Ace Jones: Mad Fat Adventures in Therapy (7 page)

From a distance, it looks better than it actually is: the starched white tablecloth, a carafe of red wine, the glass goblet candleholder glowing amber against a terra-cotta wall. The ambiance is enchanting, the pesto is amazing, and sitting on the other side of that luscious chunk of rosemary bread is a fairly decent-looking fellow with neatly trimmed hair, light brown eyes, and a perfectly manicured goatee. He smiles. I smile. Dinner arrives. And then he launches into yet another idiotic spiel. “Have you ever envisioned the materialization of your most fantastical dreams?” he asks, smoothing the napkin on his lap with both hands. I have no desire to discuss my dreams—or my lack thereof—with a perfect stranger, but I welcome the odd turn of conversation, seeing as how he spent the past twenty minutes blathering about his mother. His eyes are locked on mine as he swirls linguine onto his fork.

“I'm sorry—have I what?” I say, looking down as I cut into my lasagna. I would attempt to change the subject, but I've gathered that whatever Mr. I Love Mommy wants to talk about, by golly, he's gonna talk about.

“Have you ever thought about how magnificent your life would be if your wildest dreams somehow came true?” He's peering at me like a Peeping Tom, no doubt trying to catch a glimpse of my bare-naked soul.

“Of course,” I say. “Hasn't everyone?” I take a bite of lasagna while he continues to work those noodles and stare at me.

“So you have dreams?” he asks. I nod, and he continues. “Then you've imagined a marvelous existence with that man or that job and that house?” He's still moving the fork. Around and around. “Tell me your dreams, Graciela.” His eyes are ripe with anticipation as they bore into mine.

“Again,” I say, careful to hold his gaze, “please call me Ace.”

“Tell me your dreams, Ace,” he says without missing a beat. His fork is still twirling those damned noodles and his eyes are still locked on mine. I don't say anything, so he continues. “The verbalization of dreams makes our souls flourish with hope.” He raises the perfectly wound ball of linguine to his lips, then stops. I think about reaching across the table and helping him get that fork into his mouth. “Share yours with me,” he says quickly, and then finally takes a bite.

“You want to hear about my dreams?” I say with as little enthusiasm as possible. His eyes dance as he nods, and the way he's chewing his pasta is pissing me off. I think for a second about what to say and how to say it. And then, with great flourish, I begin.

“Once upon a time, I had a dream,” I say, opening my eyes extra wide, “and what a spectacular dream it was. I imagined a splendid life with a handsome gent, a fanciful career, and a not-so-humble abode overlooking blue-green ocean water.” I pause, and his pretty brown eyes are glimmering with expectation. He's swirling linguine again. “Then one day, the unthinkable happened!” And with all the dramatic intonation I can muster up, I say, “My dream came true.”

“No!” he whispers, and I can't tell if he's shocked or disappointed. He keeps twirling noodles.

“Yes!” I whisper, and then return to my usual tone. “And that crap didn't turn out anything like I thought it would, so I packed up and moved back to reality.” My date looks startled and a wee bit troubled. The linguine falls from his fork. He says nothing, so I continue. “I left the snow-white beaches of Pelican Cove, Florida, which was the actual physical location of this failed attempt to live my dream, on New Year's Day, and it was not the first, but rather the third, time I moved out of the ocean-view home belonging to Mason McKenzie, the love-of-what-turned-out-to-be-only-half-of-my-life.” He crams a forkful of tangled noodles into his mouth and I keep going because I'm on a roll. “The first time, I stayed for six weeks, and when I left, it was my fault. The second time, I stayed for six months, and when I left, I had a better understanding of the legal term ‘irreconcilable differences.' As a matter of fact, I had a better understanding of about a hundred thousand legal terms because when Mason wasn't at work, he was talking about work and, to be perfectly honest, it was exhausting.”

“So your dream man was a lawyer?” Mr. Conversation Hog snaps before cramming another massive wad of pasta into his mouth.

“Is,” I tell him, picking up a piece of bread and sopping it in olive oil. “He
is
a lawyer. And would you like to know something else?” He makes an awful face and I realize that I don't even remember his name. “Mason McKenzie is a good guy,” I tell whoever-he-is-over-there, “which is why I went back that third and final time to spend the holidays with him. I wanted to be sure we couldn't work things out, but sadly, those irreconcilable differences proved to be unresolvable, so we parted ways one last time and now I have no dream.”

“You must have been chasing the wrong dream,” he begins, and then, in an obvious attempt to recover his domination of the dialogue, says, “One time I thought—”

“Oh, no,” I say quickly, effectively blocking his shot at turning the conversational spotlight back his way. “My whole life, Mason was all I ever wanted. And I had him! I had him and I had my very own art gallery—which was a lovely building with a stunning view of the bay—and we lived in a khaki-and-cream-colored three-story stucco house one block from the Gulf of Mexico.” I look across the table and see my date is cramming noodles into his mouth again. “I had it all,” I say. He's looking at me now like he's in actual physical pain. “And little by little, bit by bit, my dream life let me down.” I look down at my lasagna. “But there is some good news.”

“What's that?” He's hustling more pasta onto his fork.

“Mason and I are still friends and I'm sure we always will be, but whoever came up with that line about the third time being a charm is full of shit.” Several minutes pass during which the awkward silence swells. I take that opportunity to stare him down like he's been doing to me since we met at the door of this way-too-romantic-for-a-blind-date restaurant. He just sits there, chewing like a squirrel, looking back at me. Finally, I break the silence. “Yep,” I say, and decide to entertain myself for a minute more. “The don't-mistake-me-for-a-model-citizen is back, and I'm sure the wanna-be-highbrows-with-overplucked-eyebrows couldn't be more pleased. You know what I mean?” He shakes his head and stares at me. His fork is still. “Neither do I,” I say with a smile. I love the look on his face now.
Go tell this story to your damned mama,
I think as I continue. “But, hey! A few bad apples won't ruin the whole basket as long as they keep their rotten asses at a distance, right?” I smile at my date. I bet his mother has overplucked eyebrows.

“Uh, okay.” He pushes his plate to the side and looks around for our waiter. “Check, please!” When the bill arrives, I consider giving him a twenty but decide against it. I think I earned my meal by sitting quietly through that series of painfully dull stories about his idyllic childhood and flawless mother. On the way out, he holds the door for me and says, “I'll call you,” like men do when they think that's what you want to hear.

“Please don't,” I say. “But thank you for dinner.”

“Right,” he says, and starts speed walking in the opposite direction.

•   •   •

“How'd the date go?” my pal Chloe asks when I call her on the way home.

“It was downright therapeutic,” I tell her.

“So, not good?”

“Chloe!” I say. “This guy will never meet a woman he loves more than his mother.”

“His mother is very nice.”

“I think his mother might be the reason he's still single at thirty-seven!”

She sighs. “Well, I tried.”

“And I appreciate that, Chloe. I really do. It was very thoughtful of you to fix me up on a blind date with this slightly good-looking yet somewhat dysfunctional guy.” I pull onto the highway. “Just please believe me when I tell you that I'm not interested in dating right now.”

“I can't help it!” Chloe cries. “I don't want you to spend the rest of your life alone.”

“I moved home in January,” I tell her. “It's the middle of March. Don't declare me a spinster just yet. What I need more than anything is some time to myself so I can think and sort things out inside my feeble brain.”

“Okay,” she says with a sigh.

“No more blind dates or I'll start adopting cats.”

“See?” she whines. “That's what I'm worried about.”

“Chloe Stacks! You know good and damned well that I would never get a cat!” I say, laughing. “Need I remind you that Buster Loo, superchiweenie, is and always will be the undisputed king of my castle? And I promise that the two of us are doing just fine.”

“Ten or twelve cats wouldn't go over well with Buster Loo,” Chloe says in her I'm-trying-so-hard-to-joke-but-I'm-really-serious voice.

“Right,” I say, feigning earnestness. “And that's what I would do, too. I wouldn't start with one cat or even two. If I decide to become a cat lady, you can bet I'll be the cattiest cat lady around.” I pause. “I'll go adopt fifteen or twenty. At least.”

Finally, a giggle. “Okay, so I'll see you on Monday morning, then?”

“I'll be there with bells on.”

“Let's hope not.”