Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy (18 page)

There seemed to be no correlation between cause and effect. Give it up on the first date, don’t give it up on the first date, neither worked. The magic formula was beyond me. Again I questioned, who was too depressed to have sex? These New York guys were so . . . sensitive.

I tried as hard as I could to resist wallowing in the “what’s wrong with me?” debate and instead concentrated on how much of a jerk that guy was, but still it got to me. I didn’t need any eye makeup remover that night, as I cried most of it off in big black drops of tar: his graffiti portrait brought to life. Oscar Wilde was right again—life does imitate art.

I e-mailed him a few days later, some lighthearted, carefully worded e-mail about picking up where we left off whenever he was “around.” No big deal! He didn’t reply. Shortly after, I was out with some female comic-friends, and after a few Merlots I spilled the whole story. One of the women tried to comfort me by saying, “I dated that guy like five years ago, and you know what I think? I think he doesn’t like women.” No shit. I was starting to hate men, so I understood. How could these guys have waxing preferences on one hand and not
even like women on the other? What was the point of figuring out this stupid town? Was it even worth it? I couldn’t believe I was getting dumped before they knew me well enough to accuse me of being needy, self-involved, dramatic, or unfaithful. These hasty rejections triggered the big insecurities, like
I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I didn’t compare in the bigger pond. Maybe I should get a nose job
. As a comic with a telemarketing job, I couldn’t console myself by thinking,
Well, at least I have my fabulous career! Time for a little retail therapy
—
watch out Theory sample rack!
I imagined that all other New York girls could cry on the phone to their parents, who’d immediately book them for a rejuvenating facial to dry those tears in expensive clay, but I didn’t have that privilege. I could console myself by heating up a can of Chunky soup and clicking through the channels, hoping to come across a sitcom like
Friends
or
Frasier
, where everyone always wins.

Confiding in the clickity-clack girls did nothing to alleviate my aggravation. They were just as unhappy, continuously griping that they couldn’t find “the one.” I didn’t give a shit about “the one.” I was still working on “anyone.” God, this was nothing like Toronto.

I told them that I didn’t want to find a husband, that I didn’t even believe in marriage, and that my grandmother, on her deathbed, said to me, “Never get married or have kids. They will ruin your life.” My mother was no different, warning me that once you wed, your identity would be whittled down to housewife, nursemaid, or babysitter. Is that what they wanted? Plus, who moves to New York City to settle down? That’s why you leave!

I didn’t hear much from the clickity-clack gals after that rant.

I would absolutely not bitterly swear off men, nor would I google “silent meditation retreats.” What I would do was go in the other direction. These guys needed to know that they shouldn’t flatter themselves by thinking I wanted a commitment from them. I didn’t even want their one pillow. I was here to do stand-up. But it’d be nice to share a bottle of wine with someone and get naked occasionally. How about we don’t get to know each other? How great would that be? Why doesn’t anyone ever talk about the merits of never meeting his family?

My mantra echoed the sentiments in the poem on the plaque at the Statue of Liberty (“Give me your tired, your poor . . .”). I wouldn’t discriminate. I could make up for not having supermodel-like looks by focusing once again on my best quality: I was not picky. Or as I liked to see it, I was open. A bunk bed is still a bed.

I needed to summon that same character I’d created for myself at Ted’s Wrecking Yard, just mature it and toughen it up a bit. I consciously shelved the softer side of my personality and became a slightly brasher, more removed, less caring version of myself. I saw it like putting on a bulletproof vest. It wasn’t that I was playing hard to get; on the contrary, I was very easy to get. But vulnerability had no place here. I’d give it up when I felt like it, go home early when I felt like it, hit on his friend if I felt like it. This was all about me.

Shortly after making this mental decision, I was asked out by a handsome Middle Eastern man with biceps of steel. We’d met performing in a show on Long Island. He was a newer stand-up comic, and terrible at it. I mean absolutely terrible. I didn’t know what he was doing on stage other than throwing around some ego, but unlike the
other girls, I couldn’t care less if a guy made me laugh. He fulfilled my basic criteria: He asked me out.

The second we sat down he grabbed my hands. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” As cheesy as it was, it still made me look away. How do you respond to that? “Yes, I do. Thank you for acknowledging it. Now let’s proceed with our date.” Any over-the-top compliment like that smells of bullshit. How often did he throw that particular move around? A good-looking guy like him probably dated a dozen models, flight attendants, and commercial actresses. A voice in my head interrupted my train of skepticism and berated,
Can’t you shut up and enjoy yourself?
We ordered a couple of pints, and his cell phone rang. He sprang up to answer it and turned toward the outside patio, waving his arms at an approaching SUV while yelling, “I’m right here! Do you see me?”

“I’ll be right back, gorgeous!” he said, while vaulting over the short patio fence and running toward the SUV. Maybe he forgot something at a buddy’s and they were coming back to give it to him? Or it was a surprise flower delivery for the girl who doesn’t know how beautiful she is? That’s all I could come up with to explain the situation. When he returned empty-handed, I tried my best to feign nonchalance.

“What was that all about?”

“I had to get something from a friend.”

I involuntarily raised an eyebrow but heard that inner scolding voice again.
Let it go. It’s a first date. Who cares, remember?

After the eighth time he excused himself to go to the bathroom, I started to get a clue as to what he got from his “friend.”

“Hey, are you doing coke in the bathroom?” I asked.

“Yeah. Why? Do you want some?”

It was seven on a Monday night.

“No, I’m fine, thanks. I’m more of a Thursday through Saturday kind of girl.”

“It’s not like I have a problem, gorgeous. It’s just for a little fun.”

I didn’t want to show my displeasure or chastise him by pointing out that nothing says “a problem” like blatantly scoring drugs on a first date, but I was done. I could overlook a lot of things, but a narcissist cokehead took too much effort. We were probably two lines away from him telling me about some million-dollar business idea he had, followed by tears remembering the day his family had to put down his childhood pet. I finished my beer, placed the empty glass on the counter, and laughed to myself out of utter exasperation.

“I gotta go,” I said, dispirited.

He guzzled the rest of his beer. “I’ll walk you to the subway.”

Even though I lived within walking distance, I didn’t refuse him. I could tell he knew he’d fucked up, and he was not a complete jerk. We walked a block in silence. All of a sudden he became agitated, grabbed me by the waist, and started kissing me in the middle of the street. My first impulse was to push him away, but one of my one thousand weaknesses was a good make out. I don’t know whether it was the actual skill or whether it was the coke, but he was an excellent kisser. It completely clouded my better judgment.

Having a good time now?
my inner asshole voice mocked.

“Let’s go to your place,” I said.

“How about your place?” he whispered with his eyes closed, still kissing me like Pepé Le Pew.

“No good,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “My roommate’s in town and it’s a one bedroom. Weird situation. It wouldn’t work.”

“Yeah? Well, my girlfriend’s at mine . . .”

This time I pried him off me. It was one thing after another with this dude. It was impressive.

“We’re almost broken up, seriously. How can you blame me? Who could resist someone like you?” he said, as charming as possible.

I asked him to explain the situation, and the real story flooded out of him. He was married, maybe separated, maybe they’d had a bad argument, living in the suburbs of Long Island. Apparently, he was happy to take the train into Manhattan on a Monday to do some blow and try to get blown by some dumb Canadian girl who would fall for the “doesn’t know how beautiful she is” line.

“Actually, I need to go, but we’ll get it figured out next time,” I said, firm but gracious. No need to throw the train off its rails.

“One more kiss before you go then?”

I agreed. What the hell? And we made out on the sidewalk for a few more minutes.

“I’ll call you!” he said, as we went our separate ways. Yeah. That’s the guy who’s going to call me.

I walked home through the West Village, disheveled and dizzy on a mixture of beer and pheromones, wondering if this was how it was going to go from now on. It wasn’t a total loss of a night. It was kind of great: free beer, crazy guy, awesome make out. And now I
was done, and it was only 8:30
PM
. I still had the whole night ahead of me.

AFTER SIX MOKTHS
in New York, I flew home to see my family in Calgary for a much-needed break. It was the holidays, and I relished in the luxuries of a normal-sized fridge full of food, a washer/dryer on the premises, and nothing to do. My mother was in the basement going through her pickling and I was chopping tomatoes for a salad, when the phone rang. Before I picked it up, I glanced at the caller ID out of habit, and was surprised to recognize the number. There are a few phone numbers that stick in your mind forever.

It was Michael.

We’d had some contact over the years, mostly through e-mail, and still shared a few friends. I’d heard that he was engaged.

It took me three rings to pick it up.
Why the hell was he calling?

“Hello?”

“Hey, Ophira! It’s Michael!”

My birthday was in a few days, and Michael had remembered. He assumed that I’d probably be in Calgary visiting my mother. He was right. I asked him how he was, how his mom was . . . he returned the same questions and conversational pleasantries and wished me a happy birthday.

“So it’s the big 3-0, huh?” he said.

“Yeah, I’m getting old!”

“Remember when you were, like, twenty you said that if we both
weren’t married by the time you were thirty that we should give it another shot?”

“Yes.” I chuckled, embarrassed by that desperate, heartbroken girl I was in the past. “Oh god. I’m sorry about that. Jesus. And I heard you’re engaged, right? Congrats on that! When do I meet her?”

The line went silent for a minute.

“Oh,
ah
, no, that didn’t end up happening. I’ll tell you about it another time. No, as things stand right now, you’re about to be thirty, and we’re both not married.”

I took my turn at being quiet.

“What do you think?” Michael asked.

“What do you mean?” Even though I knew.

“Do you want to give us another shot?”

I couldn’t believe this was happening. The former love of my life, whom I couldn’t get over for years and years, now wanted a second shot. Now.

Did that Come Back to Me spell finally take?
Now?

No one had compared to him, but everything had changed since. With full confidence, my answer rose up from deep within my soul. It was so clear to me.

“No.”

What can I say—a lot had happened in ten years. I wasn’t that young, misguided girl anymore who looked up to him like he was some sort of deity. I’d been forced to move on, and then on again. And I was certainly not willing to be his Plan B.

I don’t think Michael envisioned our call going that way.

“Really? Are you seeing someone?”

“No, well . . . not really. I mean, yes, I am. It’s hard to explain. Anyhow, I would love to see you for a drink while I’m here,” I chirped, switching gears.

We arranged to meet for a drink, which was very nice, with a lot of stilted conversation, but I don’t think either of us ever want to do that again. At least we were even.

I’d like to say that I felt something reignite inside of me or was devastated over the timing. But the truth was, it was one of the best days of my entire life. That voodoo witch doctor was better than I thought. Although she may have ignored my request and gave me the Move On with Your Life spell instead. I would never know. But I was ready to return to New York.

C
omedy was starting to pay off. I’d worked really hard at my material and landed my first American TV spot on a Comedy Central show called
Premium Blend
. Following that, I booked a slew of road work that included featuring at a high-caliber comedy club in Raleigh, North Carolina. I thought,
Wow. It’s happening. I’m starting to make it as a stand-up
.

My only obstacle was loneliness. I hated road loneliness—it was like being the unpopular one in a threesome. I vowed that Raleigh would be different: I’d be productive in my downtime, work on my act, read books, write TV pitches, maybe even explore the city. When I packed for that week, I didn’t just overpack: I overoptimistically packed, as if I was going to become a better version of myself while there. I brought a fresh notebook, a manual on how to become an amateur CSI (in case I needed a job to fall back on), a jump rope, and an exfoliating mud mask.

The second I set my bag down in that dark hotel room, my hopefulness evaporated and I started to panic. Five minutes later, depression had completely overtaken me. I called a couple of friends, but my calls went straight to voice mail. The only other ongoing relationship I had was with coke-addict guy. I had to hand it to him, he said he’d call, and he did—relentlessly, for almost a year. In an effort to stop myself from scrolling through my contact list and assessing each name in terms of the quality of our friendship, I flipped on the TV and clicked through all the channels, twice. Then I rummaged through the room and found the Bible, the Koran, a few takeout menus, and a postcard advertising female escorts on the front, male on the back. This hotel catered to an eclectic crowd.