Man Camp
Table of Contents
To my friends Sophie Applebaum, Pinckney Benedict, Kenna Kay, and Jessica Vitkus
Praise for
MAN CAMP
“Faster than a speeding cab, more fun than a barrel of primates,
Man Camp
is both a rollicking romp and a novel that’s all heart, with characters as real and lovable as your own best friends.”
—MELISSA BANK,
author of
The Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing
“A neat little cupcake of a book . . . With its zippy, high-concept plot . . . Man Camp seems guaranteed for success. . . . [Brodeur] offers broadly comic situations.”
—
Los Angeles Times Book Review
“Breezy and fun.”
—
Pages
“Head for
Man Camp
. . . . Wacky antics ensue when two savvy city girls decide they want their men less metrosexual and devise a scheme to get guys schooled in the art of manliness.”
“[
Man Camp
] is about what to do if the man you’ve set your sights on isn’t exactly the Sam Shepard type.”
—Tacoma
News Tribune
“If you’re a woman who feels that the growing number of perfectly coifed, dressed, and depilated guys sorely lack more manly traits, then [
Man Camp
] will strike a chord (and tickle your funny bone). . . . Whether the guy you’re seeing goes to spas more than you do or is just a regular bloke who’d be better off with a few alterations, consider this book a primer on how to mold him into your ideal mate.”
“Fun and original.”
—
BUST
“
Man Camp
is pure entertainment—a witty and fun novel from the intriguing beginning to the satisfying conclusion.”
“As the sort of guy who could probably use a few weeks at Man Camp, I felt right at home in this breezy comedy of manners. It’s a delightful romp and a great summer read.”
—STEVE ALMOND, author of
Candy Freak
“Clever, occasionally naughty.”
—
The Washington Post Book World
“Do you want to laugh out loud while living every woman’s fantasy of changing mankind? If so, you’ll be tickled pink by Adrienne Brodeur’s delicious prose and brilliant comedy.”
—MARTHA MCPHEE, author of
Bright Angel Time
“Fluffy [and] fun.”
—
The Miami Herald
“[A] cleanly written, brainy chick-lit tale, [where] women learn they can’t necessarily apply sociobiology to human romance.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“Subtitle this novel ‘Revenge of the Chicks.’ . . . [Readers] will have fun with this . . . enjoyable novel.”
—
Booklist
“Man Camp is a great concept and Brodeur’s debut novel is filled with hilarious details, exploring the very funny (but true) list of things men should just know.”
—JILL A. DAVIS, author of
Girls’ Poker Night
CHAPTER 1
“The great question that I have not yet been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is ‘What does a woman want?’ ”
Sigmund Freud
AS USUAL, Lucy Stone is waiting for Martha. She’s worked late tonight and taken a cab straight from the labs to La Luna, the Chelsea wine bar where she now sits, wondering why she rushed. Martha is
never
on time. At least tonight, Lucy’s come prepared with the current issue of
Biology Today,
which she has open to an article on the mating habits of swallows. The magazine lies on the stainless steel bar in front of her and Lucy holds a pen poised to take notes in the margin. Only she’s not really reading, just trying to look occupied to avoid unwanted conversation. Her blond hair is pulled back neatly and folded over in a large barrette, and she wears the thick, black-rimmed glasses of someone who wants to be taken seriously. But even at thirty-three, with a teaching position at Columbia University and the promise of a remarkable career, Lucy can’t quite pull off the look of a seasoned biologist. When she tries, it has the opposite effect, making her seem young and even more approachable, the way a little girl never looks more like a little girl than when she’s dressed up in her mother’s high heels and party gown.
It’s a quarter after nine, fifteen minutes past the time she and Martha agreed to meet, which means Martha still has five minutes before either of them considers her officially late.
Relax.
She’ll be here any minute,
Lucy tells herself, wondering what it would be like to be the type of self-confident woman who goes to nice bars by herself—just to read and have a glass of wine— and doesn’t worry what anyone around her thinks.
“Tonight’s Martha’s big night, right?” asks Eva, La Luna’s plump bartender, as she pours Lucy a glass of red wine. “I can’t believe she’s going through with this half-baked plan.” Eva only charges Lucy and Martha for one glass of wine no matter how much they drink. She says it’s because they’re good for business, but she has a crush on Martha and is well tipped by them in the process. More provocative than pretty, Eva is wearing her usual low-riding skirt, which reveals an ample swath of young belly and a tattoo—slightly parted lips—just below her navel.
Lucy nods.
I can’t believe it either,
she thinks,
but if anyone can pull
it off, Martha can.
Lucy stares at the bowls of radishes placed along the bar and thinks of Scarlett O’Hara, retching in front of a ravished Tara, wondering who actually likes radishes. But looking down the bar, she sees that everyone does. People are congregated around the bowls, dunking radishes in sea salt and popping them into their mouths, which gives her a pang of homesickness for Cape Cod, where the typical bar fare is peanuts and Chex Party Mix. Here at La Luna, the food is complicated, full of flavors that take a certain will to tackle. Eva has explained to her that the food is meant to “challenge” the wine.
En garde,
Lucy thinks, and drops a radish into the salt, puts the whole thing into her mouth, and crunches down. Her eyes water slightly at the bitterness. She takes a sip of wine and has another radish. Then another.
“Hey there,” says a handsome sandy-haired man in his mid-thirties who has sidled up behind her.
Lucy turns on her stool and peers at him over her glasses.
“Hmm. Interesting,” he says, reading the article’s title over her shoulder: “ ‘The Mating Habits of Swallows.’ ” He lets out a low chuckle. “And from where I was sitting, you looked like such a nice girl.”
Lucy smiles uncomfortably.
“Any good bird shots in there?” he says, laughing at his joke.
Lucy doesn’t answer.
“I might not know a whole lot about swallows,” he continues, “but some people consider me an
expert
on mating.” He steps back with his hands on his hips so that his jacket spreads open.
Lucy recognizes the behavior as similar to that of the male ruffed grouse, a bird that makes itself look larger through chestpuffing and wing-stretching displays. She makes a mental note to include this behavior in the section of her research paper on male dominance. As Lucy looks the man over, she wonders if lines like the one he just used generally work for him and feels relieved that she no longer has to give a second thought to such advances since falling in love with Adam two years ago.
After a moment, the sandy-haired man becomes uneasy and lowers his arms so that his shoulders slump forward slightly. Then he shrugs and moves on.
Silence is a fairly new tactic for Lucy, one that Martha taught her. The old Lucy—single Lucy—would have laughed politely at his jokes even if she wasn’t interested, only to spend the balance of the evening trying to shake him. Failing that, she might have agreed to a date with him if only to explain why she didn’t want to date him, and it’s conceivable there would have been a second encounter, a coffee, perhaps, to make sure that everything was resolved satisfactorily. Once, a few years back, when Lucy was trying to get rid of a persistent suitor, Martha— never a fan of her friend’s accommodating approach—suggested that a blow job might be a nice way to let the guy down gently. That paved the way for Lucy’s current, more direct communication policy.
Lucy goes back to pretending to read, but the bar is loud, crammed with hipsters from the art world—gorgeous twentysomethings whose real talent lies in looking disheveled, with unwashed hair, scuffed shoes, and untucked shirttails. Lucy wills Martha to arrive.
To Martha’s credit, she’s been working hard on her time-management issues and not being late is one of her two New Year’s resolutions. The second resolution, which was Lucy’s idea, is for Martha to go out on at least one date a month. “Easy to say when you
have
a boyfriend,” Martha chided her, but she knew it was a good idea and eventually agreed. Lucy’s resolutions are to finish her postdoctoral fellowship paper,
Sexual Selection: What Humans Can Learn from Animals,
and to make sure that Martha goes out on that date every month. Martha has only ten days left to secure January’s date, and it will be no small feat for Lucy to complete her research and write her paper in the next year. With this deadline in mind, Lucy underlines the first sentence of the article: “Female swallows invariably select for extreme tail-feather length in males.”
Martha arrives twenty minutes late on the dot. Snow is melting on her hair, and her curls have sprung into tight, dark spirals around her face. Pink-cheeked and positively glowing, she gives Lucy an enthusiastic hug that lifts her slightly off her stool. “Sorry I’m late,” she says, smiling broadly. This is Martha’s standard greeting and it rolls off her lips as easily as anyone else’s “How are you?” or “Good to see you.” Even her answering machine says, “Hi, this is Martha. Sorry I’m late. I’m on my way.”
Lucy forgoes her usual lecturing look and pats the stool beside her. “Tell me everything.”
Martha McKenna is an actress and she relishes attention. “Patience,” she says, shrugging off her coat Gypsy Rose Lee– style, first the right shoulder, then the left, until it slides down her back. She’s clad in the armor of the New York thirtysomething single woman—designer everything (charged to maxed-out credit cards) and red, red lipstick. She’s one of those women whose beauty lies in her imperfections, which are abundant and work in marvelous unison: her nose and chin are too pointy, her eyes slope downward and disappear into slits when she laughs, and she has a brilliant streak of white hair, which forms its own silvery twist, separate from the rest of her dark brown curls. When she’s not feeling old (she often describes herself as “close to forty” even though she just turned thirty-seven), she knows the streak is her sexiest feature.
Eva approaches with a bottle of Martha’s favorite Chardonnay. “Hello, glamour-puss,” she says, looking at Martha and bat-ting her eyelashes flirtatiously. “Tonight’s on me.”
“Hi, sweetie,” Martha says. “Regrettably, I’m still straight this week.”
“You’ll come around,” Eva says, pouring Martha’s wine. “So, how’d it go?” she asks, meaning how was the inaugural night of Martha’s new business: FirstDate.
IT HAS BEEN THREE MONTHS since Martha came up with the concept for FirstDate, following a blind date with Simon Hodges, a man who thought the way to a woman’s heart was through her ears. Even before their drinks arrived, Simon began reciting the lengthy and well-rehearsed story of his life: his hilarious childhood antics, his sober course of study at Harvard, his failed first marriage, his current success as a political historian. Throughout his speech, Martha contemplated how much scotch would be considered too much in polite company.
An eternity later, when they were on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant and the date’s end was finally in sight, Martha scanned the horizon for on-duty lights, euphoric that the prospect of freedom was just one taxi ride away.
Simon cleared his throat. “I daresay, this has been a magical evening.”
You daresay?
Martha turned around and found herself looking directly into a pair of descending nostrils, dark and hairy, and moved quickly to avert a kiss on the mouth.
With his eyes still closed, Simon said, “If you’re feeling even half the connection I am, just give me a sign. Any sign.”
Martha considered her signage options. She could place her index finger to her temple and pull her thumb trigger, or wave an arm overhead, the universal signal for a swimmer in distress. Instead, she got into a taxicab.
“How’s it possible that a man Simon’s age has no idea how to treat a woman on a first date?” Martha said to Lucy the following morning over steaming mugs of café au lait in Lucy’s cluttered living room. Books and journals on the reproductive habits of various species overflowed from the bookshelves into neat stacks on the floor. “I didn’t say three sentences the whole night, which Simon somehow managed to interpret as rapture. It might have been the worst first date of my entire life.” Martha lit a cigarette. “What was yours again?”
“That’s a toughie,” Lucy said, sifting through her bad-date memories. She’d had many like the one Martha described with Simon Hodges, dates where her role was to be impressed and seem interested. And she’d had the opposite, too. Dates where she was expected to do the impressing while the guy sat back and evaluated her performance.
“Seriously, last night represents an all-time dating low for me. Dull and opinionated is a deadly combo.”
“Bad? Yes. An all-time dating low? No.” Lucy had heard too many of Martha’s dating stories over the years to fall for that one again. “You’ve gone out with more-deserving contenders. Like that guy who sang opera to you over crème brûlée. Or what about the Boston blue blood you went out with? Lothrop?”
Martha imitated Lothrop’s put-on Brahman accent: “ ‘I assume you’ve Googled me and know who I am.’ ”
“That’s the one.”
“I guess you’re right. Lothrop trumps Simon,” Martha agreed. “But let’s not forget that I’m not the only one who has a history of bad dates, Miss Happily in Love.”
“No argument here,” Lucy said, recalling a first date who mentioned his wife so casually over their after-dinner drinks that she almost didn’t register the remark. “In the five years we’ve known each other, we’ve dated momma’s boys, narcissists, chauvinists, men obsessed with their last girlfriends, men obsessed with their last girlfriend’s new boyfriend, needy guys, flirts, gropers, girly boys—”
“Basta!”
Martha put out her cigarette. “The real problem is men don’t know how to be good men anymore.” She walked over to the windows and looked across the garden courtyard to the opposite ivy-covered wall of the Kingston, where her own apartment was. “They’ve forgotten how to seduce women,” she said, twisting a lock of hair. “Does that ever happen in nature? I mean, do male birds ever just forget to sing the songs that attract females?”
Lucy considered the question. “I’ve never come across it in my research.”
“Simon wasn’t a horrible person, just a horrible date,” Martha continued, turning back to face Lucy. “You know, I think I could actually help them.”
“Help them?” Lucy furrowed her brow in mock contemplation. “Let’s see: Feed starving children, save the whales, or help incompetent men?”
“I’m serious. They can probably be taught.”
“Taught what? How to be better men? You’re proposing dating classes?”
“More like private tutorials,” Martha said. “We go out on a date, and afterward, I tell him what he’s doing wrong. Or right.” She closed her eyes and imagined what she would have said on her date last night:
Ask more questions, Simon. Don’t try so
hard to impress. Talk less. Relax.
In her fantasy, Simon is all smiles and nods. “Plus,” she said, opening her eyes wide, “I bet it could be lucrative.”
From that conversation, the concept for FirstDate was born. Lucy skipped her yoga class and brainstormed with Martha all day.
What would FirstDate’s mission be?
To help men make more favorable impressions on their dates.
How would it work?
Clients would take Martha out to dinner as if it were a real first date and Martha would critique their courtship skills and tell them how to improve.
What would it cost?
A flat fee, plus the price of the meal.
Why would men do it?
The promise of results!
