  I started by taking her on a quick tour of the hospital, showing her where the bathrooms were, the cafeteria, and the break rooms, where radiology was and where to find extra smocks in case a patient threw-up on you.

  And every step of the way I noticed that men were all staring at us. They spun around and smiled when we walked by, they absently ran into each other, into walls, into closed doors. Roger, the little twerp in radiology who’d tried feeling me up at last year’s Christmas party, his voice even cracked when he tried to say hello.

  He also couldn’t get his eyes to rise above Nicole’s ample décolletage.

  At first I thought my coworkers were just a bunch of goons, but later when I took her across the street to my favorite sandwich shop for lunch, the guys there acted the same way. Their usual playful bantering morphed into not only heavy flirting but fighting over who would grill up her order. They even started flipping their spatulas and knives in the air.

  I just couldn’t get over it. How men—men I’m around all the time—seemed so different just being around Nicole.

  And then I realized, incredulously, that deep down I wanted those guys to act like that for me.

  Really? I thought. You’d really want all those guys falling over themselves and acting like fools?

  No... not all of them.

  ~*~

  At home I went to water Ozzie and was surprised that not only had he grown almost an inch in just a couple days, but he’d grown a third shoot. It curved in the light. And he seemed greener today. I watered him exactly the amount the guy from the botanical store told me. Then I looked out my window and thought, maybe I should get Ozzie a friend?

  Next thing I knew I was walking into the botanical store and the guy behind the counter suddenly got that terrified look on his face again. But he shook it off before I got a chance to comment on it.

  “So how’s Ozzie doing?” he asked, scratching his thick fingers across the back of his neck.

  “He’s doing great,” I said, coming closer, my eyes intent on his hands—didn’t know why I was staring so hard. “Actually, he’s doing so well I thought I’d get him a friend. He looks kind of lonely all by himself hanging in my window.”

  He seemed to be considering me, taking me in like he was diagnosing an ailment. “Well,” he scratched the back of his neck again. “You’ll want a young plant or something small, so the new plant doesn’t overwhelm the other one.” I followed him as he paced through the shop, making a slow zigzag pattern through the lush greens and the aromatic flowers.

  Finally, he stopped in front of all these purple and pink and blue potted flowers. “African Violets are not only easy to care for, but they’re always in bloom.” He turned and I suddenly noticed he had really pretty eyes—frosted green.

  “So...” He shrank back from me, suddenly noticing how close I was to him. “Just pick what color you want.”

  I looked over the flats of violets. I finally picked up one with small leaves and blue blossoms—I suddenly noticed the leaves matched his eyes.

  He took the violet from my hands, went back behind his work station and repotted it into a plastic pot just like the one he’d put Ozzie in. Then he laced a sling around the bottom and handed me another small hook to turn into my windowsill.

  “Just like Ozzie, water this one once a week... you might want to turn it around every couple of weeks. They grow fast, and sometimes unevenly.”

  “Sure... thanks.” I waited a beat and then asked, “So how much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing.” He shrugged.

  “No, I have to pay you this time. It’s only right.”

  He got that terrified look on his face again. “It’s really no—”

  “I insist,” I emphasized. He scratched the back of his neck again, nervous.

  “Umm, five bucks?” He blinked and pulled his arms down by his sides when he noticed that I was watching his hands. He shoved them in his pockets and blushed.

  I didn’t know why he was embarrassed! I was the one ogling his hands—

  But why?

  Why was I suddenly staring at his hands?

  I took a five dollar bill out of my purse and then picked up my new plant. I was turning away to walk out of the shop when I realized I didn’t know his name. Three visits, he’d saved Ozzie from perishing, and I still didn’t know his name.

  “I’m Dana, by the way.” I extended my free hand and tried giving him a Nicole-like smile. He slowly pulled his hand from his pocket and after a long moment of contemplation he took my hand. His hands were rough and strong, and I felt the back of my neck start to itch.

  He gulped. “I’m Gus.”

  ~*~

  Mother was late for lunch.

  I’m always late; still pulling on my clothes when she knocks on the door. So when I found myself completely dressed, with my purse slung over my shoulder waiting in the middle of my apartment, I realized it was ten minutes past twelve.

  I stared at the front door to my apartment and waited for a few beats, there had to be a knock.

  I tossed my purse down on the couch and grabbed the phone, my thumbs beating out Mother’s number in record time. Four rings and then her voice mail picked up. I tried her cell phone again. She picked up on the second ring.

  “Where are you?” I asked, relieved that she wasn’t dead.

  “Dana? Oh my, yes... I’m running a bit late.” I heard her giggle—my mother giggled!—and then there were some ruffling sounds. “Why don’t you meet me there? I already called and they’re holding our table for us. Ta-ta,” and she disconnected.

  She sounded strange.

  Relaxed.

  Unhurried.

  Not a bit upset about being late.

  Wait a minute! The woman that is never late. She’s suddenly okay about being late?

  “She’s had a stroke, I know it!” I told Bess on my cell phone. I was navigating through the streets that led to the restaurant, but they seemed foreign, surreal without Mother’s banter and her incessant need to get me to date more.

  I was—unbelievably—desperately missing that.

  “There could be a perfectly good reason for this. Don’t panic.” I heard Bess talk to someone on the other end of the connection, muffled pleasantries. Then, “It’s your mother after all. How bad could it be?”

  And then Bess started to laugh. “She probably met some great catch of a man and decided to bring him along, for you. Sort of a surprise blind date.”

  “Oh, great!” I cried in outrage. “Thanks for putting that in my head.”

  Bess cackled one more time. “Well, I gotta go. My client is here to see the loft. Call me later with the details.” And Bess was gone.

  Another block and I'd be at the restaurant, so I started to run. I couldn’t wait, my heart was pounding so damn hard as I swung through the front doors and looked past the maître d’ into the large dining room to Mother’s regular table—she wasn’t here yet.

  “Miss Dana, so glad you’re here!” came the voice of
Claudio, the maître d’. He took my arm and whisked me to Mother’s table. “Is there something wrong?” he asked as we strode through the dining room. “Your mother—”

  “I know... she’s never late.”

  “Even when you’re running late, somehow she makes time stand still and gets you both here on time. But today she calls after twelve and she sounds so strange!”

  “You noticed that too. She sounded so—”

  “Drunk.”

  I laughed one hysterical “Ha,” then said, “I was going to say relaxed.” But drunk was a good description. And as unlikely as my Mother getting drunk would be, it was a lot better than the possibility that she’d had a stroke.

  Claudio deposited me at the table, told me the specials, his voice wavering, not his usual boastful self—he kept looking toward the front door.

  He was thinking the same thing I was. That Mother would be bounding—gracefully—through those doors any moment.

  But then Claudio was gone, and the waitress took my drink order and came back with it. Ten more minutes ticked by, and with every minute that passed I could feel all those crazy possibilities bouncing around in my head.

  And then Mother arrived.

  The sight of her was startling. She was smiling... not her usual oh-so-polite social smile, but the ear-to-ear cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. And as she came closer I realized there was a blush to her cheeks, and that her hair was windblown. But what really got my attention was the state of her dress.

  “Is your dress wrinkled?” I just stared, open mouthed.

  “That’s a fine greeting.” Mother slid into her chair and took a long drink of water. “No ‘How are you doing?’ or ‘You look well’.”

  I sat forward with an abrupt snap. “Your mascara’s smudged!”

  Mother smiled and then said, “Oh… is it?”

  Reaching into her purse she retrieved her compact and took a short appraising glance at herself. “Oh well,” she said as she put her compact away. “Let’s order, I’m famished.”

  I stared at her for a few beats.

  “That’s it?” I could feel all my blood rushing to my head, a migraine of gargantuan proportions stirring in my cranium.

  It was worse than I’d thought. She was suddenly stricken with Alzheimer's.

  I shook my head. “Your makeup is smudged, your dress is wrinkled, and your hair’s a mess. What the hell is going on?”

  “Dana, dear, you’re making a spectacle of yourself.” She peered at me with her old look of disapproval.

  Now, at least that was familiar.

  But then she smiled that stupid smile again and took another long swig of her water.

  The waiter appeared and Mother ordered a Bloody Mary.

  My mouth dropped open again and I sat there dazed and confused.

  “Who are you?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Mother opened her napkin and made a show of smoothing it over her lap.

  “You damn well know what I mean. Who the hell are you and what have you done with my mother?” I looked around us and some of the closer tables were staring at us. “Is this some kind of joke? Some sort of way of teaching me a lesson of some kind... about not being late or something?”

  “Dana, dear, you really do have quite the imagination.” The waiter brought her drink and she took a healthy slug from the glass. “Are you ready to order?”

  “No, I’m not ready to order!” I bellowed indignantly. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Well!” Mother shot me a look that said That is enough of that, but then she turned to the waiter and said, “I’ll have the salmon with dill and a salad with ranch.”

  I fell back in my chair, shaking my head.

  Mother always orders the low-calorie Italian, and the most I’d ever seen her eat was the salad and a cup of the soup.

  The waiter left and I just stared at Mother. Maybe it was just me? Maybe I was finally having a psychotic break?

  Then I caught a whiff of her and snapped back to attention, leaning in to take a better whiff. “That’s not your scent.”

  I screwed up my eyes and then they bugged out on me—two big ovals of shock.

  “That’s cologne!”

  “It’s Fahrenheit... by Christian Dior.” She took another sip from her Bloody Mary. “Robert wears it... must have rubbed off.”

  “You rubbed against him in the elevator?” I just couldn’t imagine another possibility.

  “No dear, I rubbed against him in bed.”

  I fell back in my seat again, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to breathe.

  “You cheated on Dad?” It spilled out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  She shot me a level, chilly gaze.

  “Your father and I have been divorced for ten years. It’s not cheating, it’s moving on. Something he did before the ink was dry on the divorce papers.” She shook her head and leaned back into her seat as well, looking truly comfortable for the first time I could remember.

  “He’s an artist,” she said, running her fingers over her blushing cheek. “In SoHo. I met him at an opening—his opening—and we just hit it off.”

  I couldn’t feel my face… I felt numb all over.

  “How old is he?”

  Mother’s smile turned rueful, and she almost snorted. “He’s younger. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “How much younger?” I was hoping she was going to say early fifties, late forties.

  “Twenty-six.”

  I closed my eyes and cringed. That was a year younger than me.

  Chapter 6

  “Your Mom is my freaking hero!” Bess roared.

  I’d called her to bitch about my Mother, to rage about how embarrassing and inappropriate it was for her to be dating any man—not to mention one younger than me!

  “Feel the support here.”

  “Cupcake,”—There it was again!—“I’m just saying how surprised I am that a tight-assed-priss like your mom turned out to be a cougar! It’s inspirational. Hope I’m so lucky in my old age.”

  “You really don’t see how gross this is?” My voice kept rising higher and higher. Soon all I’d be able to manage would be a squeak.

  “Dana, you’re still holding on to the insane hope that your parents will get back together.” Bess paused for a couple beats, and I was hoping she would say that it wasn’t impossible, but instead, “That. Ain’t. Gonna. Happen. So let it go… just be happy for the old girl.”

  “Yeah, I’m so glad I called you.” I shook my head. Why couldn’t Bess see? “What if it was your mom?”

  “I’d say great. Let her knock herself out. Would probably do her a world of good.”

  “And your dad?”

  Silence.

  “What if your dad took up cohabitating with some blonde, big-breasted stripper type... and she was younger than you?”

  More silence.

  Finally Bess said, “That’s not the same.”

  “Sure it isn’t.” I smiled to myself on the other end of the phone. I could hear Bess’ resolve falter.

  “Okay, maybe I see your point.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I still think in your mom’s case you should be happy. Just think... with her busy having her own love life, she won’t be bugging you about your... lack of one.”

  The thought flashed a brilliant green in my mind. It was true. Our entire lunch date had been spent talking about “Robert” and art, and then she’d dashed off to go shopping for something more “vibrant” to wear on their next date.

  Maybe, if I can get over the ick-factor, I might end up really liking Mother with a younger man.

  Yuck! A younger man...

  I felt something else creep into my unhappy heart. Along with the open wound that Mother was officially no longer with dad, along with the horror that she was dating someone younger than me—even if only by one year—now I felt the burn of jealousy lick at my heart.

  Mom had a boyfriend! I had two potted plants and a re
curring sex dream.

  “How pathetic do you think it is,” I asked Bess, sinking listlessly into the corner pocket of my couch, “that Mother has a man and I don’t?”

  “Jesus Christ cupcake, I didn’t mean to make you all depressed and suicidal.”

  “I’m not suicidal.” Though I was undeniably depressed. “I’m just...”

  “In major need of a fuck-buddy?”

  “No!” I started laughing. I think I even snorted. “Well, maybe.”

  “That’s my girl. I’ll stop by after I show this dump on Park, then we can strategize over some cocktails.”

  “No cocktails!” I could still feel the hangover headache from last time. “Bring Chinese.”

  “Sesame Chicken?”

  “And extra egg rolls.”

  ~*~

  Bess and I were huddled on my couch, side by side and sharing an afghan while ladling our MSG laden meals into our mouths, The Notebook playing on my TV.

  “So how many single men do you know?” Bess asked.

  I thought about it while I chewed on a hunk of my Sesame chicken. “There’s Roger down the hall—”

  “He’s a cretin, and I think I saw him trying to proposition a hooker last week.”

  “And there are the guys from work.”

  “Never a good idea to date in the work place. It’s that whole not shitting where you eat thing.” Bess aimed her chopsticks at the TV screen. “That Ryan Gosling is so hot.”

  “Especially with his shirt off.”

  “Damn skippy.” She licked her lips and then set back to work on her sweet and sour pork. “Plus all those guys know how you look.”

  I shot her a scathing look.

  “I just mean, do you ever dress up or wear makeup to work?”

  “No.” I might have sounded a touch defensive.

  “And have any of them ever asked you out?”

  I had a flash back of how they all acted when Nicole showed up. “Again, no.”

  “Well, then we can safely rule them out of the dating pool.” Bess had brought a bottle of red wine with her, and was now washing down her pork with a glass of it. “Anyone else you can think of?”