I sneak out, stumbling to the Blind Pig, where I meet up with him in his metallic studded silver ’80s jacket. He is so eager to meet me. He thinks this is a real date. I am a terrible person.
“I’m actually a reporter with the New York Post,” I say.
His eyes narrow for a split second. Then he recovers.
“I knew something was up, with you there every night,” he says. I pull out my sketch of banquettes, and he helps me peg celebrities to tables and tells me the deal—reluctantly. “Graydon is the only person who has a fixed table,” he says, and then explains the rest of the seating-chart hierarchy in this Darwinian little clubhouse.
After we’re done, I resist the desire to fool around with him, and excuse myself to head out to the nearest cheap pub I can find. I order a Philly cheesesteak sandwich to try to sober up. Minutes later, I am puking it up outside on the street corner. A man and his girlfriend begin talking to me, making sure I’m okay. I guess at some point we exchange email addresses?
The next day I wake up and find, along with my scratched-on-a-napkin notes from my meeting with Rick the busboy (and the phone number of a doctor named Knut, who says I can call him “cunt”), my now-cracked BlackBerry. I check it. There’s a new email. It’s the guy who talked to me when I was puking in the street.
“I don’t know if you remember me, but we met last night/early morning. Hope to hear from you soon.”
Wow. That’s a first. I drag myself out of bed, somehow make it to the office—and who is the first person I see? No, it’s not the woman who said she works in the building with me. It’s the guy from the tepid orgy.
“So,” he says, “is that like a typical night for you guys?”
“Wait . . .” I say. “You work in the building?”
“TV Guide,” he responds. We exchange cards.
It is the single longest elevator ride of my life.
MY PIECE ON the Waverly Inn—“Secret Scene of the Inn Crowd”—is a big hit when it runs, and it’s fun beating other publications, who soon follow suit with their own Waverly insider pieces.
But the best part is impressing Lauren, the Sunday editor. We keep talking after it publishes, she puts me on a few other long-range stories (“50 Most Powerful Women in New York” and, later, even a Michelle Obama profile), but it’s the small talk that leads to a dating column.
I tell her about my never-ending ridiculous attempts to try to set my friend and editor Katherine up (of course, Katherine needs zero help—and is within a year married to an amazing guy she meets at one of music writer Mary Huhn’s parties, but she endures my efforts). My latest matchmaking attempt for Katherine involves setting up a joint date with a guy who works in media whom I’m not interested in, but I tell him about this great girl I know. Would he want to meet her? We agree that the three of us will get together at Jimmy’s Corner and see if anyone likes anybody.
Of course, after more than a month and twenty emails going back and forth trying to schedule it (at one point, Katherine even writes “witty repartee totally tapped out”), the date is a failure. Not because we’re fighting over the guy, but because both of us exchange a secret glance within the first few minutes communicating the exact same thing: This guy is the reason women give up on dating entirely. He’s not even a bad guy—at all. He’s just so boring. Once you reach your thirties, a fifty-minute date can feel like a lifetime, where the biggest thrill is silently inventing what your excuse is going to be to leave.
I email Lauren all this, and she writes back, “Sounds like it’s time for a new dating column!”
Immediately, I begin pitching her—the way I’ve been pitching Steve for months now. I have endless ideas. “Who Is on Your Secret Husband List?” “The New Intimacy: Using Your Real Email Account.” “Googlebating: aka First-Date Oppo Research.” (Oppo research meaning “opposition research,” a term for the practice of political operatives gathering dirt against an opponent. The fact that I regard men as the “opponent” kind of gives insight into my fucked-up perspective on dating at the time.)
To support my campaign, I try to show all the editors how fascinating and bizarre I am. Boundaries? What boundaries? I have plenty to write about because I take all comers for fodder. Standards start loosening, men who are “jokes” are suddenly entertained as prospects again (I call this an “unjoking”). I’m still a youngish-looking thirty-one, and I am determined to exploit it.
I spend weeks trying to think of names for the column. My sister helpfully offers up “Penises on Parade.” Mackenzie suggests “Love Patrol,” with me in a cop uniform winking. My dad suggests “Mandy’s Place,” which leaves Steve in hysterics (“See you at Mandy’s place!”). My contribution is either “Daddy Issues” or “I Was Going to Call My Column ‘I Take It in the Ass’ but I Found Out It’s Already Been Done by the Wall Street Journal.” But it’s a consortium of editors who settle on About Last Night.
I still have not had sex for a year since swearing it off. This promise I made to God is starting to get old.
One night out with work friends, I am pounding back a record level of whiskey sours, which brings out a rollicking level of libido. Before heading home, I hit another bar by myself and keep drinking, Bombay Sapphire and soda water.
I still have in the back of my mind good ol’ Rick the busboy and his awesome ’80s studded silver jacket. My texts with Stephen Falk kind of tell the story of the night.
Me: I just came 2 a
