The View From Penthouse B

32





Seriously?


IT WAS A DREAM, AND from what I understand, a common one: I was on a couch I didn’t recognize having energetic sex with a man I didn’t know.

How eerie then to find upon waking a return e-mail from Eli Offenberg. It said, Shall we meet for a drink or should we plunge right into dinner? The following dates are good for me—and here was the endearing part: He reeled off an entire week of nights, all in a row, which to some people might be emblematic of unpopularity, but to me showed honesty and moxie.

I wrote back, trying to be a little wry myself. Is a Saturday night too fraught for a first meeting? Second choice, Friday.

His answer came instantaneously. I can live with “fraught.” What kind of food do you like?

Did women still play hard to get? To avoid the impression that I was instant-messaging him, I left my room, made a pot of coffee, and brought my Syracuse good-luck mug back to my computer. I typed I eat everything, but then deleted those words in case they carried a sexual message. I next tried I’m an omnivore, but erased that description, too, with its connotation of huge and prehistoric. Finally, just the truth. I like everything, especially Italian. Do you have a favorite place? I live in the Village.

No answer immediately, but I attributed that to the hour, a few minutes after eight a.m., when an employed person would be on his way to work. To short-circuit my constant e-mail surveillance, reminiscent of my teenage vigils by the phone, I volunteered to buy stamps and return our library books.

Margot said, “No, do something more interesting than that.”

Thus, for the first time, I accepted Anthony’s invitation to accompany him to the gym, using the guest pass he’d been hawking since he’d moved in. He warned me that I shouldn’t expect to meet anyone midmorning except retirees and young moms. The employed, the driven, and the mostly heterosexual came for their workouts between five and six a.m. or after work. I told him I didn’t care. And had I mentioned that I had a date on Saturday night?

Side by side on treadmills, his moving at twice the speed of mine, he asked, “Details?”

“All I know is we’re having dinner.”

“Not at his place,” said Anthony. “You don’t go to a strange man’s house on a first date.”

“Not to worry. He’s picking a restaurant. He asked for my preferences and I said Italian.”

“Love that,” said Anthony. “Italian has a high romance potential. Very Lady and the Tramp.”

Did I feel a little proud? Was I wondering if anyone on the neighboring treadmills was listening and deeming me socially active?

Here came my answer: A young woman, running hard on my right, her big diamond engagement ring and platinum wedding band holding sway over her left hand, asked, “Did I hear that you’re single?”

I said, “I’m widowed.”

She didn’t spend any time on that bit of biography or on condolences. She went right to “My father-in-law is single. Do you want to come to his birthday party on the fourteenth? We’re trying to get him socialized.”

I said, “He’s not socialized?”

“I meant get him out. Dating. He’s trying to get over a bad divorce.”

How odd. How out of left field. The word “boundaries” came to mind. But isn’t there inside every single woman’s cortex the video flashing forward to her met-cute story retold as a wedding toast?

I asked where he lived and the young woman said, “Long Island.”

I turned back to Anthony. “This nice woman”—I pointed and she waved—“has a divorced father-in-law and she’s invited me to his birthday party.”

“Which birthday?” he asked.

“Fifty-something,” the woman volunteered. “I can call my husband and get his exact age.”

And what was she doing now but snapping a picture of me, sweaty and perplexed—two quick flashes with her phone before I ducked.

Anthony yelled, “Seriously?”

With her blond ponytail swinging in metronomic fashion, she didn’t seem to realize that Anthony’s question was a rebuke. She was now manipulating the phone in her right hand, apparently e-mailing me to someone.

“Blondie!” Anthony shouted. “Did you just take a picture of my friend and e-mail it without her permission?”

“Just to my husband,” she said. “It’s fine. This is what we do.”

I slowed my treadmill down to barely moving so I could catch every word. Anthony slowed down, too, indicating Action ahead.

“It’s not fine,” he said. “Now call your husband, and I mean this minute, and put him on speaker so we know you’re not faking it, and tell him to delete that e-mail.”

She didn’t actually pronounce the words “Make me,” but she might as well have.

I asked her name.

“Belinda,” she said.

I said, “Belinda, I’d appreciate it if you did what Anthony asked.”

And how did she respond? With every dope’s classic comeback in all such situations. “It’s a free country.”

Anthony asked me what she said, and when I repeated her line, he stopped his treadmill, jumped off, and strode to hers. “Your phone,” he said, his hand open. “Don’t make me wrestle you for it.”

I won’t repeat what she said verbatim, except to characterize it as a gay slur along the lines of her being unafraid to wrestle with someone of his sexual orientation.

Can you imagine? In a gym in the West Village of Manhattan, USA?

She increased her speed until she was galloping. The show-off.

Having been in no fights outside of those in my girlhood bedroom, and then with only sisters, I didn’t know how one conducts a yelling match in public. Anthony did. He got back up on his now-stationary treadmill, facing his would-be audience, and asked for everyone’s attention.

“This woman, right here, in—what would I call it?—lilac? Her name is Belinda. She just directed a gay slur at me. I don’t have the authority to throw her out, but I’d like all people of good will to shun her from now on. Okay?”

With everyone’s hands gripping equipment, there wasn’t much applause, but there were some utterances of solidarity. Belinda pretended for another few tenths of a mile that she hadn’t heard a word, then dismounted. Lucky for us, she left her pink-jacketed iPhone in the concavity meant for her water bottle. Anthony got to it first. With one quick slide to unlock and some expert taps, he located and deleted my photos before its owner snatched it back.

Somehow the whole thing enlivened me. I loved Anthony more at that moment than ever before. When the awful Belinda walked away with a very precise “F*ck. You,” Anthony took an extravagant bow.

I yelled after her, “It’s unbelievably rude to take someone’s photo while she’s exercising!”

A not-so-fit man pedaling at an unattractive, recumbent angle asked, “Isn’t there a rule about that, anyway?”

Belinda must have tattled on her way to the lockers because a minute later a pierced and muscled man was walking toward us. “I’m surprised at you, Anthony,” he was saying. “We can’t have harassment here.”

“That woman violated his civil rights,” I said.

“In a way you would not have liked,” Anthony told him. “In a way our brothers take great personal offense at.”

The employee looked around the room. No one seemed to be listening. “Show’s over, folks,” he said anyway.





A confirmation came just after six p.m. that night, which displayed excellent taste and initiative. Eli had made a reservation at a well-regarded bistro on MacDougal, which was listed—Margot knew this—in the back of our Zagat under “Quiet Conversation.” Everyone heartily approved and considered the choice a sign of good things to come.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” I warned. “Not only is it a blind date, but I haven’t even seen a photo.”

“How will you know it’s him?” Margot asked.

“I won’t. I’ll just ask for the Offenberg table.”

“No photo? Not a good sign,” said Anthony.

“It’s too late to ask for one. Plus, it’ll seem as if I’m saying, ‘I can’t meet you unless you’re good-looking.’”

When Anthony snickered, Margot translated. “That was a gay sound effect for ‘What else counts?’”

“This is the guy whose mother set you up?” he asked.

“More or less.”

“Not loving that part,” he said.

Margot asked if I had an exit strategy.

“Meaning?”

“The excuse you’ll have ready if he’s awful and you want to leave.”

“He won’t be awful.”

“Now who’s getting her hopes up?” Anthony asked.





Stateniland to MiddleSister: Pretty lady I wrote You I think of u for decent wife but u didn’t Anser!!! Not intersted? last try,,,,,good luck to you,,,,&& me!!,,,ty,,,,