God only knows where Yvonne is. Last I knew, she was heading outside for a smoke. I decide I’ll join her just as soon as I’ve had a courteous—and hopefully sober-sounding—conversation with my boss.
“Hey, Mike, great tie,” I say, admiring the green silk background imprinted with teeny-tiny Santa Claus faces.
“You like it? Thanks.”
I do like it. Somehow, what’s grotesque overkill on Merry seems pleasantly festive on anybody else.
“Ooh, anybody want to Slide?” Brenda squeals as a familiar refrain of “boogie woogie woogies” erupts from the DJ booth.
Mike and I pass. I’d do it, but I’m afraid my boobs would pop out of my dress every time I did the leaning-over step. Pleased with my foresight, I stand sedately with my boss and watch Brenda and Latisha join the line dance.
“Dianne said if she ever saw me doing the Electric Slide, she’d break up with me,” Mike confides.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Well, then, she’s kidding.”
“She’s not,” he says. “She thinks it’s a ridiculous dance.”
I glance at the ranks of office workers gliding four steps back, four steps forward in perfect sync—except for Merry, who keeps going the wrong way and crashing into people.
Okay, it might be a ridiculous dance, but it’s fun. Suddenly I feel sorry for Mike, banned from the Slide and God only knows what else.
“You know, Dianne’s not here,” I point out. “You should try the Slide.”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can. She’d never find out.”
He looks around the room nervously, even skyward, as though expecting to spot Dianne in a trenchcoat and dark glasses astride one of the fake shooting stars.
I find myself thinking of Alec the married account exec, flirting madly with Mercedes. And even Brenda, wearing the rock that consumed a few months’ worth of Paulie’s NYPD salary, yet blatantly checking out other guys. And Buckley, dragging his heels about moving in with Sonja.
Of course, in the back of my mind there’s always Will, who cheated on me with Esme Spencer, who played Dot to his George in a summer-stock production of Sunday in the Park with George.
Maybe it’s good that I’m single. Maybe I don’t want to meet someone after all. At least, not for a while.
I look at Mike, who’s wistfully watching the dance floor.
“So, are you allowed to Macarena?” I can’t resist asking, expecting a big laugh and maybe even applause.
He fails to see the hilarity. In fact, he takes the question seriously and actually looks uncertain. “She never mentioned that, but…”
You know, maybe it’s the martinis again, but I’m starting to really dislike that Dianne. She seems so sweet on the phone, but as a girlfriend, she’s a little Nazi-ish, don’t you think?
“I need a cigarette,” I announce to Mike. “And you need a new beer. That one’s empty.”
“Okay,” he says obediently, and once again I’m saddened. Poor, poor Mike. He may be the boss in the office, but clearly his power stops there.
I head for the door and gratefully indulge my craving for menthol out on the litter-strewn sidewalk with a bunch of other banished addicts.
We smokers are an eclectic bunch. There are stressed-out upper-management types and administrative assistants who wear sneakers with their stockings on weekday subway commutes; fresh-out-of-Ivy-League assistant media buyers and well-past-retirement-age grandmotherly career secretaries who seem reassuringly immune to lung cancer.
We puff away and talk about the good old days when you could actually smoke in a bar in New York. One old-timer (not Yvonne, but she might as well be, given the overall blowsy broad persona, complete with raspy voice and borough accent) waxes nostalgic about smoking at her desk.
Then an icy wind gusting off the East River has us hastily stubbing our half-burned butts and scuttling back inside.
I head directly to the bar. Mostly because I don’t see any of my friends in the crowd, and the bar is always a safe place to park oneself. But also because I need another drink.
I order yet another blood-orange martini and try to sip it slowly as I watch everyone on the dance floor bopping around to “Love Shack.” I spot Latisha out there more or less dirty dancing with Myron the mail-room guy, who’s been after her since before she dumped her loser boyfriend Anton last summer. She’d better not screw things up with Derek, her new boyfriend, a single dad who shares her passion for the New York Yankees…and, according to Latisha, her passion for—well, for passion.
I wonder morosely if I’ll ever experience passion again. God forbid my sleazy romp between the StarWars sheets was my sexual swan song, but I can’t seem to conjure up any situation in which I’ll be having sex any time soon. I’ve sworn off one-night stands, so unless somebody sweeps me off my feet…“Hi.”
I turn around to see a strange guy standing beside me. Not Jeff S-n strange; just strange as in I’ve never seen him before in my life.
I look over both shoulders. Huh. Apparently, he was talking to me.
“Hi,” I counter, cautiously.
“I’m Jack.”
“I’m Tracey.”
And they lived happily ever after.
Yeah, right. I wish.
This guy is so cute that I find myself wondering why he’s come over to me, having momentarily forgotten that I, too, am now cute.
“Do you work at Blaire Barnett?” Jack asks.
Well, duh. Everybody in the room works at Blaire Barnett.
“No,” I find myself saying, “I’m a nurse at Bellevue. Mental ward.”
“You are?”
I laugh at the befuddled expression in his big brown eyes. “No. I’m just being a wise-ass.”
And probably sabotaging my chances of any kind of future relationship with this guy, but I can’t seem to help myself.
“Actually, I work at Blaire Barnett,” I confess, and sip my drink. This one is stronger than the last. Much stronger. So strong I taste no blood orange; I swear it’s all vodka.
“Yeah, I work there, too,” Jack says.
Have I mentioned how much I love big brown little-boy eyes on a grown man? No?
That’s probably because I never realized it until this very moment. He’s tall—much taller than I am, and I’m wearing heels. He’s broad-shouldered. His hair is the same melted-milk-chocolate color as his eyes; kind of wavy and combed back from his face. He’s got a great mouth with a full lower lip. And the best part of all: dimples. He has two dimples, one on either side of his mouth. They’re there even when he’s not smiling.
“So what do you do?” Jack is asking.
Okay, so he’s not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. Or maybe he’s just hard of hearing. But who the hell cares about his brain or his ears when he’s got eyes like that?
“I work at Blaire Barnett,” I repeat patiently, feeling almost like a nurse in Bellevue’s mental ward.
“I know…. I mean, what do you do there?”
Oh. Good. He’s not stupid or hearing impaired.
“I work in account management.” Please don’t make me say the S word.
“Doing what?”
I feign confusion. “What?”
Okay, he’s not stupid or hearing impaired, but now he thinks I’m one or both. Would it be better to just admit that I’m a secretary? I’m afraid he’ll think that’s all I am. That he won’t believe it if I tell him I’m in line for a promotion.
He starts to ask, “What do you—”
“So what department are you in?” I quickly interrupt.
“Media.”
Mission accomplished. Line of questioning derailed. Celebratory sip of drink in order.
I take two sips, then ask, “Are you a buyer?”
“I’m a planner.”
“Oh.” I nod, fascinated. Well, not really. But I hope I look it.
Actually, Media Planning is a fun job. Relatively low-paying, but I’m not a go
ld digger like Kate, so what do I care?
“I’ve never seen you around the agency before,” Jack tells me while I check out his clothes. I’m no Raphael, but his suit looks good on him and it’s basic black; he’s wearing a white starched spread-collar dress shirt and a black tie with a white pattern.
“I’ve never seen you around either,” I tell him, hoping he didn’t catch me looking him up and down.
Maybe he did, because I suddenly feel like he’s looking me up and down, too.
Now I feel awkward. And drunk. Not to mention confused. Why is this Jack over here talking to me?
Cut it out, Tracey. I can almost hear Buckley’s voice. Why wouldn’t this guy want to talk to you? What’s wrong with you?
Nothing. Nothing is wrong with me. I just have to remember that.
Lately, Buckley has been trying to point out that Will really did a number on my self-esteem. The whole time I was with him, I felt unworthy. I’m trying, but it’s hard to get past that. I might have lost all that extra poundage, but I’m still carrying around a tremendous amount of baggage.
And now, here’s this guy coming up to talk to me; the kind of guy I’d normally be wistfully checking out from afar. It seems too good to be true.
Especially since he just appeared out of nowhere. If this were a movie, he’d have stepped into a dazzling pool of light, and a choir would have sung one big loud Hallelujah. But it’s not and he didn’t and they didn’t.
He’s just here, and I have no idea why. I mean, even setting all the usual Tracey insecurity aside, I’m still the lone Don’t at the party, and he’s…
Well, he’s so normal. Good-looking normal, with dimples and a real job.
Unlike Will, the actor. Will was good-looking, too, but he didn’t have dimples and he wasn’t normal. Ask Kate. Ask Raphael. Their hobby, when I was dating Will, was pointing out just how abnormal Will is. That he’s narcissistic and untrustworthy and selfish.
And closeted—or so they both suspected.
Kate, because she assumes every man who wears black turtlenecks and cologne and dabbles in theater must be secretly gay.
Raphael, because he and his constantly blipping gaydar think every man is secretly gay.
I try to think of something to say to Cute Normal Jack of the warm brown eyes and stable job.
“So…um, Jack…you just saw me standing here alone and decided to come over and talk to me?”
Okay, I agree, awkward silence was better. But I can’t seem to help myself. Three martinis and I start to blurt things. Anyway, it could have been worse.
He shifts his weight, doesn’t answer right away.
Uh-oh.
Maybe it couldn’t have been worse. Maybe he really wasn’t talking to me all this time. I look over my shoulders again, half expecting to see some supermodel standing there.
“Yeah, I wanted to meet you,” he says, obviously uncomfortable. “Oh.”
Something tells me there’s more to it, but who am I to pry? If Cute Normal Jack wants to meet the Queen of the Don’ts, so be it.
From there, the night unfolds in a series of highlights: Jack asking me to dance to an old song by the Cure; Jack meeting my friends; Latisha snapping pictures with my camera; more drinks; more cigarettes in the bitter cold.
Until now, I’ve felt that there are two breeds of men in New York: men who smoke, and men who think nobody should smoke.
Jack breaks the whole If you’re not with us, you’re against us mold. He’s not a smoker, but not only does he not seem to mind that I am, he comes outside with me, gives me his suit jacket to keep me warm, takes my lighter from me and lights my cigarettes.
He makes me laugh harder than I’ve laughed in a long time, especially when he sings along to a Billy Joel song that’s playing, acting like he’s doing a nightclub act and using a beer bottle as a microphone. I can’t tell if he really can’t sing or if he’s just pretending for the sake of the act—not that it matters. After all, Will had the voice of a choirboy but the disposition of an asshole.
Unlike Will, who never shared my sense of humor, Jack also laughs at all my jokes, proving that even in my bibulous blur, I’m not just amusing to myself.
He’s a good dancer, too. Not many guys are—not at fast dancing, anyway. Some are embarrassingly unable to get the beat; some don’t even try. Some try to hold on to you when you’re fast dancing with them, like they want you to jitterbug or something. But Jack just dances—not too close to me, and not too far away. He doesn’t try to spin me and he doesn’t have that goofy, intense, I’m-so-into-the-music look on his face.
Merry has that look, especially when the DJ plays Madonna’s “Santa Baby.” She pretty much does a spotlight solo for that song, which nobody else considers danceable.
Mental Note: Never, under any circumstances, dance alone, no matter how much you love the song.
“Man, I’d hate to be Merry on January second,” Brenda comments as my friends and I and Jack stand around watching her from the bar.
“Yeah,” I say. “She’s probably curled in a fetal position with pine needles in her hair.”
“Nah, by then she’s booking her flight to Punxsatawney and airing out the groundhog suit,” Jack says unexpectedly, and we all laugh.
“He’s a keeper,” Yvonne rasps as he flags down the bartender to order another round for all of us.
“Yeah, Tracey, how’d you hook up with him?” Brenda asks.
I shrug. “We just started talking.”
Another big plus: My friends approve. And he seems to like them, too. He’s even a good sport about Latisha, aspiring photographer, who insists on taking a picture of me and Jack together. He puts his arm around my shoulder and smiles, like we’re old pals. Or a couple.
He seems to know a lot of people who work at the agency, and he introduces me to them as Tracey from account management.
He’s too good to be true.
What’s the catch?
There has to be a catch, dammit. There’s always a catch. Men like this don’t just drop into your lap when you least expect it. Well, they certainly don’t drop into mine.
The crowd is starting to thin out. Brenda keeps looking at her watch, saying Paulie is going to kill her.
I don’t want to leave yet.
Or ever.
I’m boozy and blissful, leaning against the bar talking to Jack while the DJ plays one of my favorite U2 songs, “With or Without You.”
As the song heats up, Jack leans over and kisses me.
I kiss him back.
Everything falls away. Brenda and her watch, the music, the bar. There’s just me and Jack, floating in space. At Space. In front of a few hundred co-workers and, for all I know, my boss.
When we come up for air, my friends are gone.
Oops.
In fact, almost everybody’s gone, and the DJ is announcing last call.
“Where do you live?” Jack asks, taking my hand and strolling me toward the coat check.
“East Village. How about you?”
“Brooklyn. Let’s get a cab.”
To where? The East Village? Brooklyn? (Yeah, I know, a borough, but Jack’s the exception to the bridge-and-tunnel-people-aren’t-cool rule.) His intent isn’t clear, but what the hell?
I’ve got other things to worry about right now. It’s all I can do to concentrate on finding my coat-check tag. Jack helps me look. We both crack jokes and laugh hysterically the entire time.
I guess you had to be there. And drunk.
Ultimately, we arrive at the hilarious—at least, to us—conclusion that I’ve misplaced the tag. I then have to focus on not slurring when I describe my outdated wool coat to the utterly unamused and fashionable coat-check girl.
Outside, the arctic air hits me, along with a big dose of reality. Suddenly nothing seems funny.
I just made out with some guy at the office party. Now I’m leaving with him.
Does he think he’s coming to my place? Does he think I’m going to his p
lace?
I should insist on separate cabs to our respective places, just to make sure this doesn’t go any further.
For some reason, Buckley’s face pops into my head. I hear Buckley’s voice warning me to stay away from strange guys.
I promised him. At least, I think I did.
But Buckley doesn’t have to know…
No. Stop it, Tracey.
Sleeping with some guy you just met and will never see again is one thing. A bad thing.
Sleeping with a co-worker you just met is…
Well, it’s just out of the question.
It’s the ultimate Don’t.
I stand on the sidewalk by a garbage can and smoke a cigarette, trying to sober up while Jack stands in the street and tries to hail a cab. They’re few and far between, and when he finally gets one, I’m not about to tell him to let me take it alone. I mean, that would make me a Don’t and a Bitch. A Bitchy Don’t.
I giggle. I can’t help it.
Jack looks at me. “What’s funny?”
I wipe the goofy grin off my face. “What?”
“Didn’t you just laugh?”
“Me? Nope. Not me.”
Jack looks confused.
I smile pleasantly. At least, I hope I do. For all I know, another burst of maniacal laughter can escape me at any moment.
Oh, Lord, am I ever trashed. I try to send myself Sober Up vibes as we climb into the back seat, which smells of mildew unsuccessfully masked by fruity air freshener. I immediately tell the driver my address.
“And after that, I need to go to Brooklyn,” Jack says through the plastic window.
Instant relief. He’s not planning on coming home with me.
Bitter disappointment. He’s not planning on coming home with me.
As the cab barrels down Ninth Avenue, I focus on the driver’s name on his license fastened to the dashboard. To inebriated moi it looks like Ishmael Ishtar, and I vaguely wonder which is his first name and which is his last.
Then Jack puts his arm around me and pulls me closer. Kisses me. I feel weak.
In the front seat, the driver speaks in a foreign language into his two-way radio.
In the back seat, Jack makes me forget everything I promised myself five minutes ago.
All too soon, we’re at my building. Jack opens the door, and we both step out onto the sidewalk.