Through The Grinder

Reluctant to throw them out, I decided to give them one last hour of romantic firelight — while Tucker and I cleaned and restocked.

“Coffee is not exactly a bad analogy,” Tucker told Joy. “I mean, if you think about it, men can be like coffee blends. A very subtle blending of elements can form the most interesting tastes. Some are bolder, some rougher, some sweeter…”

“Some have whiney overtones,” I quipped.

My assistant manager frowned at my caustic remark. Pausing in his cup-stacking duties, he wiped his hands on his apron and said, “Let me see that notepad.”

Joy handed it over and he flipped through its pages.

With a concerned sigh, he began to read aloud, “Mr. Slick, Mr. Jock, Mr. Type A, Mr. Freeloader, Mr. Superficial Artsy, Mr. Far Too Old, Mr. FunnyBook Boy, Mr. Cabby/Musician, Mr. Mama’s Boy, Mr. Moviefone…” Tucker looked up and wrinkled his nose. “Mr. Moviefone?”

I shrugged. “He had that voice.”

“You mean the guy sounded like Mr. Moviefone?” asked Tucker.

“Yes, and I found it very distracting.”

“I remember him!” said Joy. “He had a mustache and his cologne smelled like Gummy Bears. Did you know Kira left with him?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they looked pretty chummy, too.”

I nodded, remembering the man. “He did mention crosswords were his passion. Maybe I should have labeled him Mr. Crossword Puzzle Man.”

“Clare, you know, I’m really surprised at you,” said Tucker, shaking a finger. “Such catty, cynical evaluations are usually beneath you.”

“It’s not catty. It’s practical.”

“Practical? All right, this I gotta hear,” said Tucker.

“If you’ve only got a first impression to go on, the most practical thing you can do is reduce the guy down to his basics. It’s no different than my grandmother’s method of putting up preserves. Very sensible. Boil the substance down and label it.”

“I see,” said Tucker. “So for you the only discernable difference between canning and courting is straining the guy in question and coating him with a thin layer of wax?”

“Technically yes,” I said. “Even though I got the impression that some of these guys were just weird enough to consider being strained and waxed a vaguely kinky form of foreplay.”

“Mom!”

“Sorry, honey. Forget you heard your Mommy say foreplay. But don’t forget what I’m about to tell you. There are a few guys in my little notepad that under no circumstances you are to go out with should they call you, starting with a man named Brooks Newman.”

Joy rolled her eyes. “Brooks Newman, what a character. I think he took the number of almost every woman he sat down with. Isn’t he the guy who gave you those other on-line dating sites for me to try? The ones you said are more ‘appropriate’ for me than SinglesNYC?”

“Yes, but — ” (Okay, so Brooks actually called them “duds,” and it was me who told Joy they were more “appropriate” for a girl her age. But what else could I do? I couldn’t very well tell my daughter she’d be better off on-line dating through two “dud” sites, could I?)

“Mom, I’m not in high school anymore. I can make my own decisions about my personal life. Don’t you trust me?”

I didn’t see any way to answer honestly without causing World War Three, so I didn’t answer. Not directly. “Okay, then, why don’t you just tell me and Tucker who you liked?”

“No. You’ll just shoot them down.”

“I won’t,” I said.

“Promise?” asked Joy.

My reassuring smile felt as though it were wilting into an anxious grimace. “I’ll do my best.”

“Okay, Mom, I’ll tell you who I connected with. But only if you tell me who you connected with.”

“I didn’t make any connections. Your turn.”

Joy narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me.”

“But Nan said we were supposed to make three. Those were the rules.”

“I know, honey. I just chose not to play by them.”

Joy flipped though the notepad. “What about Mr. Wall Street?”

I closed my eyes, trying to picture that meeting. “Nice kid. Strong head on his shoulders, handsome, pleasant, good sense of humor. Late twenties. I liked him — for you.”

“I liked him, too,” said Joy. “And he asked me to lunch.”

I smiled. “See. I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Okay, so we agree on one guy.”

Joy flipped through more notes. “I can’t tell what you thought of this one.” She pointed. “Mr. Weirdly Intense Painter.”

“Mars?” Oh, god, no. “Did you know he admitted to being arrested?”

“He was sort of intense wasn’t he?”

“Sort of intense? That man would win a stare-off with Charles Manson.”

“Who?”

“Never mind, honey. You didn’t like Mars, did you?” My teeth clenched.

“It wouldn’t matter if I did. He said he’d already made his connection.”

I exhaled with extreme relief. “He told me the same thing.”

“Yeah, but you know the weirdest thing about the guy wasn’t his intensity — I found that sort of a turn-on actually. The weirdest thing was he said he’d already made his connection before he even started talking to me.”

“Like I said, Joy, he did that with me, too. Don’t feel bad.”

“No, Mom, you don’t get what I mean. It’s not that I feel bad. It’s that it doesn’t make sense. I mean we all paid forty dollars each to supposedly meet as many people as we could in two hours, right? But I was only the second girl he sat down with.”

“That is odd,” said Tucker. “Who was the first? She really must have been something.”

“The first woman he sat down with was this tall redhead named Sahara McNeil,” said Joy. “She was sitting at the table to the left of mine and Mars just kept staring at her. It was kinda creepy, actually.”

There was only one tall redhead in that room. The one Bruce had left with — and I had wanted to strangle.

“How did you find out her full name?” I asked. “Did you talk to her?”

“No, one of the guys mentioned her name,” said Joy.

“Which one?”

“Let’s just see,” said Joy, smiling mischievously. She snatched my notepad back from Tucker and thumbed through it. “It wasn’t Mr. Slick…or Mr. Cabby/Musician.” Joy paused on that page. “I kinda liked Cabby/Musician. He invited me to see his band at CBGB Wednesday night.”

Tucker snorted.

“What?” asked Joy.

“Sweetie, when you’ve lived in Manhattan a little longer you’ll learn that every third or fourth straight little boy under thirty with a rock star complex gets his sucky band a call-in gig at CBGB. But look on the bright side — you’re sure to meet his colleagues, friends, and family, because that’s pretty much the only way these bands fill those Bowery seats.”

“Now you’re the one being catty,” Joy said.

“Bring earplugs,” Tucker advised.

With a sigh of annoyance, Joy went back to my notepad and kept flipping. “Here’s the guy — the one who told