For An Easy Life

 

Genre: Contemporary Comedy

The 32-year-old protagonist is a single man who enjoys his world of casual dating and bachelorhood.

Life starts to take a downward turn at a family gathering, when his lovable, hard-of-hearing, dying grandmother thinks she hears him say 'I'm going to get married in June' when in fact, what he actually says is, 'I'm going to get Marisse and June', his step-sister and her girlfriend, who are too cheap to buy their own car.

Before he can explain, the delighted dowager has announced the news to the hundred plus relatives gathered, and pledges to give him and his 'fiancée' her five bedroom house in Montauk as a wedding gift. Things get worse as people try to help out.

In the chapter before this, Doug, his best friend, casually announces that he's signed him up with Romantica Express, an exclusive speed-dating outfit that operates in and around Manhattan.

We join him there.

 

 

Chapter 4:  A Quick Fix-Up

 

"Mr. Spencer. Is that you? We're all waiting on you."

A fat owl of a woman stands in the doorway to the function room, her huge oval framed glasses scanning the bar area. She waddles toward me, autumnal tweeds scrunching while tufts of red and orange streaks bob up and down from the shady bird's nest of her hair. She hugs a clipboard under one wing and stops before me, a plump manicured claw held out in greeting.

"Hi. My name's Sally Ann and I am tonight's events organizer. It's okay, I recognized you from your photo. You’re a speed-dating virgin, aren’t you?"

Maybe it's my imagination, but the bar room seems to go preternaturally quiet. I nod and glimpse the pretty blond bargirl I'd been chatting with earlier, disappear into the dark recesses of the store room.

Meanwhile, the owl has scratched me off her list and plucks a round sticky label scrawled with a large number which she slaps onto my jacket.

"You're three tonight. Please come on through to the meeting room. I've already briefed the girls and the rest of the boys are waiting on you."

She leads me into the private oak paneled backroom where the other men, sitting or standing, cast nervous glances my way. I spot a Fred and Barney, a Shaggy without Scooby, a couple of Elmer Fudds and someone who bears an uncanny resemblance to Abe Lincoln, but clean-shaven and decked out in shining black leather. Everyone is trying hard not to meet the eyes of others, while still savoring the kinship of a hunting party.
The owl shuts the door behind her and slips into her prepared speech.

"Okay, gentlemen, this evening is straightforward enough. Each table has a number from one to sixteen. Ladies remain seated the whole night. The men wear numbered labels. You all start at the table that corresponds to your own number. You'll begin at one, you at two, you three and so on." She wiggles a gloss red fingernail at my badge and misses the sympathetic exchange between one and two. "After four minutes, a bell will sound and you'll have one minute to finish up and move on to the next table. Until you've visited them all. You have a date card so keep notes on the potentials you meet. Jot down things like name, age, ethnicity, favorite foods, books and some more intimate things you like about them such as -- uh --"

"-- tight fanny, big hooters?" Barney chuckles and nudges Fred.

The owl peers over the top of her bifocals.

"I was going to say perfume, hair color, complexion, eyes, that sort of thing. We are a professional introductory organization Mr. Poppinjay, not a pimp service. Please treat the other guests with respect. Okay gentlemen, if there are no further questions, let's get started."

At table number three, an icicle introduces herself as Ann. She doesn't seem to want to make eye contact preferring to examine her own cuticles rather than my face. I launch into the introduction I prepared in my five minutes at the bar, but she seems twitchy, sniffing and looking at her wristwatch. At one point, she stares over each of my shoulders, eyes darting to the left and right as though deciding on the best escape route. I finish and smile encouragingly, unspeaking for a moment, to give her a chance to talk. We sit in silence.

"So Ann. Tell me about you. Like, who's your favorite author?"

She glares up, her eyes wild. 

"Who says I have one? Aren't you assuming I have a favorite author? I don't like people who make assumptions. You know what assume does don't you?" 

She snatches my pencil and scribbles the word 'ASSUME' on her pad then draws a vertical line, before and after the U. She spins the pad around to face me. 

"It makes an ass out of you and me. And more you than me." 

After this rapid outburst, she slams down my pencil, folds her arms and goes scarily quiet again.

"I see. Well –- uh -- do you want to tell me something about yourself?"

"Why?"

"Isn't that –- um -- what we're supposed to do -- you know -- in the five minutes we have together?"

"Yes, but is it?"

"Sorry?"

"Is it what we're supposed to do?"

"Well, the leaflet says --"

"Ah, the leaflet says, therefore it must be true. Believe everything you read do you?"

"No, but --"

"'No, but.' Isn't this whole thing just a pathetic front for lonely, desperate people to come together and find out exactly what rejection feels like rather than imagining it from the solitary confines of their sad, one-bed apartments?"

I glance down at my list of conversation topics and decide to skip favorite comedians. In the remaining seconds, I manage to squeeze out of her that she is a vegetarian, but not a vegan; she lives, for the most part, on Greek salads, but not exclusively; and is writing a book about Vietnamese Communism, but not for any commercial gain. After an eternity, the buzzer sounds for us to swap seats and I scrawl on my pad against table three: Ann. Feta. Minh.

Elizabeth at table six is a buffalo of a woman, a large face and blunt, angular features. Her braided blond hair and thick eyebrows are nothing short of Wagnerian

"So Elizabeth. Where are you from -- originally?"

"Austin. Texas."

"I see. And your family is from --?

"Austin. Texas."

"Yeah? You look sort of --"

"What?"

"Well sort of -- European. Where did your grandparents come from?"

"Austin. Texas. What are you trying to say?"

"No. Nothing. You just have almost -- uh -- Aryan features -- Germanic. Strong, sort of chiseled. Classical almost. Not something you see in your average American woman."

"I used to be Geoffrey before the op."

"Ah. That would be it then."

As I approach the vision at table twelve, she gives me a smile warm enough to melt granite. Like many Asian women, she is slight of build but has beautiful dark, shiny hair and eyes the color of milk chocolate. Everything about her shimmers with a sensual, sexual aura. I am about to speak when she holds out an alabaster hand in greeting.

"Hello. My name is Rose Zhang. I am Chinese from Shanghai but my family move -- moved -- to New York when I am -- was -- small. You are very handsome. Please tell me about yourself."

For Rose, I break from the regular program and rattle off some candid things about myself. She smiles and laughs gently, nodding and encouraging. I catch her glancing at my lips, which I find strangely erotic.

"I guess my major passion is football, American football I mean, not soccer like they play in China. It's a bit of a guy thing. I'm a huge Giants fan. Jay Feely should be president. I don't suppose you like football, do you?"

She pauses for a second, smiles and says.

"Yes."

"You do? Wow. You ever been to a Giant's game?"

She nods again letting out a trickling laugh.

"Yes."

"You have? Which game did you watch?"

She exudes a gentle purred laughter, a hand coming up to cover her mouth. Her gaze floats up to meet mine, as she stares deep into my eyes before she speaks.

"Yes."

She senses my confusion and, with a flicker of panic, stutters.

"No. Yes. Uh -- my name Rose? Rose Zhang? You handsome. Very. Yes?"

Once seated in the next booth, I overhear Rose perfecting her carefully prepared speech with a new guest sitting opposite.

"… but my family moved to New York when I was small."

By eight o'clock, I struggle up from the last table less than inspired. Emily, a pretty litigation lawyer, who spent most of the five minutes either glancing nervously at her Blackberry or apologizing but answering an urgent call from a client, is still on her cell phone as I exit.

Outside the function room, in the main bar, I feel an instant connection to the anonymous clatter and clink of the few evening revelers. Two pretty girls leaning on a tall bar table glance over and grin at me as we file out. Encouraged, I flash my best smile and they turn to each other, giggling. It's only as I approach the grinning barman that I peer into the mirror behind the bar and realize I am still wearing badge number three. I rip the sticker off my lapel, order a double Bourbon on the rocks and mutter a silent curse to Doug. The blond angel I'd chatted with earlier is nowhere to be seen, so I pounce on the one empty barstool remaining at the crowded bar, eager to be lost in the drink and the hubbub.

"Wouldn't be in my grave as quickly, would you?"

I turn and am confronted by the top of a woman's auburn head as she bends to the foot of my stool, to a shopping bag I hadn't spotted.

I stand up instantly. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize this stool was taken."

As she draws level, she lets out a little gasp. "Oh, my God. It's you. I haven't seen you since -- since --"

"Since Tina's party. Eight years ago. Hello Amanda." I say, with a certain amount of satisfaction. The truth sinks in and she reddens for a fleeting moment. I mask a twinge of pleasure. "Beautiful exit by the way."

If I am questionable dating material now, I freely admit to being more so back then. Most dates lasted no longer than a couple of months before I hankered for new conquests. I concocted a whole imaginative arsenal of excuses for breaking up including tragic deaths of close family members, hereditary psychological problems and that all-time favorite, recently contracted, highly transmissible STDs. Amanda 'don't call me Mandy' was one of the few exceptions; she stuck the knife in while I was still happily riding the relationship merry-go-round.

Back then, she confessed tearfully to her family's move to Detroit chasing her father's career and decided it only fair to give me my freedom. What she didn't know was that, later, I'd been sitting on the kitchen counter, peering through the window, as she and Alan Bradley slinked away arm in arm. On the way home, my stepsister confided she'd overheard her telling a friend she couldn't carry on dating a guy who energetically maintained that Tina Turner's version of Let's Stay Together was no match for the original by Al Gore. Worst still, it was the day I met her father and I distinctly remember his face after the words, the Reverend Al Gore, had dropped from my mouth.

"Did you spot the losers?"

Something niggles, a distant memory of how she could expertly change a subject at will. I wake from my flashback.

"The what?"

"Speed daters." She makes air quotes with her fingers and another one of her traits comes back to me. "Talk about sad. Lonely Lucy's and Desperate Dan's hoping to find the perfect match."

"Oh yeah. Bunch of no-hopers."

"Seriously though. You'd have to be pretty hopeless to stoop so low, wouldn't you?" The intensity of her stare is making me a little uncomfortable.

"Oh God, yes." I say, lowering my gaze to the red gum-sticky carpet.

We both take a sip of our drinks and she glances to the opposite end of the bar. When our eyes meet again, I say.

"You were number seven, weren't you?"

"Oh." Like a lighthouse, the little red beacon on her cheeks fades into view again. "What gave it away?"

I point at her feet. "The Hillary Clinton wig's peeping over the rim of your bag. And anyway, even with those green contacts -- nice touch by the way -- I'd recognize that nose anywhere."

"I'll take that as a compliment." She presses the cold glass of her amber drink against her right cheek.
"Anyone take your fancy? In there?"

"Christ. You must be kidding. Most of this week's were retards. One sleaze ball even asked what color panties I was wearing."

"Short guy? Unshaven. Looked a bit like Barney Rubble?"

"Mmm. How d'you know?" She takes another sip of drink and places it against the other cheek.

"Just a wild guess. What did you think of number three?"

Carefully, she squares the glass back onto the beer coaster. She twirls around, gazes into my eyes and gives me a mischievous grin, making the hairs on the back of my neck tingle.

"Cute as ever. But you forget, I've been there already. So what's happening in your world? Still not settled, clearly?"

The couple sitting next to us leaves so I pull a stool over and perch down.

"Nah. Well, you know. Busy with work, extremely busy. I qualified, eventually, as an engineer? Structural. Not had much time for anything else. How about you?"

"Me? Well I…" Her smile drains away. "Do you remember Roger? Roger Greenwell? No, maybe it was after your time. Anyway, we broke up five and a half months ago. He -- he felt he was holding me back, that I needed more. And with hindsight he was probably right, he was never committed. I got very little out of the relationship in the end. Apart from the engagement ring, of course. So I'm enjoying 'me' time at the moment, catching up with old girlfriends, partying, keeping things casual, that sort of thing. I'm not looking for anything serious."

She flicks hair from her face and while stirring her drink with a thin red straw, nudges the carrier bag a little further into the shadow of the barstool.

"Right. Yes. Me neither." We sit enjoying the silence but my mind is racing with possibilities. 'Casual', 'partying' and 'nothing serious' are words to push the right buttons.

"So do you fancy doing something -- err -- casual together, for old time's sake?  Catch a movie or something?" I try to sound as nonchalant as possible but my heart is doing the tango.

"Tomorrow night. The new Nora Ephron. You get the tickets and pick me up at seven. And if you're good I'll let you buy me Chinese afterwards." She picks the drink out of my hand, puts it on the bar then grabs her carrier bag and thrusts it at me. "Here. While you walk me to the bus stop, I'll give you my number. Let's go."

I trail behind her out of the bar, into the comforting hum of evening traffic. Even though she has forgotten about my aversion to Chinese and chick flicks, this seems like the perfect solution.

I can't wait to phone Doug.