The View From Penthouse B (20 page)

Rounding3rd to MiddleSister: I saw your profile
.
U said you were nervous. I can help. ☺

25

I Am She

W
AS THAT AN EXULTANT
“What the fuck!” from the kitchen, or was Anthony in distress? Margot and I both jumped up from the sofa where we were watching
Earth Girls Are Easy
and ran to his side.
We knew as soon as we saw him, at his laptop, an amused smile on his face.

“Something good?” Margot asked.

“Something very interesting,” he answered.

“A job?”

“Not a job,” he said. “Not in that section. Not about me.” He then asked, “Are either of you familiar with Missed Connections?”

Margot said, “All too often.”

“No, not in real life. On Craigslist.”

I said, “In the personals?”

“A section unto itself,” Anthony said, “which I read every day. For example”—his fingers traced lines on the screen—“Gyro shop on Ave A Mon. around 7, U R about 5’ 6”, female, pretty, & u had on black tights w. glitter.”

“Okay,” I said. “So?”

He read another. “Dr. Goldfarb’s office, New Hyde Park, blond woman. You were in the waiting room. I was the guy reading
Wired.
We exchanged smiles. Why didn’t I get your number?” He repeated to us rookies, “It’s called Missed Connections. You notice someone, maybe check each other out, but don’t meet, and now you’re sorry so you advertise. There are dozens every day.”

“Is someone looking for you?” I asked.

Ever-generous Anthony said, “Better than that.”

“Must be about Charles,” said Margot. “Or
by
him.”

Grinning, Anthony said, “Hold on to your hats. You ready? . . . ‘Two weeks ago you were at Sammy’s Deli on Sixth at Waverly around four p.m. You are a widow with two first names. I left too abruptly. How are you?’”

“You think that’s for me?” I asked a little hoarsely.

“Read it again,” Margot commanded.

Anthony said, “I don’t have to. Sammy’s on Sixth? At fucking
Waverly?
Two weeks ago.
Widow?
C’mon. It might as well say ‘Dear Gwen-Laura Schmidt.’”

I did admit that I had talked to the man at the next table and he had left a little abruptly.

“What now?” asked Margot. “Is there a number she calls?”

Anthony said, “Easy. You click on
REPLY TO THIS POST
.”

I said, “He has a girlfriend. He’s only asking how I am.”

Anthony said, “Even
you
don’t believe that.”

“Obviously, he broke up with his girlfriend and now he’s rooting around,” Margot said.

“Or he’s just trading up,” said Anthony.

“Was he cute?” Margot asked.

“He was okay.”

“How old?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I don’t mean his date of birth! I mean young? Old? Thirty? Forty? Seventy?”

“Maybe forty-something? You were there. The guy at the next table who was ignoring us?”

Anthony raised his hand, and with his index finger traced a figure eight through the air, a diving glider, until it was poised on the
REPLY
button. “Ladies?” he asked.

“Do it,” said Margot.

Without waiting for my okay, he clicked. An e-mail form appeared, its address a string of numbers, anonymized. Anthony’s ten fingers wriggled above the keyboard, awaiting inspiration or dictation.

I said, “Really? You think it’s me?”

“A thousand percent,” said Margot. “If you don’t tell him what to write, I will.”

The truth is, I was a little thrilled. Something that could be considered an actual social development had just flown in the window—unsolicited, positive, flattering. I said, “Okay. Write this: ‘Is your name Mitchell? My roommate saw your posting on Craigslist, and I might be the person you described. Thank you for your inquiry. How are you, and how is Renee?’”

I smiled, proud of my nerve. I noticed, though, that Anthony wasn’t typing.

“Not there yet,” he explained when I asked what was wrong.

I said, “We all have to agree? Maybe you need to get Betsy on the phone. I’m sure she and Andrew would like to join the Gwen-Laura ghostwriting team.”

This caused a moment or two of what looked like remorse. Margot said, “Okay. Maybe you know what you’re doing. Maybe we’re being too bossy.”

Thus Anthony typed
Are you Mitchell?
but stopped there. He asked, “What came after that?”

I said, “I forget. But I think it was something like ‘If the person you are looking for was named Gwen-Laura, then I am she.’ Then add: ‘I am well, thank you. Has your situation changed?’”

“Getting there,” said Margot. “I like the direct approach. And if he’s still with Renee, maybe he has a friend he could introduce you to.”

As Anthony typed, I asked, “If he was interested in dating me, wouldn’t he have tracked down my ad and answered it?”

“In the
New York Review of Books
?” asked Anthony.
“
Not so much.”

Margot said, “His ‘How are you?’ is code for ‘Can we get something going?’ I’m guessing he’s a polite guy. He knew he wasn’t going to get your attention with ‘Wanna hook up?’”

Anthony looked down at his work. “Wait. Wrong. He’ll be writing back to
my
e-mail address. Okay, new plan. Gwen, go to Missed Connections, find his little love note, and write back.”

I said, “I will. On my own. The Ghostwriting and Intervention Team will have to trust me.”

“We don’t care what you write, as long as you press
SEND
” said Margot.

I composed a longer e-letter than I had intended. I told the possible Mitchell that my personal ad had run, but without results, due largely to my misjudging the target audience and the keen competition. I had very recently, twenty-four hours ago, taken his advice and joined Match.com. After a cursory read-through, I closed my eyes and sent.

How long did it take before I heard back? How long does it take a woman to walk to the nearest toilet, pee, wash her hands, consider herself in the mirror, run a brush through her hair, and shrug? Three to four minutes? That’s how long it took for me to find a return e-mail from [email protected] in my in-box.

Glad you saw my “missed connection.” Thanks for writing back. Would you send your tel. number?

Sincerely,

Mitch

This was not the degree of relief and delight I was anticipating from someone hitting his mark. His reply had the flavor of an e-mail from the Good Samaritan who had found a wallet and then its luckless owner.

Why are all men obtuse? I wrote back.
That’s it?

He answered immediately.
I’m sorry. I thought it would be nice to talk
.

I felt something unfamiliar in the nerve impulses running between my brain and my fingers: power. I wrote back.
1) I know your name, but who are you? And 2) Why did you want to find me?

His answer took longer than the first round led me to predict. After about five minutes, I walked back to the study where both Margot and Anthony were watching
The Real Housewives of New York City.
I said, “I answered and then he answered.”

“Forward them to us!” cried Margot.

I said, “I may have stopped him in his tracks.”

“No!” Margot said. “Why? How?”

“He wrote back very blandly. Like ‘Thanks for writing. Please send your phone number.’ So I wrote back and said, ‘That’s it?’”

“We
love
it!” said Anthony.

Margot silenced the television and turned toward him. “We do?”

“Yes! Translation: Why aren’t you overjoyed? What are the odds that I’d ever see your lame post?”

“Did he answer?” Margot asked.

“Not yet.”

“You’re suddenly playing hard to get?”

I said, “Yes. I guess I am.”

“Keep it up!” said ally Anthony.

I returned to my room. More minutes elapsed. I spent them sitting at my computer, waiting for Mitchell’s statement of intent. I cleaned my screen. I experimented with the various sounds announcing new mail and changed mine from ping to frog to pop.

Then it came.

Dear Gwen Laura (hyphenated or not?):

I’m not sure what I was hoping to accomplish. I do know that you have been in my thoughts since we “met.” I think I was rude (telling you the odds are bad, don’t post an old photo, etc.) so let me apologize for that. I looked for your ad online but didn’t find it. Also I may have overstated when I called Renee my girlfriend. We don’t have an exclusive relationship. She lives in New Jersey and I live in Forest Hills. I am in the process of taking over my parents’ dry cleaning business (also in Forest Hills) at the same time I’m studying for my real estate license. I have a bachelor’s degree from Saint John’s. Did I tell you I was divorced? It was a long time ago. My ex is remarried and lives in FL. I guess you don’t like talking on the phone. Would you like to meet for a drink? If so, please suggest a day & time & place.

Sincerely,

Mitchell T. Davidson

How soon should I answer? What kind of waiting period does the person in the driver’s seat observe? I didn’t forward his e-mail to Anthony or Margot, but texted both of them.
Heard back. Will meet for a drink
.

Anthony would know a bar with flattering light and reasonable prices. In a week, it might be warmer and I could wear my floral-print dress with the sweetheart neckline. Also the red strappy heels I almost returned. While brushing and flossing, I decided to answer in the morning. Ten hours felt like the proper interval between invitation and acceptance for a woman practicing nonchalance.

BrklynArt to MiddleSister: I wish to meet a woman as engaged in their own project: writing, performing, Visual Artist or yet to be classified—but not a Mime, as I am.

26

Doesn’t Sound Like You

B
ECAUSE I WAS
familiar with Margot’s entire professional team—her internist, gynecologist, dermatologist, ophthalmologist, lawyer, and dentist—I knew that a Dr. Sadler (Post-it reminder of a 3:45 appointment on our bathroom mirror) was an addition to the lineup.

“You’re seeing a doctor today?” I asked, as we passed in the hallway, a towel draped over her arm and a turban covering her hair.

She stopped. Didn’t answer.

“A Dr. Sadler?” I prompted.

“Oh, him! That’s right. This afternoon.”

“Everything okay?”

“He’s a shrink,” she said. “What are you up to today?”

“The usual. Laundry. Fiddling with my résumé. A perusal of the classifieds.”

“Good. We both could use a job. Even if it’s at McDonald’s.”

I agreed: yes, that was true, because we said the same thing every morning. The topic of her shrink appointment receded until she was standing in the kitchen, waiting for her bagel to toast. “Dr. Sadler is a couples counselor,” she announced. “And I don’t want you to think it’s about getting back together. It’s about being more amicably divorced.”

“You’re going with
Charles?
”

“I have to. This guy only sees the couple together. I said I’d go once.”

I said, “Boy, are you nice.”

Now at the open refrigerator, with her back to me, she shrugged. “It’s fifty minutes out of my fairly pointless existence. He’s paying, and then he’s taking me to lunch at the restaurant of my choice.”

“Toward what end?” I asked.

Margot said, “Maybe I’d be easier to live with.”

I had her repeat that sentence before I managed to ask, “Are you considering living with Charles?”

“No! Easier for
you
to live with! You and Anthony! Don’t you think I’ve turned into an angry, sarcastic shrew since Charles moved into the building?”

“No,” I said. “I most certainly do not. When you rant and rave about Charles, Anthony and I know it’s about
him
. We don’t take it personally.” In truth, we may even have enjoyed it. An angry Margot was a sight to behold. Anthony had discovered that laughing during her fuming encouraged her to ratchet up her performance.

This seemed to give Margot pause. Had her anger
not
leeched into the atmosphere of penthouse B? And had she been sold a bill of goods by the very object and subject of her occasional ill humor?

I said, “To me, there are clear signs that Charles wants you back—the wine, the ham, the fish? It doesn’t take a marriage counselor to see that all those gifts were stand-ins for the long-stemmed red roses he wanted to send.”

Margot didn’t argue back. She said, “People change.” And then volunteered: “The guy’s subspecialty is sexual addiction.”

Fortunately or unfortunately, she pronounced those two words just as Anthony of the acute hearing opened the door to his room.

“Did I hear ‘sexual addiction’?” he asked, accompanied by a quick swing and dismount from his chin-up bar. “It’s not even eight a.m. and you’ve already made my day. I pray it’s someone I know.”

“It’s Gwen,” said Margot, causing both to laugh a little too heartily.

I said, “The correct answer is that she and Charles are seeing a marriage counselor today—”

“Who happens to list sexual addiction therapy on his website, period. I never said that’s why Charles picked him,” Margot told us.

Anthony, as he palpated the lumpy bag of bagels defrosting next to the toaster, noted, “I don’t believe our friend’s legal problems were ever pinned on sexual addiction. Not even by his defense team.”

Was that a derisive “Ha!” coming from Margot, now seated at the kitchen island?

“Do tell,” said Anthony. “Is he actually tomcatting around or just bragging about it?”

Margot said, “No comment.”

“Rather nice of you to accompany him,” said Anthony.

“One time only. And the office is a block away from Le Cirque.”

Anthony asked if they had had counseling the last time.