But Enough About Me (27 page)

Saturday afternoon and my father was on the phone droning about cashing in my pension plan early.

I scanned the television section of the paper. Should I stay in and watch that Ric Burns documentary? I could pop a big bowl of popcorn and climb right into my robe.

No more milk? I feel like I just bought some. I think I have whipped cream somewhere in here. I don't know, is that weird to put in coffee?

On the other hand, I could go to that party at Nathan's, but I'm so tired. By the time Saturday night rolls around I just want to sleep. It's funny. Now that I never go out, I have no energy anymore. What to do? Heather would tell me not to turn down any invitations, but she doesn't like to go out, either.

He seemed to be finished. “I will, Dad!” I chirped.

“You will what?” he said. “Cash out your pension or keep it in there?”

Oops. Wait, he said something about investing wisely. That must mean he wanted me to cash it out.

“I'll cash it out, then,” I said.

“Well, I think that's a good idea.”

I hung up and got into my robe. There, it was decided. I was staying in. I brought in a bunch of pillows from my bed and piled them onto the couch. Maybe I'd take a bath and read a book. It was raining out, which looked to be a Patricia Highsmith kind of night.

I had been reading for a few hours when I abruptly put my book down. Uneasiness was creeping in. I was beginning to delight in my own company so much that it was getting harder for me to emerge from my apartment. I sat up. Well, maybe I would go to the party. I could swing by for one hour, and then I could leave. I could be back here by ten. Nathan worked at
Rolling Stone,
so at the very least, there would be plenty of people there who I knew.

I roused myself, threw on a dress, and swiped on a little lipstick. I just didn't feel like doing the whole production. Then I quickly went downstairs and hailed a taxi before I could change my mind.

There is something so gratifying about walking into a party alone. I didn't spot anyone I knew, so I made my way to the bar. “I don't feel like alcohol,” I told the bartender. “Is there something you can concoct that's good without it?”

“Sure,” he said. “I'll do a pineapple juice, maybe some coconut cream, a little ice.” He put a cherry on top, and a slice of pineapple, and presented it with a flourish.

“Very festive,” I said.

A man appeared at my elbow. “Remember me?” he asked.

I squinted at him. The place was lit with candles, so I couldn't see that well.

“I'm afraid I don't,” I said.

“It's Tom,” he said. “I had dinner with you and Casey a few months ago.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right.” I dimly remembered him mentioning that he had gone to college with Nathan.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked. I held up my Carmen Miranda special. “Ah,” he said.

A group of
Rolling Stone
staffers rolled toward me and descended, chattering and laughing. Tom drifted away.

“Who was that guy?” asked my friend Susan. “He was cute.”

“You think so?” I said. “He's really shy.” I sipped my drink. “To the point where it's kind of a strain to talk to him.”

“What's wrong with shy?”

I shrugged. “Nothing, I guess.”

The group was making noisy plans to go see a band after the party. Chavez was playing at a club downtown. Did I want to come?

“I'll think about it,” I said. Hello, couch. Mama will be home soon.

Just as the group moved on, Tom reappeared. “I heard you talking about Chavez,” he said. “Do you mean the indie band Chavez, or the farmworkers' advocate Cesar Chavez?” I stared at him. “Maybe you meant the Venezu
elan
caudillo
Hugo Chavez? Or was it the Mexican heavyweight boxer Julio Cesar Chavez?” He smiled. “I'm just trying to impress you,” he said. He did a little bowing motion with his head, or maybe it was an actual bow.

“Sadly, we were talking about the band,” I said. “But I'm not going. I'm actually heading out shortly.”

“Well, at least have one more drink with me,” he said. He sounded breezy, but as a closet shy person, I knew by the way he kept rocking back and forth on his heels that it was an act. It was touching, somehow.

“Okay,” I said.

“So why are you going home?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing exciting,” I said. “I want to watch a Civil War documentary. I'm a sucker for that stuff. If there's a lingering close-up of a daguerreotype and the sound of a lone fiddle, I'm there.”

He pretended to do a spit take. He was much goofier tonight. Maybe he was bombed. “You're throwing over Chavez for the War Between the States? I thought you were a Rock Chick.”

“No, no,” I said. “I'm a complete sham. I also taped a documentary about the Great Plague, so it's going to be quite the action-packed evening.” I fought a crazy urge to invite him along.

“I've been accused of being a young fogy myself,” he said. “Let's just say that my favorite young author is Tom Wolfe.” He laughed. “And my last crush on a hot young actress was Veronica Lake.”

“I just watched
Sullivan's Travels
the other night,” I broke in.

He nodded vigorously. “I saw that, too. Part of ‘Preston Sturges Week,' right? Do you know that the last part of her life was really strange?”

“She was bartending in some place in Midtown, and she appeared in some trashy B movie. I can't remember the name.”

“
Flesh Feast,
” he said. His smile faded a little and he cast a despairing glance around the room. The music throbbed. “I hate straining your voice to make conversation you barely remember the next day,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Not that I won't remember this one,” he said quickly.

We chatted for a few minutes as I finished my drink.

“Well, I'm going,” I announced.

“Why don't I get you a cab?”

I hesitated.

“It's raining out, you know,” he said. “I brought an umbrella.”

“Okay,” I said. He hustled off to get his coat.

As we stepped outside, a twentyish guy who was lingering by the door darted in front of Tom. He was dressed for a night out: hair gelled into whorls, cell phone in hand, shiny black pants, and, although it was well after midnight, orange-tinted sunglasses.

“Hey, buddy,” the guy said urgently. “Do these glasses match the shirt?” He opened his jacket to display a white shirt with purple stripes.

Tom stared at him, perplexed. “Sorry?”

“Do the glasses match the shirt?”

Tom studied the guy carefully. “Sure, I mean, they don't…they don't
not
match.” He flapped his hand helplessly.

“Thanks, man.”

As the rain hit us, Tom quickly opened his umbrella. It occurred to me that I had never gone out with a single person who thought to bring an umbrella anywhere. I flashed on all of the times I was caught in the rain after stumbling out of parties.

“Here we go,” he said, holding the umbrella over my head. He put his arm around me. “I'm not making a move, I just don't want you to get wet. Although I would like your phone number.”

I sighed. “Why don't I take yours?”

“All right, then,” he said, fishing out his wallet and producing a card.

“Thanks,” I said, taking it. “Listen, I should get a cab.”

He smiled. “Let's walk a little farther. Just indulge me. You should probably know that I came here tonight hoping you might be here.”

I looked up at him. He really did have the kindliest expression. Why had I not noticed how blue his eyes were? And it was so cozy underneath the umbrella. I tried to recall why I had rejected him so quickly. Hazily, I
remembered that he lacked all of the hipster totems that had usually attracted me. He wasn't my “type.” But what, exactly, would that be? Noble failures? Substance abusers with muttonchop sideburns? I had told Casey that he was too quiet. Maybe I had thrown myself into being a New Yorker with a little too much force, joining the herds that trampled over the introverted to flock around the ones who screamed
Look at me!

“You know what?” I said, smiling up at Tom. “I would love to walk.”

“Good,” he said. We started down the street, talking so intently that before I knew it, I was practically on my block. At some point as we walked—when, I could never precisely remember—I had slipped my arm through his.

I stopped on the sidewalk and faced him. For the first time in a long while, I found that I wasn't plotting an escape, or assembling a careful armature of jokes and clever anecdotes. I was completely comfortable. Relaxed. I was—well, I was happy. “I just realized how little I actually know about you,” I said. It suddenly seemed important that I should. “I think you mentioned that you lived in Brooklyn, right? Where are you from, originally?” I thought of my joke to Neferlyn the psychic that everyone I met was from Long Island or New Jersey. “Let me guess,” I said. “You're from Long Island.”

“I'm from Chicago, actually,” he said. “Why?”

Key Club, Spirit Club, Yearbook Committee,
1984 Senior Superlative: Class Clown

Thanks to my incredible editor Jill Schwartzman, you are the BEST! Also thank you to Dan Conaway. Even though you transferred schools, you are 2 good 2 be 4gotten! A special thanks to my new buds Jonathan Burnham, Kathy Schneider, Tina Andreadis, Clare McMahon, Carl Lennertz, Tavia Kowalchuck, Stefanie Lindner, Kate Pereira, Sandy Hodgman, Beth Silfin, John Jusino, and everyone else at HarperCollins! You guys rule!

I am sooo grateful to David McCormick, the coolest agent ever, and to my friend Bob Love for hiring me (thanks for making my freshman year the best ever!). Also thanks to my former crew at
Rolling Stone
for all the awesome times: Will Dana, Karen Johnston, Joe Levy, Mary MacDonald, Stu Zakim, and Rob Sheffield.

Special thanks to Jann Wenner. You rock!

A big hug to Julie Klam (Best friends forever!), Lisa Wagner Holley, Susan Kaplow, Tracy Olmsted (party at the Shore!), Rob Stella, and Patrick Williams, as well as Tina Exarhos, Judy McGrath, Karen Infantino, Marlene Rachelle, Sheree Lunn, and Lou Stellato at MTV. (Lou, how much candy have we eaten together over the years? Don't answer! Ha ha!)

A lifelong thank-you to Mom and Dad. Love ya tons! Sorry about all the parties when you guys were away! And to Tom Vanderbilt, I love you “always and forever.”

And the most special thank-you to Dinah and Heather, the greatest sisters EVER, my first friends.