“The Man Plan” #32

Posted on March 9, 2011

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It’s not that I feel good about snatching a Sugar Daddy, it’s that desperate times call for desperate measures (something I’ve been saying a lot lately).  It’s that I foresee a mutually beneficial experience: I get out of my parents’ house and on my feet, and the rich older man gets a younger chick with some mojo.

I’ve got my hair pulled back, my Jessica Simpson patent red pumps on (bought at Filene’s in NYC for sixty dollars on sale, while working as a waitress with money to spend), and I’m as focused as an assassin.  We meet at a high-end restaurant in Huntington, on the water.  Not bad looking for fifty-nine, he almost reminds me of Steve McQueen.  This could work.  What he’s saying is a little boring, but his suit jacket is nice.  I start thinking about the house we’ll have together.  The Jaguar with fancy key chain to match.  The Rhododendron I’ll plant in the spring.  Except I’m not good with plants.  So, I’ll hire a Mexican.

I notice he’s been ordering one Johnny Walker Blue too many, and he’s starting to get sloppy.  But, I like the look of the lobster tail on my plate.  And the vintage champagne in my glass ain’t too ugly either.

He’s doing an awful lot of talking about himself.  About his houses in the Hamptons and the Keys.  And the car he keeps in San Diego.  I wonder if I look like a robot, repeatedly nodding my head, saying “Uh huh… How interesting.”   Finally I say to him, “Well, enough about me, tell me something about you.”

He chuckles, then sips the end of his umpteenth JW Blue.  “You’re a funny girl, Maureen.”

I think about his $25 a glass JW Blue times seven plus dinner check he’s going to pay for, and I let it slide.   “Well, it’s Myra.  But, anyway, I digress.  I used to live in the city, but decided to live out here on the Island to be closer to my parents who are getting older…” God, forgive me for lying. I continue, “And…let’s see…I have a dog.  He’s great.  He’s a Pit Bull mix.  I’ve had him for almost…”

He butts in, “You can’t trust Pit Bulls.”

“What?” I nearly spit out my water.

“I don’t trust those dogs.  You hear too many stories.”

This is where everything goes to silence.  I put my napkin down on the table.  I would throw it, but I’m wearing Jessica Simpson pumps, and tonight I’m a lady.  I get up, push back on my chair, take my purse, which is really my Mom’s, and walk through the dining room.  Blood is rushing to my face – heart is pounding – I don’t hear anything but the sound of my own inner fury coursing through my veins.  I get my jacket and walk through the parking lot.

My first thought is, a fucking shame I look this hot – for nothing.  Then the late winter wind starts cutting into my face, my hair.  I’m too in shock to cry, because there’s a red-hot hailstorm in my head.  This is what I’m thinking: I finally figured it out.  I’m fucking delusional.  Me and my fucking plans.  My whole life has been one day dream after another parading as reality.  Like when I was waitressing to support my POETRY!!! What a joke!  Like I was ever going to get anywhere with poetry!  What a waste of seven years in a restaurant thinking that as long as I was supporting my writing, I’d be happy.  And now, this cockeyed plan of finding a rich schmuck to pull me out of my hell.  They should make a movie about me called “The Delusionist.”  I’m finally waking up; me and my CVS false eyelashes and Jessica Simpson red patent pumps.  This is what it took.

As I walk down a busier street, I take off my heels because they hurt and carry them in my hand.

I should stick to the young Dominican guys.  They’re more my speed.  If I weren’t such a dreamer with my head in the clouds, I’d be a CEO of a hedge fund, or even a successful hairdresser.  I could have my own salon by now.  In fact, Jessica Simpson would be coming to ME to do her hair.  That’s where I’d be at forty.  Not about to walk all the way home on the Long Island Expressway with no money, no job, no man or no future.  Though I do have a blog.  I like my blog.

All of a sudden, I feel the proximity of a car pulling up next to me.  Great.  Someone thinks I’m a hooker.

“Maureen, are you mad at me?”

I stop and look at the mess of a man shouting through the open passenger side window.  I reply, “It’s a shame you keep messing up my name.  I might have stayed through dessert.”

“You’re a funny girl.”

“Yes, thank you.  God did give me some things.”  I keep walking.

“Did I make you mad?  I’m sorry.  We can talk about it, Maureen.  Sorry.  Madam.”

Jesus Christ.  This motherfucker is drunk.  I stand there inhaling and exhaling the icy air.  I can’t let Mr. All-About-Me drive home like this.  I’m more sober than I’ll ever be.  I tell him, “Stop the car.  I’m driving you home.”

He shouts back, “I don’t need your sympathy.  I’m tired of you selfish bitches.”

“Move over, now!” I yell.

And I drive him home.  It really is a shame he’s an asshole and not twenty years younger.  He has nice hair.  And good bone structure.

We get to his house.  He slips in the front door.  I finally figure out how to turn the lights off and go to follow him in.  But, he’s locked me out.  I knock, ring, bang – nothing.  I’m left with no choice but to drive his car home and return it tomorrow.

I’m driving in the silence, with no desire to put on the radio or savor the luxury of the heated seats for about twelve minutes…when I hear the sirens and flashing blue of Suffolk County’s finest.  I wonder if there’s an accident or car chase up ahead, until I finally get that they want ME to pull over.

I pull up on the side of the L.I.E. when my eyes fixate straight ahead and my heart is pounding loudly.  Was I speeding?

“License and registration,” the confident bulk next to my window asks.

I tell the officer the story about how it was my date’s car, but he was too drunk to drive.  I try to break the ice with a joke about Mr. Talk-A-Lot’s hair gel, but the officer doesn’t smile.  Just stares.  I wonder if he likes my lip-gloss.

He goes back to his car.  It seems to take forever.  I feel sick to my stomach.  I don’t know whether this is all real or The Twilight Zone.  And I hope my Mom fed Vito.  He comes back to my car with his partner on the other side, and asks me if I’m aware that I’m driving a stolen vehicle.  I obviously have no response.  He then tells me to get out of the car with my hands where he can see them.  Then, they put me in the backseat of the patrol car and take me to the next stop in my Great Long Island Adventure: Suffolk County Jail.

This place is better than the Planet Tattooine Food Stamp Office.  And by better, I mean not.   I call my father and ask him to please come get me out.  After a long silence he says, “Maybe now you’ll learn your lesson.”

“AND WHAT LESSON IS THAT?!” I shout.  Click.

I am there for four hours.  I am talking to myself so much, I feel like Tom Hanks from CASTAWAY.  I’m imagining what my mother will probably say.  “What was so wrong with him?  Are you sure you’re not being too picky?”

It feels like two in the morning when my father finally shows up.  I can’t hold myself back any longer and I shout across the entire place, “YOU WANTED ME TO GO ON J-DATE!”

“NO – I TOLD YOU TO GET A JOB WITH BENEFITS!” he shouts back, as every misfit and their mother looks at us like we’re tonight’s theater.

And we drive home in silence.  I go upstairs to my room, lock myself in, and sit on my bed.  Like a statue.  Unmoving.  Barely breathing.  Still.  Wondering if I can hear the voice of what they call reality.

Tomorrow I will sign up for a creative writing class.  It is time to find my own kind.  For now, I curl up with my red patent pumps and surprisingly long lasting lip-gloss… next to Kermit the Frog.  Where I belong.

Photo by Mindy Katzman

Posted in: Humor, Uncategorized