Good Riddance(67)

“Except the house where you grew up and Pickering High School. And there must be a main street and a diner, or a town common, maybe even with a bandstand. How far is Pickering from Exeter? Could we kill two birds with one stone and take a side trip there?”

What was this about? I confessed that I had intended to invite him as my plus-one before he beat me to it . . . which confused me . . . which would confuse any ex or relationship counselor.

“Because . . . ?” he asked.

“Because men avoid the woman they had sex with once it’s over. And they certainly don’t go to weddings with them!”

“And you think I’m like most men?”

“No, unfortunately you’re not.”

“Where does the ‘unfortunately’ come in?”

“I just told you: You’re still around and very buddy-buddy. Whistling to announce you’re home. Still trying to help. It makes no sense.”

“You mean not an asshole? That’s the problem?”

I was back in debate club again, having drawn the side of an argument I couldn’t support. He was looking pensive and overly analytical when he said, “I think I know why I sound like such a sensitive man, always saying supportive things.”

I prepared myself for a heartfelt answer that would explain his mixed messaging.

“It’s occupational,” he announced.

I said I didn’t get that. Occupational how?

“I meant I’m exceptionally nice because women write all of my lines!” His laugh was the audible equivalent of a knee slap. Lines? Scripts! Ha! Good one!

“Clearly we can’t have a serious discussion. You have to joke around and hide behind Timmy while I’m worrying that you want to pick up where Geneva left off with that lame documentary. Why else would you want to take a field trip to Pickering?”

“Believe me, there’s no documentary in the works, which, PS, was a shit idea. Did you forget we had a long conversation about what I might be writing for the stage?”

Oh, wait. He had told me—which I’d quickly forgotten since it had the ring of Playwriting 101 and the work of every third Starbucks customer with an open laptop. I said, “Of course I remember. But why do you want to go to Pickering? Why my old house and PHS?”

“It’s about scenery.”

“Pickering for scenery? Unh-unh. You’d want Franconia Notch or Mount Washington or the Kancamagus Highway.”

“Not that kind of scenery. I meant scenery as in set design. Photos to project on a screen or a white sheet.”

“You’re not calming my fears about this being The Maritch Story, As Told Through a Yearbook.”

“Nothing like that. When I have something I can show you, I will.”

“A play set in New Hampshire? Really?”

“Partly. I think I’ll call it . . . wait; I’ve got it: Our Town! Could that work on a New York stage?”

See what I mean: Men cannot have a serious discussion. I asked what he would’ve done if the Armstrong nuptials hadn’t come along at such a conveniently creative moment. “Jump on a bus and head north until you spotted the first bandstand on a town green?”

“Bus?” he repeated, his eyes wide. “Movie stars don’t take buses. We’ll rent a car. My treat.”

I told him I’d have to think it over.

“Which part?”

“Everything.”

Pretending there was a camera over my shoulder, he addressed it in documentary fashion: “Things are very black or white with Daphne Maritch. Because of our history, she thinks we can’t take a field trip together. She questions my motives, both personal and professional. Could she just relax and stop analyzing every word I say?”

I turned around to speak to the imaginary camera. “I withdraw the question, whatever the hell it was. I accept his acceptance to the wedding. I’ll also pray that a project that requires a scouting trip to Pickering won’t make me sorry I ever met him.”

This time he answered me directly, setting his glass on the coffee table. “You know what’s progress? That you haven’t asked, ‘How’s the professor?’ six times. Or ‘How can you come to the wedding if it’s on a Saturday night?’ Or ‘Are you having sexual relations with that woman?’”

I was dying to ask exactly those questions. Instead, I said that there was one thing I hadn’t had a chance to discuss before he signed on for the wedding.

“Which is what?”

“The party’s going to be big. Lots of guests. Armstrong’s a public figure and it’s his first wedding.”

Jeremy asked if I’d forgotten how good he was with people, how at ease. And though he hated to brag, fans of the show were everywhere.

“Yes, yes, I know you’re an excellent mingler. It’s not that. I meant it must be a huge party because I got the last available room, generously provided by the senator. But don’t worry. It was a double, with two big beds, surely. And if not, these five-star inns always have cots for the platonic.”





34


The Day Job



Dad put me in touch with Sara, his relationship manager at New Leash on Life, who hired me despite my submitting fewer than the requested six letters of reference.