The View From Penthouse B

24





I Take Action


“WILL THIS MAKE you happy?” I asked my harassers at breakfast the morning after the workshop I regretted taking. “I’ll join Match dot com while the pointers are fresh in my mind. I’ll use my advertising copywriting skills. I’ll exaggerate a little. I’ll brag. I’ll post handsome photos even if they’re ancient. I’ll throw some words into my profile with double meanings that horny men will hear as my having urges. I’ll join all of the sites, in fact. Why not? ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’ That’s what Franny Bagby told us.”

I waited for my sarcasm to register.

“Do it,” said Margot. “What have you got to lose?”

Anthony held out his arms and wriggled his fingers in an exaggerated, get-me-to-a-keyboard fashion.

I said, “Not again?”

“Not again what?” Margot asked.

“You two stepping in to ghostwrite.”

Anthony said, “It’s only when it comes to men that I put in my two cents. And who better than I?”

Still pretending to be on task, I said, “I’m doing this in private. In my room. I know what to look for, especially now, fresh from the seminar.” I stood up, took my coffee with me after adding more to my mug, straight black, for fortification.

What an unappetizing task—advertising oneself like a picture bride. I looked around my room, at what Margot called my “shrine”: photos of our parents; of Edwin; of my two favorite childhood dogs; Betsy and me with Margot in her bedroom, we three barefoot in crinoline slips—maid of honor, bridesmaid, and bride—hair in rollers, an hour before her lavish hotel wedding.

Had I not noticed before that everything on display was expired in one way or another?

Maybe I’d start small, but only because my roommates would be asking me every morning what datable strangers had winked at me overnight. I remembered the unappetizing candidate Franny had settled for and the admonition that I’d have to kiss a few frogs before finding . . . what? Someone tolerable? I was supposed to look past the tattoos and the toupees, the fanny packs, the gold chains, the double chins. I remembered to look for, as recommended, nouns that meant something to me, bonus words that added stars to my ratings: Widowers, teachers, nonsmokers, good spellers.

I chose my membership duration (one month, the minimum). Next, the username I would be hiding behind. I wasn’t sold on the food formula, but what if Franny was right? I experimented with her concept, hoping to find an unused fruity appellation. AppleTurnover was taken. So was AppleCrisp, AppleKuchen, LemonMeringue, PeachesAndCream. I rejected GrannySmith and CantElope without even submitting.

Why did I care? I didn’t want to be Franny and I surely didn’t want to attract a LuvMeTender69. And what if appealing to a man’s senses backfired? Suggestions of smell and taste could attract the sexually ambitious. I decided on something that was accurate and autobiographical without being revealing, mysterious without being coy. I typed in “MiddleSister” and pressed RETURN. Unclaimed!

Next hurdle: uploading photos from my computer. The best one had been taken by the artist in our extended family, Chaz, at his FIT exhibition, and e-mailed to me with the subject line “Nice!” With my head cocked as I studied his hat display, I thought I looked both pleasant and contemplative.

More photos! I heard Franny call to me from her happily married home. I uploaded the head-and-shoulders shot that I used in my freelancing days: in a black sweater and pearls, with the suggestion of a smile and excellent work habits. Also the recent windblown one on the roof. And one more, a flattering picture of me in the bleachers among faculty, in sunglasses, at a varsity baseball game, Edwin next to me, his school’s team in some playoff. I hated to do it, but I had to crop him out. A bit of his shoulder remained, which I thought could be either good luck or bad. I often studied this picture, marveling at how unaware I was that June day of what was just around the corner.

As soon as I had one foot in and one out—a username, three photos, no profile—I lost my nerve. Margot knocked on my door as I stared at my screen. “How’s it going?” she called.

I said, “Okay. Not done yet.”

“What’s the holdup?”

Me, I thought. I am.

“Gwen?” she tried again.

“I’m embarrassed! Okay?”

“Embarrassed just sitting in front of your computer? Can I come in?”

I said no. Maybe. Yes. But not if she was going to force my hand.

“I get it,” she said, still outside my door. “Hard to take that final step. Maybe you need a break? No guy with a job is going to be trolling for dates at ten a.m. anyway. Let’s do something. Let’s take a sandwich up on the roof. It’s nice out.”

I said it was too early for lunch. I wasn’t hungry.

“Then coffee! C’mon. We’ll enjoy the view. I need it. You’ll be doing me a favor.”

“Are you using psychology on me?”

Finally, she opened the door. “It’s for me. I’m trying to be nice to myself. I wouldn’t expect anyone else to remember, but Charles was arrested three years ago today. I have ‘meal on terrace’ on my low-cost bucket list.”

“Can’t we do better than that? Like a movie? Like a concert in some park? What would you really like to do, even if it’s not low cost?”

She didn’t hesitate. She said, “I’d love to get dressed up and have dinner at the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to.”

“Which is what?”

“I didn’t mean a specific one. I meant one that I might have been to if my life hadn’t fallen in on several sides. Just a great restaurant in general. That category. But, hon—you’re not doing that. I won’t let you.”

I said, “Me? Uh-uh. Not me. I’m going to the source. I’m asking Charles to take you out for the most elegant dinner you’ve had in three years. It’s the least he can do.”

“Won’t he think you’re playing Cupid? Like I’ve confided in you that I don’t hate him anymore?”

I said, “I will make it absolutely clear that this is purely—what should I call it?—compensatory. Not a date. Not the passing of a peace pipe. You’ve been deprived. But for his crimes, you’d be enjoying delicious meals with good wine, good service, tablecloths . . .”

“Dover sole?” she asked.

“Dover sole and the chocolate soufflé that requires advance notice.”

She said, “For someone who won’t get matched up, you’re quite the operator.”

I shooed her away and e-mailed Charles, more of an order than a question. I very seriously recommend that you take Margot out to dinner tonight. It’s not a date. It’s the third anniversary of the worst day of her life.

He wrote back. You sure she wants to commemorate that?

This time I picked up the phone. “That’s not the point,” I told him. “The point is to do something exceptionally nice for her on a day that will live in marital infamy. And make sure it’s a restaurant that earned at least two Michelin stars.”

“Your naïveté is showing,” he snapped. “No restaurant of that caliber will have a free table tonight, regardless of the hour.”

“Try. They get cancellations. Put yourself on waiting lists. Make a backup reservation at the best place that does have an opening. Use your powers of persuasion. Use your fellow big-shot white-collar parolees who have connections.”

There was a long, unreadable pause. “What’s gotten into you?” he finally asked, but it wasn’t with his usual disdain. It was friendly. In fact, it might have contained a note of admiration.

“You in?” I asked.

He said he was in. I told him to start calling restaurants and get back to me as soon as possible.

While I was at it, flexing other people’s social muscles, I pasted my Franny-approved profile into the appropriate sign-up box. I did ponder for a minute the embarrassment factor: putting my face into the catalog of lonely women seeking lonely men.

Did I think I was above it all? Maybe I was, or maybe I had been. I closed my eyes, clicked, and a reckless woman named MiddleSister was launched.





Rounding3rd to MiddleSister: I saw your profile.

U said you were nervous. I can help. ☺