Lovesick (12 page)

And yet, to me, wine country is one giant buzz kill. All I see are
tourist traps, unmanageable crowds, and overpriced Brie. I see pretentious foodies intoxicated by their own palates and wine snobs intoxicated behind the wheel. There are great big Lyme-diseased ticks in these woods. Who needs to drive all the way to Sonoma when you can get the same damn bottle at the nearby Safeway? And there aren’t any real hotels up north, just “quaint” B and Bs. In other words, camp for big people.

Then again, after decades of watching people use Crockett as a pit stop on their pilgrimage north, perhaps it’s just sour grapes. But this trip is all about Paige. Paige loves wine country, so this is where our engagement story begins.

I’ve handled all the arrangements. The overnight bags are packed and stowed in the trunk. I’ve made us dinner reservations at an upscale restaurant in Healdsburg, the heart of Sonoma wine country. The Thistle Dew Inn was Sid’s suggestion. He went there years ago and boasts that every room has its own fireplace, and no communal bathrooms.

The sky is a magnificent deep pumpkin color. I’ve managed to get rock star parking across the street from the television studio exit. As Paige approaches, still limping slightly from the adjustable heels incident, the sun dips below the horizon.

Leaning against my car, arms crossed, I greet her with an enormous grin.

“We’re not going,” she concludes.

“Why would you say that?” I screech.

“Something’s not right. You look deranged.”

“Deranged in a bad way?”

“Let me guess. You were fired.”

If only she knew.

“I quit,” I correct her. “Gave the boss a piece of my mind.”

Paige studies me.

“Get in, we’re behind schedule.” I pretend to check my wrist-watch.

Paige gives me a kiss and then holds out her cheek. Instead of kissing her back, I rub my cheek up against hers until she laughs.

The San Francisco Embarcadero runs along the waterfront,
and as we pull onto the roadway we catch a flawless glimpse of the Oakland Bay Bridge, its beauty and fame unfairly eclipsed by its more popular sibling, the Golden Gate. Paige cranes her neck to catch a glimpse of Coit Tower. Set against the orange sky, the white monument has a supernatural glow.

I can read her mind.

“Look where we live,” I tease her.

Paige rolls her eyes at me yet can’t resist.

“Well,
look at it,”
she demands, enthralled by the beauty of the bay.

Once we break free of city traffic, it’s a straight shot to wine country.

Most men want to get married, though few will admit this to themselves or say it out loud. People tell you how important timing is, but that’s a load.
You won’t meet Miss Right until you’re ready.
I’ve always been ready to meet Paige. Maybe that makes me a sap. I just don’t think you should go on a first date with someone if there’s no chance you’ll ever marry them. This doesn’t make me a romantic, just practical. This would also explain why I’ve had so few dates and even less sex.

The moment I realized I was ready to propose to Paige wasn’t anything like the epiphany I have with a good invention. A light-bulb didn’t go off. It was more like a dimmer, brightening steadily and more quickly over time, until I could see clearly.

For every woman before Paige, it started off pretty much the same. I never bothered to graph it out, but I can visualize it easily:
The excitement that came with a first or second date produced elevated levels of possibility; for the relationships that lasted a bit longer, we occasionally crossed that critical “proposal threshold,” but invariably it went downhill from there.

Except with Paige. In the nine months leading up to this decision, the points kept coming. The highs kept peaking—until one day, I realized I was comfortably above the threshold.

It was a Sunday afternoon at Ocean Beach. We still try to go there once a month to drink good coffee, read the
Chronicle
, and walk along the Pacific. At one end of the beach, tucked away in the lower level of the Cliff House, is the penny arcade, Musée Mécanique, a San Francisco institution. “Laffing Sal”—a six-foot animatronics clown with bright red curls and a sinister smile—greets tourists at the door. Amid the circus music and Sal’s maniacal laugh, we bypassed the antique viewfinders, fortune-telling machines, and vintage games, in pursuit of the Holy Grail tucked in the far corner—Ms. Pacman and a slew of other 1980s classics.

I’ve always been impressed with Paige’s dexterity at destroying asteroids, racing around pixilated tracks, and hopping barrels, but it was the grace with which she obliterated insects that sealed the deal. Spinning that roller ball, sweeping across the screen, wiping out that quickly descending centipede with master firepower, Paige stole my heart. She got points when she got points.

I think that’s when I started planning this trip, or at least some form of it.

The roads are clear. Paige is absorbed in her own thoughts. Paul McCartney is singing about Desmond, apparently he has a barrel or a barrow in the marketplace, and some Molly girl is a singer in a band. I turn up the volume on the radio. Resisting the chorus would be impossible:

Paul launches into the second verse and Paige is impressed that I know every single word of the peculiar lyrics. Then she realizes I know none of them—that I’m “singing Chewbacca.”

Two months back, I caught Paige massacring Michael Jackson at the top of her lungs. “Why would he tell Billie Jean the ‘chair’ is not his son?” I asked her curiously. Paige tried to deny it, but caved. That’s when we agreed that if either of us was ever at a loss for lyrics, we would sing Chewbacca.

The Beatles chorus is upon us again. We give each other a knowing nod and scream in unison:

Laughing to tears, I swerve into oncoming traffic. At the very last moment, I quickly jerk us back into the proper lane. The Mercedes driver blares his horn after the fact.
Drunk driver!
A shot of adrenaline hits my bloodstream and my hands begin to shake. I turn the radio down and confirm Paige is wearing her seat belt.

Maybe the lodge is truly hidden or maybe I’m in denial, but I drive past the entrance to the Thistle Dew Inn twice before spotting the dumpy ranch house buried in the crabgrass. Our room is cold, small, dank, and depressing. The fireplace that looked so toasty on the Web site is actually powered by gas and activated by a light switch. There is no TV, no phone, and definitely no mint on either of the two scratchy crocheted pillows. They promised me the perfect room to propose. But this won’t do at all.

I’m incapable of hiding my disappointment.

“It’s cute,” Paige reassures me. “I’m going to get ready for dinner.”

“You do that and I’ll go see if they have a Scrabble set.”

“Genius,” she tells me.

There is no one at the front desk. On the bookshelf next to the wood-burning fireplace is a stack of board games, among them Scrabble. But I don’t need theirs—our set is sitting in the trunk of my car.

I go to the dining room for some privacy.
It’s now or never.
I press the speed dial for “Gregory Home.” While the phone searches for a cell tower among the sticks, I confirm the coast is clear. Reception here is spotty. My phone flickers between one and three bars.
You can’t do this with anything less than three out of five.
The
quality of the connection is crucial.
“Come again, Andrew? Why on God’s green earth would you want my dressing?”

I’ve got two bars. It’s ringing.
Holy crap! Holy crap! Holy crap! I’m getting married.
I should have done this in person. I should have taken him to Applebee’s or bought tickets to an Oakland A’s game or just asked him over lunch at Langley’s Diner. This should be easier. Doesn’t every man secretly want a son?

“Hello,” Gregory says, bracing for a telemarketer.

“Dad! It’s me.”
No.
“Mr. Day, Andy Altman here.”
No.
“Gregory, we need to talk.”
No.

“Is anyone there?”

“Hi, it’s Andy,” I say finally.

“Hello, Andrew,” he says, still concerned I might sell him something.

I can hear him tearing paper like he’s opening mail.

“Everything okay?” he says suddenly.

“You bet. We arrived safely in Sonoma,” I assure him. “Paige is getting ready for dinner.” His daughter may have just turned thirty, but a father never wants to be reminded that his unwed daughter is on a sleepover with a boy. “Ignorance is bliss,” “plausible deniability” this is how a father deals with his daughter’s virginity, Paige tells me.

“After dinner, it’s bingo at the Baptist Church, a mug of hot cocoa, and straight to separate sleeping quarters,” I want to tell him. “How are things?” I ask, scanning the reception area, working up the nerve.

“Same as they were two hours ago,” he says coolly. Gregory clears his throat: “What can I do for you this evening?”

“So I wanted to call,” I say, taking a deep breath.

“Let me stop you right there. I don’t need an apology about before. Just don’t let it happen again. I want to put this whole evening behind us. Tomorrow’s another day.”

“You want to put this evening behind us?”

“Yes.”

I let out a long sigh. “God, I’ve never done this before,” I say.
Was that my inside voice or my outside voice? Calm down.
“I wanted
to call you,” my outside voice says. “You know Paige and I have a wonderful time together. I love her very much and I would like to ask her to marry me. I have such great respect for you and I wouldn’t feel right not checking with you first.”

It sounded better in the shower.

A tumbleweed rolls through the dining room. Crickets chirp.

“Hello?” I ask.

Gregory speaks, finally. “I appreciate that, Andrew,” he says kindly. “I do.” He seems genuinely touched. “When did you want to do this?”

Didn’t I say “tonight”? I swore I said “tonight.”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight!” He’s appalled, his voice rising. “You’re proposing tonight and you’re asking me
now?”

“You’re totally right. I screwed up. I’m sorry. I was just worried about spoiling the surprise.”

“You don’t trust me to keep a secret?” Gregory demands.

“No, not at all, I trust you. I bet you’re the best with secrets.”

Gregory takes a deep breath. Then another. He clears his throat.

I’m blowing this.

“Wait,” he commands finally.

“Okay. No problem.”

I lean against the dining room wall, sandwiching the cell phone between my ear and the window. I close my eyes, bracing for what Gregory might say next. Nine long hours pass in silence. Then I hear him take three short hits of his inhaler.

“Hello?” I ask.

“Hello?” he asks.

“Oh, hey, you’re back.”

“What do you mean ‘I’m back’?” he asks.

“You’re back, you told me to wait. Didn’t you just go somewhere?”

“I’m just sitting here. I was waiting for you to say something.”

“I thought you wanted me to wait,” I say.

“I do. I want you to wait to ask Paige to get married.”

It’s as if Paige and I are back in the car and I’ve narrowly missed
that head-on collision. My blood vessels widen. The adrenaline kicks in.
What is he asking me? Is he saying no? Is he saying maybe?

“If this is about money,” I prod, “I’ve got savings.”

“That’s not it at all.”

“You think a year is too short to get engaged,” I conclude.

“It’s been more like nine months, and that’s not it either. Listen,” he begins.

“I don’t want to pressure you, Gregory,” I jump in, “but I love Paige. We’re a
good
couple. I’d be honored to be a part of your family.”

“Just wait, Andy,” he says, his voice shaky.

It’s the first time he’s called me this.

“I have my reasons and I’ll explain when I see you. I promise. But you need to make me two promises, son: keep this between us … and wait.”

ALFRED Hitchcock style, men fantasize about scaring the living bejesus out of their future bride. If we could, each of us would rip open the shower curtain, clutching a diamond ring. Our future fiancée would scream bloody murder and we’d scream back: “Marry me!” Now
that’s
how you
pop
the question. On your wedding day, men promise to love, honor, respect, cherish, and trust. Men sincerely promise to be faithful, loyal, and honest. And yet we spend the weeks leading up to the marriage proposal lying, cheating, and deceiving a woman, all in the spirit of preserving the surprise.

The surprise is how I’ve justified the torture and trickery. My need to keep Paige guessing makes it okay to caution her against
slipping into the future tense or discourage her from reading the wedding announcements in the newspaper or pretend in some subtle way that I’m not ready. Just last weekend we were lounging on the couch, watching a movie, and Paige jokingly suggested that we have a wedding just like the people on TV. That’s when I reminded her that we are neither big nor fat nor Greek.
What do you say we take this relationship one step at a time.
Every great magician needs misdirection. I’m going to hell.