Fashionistas (9 page)

M
aya thinks that I’m only attracted to emotionally unavailable men.

“Workaholics, cheats, mama’s boys. It’s a freak show of guys who can’t make a commitment and you’re the ringmaster,” she said after my last relationship ended unceremoniously in the produce aisle of the Associated supermarket on the corner of Bleecker and LaGuardia. While I was watching Michael debate the relative merits of green bananas—sure, he wanted a banana now but would he want one in three or four days when this bunch finally ripened—the unfeasibility of the relationship hit me. The uselessness of the entire thing hit me like a blast of heat from a very hot oven, I said good-bye and walked out of the store alone. Michael didn’t notice. He was too busy reassuring the bananas that it wasn’t them, it was him.

“It’s like a superpower with you,” Maya continued. “Being able to find emotionally unavailable men at fifty paces and through concrete walls is what you bring to the Hall of Justice. I mean, if there’s a room full of single well-adjusted men,
wholehearted and unscarred, you’re inexorably drawn to the only one who just broke up with his girlfriend of four years in the parking lot.”

This much is true. I met Michael at one of those serial dating evenings that Maya dragged me kicking and screaming to the week before Valentine’s Day. He was there to pick up his sister. But it’s not a superpower. Or if it is, then it’s a silly power, the sort someone thought up after all the good ones were taken. I’m like a Wonder Twin without Gleek and the mass appeal of seventies kitsch.

“There must be some way to harness your power,” she added, with a laugh. She is only half joking. “Like, maybe we can rent you out by the hour to women who want to know before they expend all that time and energy if their relationship is going to go anywhere. Ooh, maybe we can get large groups of women to gather with their men in one place, like Tupperware parties. We’ll line them up and have you go down the row to see who you are attracted to.” She gave me a considering look, as if I were there in the trenches with her, devising a business plan. But I wasn’t. I was in the real world where my superpower isn’t good for anything but pain and disappointment. “Then we’d have to charge by the man, I suppose, although we will, of course, offer volume discounts.”

Maya rattled on in the same vein for several minutes more, discussing T-shirt designs and Oprah appearances, but I was no longer listening. I was no longer paying attention, because a procession of former boyfriends was marching through my head with considerable force. Michael, who was unable to commit to a green banana. Scott, who refused to even use the word
date.
Ethan, who always called me Jevig, after his old girlfriend Jennifer. Dwight, Thaddeaus, Kevin, Rob. It was a long parade of also-rans. “New topic,” I said, taking the napkin away from her. She was sketching our logo—cupid with a crossbow aimed at his own heart—on a napkin.

But I’m thinking of Maya’s words now. I’m recalling her scathing business plan now because of Alex Keller’s sandy
brown hair and his light green eyes and his welcoming smile. I’m instantly attracted and have enough sense to know that this cannot be good.

I
’m unprepared for Alex Keller’s enthusiastic welcome. I’ve come here straight from work, despite reservations and other things I’d rather be doing, and I’m all ready to sweet-talk my way into his apartment. That he would simply open the door and invite me in is not on a list of possible outcomes, and I stare at him for several seconds uncomprehendingly.

“You’re here,” he says, grinning widely. “Great. Come in.” He’s wearing tan cutoffs with a maroon T-shirt that says Springfield Civic Center Ice Crew. The shirt is old and torn and looks like some ancient papyrus scroll that will disappear into a cloud of dust if you touch it. He is barefoot. “You’re a little early but I’m almost ready. Please sit down.”

Alex Keller’s living room is sparse—dark blue couch, thirteen-inch TV, aged telephone stand—and is dominated by a recently refinished wood floor hidden partially by a small light blue area rug. Since my host is gesturing to the couch, I walk toward it. I walk toward it and notice as I get closer that its diagonal position has created a storage space for an assortment of small appliances, including an iron, a blender
and an old-fashioned rotary telephone. The jerry-built closet leads me to conclude that he, like Anna, doesn’t have closets. I admire his bravery. Catercorners are the provenance of the rich and you don’t often see catercornered bookshelves and sofas outside of magazine pictorials, the sort that
Fashionista
specializes in. You have to own a five-story town house in order to be able to spare the floor space the arrangement requires.

“Quick should be back any minute now,” he says, carrying sneakers and socks into the kitchen, where he sits down on a wooden folding chair. My perspective affords me a clear view of his kitchen with its black-and-yellow wallpaper and pint-size fridge, and I watch him pull on his socks, the muscles in his arms bunching in response to the activity. Alex Keller has biceps. I’m not expecting this. Despite its deteriorated state, the T-shirt holds up. “A neighbor is helping out in the meantime.”

There is a misunderstanding here. It’s not me he’s expecting. I’ve known this from the moment the doorman downstairs let me go up without asking my name. I’ll tell him who I am but not right now. Right now I want to watch him put on his sneakers. The novelty of a friendly Keller is seductive and I’m loath to bring the experience to an end. In a minute I’ll tell him my name. In a minute I’ll reveal all and his pleasant countenance will turn sour and pinched and he’ll start throwing obscenities at my head. That moment can wait.

“You’ll like Quick,” he says, tying the laces of his Adidas into double knots. “He’s got large puppy-dog eyes that melt your resolve every time.”

I don’t know if Quick is a beloved pet or a beloved son. Keller’s spotless record only revealed his address and telephone number; it didn’t list dependents. “All right,” I say, to be vague.

Keller smiles. He has a great smile, a little shy and dimpled. “But you have to be strong. A little discipline never hurt anyone.”

Hearing Alex Keller, ordinarily an id on the rampage, expound on the benefits of discipline, breaks the spell. Despite his dimples and his biceps and his lively green eyes, I open my mouth to introduce myself. But before I get a chance, the doorbell rings and Keller jumps to his feet. “There’s the boy now.”

Keller disappears around a corner and I hear him chatting with a neighbor. “Did he give you any trouble?”

“Nope, he’s a darling,” answers a soft, breathy female voice. “It’s a beautiful day and we had a lovely time at the park sunning ourselves.”

“Great. Thanks again for your help.”

“My pleasure. Are we still on for dinner tomorrow?”

Although I can’t see her, I know this woman is curvaceous and blond with a cute nose and heart-shaped face. All breathy women are.

“Of course,” he says. “How’s eight?”

“Come by at seven and I’ll serve cocktails,” she offers. There’s a flirtatious lilt to her voice that I’m very familiar with. You can’t go to the Beauty Bar or Man Ray on a Saturday night without hearing it, which is why I stay far away from such trendy places.

“Sounds good. So I’ll see you then,” he says, winding down the conversation. “And thanks again for helping out.”

“Really, it was my pleasure.”

Of course it was. What woman wouldn’t want a man who looks like Keller in her debt?

I hear the door close and prepare myself to meet Quick. If he’s a boy, then it’s just as well that Keller is a bad-tempered, emotionally unavailable co-worker with multiple personalities, because my skills with children, especially little ones, are undeveloped.

Quick turns out to be a chocolate Lab. He is large and consumes more space than a catercornered couch. His movements are ponderous and deliberate and he seems to be con
sidering each step before he makes it. He is wagging his tail in greeting, but it’s like an oscillating fan on slow. There is nothing swift about him.

“An odd choice in names,” I say because it’s the first thing that pops into my head, but I’m not sure if this is the sort of thing you can say to a besotted dog owner.

Keller smiles, revealing the devastating dimples and shyness. I can feel myself staring with a sort of gape-mouthed stupidity and I try to pull myself together. Emotionally unavailable, I chant in my head. Emotionally unavailable. The legendary bad temper, nowhere in evidence, doesn’t seem so important.

“No, Quick isn’t very quick. He’s seven now, but even when he was a puppy he never had much energy,” Keller says. “I took him to the vet to see if he had low blood pressure or an overactive thyroid or something like that but everything checked out okay. I think he’s just a very lazy dog who prefers to stay in one place. Like Nero Wolf, without the mystery-solving capabilities.”

I don’t know if Nero Wolf is a real character or a fictional one, so I don’t pursue it. Instead I say, “Why Quick then?”

Hearing his name, the chocolate Lab meanders over to me and leans his body against my leg. I pet his soft fur gently, even though I’m not sure if he’s seeking affection or using me as support.

“It’s the other kind of Quik—the chocolate drink with the cartoon rabbit. We had two dogs named Pepsi and Sprite while I was growing up. I wanted to keep the beverage thing alive,” he explains, “and Snapple or Shasta just didn’t seem right.”

“Shasta?”

“Shasta, Fresca, Tab. I dug deep and tried them all out. He was Yoo-hoo for a few days but that didn’t play well at the dog run. It sounded like I didn’t know my own pet’s name. I could feel the other owners judging me. I think one lady was about to call the ASPCA and report me for doggy abuse.”

I’m surprised that a man who has done everything possible to alienate the people he works with on a daily basis would care what strangers think. But then again, it’s not like he actually works with us on a daily basis. I scratch Quik’s back and his tail makes a halfhearted sweep. I know I should tell Keller who I am but my moment of resolve is crumbling.

Emotionally unavailable. Emotionally unavailable.

“All right, boy,” he says, picking Quik’s leash off the floor and tugging him gently in the direction of the door. “Come on, one more walk. Let’s go introduce your new friend Kelly to all your other friends at the dog run.” Keller winks at me. “We don’t use
d-o-g-w-a-l-k-e-r
because I don’t want him to feel abandoned.”

“All right,” I say, charmed by this logic.

He hands me the leash. “Here, why don’t you take him? You guys should get to know each other.”

I take the leash, wrap it around my hand a few times and tug on it authoritatively. I’m trying to look like a professional, but Quik isn’t fooled. He yawns at me with long yellow teeth and leads the way out of the apartment.

I follow Quik to the elevator and push the button while Keller locks up his apartment. I look at my watch. It’s almost five-thirty and I wonder for the first time when the real Kelly is supposed to show up. I know I should say something but by now there are other factors at work aside from his dimples and biceps. And it’s more than just the stunning embarrassment I’ll feel when I reveal the truth. Quik is involved now. He and I are getting to know each other. I can’t callously abandon him.

At Seventy-fourth and Broadway, Keller’s apartment is just a block and a half from Riverside park. During the walk over, Quik behaves and makes it look as if I’m leading him, even though it’s really the other way around. For a dog with no energy, he is certainly strong.

“He gets along with everyone, except Julie Andrews’s walker,” he says as we cross West End Avenue.

It’s a beautiful mid-August day, the sort summer brides pray for—sunny, warm, breezy and gentle. I breathe deeply and absorb summer. You don’t need a house on Fire Island to enjoy the season.

“Julie Andrews’s walker?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m surprised. When you live in New York, you are surrounded by celebrities. They stand on street corners with you while the light changes; they wait behind you in line at Balducci’s.

“Yeah, I don’t know why he doesn’t like this little feller.” He pats Quik on the head affectionately. “From what Adam tells me—Adam is Quik’s previous friend—the guy took an instant dislike to Quik. So don’t be offended if a short troll-like man scurries off in the opposite direction with a poodle. I think he has unresolved issues with his mother.”

This description fits the Keller of myth so well that I whip my head around and look at him intently. I’m trying to detect some hint, some small indication that he knows who I am, but there is nothing. His green eyes are staring ahead at the tree-lined park.

“Here we are, boy,” he says to Quik, as we open the first gate of the dog run. The dog’s temperament remains even. It does not quicken with excitement or slacken with dread.

We are in the fenced-off area but I’m wary of letting Quik go. There are so many dogs running around, so many bouncing, athletic, robust, energetic dogs darting to and fro that I begin to fear for Quik’s safety. Does he really come here every day?

“The first rule of good parenting,” Keller intones wisely in my ear, “is knowing when to let go.”

I have never met a man in my dating demo who knows any rules of parenting let alone the first one of
good
parenting and I stare dumbly at him. Emotionally unavailable, I tell myself. Emotionally unavailable.

Keller bends down on one knee and unhooks Quik’s leash. Rather than run like a child for the monkey bars, Quik meanders over to a corner in the shade and lies down. Nap time.

We sit down on a green bench along the fence where other pet owners and dog walkers are sunning themselves and talking. We are upwind and unmolested by the scent of urine.

“So, do you think you can handle him?” he asks, closing his eyes and turning his face toward the sun. I’m left to marvel at his handsome face with impunity and find myself almost pining for the other Keller, the ogre who roars at villagers for stepping into his swamp.

I’m silent because I don’t know what to say. Yes, I think I can handle Quik, but even though I hate my job I’m not quite ready for a career change. I’m not quite ready to give everything up, but Keller tempts me very much. He makes me want to quit
Fashionista
so that I can take his dog to the park every day.

“Like I said on the phone, you come highly recommended and I trust you implicitly with Quik. I know your schedule is pretty full already and you’re insanely busy, but it would only be three days a week. And you don’t have to take him out for hours and hours.” He laughs. “As you can see, Quik doesn’t do much here that he doesn’t do at home.”

This is almost true. Quik is lying on his side sleeping but he has company. A collie-golden retriever mix has sidled up next to him. They both look peaceful.

“I’ll have to check my schedule, of course,” I say evasively, glad that he has given me something to cling to. “I don’t think I’m that busy but I shouldn’t commit until I’m sure.”

This is the right answer. Keller smiles. “Fair enough.”

“What happened to Adam?” I ask, in the silence that follows. I know I should fess up now but I don’t want to end this. I’ve never sat in the dog run on a breathtakingly beautiful day with a handsome man who knows the first rule of good parenting. It might never happen again.