Slightly Settled. Wendy Markham
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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