If You're Not Yet Like Me (2 page)

I almost said, “You’re welcome.”

F
or the occasion I wore a black dress, and beneath that, the ugliest pair of underwear I own. It’s my modus operandi for first dates, as it keeps me from taking off my clothes. This way, a man learns he can’t get into my pants so easily; what he reads as my morality, some admirable standard of purity, is actually the threat of my own mortification. It’s classier than the infamous lie: “I’m on my period,” and anyway, the problem with that is there are plenty of men who don’t care, who will pull your tampon out with their teeth if you let them. I have revealed my hideous granny panties just once—real, unquenchable lust is the best and only exception.

On my drive to the bar, I held out hope that Zachary was better looking, more compelling, than I’d initially assumed. Maybe he wasn’t good at first impressions, or my ego, my sense of invincibility, had infected my objectivity. I know you’re thinking, “Bingo!,” and I can’t blame you.

But, alas, when I glimpsed Zachary, standing by the valet, I nearly cringed. He spotted me and waved. I held up my hand slowly, as if his greeting were a baseball I wasn’t too keen on catching.

Not only did his belly look chubby, but his thighs too. There’s nothing more tragic than a man who gains weight like a woman does. But no, I realized, his thighs were okay; it was his pants that were the problem: cargos. He’d at least worn a button-down shirt, which showed some effort. And the sneakers, they were the same. I liked them. They seemed to smile at me the way some cars do with their headlights. I could date those shoes, I thought. You want to say: “Isn’t that a touch pathetic, Joellyn?” And maybe it is, but what’s pathetic about us also makes us human.

“Hi,” Zachary said as I approached. I smiled and he leaned in for a quick hug; he smelled of toothpaste and recently-applied deodorant, and possibly the stale damp of a hamper. Maybe he had paused on the phone not because he had plans, but because he needed to do laundry.

Once we’d disengaged he said, “This looks like a cool place. I’ve never been.” He flashed me a goofy grin, as if to say, So sue me.

“You’ll like it,” I said. “Come on.”

The bar was brick-walled, with high ceilings and tattooed bartenders, most of them female and a couple of years away from the too-old-for-this-job category. Hung above the tables were large chalkboards, a menu scrawled on each. This was a “gastro-pub,” meaning you could eat mussels with your pale ale or a burger with your martini. I’d been here on a previous date for dinner, but I hadn’t invited Zachary for a meal. I headed for the bar.

“They’ve got food?” he said, climbing onto the stool next to me.

The bartender nodded. “You can order from me.” She slapped two coasters in front of us.

“I’ve already eaten,” I said.

“Me too, but I’m still a little hungry. Before I drove over here, I had a personal pizza.” He laughed. “I almost just said personal computer.”

“Maybe that would have filled you up,” I said, and he laughed again. He probably felt elated, thought we were getting along swimmingly.

I ordered a vodka tonic and Zachary got a local beer on tap. And then, to my surprise, he ordered food. He went with a salad. An effeminate choice, I thought. He talked me through the menu as if we were going to share. The salad he settled on had red onions—raw, I was sure. It was as if he had never been on a first date, as if he didn’t care about matters of breath. Perhaps he’d already decided he didn’t want to kiss me.

There’s always a moment on a date with a man when I am reminded that he’s been with other women before me. This was the moment it happened with Zachary: he ordered that salad with impunity, as if he lived without self-consciousness, as if I weren’t even there, and I reminded myself that most men, no matter how bland, or how unemployed, have been with beautiful women, have touched them, made them laugh (probably got to touch them because they made them laugh). I was not special. Go ahead, say it: “You are not special, Joellyn.” Zachary had been on dates before. Most of the women were probably plain, but a few—a few of them could take your breath away. The question was: Was I one of the few?

I would find out.

“So tell me, Zachary Haas,” I said. “Why did you move down here?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure.” He took a long swill of his beer. And then he shifted in his stool so that his knees were touching mine.

Aha, I thought. Now we’re getting somewhere.

“I was doing really boring work—writing copy for the admissions people at Cal. And a lot of my friends were moving, to Brooklyn, Paris even. I’d always liked it down here, and I had some money saved.” He shrugged. “I thought I might find something I really love doing.”

I asked him if he’d had any luck that day, at the coffee shop.

“I guess I did,” he said, and smiled. “But not with jobs.”

I was supposed to blush, but the busboy ruined the moment, placing a mountain of arugula between us on the bar. Atop the greens were goat cheese, walnuts, and the red onion. Raw. Zachary picked up his fork right away. “Dig in,” he said. I politely declined.

I watched as he ate almost every single red onion on that plate, threading each one around the tines of his fork. Because he didn’t have a very strong jaw line, his profile wasn’t good, but I had nowhere else to look. It was too early to fall into the well of my vodka tonic.

“Are you sure you don’t want any?” he asked. He was almost finished.

“I’m not hungry,” I said.

That seemed to do the trick. Zachary must have suddenly realized his faux pas, because right then he put down his fork and pushed the plate away. He nodded at the bartender to take it and then ordered a second beer.

“I hope that’s okay,” he said. “To have another?”

“Whatever you want.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I cocked my head. “For what?” It’s never a bad idea, to let a man think you’re upset, and then pretend you aren’t, not at all. Paranoia feeds lust.

He shook it off. “Never mind. Can I get you another?” He pointed at my empty glass.

“Please.”

We talked for another hour or so. He managed to get quite a lot out of me. I told him about growing up in Studio City, about my job, about working from home. Zachary was very good at asking questions, or maybe he just didn’t want to answer mine. The most I learned about him was that he’d temped for a production company, collating press kits. “I liked the free T-shirts,” he said, as if he was revealing something I couldn’t tell by looking at him. Personal pizzas, I thought. You, Mr. Haas, eat personal pizzas.

And yet.

I can only describe what I did next as self-sabotage. Or that I was feeling as I did at the coffee shop. Reckless. I didn’t feel pretty this time, not especially. I was flat-chested again—or worse: I was almost flat-chested, meaning there was nothing noteworthy about my breasts. I had that pimple, and I was wearing awful, embarrassing underwear. And yet. Zachary finished his beer, and I finished my vodka tonic, and I said, “I don’t want the night to end.”

It was like I was eleven years old again and I’d picked up that sharp soup can lid. What the hell, I thought. I could have just as easily said, “I’ve got to run. Book club!” Or, “I think we should be friends.” I could have just as easily said something different.

Zachary seemed stunned, but he recovered quickly.

“Cool!” he said. His voice rose then, and he smiled the way men do when sex has been presented, or at least its possibility. Imagine a dog. Now show him his leash. It’s like that.

W
e had one more drink before we left the bar. I took careful sips of mine so that it didn’t go to my head too quickly, but still, once we were ready to go, I was drunk.

I wasn’t so drunk, however, that I didn’t know what I was doing. Remember, I had decided to sleep with Zachary before the alcohol had really gone to my head. I wish I had my drinking to blame; at least then we could get to the root of my problem.

“Want to catch a movie?” I asked once we were outside. “Or,” I paused, “we could go to your place.” I was careful to keep my voice from growing husky. I kept it high, demure as a girl’s.

“A movie would be fun,” he said. “But I want to talk.”

“Definitely.” (Oh, euphemisms, how I love thee.) “Tell me your address,” I said. I knew he didn’t live far from me; it wouldn’t be a long drive.

He shook his head. “You can’t see my place. It’s a wreck.”

“Are you afraid I’ll judge you?”

At this, he raised an eyebrow. That alone, his single raised eyebrow, should have tipped me off to the vast wealth of insight Zachary Haas possessed. He was sharper than I’d given him credit for. “You? Judge me?” he said, in mock surprise.

At that, he leaned forward and kissed me with his red onion—I mean, mouth.

You want to know what his kiss was like. You want to squeal: “Tell me it was amazing, Joellyn!” You want me to answer, Yes!

Not so, unfortunately.

The kiss was thoroughly mediocre. Which only made me want another.

I
didn’t mention to Zachary that my place was also a wreck. As I drove home, Zachary following behind in his mid-nineties Toyota Tercel, I counted the embarrassments. I hadn’t swept up the handyman dust. My hair dryer was still plugged into the bathroom wall. Empty wine bottles filled the recycling bin, as did—dear God—a broken-down box that had once held 40 super-absorbency Tampons. Probably, at this very moment, a cockroach was giving birth on my kitchen floor. That day, I had failed, once again, to make the bed, and my side table was strewn with used tissues, which suggested that I either had a snot problem, or that I cried myself to sleep every night. Or that, like a man, I masturbated into Kleenexes. Zachary would see everything, I realized, and Joellyn, as he knew her, as I knew her, would crumble away.

We reached my street, and I rolled down my window to point to the building. Zachary would find parking, and I’d meet him out front.

“It’s a plan,” he said.

All I could do was nod. I pulled into my parking spot and exited the car as if it were the first step to the gallows; it would not be a long walk.

I bet you’re thinking, “Get a hold of yourself, Joellyn,” and yes, that’s what I was thinking, too. I needed to calm down. It wouldn’t be so bad. I could and would present my domestic filth to Zachary with a certain nonchalance. I was charming, I was laissez-faire. I was a woman who dressed impeccably, but who could not be bothered to scrub the linoleum.

I imagined Zachary skipping the closest parking spot because he deemed it too difficult to maneuver. He was no good at parallel parking—a man like him wouldn’t be—and this incompetence implied other failures: sexual, professional. In other words, I had nothing to fear in Zachary. He was invisible, and I was the first woman in a long time to see him. As he stepped into my apartment, all he would feel was grateful.

A few minutes later, he was heading towards me, hands in his pockets, and I waved to him.

“Hi,” he said, when we were face-to-face, but he made no move to touch me. Shyness had overtaken both of us, which I’ve found is often the case after a first kiss.

“Shall we?” I said, holding up my keys like a realtor.

He was supposed to say, “We shall,” but instead he replied, “Okay.”

I opened the door and crept across the living room to turn on the two lamps. I didn’t want to switch on the overhead, which gave the room an unsavory glare, as if I lived in a cheap Chinese restaurant. Even in the honey light, though, things didn’t look good. I silently asked the cockroaches to scurry back to their headquarters beneath the oven.

“Here it is,” I said. I would not apologize for the mess. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I’d love one, thanks.”

I followed Zachary’s gaze as he took in my apartment. He didn’t seem fazed by the gym shoes and socks in front of the television, or the coffee table covered with the Venn diagram stains of cups-past. He checked out my shelves of design references, and my books from college, their cracked spines festooned with day-glo stickers that read USED. He even examined the overhead light fixture, which dated back to the 1920s. He seemed to be taking note of the gold leaves painted across its surface. Zachary spotted the antique eye charts on the wall above my desk, and he went straight for them. I waited for him to pronounce how cool they were, as other men had. Instead he said, “My dad’s an optometrist.”

I thought he would say more. He didn’t.

“How about some whiskey?” I asked.

If there’s one thing I know, it’s that most men drink whiskey, and that they like a woman who does, too. I don’t much care for the stuff, but I keep a bottle on hand for these occasions. Zachary asked for his neat, and as I headed to the kitchen, I told him to make himself comfortable. By the time I returned with our drinks, he was sitting on the couch with the remote in his hand. Was he about to turn on the television, watch a rerun of “Everyone Loves Raymond”?

“I bet your place isn’t this much of a wreck,” I said.

He laughed. “Almost.”

I could not stop myself from blushing, but then Zachary put down the remote, picked up his glass and said, “I’m kidding. You’ve got nothing on my mold problem.”

“Cheers to that,” I said.

With each sip of bourbon, we moved closer and closer to one another on the couch. I told Zachary where I’d procured the eye charts (a flea market in Virginia), and he told me about his father’s practice (in Downtown Oakland).

“Do you get free glasses?” I asked.

“I have 20-20 vision, actually.”

My ice melted from cubes to pebbles, and we kept talking. He wanted to know how I picked colors, in my design work. “I really like how blue and red look together,” he said. I could tell by the way his voice dragged that he was feeling the liquor now. “Not, like, Fourth of July, American flag, blue and red.”

The pebbles in my drink were now shards, and now water.

“You mean turquoise and cranberry?” I asked.

His eyes lit up. “Exactly.”

I put down my glass. Zachary, smart thing, understood the signal, and leaned forward to kiss me. His drink had tempered the red onion, and I was glad.