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Authors: Kristen McGuiness

51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life (25 page)

BOOK: 51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life
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I tell Nat about Jeff, my date for the evening. Harvard-educated, business attorney for an entertainment law firm, kind of nerdy, Radiohead fan. I can almost see the flash of jealousy in her eyes, but then she morphs it into enthusiasm. “He sounds perfect!”
 
“I guess. I don’t know, Nat. I have been on so many dates that by now they’re feeling more like trips to the post office than any real chance at me meeting someone.” Because though Jeff sounds perfect, I am not excited. I feel no fervor.
 
Nat scowls at me. “Well, you’re not going to meet anyone with that attitude.”
 
I shrug. “You try going on a date a week and then tell me what sort of attitude you have.”
 
But Nat isn’t going on a date a week because she is sitting at home watching
Idol
with her fiancé. Oh, how green that grass always looks on the other side.
 
I get home and have time to kill before Jeff and I meet at 8:30 p.m. for dinner. Rather than wash my greasy hair, or even shower, I decide to go for a hike through my neighborhood. I have recently discovered a great walk that takes me up through the hills of Silver Lake and down one of my favorite streets, where all the houses are so individually charming, all Craftsman and Spanish tiled and mid-century modern, it makes my heart break. I love this street. And as I walk, I imagine living on it with my husband, and our kids, and our wonderfully eclectic, slightly eccentric, always exciting life. I even see a guy who could have gotten the part had he not ended up in some other woman’s movie. He is taking out the trash, and in the driveway sits their Audi and their Volkswagen, with their matching Obama bumper stickers. He looks at me but not in any way that is flirtatious or wrong, just with the neutral gaze of a good man well married.
 
And I wonder if that’s what I want. Do I want the man who is able to do that? Not even a spark of appreciation for the woman walking by. Because in my book, I’m not sure if that’s devotion or death. I get home and only have ten minutes to get ready so I rush over to the restaurant, greasy hair and all. I stand outside of the cute French bistro Jeff has chosen for dinner and text Ivan because Jeff is a few minutes late, and I am trying to look busy. Jeff shows up and recognizes me right away, which is a good thing because much like my first date Richard, Jeff is much better looking than his photos. He’s tall with a great build and nice shoulders and long legs and a thick head of brown hair.
 
He is also nervous. And suddenly I am nervous too. Jeff and I sit down, and the configuration of the table is a little awkward, and the waitress won’t leave us alone, and the restaurant is strangely empty, and we’re so busy laughing and talking and watching the pixie dust flit around us, we forget to order. After the waitress’s fifth trip to our table, I finally try to concentrate on what I am going to have and mutter, “All right, it’s time to get serious.”
 
I begin to look down at my menu as Jeff laughs. “You’re really entertaining to me.” I look up, and we catch each other’s eyes, and I feel that long absent thump in the left side of my chest. I breathe in and smile and am so happy that at the last minute I threw on makeup.
 
Jeff is from a good home outside of Pittsburgh. His parents are still together; he’s close with his younger sister, who used to be a bit of a wild child but has now settled down and is married with a new baby. Jeff is an uncle, and I can tell he wants to be a dad.
 
“So, I saw on your profile you like Salman Rushdie?” I ask this hesitantly because more often than not I am disappointed by people’s literary tastes.
 
“Yeah,
Midnight’s Children
is my all-time favorite book,” he tells me.
 
I stop. My breath gets caught. It’s not like it’s an entirely obscure work, but still. I nearly whisper, “Mine too.”
 
And the flutter across Jeff’s eyes speaks for both of us.
 
We don’t go into anything too heavy: presidential elections, old-school Nintendo, college life, past jobs. I’ve had this conversation with many of my dates. Some were far more in-depth, some more serious, some more comedic, but none with as much chemistry as Jeff and I have. The food is excellent, and the place well lit. Jeff is wearing a button-down and blazer from work, and I have on a cashmere turtleneck with some of my good jewelry. We both look very adult. We both are very adult. And I feel normal.
 
The fact that my father was in prison my whole life, the fact that I used to be addicted to cocaine and go to meetings to keep me sober, the fact that I have herpes, and a dirty mouth, and a sexual past that could rival a few NBA stars—all of those facts seem very far away. And instead I feel like the well-bred, well-educated, well-mannered lady that I can be. All soft edges and dry humor and small bites that I am as much as I am wild and brazen and libidinous. We shut the restaurant down, and we get up to leave. He walks me to my car, and we laugh. I like walking next to him, and I can feel his body even though he’s still a few inches away. I look down to see he is wearing Chucks with his work clothes, and though at this point, it might not put him in the great shoes club, it doesn’t oust him to the bad one. And in a way, they fit him. Boyish with his maturity and fancy degree and funny ways and handsome face.
 
“I’d like to see you again,” Jeff says. A simple statement, but one I can respect.
 
“I think we can do that.”
 
“This weekend?” he asks.
 
“Sure. Although, I have something on Friday.”
 
“Saturday then. There is a party I need to go to, but we can just lie about how we met each other—we don’t need to mention
The Onion
.”
 
I laugh. “Aw shit, it’s 2008. I think we can tell them.”
 
I go in for what I think will be a hug and kiss on the cheek, and before I know it, he’s swept me up and is kissing me. Really kissing me. And his body is pressed against me, and I can feel him against my leg, and though I might have been worried that Jeff is too nice, he is apparently still naughty enough to pull a fast one. I am so caught off guard that I kiss back, and I am not sure if I am melting or popping or fizzing, but when someone walks past us and comments on the kiss, I am disappointed that we pull away. It doesn’t take long before we try again, but another couple walks past us, sing-songing “K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” I don’t know why a young couple making out on a quiet street is causing such a stir. Jeff says, “You would never get that kind of attention in New York.”
 
And it makes me love L.A. all the more. Because we take notice here. And I take notice too. I take notice of how I have been on the best date yet and will be going out again on Saturday with Jeff. I get in my car and call a friend and wonder if an alcoholic like me can be the type of woman a normie like Jeff could actually date. But more importantly, I wonder whether I will be able to date him. I have described to my sponsor before that as an alcoholic I sometimes feel like the aliens in
3rd Rock from the Sun
. If I emulate the humans well enough and for long enough, they might not notice that I’m different. But ultimately, I fear they will. Or worse, I will fault them for being human. I will expect magic and miracles and mysticism from people who, though smart, handsome, and mature, are simply not made up of such powers.
 
34
 
Date Thirty-Four: Being Reese Witherspoon
 
The hostess leads us through the all-white decor of the Mondrian Hotel, through Asia de Cuba, and outside onto the back patio, which nestles into Skybar. My old coke dealer used to be stationed here, and I cannot help but scan the scene to see if he is there. Jason one ups the hostess and pulls out the chair for me. He seats me with my back to the crowd, which gives me a wonderful view of the lighted grid that is Los Angeles but which feels somewhat strategic on his part. Like he doesn’t want me looking around, or he doesn’t want people looking at me.
 
Jason is not from my side of town. He lives in Beverly Hills. And here is where the problem begins.
 
A couple of weeks ago, I stumbled across a list of numbers from when I worked for the notorious publisher. One of her authors was famous for writing a book on how to be a male player. We’ll call him Neil Strauss. I’ve never met Neil, and I doubted he would remember me, but I called him anyway. When I recently told Siren this, she immediately responded, “Wow, that Shaman is really doing something, huh?” And I laughed and said yes. Because I have been doing my energy work every day at home as requested—the work that tells me not to be afraid to ask questions, to ask why, to ask for help, to ask for what I want. So I called Neil Strauss, and I told him about my 51 dates, and then I asked, “Are you single?”
 
“Oh, for one of your dates?”
 
I felt like such a schmuck. Like the star of a bad reality show trying to find candidates for my affection. I found out Neil is already seeing someone, but I pressed on. “Well, if you know of anyone, even one of your nerdy, player dudes,” I offered. Because Neil is actually the man who spawned one of those bad reality shows. His was the one with the Tommy Lee look-alike in the Jamiroquai hat.
 
“You want a nerdy, player dude?” he asked.
 
“No,” I laughed. “Not really. I just figured you might have one. I’m just trying to figure out how to get dates. It’s a lot harder than it seems, even when you ask your friends. And I am so tired of online dating. If I go out with one more Prius-driving liberal who reads
The New Yorker
...”
 
Neil cut me off because I was nervous and rambling. He told me, “I think I have someone for you.”
 
And that is how Neil Strauss set me up with Jason. Jason and I started e-mailing and it’s actually pretty exciting. He is smart and disturbingly funny, and I was beginning to think that Neil had done pretty well for not knowing me. And then I told Jason I lived in Silver Lake. He sent me back a botched version of the Red Hot Chili Peppers lyric, “You can only find East Side loving on the Westside.”
 
First of all, he quoted Anthony Kiedis. Albeit incorrectly. Anthony Kiedis is one of those sober douchebags who demands a certain kind of hot tea during interviews and makes people meditate with him. And the quote itself? I don’t even get it. What does “East Side loving” mean, and how does it only take place on the Westside? I know Jason is trying to get in a dig, but the insult isn’t really clear, which is why he follows up with another e-mail. In that one he tells me the only good things about Silver Lake are that it is near the Department of Immigration and that our homeless have good tans.
 
Often when I speak at my meetings I open with a reference to
Brave New World
. In the classic book mankind is divided into two groups: the Alphas and the Betas. The Alphas are good-looking, strong, popular, the dominant species. And the Betas, well, the Betas are like Danny DeVito in that movie with Arnold Schwarzenegger—they’re “the shit left over.” And I have spent my whole life with the Betas assuming I was an Alpha. All the while, having the Alphas take one look at me and know that I am a Beta.
 
And it is no different now. The Westside is filled with the beautiful, the tanned, the dominant, and also the incredibly, painfully unaware. The East Side might be the shit left over, but it’s good shit. I feel comfortable amongst the houses, the hills, the untamed gardens, the Latinos, the hipsters, the small, winding streets, and the sense of wonder that my neighborhood inspires when I go on my morning hikes. So many nights I park my car and walk down my street, and the streetlamps hit the palm trees just right, spotlighting them against the darkened, starry sky. The air smells cool and clean, and I forget we are a city made of smog. I walk past the rose garden that sits on the corner of my block; I stop and close my eyes and hear the barking of dogs and sirens in the distance. I feel the warm spring breeze of an April night against my face, and I fall in love all over again. Because I love this city, but I am in love with Silver Lake.
 
I am not in love with Jason. He is good-looking, strong, and popular. And just the right type of smart for his side of town—witty, charming, and cruel. He loves his friends. And he talks a surprising amount about his dad, Fred. “Ah, Fred. What a guy.”
 
“You’re close with your dad?” I ask.
 
Jason thinks about it. “Close? I guess. We work together so I see him every day. Fred’s a total character. I like to describe him as a cross between Hannibal Lecter and Archie Bunker. Although, he’s a bit more vicious.”
 
“Wow.”
 
“And fucking hysterical.”
 
“I have a grandma like that.”
 
“Really?” But Jason doesn’t care. He goes back to Fred. In fact, he won’t shut up about the guy. I am a little thrown by why he keeps doing this until I realize that even Alphas need a security blanket. The easy topic they can grasp onto when they’re not sure what else to say.
BOOK: 51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life
3.48Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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