Spooning Page 3

  After what seemed like one hundred Hail Marys and a million amens in church, we would cram into our beat-up, moss green Volvo station wagon and head to our favorite brunch spot. Now while most families go to civilized diner-bistro type deals that serve runny scrambled eggs, greasy bacon, and pulped-out OJ, my family strayed from the norm. We went to an all-you-can-eat, stuff-yourself-till-you-feel-like-you'regonna-vomit type joint. Our slice of heaven was called Don Juan's El Paso Cantina. Yep, we had rice and beans, cheese enchiladas, and beef tacos all before 10:30 A.M. As kids we thought we'd died and gone to pork-out heaven. In that hour and a half, my brother, sister, and I would hit the buffet about fifty times and work our little bodies into food comas. You can imagine the fart contests in the car on the way home. My dad would coax the mariachi band over with dollar bills and make countless Julio Iglesias requests. Meanwhile, my mother would sit back in the cozy booth, sip her frozen fruity drink, and smile the entire time. This was her idea of heaven and we loved it too.

  Now, as a certified adult, I didn't just go to brunch, I did brunch. Let's hear it for all the brunchers of the world! Could I get an “amen” from the audience? And now after a few weeks, I'd finally mastered the inner workings of the brunch system. Not only did you have to find the ultimate noshing spot, the even trickier part was fitting your entire congregation around one measly little table. But it gets worse. Everyone in your group had to be present, I repeat, present in order to get seated. All the New York hostesses just shake their haughty noses at the standard lies:

  “My friend just ran to the ATM.”

  “The one who's not here isn't really going to eat anyway.”

  “She just called from the taxi, and she's stuck due to a huge accident in the park on Seventy-ninth Street!”

  “She ran across the street for cigarettes … oh, I know she can't smoke inside anymore …”

  Let's just say that my posse was “brunch challenged.” To get six females out of bed, dressed, and out the door by noon is a tough feat to accomplish, especially when your group is usually hung over and lying in the fetal position in the living room watching reruns of 90210 on the FX channel. If you are just one minute late to an egg white omelet and turkey bacon sermon, your entire service could be delayed by as much as two hours.

  But brunching goes beyond just eating; brunchers chat and chew at the same time, and some actually soak in the atmosphere around them (especially by watching young girls hang from fire escapes overhead); and thank God, because if my fellow eaters did not “love thy neighbor as thyself,” well, then I could have been in a sticky situation today. I could have died before I had the opportunity to indulge myself in my last double half-decaf nonfat latte.

  So naturally, my morning death-defying act was the hot topic at brunch. Tara actually rebuffed a smooth approach by a hot wanna-be-actor busboy to get a dose of daily drama that was not centered around her.

  “Now you have an angry Con Ed man who knows where you live,” she threatened. “He's probably pissed that you thought that he was a scary rapist trying to break in, and he might have gotten some vengeful ideas. You shouldn't put such ideas into people's heads.”

  “Stop! Stop, right now.” As if I hadn't already had enough emotional damage for one day.

  “She's got a point,” Wade chimed in. “Y'all, I had this psycho rug-cleaning man who got mad when I questioned how professional his work was. I mean, there were gray edges on my supposedly ‘clean’ white rug, and I swear, I thought he was going to hunt me and my idealist rug cleaning beliefs down! I can still see him shaking his finger at me as I shook my finger at the still dirty rug. He was mumbling about his evil plans the whole way down my stairs.”

  “But you are alive today,” I said, gulping down three swigs of my mimosa.

  “Alive, yet fearful of rug-cleaning men. A scarring experience overall. Y'all, we really should be making this brunch at home,” she suggested.

  “What?” Tara asked through a mouthful of molasses-laced dark bread. I swear, I saw her use sleight of hand as if she was ready to abscond with a few rolls. “Wade, we just started our Cooking Club! And all we made was of liquid substance!” she groaned.

  “Plus, that omelet that you ordered?” I pointed out. “Think of all the ingredients you'd have to buy.” I knew that would get Wade as she was saving her pretty pennies for a cute top she was eyeing at Scoop. “Broccoli, onions, tomatoes, portobello mushrooms, shitake mushrooms, green peppers, red peppers … should I continue?” Wade shook her head as she sipped her fresh-squeezed orange juice.

  “Don't forget the feta and goat cheeses,” Syd read from the menu. I could see Sage's skinny stomach convulsing at the list of food.

  “Fine, but y'all, we have to step it up next meeting. Make your mother proud, Charlie.”

  “We are not doing this for my mother,” I reminded her. “We are doing this for ourselves.”

  “You mean you've actually embraced this concept?” Wade raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, maybe. Come on, ladies. We are talented individuals! Plus, we have to have some skill in the kitchen so that we have something to register for at Williams-Sonoma when we get married.” The other five nodded as we moved on to other topics.

  Somehow, Sunday brunch turned into Sunday happy hour, which led right into Sunday cocktail hour at Top Shelf that night. Not a problem since the following day, Monday, was Labor Day—ironically named since we were celebrating a lack of labor. I was especially labor-free as I was still unemployed. We were stashing our coats in the corner when “he” walked in. By “he” I mean Mr. J. P. Morgan, who strolled through the door with his band of boys.

  Mr. J. P. Morgan was someone I'd met during happy hour a couple of weeks ago. I had actually noticed his smile from the doorway of the bar. Really! It wasn't like he was in a spotlight or anything; rather, I just happened to find a clear shot of him from about twenty feet away, through a crowded bar, and with my nearsighted eyes. Fate! And his smile—well, did I mention that I noticed his smile first? Most girls say they notice a guy's eyes in those Cosmo surveys, followed closely by butts, with a few voting for hands. But smiles did it for me every time. I wanted a man who would smile at me and I would automatically grin back. You need that spontaneous happiness in life during traumatic moments, tumultuous fights, or just a gray winter morning. Mr. J. P. Morgan had an adorably crooked smile that reached his eyes. Ahh!

  Tara had told us all the very first night we were in New York that the only way we were going to meet “Mr. Right” was if we attended gallery openings, society parties, and went to the grocery store on Sunday around 6 P.M., or happy hour after work. I quickly discovered that the grocery store concept was a farce. Forget what the glamour magazines tell you. They're all lying. You tell me, how are you supposed to make small talk in the vegetable aisle? I did happen to see one hot guy in the fresh produce aisle my first week here. With Tara's mantra in my head, I sprung into “available single girl” mode. Should I look sexy while perusing the cucumber selections? No that was too slutty. He would probably think I used them for God knows what in my spare time. Why not act coy while pinching the cantaloupe? I glanced down to my barely there A-cups and figured that the cantaloupe move was false advertising. In the end, all I accomplished was following him around with a bag of bagels and cream cheese in my hands. If he headed for the frozen pizza aisle, I suddenly garnered an interest in frozen tater-tots. As he headed for the healthy granola, I feigned fascination over the array of marshmallow cereals. When he headed for the shaving cream (no, don't touch that Clooneyesque five o'clock shadow!), I came dangerously close to picking up a can of shaving cream and asking him which would be the gentlest on my legs.

  “Excuse me, do you recommend foaming gel or traditional shaving cream?” I'd imagine myself asking as I extended my barely clad leg in his direction. This fantasy ended quickly when I'd absently pointed my toe only to notice my unshaven ankle peeking out of my now bleach-stained sweatpants that sported my high school mascot, a donke
y, on the ass. Attractive, right?

  So after scrapping the grocery route, I decided that the easiest course of action for someone in my position would be happy hour. It was a no-brainer: alcohol and boys. This was going to be a walk in the park. First of all, Top Shelf was close to home: easy access from our front door to theirs. Second, the drinks were cheap as hell: two-dollar draft beers and mixed drinks for four hours. And on top of all that, we got dinner too! Happy hour was also girls' hour which meant we could eat all the chicken wings and blue cheese dip our hearts desired. Okay, so the place was a dive and it probably should have been called Bottom Shelf, but it didn't seem to matter.

  But back to Mr. J. P. Morgan. There he was, and tonight I knew that I wanted to be with him and him only. He was perched on a stool sipping bourbon on the rocks and chatting with some work buddies. His tie was slightly loose around his neck, and his jet-black hair was tousled forward, falling just above his gorgeous blue eyes. Goddamn it, he really was a bona fide hottie. He's what the girls called “a true suit.” Over the past couple of weeks, we'd danced—okay, it was a group circle kind of dance, but our hips bumped and he stepped on my toes at least twice. Could the toe stepping have been intentional? Must check with Tara … But to date, nothing truly significant had happened. He was a familiar face at what now was a familiar joint.

  I surveyed his outfit: a striking navy blue Brooks Brothers suit, a button-down, hot pink, checked (extra starch) shirt, accented with a pair of shiny monogrammed cufflinks. Anyone could tell that he was a man who made deals over lunch. But the best part was that he was only twenty-four years old. That first night, Tara had done some dignified snooping. You gotta love older men! He looked like the type who would pay for the taxi, open the door, and buy you drinks. What a dream! Mom would love him and make blueberry pancakes and fresh- squeezed orange juice for breakfast when we visited on weekends. Dad would take him to the club for a quick round and an in-depth discussion about life goals over a glass of Scotch. Oh, I can just see the wedding now. Vera Wang, peonies and hydrangeas, pink striped tent, Nantucket. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not someone who plans this all out, like Wade—I just daydream really, really big.

  As Mr. J. P. Morgan high-fived his friend at the bar, my bitch radar immediately clicked on. With my extra set of eyes, I noticed several obstacles: a peppy-looking brunette smiling at him; a tall, curvy, dark-haired lady (“lady” due to the extra years on her which, in turn, made her not allowed in Top Shelf) who crinkled her eyes toward him in a flirty glance over her glass; and a bed-headed blonde who was exuding sex his way from another corner. If I just knew, had a sign from above, that he was destined to be mine, then I wouldn't have to sweat these competitors while I waited, hoping that he would see me and make his way over to join our group in the back.

  Syd had ordered a Citron and soda and was gleefully telling us about her new job. Besides Macie and Wade having jobs (which didn't really count since they had lined them up before graduation), Syd was the first to get a job in NYC. As psyched as we were for her, it made the gut-wrenching, tummy-thumping feeling of employment anxiety pound a little harder.

  Syd was the newest fake hair distributor on the block; selling wigs, falls, and extensions all out of a fancy looking tool- box like an Avon lady. “So I just go from salon to salon,” she explained. “Indian hair is the ultimate in quality.” Tara began to choke on her rum and Coke. “No, really. Jessica Simpson uses our products.”

  “Hairball,” Tara quipped pointing to her throat, prompting herself to gag harder. Meanwhile, I was distracted following Mr. J. P. Morgan oh-so-subtly with my alcohol-glazed eyes. Suddenly my heart stopped. He'd turned and was making his way back toward us.

  Typically, he and his rowdy Brooks Brothers buddies traveled in a pack, congregating around the pool table in the corner. But this time it was different. I held my breath as he made his way south to my end of the bar. Then I understood: he was trying to garner the attention of the bartender for a refresher. He had been heading my way because there was an open stool, not because the open stool was next to me. He let out a dramatic frustrated sigh.

  “Ha!” I laughed, not realizing it had been out loud. He swung his baby blues on me.

  “Oh, sorry.” I stammered. “Not laughing at you. It's just your sigh sounded like my dog, well, my parents' dog, well, not that you remind me of a dog …” my loquacious conversation petered out.

  “Ha!” Now it was his turn. I was sure that my cheeks matched my Cosmopolitan. “I just can't get the bartender's attention,” he grumbled, waving his hands like a high school cheerleader as the bartender breezed by.

  “Hey, Tommy!” I called. The bartender spun around like a gold medal ice skater.

  “Charlie, what can I get you?” I looked at my almost-full drink. Taking a huge swig, I said, “I'll take another of these and whatever he needs.” Mr. J. P. Morgan gave me an appreciative glance, in which I basked, before he rattled off a list of drinks.

  “Thanks,” he said as he balanced the glasses and bottles as made his way back toward his group by the pool tables. I watched as he deposited the drinks—and then turned and headed back my way.

  “So smile for me,” he commanded.

  “What?”

  “Just smile.” I faltered and then gave him my best Farrah Fawcett beam.

  “Yep. That's what does it, Charlie.” He remembered my name! Smartie!

  “Does what?”

  “Makes men fall to their knees in servitude.” Oh, I liked the sound of that. Suddenly, it was just him and me, talking and laughing. Our hands were on each other's hips and drinks were definitely gracing our lips. For tonight, I was J. P. Morgan's target and he was a heat-seeking missile ready to explode upon impact.

  Now it's hard to tell if the deal closer was my sexy, albeit modest, rendition of Britney Spears's “Hit Me Baby (One More Time)” minus the school girl outfit, or if it was the five Dewar's on the rocks he'd sucked back within a two-hour span. In my grown-up, college-educated opinion, I always say screw the minor details and go with your gut. And my gut was telling me that the planets were aligned and the signals for me and J. P. were flashing go.

  Well, as luck would have it, somewhere between Amstel Light sips and a lipstick check, Mr. J. P. Morgan whispered ever so sweetly into my ear, “Wanna go home, Charlie?” Did I wanna go home? Are you kidding me? I was home in bed with you about four hours ago in my innocent little mind. What took you so long? Home, sweet home!

  “You read my mind,” I casually tossed out. “Are you thinking my place?” I could hear it now, the girls screaming at me for throwing out a cheesy line, but there really was a method to my madness. The only reason I'd offered up my apartment was because I had my toothbrush, my sensitive-skin face wash, my clean April-fresh sheets, my Vicky's sassy lingerie, my matching mugs for that “morning after coffee for two,” and my twoply, ultra-padded toilet paper. I could look my best and be my best before, during, and after our glorious hook-up. Plus, there was no way I was going to be the one doing the walk of shame to the subway tomorrow morning. Snap! This was going to be the best night of my life. And with that, I felt his hand grab mine and we were off and walking down the street to my abode. My heart was four beats away from cardiac arrest. The kissing, the cuddling, the endless talking to the wee hours of the morning. This was it. I was gonna close the deal with this sexy older man, even if it killed me.

  Fast forward to J. P. and me, side by side, together at last, all warm and snuggly underneath my fluffy down comforter. Thank God I was wearing my lacy black g's with the hot pink flowers stitched on front. I could feel the glow just growing inside me. I have finally found Mr. Right, I thought. Mr. All- American. And all it took was one measly little month. This finding Mr. Right had been a walk in Central Park for moi.

  Now all I had to remember was what Tara had taught me the other night. Shit, was it the right or the left side? I think she said, “Charlie, you are always in the right when you are on the right.” So if I lie on the
right side, I will elongate my torso, making myself look skinnier! Pretty simple rule. So with that I rolled over and assumed the right position. Poof! Fat be gone. And by golly, Tara was right. Within a few seconds, Mr. J. P. Morgan busted out with, “You are so tiny, Charlie!”

  Okay, the lights were out, so maybe he couldn't really see, but he could feel and at that moment he felt a tiny me. And I felt, as he pressed his body closer to mine, that he was actually not so tiny. Holy cow! I'd hit the jackpot. Wait till the girls hear about this one tomorrow. I had a thing about no sex on the first night, but that didn't mean I was inhibited. If you find a talented man you should never deny him the opportunity to fully express himself. Somehow I ended up with my head down at the foot of my bed, hanging over the edge. I stared at our clothes scattered on the floor, which now seemed like the ceiling, and felt myself getting a head rush of a different sort! I was ready to squeal but felt like I didn't quite know him well enough to perform my high school cheerleader routine. So I flipped a leg over his head, sat up, and straddled him. He nuzzled my neck.

  “You feel so good,” he mumbled.

  “Look into my eyes,” I wanted to command. I was feeling romantic along with everything else. But, after ten minutes of panting and pawing like a college grad with honors, Mr. J. P. Morgan managed to come, basically by himself, despite the ounces of hard alcohol he had consumed. With no effort on my behalf, I mean not even a wiggle of my wrist, he convulsed, swore (oh-so-elegantly), and moaned my name one last time. I know that the male physiology is quite different than the female's, but I did give myself kudos in that he had to be sooo excited by my mere presence that he couldn't contain himself!