Slightly Settled

I forget what this one is called. At first it tasted like Windex, but now it’s going down easier. “I have to say, I’m just not hearing the screaming, Raphael.”

“That’s because you’re not listening. You’re trying to keep the new Tracey hidden behind the old Tracey’s insecurities. I say, release her!”

“And deck her out in a lime-green boa? That seems cruel.” I drain the last of my drink.

Raphael leans his chin on my shoulder. “What do you think, Tracey? Want another cocktail here, or should we move on to Oh, Boy?”

Oh, Boy is, of course, the club we’re headed to.

I glance around the bar. It’s getting crowded. And I’m craving a cigarette, but like all bars in Manhattan, the place is full of No Smoking signs.

I’m about to suggest moving on when I lock gazes with a Very Cute Guy standing with a small pack of Very Cute Guys back by the rest-room sign and the jukebox. He flashes one of those flirty, raised-eyebrow smiles that guys are always flashing at Kate. Never at me. Never until now, anyway.

I realize this might be my fleeting last chance at heterosexual contact this evening.

“Another cocktail here,” I tell Raphael, hoping Very Cute Guy doesn’t think Raphael and I are together. I glance at him, taking in the snug silk shirt, the pink drink, the eyelash perm.

Nah.

“Are you sure you want to stay?” Raphael asks. “Because this place is getting packed, Tracey.”

VCG seems to be shouldering his way toward us. Or is he just trying to escape the bathroom fumes or the blaring Bon Jovi? Hard to tell. But just in case…

“Let’s stay for one more,” I say decisively.

Cute Guy’s name is Jeff. Jeff Stanton or Stilton—something like that.

How do I know this?

Because a few minutes after our second drink arrived, he popped up and introduced himself to me.

His name is Jeff, he’s a broker—or trader. I don’t know, exactly; something boring and Wall Street.

Oh, and he has an unhealthy obsession with Star Wars.

How do I know this, you might ask?

Because he has Star Wars sheets. Sadly, I am so not kidding.

And if you’ve figured out how I know about his sheets, you also know that I’m not only dressing like a trollop these days; I’m conducting myself like one.

Did I get wasted and sleep with Jeff Stanton/Stilton/Something that starts with an S and ends with an N?

Yes.

Do I regret it now that the morning light is filtering through the slats of his blinds and I can’t even recall which freaking borough I’m in?

Hell, yes.

It’s bad enough that I’m in a borough at all. I had him pegged for Manhattan, Upper West Side. Tribeca, maybe. But a borough?

At least it’s not Jersey, I tell myself, sitting up in his twin bed—yes, I said twin bed—and pulling the StarWars flat sheet up to my chin as I assess the situation and try to remember how I got from Point A—the bar—to Point X-rated.

It’s freezing in here, by the way. I’m surprised I can’t see my breath. And there’s no quilt on the bed.

Oh, wait…there is a quilt. I can see it when I peer over the edge. It’s been passionately pitched into a heap on the floor beside my clothes—with the exception of my lime-green boa, which is draped over a dresser knob across the room.

How the hell did it get there?

And while we’re on that topic, how the hell did I get here? And where is here?

I remember asking Jeff S-n, at one point in the night, if he lived in Jersey.

I remember him laughing and saying of course not, as though I’d accused him of being a rifle-toting redneck bootlegger from West Virgin-ee.

What I don’t remember is when Raphael abandoned me at the bar with Jeff S-n or how it was decided that I would be borough-bound to have sex with a complete stranger.

I only know that much liquor was involved, followed by a long cab ride over a bridge. It could’ve been the Golden Gate, for all I noticed while I was making out with Jeff S-n in the back seat.

So what happened when we got here, wherever we are?

Searching my mind for reassuring memories of doormen or elevators or quaint parkside brownstones, I vaguely recall a side street crammed with parked cars, apartment buildings and small houses.

An educated guess tells me Jeff lives in one of them. There are major gaps in my recollection of our pre-bed travels.

I do know that it was dark when we came in, and he didn’t turn on lights.

Ostensibly so that I wouldn’t glimpse Yoda on a pillow-case and flee screaming into the night.

Maybe it’s not so bad, I try to tell myself. Maybe it’s even kind of, I don’t know, sweet that a grown man sleeps in a twin bed with Star Wars sheets, you know?

I turn my head and glance at Jeff, wondering if I’ll be swept into a wave of post-coital tenderness.

Nope, nothing sweet about it. It’s freakish, that’s what it is.

His mouth is open, wafting beery morning breath. I can see all his fillings, and a hinge of thick whitish drool connecting his upper lip to his lower.

Oh, ick. I’m outta here.

He doesn’t even stir as I slip out of bed and dive into my clothes. Shivering from the cold, I glance around the room as I dress. I half expect to see cheesy posters on the walls: race cars or topless women. To his credit, there are none. The room is messily nondescript. But there is a shelf lined with trophies and another with a bunch of Tolkien and C. S. Lewis titles.

I take another look at Jeff, half expecting to realize, in the broad light of day, that he’s actually an adolescent boy. After all, he was pretty vague about what he does for a living—or was it just that I tuned him out when I found out he was in finance?

Hmm. I note a reassuring stubble of beard on his chin, right beneath the drool, and what’s visible of his chest is broad and hairy. He certainly looks like a grown man. Snores like one, too.

Lord, I just hope I’m not in his boyhood home. When we walked in, he whispered, “Shh! My roommates are sleeping.” Still, you never know. What if his roommates are of the parental variety?

Not that I wouldn’t consider dating somebody who still lives at home, but…well, I wouldn’t dream of conducting a one-night stand with anybody’s parents on the other side of the bedroom wall.

Nor would I, in my kinkiest fantasies, have dreamed of conducting a one-night stand while reclining on an Ewok’s face.

I look back at the slumbering Jeff S-n. Should I wake him to say goodbye?

He emits a snorting sound, smacks his lips, rolls over.

I wrinkle my nose.

Okay, but should I at least leave a note?

I could write down my phone number, I think, as I put on my suede jacket.

But what if he calls? Then I’ll have to see him again.

And what if he doesn’t call? Then I’ll feel like a real tramp.

Screw it. Like I haven’t already descended into the depths of trampdom?

Carrying my shoes, boa and purse, I step into a carpeted hall, half expecting to find a graying man in corduroy slippers and a cardigan padding toward the bathroom.

But all I see is a row of closed doors and one that’s ajar, revealing a fraction of a sink and toilet. I glance in longingly as I pass, wishing I had time to spare. I sort of have to pee; I’m dehydrated; my mouth tastes like somebody vomited in it.

But, sniffing the air, I can smell coffee brewing. One of the “roomies” is up. I can’t risk hanging out here a second longer.

So long, Jeff S-n. Thanks for the—uh, memory blanks.

I head down the stairs and out the front door, stepping out into what I sincerely hope isn’t the Bronx. Or Staten Island.

The instant the frigid fresh air hits my face, I wish I had snagged Jeff S-n’s quilt to wrap around me for the trip home. It has to be below freezing, and all I have is a thin leather jacket. Oh, and the boa. I wrap it around my low-cut neckline, hoping to stave off pneumonia.

I walk gingerly toward the street, swept first by a wave of nausea, then a wave of panic—until I reassure myself that my meds will keep a full-blown attack at bay—followed by a wave of homesickness for Manhattan, for my little studio, for Will….

Yes, homesick for Will McCraw.

It’s been three months, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely over him.

It doesn’t mean that when I’m out on the street, I don’t constantly, subconsciously, look for him on the crowded sidewalks, thinking that I’ve glimpsed his face on a passerby—but it never turns out to be him.

And it doesn’t mean that I’m over longing for the days of waking up next to a warm, familiar body in a warm, familiar place.

But Will has moved on. He and Esme—his summer stock costar, with whom he cheated on me—are a solid couple.

How do I know this?

Will told me.

That’s because Will thinks we’re friends.

Yes, you heard me. Friends.

Is that a cliché, or what? He wants us to stay friends. So he calls me every week or two to “check in.” Usually, he does all the talking. I hold up my end of our conversation by trying to sound enthused about his brand-spanking-new life that doesn’t include me. Except, of course, in said friend capacity.

Pausing on the sidewalk in front of Jeff S-n’s brick row house, I survey the block and light a cigarette. No real clues in the ubiquitous three-and four-story brick apartment buildings or small one-and two-family houses fronted by low wrought-iron fences. My gut tells me I’m in Brooklyn, but it could be Queens, for all I know. I can see a street sign, but it means nothing to me. There’s probably a Fifteenth Street in every borough. I could start walking until I find a cross street, but unless it’s a major, familiar one (even I know that Pelham Parkway is in the Bronx and Astoria Boulevard is in Queens), I’m still going to be lost.

Mental Note: Start carrying pocket atlas with street map of entire city.

Mental Note, alternative to above: Stop sleeping around.

An old lady trundles in my direction, pushing one of those wire carts full of plastic grocery bags. She’s wearing a down coat and sensible shoes, and I’m wearing a minidress and a lime-green boa.

“Excuse me, which way is the subway?” I ask her as she passes.

“Which line?” She doesn’t even bat an eye at my getup. Displaced sluts must be a common sight on weekend mornings in this neighborhood.

I shrug. “Any line to Manhattan.”

“The F train is two blocks that way.” She points and moves on, rattling off down the street with her cart full of groceries.

I look after her, envying her life’s simplicity. It occurs to me that I’d trade places with that gnarled grandma in a second….

After which it occurs to me that I’m probably still slightly drunk.

The F train. Okay, that tells me nothing. The F train runs from Brooklyn to Manhattan to Queens.

Then again, who cares what borough I’m in?

I head down the street, passing a couple of teenaged boys dribbling a basketball between them. They do a double take and snicker.

Well, who cares what they think?

I grab the dangling end of my boa and toss it over my shoulder with a flourish.

One of them mutters something as they pass. I don’t hear the words, but I know it’s about me and his tone is snide.

And suddenly, I care.

I don’t want to be this…this trollop.

I want to be me again. Tracey Spadolini. The only thing is, I have no idea who she is anymore.

Three years of entanglement with Will, followed by three dazed post-breakup months…

I’m not just lost and alone in some borough.

I’m lost and alone, period.

Brushing away tears, I make my way toward the F train, hoping to God that it’ll carry me home.

3

“You know, Tracey, you’re really lucky that he didn’t turn out to be some serial killer.”

That’s my friend Buckley O’Hanlon, referring, over lunch on Wednesday, to Jeff S-n and my initiation into the sordid world of one-night stands.

We managed to find a table for two in the crowded upstairs dining area of one of those Korean grocer/salad bar/Chinese buffet/deli/florist places that are unique to Manhattan.

Buckley’s doing some in-house freelance work in my office building, just as he was when we first met last spring—back in the bad old days when I was fifty pounds heavier and assumed he was gay.

Even though I know Buckley’s totally right about the risk I took going off with a complete stranger, I roll my eyes and tell him, “Of course he wasn’t a serial killer. He’s a trader.”

Yeah. Or a broker.

“So? Didn’t you ever read American Psycho?” Buckley sips his Snapple, then takes a bite of his turkey wrap.

“No, I never read it. But I saw the movie.” And now that I think of it, why didn’t that pop into my horny little head when I decided it was perfectly safe to dart into the night with a good-looking Wall Street guy? Scary, what a few pink cocktails and three celibate months can do to a gal.

“The movie was stupid. The book was better.”

As far as Buckley’s concerned, the book is always better. He likes to refer to himself as a literary geek, but trust me, there’s nothing geeky about him. He’s a copywriter, and he’s been writing a novel in his spare time. Of which, might I add, there isn’t much, now that he’s in a relationship.

Do I sound catty? Sorry.

It’s just that he gained a girlfriend right around the time I lost a boyfriend. Which is a real shame, because something tells me that Buckley and I have the potential to be more than friends. He’s cute and smart and funny—totally my type. Except for that pesky he-has-a-girlfriend thing.

“I don’t like the idea of you out drinking and getting picked up by strange men, Tracey,” Buckley informed me, frowning.

“I’m a big girl, Buckley. Not as big a girl as I used to be, mind you, but big enough to take care of myself. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Yes, I do. I can’t help it.”

I smile. “How sweet are you?”

He smiles back. “I’m the sweetest.”

“I’m serious. You are.”

“And I’m serious. Stay away from strange men.”

When Will dumped me, I cried on Buckley’s shoulder, and he promised me that, someday, I’ll be grateful to Will. He swore I’d want to thank him for dumping me, because it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I’m still waiting for that day to arrive, and I can’t help but feel like it might come sooner if I could replace Will with someone new. Someone better. Like, oh, I don’t know…Buckley.

“So how’s Sonja?” I ask, because it seems polite. And because it will change the subject from my one-night stand, which I’m not entirely comfortable discussing with someone as wholesome as Buckley, who has probably never had a one-night stand in his life.

“Sonja’s fine,” Buckley says.

I peer at him over my blah bundle of sprouts, aka the 200-Calorie Fat-Free Veggie Wrap. Lawn clippings in an envelope would be tastier.

“Are you sure?” I ask him.

“Sure about what?”

“That Sonja’s fine?”

“Yup. She’s fine.” He pokes an errant tomato back into his sandwich.

“Your mouth is saying yup, but your eyes are saying something’s wrong, Buckley. Oh, and you have a glob of honey mayonnaise on your cheek.”

He reaches for a napkin, then sweeps it across his face. He totally misses.

I take it from him and dab his cheek, asking, “What’s up?”

He sighs. “Sonja wants us to move in together.”

My heart sinks.

I smile brightly.

“So…that’s romantic,” I tell him.

He shakes his head.

“It isn’t romantic?”

“No. It’s stupid. We both have leases. We both have great places. We both live alone. There’s no reason to move in together already. We’ve only been going out a few months.”

Gotta love sensible Buckley. Why rush things? After all, you never know when somebody better might come along. Or when you might notice that somebody who came along a while ago just might be better. Psst, somebody whose initials are T. S. and is sitting right across from you at this very moment.

“So you don’t love her?” I ask, trying to sound casual. I’ve never let on to Buckley that I could be attracted to him.

“I don’t know. I mean…I really think I do.”

Oh.

He really thinks he does.

There goes any hope for Buckley ever falling for me. Everyone knows that when a man admits aloud to the merest possibility of being in love, it’s only a matter of time before he finds himself standing in the bridal registry at Michael C. Fina on a Sunday afternoon when the Giants are playing at home.

“Buckley, if you love her—”

“I think I love her,” he amends.

“If you think you love her, what’s the problem?” Shut up, Tracey.

Yet I babble on. Either Sonja’s spirit has been astral-projected into my body, or I’ve taken up the cause for oppressed would-be live-in girlfriends everywhere.

“I mean, Buckley, it’s not like you’re not dating other people.”

Say…for example, me.

“And Sonja’s great. She’s smart, pretty, fun…”

Somebody stop me.

But I can’t help myself.

“After all, you’re together all the time anyway. Why pay two rents?”

It’s as though I’m talking to Will, back when I wanted to move in with him and he wanted to move to another part of the state without leaving a phone number.

“I guess,” he says thoughtfully.

“Look, Buckley, if you’ve got a good thing going, you shouldn’t be afraid to take the next step. I mean, look at Billy and Kate. They moved in together less than two months after they met, and now they’re looking at engagement rings.”

“They are?”

“She is,” I admit. “But she’s thinking they’re going to be engaged at Christmas. She said she wants a June wedding.”

“A June wedding. I wouldn’t expect anything less from our little magnolia,” Buckley says, shaking his head.

“Do you think Sonja wants a June wedding?” I can’t help asking.

I brace myself for a look of horror, or at least dismay, but there is only resignation.

Buckley sighs. “Do you know a female who doesn’t?”

“Well, I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“Uh-uh. I want a fall wedding.”

At least, that’s what I secretly hoped for when I was with Will. I had the whole thing planned out in my head—what I’d wear, who would stand up, the flowers, the menu, the pumpkin cake with cream-cheese frosting….

“A fall wedding would be nice,” Buckley says. He adds hastily, “Not next fall.”

He’s so sweet, I think, watching him pop the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. So different from Will and Jeff S-n. Buckley’s genuine. He’s a really good friend. And when he’s not brooding over Sonja, he’s one of the funniest people I know.

I wonder, not for the first time, what would have happened if Will had dumped me before I met Buckley.

He was attracted to me back then. I mean, he kissed me—which was how I figured out that he definitely isn’t gay. And it was a great kiss. So great that I still think about it sometimes.

Okay, all the time.

Maybe that’s just because it was the last time somebody kissed me that way.

Or maybe it’s because I could easily fall in love with my good friend Buckley.

But even if he were available, it’s too soon. I’m still not over Will. According to Kate, She magazine and pop psychology 101, any relationship I have right now would be strictly rebound.

Buckley crumples his sandwich wrapper into a ball and drains the last of his Snapple. “Ready to go back to work?”

“Nah. Let’s play hooky for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Seriously?” He looks intrigued.

“Nope. I was kidding. I’m in the middle of helping Mike with a New Business presentation. And then Brenda and Latisha and I are going to try to meet and figure out if we can organize a bachelorette party for Yvonne sometime in the next few weeks.”

“When’s she getting married?”

“Over Christmas. She and Thor are eloping to Vegas.”

Thor is Yvonne’s Swedish pen pal. When she met him a few months ago, they got engaged. She swears this is merely a green-card marriage, but we think she’s in love. When she’s with him, she’s all girly. As girly, that is, as a tough old broad like Yvonne can be.

“Okay, I guess I’ve got to get back to the office, then,” Buckley says reluctantly.

“Same here.”

We push back our chairs and carry our garbage to the can as a pair of hovering corporate drones descend on our vacant table. “But wouldn’t it be fun to blow off work and go ice-skating or something?” Buckley muses.

“Me on ice skates? Are you kidding?”

“You grew up near Buffalo. You must have learned how to skate.”

I shake my head.

“Really? I’ll have to teach you.”

An image flits into my mind as we make our way through a sea of office workers, down the stairs, through the deli and onto the street.

I see myself in one of those short, cute pleated skating skirts and a fuzzy white sweater. Buckley is in one of those clingy skating jumpsuits they wear at the Olympics, yet he looks incredibly masculine in it.

I know, I know, but it’s a fantasy.

So, anyway, we’re gliding around the ice in front of 30 Rock. Classical music is playing, a gentle snow is falling—big, lazy flakes—and there’s not a soul on the rink but us.

Fantasy, people! It’s a fantasy.

He lifts me in his arms a few times, and we effortlessly do some fancy moves. Complicated stuff. Then he kisses me, and it’s totally passionate, and he says…

“Do I have anything stuck between my teeth? Trace?”

Thud. I land on Third Avenue, where a jackhammer is rattling and taxis are honking and Buckley’s in my face with his teeth bared, revealing a lovely hunk of chewed-up lettuce.

“There’s something green between your front teeth,” I advise him, sighing inwardly as I reach into my bag for a cigarette.

So much for fantasies.

Mike Middleford, my new boss, is nothing like sexist, philandering, narcissistic Jake.

For one thing, Mike treats me with respect. He asks my advice on PowerPoint presentations—poor guy isn’t very literate—and he doesn’t mind if I’m a few minutes late in the morning or if I sneak out for a few cigarette breaks.

For another, he’s totally in love with his girlfriend, Dianne. Whenever she calls, I’m suppose to hunt him down to come to the phone, unless he’s in the men’s room or a meeting. It’s refreshing to see a guy light up when he hears that his girlfriend is on the phone. Dianne calls a lot, and she sounds really sweet. She always greets me by name and makes an effort to chat before she asks for Mike.

Like today, she says, “Hi, Tracey, how’s it going? Are you psyched for the company Christmas party Saturday night?”

“Yeah, it sounds like it’ll be fun.” Blaire Barnett had rented out Space, an entire three-floor nightclub in Chelsea, for the party. “Are you coming with Mike?”

“Nah. He wants me to, but I wouldn’t know anybody.”

Wow. She must feel really secure about her relationship. If Will was going to a party and I had the option of going with him, there’s no way I’d opt out.

Then again, Mike goes out of his way to make sure he doesn’t miss her calls. Will lied and told me that the pay phone in his summer cast house didn’t take incoming calls. And, duh, I believed him.

“Are you bringing a date?” Dianne asks.

“Me? Nah. I’m not seeing anyone right now. My boyfriend and I broke up in September.”

Why, I wonder, do I feel compelled to tell people about Will? I’m always bringing it up. To elevator men, cabdrivers, dressing-room attendants in clothing stores…it’s like no matter who I’m talking to, I manage to find a reason to announce that I’m recovering from a breakup.

“That’s too bad,” Dianne says.

“Yeah, it’s hard. But I’m sure I’ll find somebody new sooner or later.” Buckley flits into and out of my mind. So does Jeff S-n. How depressing.